Archive of Our Own

In the end— or maybe it’s the beginning, in those days after the very first day of the rest of their life— they don’t really fall in love. They more… Saunter vaguely into love, the all consuming sort that makes one wonder how they possibly could have missed it, the all encompassing type that causes one to look up one day and realize that their one constant companion for the past six thousand years is also the great love of their life.

They each saunter at their own paces, of course— Crowley with the speed and ferocity with which he drives, Aziraphale with the measure and tenderness with which he handles his books— but that’s not the point.

The point is that they both arrive there without ever having known that was where they were headed, just having enjoyed the journey.

—

The journey begins, of course, in a garden.

Or, more accurately, it begins high upon a wall outside the garden, with a serpent and a warrior without a weapon.

The first rain begins to fall, and as Crowley takes shelter under a feathered umbrella, he saunters right off a cliff and falls in love, oblivious as to what is happening.

—

It’s slower for Aziraphale— much slower, about five thousand nine hundred and forty-five years slower— but eventually, with a desecrated church and a little demonic miracle, he begins to saunter towards that same cliff.

He, too, is oblivious.

—

It ends, or perhaps it begins, in the wake of Armageddon-that-wasn’t. 

Around the world, life goes back to the same old, same old— humans going to work and yelling at traffic, doing load of laundry after load of laundry and deciding what to have for dinner, clicking through Netflix and buying more books to leave stacked, unread, next to the bed.

But for Crowley and Aziraphale— well, for them, life has been unequivocally changed. 

For once, they no longer need to look over their shoulder for the forces of Heaven and Hell coming to hunt them down. They no longer need to report to Higher Ups or Lower Downs, pretending that they’ve done their duties beyond a shadow of a doubt. They no longer have to pretend that they are thwarting each other, that they are not friends, that they do not share meals and go on walks and get uproariously drunk in the back of Aziraphale’s shop and drive around in Crowley’s Bentley with Queen pouring from the speakers. 

They can simply be, and it is this “simply be-ing” that signifies the end of their six thousand year journey, and their imminent arrival at their final destination. 

—

“But I just don’t see why it’s necessary!” Aziraphale objects, watching Crowley stick labels with various genres and categories neatly printed on them around his bookshop. “My books are not meant to be shoved in boxes, physical or otherwise! They’re collec—”

“Yes, yes, I know, angel,” Crowley interrupts, tacking a little sign labeled “Theatre” under his 1603 copy of Hamlet Q1 . 

Aziraphale doesn’t need to see his eyes to know he’s rolling them, because this is hardly the first time this has happened in six thousand years. 

(This, of course, being Crowley coming in with an idea and a will to make it reality, usually in regards to something about Aziraphale or Aziraphale’s person or Aziraphale’s books or Aziraphale’s shop. He does fuss over Aziraphale an awful lot, doesn't he?)

And really, it’s hardly the first time it’s happened since the not-end of the world; in the few months since then, they’ve spent nearly everyday together, and Crowley has managed to uproot his life in all sorts of ways. He got Aziraphale set up with a Goodreads account so that he can review books to his heart’s content. He bought him a wine fridge for the back room (admittedly,  that one was as much for himself as it was for Aziraphale). He made a new sign for the front of his shop, since Adam didn’t quite restore it right (it said A.S. rather than A.Z.). He completely reorganized the backroom so it’s not so cluttered, and bought a delightful antique armchair to replace the broken one Aziraphale had been using for several decades too long.

Of course, not every moment is filled by Crowley switching things up in Aziraphale’s life. They go on plenty of calm walks together, strolling around St James’ Park and feeding the ducks side by side. They get lunch— which inevitably turns into dinner— together most days, and return to one of their homes for a nightcap each evening. This frequently turns into them talking the night away, and before either of them know it, they’re off getting breakfast and doing it all over again the next day. 

It’s unprecedented for them, how much time they’re spending together, but they’re simply enjoying each other’s company, safe in the knowledge that they no longer have to hide from either side. 

It makes Aziraphale unbearably content to think about, and he imagines Crowley is pleased by it too, based on the fact that he keeps showing up.

From the bookshelf, Crowley continues, “They’re collector’s editions, many of which are too rare or historically significant to fit into the modern idea of ‘genre.’ But your store is a mess, and if you want to be able to enjoy it, then you should have some level of organization. I’m just trying to—”

Crowley pauses and wrinkles his nose, but Aziraphale can still hear the unspoken help.

“Oh, I know,” he sighs, slumping over. “You know me, though, I just get so stuck in my ways and attached. I don’t like change.”

“Don’t think of it as change, then, simply… Redecorating,” he offers, fetching a leather bound edition of Medea and placing it next to Hamlet. He comes to a stop in front of Aziraphale after, leaning against the shelf casually. “Look, you don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it. You can miracle it back to the way it was— Hell, I can even do it— in a heartbeat, no hard feelings. I just thought, well, you’re always losing books, and this might make it easier for you to find them.”

It’s so unexpectedly thoughtful that Aziraphale can’t speak for a moment, heart squeezing painfully in his chest as he stares at his oldest friend. He’s standing there nonchalantly, the long lines of his body effortlessly sinuous and his face a mask of indifference. Not for the first time, Aziraphale finds himself admiring how beautiful Crowley is, how he carries those long limbs of his so gracefully. But he also sees that he’s putting up a front, that he’s not as calm and careless as he’s pretending, that there’s a line of tension in his shoulders and a worried twist at the corner of his mouth. 

Such thoughtfulness from Crowley, and he’s worried Aziraphale won’t like it. Oh, how his heart aches with appreciation for this demon, this old serpent, this man-shaped being who is so kind.

“No,” he manages finally, eager to wipe the tension from Crowley’s body. “No, I think we'll leave it. I’ll adjust, and you’re right, anyways— I’m always losing books in this place. A little organization will do some good, I think. Thank you, my dear friend; you have once again proven yourself too kind to me,” he adds, and smiles when Crowley goes all loose limbed again, worries successfully eased.

“Ah,” Crowley shrugs and looks away, deflective as he always is when Aziraphale calls him certain four lettered words. “Don’t read into it too much, angel. I just don’t like hearing you complain when you lose something, that's all, it wasn’t— It wasn’t anything.”

Aziraphale can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t… Say, what about a spot of lunch?”

Crowley glances over at him again, one eyebrow raised. “Sushi?”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” he agrees, and Crowley smiles.

It’s a rather lovely smile, Aziraphale thinks, captivated by the way Crowley unfolds himself from his leaning position. It’s so nice to see him happy.

“Well then,” Crowley offers him his arm. “Shall we get a wiggle-on?”

Aziraphale just laughs and takes his arm, and together they head for the door.

—

Crowley’s plants are misbehaving.

This in and of itself is not strange, considering that they’re plants and therefore notoriously fickle. Too much sunlight, they start to die. Not enough sunlight, they start to die. Too much water, they start to die. Not enough water, they start to die. You’re too kind, they start to die. You’re too mean, they—

Well, the point is that they’re picky and very prone to things such as leaf spots and dying, and that’s nothing strange.

What is strange is that usually, Crowley can keep them in check by making it explicitly clear what will happen to them if they’re anything less than perfect. But now, no matter how much he yells at them, they’re not listening, and since it’s been days…

Leaf spots. Everywhere. On everything.

Even Gladys, his prized Devil’s Ivy, is wilting and spotted yellow, ever since—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley mutters, spitting his name like a curse as he realizes it’s all his fault.

They’d been in Crowley’s apartment, some movie neither of them were watching on the television and a top shelf bottle of whiskey between them, and Crowley had gotten up to fetch a box of chocolates that he’d bought for Aziraphale and the even-sweeter-than-normal sweet tooth he always got when drunk. When he’d come out of the kitchen— seldom used except for storing food for Aziraphale and the occasional plant disposal— Aziraphale was standing near his plants, murmuring slightly.

“What are you doing?” Crowley had asked, instantly suspicious— he didn’t let Aziraphale near his plants for a reason, which was that they inevitably died after he touched them. Or spoke to them. Or even so much as looked at them, really. 

(Too much Heavenly grace, and all that. It didn’t mix with Crowley’s demonic style of plant-rearing.)

“No— Nothing!” Aziraphale startled and turned to him with wide eyes. “I was just, er, telling your lovely houseplants that they better, uh, listen to you! Threatening them if they didn’t, you know.” He laughed awkwardly, and of course Crowley didn’t believe him, but he didn’t get to press any further because Aziraphale spotted the box in his hands. “Oh, Crowley, are those from Charbonnel et Walker? You shouldn’t have, my dear!”

After that, all thoughts of his plants were wiped away by good whiskey and Aziraphale’s dazzling smile as he picked at the chocolate, until now.

“Ssshit,” he hisses, plucking Gladys’ pot from the hook in the ceiling that she hung from. “Looks like we’re going on a road trip, then.”

Gladys’ leaves tremble.

Ten minutes later, he bursts through the door of A.Z Fell and Co, Gladys’ vines swaying wildly.

Aziraphale is standing with an elderly woman who is clearly trying to purchase an extremely rare book based on the tightness at the corners of his eyes, though he visibly relaxes when he looks up to see Crowley. 

“Crowley, my dear,” he exclaims, stepping around the woman. “I wasn’t expecting you, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Angel,” he seethes, “what the fuck did you do to my plantsss.” The hiss slithers out without him meaning to, but— honestly, it serves Aziraphale right to be hissed at, when he’s done irrevocable damage to his plants. Even so, he makes note to tamp it down when the woman’s eyes widen at the sound. 

“I— What?” Aziraphale’s face falls when he glances at Gladys and sees the state she’s in. “Crowley, I assure you—”

“Oh my,” the woman mutters, beginning to inch towards the door. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Fell.”

“—I didn’t do anything to them!”

“Really? Because they haven’t been listening to me since I found you talking to them last week, and now… Look! Leaf spots! On Gladys!”

Aziraphale’s face skews, clearly trying to recall that evening. Crowley knows he remembers when his eyes go wide, and he takes a small step backwards. “I—”

“What did you do, Aziraphale?”

“I— I simply told them that their leaves looked magnificent and that they should be very proud, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t threaten them?!”

“No! Why would I threaten them, they’re lovely!”

“That’s how I encourage them to grow, come on angel, you know this! If you’re too nice they stop listening!”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed with emotion, and his hands fluttered at his side anxiously. “Oh Crowley, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it, I just know how important they are to you and wanted to encourage them to continue behaving well and looking so stunning!”

He sighs— when he puts it that way, it’s hard to stay mad at him.

(Also it’s Aziraphale, and Crowley has never been able to stay mad at him, but that’s— that’s besides the point.)

“It’s fine, angel. I’ll just have to get new ones. I’ve had Gladys for a long time anyways, it’s probably her time,” he frowns, looking down at her wilted leaves. He’s surprisingly upset by this, considering how many plants he’s tossed out the window or down the garbage disposal in his life. 

(But— well, Gladys isn’t just any old Devil’s Ivy now, is she? After all, Aziraphale gave her to him when he first started getting into horticulture, several decades ago at this point.)

“No, wait!” Aziraphale reaches out, grabbing Crowley’s arm despite the fact that he hasn’t moved a muscle.

It’s momentarily distracting, the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands soaking through his leather jacket, and he has to blink a few more times before he remembers Aziraphale was starting to say something. “What?”

“Let… What if I took care of them, for a spell? I can rejuvenate them, you know, get them back to their usual splendor? And I’ll even throw in a few threats, so they listen to you after.”

“Oh. I suppose that would work—”

“Excellent!” Aziraphale beams, waving a hand so that a hook appears in the ceiling over by the window. With barely a breath, he grabs Gladys from Crowley’s hands and sets about pulling over a step stool so that he can hang her pot up and let her long vines dangle freely. “You can bring all of the unhealthy ones here, that way they’re close by, and I’ll be sure to take care of them each day. And do plenty of talking to them— and threatening, of course, they have to know there’ll be consequences for not listening to you in the future.”

In the wake of Aziraphale’s excitement, it’s easy to forget he was ever annoyed, and he just breathes out a laugh. There’s fondness bubbling up in his chest as he watches Aziraphale bustle around, chattering so quickly that Crowley couldn’t get a word in if he wanted to. 

(And there’s something else too, warm and oh so familiar after six thousand years, but he tries to ignore it, lest he go too fast for me, Crowley.)

“Oh, I think it’ll be rather lovely to have some plants in here, don’t you?” Aziraphale continues, oblivious to Crowley’s adoring observation. “A bit of green amongst all the brown, and all that… You know, maybe I should get some plants of my own for the space, that might be nice. Or maybe for upstairs, so they don’t damage the books… Hm. Perhaps we can put a few of yours upstairs so I can see which looks better, and— Crowley, dear? Is something the matter? You’re staring, did I do something?”

He blinks, realizing he’s been caught staring— even with the sunglasses, Aziraphale is always able to tell what he’s looking at— and Aziraphale has stopped his fussing to peer at him in concern. “Uh, no angel, just… Just planning where to put the others, is all.”

“Ah,” he smiles, and bounces on his heels once. “Why don’t you, uh, go and get the others that are unwell? And I’ll prepare us some tea in the meantime?”

Really, he thinks he might like to stay and watch Aziraphale bustle around his shop some more, but he decides to take the opening as a chance to collect himself. Firing off finger guns, he turns to the door. “Sounds perfect. Be back in a flash.”

When he gets in the Bentley, he turns it on to the sounds of Freddie Mercury declaring I was born to love you, with every single beat of my heart.

He peels out of his parking spot with a squeal of burning rubber.

—

After Crowley brings his plants over— all of them, because Aziraphale’s meddling spared no one— they never really… Leave.

They become permanent installations in Aziraphale’s shop and home, spots of bright green amongst the soft beiges and worn in browns and rusted oranges and pale sky blues that Aziraphale is so fond of. Gladys the Devil’s Ivy remains hanging by the window, while Harold the Snake Plant sits proud on the table in the center of the shop. Phil the Philodendron is sprawling resplendently in the corner of Aziraphale’s flat, and Doris the Peace Lily creeps up towards the ceiling. There’s a vase of sunflowers in the bedroom, and a pot of pink chrysanthemums in the back room.

Crowley tells himself he leaves them there because they’re doing well under Aziraphale’s gentle, angelic influence— much better, really, than they’d ever done with him yelling at them all the time— but he knows that’s not the full truth of it.

Because the plants doing well in Aziraphale’s home doesn’t explain why other, smaller items of his are now sprinkled about the place, too. It doesn’t explain why his leather jacket is thrown over the back of the couch, horribly at odds with the soft tartan print. It doesn’t explain why his favorite black mug is now being stored next to the kettle with Azirphale’s own favorite, the white one with the winged handle. It doesn’t explain why his various pairs of black boots are tossed haphazardly by the door, right next to the neat row of Aziraphale’s worn-in brogues and loafers. It doesn’t explain how his collection of Queen records has come to be mixed in with Aziraphale’s classical music, occasionally filling the shop with Freddie’s sweet vocals and soaring rock beats. And it certainly doesn’t explain why there’s now a black silk pillowcase on Aziraphale’s bed, upon which Crowley rests his head at night while Aziraphale sits next to him and reads.

The truth of the matter is that… Well, Crowley likes seeing his stuff intermingled with Aziraphale’s. 

He likes seeing the way they contrast, the way the sharp edges and deep blacks of his belongings offset the soft curves and light pastels of Aziraphale’s, the way his mess mixes with Aziraphale’s order. He likes seeing Aziraphale tut at the mess of boots by the door, even as he makes no effort to move them and no indication that it actually bothers him. He likes watching Aziraphale riffle through the box of records, cut a glance over to Crowley, and select one of his rock and roll albums with a hum. He likes seeing him bop his head along to the music as he shuffles his books around. He likes climbing into bed next to Aziraphale and watching him thumb through the pages of his chosen novel, and he likes waking in the morning to see he’s already onto the next. 

He likes seeing the evidence of them existing together. 

It’s a reminder of sorts, of all that they’d been through and all that they’ll face in the future. The two of them against the forces of Heaven and Hell and the world itself, standing firm on their own side. There’s a sense of relief that comes with it, too, a knowledge that they’re finally able to share a space without having to worry about either of their sides finding out and taking action. Crowley can move his plants into Aziraphale’s apartment, and no one will be coming to punish them for it. He can drop his shoes at the door, and not have to worry about having to fight someone off barefoot. He can lay down next to Aziraphale, and he doesn’t have to try and pass it off as if he’s trying to tempt an angel.

They can finally exist together— live together for all other intents and purposes, considering how Crowley hasn’t spent a night at his own flat for weeks now— the way they’ve never been able to before. 

It… It soothes something possessive deep down within him, that sense of mine, he’s mine, he’s my angel that led him to weep when he thought he lost his best friend, to want to cart Aziraphale across the galaxy before the world ended, to seek out Aziraphale across the centuries time and time again, no matter the risks.

And— the most incredible part of it all— Aziraphale lets it happen. He lets mugs and boots and records appear, lets Crowley’s jacket take up residence on the couch, lets Crowley sleep beside him in the hours he usually reserves for uninterrupted reading. 

He lets Crowley slither into his space, just as he had on the wall all those centuries ago, and fill it with all the little pieces of himself. And he never says a word. 

He simply smiles ever so slightly, and lets it happen. 

—

They’re out on a walk when it happens, the two of them strolling through St James’ Park as they do everyday now, arm in arm rather than bookending a bench as they had during all their clandestine meetings. 

It’s a nice day. A different sort of nice than they had been in the beginning, what with all the people around and ringing cell phones and cars driving past, but still nice, and there’s a deep seated feeling of content in Aziraphale’s heart… Even if Crowley is being an utter ass and talking about getting Adam a motorbike, of all things.

“Crowley, no!” Aziraphale says for what feels like the millionth time. “What ever does he need one for?”

“Getting around, angel, come on! He can’t stay in those woods forever, you know, he needs to go out and see the world he almost ended.”

“Yes, but not yet! He’s not even old enough, for Hea— Hell— oh, for someone’s sake!”

Crowley rolls his eyes— Aziraphale can tell without even being able to see his pupils, both because he knows Crowley and because his face does this little twitch before he does so, imperceptible if you don’t know to look for it— and bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. “Oh come on, lighten up. He deserves to have his fun, feel like a normal kid.”

Azirapahle sighs at him, but knocks his shoulder against his in return. “I’m not saying he doesn’t. I just think— a more orthodox approach. Books, or a regular velocipede—”

“Bicycle,” Crowley reminds.

“—or a… A record player! You got him all interested in your rock and roll music, you know.”

Crowley grins proudly, that sideways little grin of his that always makes Aziraphale’s heart patter funnily in his chest. “I did, didn’t I… But those are all so ordinary, Aziraphale! He needs something exciting. Like a motorbike.”

“We’re not getting him a motorbike and that’s that, you stubborn old serpent.”

“You used to be fun, you know,” Crowley says, though there’s absolutely no bite to it. “You used to get thrown into the Bastille, and give away your God-anointed flaming sword. Now you just shoot me down.”

“I gave away my flaming sword again recently, if you remember,” Aziraphale points out. “But there’s nothing wrong with being a little boring, I’ll have you know, especially if it comes to keeping Adam and his friends safe.”

“Ugh, fine,” Crowley sighs exaggeratedly, before he spies the ice cream stand and raises an eyebrow. “If you’re going to be such a spoilsport, I need ice cream… Your usual?”

Aziraphale brightens. “Oh yes! Thank you, dear.” 

“Go and get a bench, angel, I’ll meet you there,” Crowley says, then leans forward and—

Presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.

It’s soft and fleeting, Crowley’s lips dry and warm against his cheek, and Aziraphale barely has a chance to process what’s happening before it’s over. Crowley pulls away as quickly as he’d leaned in and walks the other direction with his hands in his pockets and a swagger in his step, nonchalant and cool as ever. Like nothing had happened.

Really, Aziraphale would think he imagined it if not for the tingling ghost of sensation on his cheek, or the fact that his heart is jackrabbiting away in his chest. 

And he’s just— just frozen, watching Crowley walk away. 

It’s not the touch that’s startled him; Lord knows they’ve been very touchy with each other since the world didn’t end. But those have been things like bumped shoulders, hands pressed into the smalls of backs, arms linked together, heads leaned on shoulders, legs thrown over each other. Simple, easy touches like that, the things they’d wanted to do for six thousand years but hadn’t been able to lest Heaven or Hell find out. Nothing like a peck on the cheek. 

Although, he doesn’t even know why this is such a… A thing for him. It’s just a friendly peck on the cheek, after all. Nothing that would be out of place somewhere like France or Peru or Greece or any number of places, really. And Heaven knows he’d spent the 18th century perfecting France’s preferred greeting, at least when he wasn’t locked up in the Bastille. So really, it’s nothing to worry about— after all, what’s a kiss between friends?

(Right?)

Even so, his hand drifts up to his cheek, stroking over the spot gently as if it would keep the feeling from disappearing, and he knows that if he was in his true form, every single one of his thousands of eyes would be staring after Crowley.

Without thinking, fingers still resting upon his cheek, he asks, “Crowley, dear?”

Crowley turns around on his heel, an open expression on his handsome face and a looseness to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before they chose their own side. “Yes, angel?”

And—

And Azirpahale wants to ask if Crowley knew what he was doing, if he was aware he just kissed him. But he can’t help but think that saying something would ruin this gentle life they’ve built together, would send Crowley running, would provide answers to questions he didn’t even know he needed answered. 

So all he says is, “How about a leather jacket? For Adam, that is.”

Crowley grins, bright as the sun. “Oh angel, you have the best ideas.”

And Aziraphale— Aziraphale wants to spread his wings as Icarus did, and fly straight towards him.

The sudden strength of his emotions surprises him a bit, and he knows he needs to digest them, to pick them apart and see what they all mean when laid out flat, but right now Crowley is fetching them ice cream and they have to pick out a leather jacket for the former-Antichrist, and—

Well, he thinks perhaps it can wait, just a bit.

—

Aziraphale runs his thumb over the edges of the tickets nervously, his heart in his throat. 

Really, he isn’t sure why he’s so anxious— he knows Crowley will be, at the very least, flattered by the thought, if not delighted. Still, there’s an awkward lump in his throat, his hands are fluttering by his sides, and no matter what he tries to do, he just can’t calm down.

(He tried everything in his repertoire. He picked up his favorite books of prophecy, opened his computer to continue stalking eBay for rare first editions, attempted to knit Crowley a scarf, and even made a cup of hot cocoa. Yet nothing managed to distract him, and the cocoa sat in his stomach like a— well, like a lead balloon, and thus was quickly abandoned.)

He’s taken to just standing at the counter in his shop rather awkwardly, fiddling with the two pieces of paper and staring into the distance as he waits for the moment he hears the Bentley’s signature roar and squealing tires that signify Crowley’s about to come slithering into his shop. 

It’s been… Actually, he’s not entirely sure how long it’s been, as out of sorts as he’s been waiting for Crowley’s arrival, but eventually he’s roused from his stupor by a roaring engine, a squeal of rubber, and several alarmed cries. Suddenly desperate to appear nonchalant, Aziraphale slaps the tickets on the counter, conjures some random book over them, and goes about pretending to read, just in time for the door to swing open.

Crowley comes strolling in, cool as ever in his black leather and skinny jeans (and honestly, Aziraphale doesn’t understand how he can even move, they’re so tight), and his heart begins working triple time. 

(It had, of course, been working double time for the past considerable amount of time. Hours, probably.)

“Angel!” Crowley grins when he spots him, immediately beelining towards the counter. 

“H— Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, wincing to himself when his voice comes out strained and causes Crowley to tilt his head at him. He has a whole plan for the evening, and it will absolutely be ruined if he lets on that something is going on. “How has your day been, my dear?”

“Oh, you know, just another ordinary day. Went for a drive, visited the cinema, checked the garden center to see if they had anything worth my time.”

“Did they?” Aziraphale asks, nerves subsiding momentarily with his interest. They’d been talking about getting another plant to fill in an empty corner in the bookshop (a rare occurrence, achieved by Crowley’s diligent reorganizing), but so far nothing had piqued either of their interests.

Crowley makes a face. “Nah, nothing. All their plants were these shriveled up little things. I don’t even think a miracle could save them. It was quite tragic, really… You’d think no one took care of them.”

“Pish posh,” Aziraphale chides him. “I’m sure that’s not true. Perhaps they’re simply struggling with the heatwave.”

“I’m sure you’re right, angel, it’s just not very demonic of me to give them the benefit of the doubt, now is it?” He eyes Aziraphale over the top of his glasses and winks. “Anyways, how was your day? Sell any books?”

Suddenly, his nerves come rushing back as he tries to think of a way to answer without saying all he did was try to think about anything other than the tickets resting just centimeters from his hand and fail miserably. 

“O— Oh no, you know me,” he laughs awkwardly, fiddling with the corner of the book. “No books sold. It was a rather boring day, honestly. It passed, um. It passed rather slowly, actually.”

“...Right,” Crowley says slowly, studying Aziraphale. His gaze is careful and measured, and it immediately dashes all hopes that he’d managed to act normally. “Are you alright, angel?”

“Just peachy! I was um— I was just reading when you came in, actually, so I’m still struggling to pull myself out of that world.”

Crowley peeks at the book and asks carefully, “The fish tacos really drew you in, then?”

Aziraphale glances down and— sure enough, a recipe for fish tacos is staring back at him. “Ah,” he laughs awkwardly. “I’ve been, um, thinking about trying a new hobby. We should cut back on eating at restaurants all the time, you know. It is so very expensive.”

“Sure,” Crowley drawls, then takes off his glasses and places them on the counter carefully. When he looks back at Aziraphale, he can see the clear concern in them. “Aziraphale, are you sure you’re alright? You’re fidgeting more than usual.”

“I’m fine, Crowley, honestly!” He rushes to say. “I just, um— I have plans! For this evening!”

“Ah. Plans,” Crowley says, and his voice is oddly flat. “You should have said, I wouldn’t have barged in.”

“What?” Aziraphale asks, puzzled, before it processes and he realizes Crowley thinks he has other plans, plans not involving him. “Oh! No, no dear, the plans are for us! I thought— Well I had planned— I have a bottle of a lovely Chateau Cheval Blanc in the back that I thought we might share.”

“Oh. So the usual, then? Why didn’t you just say so!” Crowley teases, suddenly relaxed and already sauntering off towards the backroom. 

(It makes Aziraphale feel a little ridiculous, actually, how casual he is about it.)

“Yes,” he mumbles, vanishing the cookbook and sliding the tickets into his pocket. “I suppose it is the usual.”

When he makes it to the backroom, Crowley has already sprawled out on the couch, the long lines of his body draped every which way. There are two glasses on the table, too, and Aziraphale can’t help the smile that comes to his face.

“Once a serpent, always a serpent,” he teases as he fetches the wine and sets about pouring them both a glass. “So eager to drape yourself across something and make everyone else do all the work.”

“It’s your bottle, angel, and your shop. I’m just here.”

“Indeed you are, and how happy that makes me,” Aziraphale hands him his glass, voice far fonder than he’d initially meant for it to be.

Crowley’s eyes go all soft for a moment, crinkling at the corners as he smiles, and oh, Aziraphale is so glad he hadn’t put his sunglasses back on, because now he can see them in all their golden glory. “Cheers,” Crowley murmurs, holding Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Cheers,” he echoes, and together they take a sip.

“Oh,” Crowley hums as Aziraphale finally goes to take a seat. “That’s ni— Lovely.”

“I’m so very glad you think so. I had meant to buy some chocolates to go with it, but—”

“Say no more, angel.”

With a snap of his fingers, a box of Prestat chocolates appeared on the table.

“Crowley—”

“I know what you’re gonna say, and don’t worry. I paid for them.” At Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and snaps his fingers again (just a few streets away, several £50 notes appear in the Prestat till). “There, are you happy?”

“Quite. That was very kind of you, Crowley.”

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley snarks, even as he reaches forward and snags one of the chocolates for himself. “Anyways, what else do your plans for the evening include? I mean, I’m perfectly content like this, but you seem jittery.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale coughs slightly, glad he wasn’t eating or drinking so that he saved himself the embarrassment of choking. “Right. Um, well, this was sort of it, except—”

He cuts himself off, fingers fiddling with the tickets in his pockets, and swallows. Really, once he gave them to Crowley it would all be fine. If he could just muster up the courage—

“Except what? Aziraphale, what’s going on?” There’s an edge of worry in his voice, and Crowley sits upright and sets his wineglass on the table. “Is it Heaven? Hell? Both?”

His worry spurs Aziraphale into motion, and he reaches into his pocket to pull out the tickets. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s rather harmless, actually, just something I bought for you and am being silly about. But, um, I got you two tickets to see Queen and Adam Lambert, this Saturday.”

Crowley’s wings explode from his back.

Aziraphale, having imagined every possible reaction to his gift except for this one, doesn’t quite know what to do. Crowley doesn’t make a habit of letting his wings out these days, for many of the same reasons he always covers his eyes— he says they startle the humans too much, and make them feel threatened rather than tempted.

(Aziraphale has often wondered if perhaps there are some… other reasons Crowley doesn’t show them off, if perhaps it has to do with that Fall-that-was-actually-a-vague-saunter-downwards and the painful sting of being cast aside, but he’s always been too scared to ask. He just tries to make sure Crowley knows he never has to hide his more demonic features around him.)

Instead, he reserves them for when he gets exceedingly drunk, or when he freezes time before facing Satan himself. So Aziraphale— he doesn’t quite know what their sudden appearance means. 

And Crowley, for his part, is giving no clues. Really, he doesn’t even seem to have noticed; he’s completely frozen, staring at the tickets that he has extended to him in silence. 

The longer the silence stretches on and Crowley makes no move to pull his wings back in or take the tickets, the more Aziraphale begins to panic. He’d thought he was doing something nice, buying the tickets— buying, even, not miracling— but maybe he made a huge mistake. Maybe Crowley didn’t want to go, or maybe he just didn’t want to go on Aziraphale’s dime, or maybe he was opposed to this Adam Lambert chap, or—

“Crowley? Dear? Is it— Is it okay?” Aziraphale asks hesitantly, panic clawing at his throat. “If it’s not, I can sell them or find something else to do with them, no trouble at all.”

Crowley blinks as if waking up from a dream and starts when he realizes his wings are out. In the blink of an eye, they’re gone, and he says with what Aziraphale can only call awe, “No. No, angel, this is perfect. I’m—” He looks up then, eyes shining with tears, and says as warmly as Aziraphale has ever heard, “Thank you, Aziraphale.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, momentarily taken aback by just how serious he sounds. “Of course, Crowley. It’s my pleasure. I’m sure it’s… Well, it’s not… That is to say, I’m sure it won’t compare, since you were at Wembley Stadium in 1985, and of course dear Freddie is no longer with us and Mr. Deacon doesn’t perform anymore, but—” He sighs, aware he’s rambling anxiously. “Well, I suppose I thought you might like the tickets regardless. You do love Queen, after all.”

“Indeed,” Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale’s heart aches with fondness. “I can’t believe— What miracle did you have to pull to get these?”

“I didn’t use a miracle, I purchased them. You know, it was rather difficult to do, actually. Have you heard of ‘scalpers,’ as the humans call them? Awful things really, it must have Hell’s doing. But the idea is that one buys a block of tickets when they first go on sale, and then sells them for prices far greater than the original price. Anyways, it was a bit like wading through a flood, trying to find decent non-scalped tickets.” Aziraphale knows he’s rambling again, but he can’t quite stop the spill of words coming out of his mouth. “But I did it eventually, and actually purchased them from a lovely woman who was going to take her wife, but they had something come up. Quite wonderful people, really, and didn’t even upcharge.”

“You— You bought them? For me?”

“Well, of course. And really, I talk poorly of the scalpers but I would have bought from them in the event that I couldn’t find others. I was so very determined to get you these tickets, you see, no matt—”

Aziraphale is cut off by Crowley flinging his arms around his neck.

He freezes for a moment, stunned by the hug; for all that they’ve been touching more and more since the not-end of the world, they hadn’t hugged before. But Crowley is oh so warm, and he’s hugging Aziraphale as if he never wants to let go, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to let his arms drift up and wind around Crowley’s waist.

“Thank you,” Crowley says again, emotion thick in his voice. “This is— This is an incredible gift, angel.”

“I’m very glad it pleases you, darling,” Aziraphale returns quietly, and they stay that way for several more long seconds.

When Crowley pulls back finally, all signs of his prior emotional state have been replaced by clear excitement. “I haven’t seen them since Wembley, you know. Their last concert was in 1986, and I was off in… Oh, I think we were both at Chernobyl, weren’t we? Anyways, their last was in ‘86 and Freddie died in ‘91, so Wembley was the last. I’ve missed their concerts, I have to say.”

“Well, I hope you have every bit of fun as you did at Wembley,” Aziraphale smiles, rather pleased with himself. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he was so worried.

(Something to do with wanting to impress the most important individual in his life, probably. It’s all very understandable, really. Rare concert tickets are quite the grand gesture.)

“I imagine I’ll have more this time, considering you’ll be there. Of course, we’ll have to make sure you know the words so that you can sing along. That makes concerts all the more fun, I’ve found.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale blinks in surprise, heart pounding in his chest at how casually Crowley had said he wanted him to go with him. “That’s very kind, darling, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to bring me with you, just because I bought them for you. If there’s someone else you’d rather—”

“There’s no one else,” Crowley cuts in, and— 

And his glasses are off, abandoned on the counter, so there’s nothing between Aziraphale and the full brunt of his molten gold stare, unwavering and piercing and bottomless in their seriousness, and he’s torn between wanting to look away just to try to hide from that gaze and wanting to stare right back so that Crowley might see all the pieces of his soul. 

“Angel,” Crowley continues evenly, and there’s something in his tone that tells Aziraphale he has never heard Crowley say anything as true as what he’s about to. “You have to know. There is no one else but you.”

Crowley is staring at Aziraphale, eyes wide and imploring and almost desperate, voice even and quiet and all signs of prior levity and disbelief having vanished, and Aziraphale remembers a pond, an argument, a bitter I have plenty of other people to fraternize with, angel. I don’t need you.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale chokes out, eyes watery with sudden emotion at the thought that Crowley still carries the regrets of that argument with him, some one hundred and sixty odd years later, when Aziraphale has long since forgiven him. “Oh, dear thing, I know. There’s no one else for me either, darling. Just you.”

Crowley doesn’t let out an audible breath, but Aziraphale sees his shoulders go loose and his head drop in relief. “That’s— that’s good… So you’ll come with me, then? You’re the only one I’d want to go with.”

He settles a hand on Crowley’s arm softly. “I’d be delighted to accompany you, darling.”

(It feels like perhaps there’s a lot they’re both not elaborating on— the pounding in Aziraphale’s heart, Crowley’s insistence that there’s no one else— but for now, they leave it.)

—

They go to the concert, stand there in the crowd with a wall of humanity and music all around them, and while Crowley watches the stage, Aziraphale can’t keep his eyes off of Crowley.

He’s loose-limbed and laughing, eyes alight behind his sunglasses and head thrown back as he sings along to every word, and Aziraphale thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Crowley’s just— so free, so alive, so vibrant, and he can feel his control on his corporation slipping, can feel dozens of eyes threatening to become visible just for their chance to watch him as well.

A wave of golden light washes over Crowley, haloing him as he belts out somebody, somebody, can anybody find me somebody to love, and a thousand eyes soak it all in.

—

Crowley has been thinking.

Which he usually is, although he likes to think he comes across as being carefree (it’s all part of the game— pretend not to think, and no one will be surprised when you make a good— bad— wrong decision).

But usually, he thinks about things like driving too fast through London. Or playing his music too loud and bothering his neighbors. Or where he can dig up a particularly nice bottle of wine. Or whether Aziraphale would want to share said bottle with him.

Recently, however, he hasn’t been thinking about any of these things. Recently, he has been thinking about Aziraphale, his feelings for Aziraphale, and the state of their relationship.

It’s been a fickle thing over the centuries, their relationship, spanning everything from great adversaries to fighting about holy water to friends to picking each other and Earth over both Heaven and Hell. They’ve worn each other’s faces. 

But since the world kept on turning after the Apocalypse, and after Heaven and Hell tried to execute them, they’ve become… Something else, entirely. 

Something else that has them living together, and going on quiet afternoon walks, and buying extravagant gifts for each other, and linking their arms together or holding hands when they go out. Something else that has Crowley almost unbearably happy these days, something that has his palms sweating and his heart racing and his breath-that-he-doesn’t-actually-need-to-take coming shorter.

He’s not an idiot, contrary to what many of his demonic former colleagues might say.

He knows he’s gone and fallen in love with his angel, with his Aziraphale.

That’s not strange to him, because— how could he not? He’s just… Aziraphale, in all his Aziraphale-ness, and Crowley is in head-over-heels, would-Fall-again-if-it-meant-being-here-with-him love with him.

(And that’s a daunting thought, because his Fall has remained the worst experience he’s ever had for six thousand years. So to say that he’d do it again— that he’d go down in a blaze of fire and ash, that he’d let his wings burn and his halo shatter and his grace leave his body through his tears and a primordial scream tear its way out of his throat— just to end up here with Aziraphale is… Well, it says a lot, doesn’t it?)

And it’s also not that strange that Aziraphale seems to be in love with him, too. After six thousand years, he’s gotten pretty good at reading Aziraphale, and he knows what he’s like when someone is special to him. The gifts, the rambling, the excuses to spend time together, the shy smiles… It’s all Aziraphale’s way of saying I love you, and he says it to no one more than he does to Crowley.

But what’s strange—

What’s strange is that, according to various courting rituals and interpretations of romantic relationships around the world and throughout time, they have been courting one another for quite some time. 

Depending on their point of view, one might even say they’ve been courting for six thousand years, give or take.

It’s… Quite the realization to have, particularly when sitting in the flat you share with said person, with your toes buried beneath their thigh while they read a book, and a love song by your favorite rock and roll artist plays on the gramophone.

There’s so much left unspoken, Freddie croons, and all I can do is surrender to the moment.

Well, Crowley thinks in response as he watches Aziraphale smile at something on his page, no time like the present, right?

“Angel,” he says casually, “have we been courting each other all these centuries?”

Aziraphale sets his book down in his lap, mouth opening as if to deny it, before he stops and furrows his brow. It’s a testament to six thousand years— and perhaps the answer to his question— that Crowley knows he’s running through every memory, every moment they’ve shared, every bit of the time they’d spent together, analyzing it all. The offered rides, the accepted lunches, the shared miracles and temptations, the reciprocated rescues, the clandestine meetings. 

Thousands of years between them, and how blind they’d both been.

Figures.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says after a long, quiet moment. His voice is tender, his eyes soft as he gazes upon Crowley. And that gaze— that can be nothing less than love, Crowley thinks fondly. “Yes, I rather think we might have been.”

“Huh,” Crowley responds, returning his gaze to the ceiling, and wiggles his toes further beneath Aziraphale’s thigh. “Fancy that.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale hums, and they return to their contemplative silence. After a while, he says, “Actually, my darling, I think we may have been in a relationship. You’ve kissed me.”

“What?” He drops his gaze back down to stare at Aziraphale. “When?”

“When we were arguing about getting Adam that motorbike, do you remember? You went to get us ice cream and before you walked away you kissed me, right here.” Aziraphale taps his cheek. “Didn't even seem to notice!”

“Well, why on Earth didn’t you say something?” Crowley asks, incredulous. How could he not remember kissing him, even if it was just a peck on the cheek? The thought is— is— well, it’s ineffable, isn’t it?

Aziraphale looks rather sheepish as he shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know, I suppose I just thought— Well, I suppose I was nervous about what saying something would do to us. I was so very happy with where we were, you see. Walking in the park, bantering, arms hooked together… It was nice. I didn’t want to ruin it, if you hadn’t meant to do it.”

“The only thing you saying something would have done, angel, is make me give you a proper kiss. I mean honestly, our first kiss, and not only do I not remember it, but I missed.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale squirms slightly. “Well. I feel like quite the fool.”

“Nah,” Crowley says. He sits up so that he’s at eye level with Aziraphale, his eyes big and blue and oh so beautiful, and grins cheekily. “I think I’m the fool, for not noticing I did that. But I could make up for it now, if you’d like.”

Immediately, two things happen. 

One, Aziraphale goes a very satisfying shade of pink, which is something Crowley didn’t even know was possible, but will be using to his advantage from now on. 

Two, Aziraphale’s control over his form slips just enough so that where just a moment ago there were two eyes, there are now six, all blinking at Crowley owlishly. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says when he realizes what’s happened. “That’s— I didn’t mean to do that.”

Crowley bursts out laughing, helplessly charmed by his angel. “I can't believe this,” he says between laughs. “I made you lose control over your corporation just by flirting with you.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale huffs. “I’d like to see how you handled a very charming man-shaped being flirting with you, especially when you’re rather in love with him.”

Crowley’s laughter immediately gets stuck in his throat, cut off by the honesty of Aziraphale’s confession. He’d known, of course, or at least suspected, but hearing it… His heart begins knocking against his ribs, and he’d be concerned it was going to beat right out of his chest if it wasn’t for his brain going staticy and shutting down all thoughts. “Ngk,” he finally says, rather eloquently.

“Ah,” Aziraphale preens, six eyes crinkling with delight. “I suppose that’s how.”

“I— Uh— Shut it,” he says finally, though it’s ruined by the fact that he can’t quite stop smiling. Giddy, he thinks, putting a name to it. He’s giddy.  

“Six thousand years,” Aziraphale reaches up to run a thumb along Crowley’s cheekbone fondly, “and I’ve never seen you flustered. It’s extraordinary.”

His heart has been pounding a steady rhythm against the dam he’d built around his feelings for Aziraphale and with that tender touch it breaks, all the love he’d been holding back rushing forward. “I love you. I think I have since Eden. And I’ve just— kept falling in love with you, over and over again for centuries. I meant it, when I said you were the only one for me. Six thousand years, and there’s never been anyone else.”

“Oh, my darling Crowley,” Aziraphale’s eyes shine with unshed tears. “You gorgeous, wonderful man. I don’t know what I possibly did to deserve you, but I am so very fortunate. Loving you all these years has been the greatest privilege of my life.”

“More than guarding Eden, or standing next to the Antichrist as he told Satan to piss off?” Crowley can’t help but tease, though there are tears in his eyes, too. He feels cut open by Aziraphale’s confession, feels like his words have left him raw and exposed, feels like he has been living in darkness for six thousand years and is just now looking up at the sun for the very first time.

“It’s not even a question. I’d give up any of those things in a heartbeat if it meant getting to be with you, you must know that.”

Crowley laughs wetly and leans into Aziraphale’s touch, half convinced his heart is going to split right open. “You know, I was just thinking that I’d Fall all over again, so long as it meant getting to be right here.”

“I don’t— What a thing to say, dear Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, pale blue eyes shining with reverence, with awe, with adoration. “May I kiss you, my darling, my life, my love?”

Crowley nods mutely, heart in his throat, and Aziraphale strokes his cheekbone once more. And then he’s leaning in and filling his space with him, with his sparkling blue eyes and his saccharine smile and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth that Crowley has wanted to kiss for centuries, and suddenly Crowley feels as though he’s staring directly into the heart of the sun, feels like he’s burning up and the only way to stop it is to let his eyes slip shut. 

Even then he’s acutely aware of Aziraphale, of the shallow breath he draws, of the shifting of fabric as he moves, of the velvet softness of his hand on his cheek, of the warmth radiating off of him as he draws closer and closer, of everything fading into the background except Aziraphale.

He feels Aziraphale drawing closer to him, the two of them caught in their own gravity, and then—

And then he stops, close enough that Crowley can feel his breath on his face and hear the click in his throat as he swallows, but he’s still too far away, and Crowley has been waiting for this for six thousand years and he doesn’t want to wait anymore.

He closes the distance between them, crashing into Aziraphale like an asteroid crashing into a planet, and it’s—

It’s champagne glasses being knocked together, it’s a strawberry lolly and a vanilla with a flake, it’s a dusty old bookshop covered in rich green plants, it’s a serpent and a guard standing in the rain, it’s centuries of fighting and yearning and loving, it’s—

It’s Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek and the other holding onto his waist, it’s Crowley’s hands tangled in his waistcoat, it’s the soft little hum that Aziraphale makes when Crowley hauls him in closer, it’s the long awaited first kiss that carries the promise of infinitely more, it’s—

It’s utterly perfect, because it’s Aziraphale and it’s Crowley and it’s Aziraphale kissing Crowley and it’s Crowley kissing Aziraphale, and oh, Crowley never wants it to end.

Eventually, though, it does, because all things do, and because Aziraphale breaks away slowly with laughter on his lips.

“What?” Crowley murmurs, refusing to untangle his fingers from Aziraphale’s waistcoat so that he doesn’t move any further away.

“I simply feel very foolish, my dear,” Aziraphale says, shifting his hand that had been on Crowley’s cheek so that it’s now playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers at the sensation, and Aziraphale grins softly. “To think we could have been doing this all along, if only we were a little more perceptive… I mean, I should have been telling you I love you everyday for centuries now. But instead I’ve…” His brow wrinkles; Crowley is overcome by the desire to kiss it smooth. “Oh, I’ve done and said such horrible things to you, Crowley.”

“Hey, no, none of that,” Crowley tuts. “We were on opposite sides of a war until recently. You just did what you thought you had to do. And we both know I’ve been no saint to you, either. Besides, angel, I haven’t needed you to say it for a long time. I mean, it’s nice to hear— really nice to hear, actually— but I’ve always known deep down, because you’ve shown me in a million little ways. All those invitations to share a meal and a bottle of wine with you, when you let me drive you around even though you don’t like how fast I drive, when you offered to take care of my plants and didn’t say anything when I took that as an invitation to move in, when you… When you brought me holy water, because you didn’t want me to get hurt trying to steal it. All those little things. I’ve known.”

“I suppose, but it doesn’t change that I wish I’d figured it out sooner so that I could be a little louder in my affections and shower you in all the love you deserve,” Aziraphale says petulantly. “I mean, centuries of wasted time that I could have been telling you that I love you, holding your hand, kissing you—”

“Well then,” Crowley says, cutting him off by brushing a kiss under one of his eyes. “I suppose—” another kiss under another eye “—we’ll just—” another kiss, another eye “—have to—” another kiss, another eye “—make up—” another kiss, another eye “—for lost time.” He brushes a kiss under the last of Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale is giggling by the time he stops, all signs of his prior worries thankfully wiped away. Instead, his cheeks are a rosy pink and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth are out in full force. Crowley can’t stop himself from swooping in to kiss them, too.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs, swatting at him lightly. “You utterly insatiable serpent—”

“Well you can hardly blame me, angel, I’ve missed out on six thousand years of kissing you! I have a lot to make up for,” Crowley points out. “I mean, I should’ve been showering you in love all this time too, so…”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, eyes crinkling fondly. “You have been, all along. I mean, you always foot the bill and you pick me up and you help me organize—” He narrows his eyes. “Oh alright, I see your point. Still, I shall endeavor to never let you go another day without knowing that I love you.”

“And I’ll never let you go another day without knowing I love you too, angel… Say, what do you think about a new Agreement?”

Aziraphale just leans in and kisses him.

—

In the end— or perhaps the beginning, when they first began to saunter vaguely into love— perhaps they both knew that was where they were going. Perhaps they knew, but chose to ignore it in favor of maintaining the most important friendship either of them had. Perhaps they knew, but were frightened. Perhaps they knew, but one moved too fast while the other just needed a little time. Perhaps they knew, but they also knew they didn’t have to say anything because their actions spoke loudly enough.

Or perhaps they really didn’t know, and it was a nice little surprise that they found along the way. Perhaps they really didn’t know, and it took six thousand years and a world that didn’t actually end for them to realize. Perhaps they really didn’t know, and they really are just that oblivious.

Or perhaps it’s impossible to say if they actually knew where they were heading or not. Perhaps it’s just… Ineffable.