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After Armageddon, things changed. That is to say, Things had definitely changed, but so had things. The ice-caps stopped melting, for one Thing. Politicians started becoming very interested in green energy, for Another. Tadfield certainly underwent several minor but very pleasing Changes, such as trees that sprouted fruit for the entirety of the season they were supposed to, an accidental over-stockage of icecream in the local convenience store, and bicycle lanes.
But things changed too. The Arrangement, for one.
The two of them hadn’t so much as quit their jobs, as been given tenure. They still had all the benefits of their positions, but with considerably more academic freedom and a removed threat of dismissal. Things (that is, things) that previously would have been avoided for fear of retribution from both Upstairs and Downstairs were now possible. If he hadn’t been so blessed tired in the immediate aftermath, Crowley would have been giddy with excitement. The timescale of this freedom was uncertain, however.
It started with Aziraphale’s first ever visit to Crowley’s minimalist Mayfair flat, on the Saturday night after the world did not end. Crowley would have been of a mind to sleep for another decade, but there was a slightly more pressing matter.
“They’ll come back for us,” Aziraphale stated into the quiet room.
Crowley shrugged. “Maybe.”
“They haven’t recalled me yet, but they will soon. Gabriel will tell Michael, and I know Uriel is just itching to pluck my pinions just like he did before the Garden. They’ll find some way to keep me away from y-” Aziraphale stumbled over his words and the corner of the rug, “away from Earth, for at least the next millennia… And what’ll Downstairs do to you, oh Crowley-”
Aziraphale’s increasingly frantic tirade was cut off by Crowley’s hands closing calmly around his own.
“Can’t you feel it?” asked Crowley. “We’re still safe, here. In his aura.” For now, he didn’t say.
Aziraphale took in a shaky breath, and closed his eyes. “He really is a remarkable lad.”
Crowley waited, not daring to breathe, and eventually the angel’s forehead came to rest on his shoulder. They stood like that for some time, until Crowley released their hands and drew his arms around Aziraphale gently. Aziraphale let himself be embraced.
“About tomorrow, darling,” Aziraphale said eventually.
“Fuck tomorrow,” replied Crowley, “tomorrow can bloody well wait its turn.” He drew back slightly to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “We defied Heaven and Hell today. What’s a little Time between old friends?”
Aziraphale dimpled into Crowley’s shoulder. One of Crowley’s thumbs took the unbidden liberty of stroking a gentle back and forth rhythm on the back of Aziraphale’s hand, where it was pressed between them.
Once upon a time, touching Aziraphale had hurt in much the way that a hot pan might burn a careless cook. Over the years, it had faded into what could now be accurately described as the touch equivalent of tasting a sour fruit, and Crowley had developed quite the love of citrus.
Their bosses would, tomorrow, chalk it up to ‘going native’. Aziraphale had called it ‘immunity from prolonged exposure’, comparing it to the human invention of Vaccines (for which he had received a commendation, being coincidentally in the vicinity of Louis Pasteur at the time). Crowley, after having centuries to dissect the development of his immunity, was forced to conclude that it may have actually been certain Feelings that granted him the ability to press the skin of his corporation against that of his compatriot’s without injury. He remembered, vaguely and not without a little distress, being in front of the Almighty all those millennia ago and how his Feelings of love and devotion had kept Her blinding light from giving him celestial sunburn. Love and devotion, however, were not particularly demonic feelings to have, so Crowley had kept a rather firm lid on thoughts like that, and had intended to continue ignoring them until the world ended.
After the world didn’t end, Crowley stood at the doorway of his old life clutching a now rather heavy metaphorical box labelled ‘Feelings’ and came to the uncomfortable realisation that he might need to Do something about them.
This brings us back to the angel and the demon standing in a Mayfair flat, holding each other and silently thanking Someone for their continued existence. Crowley’s hands were cold, and Aziraphale’s were warm, and both felt a blissful appreciation of the contrast.
“Angel,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale looked at him, his expression fond. “My dear.”
“I think I should preface this by saying that I don’t think I’m a very good demon.”
“On the contrary,” Aziraphale smiled coyly, “I think you are an extremely Good demon.”
Crowley scoffed, but couldn’t hide a grin entirely. “That hurts, angel. But bear with me here – I’m about to seriously bruise my reputation, possibly forever.”
“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. He was still smiling.
“If we’re to get recalled tomorrow, I’d bless myself if I didn’t tell you that I think I have some… Feelings.” He paused, and when Aziraphale didn’t immediately react, continued. “For you.”
“Feelings,” repeated Aziraphale absently.
“Rather un-demonic Feelings, actually.”
Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand, or drawn away, which was possibly a positive sign, but Aziraphale had never occupied his body quite as fully as Crowley, and it could also have meant that he’d mentally withdrawn and hadn’t caught up physically yet. He didn’t respond.
“Don’t make me say it out loud, angel.”
“Say what? Crowley, you’re not making sense.”
Crowley dropped his hands abruptly and turned on his heel, the angel following him across the room.
“Wait wait, no, Crowley, are you saying,” Aziraphale bumped his leg on the glass coffee table and cursed under his breath, “Ow, are you saying you made an effort?”
Crowley rounded on him then. “No, angel, that’s not… it’s not just an Effort thing, though I wouldn’t mind making an effort with you, it’s not just that.” He laughed a single bitter bark of a laugh. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’ve been in love with you for four thousssssand years.”
Aziraphale inhaled sharply at the confession. “Oh.”
Crowley hissed and drew back. “Oh what?”
“Just…” Aziraphale made a grab for his hand. Crowley numbly let him. “Give me a minute. I’m—” He huffed, and looked rather ashamed. “Let me catch up.”
Dragging his heels through history had served Aziraphale quite well up until this point. Modern things, new ideas – he preferred to scoff at them until they became old-fashioned, at which time he could safely indulge without ever being accused of being ahead of (or even with) the times. Aziraphale liked to consider a concept for at least a few decades before accepting it. It was safer that way. But here was his very best friend, his only constant for millennia, asking him to come up with a response almost immediately to something that he had been staunchly avoiding thinking about for… well, some time. The consequences of putting this off did not bear thinking about.
He thought about companionship. He thought about offers made and refused, and about thwarting wiles. He thought about a thousand kindnesses – lunches and smuggled wine and narrow escapes and rescued books and risks taken for the sake of… apparently for the sake of love. Aziraphale considered his own reactions to certain events. How he felt warmed when wait staff offered them a private booth where they’d sit with knees pressed together. The traitorous leap of his heart when he spotted Crowley in a new place, the anticipation of an old argument to be started anew. The thrill of being driven through London in the Bentley, the leather seats that felt like an extension of the grinning demon beside him, and the familiar comfort of half-amused protestations. The desperation of being discorporated before the end; his terror and regret at leaving Crowley in the thick of it, alone. Aziraphale had been intentionally reckless only a handful of times in his life, and right in the centre of most of them was his concern and affection for Crowley, fuelling his rare episodes of throwing caution to the wind. And what was love, if not a discarding of fear?
“Oh, my dear boy…” Aziraphale stepped into his space. He took Crowley’s face in his soft hands and kissed him lightly. “I think I’m up to speed now.”
“Ngh,” said Crowley. His eyes were wide and disbelieving.
Aziraphale kissed him again.
This time, Crowley managed to get with the program, and he kissed back. He grasped at the angel’s waist and made quite undemonic little whining noises, trying to keep the two of them as close together as humanly (or rather, occultly and ethereally) possible. It could not have been said to be a very skilful kiss, but the enthusiasm more than made up for it.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” said Aziraphale, slightly out of breath some time later, when they had migrated to the sofa.
Crowley grinned into Aziraphale’s neck. “Only a few millennia.”
Aziraphale spent a good few minutes stroking the hair at the base of Crowley’s neck. “I’ve wasted a lot of time, haven’t I?”
“I don’t think so.” Crowley kissed the soft cheek where it was pressed against the side of his face. “We may have bought ourselves some more time, now. After all this.”
“Eternity, hmm? Do you think They will leave us in peace for that long?”
“Well, if we’re to be reprimanded tomorrow—” Crowley began, and was almost interrupted by a look from Aziraphale as if he was about to admonish him for his pessimism, but he barrelled on. “I don’t think it matters if we give them something new to reprimand us for.”
Aziraphale gave him a small sultry smile, then leaned over and delivered a swift nip to Crowley’s bottom lip. “My dear, there’s no one else I’d make the effort for.”
--
Aziraphale called it ‘making love’, and did embarrassing things like kissing Crowley’s stomach or ears – things that were not in Crowley’s repertoire of Things To Be Done Whilst Having Sex, but were rapidly filing applications to be added to the list. Crowley was not at liberty to complain, nor did he have the ability to blush, so Aziraphale continued to lavish non-sexual affection upon him whenever the urge took him, and Crowley was forced to find it intensely endearing.
Neither of them slept for the remainder of the night. To waste time now would have been criminal, having just found a new way to spend it.
As dawn began to break over the city, Crowley pulled away from sucking a bite into a gasping Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley’s bed had, over the course of the night, transformed from an uninhabitable silken nest into a messy pile of linens on a sensible back-supporting mattress. A faded quilt was thrown over the pair. He couldn’t quite find it in him to care much. Aziraphale pushed a shaking hand through Crowley’s ruined hair, eliciting a pleased hum, then cupped his jaw with a warm palm and kissed him long and slow.
Aziraphale looked past his love to the sliver of grey sunlight slipping through the curtains. He sighed. The day was upon them.
“No matter what happens today,” he said seriously, “I have loved you, Crowley, and been loved in return. That’s more than I ever could have asked.”
Crowley felt a rush of affection, and once more felt as if he were standing in front of the sun. “How very human of us,” he rasped.
“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled and pressed his mouth to Crowley’s again.