Chapter Text
“When you said you had an idea,” Crowley remarks, “I didn’t think you meant coming back here.”
“You thought I was jealous?” Aziraphale asks, keeping a carefully neutral expression as Crowley’s own goes through the five stages of confusion.
“Of who? Cecil? ” Crowley vigorously shakes his head. “Sure, I have a type, and it should be pretty obvious at this point what it is, but really? Nah. He’s a good friend, and one who really shouldn’t still be alive, but you won’t catch me complaining. Also, he’s married.”
Aziraphale hums to himself in the passenger seat, for once not commenting on Crowley living up to the moniker of speed demon.
“Yes,” he says, “I know very well what your type is.”
Crowley splutters indignantly, and is saved from further embarrassment by the radio switching on without either of them meaning for it to.
“An angel stopped by our studio during the break,” Cecil says to, among other listeners, one angel and one who is decidedly not an angel, thank you very much. “She declined to stay for an interview, but informed us that a pair of old friends would be returning to town later tonight. Also, that the world nearly ended last Saturday, but really, that’s just another Saturday.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “How does he—?”
Crowley shrugs.
“It was very good to see her again, listeners, and fellow members of a particular bowling team will be happy to hear that Erika will be joining us starting next season. Rejoining, in a sense.”
Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Crowley looks at Aziraphale.
“It worked?” Crowley asks, a tad incredulous.
“Watch the road!” Aziraphale shouts. Crowley swerves to avoid someone waving semaphore flags.
“I’m sure, of course, that we all remember a time before angels legally existed, when Erika… assisted. Perhaps illegally, but the scores are already engraved in stone tablets and stored permanently in the Hall of Public Records, and I suspect that if anyone tries to change that a particular heist expert named Janice might have a hand in their removal. This, however, is not the same Erika, or the same angel.”
Cecil sighs. Aziraphale can hear him smiling through the microphone.
“Reunions, listeners, are strange things. Particularly when you thought they might never happen at all. Stay tuned next for another reunion, in which my wonderful husband Carlos and I will attempt to help two vaguely immortal beings make something of six thousand years of pining.”
Crowley’s cell phone buzzes.
“He texted you directions,” Aziraphale says, picking it up and glancing at the screen.
A week ago, Crowley would have said something along the lines of oh, now you know what a text is? But that sort of thing was, perhaps, unnecessarily mean. Especially after everything they’ve been through.
Instead, he takes a hand off the steering wheel, and wordlessly puts it over Aziraphale’s.
I thought I lost you, he doesn’t say.
I’m glad we’re both still here, he doesn’t say.
I love you, he doesn’t say.
Aziraphale puts down the phone, and puts his other hand over Crowley’s. And, for the first time in six thousand years, Crowley knows that he knows. Cecil might not have to intervene after all.
Somewhere, a god known sometimes as Huntokar and sometimes as simply the Almighty smiles.
“Good night, Night Vale,” Cecil says on the radio. “Good night.”