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Ignorance is bliss, Thomas Gray had written once. Aziraphale supposed he was right.
Watching the bumbling fool Gabriel had been these last few weeks become the Gabriel he’d known and loathed for thousands of years was perhaps the greatest example he could think of to explain what Mr. Gray had written. A Gabriel with no ties to Heaven, no memories, and no grudges was the happiest Archangel he’d ever seen.
And he’d continue being that way if Aziraphale hadn’t been desperate to prove he could solve the mystery, that he could save the world once again. Prove that he was more than what Heaven thought. What he thought.
The doors of the bookshop opened — because he could never keep Crowley out, not even when he wanted to.
“Angel?” the demon sounded out of breath, his fear so clear in his voice that Aziraphale could almost taste it.
“In the back, dear,” someone answered. A second passed before he realised it had been him.
In the silence of the bookshop, Crowley’s footsteps almost made an echo. Soho was quiet, because Aziraphale expected it to be. Gabriel’s voice had cut through the noise and left him in an empty tomb.
Crowley stopped at the door behind him, probably taking in the scene before him. Aziraphale knew what it looked like. Him, on his knees, cradling the broken pieces of his angel mug on his hands like he couldn’t miracle it better with a thought.
“Gabriel’s gone,” the voice said again. Aziraphale knew it was him, but he heard it from afar. Couldn’t connect the robotic sound with his own, usually cheery, voice. “You were right.”
“Angel...”
Crowley sounded softer than he’d heard in a while, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but close his eyes. He couldn’t let Crowley finish whatever sentence he was about to say, because he knew what it meant.
Pity.
“It was real, I mean, the memory loss,” he continued, the tears trying to claw themselves out of his eyes. “But he — he remembers now. So.”
He heard Crowley take a step closer to him.
Pity.
“Guess he — he doesn’t need me anymore. Went back to Heaven straight away, couldn’t stand a second inside the bookshop.”
“Did he do anything—? Aziraphale, are you—?”
Aziraphale opened his eyes. The mug was still broken, and a piece of it — the one with the wings — had sliced through his hand. His blood was red. Human. He supposed it was fitting, that a mug that had represented his essence ultimately just hurt his human body.
“Tickety boo, dear, tickety boo.”
Crowley moved too fast for Aziraphale to realise that he was kneeling in front of him. He couldn’t raise his eyes to look at the demon, knowing what his stare would look like.
Pity.
“Gabriel’s an ass, angel, we can do this without him.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Did he say something?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Aziraphale shrugged. His shoulders felt heavy. “He insulted my cocoa, broke the mug —”
“See? Asshole.”
Aziraphale nodded. Crowley picked up the pieces scattered on the floor, and put his hand forward, clearly so Aziraphale could give him the ones he had.
He felt frozen, his grip on the wings tightening before he could realise what he was doing.
“Wait, Aziraph— you’re hurting yourself.”
He held the wings to his chest, still not looking at Crowley. “He’s right,” he said, but his voice sounded too steady to come from him.
He let go of the wings, putting the broken pieces on Crowley’s waiting hand.
“I don’t deserve to be an angel.”
A beat of silence. “Did Gabriel tell you that?”
“Yes, and we both know he was right.”
“No, no! What’re you talking about? You’re—”
“Naive? A fool? Stupid?” Aziraphale stared at the blood on his hand. The blood of six thousand years of deaths that he carried within him. “Entire civilisations have risen and fallen and I’m still as naive as the day The Almighty gave me a flaming sword.”
He was made of fire. His very essence was meant to burn. The righteous fury he had inside turned into soft wonder as soon as he’d strolled down the Garden. His sword was given away and instead he held onto books and food and the hope of a kinder future. The braveness and courage his bosses had encouraged wilted into a terrible, awful fear that gnawed and chewed at him until he was frozen and stuttering. The Love She’d given him had been taken almost immediately by Humanity and Crowley.
“Angel,” the word hung between them. Crowley’s tone had dropped to almost a whisper. “You don’t believe that. That’s — that’s just what Gabriel said. What Heaven believes.”
Aziraphale sighed. He was tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like each one of his thousands of years weighed him down. “Oh, my dear boy, I’ve believed them for a long time.”
Crowley, bless his demonic heart, stayed silent. Aziraphale took it as a clear sign to keep talking — because even when he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself, he owed it to Crowley to explain the things he clearly couldn’t see. Or maybe he could, and he was just too nice to put into words just how unangelic he was.
“Difficult not to,” he passed a hand through his hair. “I was meant to guard the Garden, and yet here we are — Adam and Eve got thrown out. And even if it was ineffable… Angels have duties, we’re born for a reason. We’re meant to love God above everything else, and yet —”
He raised his head. Crowley had his glasses on, but his face was pulled tight enough for him to guess what his eyes looked like behind them.
“Not angelic enough for Heaven, not demonic enough for Hell,” he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t Fallen yet. Did God take an eon long vacation and forget to check on Her angels? “Even when I thought I’d be free to be, to love… Gabriel comes along and, like an old fool, I’m reminded once again that I’m not enough.”
His cheeks felt wet. He hadn’t realised he was crying — and that was just perfect. Wasn’t it? He was weak, and a coward, and so tired. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he had given in to his natural inclination to crying. He was soft, but he’d always kept his tears inside.
But he felt like he was burning from the inside out, and the whole Earth would flood once more with how many tears were going to come from him. He was soft, but he was also the one who stood and watched as Humanity died time and time again.
He was no Guardian. He was just a Witness.
“Not enough for you, either,” he said, a sob choking him.
Crowley let the pieces in his hands fall to the ground. Aziraphale almost flinched at the movement, but found his own hands enveloped by the demon’s in a second.
“Angel,” Crowley’s voice sounded like it did back on the bench outside of Tadfield years ago. Tentative and tender and so, so full of reverence. “You’re not just enough for me. You are everything,” he sighed. “Do you trust me?”
It was a question loaded with six thousand years of dancing around each other, of the push and pull and proclamations of hostility that neither of them believed.
“We’re on our side,” Aziraphale said softly. “I trust you above everything and everyone.”
“Then trust me when I say, angel, that you are the most kind, selfless and brave being I’ve ever met,” Crowley lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. The broken pieces disappeared from the ground, the restored mug sitting nearby, replaced by a bowl of warm water and bandages. “Not all angels, fuck, not even all humans would lend their wing to the snake that got them fired from their job.”
It reminded Aziraphale of 1941, after the Church and the lift, after he got his books back and discovered the depth of his affection for the demon went beyond what he’d previously imagined. Only this time it was Crowley the one who tenderly cleaned Aziraphale’s wound. The human way.
“Whatever Heaven, Hell or God Herself think,” Aziraphale tutted at Crowley’s words, but there was no heart in it. “It doesn’t matter. Not to me,” he carefully bandaged his hand. “And if it’s all as ineffable as you say — then we’re gonna stop this war once again. Whatever faults we have, we’ve managed to get this far — together,” Crowley always held him like he was sacred, and Aziraphale felt his doubts fade into the background. "I love you, angel, and even if that doesn't change your mind — you'll always have me."
He felt like the worst parts of him — his sloth, his greed, his cowardice, his anger — were clearer whenever Crowley was near. And even then —
Even then Crowley loved him.
Aziraphale let his hands cup Crowley’s cheeks softly, almost fleetingly.
“My darling heart,” Aziraphale whispered. He’d come to the conclusion years ago, standing in a burning church, that his human heart beat for Crowley, and his angelic essence burned for him. “I love you too.”
He was a coward, and he was selfish. If Heaven and Hell and the Something Terrible were coming for him, he wouldn’t go without doing it.
He kissed Crowley.
For just a second, his lips grazed Crowley’s, and his whole essence and corporation burned.
“I hope this isn’t too fast,” he mumbled. He was so close to him, and still he couldn’t hear anything but his own heart trying to mash itself into Crowley’s.
After a beat of silence, Aziraphale moved backwards, dropping his hands. He was a coward, he was selfish, and he’d clearly just overstepped—
“Aziraphale.”
Crowley grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, just like he’d done years ago, too, but instead of slamming him into a wall, he dragged Aziraphale towards him.
Crowley’s kiss was nothing like Aziraphale’s. He could feel the desperation in that first touch. His whole body was trembling. He kept trying to get Aziraphale closer, but his mouth wasn’t moving.
Aziraphale put his hands over Crowley’s, easing his hold on his poor coat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, close enough that their lips almost touched.
“You better not, you bastard.”
There was no bite to his words. Aziraphale left one hand over Crowley’s, lifting the other one to his glasses. It wouldn’t do to not look at his eyes. Crowley let him take the glasses off.
Aziraphale smiled. “There you are, dear.”
He loved Crowley so much, he felt his eyes fill with tears again. Crowley didn’t let the tears fall, instead gently wiping them.
“It seems I can’t stop crying,” Aziraphale felt like laughing too. And running. And maybe stopping a war too.
“Pfff, crying’s fine. Big crier, me,” Crowley realised what he said a few seconds too late. Aziraphale burst into giggles. Crowley tried to look irritated, but he quickly joined in on the sudden laughing fit.
“I think we finally lost it, my dear,” Aziraphale said, finally, when they stopped giggling like smitten children.
“Angel, we lost it when we decided to raise the wrong Antichrist.”
There was an insistent knocking on the front door.
“Mr. Aziraphale! Mr. Crowley!” Muriel was much too polite to enter even when she could do it with no difficulty.
Aziraphale groaned, standing up. “Fuck.”
Crowley smirked, still kneeling. “Angel! Not in front of the kids.”
“Oh, shush, you silly serpent,” he gave Crowley his good hand. There'd be time later to continue professing their undying love for each other, for kissing and holding and crying. Even if Aziraphale didn't trust himself, he had faith in Crowley. “I believe we have a war to stop,” he smiled. “Together.”