Archive of Our Own

Crowley stands there for a while.

He knows what to expect, had seen the look on Aziraphale’s face.

He’d chosen Heaven over Crowley, and the demon very well couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t. Not when it had been made so abundantly clear that Crowley had mistaken Aziraphale’s ever-present kindness–soft looks and gentle touches–as something… well, something more than that.

It’s been a minute or two since it happened, but he can still feel Aziraphale’s lips on his.

He clings to the ghost of his touch while he watches him approach the elevator. Could he turn around, now, and come running into Crowley’s arms? He’d take him, even if Crowley swears he can feel blood dripping down his chest from where Aziraphale tore his heart out. He’d have him, now, if he could just turn around. Just apologize. It would be so simple.

Aziraphale stands there, across the street from him, still for a moment or two. He glances over at Crowley. The trees cast shadows on him, and Crowley’s lenses are so dark. He almost can’t see him. The angel feels so far away. He couldn’t reach him if he tried. Aziraphale seems cast in darkness.

Turn around,

He thinks,

despite himself.

Come back to me.

He hopes.

Aziraphale looks away, and it’s all for naught. He steps into the elevator, and the doors close. He’s disappeared from Crowley’s line of sight for what might be the very last time.

(An eternity without his angel.)

For a second or two or three or thirty or a million–Crowley isn’t sure how long–he stands there with the shape of Aziraphale’s body fading from his retinas, no longer fixated in his vision, the memory of his figure fading from view.

He clings to it, begs it to last a moment longer, until he can see it in his mind’s eye no more and just like that, Aziraphale is gone.

The wind blows.

Crowley gets into his Bentley and drives.

For a while, he drifts. He stays in small villages for a few days, in larger cities for a week or two. He stays in small inns, he stays in lavish hotels. He drinks. He waters his plants. He drives. He sees many a new face and learns many a new name and he cannot be bothered to remember any of it. He stumbles into fools and he cannot see the fun in their debauchery, he sees gentle acts of kindness and he has to look away.

Often he finds himself on a rocky shore, throwing pebbles into the lake underneath the moon. He sits for hours. He looks at the sky. He stares at the stars. He spots all the different constellations and admires the ones he designed. He wishes Aziraphale could tell him the mythology behind each of them. Why the humans named them what they did. He’s certain he’d know.

Sometimes Crowley convinces himself that he can take a trip to Alpha Centauri all by himself. That he can go out and explore this vast universe. That he can see the beauty of it all up close, enjoy his own company.

But he falters, every time, right before he is about to set off. He’s tried to push down every bit of hope he has that, eventually, Aziraphale will realize he’s done wrong and come knocking on his door and tell him he’s sorry and tell him he loves him and that they will go to Alpha Centauri together, just the two of them. (And Beelzebub and Gabriel, but what are the odds they’d run into them? …Eugh.)

But the idea of exploring the universe with Aziraphale–even if it isn’t Aplha Centauri–is too pleasant to the demon. He can’t ruin it for himself. 

He stays on Earth. He admires the stars from the shore. He yearns for the Angel above the sky. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t. He fails.

At every stop he makes where he stumbles upon ducks, he feeds them frozen peas. He says Good morning when he passes by them in the morning, and he says Good evening when the sun begins to set. He sits on a bench and stares at them for a while, the way they swim through the water, the way they take off whenever they like.

Often, they follow each other. When one takes off, eventually the others will drift down the water the same way to follow it. Groups of three or more, typically. But sometimes, on occasion, just two.

Only two.

He tosses these ducks a few extra peas and watches them paddle out of sight. He leaves town wishing them well.

Crowley visits villages, cities, countries he’d never been to before. He sees gorgeous sights, the Earth’s natural beauty. He may, perhaps, once in a while, perform miracles. Maybe he makes a rainbow over an already gorgeous view of the mountainside for a group of wide-eyed tourists. Maybe he ties the shoelaces of a drunken man being a bit too rough. He sees and he sees and he sees, but only rarely interferes.

He is surrounded by humanity, in all of its entirety. He witnesses the highs and the lows and sometimes it tires him. Sometimes he wants some simplicity. Sometimes he wants a companion. Sometimes he wants someone to talk to.

Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, when he knows even the stars cannot see him, Crowley sits in the Bentley and cries.

The loneliness starts to crack his walls if only a little. He is frequently tempted to return to London, in spite of his fury, his sadness. In spite of the reason he left. He wants to walk the familiar streets again. He wants to check on Nina and Maggie, as meddling in their relationship had gotten him mildly attached, and, well, surely they’ve gotten together already? He also, perhaps, wants to make sure that Muriel hasn’t made a disaster of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Not that he lacks faith in them, but. Well. Maybe a bit.

But then he shakes himself out of it. It is certainly too soon to go trampling over sacred grounds. He feels a sense of responsibility for the bookshop, but he tries his best to stamp it down. He reminds himself that he was not the one who abandoned his very own home. It certainly isn’t his fault that Aziraphale’s shop is under new ownership. If the whole place goes down in flames again, well. So be it. Not on him.

(He squeezes the Bentley’s steering wheel so hard that his knuckles threaten to burst through his skin at the mere thought of it.)

For the most part, Crowley spends his days cursing Heaven and Hell. He spends his days in conflict over Aziraphale, cursing him and his audacity whilst grieving the loss of him and his love. Often he will find himself in a rage, recalling the offer that Aziraphale had presented him with, and then it will fade into a somber sadness where he lays on the couch of an inn, scotch in hand, eyes closed, heart thumping a pitiful rhythm.

In these moments, where the grief threatens to overtake his body and send him spiraling, all he has to do is think of Aziraphale in a different light. Cheerful laughter and kind gestures and thoughtful glances and fingertips brushing against his. Moments that he replays in his head over and over and over.

It’s a conundrum and some sort of fucked up cycle he can’t escape from. The very reason he’s so properly fucked at the minute is Aziraphale, and he’s also the only one who can calm him down. The very angel his heart belongs to.

That fact is not something he’d ever admit- not anytime soon, at least, not even if the conversation in the bookshop had gone over well. How do you tell someone they’ve captured you? That they hold your heart in the palm of their hand? That you trust them, irrefutably, with your life? With your love? That you believe in them with your whole being, so entirely that you’re certain they can’t hurt you?

Well.

Crowley hadn’t ever said any of that–hadn’t really thought he needed to–wasn't it obvious, Angel?–but Aziraphale had gone and shattered his heart anyway. He could have very well reached into the demon’s chest, ripped his beating heart out and squeezed it between his fingers until it stopped pumping, and it would have hurt less, Crowley is confident, than the offer Aziraphale had made, the things Aziraphale had said.

Of course, Aziraphale would never have done anything like that. But Crowley would have preferred it, certainly. At the very least, what a sight to see it would have been.

Sometimes his thoughts linger on the conversation too long and he imagines what would have happened had he said yes to Aziraphale.

Oh, of course, my Angel, I will let your graciousness lead me back up through the Gates. I will let you pour the light back into my wings. I will let you reshape me into something I could never be again, mold me until you are happy with the outcome. I will stand for something I could never believe in again, a humble servant for God in your name. You will fix it all, Aziraphale, and I will be by your side as it happens, under God, serving Heaven.

He laughs so hard at the idea of it that he nearly chokes.

Crowley could never be an angel again. God can go fuck Herself for all he cares. Satan, too, of course. It’s all so mad. It’s all so properly insane that Crowley wonders how the fuck Aziraphale possibly could have thought he’d have agreed.

And then he is reminded of the beginning of it all. Nebulas whirling into existence in the vast emptiness of space, the entire universe unfolding at his fingertips, his design taking shape for the first time in front of him. 

In front of Aziraphale.

He’d questioned God in front of him, and hundreds of years later he watched the same angel question God, too. Watched him lie to archangels in the name of humanity, for the better good.

Aziraphale, Crowley suspects, would make a far better God than God could ever be. If he’d been the creator from the very start, the universe would be even more beautiful than it already was.

But as it was, he was not. To Heaven, he returned anyway. To make things better. To change the world from the inside out. To offer Crowley his role as angel back, because he was not good enough the way he was. Not good enough as a demon–too evil to remain with when the offer of holiness stood beside him. 

Crowley thinks of how desperately he’d hoped that Aziraphale would understand him. His heart aches. They could have been something, together.

Perhaps in another universe, if God had made more than just this one, Crowley and Aziraphale would have found their hearts beating in the name of the other, as opposed to only the whispers trapped beneath Crowley’s chest. Maybe they’d have figured it all out six thousand years ago, at the start of it all. Maybe Aziraphale would not be gone, and Crowley would not be alone. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As it is, only this universe stands.

Nothing more than this one.

Nothing more than this.

Dull sky, dry grass.

No singing in the air.

Crowley is alone, again, at the end of it all.

Alone.

Five years pass before Crowley makes his way back to London. Five years without Aziraphale by his side, and it feels like it’s the longest he’s been without him since forever. (This is false.) Five years without a sight of him, five years without a whisper in his ear, five years without even a fucking sign that the angel is still, at the very least, watching over him.

In recent months, talk of the second coming has buzzed around in Hell. On occasion, Shax has shown up to tell him a thing or two and asked him if he knows anything. He always tells her no. He doesn’t know a thing, and he doesn’t want to, really.

However, all the talk makes him nervous. And the place he has always felt safest, the most at home, even if Aziraphale is no longer there, has not been there in years, is the bookshop.

So he goes.

He looks a little different, with longer hair and (somehow) darker clothes. He parks the Bentley beside the bookshop and gets out, and then he stands there and stares at it for a while.

It looks the same as it always has. Like nothing has changed. Like the last time he saw it his heart hadn’t been ripped in two.

It’s almost too much for him to handle, and he wants to flee.

He has his hand on the handle of the Bentley, ready to get back in and drive away when a voice calls out.

“Mr. Crowley? Oh, hello!”

Ah, fuck.

Crowley turns around, met by the face of Muriel poking their head out between the doors of the bookshop. He sees their face brighten when he looks over at them, and his attention clearly gives Muriel the encouragement they need to walk over.

Their outfit is a bit more… modern, and they walk over comfortably. Crowley assumes they’ve acclimated to human life. Muriel has a bounce in their step and they swing their arms out when they stop in front of him. “I haven’t seen you around in ages, Mr. Crowley. I thought you might stay, when Aziraphale left, because you clearly know the bookshop as well as he does, or, well, did, but then you left and I had to figure it all out on my own. That’s okay though! I figured it out fine. Do you want to come in and look around?”

Crowley shifts, arms crossing over his chest as he glances over at the window. “No. I can see it fine from here, thanks.”

“Oh, well, it looks a little different on the inside. I have way more books, now, I thought Aziraphale might appreciate a new selection.” Crowley glances back at them, and his irritation must shine through his face because Muriel is quick to backtrack. “I mean, I didn’t get rid of anything! I haven’t sold anything, either. I just have some new books. Are you really sure you don’t want to come in? I had to guess about a lot of things, and I don’t want Aziraphale to be cross with me if I changed the bookshop too much. You can probably tell me if something’s out of place, right?”

Crowley shrugs. “I could, I guess. Don’t know why I should. You mean to tell me he hasn’t stopped back here since he left?”

“Um… not that I can recall, no. I was a bit surprised, too, but I guess it’s just because he trusts me so much! He knew I would keep it all tidy.”

“You haven’t heard a peep from him?”

“Not a word, no.”

He huffs.

“Well, he’s not spoken to me either.” Crowley glances at them out of the corner of his eye. “Not that I’d want him to. Whatever, fine, show me around, Muriel. Make it quick, I’m not going to stay long.”

A cheerful smile brightens Muriel’s face and they quickly lead the two of them to the bookshop. They open the doors and walk in. Crowley falters for a second, but then he walks in, too, shoulder roughly bumping against the door.

And it… really doesn’t seem like anything has changed. There are, in fact, noticeably more books, and Crowley thinks maybe Muriel has changed the way they are organized, as things seem slightly less scattered, but other than that it’s as if the whole building hasn’t been touched since Aziraphale walked out the doors.

If he tilts his head, he can see it all again- relive the moment he lost his angel for good.

His heart twists and his fists clench, so he looks over at Muriel, who appears to have been talking this entire time.

“...so Nina told me that she didn’t care what I did with the books, really, as long as I didn’t trash the place, but Maggie was kind enough to help me out and find a proper place for each of them in the shop. I guess it makes sense because they used to be hers, but she still wanted to make sure they stayed safe and well taken care of. Or.. does it?” Muriel looks over from where they had been peering into one of the bookshelves.

Crowley nods and walks over. He glances at the bookshelf, too, and notes that this is the G–I section. It’s rather large. “Yes. Certainly. Humans, uh, tend to become attached to things. Even if they’re… boring.”

“Do you think books are boring, Mr. Crowley?”

He huffs. “Yes. Well, mostly. Doesn’t matter. Also, you can stop with the whole Mister thing. I’m just Crowley. You talk to Nina and Maggie?”

“Oh, yes!” Muriel glances out the window. “Once Maggie found out that Aziraphale– oh, can I call him Mister, if not you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Okay, well, when Maggie found out Mr. Aziraphale was, um, taking leave for a while, she offered to help me out around the bookshop until I got used to things! She said that Mr. Aziraphale had been so kind to her that she wanted to repay the favor.”

“Certainly. How generous.” He looks across the street, then, too, tries to spot Nina through the windows of the coffee shop. “Are they in love, then?”

“Nina and Maggie?”

“Who else?”

Muriel smiles. “They are. It took them a little longer than a few days–it was a few months, I think–but they’re in a relationship now. They both seem happy. I’m happy for them. I think I like them. That’s okay, right? To be fond of humans?”

Crowley makes his way over to Aziraphale’s desk, glancing at the papers, books, and journals scattered about. He skims his fingers over the wood, flips through pages of notes. “Have you read anything of Aziraphale’s?”

“No, I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to, and I didn’t want to upset Aziraphale at all.”

“Hm. Well,” Crowley slides his palm against the wood of the armchair, solid and familiar underneath his fingertips. “He’d certainly tell you it’s fine. He loves them, I think. Humanity in its entirety. Loves them more than me, anyway.” He sits down in the chair, shuts his eyes as he leans back. “It’s not against the rules if that’s what you’re asking. Angels as a whole really probably ought to be more fond of humans, given how they’re supposed to watch over them and all. But they don’t really care. Most, anyway. Just playthings.”

He hears their footsteps as they make their way over to him.

“Is that what you think of them?”

“I think they’re just fine. I don’t love them. Not like Aziraphale. But I certainly don’t hate them. I haven’t for a while. They’re different from us, complicated little buggers, but they have so little time to work it all out. I feel bad for them, really.”

He hears Muriel open a book and flip through the pages.

“I don’t.”

“Really? Why not?”

“They live such short lives. I think that makes it better for them.” Crowley opens his eyes to find Muriel already looking over at him.

“How could that possibly make it better for them?”

“Well, our lives are very long. Often, I feel… bored. But they have a limit to how long it takes them to do everything they want to. They can’t wait forever to do something. They’ll run out of time eventually. They know there’s a deadline.”

Crowley grabs a random book off Aziraphale’s desk and opens it to find it fully annotated. He traces his fingers along the notes in the margin and feels a thump in his chest at the familiar handwriting. “I think that would just make them sad, probably. So much to do and so little time to do it. How could they do it all?”

“I think they do what matters the most. Wouldn’t you? We can’t die. We can do anything whenever. But if you had a time limit, wouldn’t you do what matters most to you? I think I would. I’d have visited the Earth sooner. Keeping files in Heaven was rather boring…”

Crowley flips to the back of the book, and his index finger follows the letters of his own name. On the last page, Aziraphale had written RECOMMEND TO CROWLEY.

If Crowley could die, would he have done what matters most to him?

If Crowley could die, he’d have kissed Aziraphale six thousand years ago.

He flips the book over to examine the title.

Pride & Prejudice

Jane Austen

Crowley tosses the book onto the desk. He gets up and heads toward the door.

“Mr. Crowley? Where are you going?”

“Not Mister, Muriel. I told you I couldn’t stay for long. I like what you’ve done to the place, though, keep it this way, yeah?” He takes long strides, chest constricting, eyes on the floor as he walks. It’s all become too much, suddenly, the familiar smell of paper and leather, the dust particles that fly through the beams of sunlight, and the way his muscles have relaxed since he walked through the doors. It’s too much, too familiar. Everywhere he looks he sees Aziraphale, and everywhere he looks Aziraphale is not here. 

“Will I see you again, Crowley?” Muriel sounds sad, and it’s enough to make him falter in his footing. He turns to see them putting the book Pride & Prejudice back in its place, straightening it out from where Crowley had tossed it. Leaving Aziraphale’s desk as it had been prior. They look up at him when they’re done, and a little frown pulls their lips down. “I’m friends with Maggie and Nina, and the humans that I’ve met in the neighborhood are very kind, but I get sort of sad sometimes. Nobody knows I’m an angel, Crowley. I feel alone.”

Crowley’s fingers reach for the doorknob, and he wraps his hand around it, but he does not open the door just yet. 

“I…” He shrugs. “Don’t Nina and Maggie know?”

Muriel blinks as if they have just remembered that fact. “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose so. But they’re not angels themselves. I can’t really talk about what it’s like, to them. They don’t understand. Not like you do.”

“I’m not an angel, either.”

“Of course not.” Muriel shrugs. “But you were, once—an important one. And you’re a demon now. We’re almost the same.”

Crowley knows what it feels like, the loneliness. He’d felt it for a very long time, but it had faded in Aziraphale’s presence. Now that the angel has left him, the feeling has returned stronger than before. He supposes it would not be the worst thing in the world to visit Muriel once more.

“I can’t tell you when, Muriel. It might be a while. But I suppose I will come back eventually and visit you again if you insist upon it.”

Muriel’s smile makes him feel a bit better. “Okay. I’ll see you soon, Crowley!”

Crowley offers a little smile of his own. “Tell Nina and Maggie I said hi,” he tells them, then turns around and walks out the door.

The second the sunshine hits his face, he’s booking it back to the Bentley. The emotions swamp him, now, a cacophony of anger and sadness and a nauseous feeling in his chest, homesickness paired with a nostalgia that creeps up on him as soon as he’s out the door.

He gets in the driver’s seat as quickly as he can, takes the car out of park, and drives as fast as the Bentley will take him out of the neighborhood.

In the place where the Bentley was parked, a white feather floats to the ground.

Crowley books a room at a hotel in the city, nurses a bottle of whiskey from the evening into the late hours of the night. He lays in bed and yearns for sleep to come. It doesn’t.

He can see shapes in the popcorn ceiling if he looks hard enough.

A teensy tiny snap of his fingers and there’s his face, sort of abstract–you’d have to really look for it to see it–but present in the bumps and zigzags of the ceiling. For a moment he thinks about adding Aziraphale’s, but he decides against it. They will never be together again, Aziraphale had made sure of it. 

He turns on his side, spills some of the whiskey on the bed in the process, gazes at the moon through the window, and feels a sadness in his bones.

He misses the angel. He misses him with all his being. On more than one occasion he’s thought of making his way up to Heaven, finding Aziraphale and grabbing his shoulders while demanding he tell him what the Hell he was thinking. Other times he curses himself, relives the conversation in his head over and over, thinks of all the different things he could’ve done to make the angel understand.

He re-examines the kiss often.

The way Aziraphale had stilled at first, the way his hands had fumbled over his back, the way he gasped when Crowley had pulled away, the way his voice cracked when he spoke. I forgive you.

Perhaps, immediately after it all, Crowley had convinced himself that he’d misread Aziraphale’s feelings from the very beginning. Perhaps it was easier to convince himself that Aziraphale had never had any feelings for him at all and that choosing heaven over Crowley was the easiest choice Aziraphale could ever make, because what was a friend–a demonic friend, at that–to the chance to rule over Heaven?

But in the years that have passed since, he has had ample time to look at everything from the past six thousand years, and he comes back to the conclusion he had originally come to. Crowley suspects that Aziraphale had loved him, at least a little bit.

He thinks of how tightly Aziraphale grabbed his arm when Gabriel and Beelzebub confessed their love in front of everyone. 

He thinks of Aziraphale’s hand pressed against his while they danced.

He thinks of Aziraphale’s eyes when he looked at him and told him the word he was looking for was smitten.

He thinks of his smile when he’d miracled Hamlet into a success.

He thinks of the glow in Aziraphale’s eyes when he had thanked him for saving his books in 1941.

He thinks of their lunch at the Ritz.

He thinks of a thousand different ways Aziraphale has shown his affections, and he only wishes that he himself had not been a coward for so long.

Crowley drinks more of his whiskey and he eventually falls asleep to the thought of Aziraphale for the millionth time.

It is not long after he visits the bookshop for the first time that he returns again. It’s late summer, now, and the sky is often overcast with storms preparing to say their hellos to autumn. At the moment, Crowley stands in front of it. He faces the street, raindrops sliding off his black umbrella.

The whole second-coming thing had started snowballing. Often he sees humans stationed at corners of streets, big cardboard signs in their hands, standing on top of boxes and shouting. JESUS IS COMING, they often shout. HE WILL RETURN SOON.

Crowley can only assume Heaven is not doing a good job of keeping things under wraps if all these people are talking about it. Hell has been having issues of its own, too. Demons have been going missing all over the place. Shax had visited him a little while ago and warned him to stay vigilant. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the demon had taken a likeness to him.

He’s watching the sky with a pout on his lips. Muriel had invited him in about ten minutes ago, but he’d told them he just wanted to watch the rain for a while. They had told him to come in whenever he’d like to, then, and that they’d have some tea waiting for him inside.

He’s glad to be back, he thinks. His heart feels less heavy in his chest, but there’s a new tightness that wasn’t there last time. All these whispers between Heaven and Hell have him anxious. He can’t help but think of Aziraphale. What is his part in all of this? And, more importantly, is he safe?

There isn’t really a way to know. He just has to wait and see. He’s not getting himself involved this time. If anything truly goes off the rails, Aziraphale can probably handle it. Maybe. Doesn’t matter. None of his business, truly.

Still, the whole thing’s got him feeling weird, so it makes the most sense to stay at the bookshop for a little while. Keep an eye on things.

Crowley’s about to turn around when he spots two heads peeking from around the corner across the street. There aren’t many people walking around–nobody at all, really, due to the pouring rain. He stands still, tilts his head up a bit more, and makes it look like he’s staring at the clouds.

Two people emerge from the corner, dressed in monochrome white. Their postures are stiff. Angels.

They start to approach him.

This seems less than ideal, as he wants nothing to do with any angels (mostly) for the rest of his life.

If he goes into the bookshop, they’ll probably just wait out until he steps outside, and then swarm him all at once the second he leaves regarding whatever the Hell it is they want. Therefore, camping in the shop is not an option. Not to worry, though, Crowley knows these neighborhoods like the back of his hand. He can walk away, hide in the shadows between two storefronts, and lose the two of them in the blink of an eye.

With his solution figured out, he turns and begins to walk away.

Unsurprisingly, he can hear their footsteps follow him.

When he quickens his pace a fraction, he knows that they do too.

Hm. He’d like to turn around once more to get a better look, but that’s a little too obvious. Ah, fuck it.

He turns his head, peers behind him, and is a tad surprised to see that the angels are far closer than he’d realized. If he keeps at the pace he’s going, they’ll catch up to him before he can lose them.

This is made more likely when the angels notice him looking at them and quicken their pace even more.

Well then.

Crowley looks ahead of him, eyes darting over his surroundings. There is a right turn up the hill coming up ahead of him. When he rounds the corner he can simply miracle himself back into the bookshop. Better to be safe than sorry.

When he rounds the corner, boots sliding against the wet concrete, he squeezes his eyes for a brief second and imagines himself in the bookshop.

When he opens them again, all he sees is the hill.

Oh, Hell.

One more time. He snaps his fingers instead.

Nothing.

His miracles have decided to magically stop working. How wonderful is that? Miracle blockers are typical of a demon, but he wouldn’t be shocked if the angels had used one.

He can hear the angels get closer, and he scans the street for the largest, darkest shadow. A few steps away, under the awning of a pub, he presses himself flat against the door and watches his pursuers approach. 

That lasts for only a second or two until the door behind him swings open and he stumbles, falling into empty air. Before he lands, a hand grabs him by the shoulder. A startled yelp from his lips and he is pulled into the pub.

He spins around, smacking the hand off with a curse already forming in his mouth, assuming he’ll be met with an angry owner or a drunken man.

The words go dead on his lips, and a name tumbles out instead.

“Aziraphale?”

His angel stands before him in an otherwise empty pub, hand hovering awkwardly in the air, body stiff with a frown on his lips. It’s only been five years since he’s seen him last, but Aziraphale has never looked so different. 

His usual outfit is gone. Replaced entirely. There are no brown trousers, no waistcoat at all. No cream blazer or tartan bowtie. Everything Aziraphale wears is white, strikingly so, except for a new bowtie. It’s a deep, golden color.

A white blazer, white pants, golden seams here and there. The white wisps of his hair are noticeably less wispy. His hair is slightly longer, slightly less polished. His curls are more apparent.

The most noticeable change, so unnerving Crowley almost doesn’t want to look, are his eyes. Or, well. His eye. Singular.

One of his eyes is unchanged entirely. It is still the striking shade of blue that has been following Crowley around everywhere he goes since he saw them for the first time. The other eye is almost entirely the same shade of purple that Gabriel’s had been, but it almost seems to flicker in and out. It looks out of place.

It has been a moment or two of silence. Aziraphale has not said a word–he almost seems lost–and all at once Crowley feels every emotion he’s felt for the past five years swarm him at once.

His fingers twitch at his sides, and one of the lights flickers. This seems to snap Aziraphale out of whatever is possessing him at the moment, and he reaches his hand forward, presumably to rest on Crowley’s shoulder again before he stops himself.

“Crowley.”

The angel’s voice cracks, but he clears his throat and peers over Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry to have pulled you in here so roughly, but I didn’t want those angels to capture you. You’re safe in here, I’ve made sure of it.”

Crowley takes a step back, flicks his hand upward, and twirls his finger. He watches sparks of purple energy fly about, a sure sign of a miracle. He looks back at Aziraphale, who is looking straight at him once more. There are about thirty trillion things he wants to say to the angel, but mostly he’s fucking confused, so he figures he’ll start with that.

“What are you doing here?” He demands, before he realizes that’s not the only question he has. “Who are those angels? Why were they chasing me? What the fuck happened to your eye?”

Aziraphale looks away as he asks the last question, and Crowley feels bad for a second, before remembering that he’s angry with Aziraphale at the minute.

The angel nervously swings his hands at his sides before he taps his fingers together. A small surge of purple energy darts out between them and wraps itself around Crowley’s hand before vanishing into the air. “I came here for you. I don’t know their names, but those angels are, well. Heretokillyou, and my eye is a long story. I don’t think we have time for it, really.”

“The angels are what? ”

Aziraphale squeezes his hands together, squints at Crowley. “The angels are here… to kill you.”

“Kill me? Kill me? What the hell have I done? Rhetorical question. I’ve done nothing!” Crowley throws his hands up, then huffs and walks past Aziraphale. He bumps his shoulder against his, and where their bodies make contact he feels electrified. He makes his way over to the bar, starts sifting through the various liquors. “I don’t particularly care about whatever it is that is happening at the minute between Heaven and Hell, but I especially don’t understand why I’m involved. I haven’t done anything. I’ve made a point of it, actually, to stay out of it this time around.”

“Well. To make a rather long story short,” Aziraphale murmurs, walking toward Crowley slowly as if he was some sort of feral cat he wanted to avoid startling, “Heaven’s current plan is, um. To eliminate demons as a whole.”

Crowley grabs the entire bottle of whiskey he finally finds and pulls the top off. “Is that what happened to all the missing demons? They’re dead?”

A look of guilt flashes through the angel's eyes. “I… the answer to that is complicated, but they did die.”

Crowley feels a rage flare throughout his chest, and his grip on the bottle tightens. He may not like Hell, or any of the demons who inhabit it, but to eliminate them entirely? “Sorry, demons are dying left and right? And you–nor anyone else–haven’t done anything about it? I thought you left me to make things better, Aziraphale. How is this better? How is Heaven doing any good?” By the end of it, he’s shouting, and Aziraphale stands still.

There’s a brief silence, once more, before Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak. Crowley beats him to it.

“Were you trying to save me, Aziraphale?”

“Was I trying to save you? Of course, I was trying to save you, Crowley! Would you have preferred it if I stayed away and let you die? It would have killed me. ”

Crowley slams the bottle on the bar, and some of it splashes over his hands. “Why?”

“Why… what?” 

“Why would you save me? I’m on the bad side, remember? I’m not good. I’m not worth saving. None of us are, right, Aziraphale? You should have let me die with the rest of them!”

“I didn’t know! ” Aziraphale cries out, and the angel’s hands are clutching the wood of the bar, squeezing as he hangs his head. “I didn’t know, Crowley, what was happening. I would… I would never have done this, you don’t understand. You have to believe me. I am not in control, I haven’t been in control this entire time, I am– a puppet and I was– I was too blind to realize it until it was too late.”

Crowley does not know what to say. 

He waits for Aziraphale to explain.

When he sees a teardrop land on the counter, he bites his lip to keep his mouth shut.

“You were right.”

He’s never heard the angel sound so defeated.

“Metatron never had any intention… of letting me take over. I was never going to fix Heaven. I was never… never going to make things better, because it wouldn’t be allowed.” Aziraphale sniffles. “The second coming of Jesus. The plan–his plan–was that Jesus would return. He would usher in an era of peace, and then he would die, again, a horrible, awful death, and all of humanity would bear witness. It would be their fault, his death. As a result, they would self-destruct. They would destroy themselves. They would be their own armageddon.”

Aziraphale pauses to take a breath.

“Metatron wanted to enact this as quickly as possible. He rushed into things. He made demands that could not be made in time. He requested a dozen things from a dozen angels, all of which I was never made to be aware of. I was not aware of his plan, even, until recently. I… I was making my own plans. Ways to fix this planet. To make it better for the humans. Everything I came up with I would present to Metatron and he would tell me it was the most excellent idea he’d seen yet. I had not realized, yet, how naive I was being.”

“And what was it that made you realize?”

Aziraphale chuckles, reaches up, and wipes at his eyes. “You know the demon Shax.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well. I bumped into her on Earth, one day, and she had told me of the missing demons. How quickly their numbers were plummeting. She demanded to know if Heaven was responsible and that if they were, I should expect a war.”

Crowley listens to Aziraphale say this, but he does not process it entirely. Aziraphale had been to Earth? He’s been visiting the entire time?

“I told them that we weren’t, but–”

“You’ve been to Earth?”

“Sorry?”

Crowley clears his throat. His eyes may be welling up a tad. It’s fortunate that his glasses are on. “You’ve been to Earth since you left me?”

“I– well, yes I suppose I have, but–”

“For fucking what? You’re supposed to stay in Heaven, Aziraphale.” Crowley hates the way Aziraphale’s name falls so easily off his lips. “You’re supposed to stay in Heaven and I’m supposed to stay here and we are not meant to ever stray into the other’s territory because that’s not fucking fair, is it?”

“I– I had things to attend to, Crowley, and it was only once in a while. I hardly ever had time to slip away, Metatron was always watching me, but there were things I had to do!”

“What things?”

Crowley steps up to the angel and stares at him. His chest is heavy. He is so tired. He hates this purple in Aziraphale’s eye. He is so unfamiliar. It feels like he’s talking to a stranger.

“What?”

Crowley leans down, slightly, where Aziraphale is still slouched somewhat against the bar, so they are level.

“What things did you have to attend to, Aziraphale?”

They stare at each other.

Aziraphale is the first to look away. He takes a shakey breath.

“You can’t even tell me that, can you? How am I supposed to believe any of what you’re saying to me? This is ridiculous.” He brushes past the angel and heads toward the door. He doesn’t get very far before Aziraphale speaks.

“I came to check on you, okay?”

Crowley stops.

“I–I thought of you. All the time. Every day, every second. I couldn’t focus on my work, Crowley, because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I came down to the Earth as often as I could, which was not often at all, and every time I did it was because I needed to see how you were. To make sure you were okay.”

Crowley moves his hand up to his face to quickly swipe away a tear that has betrayed him and begun to slip down his cheek.

“I couldn’t live with myself if something had happened to you, and I’d never know what, or why, because I had turned my back on you. Because I had been so foolish as to choose Heaven over you.”

“Don’t do this, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale begs, and he walks toward Crowley, steps in front of him so they are looking at each other once more. He can tell the angel’s eyes are once more wet with tears. “Listen. Listen to me.”

“You made your choice.”

“I made the wrong choice,” he cries, and he reaches forward to grab Crowley’s hands in his. Crowley lets him, and he feels like he might cry harder when Aziraphale’s skin brushes against his own. His hands slide between the angel’s like they belong there. “I made the wrong choice and I have regretted it every day since. I will regret it for the rest of my life, for the rest of eternity.”

Crowley hates to see Aziraphale so sad, but his own heartbreak outweighs it. “How am I meant to trust you? How, Aziraphale, could I possibly?”

Aziraphale lets go of one of Crowley’s hands, both of them coming together to clasp the other. He raises it toward his own face and unfolds Crowley’s fingers so they are splayed against his cheek. “I’ll show you.”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes for a second before he opens them once more. The purple in his eye grows brighter, brighter, and brighter still, until a flash of purple light fills the room. It is so powerful that Crowley squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, he finds himself in the white halls of heaven, face-to-face with Metatron.

His first reaction is to scream in surprise at the giant head that materializes in front of him, but nothing happens. He looks down and quickly realizes this is not his body. He cannot control it all. This is Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale is mad.

“You cannot proceed with this,” he is yelling at the Metatron, who seems incredibly unconcerned. “How many demons have you killed?”

“I am not certain of the numbers, but it does not matter, Aziraphale. They are not needed anymore. They have been nothing but nuisances since the beginning of time and if they stick around, they can and will interfere with the plan. Nothing comes above the plan.”

“The plan to end the world?” Aziraphale shouts. “The plan is wrong, it cannot happen!”

Metatron’s voice booms around the hall. “The plan is excellent. It was crafted by God, Aziraphale. Do you dare go against Her word?”

“This is not the doing of God. God would not kill Her son a second time, God would not end humanity so wickedly. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

The more Aziraphale speaks, the less sure he sounds of himself.

“God’s plan is ineffable. God knows what must be done. Her son is a sacrifice She is willing to make. Don’t you know of sacrifice, Aziraphale? You left your demon to come to Heaven, to act out the word of God as I scribe it to you. Have you come all this way, left him behind, for nothing, Aziraphale?”

“I left him behind because I thought I could fix Heaven. I thought I could do better. But I was wrong. I cannot fix something that is broken by design.”

“Be careful how you proceed, Aziraphale. It appears to me as though you are going against the word of God. You cannot fix anything at all if you reside in Hell with your friend. It’s a long, long fall, you know.”

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s body freeze and watches as his fingers clench into fists. He breathes shakily and approaches the Metatron. “I don’t care what happens to me.” Crowley can hear the tremor in his voice as he lies. “You cannot kill these demons. They live the way they do because God cast them out. They lost their grace because of Her, because of you. It’s not their fault.”

The Metatron narrows his eyes. “God cast out angels who did not believe in Her vision. Will you be next?” He draws closer. “The demons have already died. There is nothing you can do about it. Your Crowley will be gone, too. I would tell you to say your goodbyes, but you know you are not permitted to leave. And once he is gone, you will have no desire to. Don’t you see how it all works out? This, Aziraphale, is God’s plan.”

Aziraphale has stilled.

His voice cracks when he speaks.

“Crowley is– Crowley can’t die. You can’t kill him,” he begs, fingers twitching at his sides. Crowley feels the energy start to form around them before he sees it. “You can’t, please. I– I won’t let you!”

“Really? And what will you do?”

Aziraphale looks down at his hands. Crowley watches through his eyes as purple waves of energy wrap around them, dance between his fingertips, travel up his arms. “I’m going to do everything I can.”

Through the corner of Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley can see the Metatron back up ever so slightly.

The purple energy spreads, wraps around Aziraphale’s face, buzzes in his ears. Aziraphale brings his hands together, breathes in and out, in and out. He squeezes his eyes shut, and instead of nothingness, all that Crowley can see is purple.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and… 

Opens his eyes.

The purple energy has dissipated completely. The hallway is normal. The worry on Metatron’s face has morphed into amusement.

And then, all at once, the halls of Heaven fall into darkness. It only lasts a second before purple light radiates out and explodes, purple energy shooting throughout the air like fireworks.  Aziraphale slumps to the floor, catches himself with his hands, takes deep, heaving breaths. When the light of the energy goes out, they are encapsulated in the darkness once more, for a brief moment, before an alarm starts to blare and red lights start to flash.

In the flashes of red Crowley can see Metatron’s head facing him. But he is much, much smaller. He’s about the size of Aziraphale himself, now.

“Aziraphale.” Metatron’s voice shouts, but it is not nearly as booming as it was moments prior. “What have you done?”

Aziraphale gets to his feet and runs.

The last thing Crowley sees is the Angel slump against the wall of the elevator, and shut his eyes as the doors slide closed.

And then when Crowley opens his eyes once more, he is back in the pub, Aziraphale in front of him, the glow slowly fading from his iris. The angel’s fingers slide over Crowley’s as he lowers his hand from his face. “He threatened you, and I knew I couldn’t fix this. Not with words, not by working on the inside. And I knew that the demons–their death–was on me. So I brought them back.”

Crowley blinks.

“You brought them back?”

“I couldn’t let them die. It was my fault, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks away. “I spent so long under Metatron’s spell. I believed his every word. I had no clue what his plan was until it was too late.”

“You saved them?”

“I wasn’t sure if it would work. But I had to try.”

Crowley moves a step away, takes a deep breath, and runs his hands through his hair. “Okay. I think I need a minute.” He reaches behind him, grabs the bottle of whiskey he had abandoned and takes a swig.

“Metatron promoted me. While I served in Heaven I served as an archangel. I wasn’t officially recognized as one, but I was one in the ways that mattered.”

“That’s why... Your eye?”

“Well. It was both of them, at first.” Aziraphale says. “It turns out that bringing fifty-or-so demons back from the dead sucks a lot of power from you.”

“Fifty? Good God, Aziraphale.” Crowley is bewildered. “It’s hard enough to bring one human back from the dead. How did you manage fifty?”

Aziraphale looks away again, a little sheepishly. “I think, um, I may have unintentionally borrowed some of Metatron’s holiness.”

Crowley can’t help himself. He laughs. “Is that why he got so tiny?”

Aziraphale laughs, too, then, and the sound of it makes Crowley’s heart swell. For a brief moment, Crowley forgets about everything that has happened between the two of them. 

“I think it may have helped, too, that I thought of you.”

“You thought of me?”

“I closed my eyes and all I could see was your face,” Aziraphale whispers. “The look in your eyes when you walked away from me in the bookshop. The disappointment when I asked you to come with me. The disappointment when I saw you from across the street. That couldn’t have been the last time I saw you. I wouldn’t accept it. All I could feel was the fear of losing you.” His eyes flit around Crowley’s face. “I was so afraid. If you had died and it was my fault, I–” His voice cracks. “I could not…” 

There are tears threatening to spill from Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley thinks he might be sick. He takes another swig of the whiskey before he puts it back down. There is a spark of hope ready to burst in his chest. There are waves of sadness threatening to put it out.

“I need some fresh air.” He walks past Aziraphale and toward the door. He hearts the angel sniffle before he hurries after him.

“Crowley, I just pulled you in here! The angels may still be out looking for you!”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Crowley, really, I- I think it’s safer in here. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Crowley pushes the door open, stands beneath the awning, and watches the rain fall. He breathes in the petrichor, leans forward so the tips of his fingers are exposed to the rain.

Aziraphale steps into place beside him.

They do not touch.

“I guess I will stand here, then. I will be on the lookout.” Aziraphale huffs and stares into the street. Crowley shakes his head in annoyance.

“Please, Aziraphale. I saw the miracle you put on me.”

Aziraphale’s head whips over to look at him, eyes wide. “I did no such thing.”

Crowley taps his own hand. Ripples of purple energy dance around his skin before they fade. 

“Really? What’s this, then?”

The angel looks away. “I, admittedly, did not think you would notice. The angels will not see you, should they come across your path again.” He pauses, then reaches out. “I could take it away if you would prefer it.”

He shakes his head. “Leave it.”

Aziraphale drops his hand and looks away. Crowley stares at him. His heart beats in his chest. He can feel it through his skin. He ignores it.

“Is there a plan? Do you have one?”

“A… A plan? A plan for what?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“I don’t know, to save the humans? To stop the end of the world? To make sure no more demons get killed?”

“I… Well, I must admit I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Metatron, he threatened you and I knew that I had to leave, I had to get out and find you and make sure you were safe. And I hadn’t figured anything out beyond that.”

“I was your biggest priority?”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle. 

“You always have been.”

Crowley shakes his head. He steps away from Aziraphale, into the rain. It pelts against him. He’s soaked immediately. He starts walking. He isn’t sure where he’s going. He doesn’t care. He needs to get away from Aziraphale. This, now, is everything he’s ever wanted to hear. This is what he wishes Aziraphale had told him on that fateful morning five years ago. But he can’t let himself believe him. It’s too good to be true.

“Crowley…? Where are you going?”

“I can’t do this, Aziraphale.”

“Can’t do what? Crowley, will you stay beside me, please? It’s safest.”

Crowley stops, turns around to face Aziraphale. “Stay beside you? You chose me over Heaven, Aziraphale. You- You wanted me to be an angel again. You never wanted me, you never cared about me, you loved the idea of what you thought I was! You thought you could fix me, and then you realized I would never change, and you walked away in that moment because I am too much for you, too bad for you, and I always will be.”

Ah, fuck. He’s going to cry again.

It’s fine. The rain will mask it.

Aziraphale shakes his head, raindrops flying off his hair. He walks toward him, stops in front of Crowley, grabs his hands once more. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong, Crowley. I was wrong. I thought that I could fix Heaven. I thought I could make things perfect again. I thought I could make it something you could love again. I thought I could change Heaven with you by my side and morph it into something that was deserving of you. I thought I could have both of the things that I wanted more than anything.

“I still hadn’t realized–or maybe I had, but I didn’t want to believe–that Heaven was not as good as I thought it to be. It was easier to think of Heaven as good and Hell as bad, easier to think of us on opposite sides because if it was all so black and white, it made it easier–” his voice shakes, “it made it easier to be with you.”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbles, and he lifts a hand to tuck a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear. “Gabriel and Beelzebub… I worried it was too good to be true. Both Heaven and Hell were upset with them. An angel and a demon? Unheard of. It mortified both parties. They wouldn’t allow another… fluke like that to happen again. But if we were on the same side, nobody could have found a way to dispute it. If we were both angels, nobody could tell me that we couldn’t be us. I thought I wanted you and Heaven in equal measure, but it took me thirty seconds without you by my side to realize there was nothing I wanted more than you. There is nothing I want more than you. I am not good, Crowley. I have done bad things. I think you are a better person than I am, seeing what I’ve done to you.

“I am sorry that I made you feel undeserving of my love. I am sorry that I made you feel like I thought you were lesser than I am, I am sorry that I left your side. I am sorry to have ever hurt you, Crowley. I’ve made a mistake, you see,” he smiles, bitterly, “the biggest mistake of my life. In the presence of Heaven, I nearly forgot how very near and dear you are to me–have always been–and I will spend forever trying to right this wrong.”

There are tears drifting freely from Crowley’s eyes, now. There are too many of them to wipe away. He doesn’t have to. Aziraphale moves his hand, takes his thumb and swipes them away. Gently, so gently. Crowley’s skin warms under the angel’s touch. His other hand squeezes his before he tangles their fingers together.

“I’m sorry. I will be sorry for the rest of my life.” Aziraphale’s fingers are splayed between his cheek and his neck, stroking his skin devastatingly softly. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Aziraphale is so close to him, all of his own accord. Crowley thinks he has forgotten how to speak. And Aziraphale has hurt him so, so much, but he looks into his angel’s eyes and he sees the truth in them. More than anything, he wants to believe him.

He will.

He pulls their intertwined hands up, wraps Aziraphale’s fingers around his glasses, and lets him slowly pull them off.

Aziraphale smiles, gazes into his eyes.

“There you are.”

Crowley feels like this might be too much. His heart might give out. “I– I suppose, Angel,” he murmurs, voice a bit rough, “that I can… try, to forgive you.”

“Only if I deserve it,” Aziraphale whispers. “Only when you’re ready.”

Crowley, hesitantly, reaches a hand up toward Aziraphale’s face. His thumb traces underneath Aziraphale’s left eye, where the iris remains purple. He wonders if it will be like that forever. He doesn’t think he cares. As long as it’s still Aziraphale underneath, it would never matter.

“I am sorry if it frightens you,” he murmurs. “I wish it were gone, too.”

“You could never frighten me, angel,” Crowley says. “It’s just new. Although,” he glances down, tilting his head thoughtfully. “These clothes… I do have a thing or two to say about.”

“Ah, yes, well. Not much my choice, it came with the role and I do miss the- Oh.”

In the blink of an eye, Aziraphale’s clothes are back to the way they normally are. “I was going to say they suit you wonderfully, but I do prefer you in the way I know you are the happiest.”

Aziraphale’s eyes meet his and he smiles, leans forward, brushes their noses together. “I love you,” he says, as though it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done, and then he leans in the rest of the way and captures Crowley’s lips in a kiss.

There is a second that passes where Crowley is almost convinced that he’s dreaming. But Aziraphale’s lips are warm against his amidst the cold of the rain, his thumb strokes softly against his cheek, his hand feels heavy tangled in his own. 

Crowley surges forward and kisses him back.

In Aziraphale’s arms, he can feel himself come back to life.

His hand on Aziraphale’s cheek slides down, holding him at the nape of his neck, fingernails tracing against the soft hairs there. He pulls Aziraphale closer, as close as he can, flush against him. He’d pull him closer if he could, pull the both of them into the other, galaxies colliding, stars forming, closer and closer and closer until they were something new entirely. A universe born from the force of their love.

He doesn’t know if he’s kissing him right, doesn’t know if this is what it’s supposed to feel like. He is not human and this is an entirely human tradition. But it must be, it must be, because their first kiss made Crowley sad, made Aziraphale sad. It was a move Crowley had pulled out of desperation, a please understand me and an I can’t and a don’t do this, please, and a goodbye all at once but this, here, Aziraphale’s fingers sliding through his hair, this is a hello and an I’m sorry and an I forgive you and a never leave me again, please, and an I will always be by your side. And he understands it, suddenly, why humans do this so often. He thinks he can feel Aziraphale kiss his soul out of him, thinks he can taste Aziraphale’s love on his lips.

They part, eventually, after a lifetime, after a short while. Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, keeps his eyes shut, catches his breath. He feels Aziraphale lift their conjoined hands. He opens his eyes to see his angel pull them to his face. He holds Crowley’s hand softly, turns it over and presses a kiss to the center of his palm.

Crowley’s heart feels like it’s going to burst and he can’t help himself; he leans in one more time. He kisses Aziraphale, softly, pulls away gently, and whispers to his angel so only he can hear the truth he’s been hiding away for six thousand years.

“I love you.”

The plan to fix the end of the world–to stop Metatron and save humanity from impending doom–is, perhaps, their worst one yet. Metatron is the key component behind the incoming apocalypse, he is the one responsible. If they stop Metatron, they stop everything.

Their bright and genius plan is this:

They will sneak into Heaven,

Find Jesus,

And ask him what he thinks of the whole thing.

Jesus is, well, Jesus, so the two of them figure it’s a safe bet to assume he won’t want any part of it. And if he doesn’t want any part of it, Metatron can’t force him back to the Earth, and then his entire plan is ruined. And just like that, the day is saved.

Sneaking into Heaven is the easiest part. Crowley, in his snake form, wraps himself around Aziraphale’s arm and hides there underneath the sleeve of his blazer. (He is not as big, this time, as he was in the Garden of Eden.) After that, Aziraphale simply hops in an elevator and takes them up to Heaven, where, because everything is chaos and nobody seems certain of what is going on, Aziraphale walks right through the front door and nobody bats an eye.

The hard part is figuring out where the fuck Jesus is.

Crowley (out of his snake form, now they’ve made it in) and Aziraphale roam the halls of Heaven for quite some time, walking up and down and back and forth and getting lost once or twice. Neither of them is as used to these halls as they once were, even with Aziraphale having spent the last five years in them. (He claims he spent most of his time in his office.) Eventually, they’re pretty certain they’ve combed the whole place without finding a single sign of Jesus anywhere.

Crowley, frustrated and eager to get this over with, puts his hands on hips and stares up at the ceiling. There’s only one more thing he can think of to do, and that is just to ask the guy if he’s here.

So he does.

“Jesus? Are you there?”

“Crowley, why would Jesus be in the ceiling?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s in the ceiling, just vaguely… upward. He’s not here, we’re in Heaven, maybe he’s somewhere higher than this.”

“Well, he is rather important. I suppose it makes sense that we wouldn’t find him so easily.”

“Do you think maybe he’s not in Heaven at all?”

“Where else could he be?” Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and he glances at the floor beneath them. “You can’t possibly mean…”

“No. ‘Course not.” Crowley shakes his head, then clears his throat, looks down at the white tiles himself. “Although, he did take a liking to hanging out with the sinners, from what I’d heard. Had lots of friends who ended up in Hell…”

He looks up at Aziraphale, who shakes his head a bit. “We cannot go down to Hell to look for Jesus.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because he isn’t there!”

Crowley leans back and crosses his arms across his chest. “You already owe me one extremely long apology dance, angel. You want to make it two?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth and then closes it. He puts his hands on his hips, looks away. “No, I do not.”

“We’ll take a trip down to Hell. Nice and quick, in and out in a moment or two. Quick question,” Crowley walks forward and wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder as he starts to lead the two of them to the escalator that takes them down to Hell. He thinks it’s this way, anyhow. “ Why are Heaven and Hell so close together, do you think?”

“I don’t know why, perhaps for quick commerce. Is that not something you asked God before you fell?”

“Very funny, angel. No, it wasn’t. You do make a good point, though, maybe it should have been…”

“Crowley, how do you expect me to go to Hell–” Aziraphale hushes his voice the closer they get to the escalator, where a few angels are milling about. Aziraphale holds his arm out and waits for Crowley to shrink, wrap himself around his arm again. “–looking like this?”

Aziraphale walks forward, and Crowley can feel them begin their descent. As soon as he does, he pops back out with his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and a grin on his face.

“I don’t.”

He squeezes his hands and suddenly Aziraphale’s clothes are a deep brown, so dark it’d be easy to mistake for black unless you looked closer. His accessories are a deep red. He’s wearing a cloak with a hood to hide his hair, and it casts most of his face in shadow.

Aziraphale glances down at himself, and then at Crowley. “Hmmph.”

“You don’t like it?” Crowley frowns. “I could give you some, I don’t know, bugs or mold or guts or something to drape all over yourself, but I thought it might be a bit too on the nose.”

Aziraphale shudders. He pulls the cloak over himself a bit tighter, then smiles at Crowley, a little thing. “It’s not quite my style, you know. But it’s rather close. Just, um, a bit…”

“Darker? Edgier? Eviler, perhaps?”

“Darker, I think, yes. Thank you.”

Crowley slips his glasses out of his pocket, then reaches forward to slide them onto Aziraphale’s face. “Not that I don’t like your new eye, but it might be a bit of a problem if any demons happen to see it. Probably for the better if we make it harder to spot.”

“Oh, wonderful!” His angel cheers, hands sliding over Crowley’s to help maneuver them onto his face. “I’ve always wanted to try a pair of your sunglasses on, actually, did you know?”

“You have? For what reason?”

“You’ve always suited them so wonderfully,” Aziraphale smiles, “I wondered how they might look on me. Well?” He asks, poses with his hand under his chin, looks at the wall with a serious expression. “How do I look?”

Crowley’s heart is beating so loud in his chest that it might alert the demons of their presence before the ride down is even over.

“You look wonderful, angel,” he murmurs, and his heart only gets louder when Aziraphale’s smile grows. “Look better in them than I ever could.”

Aziraphale’s hand gives Crowley’s a squeeze, and then the escalator comes to a stop. They’ve reached the floors of Hell.

It turns out that finding Jesus is not hard at all, because the man is only a few feet away from the entrance. He’s in a back corner, sitting at a round table with a light flickering above him. He’s playing cards with what appear to be demons.

Crowley walks up to the man rather confidently, whilst Aziraphale follows behind, a little slower to examine their surroundings. They stop in front of the table together, and the chatter between the individuals seated at the table ceases. Crowley clears his throat. They all look to him. Jesus stands out amongst the rest of the players, brown skin covered with long, white robes. The others practically blend in with the shadows. None of them look at him very kindly. (Except for Jesus, of course.)

“Jesus? Hello, hi. Long time no see. Might I spare a second of your time?”

Jesus pulls his cards to his chest, looks at him. “Crowley,” he says with a smile. “Of course. I am playing a game of rummy with a few of my companions. Would you care to join?”

“No, thank you, I’d rather–oh, rummy, really? I am rather fond of it, maybe I could join you for a quick-”

Aziraphale nudges him, and Crowley sighs. Jesus looks at Aziraphale, then between the two of them. “Other things to do?” He leans back in his seat. “What is it you need of me?”

“We wanted to ask if you knew of Metatron,” Aziraphale says. “He’s, um, got a bit of a plan at the minute that maybe isn’t for the best and we thought you might like to help.”

“Well, it’s not often that I get involved with the affairs of Heaven,” Jesus states. “I am only my Father’s son. I care more about the humans than I do either of the… offices.”

“How is it, may I ask, that God allows you down here? Isn’t She worried?” Aziraphale glances at the demons around the table. They glare at him. Crowley steps closer to his angel and glares at the demons in return.

“My Father cannot decree where I go. As Her son, I am allowed certain privileges. I may go anywhere I’d like above and below, just not the in-between. It’s a pity,” he frowns, “the humans are wonderful. I don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me here. I am in good company. I have friends above and below.” He turns to smile at his friends, and not a single one of them gives him anything other than a smile of their own. This might strike Crowley as unusual if they were smiling at literally anyone else.

“That’s lovely,” his angel says. He looks at Crowley, and even through the dark shades of the lenses, Crowley can spot the crinkles of Aziraphale’s eyes. “Isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Crowley offers him a wink. Then he leans forward, rests his hands on the table and looks Jesus in his eyes. “Listen. Metatron wants to bring you back to Earth and kill off all of those humans you like so much.”

“Metatron is the voice of my Father,” Jesus tilts his head thoughtfully. “My Father would not do this. Not without telling me, first. Bring me back? As I am?”

“Um, no,” Aziraphale chimes in. “You’d most likely be brought back a baby and live an entirely new life before discovering the truth. And then Metatron would have you bring an era of peace for a little while, until, well.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “Until the humans kill you and then each other, for having… done that. They’ll wipe themselves out. War and famine and bombs and hatred and, well, all sorts of horrible things they’ll be doing to each other.”

A demon across the table pipes up. Their hair is dark, matted and unruly. Their cards are stained black from where their dirty fingers hold them. “How do you know any of this to be true?” Two different voices come out as they speak, one high and one low. “You’re probably lying, aren’t you?”

The other demons murmur their agreement. Crowley rolls his eyes. Jesus reaches across the table and rests a hand on the arm of the demon who spoke. “Not to worry, Surgat. I don’t doubt our visitors.”

Surgat grumbles but does not make any comment.

“Now,” Jesus looks back at Crowley and Aziraphale. “You are correct. I would love to help. I would hate to see humanity get destroyed, and I have no desire to return to Earth if it bears chaos. If this truly is Metatron’s plan, my Father must not know of it.”

“Doesn’t God know everything?” Aziraphale asks. “Is this not part of Her plan?”

Jesus shrugs. “I don’t know what Her plan is. But she would not send me down to kill me again, I am sure of it. We had a whole discussion about it a while ago.” He places his cards on the table. “Perhaps She does know, and Her plan was for it to never come to fruition. I am uncertain… but I will not allow this to happen.” He rises from his seat, turns to his friends. “I’m afraid I must leave early. We will finish our game another time, my friends. Is that alright?”

The demons around the table say their goodbyes to Jesus. Once he bids them farewell, he walks toward the elevator that connects all the way up to the top floor of Heaven and beckons the two of them to follow him. “I will go to Heaven, now, to speak to my Father. You need not worry of this anymore. Metatron will be stopped and you will know when it happens.”

“You will?” Crowley asks, watching as Jesus steps into the elevator. Even underneath the buzzing, white, and flickering fluorescent light, the man seems to glow. “How will you manage to let us know?”

“Trust in me,” he smiles. “You will know it when you see it. I must say,” he turns to Aziraphale, “stopping Metatron means you will be rid of the power he has given you. Unless you would like to keep it?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley in surprise, before he looks at Jesus. “How do you know who I am?”

“Aziraphale, Heaven speaks frequently of you, as does Hell. And Crowley himself spoke of you often, while we visited the kingdoms together.” Aziraphale beams at him when Jesus tells him this, and Crowley does not blush, because that is not something he does. “It was not hard to recognize you–even if you do not look exactly how I imagined, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, this?” Aziraphale adjusts the red bowtie. “Just… trying something new, is all.”

“I see.” Jesus holds a hand out toward him, and Aziraphale hesitantly takes it. “If you would like, you can come with me to Heaven. You can help me tell my Father what has happened. She might see your current role as the Supreme of Heaven as deserved. You may be able to keep it regardless of whatever may happen to Metatron.”

A stab of fear pierces through Crowley’s chest and freezes him in place. It spreads through him like ripples in a wave. Meet God? How could Aziraphale possibly say no to this? Oh, Hell, he’s only just gotten his angel back and he’s going to lose him already.

At first, Aziraphale looks surprised by the offer. Crowley can faintly see the purple glow of his iris get brighter. He seems excited by the prospect.

And then his angel looks at him, and the look of astonishment is replaced with that of contentment, and he smiles and the purple fades away and he lets go of the hand of Jesus, Son of God, to grab Crowley’s instead. 

“Thank you for the offer,” he tells Jesus. “I sincerely appreciate it. Had you asked me a thousand years ago, I certainly would have said yes. But I have no desire to work for Heaven anymore, and I absolutely do not want to speak with God.” 

The ice in Crowley’s chest has melted from a burning love he could not stamp out if he tried. He’d chosen Crowley over God. He’d chosen Crowley over God. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand in his own.

Aziraphale leans closer toward Jesus before he whispers, “I might be a little cross with Her, at the minute.”

Jesus nods, and there is no sign of anger or upset on his face. Instead, he smiles. “I’ve been there before,” he whispers. “I understand why you will not come. I will tell Her everything as you have told me. Before I leave, is there anything else I need to know?”

“Metatron ordered a bunch of angels to exterminate the demons entirely,” Crowley tells him with a nod. “That one was bad.”

Jesus looks surprised. “Have any been killed?”

“Oh, yes, a whole bunch,” Crowley says, then reaches over to pat Aziraphale’s shoulder with his free hand. “This guy brought ‘em back, though, so not to worry.”

“I see. Thank you, Aziraphale. I imagine your new powers granted you this ability. With the loss of your role, those powers will be lost too. Although it does appear,” he gestures towards Aziraphale’s regular, baby-blue eye, “that you have lost some of them already. Is this still okay with you?”

Aziraphale doesn’t skip a beat before he answers. “Of course.”

“Alright.” Jesus looks Crowley in the eye, and then Aziraphale, and smiles. “Thank you both. Everything will be sorted soon, you have my guarantee. Crowley, it was nice to see you again. Aziraphale, it was nice to meet you. Take care of each other.”

The elevator doors close, and the two of them are left in Hell, staring at where Jesus just was a moment ago. When the doors open again, it is empty.

The two of them step in without a word–easier to take the elevator up to Earth than the escalators–but Aziraphale clears his throat when the doors close on them. He swings his hands excitedly. “Well, that was… Wow. Jesus,” he whispers, smiling. “What a wonderful human.”

Crowley stares at his angel, who is positively radiant, even in the dark clothes he wears. He can’t keep his eyes off of him. He can’t look away. He’s entranced. “You said no.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, confused. “I said no?”

“To meet God,” he clarifies. “You said no. Why didn’t you say yes? You could have talked to Her. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

His angel frowns. “Oh, Crowley,” he says, reaching forward and fiddling with Crowley’s jacket, swiping away lint or dust or something that isn’t even there. “I’ve already told you. I’ve made my choice. I choose you.”

Crowley pushes Aziraphale against the wall and kisses him so hard he thinks he might accidentally kill them both.

(They’d both die happy.)

It’s only a day and a half later when Aziraphale is reorganizing books with a sheepish Muriel beside him to help out, while Crowley is lounging on a chair, watching and definitely not about to fall asleep, do they find out that Metatron’s been stripped of his role.

Of course, it happens in a terrifying manner–one second Crowley’s eyes are drifting closed while he listens to Aziraphale talk to himself about his books and the next he’s jumping out of his seat when his angel suddenly screams. Crowley’s by his side in an instant. Muriel is behind him looking frightened out of their mind. Aziraphale is on his knees with both hands over his eyes, and a powerful purple glow is radiating from him.

“Aziraphale!?” One of Crowley’s hands is on his shoulder, the other grabs his chin. “Angel, what is it? Are you hurt? What the fuck is happening? What do you need?”

Aziraphale does not say anything, he just shakes. All Crowley can do is murmur comforts in his ears, stroke his skin in what he hopes is a soothing manner, and ask Muriel if they happen to know what the Hell is happening.

(They do not.)

Fortunately, it only lasts a minute or two before Aziraphale stops shaking, and his hands slowly peel off of his eyes. He slumps forward, breathes heavily, and rests his head on Crowley’s chest. Crowley runs his fingers through his hair.

“Muriel, will you make a cup of tea?”

“Yes! Of course.” Muriel looks relieved to be given a request and hurries away quickly. 

“Are you alright?” He whispers. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale gently pulls away from Crowley and slowly opens his eyes to look at him. Crowley’s heart swells at what he sees. There is no more powerful, purple glow in his angel's eye. It’s just him, soft blue and familiar. “Your eye,” he whispers, caressing Aziraphale’s cheek. “It’s blue again.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Aziraphale smiles, slides his hand over Crowley’s. “I thought I was having what the humans call a migraine. They are dreadful, from what I’ve been told.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t ever do that again. You scared the proper shit out of me.”

“Well, it’s not like I did it on purpose, is it?” Aziraphale huffs, then blinks a few times. And then his eyes get wide. “Wait, you said– there’s no purple in my eye anymore?”

Crowley leans in, tilts his head side to side, and examines his eyes closely. “Not a speck. All blue. Just you.”

“Crowley, I– doesn’t that mean– Metatron?”

Aziraphale’s lips curl up into a smile, into a grin, and all at once, Crowley remembers what Jesus told them. Aziraphale’s status as the Supreme archangel has been stripped away. Metatron is gone. Crowley thinks he could burst, he’s so terribly gleeful. “He’s gone,” he whispers. His voice shakes. He can hardly believe it. It’s over. “They did it. They really did it. He’s gone . Fired or– or demoted or exiled permanently. I don’t know. I don’t care. You’re free.”

Aziraphale leans forward, resting his forehead against Crowley’s. “We’re free.” He pauses to lift his hand up and caresses Crowley’s cheek. “How would you like dinner? To celebrate? At the Ritz, maybe?”

Crowley leans into his hand. “I would like that very much.”

And off they go.

Time passes slower, for them, than it did before. Every day Crowley spends with Aziraphale feels like a year. When Crowley walks into a room and sees Aziraphale for the first time that day, time seems to stop. (He has, once or twice, been so positively overtaken with love that he accidentally does stop time.) 

Crowley gets a new flat (a much nicer one, at that) and lives there for a few months. Aziraphale does an apology dance for him, loops through it a few times for extra measure. Crowley spends most of his time in the bookshop, content to loiter around Aziraphale and watch him all day long. The angel reads his books, takes notes and writes in his journals. Crowley reads through Pride & Prejudice, goes on drives and feeds the ducks. They go out for dinner at least once a week.

One morning while Crowley’s making Aziraphale tea and himself a coffee, Aziraphale walks in and places a potted plant on the counter. He asks Crowley where he thinks it would look best, and then he puts it where he tells him to, in a quiet corner of the bookshop where the sun shines through. Then he tells Crowley he has absolutely no idea how to take care of plants and, because he has one now, Crowley simply has to move in with him to take care of it for him.

Crowley kisses him and tells him he could have just asked.

Muriel is around often and takes over officially as Aziraphale’s assistant bookkeep. They don’t really do anything, other than dust sometimes and bring in new books from their travels around the city, but it makes both of them happy.

They go out, sometimes, with Nina and Maggie, who are still happily together. One time Maggie offhandedly asks the two of them about marriage and Nina can’t shush her in time to stop her from asking. Aziraphale chokes on his food and Crowley pats his back.

They spend several more years in the bookshop, several more years in Soho. The world changes around them and they adapt to it, made easier by the presence of the other. Crowley grows his hair out and then cuts it all off over and over again. Aziraphale keeps his short, but experiments with new styles. The angel bakes sweet desserts for Crowley to try. The demon puts on music and dances with Aziraphale. 

The bookshop changes, too, over the years. More books, of course, but more plants, too. Ivy growing across a window ledge, sword ferns hanging from the ceiling. Before Crowley, Aziraphale’s influence in the bookshop was glaring. But as time passes, bits and pieces of Crowley scatter themselves throughout, until the bookshop is evidently a mixture of the two of them. Beige books and green leaves, a notebook left open with a pen on the table, a blanket tossed over an armchair, a plate of cookies left out for whoever might like one, a half-drunk mug of coffee on the counter, a pair of reading glasses on the desk, a pair of sunglasses resting on a statue. Everywhere one might look they can see Aziraphale, everywhere one might look they can see Crowley.

(The Bentley stays mostly the same. Except sometimes, on the rare occasion that Aziraphale drives, Crowley lets him miracle the car yellow, and he slides down in his seat so that he is not visible to anyone they pass on the road–he will not be held responsible for the poor color inflicted on his Bentley–but the smile on Aziraphale’s face makes it worth it every time.)

Years and years and years pass and the two of them never leave the other’s side for long, always come back to each other at the end of the day. 

Eventually, they settle down in a cottage in South Downs. They have a garden. Aziraphale has his books. Crowley has his Bentley. They watch the sunrise together in the morning. They look for shooting stars at night. They never get tired of the other. Couldn’t dream it if they tried.

The two of them, tangled in each other’s lives for an eternity, together for an eternity more. Neither of them would have it any other way.

And sometimes, if they listen closely, they can hear it.

Sometimes, Crowley will look at his angel, and a nightingale will sing.