Chapter Text
Aziraphale stares at the closed door for longer than he cares to admit. His hand echoes the memory of holding onto Crowley just moments before. His eyes are heavy with unshed tears. He wants nothing more than to follow the red hair before it dissappears into the crowd.
"Ahem."
"Ah yes, Muriel." He swallows his sorrow. "I really did come for a quick hello. I am on Heaven's time."
Muriel is nodding enthusiastically, hanging on to every word. He knows Crowley to listen to him just as intently, when he used to listen to him. When all was well and they spoke of food and wine and of all sorts of nothings.
"And you got your assignment and all?"
Muriel's eyebrows furrow just a bit but her smile doesn't falter, "No..." she says slowly.
Aziraphale has many duties and one of them is making sure all the lower level angels got their to-do lists and such. The thing is he had failed in getting Muriel's assignment to them. Someone else could have done it but he had insisted. He's found a routine with his work that made him nothing but functional towards Heaven's goals—even if he does object to some methods, he does what he could to ease his conscience.
Now he cant even recall what Muriel's assignments were. His hours of work are catching up to him and that doesn't happen to Angel's, archangels especially. Their forms aren't static so they can be many places at once with enough energy and they can get alot done. His exhaustion was rather human, he conceals it best he can but it i becoming quite a feat. He fears it too because it isn't physical or mental exhaustion, it was tied to his feelings—another thing Angel's don't typically have although Gabriel already disproved that. If his mind is unoccupied it is overrun with emotions he can't name.
The run in with Crowley made them all burn anew and it's like it's the day he left for heaven all over again. Getting in that elevator with those snake-eyes on his back, waiting, was quite literally the most difficult thing he's ever done. And all the more painful with the memory of a kiss.
Aziraphale isn't an aggressive Angel but sitting here in his bookshop he has an intense urge to do something drastic. He had told Muriel that he'll get back to them about their assignments and sent them out the bookshop to find a copy of a book who's title he had made up and likely didn't exist. He needs is a clear mind and to recuperate—unlikely.
He thinks of all the change he's made in Heaven—insignificant; an all-you-can-eat crepes buffet was not conducive to a better Heaven. Crowley was right, he isn't fixing Heaven at all, Heaven is just the same now as it was 6000 years ago. And he couldn't be more different, he is basically fallen. The fact that he wasn't attests to God's inefficiency. Heaven is corrupt and him along with it.
"God, why?" He mutters into the bookshop with no-one other than his books to hear.
***
Crowley is shaking and steam pours from his skin in billowing clouds. He hasn't even walked far, he can see the bookshop from where he paces down the street. Muriel had walked out the bookshop a while ago and had wandered down the street so Aziraphale is in the bookshop alone.
He wants to talk to him, he really does, why else did he go to the bookshop, but Aziraphale's talk of Heaven is infuriating. He's so steadfast, Crowley loves that about him but not when it's about Heaven. It only took him an eternity to fall, might as well give Aziraphale an eternity. The truth was, he doesn't want Aziraphale to fall, he'd be devastated. Crowley remembers how alone and confused he felt when he fell, and back then Aziraphale had warned him but he hadn't listened and now ended up here. He couldn't handle seeing Aziraphale have that sadness.
He thinks back to the day Aziraphale left, he had run it over and over through his head thinking of what he could have said to change his mind. He does this now too, even with the immense hopelessness he feels, the desperation is still just as strong. He still wants to be next to him, to just see him and know what it means to live. He misses it so much, misses the life and humanity he brought out in him.
He wishes he could get in the Bentley but he had walked the opposite direction from where he parked. People are gathering round and noticing the smoke now. He's too drunk to start counting, his body is too hot, and Aziraphale's presence just yards away is too agonizing.
After a few minutes more of pacing the smoke subsides but he still feels red-hot. He has to get out of here. He takes large strides towards where he parked his car (parked being a loose term, it was stalled in the middle of the road) and stops short as he approaches the bookshop. He can see Aziraphale's all-to-familiar figure through the window and he knows he'll fold.
"Nonono." He mutters and wills his legs to move.
The door opens. Aziraphale stands there expectantly for a moment before saying, "Oh, won't you come in, Crowley?"
He doesn't know what to do with his hands or his body so he enters, turning his body so he doesn't come in contact with Aziraphale. He notices him sag a little, he cannot tell of its with relief or despair or both. He resists the urge to reach out to him. He feels as if he will combust any second.
Neither of them seem to know what to do. Crowley looks around the shop, to all that various spots he used to set his glasses on, he nearly removes them out of habit but stops short. Aziraphale hovers by the door, looking down at the threshold.
Crowley considers Aziraphale's chair with the depression on the arm rest where he would sit while Aziraphale occupied the chair. Little things. The dead leaves of their plants left behind, things Muriel hadn't touched for some reason. The bookshop was actually arranged almost the same as six months ago. He decides to go to the couch and goes to lay on it but sits instead.
There's so much hesitation in the air, fear of breaking this weakly woven agreement. Even in his dull drunken stupor, Crowley is slow and careful. He looks all around the bookshop, everywhere but at Aziraphale who still stands by the door, holding it slightly ajar—leaving was always an option he supposes. This isn't a moment he should be drunk for. It has thr potential to be more and he was not going to get far as a blubbering drunk mess.
"You should sober up."
Crowley nearly glances his way, at his thoughts being spoken from Aziraphale's mouth.
"Mmh, yea. I suppose I should." He sighs into the room.
He can feel Aziraphale regard him in silence as he drains the alcohol from himself. He hasn't done this in so long that it takes him a moment to get it going. The silence is taut, a single word could work as a knife to slice it apart. Somewhere down the street, empty bottles of drug store alcohol on the floor of the Bentley refills
Sobriety is painful. Everything shines brighter and all his muscles tighten. Every detail of emotion the alcohol dulled were so very evident, as if being shined by a new light. "Didn't miss that." He mutters.
"Hmm?" Aziraphale's sound is so small, he's thinking, really thinking.
Crowley shakes his head.
"Well I guess we should talk." Aziraphale offers then goes to his chair.
There's nothing that Crowley wants more or less than to talk with this Angel. It felt raw and fragile. Here they are. He doesn't dare start. He watches as Aziraphale positions himself, leaning slightly away from the depression on the arm rest then moves to lean into it and the small movement makes Crowley's heart pick up speed.
Aziraphale wrings his hands nervously, obviously unsure where to start. He is thinking of their earlier conversation. Still, he begins wrong.
"Uhm. So things in Hea--"
Crowley snaps his head toward Aziraphale, "If you say Heaven I will... walk out." That's all he can threaten.
Aziraphale starts again and now that Crowley had turned to face him, he can see everything in his face. He's tired, and sad. His eyes are sunken and a frown plays at his lips. His skin is ever so slightly paler than usual. Crowley notices these things because he's looked st him enough to know any change—6000 years of looking. He can see how close he is to tears now. His face quivers with despair and Crowley wants nothing more than to take it away. How quickly his anger turns into love, it may not have been anger at all.
He doesnt even think about it, he gets up and walks until he's right in front of Aziraphale's chair and he reaches for him. It's inherent—as natural as every time their paths have converged, a tale as old as time. He does not touch him, just offers. And Aziraphale's face scrunches up against his sorrow and he leans into Crowley who rest his arms across his back, holding him, head to stomach. Aziraphales head sinks heavily against him and he exhales shakily against Crowley's stomach. His breaths come more and more unsteady until he sobs more than he breathes.
Crowley wants to hug the sadness from his bones and so he kneels down, pulling Aziraphale with him, until their both kneeling on the floor with Crowley's face to Aziraphale's head; both of them shaking with a shared sorrow. And it's sweet here despite that sorrow. They willingly share eachother's space, breaths, and heartbeats. Crowley holds him tight, anchoring both of them in the reality of this moment. And it is both like and unlike their kiss; desperation has gone but longing is still there only it's being fulfilled.
"It's alright, Angel." Crowley whispers against white hair.
Aziraphale continues to sob and Crowley holds him as he does, tighter and tighter with every passing moment as if he'd slip from his arms at any given second and dissapear, again. Except he's becoming more solid, more permanent. Each second passed is another second that Aziraphale stays right there.
"Why did I think I could change Heaven?" Aziraphale's question is muffled by Crowley's shirt, "I could never make it worthy of you."
Crowley tightens his fingers on Aziraphale's arms at this. It's falling into place, all the clashing pieces are beginning to align. And he has no smugness, he is only looking to understand now. His anger has subsided and all it took was an Angel in his arms.
"I never needed Heaven." He says.
It's a long moment before Aziraphale replies, "I know that. I just thought— I didnt–don't–understand," his voice is uneven and thick, Crowley waits for him to continue, it is his turn to speak, "I think I thought I was Heaven, that I existed only as a piece of a whole and my only choice was Heaven. And then you gave me food."
Crowley leans back to see Aziraphale's face, he really looks at him. He pulls his glasses off and sets them aside. Aziraphale's eyes are bloodshot and puffy, Crowley hold his gaze all the same.
"And I thought... you were so happy in the beginning and you loved your stars and your planets. So why not bring you back to them but I can't— I can't because— you're right too... I can't fix Heaven, I'm not enough— too much—"
"It isn't you," Crowley cuts him off, tears sting his eyes too, "It's too much for any single Angel. I was wrong, you are good enough, Heaven isn't good enough for you, Angel."
Aziraphale begins to speak but it all seems to get too overwhelming and he drops his head back onto Crowley's chest. And he holds him again.
There is alot that has yet to be spoken. They have fallen back into a state of comfort yet the unsaid fear of falling out of that comfort was daunting. The months of loneliness haunts them, mocking with every moments that could be the last. They had their last moments before, and yet here was another after that. They were good for continuing after ends. They did it with Armageddon and they're doing it now.
They stay kneeling on the floor until Muriel swings open the door a few hours later. They don't speak during that time, they just sit pressed togrther into one. The jingle of the doorbell causes them to look to the entrance. Muriel holds a copy of a book titled An Angel's Guide to Hell and wears a triumphant expression which falters just the slightest when they see Crowley and Aziraphale on the floor.
"I've got it boss!" She announces.
Aziraphale laughs, "Of course you did, dear. Please don't call me boss."
Muriel furrows their brows, "Have you been crying?" She asks, then adds: "that's a human thing if you were wondering."
"Yes, always wondering about human things." Aziraphale chimes, good-naturedly.
"Hi Mr. Fell, didn't expect to see you back so soon."
Crowley nods his chin at them. His hands rest on Aziraphale's arms and he drags them down them and settles them on his thighs.
"Are you having intercourse? That's a human thing too."
"Mmhhh!" Crowley hums, amused.
Aziraphale makes a high pitched sound and draws back just slightly, red spreading across his face. Crowley holds his gaze for a second, not moving away in the slightest before putting his attention back on Muriel.
"Been reading up on human things?" He asks.
"Oh yes, all the time." Muriel bounces a little, "Almost a 'pro' at this. That's human 'slang'."
"Very nice." Crowley says, "tell you what, drop that book on the desk and you're free to do whatever you like with your day. As long as your not in this bookshop."
Muriel seems to hesitate but does so anyways, setting the book down and leaving out from where they came obediently.
"They're like we were." Crowley says. He sees his own excitement in them and Aziraphale's innocent obedience.
Aziraphale thinks about that for a while, "I don't even know how they got that book, I made it up." Aziraphale says finally.
"OK. C'mon." Crowley stands and holds a hand down for Aziraphale who takes it. He takes him to the couch. "Time to really talk." He says.
And so they sit, a picture of themselves from years and years, of them at St. James's Park, at the Ritz, at the Garden of Eden, side by side, to really talk.