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“There’s only one candidate who makes even the slightest amount of sense,” Metatron said, and the sweet aftertaste of the coffee turned bitter. “and that’s you.”
“Me?” Aziraphale felt his voice turn hoarse at the surprise.
“Well, yes. You’re a leader, you’re honest, you don’t just tell people what they want to hear. It’s why Gabriel came to you in the first place, I imagine.” His head spun, and the Metatron continued, “There are huge plans afoot, enormous projects, and I will need you to run them.”
You
Me?
Aziraphale was at a loss for words.
“You are just the Angel for the job.” The Metatron stared at him expectantly.
Before he knew it, words tumbled out of Aziraphale’s mouth in a rambling response.
“I-I-I don’t want to go back to heaven!” His hands shook slightly as he pointed at the paper cup on the table, “Where would I get my coffee?”
“You know, as supreme archangel, you would be able to decide who to work with.”
Oh
Crowley
And Aziraphale began to imagine it. It could be just as it was in The Beginning.
They could make nebulas together.
The Metatron continued on, but Aziraphale’s imagination was looking through the seemingly infinite Rolodex of his and Crowley’s time together, and he could continue their time together for eternity. He and Crowley, as it was always meant to be.
But, a nagging thought threatened his dreamy imagination; what about Beelzebub and Gabriel? Gabriel was the supreme archangel, and when he had voiced his opinions on the works of God, he was cast out—and inadvertently, almost started a war between Heaven and Hell. What if Aziraphale suffered the same? He had personally disagreed with God before, with Job and his children, but Crowley saved him from punishment. Could he do the same again?
Aziraphale felt like he was on a tightrope; on one end, a life of angelic status, power, and the chance to make official changes; on the other, his bookshop, the Bentley, Crowley—his life.
He looked into the abyss below, and slipped on the wire, “And if I said no?”
The Metatron looked surprised, “I see, so you refuse?”
He had to make a choice; this was it. He remembered the feeling of a fluttering heart, of the look of a demonic smile, of temptation.
“I am very sorry,” He put on as diplomatic a voice as he could muster, “But I do not wish to become the supreme archangel. I quite like my bookshop.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
And The Metatron disappeared back to heaven, and Aziraphale returned to his bookshop.
~
When he returns to the bookshop, he is met with Nina and Maggie, seemingly on their way out.
“We’re just going.” Maggie smiles as she and Nina pass him,
“I’m sure you two have a lot to say,” Nina adds.
His heart flutters, and he wonders what they had discussed with Crowley, who had now stood to face the angel and took off his glasses.
“Look, I suppose, um..” The demon looked nervous, shifting his weight uncomfortably and breaking eye contact. “I’ve got something to say,”
Aziraphale tries to interrupt, to find a way to calm him down, but Crowley continues rambling, “I know we ought to be talking about…” About what? Aziraphale thinks, “It’s probably best if I just start off doing all the talking, you do the listening ’cause if I don’t start talking now, I won’t ever start talking, right?”
He feels a lump forming in his throat, and unwilling to let it be known to the demon, simply nods for Crowley to say what’s on his mind.
“We’ve known each other a long time,” Crowley is breathing harder, and Aziraphale wishes he could just make a miracle to calm him down.
“We’ve been on this planet a long time. I mean, you and me. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We’re a team, a group. Group of the two of us. And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t. I mean, the last few years, not really.” Crowley swallows hard and looks away, and Aziraphale wishes he could capture the look of the emotion on his face forever. It was so intimate to see Crowley this way, so vulnerable.
“And I would like to spend-” His voice catches in his throat, and it takes everything in the angel not to reach out and touch the demon to soothe his cries.
“I mean, if Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together,” Visions of Alpha Centauri enter Aziraphales mind, “then we can. Just the two of us. We don’t need heaven; we don’t need Hell; they’re toxic.”
Yes.
“We need to get away from them.”
Yes.
“Just be an us.”
Yes.
“Just you and me; what do you say?”
The bookshop is silent.
“Crowley, I-” Yellow eyes bore into him, and Crowley took a step towards him, then another, until they were almost sharing breaths. Aziraphale thought he could be in a Jane Austen novel.
“What do you say?” Crowley repeated, his voice a whisper, his breath warm against Aziraphale’s face.
Yes.
If Crowley could read his mind, things would be a lot easier.
He pushes through the lump in his throat and makes a noise that isn’t exactly a word.
“Angel?” Crowley prompts, a concerned look flashing in his eyes.
"Yes." And the world slows. Crowley’s fists are twisted tight into his lapel, pushing him into the bookshelf, reminiscent of a time only a few years prior, but this time, his lips connected with Aziraphale’s.
It’s awkward, the kiss, but to the inexperienced pair of angel and demon, it felt right. Aziraphale felt like he could fall to the ground at any second and desperately grabbed Crowley’s back for stability. The demon responded by wrapping his arm around Aziraphale, and everything felt right.
They broke the kiss after a few moments and caught their breath.
“It should’ve been under an awning.” Crowley mumbles, eliciting a bit of laughter from Aziraphale.
“An awning?” He giggles, confused and still coming down from the electric high of the kiss.
“Nevermind.” Crowley releases his grip and smooths Aziraphale’s rumpled lapels, “Well, if we’re going for dinner tonight, you’ll have to change out this blazer.”
“Oh, we’re going on a date?”
“Of course we are Angel, just like old times.” Crowley winks and Aziraphale almost melts into a puddle of golden goop. Well, that would be hard to get out of the rug, and so he remains corporeal, for now.
~
The Ritz is just as glamorous as the last time they were there. The Maitre D’Hotel smiles as they enter, guiding them to their usual table, and bringing a complimentary bottle of red wine.
“So,” Crowley begins after toasting to their successful adventure, again, “What did The Metatron say, anyways? I was a little distracted when you returned.”
Oh, right.
“Well,” Aziraphale sips the wine, light and fruity in taste yet contrasted with firm tannins that leave his mouth dry. “He offered me the position of Supreme Archangel.”
The sharp clack of a knife falling to the floor rang out across the restaurant. A waiter came over with haste to replace it, and Crowley’s jaw hung open in shock.
“My thoughts exactly,” He continued, “He said there were ‘huge plans afoot’, and wanted me to manage them. He even offered to reinstate you as an angel to aid me.”
He looked to Crowley, whose look of shock was now marred with slight disgust. “I assume you said no?” He spat and took a large swig of the wine. Aziraphale smiled.
“Honestly, I felt tempted to say yes,” he winked at Crowley, “But, you could say a Nightingale sang in my ear and helped me make the right choice.”
Vera Lynn’s wartime croon rang through his mind, and he remembered the Blitz. He remembered the first time he felt the fluttery feeling about Crowley, which he felt now as they sipped wine in the Ritz Dining room. His love had bloomed in a time of immense uncertainty for the world, and now that he knew Crowley felt the same, the flutter intensified. Did he know, back during the war? Had he held these feelings for longer? Was this a recent development? Aziraphale formed many questions to tease the demon but now didn’t feel like the right time.
“You gave up becoming one of the most powerful angels, for me?”
“Don’t get too full of yourself now, Crowley, I quite like running my bookshop as well!”
Crowley raised his eyebrow, “Alright, Angel, have it your way. But I’ll always know it was me who tempted you to fall from grace.”
“Of course, my dear.”
~
Mayfair was relatively quiet for a Friday evening, and a demon and an angel went for a walk. They walked up Berkeley Street, pondering the windows of the closed shops, they passed the restaurant Sexy Fish, and Crowley laughed at the peculiar name.
“Could a fish even be called Sexy? It’s a fish!”
Young women in evening dresses stood outside, smoking cigarettes, and purple lights bled onto the streets, illuminating Aziraphale’s white coat as they passed. Passing the smoke cloud and up one more block, one storefront caught Aziraphale’s eye.
“Crowley,” He stopped and tugged lightly on Crowley’s jacket sleeve, “Look at this!”
The main showroom lights were turned off, but the slight glow of emergency lights displayed the cars in the shop.
“What are you playing at, Angel?”
Aziraphale grinned, “Would the Bentley get jealous if I also had one?” The Bentley showroom was full of modern cars, buffed to shining perfection.
“Those?!” Crowley exclaimed, turning to Aziraphale, “These modern cars are a complete mockery of the originals, I mean, they don’t even look like Bentleys anymore! If you want a car…”
Aziraphale looked expectantly, one eyebrow quirked.
“Well, I guess you could, maybe, borrow the Bentley more often.” He sheepishly looked to the side, avoiding Aziraphale’s wide grin like the plague. Aziraphale simply laughed and walked away from the showroom window. He crossed the tranquil street to the parkside, where the wrought iron gate had been closed for the night.
With a wave of his hand, Aziraphale unlocked the gate and walked through.
“Oooh, breaking the law, Aziraphale?” Crowley teased and wiggled his fingers before following him into the empty park.
“The City of Westminster can fine me if they would like.”
Berkeley Square was dark, illuminated only by a few lamp posts and the glow from the surrounding buildings. They sat on a bench, Crowley spread his arms and legs in his usual languid position, and Aziraphale sat straight as a board and smiled at the familiarity.
“You know,” Crowley’s quiet voice rang out across the park, echoing against the surrounding buildings, “I can’t hear any nightingales singing tonight.”
As if on cue, the soft coo of a pigeon interrupts Crowley’s statement.
The demon’s face reddens to a shade close to his hair, eliciting a quiet laugh from Aziraphale, who reaches to place a hand atop Crowley’s.
“I suppose the pigeons will have to do.” Crowley intertwines his cool fingers with Aziraphales.
They sit, for a long time, watching people enter and out of the surrounding restaurants and private clubs, and when they finally stand to return back to Soho, their hands stay knit together.
Aziraphale knows his decision was the right one.
That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dancing at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square