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Aziraphale and Crowley have finished dining at the Ritz.
They are standing on a sidewalk now, having wandered, as they never really had the freedom or inclination to do before, for the better part of an hour. A streetlamp finds them on a corner, somewhat dazed, squinting into each other's faces. Beside them a second floor flat beats out muffled techno music. They are quiet, as they have not really had the luxury to be in each other's company before, and standing close together. Around them traffic flows, and conversation.
It's going to rain. This is nothing about the mood on that particular sidewalk; it is only that this is the world, and sometimes it's a rainy one.
"It's getting late," says Aziraphale, feeling like a character in one of his books.
"Going to rain, too," says Crowley.
They begin walking again, vaguely in the direction of Aziraphale's shop.
#
The fluorescent lights in the bookshop have always somehow glowed more like candlelight than like bulbs. If this is a miracle, it is one Aziraphale is unaware of, as he has always paid more attention to the absence of light than to its presence. His eyes always go first to shadows, places where the white glow can't quite get its greedy fingers in.
They go up into the apartment. They talk about wine, but decide to forgo it for simpler comforts. Instead, there is tea. Crowley makes it, and he does it the slow, human way. Kettle, water, patience. Aziraphale sits on one of two stools in his small kitchen, hands folded in his lap, watching.
"Do you know," he says, "I still can't quite believe it. After all this time."
"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" agrees Crowley. "Six thousand years, and at the end of it all, it's just us again."
"As it's always been," says Aziraphale. There's a hint of chagrin in his voice, because he always played his part in their charade a little too well and he knows it.
When the tea is done they sip it together, shoulders brushing on the little stools, looking at the dark window. The rain begins. Aziraphale imagines the hammering of the raindrops is the sound of Heaven and Hell boarding up their windows. Crowley warms his long fingers around his cup, and watches tea leaves drift to the bottom. No milk for Crowley, he's a purist. Always has been.
"Of course we're friends," Aziraphale snarls abruptly, as close to angry as he ever comes.
"Of course," says Crowley easily. "The best. We saved the world together."
"Yes. Exactly. Thank you," says Aziraphale.
#
They sip until the tea is gone and then move into the sitting room, where there is a little, pale, paisley sofa. Crowley sprawls. Aziraphale doesn't sit yet. He stands, looms really, over the coffee table, and begins a furious contemplation of the crochet mats.
"What's wrong now?" Crowley asks.
"It's just, of all the angels, she sent me to the garden. And of all the demons—"
"Me," finishes Crowley. "Now you're wondering too much."
"It doesn't worry you?"
"Why should it?" Crowley asks with a shrug. "We got what we wanted."
Aziraphale's face softens. "I suppose we did."
#
Eventually they shed their jackets. The sofa creaks as they make room for each other.
"Aziraphale?" asks Crowley, and his voice cracks. It's late now.
"Hush," says Aziraphale, "I know." He pulls Crowley in and Crowley goes.
#
They travel to the bedroom in a tangle. They have never gotten to do this in a bedroom before. In one, narrowly-defined way, they have never gotten to this before, but in all the other ways, the one's that matter, they have nearly always been doing it.
Outside, the rain turns warm. There will be fog in the morning.
#
"Do you think the others ever feel like this?" Aziraphale asks. The curtains keep the bedroom dark and he feels happy and comfortable.
"What like, Michael for Beelzebub?" Crowley asks. They shudder together. Laugh.
"Any of them. For anyone else," clarifies Aziraphale.
"Oh, I don't know," says Crowley. "Maybe."
"It would change things, wouldn't it. If they did."
"Would it?" Crowley asks.
"Well, for a start it would mean…Well, it would mean…" Aziraphale trails off, embarrassed.
"That She didn't make the entire world just for you and me?" Crowley finishes. He pokes Aziraphale in the side. "Of course She didn't."
"But how can you know?" Aziraphale demands.
"It wouldn't explain mosquitos."
Aziraphale laughs.
#
In the late morning the next day, there is tea. Aziraphale makes it, the human way. There was fog. They missed it. Now there is sun.
This isn't necessarily a statement on the mood in the kitchen; it's just that this is the world and sometimes it's a sunny one.
But Aziraphale and Crowley are talking softly, and smiling.
END