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Crowley doesn’t remember the exact moment he fell in love with Aziraphale, only that he did.
6000 and more years of memories is hard to keep track of in the old noodle, even as an immortal being. The memories Crowley can still recall he holds onto with severity. The Garden of Eden, Paris, Germany-
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
-The ones that truly matter. No, there’s no losing those. Just as his meticulous attention to spots on his houseplants, he makes sure to keep those memories in check.
If they grow fuzzy, he thinks back to the time period, the people, the feelings now dormant in his chest felt in that very second of being. He forces himself to remember with perfect charity what he said, what Aziraphale said, how Aziraphale reacted, how bright Aziraphale’s smile was.
Basically, he thinks about Aziraphale a lot. Big whoop. He may not be human (or a man technically), but like all living souls he has the capacity to love.
And love he does. Deeply, unconditionally, painfully. Millennia upon millennia of pining and the rewards have been few and far between, for a human perspective that is. No hand holding, no first kiss, no first...you know.
Humans. Their affections fester into madness and burn out like matches. Only those lucky enough to love someone that acts as their kerosene find it to be everlasting. Crowley may favor a fast-paced life, but humans are always in a dead-sprint to marry their soul-mate. Well, when one’s life expectancy is so short it does make a good deal of sense.
Crowley isn’t human, and he is blessed (no pun intended. Seriously, he’s a demon) to not have been created as one. The perks of immortality and corrupted divinity are far too enjoyable. But he must admit he’s grown soft. Soft for one peckish angel in particular, and to partake in more human traditions.
He will never admit these two things to anyone, especially not Aziraphale. Aziraphale is a kind soul, with enough to a bastard streak to be considered tolerable (and endearing, and charming, and Crowley should stop before he overexerts his issued heart). But as much as Aziraphale embodies all those qualities, he is equally self-conscious, fretful, and slow. Slow as in how he lives his life.
Aziraphale reads books instead of their Wikipedia plot summaries. He takes time to savor every bite of his meal instead of wolfing it down. He walks as opposed to driving, sometimes for weeks on end. “Infinite stamina means infinite chances to observe the beauty of the world,” as he had once put it. Crowley had countered by saying most of the world’s beauty had been destroyed by humanity’s piss-poor treatment of the earth. Aziraphale, forever an optimist, had assured him there was still plenty of beauty left to admire (though not much, and had gone on a tangent for the many ways humans could be taking better care of their one and only home).
None of Aziraphale’s choices are wrong; they are simply his. Crowley would never ask his best friend to change any aspect of himself.
Crowley only wishes Aziraphale’s heart would beat as fast as his own. His thoughts would race as quickly as Crowley’s whenever he smiled at him. He would love the demon back without any apprehension, or fear of the divine powers working against them.
Since the beginning, or maybe since yesterday, Crowley has been ready to love Aziraphale in full. Waiting has been excruciating. And with Armageddon having been foiled, Crowley has only one question left to ponder about the future: What will become of them?
Will Crowley combust with affection before he receives an ounce of it back? Or will he fall out of love like he did from heaven?
As he once put it, he sauntered downwards from heaven. But to saunter away from love would be much worse. To slowly abandon his feelings for Aziraphale, to the point he would not remember or want to feel them again. What else will he waste his mind power on?
And even worse, he suspects he already has. What is he trying to accomplish by dismissing Aziraphale’s remarks? Crowley can be nice. Crowley knows he can be nice. What’s caused him to think the opposite is true? He was an angel once after all, god forbid.
And God has forbidden. If only he were still an angel. Would Aziraphale fall for him any faster if he was? Oh the answer is undoubtedly yes. No rules would be broken, no traditions abolished. There would only be what’s right. What was meant to be.
Maybe Aziraphale and Crowley, as angel and demon, are not meant to be.
Satan, he wishes he never gave Shakespeare that miracle.
It’s a week after their lunch at the Ritz. No, it’s two weeks after the Ritz. Perhaps two weeks and a few days. Regardless, it’s been a small chunk of time since the two last met when Aziraphale calls him.
Crowley picks up the call, with the phone no longer trapping Hastur inside, and responds cooly, “Aziraphale. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Crowley! You wouldn’t happen to be busy this evening, would you?”
Oh, how thrilled he sounds just to be talking to little old demon him. The demon he would never “fraternize” with. Crowley pushes the memory down and matches Aziraphale’s enthusiasm in his own way.
“Actually, I’ve got a big temptation I’m tasked with. Another Antichrist I’m afraid. Looks like the bigs down there wanna give me another go-No, I’m course I’m free. I’m free for eternity. There’s no more assignments. No more...anything.” Except you . “Why’re you asking?”
“Oh! W-Well...I was wondering if you’d like to come by the bookshop later today and...hang out?”
Crowley sits himself down on top of his desk. “Hang out?”
“Er-yes.”
“Is that what the human children are calling it these days?” he can’t help but tease.
“Wh-That’s what they’ve been calling it for a while now!” Aziraphale replies, flustered. “And by it I mean share a few drinks, catch up, just...hang out…”
It would seem like a fairly innocent invitation, if not for the many times Aziraphale has stuttered. The angel is one for panicked stuttering, and for being awkward in general, but this time feels different. This time feels dangerous.
But it’s Aziraphale. There’s turning him down, as much as Crowley knows he should. It’s too soon after the apocalypse to meet up. Their emotions are both running high. Best to cool down and avoid any unwanted outbursts. They must be unwanted.
“What time’s good?”
The line goes silent on the other end, but that’s only because Aziraphale is taking the time to smile widely. “I-I’m closing the book shop early today. How does five o’clock sound?”
“Sounds like five o’clock,” Crowley smirks, though not amusingly. For some reason it feels it’s time to kiss whatever game of cat and mouse they’re playing goodbye.
Something is going to change between them tonight. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them, who the fuck is Crowley to say?
Except he has, by agreeing to come.
“Then I’ll be seeing you shortly!” There’s a pause. Aziraphale’s voice is much softer when he continues. “Crowley?”
“Yes’m?”
“Thank you.”
Crowley hopes his frown can’t be heard. “F’er what?”
“For...many things, I suppose. See you at five.”
The angel hangs up, leaving Crowley to over-analyze what Aziraphale could have possibly meant. He does this right up to a quarter of an hour to their meeting, and drives promptly like a madman to make it to the bookshop on time.
Or, if you’re willing to argue, he drives exactly like Crowley.
Crowley has been alive for over 6000 years. It should be expected that in that time he has, indeed, watched every rom-com ever produced. That being said, he knows what to expect as he saunters up to Aziraphale’s bookshop.
Rose-petal path? No, just damp asphalt. Lit candles? No, none that he can see through the windows. Slow, sensual music playing, perhaps with some strings involved? No , thank goodness. None of that.
Though there is...something. How had Aziraphale put it before? He can sense the love of certain places? Like a weird, emotional bloodhound. Well, now Crowley understands what he meant because he can sense something . Just not exactly what and that terrifies him.
Ah well. He’s faced Satan before. Or, he was there when Adam told his father to fuck off. There is literally nothing else in the known universe that can be scarier than that.
Oh, but there is. He’s just lying to himself.
Crowley doesn’t bother to miracle the doors open for him. He opens them like a normal, flamboyant human, listening to the ringing of the store bell above his head like a radio weather warming to take shelter.
The store is empty. The last time the store was empty it was on fire, and Crowley automatically assumed the worst. He still does, which is why his first instinct is to yell out-
“AZIRAPHALE?”
He’s not kept waiting long, thankfully. His angelic host stumbles into the room, looking rather frazzled and surprised, despite him being the one to invite Crowley over. “Ah! Crowley. I hope traffic wasn’t too terrible.”
Crowley waves a hand idly. “Worse now that my Bentley and I have had our way with the road.”
“Oh dear. I hope you didn’t run anyone over.”
“Nah. My pedestrian counter is still uno.”
Aziraphale grins, chuckling silently. “Hopefully Anathema will be the only one on it. Well...come in.”
“I’m already in.”
“I mean-” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but not at his guest. “Further in. To my study….Come on.”
He goes teetering away on wobbly legs to said room, and Crowley follows. The demon pockets his sunglasses, patting them tensley in his pocket. If only he could hide his desires as easily as he can hide his eyes from the prying eyes of human’s.
Aziraphale’s study is exactly the same, save for a general tidiness to it. Normally, it is in a much more chaotic display, a protest to the cleanliness of heaven. It’s still messy and crowded and oh-so Aziraphale, just...neater. No, that’s not the right word. It’s almost as if the room is more sure of where each belonging should go.
There’s a bottle of vintage wine on Aziraphale’s desk, which the angel sweeps up and makes quick work of dishing out. He tells Crowley the name of it, and other information people into wine like to share, but Crowley doesn’t hear any of this over the pounding of his heart. His glass is filled halfway, and he miracles it to a three-quarters full.
“So, what have you been up to since the ‘Switcheroo?’” Aziraphale asks, setting down the bottle.
Crowley takes a generous sip of his glass. The wine goes down as smoothly as a mudslide through an unsuspecting village. “Not much. Not much at all. Not a lot to do anymore with the big heads breathing down someone else’s neck. You?”
Aziraphale flashes a tiny smile. “Keeping up with the bookstore, mainly.”
“How’s the foot traffic been?”
“Fairly steady. Not many buyers, more gazers.”
“Yes, well you don’t like parting with many books anyway.”
Aziraphale’s gaze flies swiftly away from his demonic friend. “You’ve got me there. A blessing in disguise, I suppose.”
The banter seems entirely pointless. They’re beating around the bush when a much more imposing tree has yet to fall on them. Crowley wonders which one of them is responsible; the one who left the axe by the tree, or the fool who took the axe and started swinging?
A thick silence falls between them, demanding to be cut down in a similar manner. With the help of some liquid courage, Crowley makes the first stab at it.
“Guess we won’t have a lot to catch up on anymore.”
“No, I suppose we won’t,” Aziraphale agrees quietly.
“Not that we were very good at our jobs anyway.” Crowley takes another swig of wine. Boy, it is not getting any easier to keep down. “But now we get to dick around all we want until the next fight comes.
Aziraphale deflates with a sigh. His shoulders slump as if the world had been placed on them, as trite as it sounds. “They’re too stuck up their own butts to do anything about us.”
“Yeah, but we pissed them off real bad, mate. Gonna happen eventually. Let’s face it.”
Aziraphale doesn’t offer a response. He’s looking somewhere Crowley’s eyes can’t follow. Crowley changes the subject quickly.
“Got any plans now that you’re free?”
Aziraphale’s eyes lock onto him. Blue, heavenly sky pierces through eerie, sick yellow. “Free?”
Crowley purses his lips with a nod. “Yeah. Gabe and his goons don’t boss you around either now. You’ve finally got the world to yourself. For real and all.”
“Well, I’ve always had the world. Never to myself. I’ve always shared it with you.”
Now it’s Crowley’s turn to look away. He paces around the study, which isn’t much room to work with his his lanky limbs find solace in the open space there is.
“I never thought about doing anything differently than I did before,” Aziraphale continues, somewhat whimsically. “Oh, I could so around doing all sorts of miracles. Cure cancer. Stop corrupt politicians. Give deserving series proper adaptations. Who’s going to stop me?”
Crowley points at him wildly. The alcohol is starting to take effect. “That’s the spirit!”
“A-And without a job-a divine one anyway...I-I could even partake in a more human lifestyle.”
“ More human? You’re already living the life of an entrepreneur. Nothing says human more than risking all you’ve got on hopes and dreams.”
“Yes, but I don’t expect this to go anywhere. Not that I want it to anyway. Book selling is more of a hobby...No, I think I want something more. Something meaningful.”
Crowley, in a sincere moment of confusion asks, “But you like books???”
Aziraphale stares at him, taken aback, before breaking into a heart-fluttering round of giggles. The wine must be hitting him too right around now. A faint red blush seeps into his cheeks, entirely from his tipsiness. Absolutely nothing else has caused this. “I do like books. I love them. But...I want to love other things just as much. Maybe even more.”
God lied. Satan lied. This is Armageddon. Right here, in Aziraphale’s study, as they stand prone from their drunk-headedness. For such powerful beings they are astounding lightheads.
“What...do you want to love more...then?” Crowley prods, like a fool. An absolute fool. A buffoon .
Aziraphale blinks rapidly, like windshield wipers in the rain. “Er-well...Uh…I think I would enjoy a more domestic life.”
Somehow his answer is much worse than Crowley thought it was going to be. “W-What makes you want something like that? ”
Aziraphale looks right past the edge of Crowley’s tone. “I don’t know, really. Nostalgia maybe? For when we were watching over Warlock. You know, despite all the pressure we were under...I rather liked looking after that child.”
“Even though he turned out to be a butt,” Crowley butts in himself. His new goal is to try and sabotage whatever... whatever is happening right now.
“He’s only eleven, Crowley. And his parents are American, after all. He’ll grow out of it.”
“Or he’ll grow into it. Because y’know...American.”
It occurs to Crowley as Aziraphale’s fingers tap nervously against his glass that the angel hasn’t actually taken a sip this entire time.
“Oh, I don’t think that. I think he’ll turn out a lot like you.”
Crowley chokes, wine sputtering from his lips. He’s too flustered to miracle the red spots on his scarf away. “L-Like me? You mean insufferable, irritable, w-w-whatever else rhymes with able?”
Aziraphale only smiles at him, with absolute fondness in his eyes. “Kind.”
Crowley sobers up that very instant.
“I think he’ll be kind. Maybe a bit rough around the edges, and high-maintenance at times...but he’ll learn lessons more powerful than the world is ready for through his experiences. And when the going is hard...he’ll use that wisdom to do some good, even if no one expects him too.”
Feeling suddenly weak in the knees, Crowley stumbles, wine sloshing all around. Aziraphale sets his glass hastily on his desk and catches the demon by the arm.
“Jus’ the wine. Jus’...wine,” Crowley slurs, soul transcending into another realm. “Here.”
He gasps suddenly, alcohol magically appearing back in the bottle from whence it came. Being drunk may make this next exchange easier, but Crowley knows deep down these kinds of talks are meant to be done in a proper headspace. He’ll give Aziraphale the respect the occasion deserves.
Now truly sober, Aziraphale’s touch is hotter than the fiery depths of hell. Crowley tugs his arm away from him.
“‘M good. All good. Kid-Kid’s gonna turn out great. You’re right.”
Aziraphale eyes him oddly. “Are you alright, Crowley?”
“Fine! Peachy. Peaches and cream. Oh God-oh Satan stop talking stop talking stop talking .”
He repeats this last bit to himself in a harsh whisper, just low enough for Aziraphale not to hear. At least he hopes the angel hasn’t heard a word. Crowley is mortified enough as it is.
“I think you better sit down for a bit.”
Aziraphale takes his hand. Of all the ways to lead Crowley to his seat, he takes the demon’s hand. His hand .
Never, not once, not even accidentally, has Aziraphale ever taken his hand . A hearty handshake doesn’t count, because this is different. He took Crowley’s hand . He made the first move.
It’s what finally does Crowley in.
“Oh, you can’t possibly be this dense!”
He rips his hands away, already scorned proper. The added layer of searing comes from the shock in Aziraphale’s eyes, in his fallen features, in the way he takes a full step away from him.
But Crowley can’t stop now. He’s held it all in for centuries and centuries and centuries more. His heart will take no more.
“You see what you’re doing, right?! Leading me on like this-Teasing me like it’s some sort of game! Maybe it is all a game, seeing the way we dance around each other. You always a step behind me because I’m still just too fast for you! And I can’t change that! I’ve loved you since bloody roman times, and even after all that Apocalyptic bullshit , and the trials, and you getting fucking dis- dis ... DYING! Nothing’s...nothing’s changed...nothing’s changed…”
Aziraphale hasn’t said a word, not that Crowley has given him a chance to. He’s staring at Crowley in absolute silent horror. But the shock triggers another emotion as well, something far more severe than a simple surprise.
Crowley believes it to be something akin to heartbreak.
“Don’t let the first words out of your mouth be forgiving...I...I lost my temper, and I’m-”
Sorry , he wants to say. Sorry , he needs to say.
But Crowley doesn’t say anything. He just leaves.
From atop the London Bridge, Crowley can almost believe the basin of cities to be a modern Garden of Eden. Instead of apple trees, there are unsavory thoughts and characters. Instead of rain, there’s, well...rain. Rain hasn’t changed much since then. Just full of more acid in some parts of the globe.
He sits on the edge of one of the pillars, arms crossed over his knees, watching over the grey, tainted utopia. It’s where he’s been for the past three days, and where he intends to stay for however long it takes to forget about Aziraphale. How hard should it be to repress 6000 years of memories? Surely not as difficult or harmful as he should be led to believe.
Obviously he’s blown any chance of a future with the angel. The angel who did nothing wrong, as an angel is supposed to do. And while Aziraphale is not a conventional angel (nor should he be), Crowley knows what he said went over the invisible lines in the same they drew at their first meeting.
He’s to blame, as as a heartless demon he’ll gladly take it and go without his heart. It would make it so much easier not to give a damn about all the mess he’s caused.
But like Judy Sills once sang, Jesus was a crossmaker. Crowley tried too hard to do good, did some acts close to it, and demanded a reward. Good people don’t ask for payment. Demons don’t push angels into a relationship.
Lightning cracks across the sky, and the sound of thunder fills in the gaps left behind. A heavy drizzle of rain begins pelting Crowley, soaking his clothes. He doesn’t bother to find cover. He doesn’t bother to do anything anymore. If he sits completely still, than he can’t cause any further destruction.
He closes his eyes and lets the rain fall.
Evidently, he can’t even take a flimsy beating from the weather. The rain stops. Or at least above his head it does.
Crowley opens his eyes, noticing a shadow has been cast upon him. He looks up, finding a familiar face peering down at him.
Aziraphale squints through the rain, unable to use his wings to cover himself as well as Crowley. “Didn’t think it would rain today?”
Crowley takes one last look at him, then turns away. He expects never to look at him again, and allows himself one last memory to savor. “It’s always raining in London.”
Unfortunately for Crowley’s hopes of Aziraphale leaving him alone, the angel sits himself right down next to the demon. Crowley shifts as far as he can away from him, to the point he nearly walls off the bridge.
“You should leave me alone. After what I said, I don’t see why you’d come.”
“Actually...I should’ve come sooner. Especially if I’d known you’d be moping in the poor weather like this.”
Crowley says to hell with his intentions and turns to him again. “Don’t forgive me.”
Aziraphale gives a half-smile. “There’s nothing to forgive you for.”
“Oh, don’t pull that crap with me,” Crowley snaps, but immediately backing down. “I won’t pretend there’s nothing between us. You want to take things slow, and I’m...impatient. That’s not your fault, but I made it sound that way...”
Aziraphale, once again, is silent. He adjust his wing to better shield Crowley, the demon sinking further into himself under the weight of his guilt.
“You spoke your mind after I pushed you,” the angel speaks evenly.
Crowley shakes his head. “You didn’t do a damn-”
“I didn’t invite you just to hang out.”
It’s the truth Crowley suspected, yet ironically wasn’t ready to hear. He gaps, dumbfounded, unsure of where to go from here.
“I was trying,” Aziraphale explains, voice croaking, “t-to explain to you, in my own way...how much you meant to me.”
Crowley can barely close his jaw to speak again. “By comparing me to a snot-nosed brat.”
The worry on Aziraphale’s face drips away like the raindrops from his feathers. He beams, eyes scrunched at their corners. “I was struggling to find a segue. After all, there’s so much to say. 6000 years of it...and I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“And you didn’t,” Crowley follows swiftly. “I just...wasn’t really listening. I’m not a very good listener.”
He gets a heavenly laugh as a response. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Crowley inches away from the ledge, suddenly hopeful. “Did you have more to say...that night? I kind of stormed off like a dramatic, flashy bastard.”
Aziraphale wipes the water from his brow, though it’s obvious he’s trying to cover the rosy red of his cheeks. “A little bit more, yes.”
Crowley wills his wings to reveal themselves. No longer afraid, he scoots in as far as he can and layers his wing atop of Aziraphale’s. The two create a sort of cocoon for themselves, both now shielded from the weather.
Aziraphale looks at him. Oh, how his eyes never cease to dazzle Crowley’s wonders. How they never cease to make him feel wanted, needed, adored.
“I’ve spent all my life fearing what would happen if...always worrying what those ‘upstairs’ would do if they found out about us. Never...never feeling like I could be anything other than what I had to be to survive. But Adam snapped me out of that mindset of obedience, and you’ve been trying to do the same since forever. Literally. As you put it, we’re free ...and there’s no one I’d rather be free with than you.”
Crowley swallows the lump in his throat. No, it’s fire. Totally fire. He’s a demon. Demon’s don’t cry. Roar.
“I can’t imagine what must’ve been running through your head at that bar,” Aziraphale nearly whispers. “You really thought I was dead...?”
Crowley nods, lower lip quivering to his dismay. “I had no idea what the hell I was gonna do. Get plastered to start...then who knows…”
“Oh Crowley .”
He says his name so gently, as if trying to heal the heartache of the past. Crowley bends his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Never once in all his lifetime has he cried. This angel is about to ruin that perfect streak.
There’s a hand on his back, rubbing away an eternity of longing, and that’s when the waterworks really get going. Aziraphale holds him all the way through it, not having been there before but is here now.
When it’s over, Aziraphale gives him room to breathe. Crowley wipes quickly at his eyes, finding them irritated. Crying, he discovers, is the worst. Now he feels disgusting, like gum on a muddy sidewalk.
“W-What else were you gonna say? Anything else?” he stutters out.
Aziraphale holds out a hand. This is it. The new moment. The moment they intertwined their souls together, as if they haven’t already.
Crowley takes his hand, and when he does the ache in his chest goes away. Like it was never there to begin with.
“Maybe...oh, in a century or two,” Aziraphale muses, “Once we spend more time together figuring out what this means-”
He lifts their hands. His is shaking, but so is Crowley’s.
“Would you...like to settle down for a bit?”
Crowley blinks. “Settle down? L-Like with a house and...and a kid? With me? ”
Aziraphale only smiles.
“Oh, I’d be terrible with kids. You know what I do to my houseplants.”
“Well, with me there, it’d all balance out. They could turn out like Adam, or Warlock.”
“Let’s hope for the former. That kid...he’s alright. I wouldn’t mind having an Adam our our own. An angel and a demon raising a human…”
“Again,” Aziraphale smirks.
Crowley doesn’t bring up the fact that human life expectancy is far shorter than their infinite ones. He doesn’t mention the inevitable day when they’d have to bury their own child. Of course they've been surrounded by death since Cain and Abel, but to bury one’s child is a whole other matter.
But what Aziraphale has taught Crowley, along with everything else that’s gotten him this far, is that the sorrow is worth it. Falling from heaven, fighting for the earth, living a slower, human life. They’re all miracles in their own right.
Harnessing his sappiness, Crowley commits one miracle right there. Above them, a sliver of the sun peeks through the clouds, and the rain stops.
“So...you want me to say it or do you want the honors?” he asks.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I love you.”
This is where Crowley says I love you too. Instead, he rushes in for a kiss and falls right off the bridge pillar.
Aziraphale screams unnessesarily after him, as Crowley soars through the air totally pissed. That was supposed to be his suave moment and he blew it completely. A demon just can’t catch a break, it seems.
He hovers in the air, arms crossed and fuming.
Aziraphale’s panic is replaced with smug amusement. “Way to ruin the moment, dear.”
“Get out here and kiss me, angel.”
Aziraphale takes to the sky and wastes no time flying right up to smack their lips together. It’s a bit of a rough kiss, given his momentum, but Crowley can’t say he hates it. Their next kiss, however, is much gentler, much slower, and this one he enjoys far more.
They part, though neither one really wants to. However, these things are best to space out and savor. Though Crowley doesn’t hesitate to cup Aziraphale’s face in his hands after not being able to for so long.
“Love you too.”