Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After the beginning of the rest of the world, Anathema can’t completely remember what occurred on the last day of summer the year of the Armageddon.

She remembers little bits and pieces – Newt, of course. She and Newt were together, there was a huge storm. Adam – she’d given him magazines, and he’d been there, she thought, though she couldn’t picture where in her mind, and he refused to tell her.

She also remembers Aziraphale and Crowley.

Actually, she remembers them best of all. At least the two of them admit that she isn’t making things up, that Agnes’s prophecies had been right, that somehow they had saved the world even if she can’t remember how. It’s always a relief when Aziraphale shows up on her doorstep with a new book for her to pass on to Adam, when he keeps glancing discreetly over her shoulder into the house until she relents and invites him in for cake and he beams. And it’s always steadying when she checks the mailbox and finds a new CD wrapped up, with a note attached saying ‘For Adam. – A. J. Crowley’, even if according to Adam every CD plays the same 6 Queen songs. Every little glimpse of a Bentley rolling away down the street with the faint hum of Freddy Mercury’s voice she gets reminds her that she is not totally insane. Or at least that her hallucinations are consistent.

A month passes and at the end of it in one of his visits Aziraphale suggests a picnic. “Just one little get together,” he suggests, “A chance for us all to tie up loose ends over a couple of those incredible tea cakes from the bakery here.”

So one day Anathema wakes up and puts together a picnic basket consisting of the list of special requests Aziraphale left her.

“So let me get this right,” Newt says as she rushes around the kitchen. “We’re catching up with a… an…”

“An angel and a demon,” Anathema prompts, “And Adam Young.”

“Who… we saved the world with,” Newt continues, “Even though we can’t remember it.”

Anathema nods. It really isn’t that hard to understand, as far as she’s concerned, but she knows she remembers more than Newt does. She’s not sure if it’s the witchy powers, or the fact that she still has Agnes’ old prophecies that she has used to piece together many of the missing blanks.

Newt frowns for a moment, and out of the corner of her eyes, Anathema can see the exact moment when he gives up on trying to understand. His face relaxes, “Yeah, okay.”

Anathema shoots him a little reassuring smile and picks her basket up off the kitchen bench, “You’re all ready to go, then?”

Newt pats down his pockets, muttering the names of items under his breath.

“Asthma spray,” Anathema reminds him, and he disappears out of the room with a loud gasp.

“Okay,” he says when he gets back in, “Now I’m ready.”

“Good,” Anathema smiles, “Let’s go.”

It’s a beautiful afternoon for a picnic. The countryside has its usual unusually perfect blue skies and warm sun, and the leaves are just starting to turn a gorgeous yellow-orange and carpet the grass. They’ve been here for about an hour already, chatting about the ways their lives have changed. It’s incredible seeing the way Crowley and Aziraphale act with Adam – the three of them are technically the only ones who actually know what went down on that day, and every now and then they give each other knowing glances and smile. With all of them together like this it makes it easier for Anathema to put little things back together again, too.

Adam pats Dog gently and leafs slowly though a National Geographic magazine that Aziraphale brought especially for him, intently focused on the pages. Newt is fiddling with a small circuit board he brings everywhere with him now in order to work on his Computing 101 course. As he twists the small screwdriver that came with the pack, the handle falls off. He swears quietly. Anathema watches Aziraphale plan to steal Crowley’s food.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley’s plate, on which sits the last slice of chocolate cake. Crowley has a fork in his hand, but he hasn’t gone to eat it yet, and Anathema watches Aziraphale glance from the fork to the slice to the fork again, and then lean over to Crowley.

“Um,” he begins politely, “Are you going to finish that, Crowley?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale. “Of course I am,” he says, “I’ve been saving it up.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale purses his lips for a moment. “I just assumed… well, it’s just that you don’t usually like eating very much and, well… that’s the last slice.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale for a moment, in utter disbelief. Aziraphale stares back with utter innocence. They get locked like that for a while before Crowley groans loudly. He lifts his fork and takes a scoop off the end of the slice, popping it in his mouth. Then he passes the plate and the fork with the remaining cake across to Aziraphale.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says fondly, “Thank you, my dear.”

“Asshole,” Crowley mutters, the ghost of a smile fluttering around the corner of his lips.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley from the corner of his eyes, a mix of cheek and affection that comes fully across as him saying ‘you don’t mean that’.

Another little piece of memory falls together in Anathema’s head. Standing on a tarmac in an army base, Aziraphale glancing at Crowley with nothing short of heart-eyes while he begins to explain ‘there was—well he was—a wily old serpent’.

Anathema smiles, “So I take it you two are both still together?”

The angel and the demon look at Anathema so quickly it almost frightens her. There’s a beat of a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

Aziraphale clears it by blinking his eyes and asking innocently, “Together?” But his innocence is betrayed by the way his hand inches a little further away from Crowley’s beside him.

Crowley himself looks as if someone has just asked him ‘has anyone seen my favourite pot-plant?’ while he’s got fertilizer all over his fingers.

“You know…” Anathema very quickly realises she’s said the wrong thing, but her mouth opens again anyway, “Together…?”

There’s another beat of uncomfortable silence.

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiles quickly, nervously, “You mean living together? Oh, no, well, I got my bookshop back, so… that was only a one-night thing back when I thought it had burnt down.”

Crowley says nothing. He flicks a finger at his wine glass and watches it refill.

Anathema can’t completely remember Aziraphale’s bookshop having burnt down at all. She has no idea what he’s talking about. But she knows a bad topic when she sees one, so she smiles. “Ah, well, that’s good. Glad you got that back.”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale says. There’s a split second of awkward silence again. Then he leans forward, “Is anyone going to have any more of this brioche? It’s wonderful.”

The topic of conversation changes, but Aziraphale doesn’t move any closer to Crowley again. There are no more side glances. Crowley is unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon. 

Chapter Text

So Aziraphale and Crowley are not dating. Anathema gets confirmation of this from Adam, who knows the most about the two of them out of everyone.

“I suppose they can’t,” Adam says while Anathema walks him back to his house, “Not with the whole angel-demon thing. Maybe there’s some invisible rule in place. Maybe if they kiss they’ll explode.” Adam’s eyes begin to shine with excitement, “Wouldn’t that be cool? To make your enemies explode by kissing them?”

Anathema can’t quite see where the cool part of that comes in, but she says nothing – Adam has always had an overeager imagination. “I thought they said to you that they weren’t a part of Heaven or Hell anymore. They’ve become kind of human, haven’t they?”

Adam shakes his head, “They’re still supernatural beings,” he explains, “It’s just that Heaven and Hell are scared of them because they think they’ve gone human.”

“I see.”

“Maybe it’s not that they’ll explode or anything,” Adam continues. “Maybe they just don’t want to date. Pepper is always saying that the pressure on people to conform to traditional relationship structures is reflective of the heteronormative whitewashed society we live in. I don’t really know what that means,” Adam wrinkles his nose, “But like… maybe angels and demons think of love differently to humans. It’s worth asking.”

“Maybe that’s just how angels are,” Newt suggests later, when they’re sitting in bed watching videos called ‘How to Code for Kids’. “You know… creatures of love. Aziraphale may not love him, not in the way we would use the word, even if he does love him. It’s probably a cultural thing.”

“But Crowley?” Anathema asks. Newt shrugs.

“He was an angel once, wasn’t he? He probably gets it.”

Anathema sinks back into the cushions of the bed and takes off her glasses. She’s gone from thinking she’s made an honest mistake to thinking she might possibly have made a huge cultural FOPAR.

“You know who would probably know best?” she says at last.

“Mm?” Newt asks, half-distracted by the video still humming away on his screen.

“Madame Tracy,” Anathema says, determined.

Chapter Text

After the beginning of the rest of the world, Madame Tracy can’t completely remember what occurred on the last day of summer the year of the Armageddon.

She remembers Newt and Anathema, the couple made up of Sargent Shadwell’s only real friend apart from her and the lovely witch girl. She remembers that there were children somewhere on the day, even if she can’t remember completely how they were involved, and every time she thinks of them she has this horrible memory of some kind of gun that she isn’t sure she really wants to remember more about.

She also remembers Aziraphale and Crowley.

Actually, she remembers them best of all. It’s very hard to forget being possessed by an angel, after all, and the moments in which they shared a body are almost perfectly clear to her, even if she can’t totally place the memories situationally (where they were and why they were there) and even if she has a bit of a blank of the couple of minutes before they were separate people again. She hasn’t actually seen Crowley again since the Armageddon, but she can remember him well enough – oh, she can remember all sorts of things about him, even ones she was sure she was not supposed to know. She had been sharing not just bodies, but also minds with Aziraphale, after all.

Aziraphale pops in at the cottage that Madame Tracy and Sargent Shadwell have bought once every two weeks or so for lunch. This arrangement is ideal for Madame Tracy, who loves putting on nice dinners, and has really grown rather fond of Aziraphale. Sargent Shadwell often complains under his breath, but she knows deep down he enjoys a bit of fresh company every once in a while.

Madame Tracy is this lovely equilibrium of polite and nosy that makes it fairly easy to get the low-down on Aziraphale’s life, and so dinners with him also tend to be filled with juicy gossip.

“How are you, dear?” she asks while she pours herself some after-dinner coffee.

“Oh, very well, Madame Tracy,” Aziraphale pats his mouth with a napkin and begins eyeing off the teacake she’s set out for him.

She gestures to it, “Go ahead, love.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale smiles quickly and begins to cut himself a slice.

“Your bookshop going along well, then? No news from Upstairs?”

Aziraphale shakes his head and begins eating his cake, “None at all. I dare say none of the angels, or the demons for that matter, are going to be bothering with any of us for quite a while.”

“I suppose you and yer flash boyfriend will be plaguing the Earth with yer demon magics for months to come, then,” Shadwell mutters.

Aziraphale gives a sideways glance to Sargent Shadwell.

“Speaking of Crowley, how is he?” Madame Tracy smiles innocently before Aziraphale has a chance to address any of Sargent Shadwell’s griping.

Aziraphale looks at Madame Tracy, “Oh, the usual. I think he’s been asleep for the past week.”

“…Unnaturally manipulatin’ the human body like tha’…”

“He doesn’t really have much to do these days and all, you know? We’re not sure yet if Heaven and Hell are just going to gloss over this whole thing and just go back to giving us regular orders, or if we’re really our own people now,” Aziraphale put down his plate of cake and picked up his cup of tea.

“…Feral agents of dark institutions, changin’ the fabric o’ the world as we know et…”

“Well, that’s not all a bad thing,” Madame Tracy says, “After all, you have so much time to spend with each other now, no longer afraid of this whole… angel-demon affair.”

“Ah, well, you know,” Aziraphale says quickly, “I have plenty to do running my bookshop.”

“Still in denial then, are we?”

“Pardon?”

“We shared a body, Mr. Fell,” Madame Tracy chides, raising an eyebrow, “When Crowley showed up to that tarmac in a burning car one of the two of us almost had a near swooning spell, and considering he’s not quite my type I’m fairly confident in who I’d put my money on it having been.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and then shuts.

“Great southern pansy,” Sargent Shadwell mutters helpfully into the silence between them. Aziraphale and Tracy both give him a sharp look.

“Wha’?” Shadwell asks.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, but evidently decides it’s not worth it. He turns back to Madame Tracy, “I honestly have no idea what you are on about.”

“I’m just telling you what I felt—”

“I mean, th-th—” Aziraphale sputters in pure indignation, “The idea itself is absurd! Crowley and I are – well. We’re barely even friends! Let alone entirely incompatible!”

“Incompatible? Why on Earth would you think--?”

“He’s a demon!” Aziraphale interrupts, entirely exasperated. “I’m an angel!”

“So you’ve said,” Madame Tracy leans back in her chair. She takes a long drink of her coffee and puts it calmly down on the table, “Many times.”

Aziraphale looks distressed. Madame Tracy sighs. “And why can’t angels and demons love each other?” she asks.

“Well! I mean, it’s just not normal,” Aziraphale says. “Demons can’t feel love, after all, so even if I—”

He cuts himself off and looks out the window. He looks somehow even sadder.

“He’s an enemy,” he says at last, and turns back to his teacake. “And plus, the whole concept of love—it’s not the same for our people. Angels don’t date.”

Madame Tracy leans back in her chair and sighs softly. She has thoughts on this, but she leaves them to herself.

“Foul witching magics,” Shadwell mutters.

Chapter Text

The next time they all see each other happens to be, by coincidence, at Sargent Shadwell and Madame Tracy’s wedding.

It’s a cute, small affair, in a chapel on the top of a hill nearby to the cottage house Madame Tracy bought with the money in her savings. In typical English fashion, the weather is miserable, but a kind of miserable that is sweeter than the usual miserable.

Anathema is in her nicest witching dress, done up with a bow around her middle, and sitting beside her, Newt is in his slightly crumpled three-piece suit. A collection of friends of Madame Tracy’s are sitting on the other side of the aisle, the Them are serving as bridesmaids, each of them in a small white suit.

Crowley is in a smart white tuxedo with black lapels, and beside him Aziraphale is in a matching black one. The effect isn’t entirely unlike they’re the ones getting married.

“Aye,” Sargent Shadwell is saying, “I promise ye to be faithful, through times of witchery and times of none, for as long as ye may have the same number’a nipples.”

Aziraphale starts crying at this point. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes with it. Crowley glances at him.

“What’re you crying for?” he whispers sharply, “I thought your lot loved weddings.”

“We do. Oh, they’re just so beautiful,” Aziraphale replies between sniffles.

Crowley glances at the altar as if to make sure they’re watching the same wedding.

“And they always remind me of how fast everybody’s growing,” Aziraphale continues, in a voice Anathema can only hear because she’s beside him. “And—oh, I don’t know—6000 years, all the human friends we’ve made…”

He breaks off into tears again. Crowley makes a sound like a wounded animal.

“Angel,” he mutters, “Oh, don’t be like that. Every friend we’ve made over the years, well—at least we know where they are. At least… most of them. God knows where Elvis is.”

Aziraphale makes a quiet groan of despair. Crowley sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Okay. Okay, come on, angel. It’s a happy day, isn’t it, yeah?”

Out of the corner of her eye Anathema sees Crowley’s hand graze over Aziraphale’s knee. Then he turns his hand palm up and, after a moment, Aziraphale takes it. Crowley squeezes.

“Come on. It’s not sad. Enjoy the moment.”

Crowley’s thumb brushes over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale leans into him, wiping his eyes furiously with his other hand.

“At least I’m here,” Crowley says, so quietly that Anathema feels bad for overhearing it. “Humans will come and go, but you’ll always have me.”

There’s no way he doesn’t love him, at least in the human sense of the word, Anathema decides.

The wedding wraps up sweetly, and the reception consists of a large picnic in the meadow outside. Wensleydale asks Newt about his circuitry, which has Newt set talking for the next half hour. Shadwell and—well, Mrs. Shadwell, now—are mostly wrapped up in each other, and Crowley hasn’t left Aziraphale’s side since the chapel, he’s just been hovering by his arm almost protectively. Anathema puts some cheese on a biscuit.

“Isn’t it lovely?” says a voice. Anathema turns.

Marjorie Shadwell honestly looks beautiful. Her blonde hair is out and brushed all the way through, and her makeup has been done beautifully well. She has on a flower crown that Aziraphale miracle’d up for her. She looks up to the sky, “The weather’s hardly ever this nice.”

“I have a feeling it may have been angelically inclined,” Anathema says, “It was horrible this morning.”

“Ah,” Marjorie glances over at Aziraphale. They meet eyes, and Aziraphale beams. Marjorie waves, “Yes, I wasn’t going to suggest it, but I think you’re right.”

“What are your honeymoon plans?”

“Oh,” Marjorie gets herself a biscuit with cheese and crunches on it, “We’re not going anywhere. We only just moved here, after all, and there’s so much still to explore. I suppose we’ll be setting up the cottage together.”

“If you need any help with furniture, Newt and I could—”

“Oh, that’s lovely, dear, but we’ll be alright. I think Aziraphale has talked Crowley into helping us move the heavy things. The sweetheart doesn’t want to use so many miracles himself – something about a nasty letter he got once – but demons don’t seem to have an upper limit on magic, as it were.”

“Ah,” Anathema says. This reminds her of something. She opens her mouth to say it, but Marjorie speaks over her.

“I suppose the next wedding we’ll all be together for will be yours,” she says, a hint of gossip-seeking mischief to her voice.

Anathema looks at Newt. Wensleydale has his phone out and is showing him something on the screen, probably related to beginner circuitry. She smiles softly, “I suppose so, though that might not be for another few years.”

“Still, you’ll probably get a move on faster than those two,” Marjorie says, and to Anathema’s surprise she subtly gestures at Aziraphale and Crowley.

Anathema looks at Marjorie. “You see it too?”

Marjorie gives Anathema a look like she just asked the most obvious question in the world. “That demon,” she says simply, “Is so whipped for that angel, he’s practically cream.”

They both look over at the two of them. Aziraphale is saying something (about ducks?) to Crowley in between bites of a slice cake that he’s holding in one hand, because Crowley still hasn’t let go of the other one. Even behind the sunglasses, Anathema can tell the way he’s looking at him.

“That’s what I thought, too,” she says, “But Aziraphale—”

Marjorie laughs, “You think Aziraphale doesn’t know?”

Anathema turns towards them again, almost in shock. At that moment, Dog runs past Aziraphale and Crowley, barking loudly and being chased by Pepper and Brian. Aziraphale leaps out of the way and drops his cake.

“Oh!” he growls, “Oh, and that was the last slice!”

“Just pick it up,” Crowley says, “You can miracle the dirt away.”

“Yes, well—” Aziraphale huffs, “It’s ruined now, anyway.”

“No it’s not,” Crowley argues. “It’s literally not.”

“It is!” Aziraphale snaps back.

Crowley sighs. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and ducks down, picking up the piece of cake. He blows on it, and the leaves stuck in the icing disappear, replaced suddenly with a bright red cherry. Crowley passes it back to Aziraphale.

“Crowley—!” Aziraphale takes the cake and turns to Crowley, smiling, “Dear boy, you’re too good to me.”

“Shut up,” Crowley mutters. He folds his arms over his chest and glances away. Aziraphale looks at him from the corner of his eyes, a peculiar smug smile crossing his face for just a moment.

“Holy shit,” Anathema says softly, “He knows.”

“Mmhm.”

“So then...” Anathema continues, “But… well, in that case, why don’t they just--?”

“Admit it?” Marjorie asks, looking at Anathema with wide eyes, “An angel? Admit that he’s – excuse the term – fallen for the enemy? A demon? Admit that he’s done something as pure and good as fall in love?”

“So you mean… They’ve just been living like this, denying they’re in love, for…”

“Hundreds of years, if not thousands,” Marjorie concludes for her. She smiles, “Ah, forbidden love. Isn’t it always the cruellest? And the cutest.”

“But surely there wouldn’t actually be that big of a problem if they really did start dating…” Anathema says.

“Try convincing either of them that. I’ve talked to Aziraphale about it before, and he’s adamantly in denial,” Marjorie pauses for a moment, “I’ve… never actually talked to Crowley about it, though. Maybe he’d be a place to start. But we’re not close enough.”

“He’d suspect me right away,” says Anathema.

“Hmm,” Marjorie thinks for a moment. Then she turns to Anathema, “How close are Crowley and Newt?”

Chapter Text

After the beginning of the rest of the world, Newton Pulsifer can remember barely fucking anything about what occurred on the last day of summer the year of the Armageddon.

He remembers Anathema, because of course he does, he couldn’t possibly not. But the rest of it is extremely hazy. Anathema has told him about Aziraphale and Crowley, though he honestly can’t say he quite recognises them completely even still, and he’s gotten to know The Them fairly well since it all happened, though he isn’t sure he fully believes the story about the curly-haired one being some kind of Satanic beast.

And now he’s here playing matchmaker for an apparently extremely romantically constipated supernatural pseudo-couple.

They’re all staying over at the Shadwell home in the aftermath of their wedding, since they’ve moved quite a ways out of London and Marjorie didn’t want them making the drive back late at night. Marjorie asked politely if Crowley wouldn’t mind dipping down to the shops to pick up some things for dinner, and all of a sudden Anathema had pulled Newt aside, given him a whole bunch of instructions, and then forced him to come along.

Of course, Newt knows what’s going on between the two of them, even if he can’t quite remember them. And, well, he’s all for getting the ball rolling on a match that may have been quite literally made in Heaven. The problem is that Newton Pulsifer is entirely, invariably, and critically awkward.

There’s silence in the car. The Bentley begins, without any apparent prompting from Crowley, to play Queen’s I Want to Break Free. Crowley begins to sing along under his breath. He’s driving extremely fast down the road, which is making Newt more than a little nervous, especially because rather than paying attention to his surroundings, Crowley seems lost in thought.

“I’ve got to break free…” he mumbles, tapping a finger on the steering wheel.

“Queen fan, are you?” Newt pipes up.

Crowley looks at Newt like he’d forgotten he had company.

I’ve fallen in love! I’ve fallen in love for the firs— Crowley turns off the radio. He almost looks embarrassed.

“The Bentley plays whatever it feels like I need to hear,” he explains.

Newt glances back at the radio, “It’s… alive?”

Crowley shrugs.

Newt has no idea what to say to that.

“Good bloke, Freddie, though,” Crowley says. “I met him.”

“You didn’t!”

Crowley turns to look at Newt, and to his horror, lets go of the steering wheel. “How is that hard to believe?” he asks, “I’m an immortal occult being with a penchant for famous artists. They’re always so fun.” He puts his hands back on the steering wheel, “Except for that Bram Stoker. He was a real piece of work.”

“You met Freddie Mercury,” Newt says again.

“He wrote a song for me,” Crowley says casually.

“No!” Newt gasps.

“Yup.”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley says.

The Bentley’s radio crackles to life. Can anybody find me somebody to love? Crowley hits the radio dial. The song keeps playing.

“Freddie Mercury wrote Somebody to Love for you?” Newt deadpans.

Crowley mumbles something under his breath and hits the car again. “He got a bit carried away with the lyrics,” he says to Newt, “Kind of makes me sound…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. Newt waits for a moment, then presses, “Makes you sound…?”

“Y’know,” Crowley hunches his shoulders up, then lets them drop, “Like some kind of extremely lovesick drama queen who can’t get over his religious upbringing.”

There’s some silence in the car for a moment.

“Well…” Newt begins.

“Shut up,” Crowley advises him.

I'm OK, I'm alright (he's alright, he's alright), I ain't gonna face no defeat (yeah yeah).

Newt clears his throat, “I was going to say, um, well… it’s kind of ridiculous anyway, because, um, well, I’ve heard that demons can’t feel love anyway.”

Crowley scoffs, “Yeah, yeah. And if you dig around in my flame-red hair for a moment, you’ll find two cute little pointy horns, too.”

“So you mean…” Newt fiddles with his seatbelt, “It’s just a myth?”

“I’m a lot of things that most demons aren’t, Newton,” is Crowley’s reply. “Then again, I was never like most angels either. And I’m certainly not fully human. I’m my own unique fuck-up cocktail.”

Find me somebody, somebody (find me somebody to love).

“Um,” Newt says, “So then, you’ve, um. You’ve been in love before, then?”

Crowley laughs sharply. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” he asks.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I’m in love with Aziraphale.”

Newt opens his mouth and closes it again. Crowley turns to look at him, taking his hands off the steering wheel again. He raises one eyebrow, “Oh, come on. That’s what you were secretly asking, wasn’t it?”

“I—” Newt blinks at him, “I didn’t expect you to just, um—”

“What, admit it?” Crowley turns back to the steering wheel, “I might not be smart like Aziraphale, but I’m not entirely dense when it comes to what I feel.”

Newt thinks on this for a while. “But…” he begins, “If you admit it… haven’t you told him?”

Crowley sighs very heavily.

Find me, find me, find me…

“It’s… not that simple, Newton,” he explains.

Another song starts on the radio. It’s not one Newt knows at first. Then the soft guitar plucking gives way to soft singing.

Love of my life, you’ve hurt me…

Crowley doesn’t seem to notice the song. “He knows,” he says. “Of course he knows, the bastard, he always has.”

Newt glances over at Crowley.

You’ve stolen my love, you now desert me.

“It can’t happen,” Crowley continues. “Aziraphale’s so caught up over the whole angel and demon thing, he’d never let himself… and even if he did, he’s had so many chances. Thousands of years. Thousands of them. But he’s too comfortable. The angel word for love is agape. You know what agape means?” he asks.

Newt shakes his head.

“It’s ‘a universal, unconditional love that transcends and persists regardless of circumstance’,” Crowley puts on a voice when he says it that makes Newt think it’s probably a memorised definition. “It’s the highest, strongest, most innocent love there is. And it’s purely platonic. That’s… that’s what angels feel for each other when they fall in love.”

“So…” Newt is trying very hard to piece this together.

“So, I’m a demon foremost, and a human secondly,” Crowley says, “The love I feel, it’s… it’s agape, too, but it’s also…”

“Romantic,” Newt suggests.

I will be there at your side to remind you how I still love you (I still love you).

“Aziraphale is happy with what we have,” Crowley says. Then he reaches over and turns the radio off. They plunge into silence.

“Stupid Bentley,” Crowley mutters.

Almost as if in revenge, the Bentley crackles back into life and begins playing Who Wants to Live Forever?

Crowley sighs, “I fucking hate this car sometimes.”