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“Stay?”
It’s a plea, a prayer; Aziraphale should know. But to hear it whispered from the lips of a demon is a miracle in itself.
Outside the bookshop, Earth still stands. People mill around, chat, laugh, all unaware of the cosmic battle that waged above and below. All of them now safe from demonic and heavenly machinations.
Aziraphale turns his gaze from those he and Crowley have played some small part in protecting — fixes his attention instead on the being standing in the middle of the bookshop, hands tucked resolutely in trouser pockets.
The being whom Aziraphale loves most in the universe. Perhaps, he considers with a small smile, it might be considered blasphemy for an angel to think as much. If it is, She has chosen to overlook such sacrilege for a long, long time.
Crowley rocks on his heels, sunglasses discarded, and takes a breath. Aziraphale can see how it shudders through the demon’s body, betraying his outward demeanour of quiet calm.
“You want me to stay?” Aziraphale asks, the surprise slipping through his voice. He and Crowley had made amends, of a sort — worked together to avert another catastrophic event. Yet they had not talked of After. Aziraphale held little hope that their partnership would continue once Ineffable Plans had been thwarted. Partnership… Aziraphale swallows the bitter realisation that, even in his own mind, he cannot permit himself to think Crowley would ever grace him with friendship again.
Or more.
Crowley’s mouth is a thin line, eyes darting, but he takes another deep breath. “Do you want to? Stay, I mean?”
Aziraphale blinks, little gasps escaping his throat. He knows what he should do, what he ought to do. Things will need settling in Heaven; someone needs to be there to guide them through the decommission of it all.
But he catches the hope flickering in Crowley’s eyes, replacing the grief they used to hold, and Aziraphale knows, bone-deep, that it does not have to be him that takes on that duty. Does he not deserve, for once, to have the thing he truly wants but never could?
A smile winds its way up from his heart and spreads across his lips. His eyes are shining, matching Crowley’s as he says, “I want to. I shall.”
They sit and talk. They do not drink. It starts with small steps that evening — they are so tired, after all, and they are learning a new way to be. Hushed words, pressed lips, brushed tears; they dance their way into this strange yet familiar world until dawn breaks through the bookshop’s windows.
They’re holding hands as daylight spills onto the floor. Aziraphale glances over to Crowley, whose gaze flits to the Bentley parked outside. She’d refused to leave when things had been at their worst. Diligent and loyal as always, Aziraphale smiles to himself, affection filling his heart.
Crowley squeezes his hand and Aziraphale looks back at him to see a resigned expression on his face. “‘S’pose I should, y’know, head off.” Crowley nods towards the Bentley. “The flat’ll be empty now, I can get out of your hair for a bit.”
It stings Aziraphale to hear the smallness in Crowley’s voice. They have made progress, of this the angel is certain, but Crowley still labours under a misapprehension: that Aziraphale would ever want him to be anywhere but by his side.
Aziraphale cannot let that stand. So he does what angels were always meant to do: he loves.
“Stay?” Aziraphale asks, yet it’s not a question but an invitation, a prayer of his own. Crowley’s golden eyes, so beautiful, grow wide, confused, as if he’s misheard. So Aziraphale digs down for the strength he needs and repeats his request: “Stay? You don’t have to go anywhere else, I — I want you to stay. Please?”
Something better than hope is now etched in Crowley’s eyes; it’s joy, unfiltered and rapturous and brilliant. It’s everything.
Crowley smiles with such tenderness that Aziraphale wants to weep.
“Forever, angel.”