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“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do.” Crowley’s voice is gentle, his face kind, as if he’s afraid of how Aziraphale might react. "We're on our own side."
He’s right, Aziraphale thinks. They do share a side, and it’s the one they’ve always had- even when they didn’t realize it; they’re on the side of humanity. A bold thought enters his mind, that perhaps this was the side She meant for them all along. He ruffles his feathers on another plane of existence, dispelling the thought. Best not to consider Her Ineffable Plan at all, really. But he feels his very human heart swell with gratitude and love and something that could be the beginnings of hope.
He finds himself acquiescing to Crowley’s invitation. They’re on the same side, after all. He feels almost giddy; an invisible weight has lifted from his shoulders. On the bus he takes Crowley’s hand and holds it tightly on his knee; they both pretend not to notice that Crowley doesn’t breathe until they reach Mayfair.
-
When it’s time for them to switch back after their ordeals, Crowley holds out his hand and even though it’s not strictly necessary Aziraphale takes it without hesitation. He feels Crowley’s fingers become slender and cool against his own warm palm. He tries to wiggle the feeling away but it lingers on his skin in the most delicious way.
They aren’t more than two sips into their champagne at the Ritz before Aziraphale gives in and closes the distance between them. “My dear,” he says, and the soft skin of Crowley's hand beneath his fingertips nearly derails his train of thought, “I do think we should check in on Anathema and her young man, don’t you?”
Crowley’s answer is a sputtering noise in the back of his throat.
“I fear we caused her quite a bit of trouble, and the condition we returned her book in is simply unforgivable.” His thumb rubs a path along Crowley’s knuckles as he contemplates a suitable apology. A box of small cakes from the shop near Crowley’s flat should do nicely, and perhaps she would enjoy the chance to examine some of his own collection of prophetic works.
He shares his thoughts with Crowley, who stares at their hands and says, “By all means, invite her to the bookshop, angel. I think it’s better if we avoid Tadfield for now.”
They take a leisurely stroll in the lingering summer sunlight, and Aziraphale can’t come up with a good reason not to, so after a few minutes of internal debate he takes Crowley’s hand and settles it into the crook of his elbow. When Crowley stumbles over his own two feet Aziraphale has half a mind to pull away- the old fear of moving too fast, of being too open, threatens to resurface. But then Crowley’s fingers clutch at his coat sleeve and he couldn’t pull away if he wanted to. He decidedly does not want to.
They reach the bookshop arm in arm as the city begins to cast its own light into the growing darkness. The shop is lit warmly before they reach the door and he gestures Crowley through ahead of him. He doesn’t go any further, simply stands in the entryway and waits for Aziraphale to lock the door behind them. Aziraphale fiddles with the closed sign, aware of Crowley’s gaze tracking his every move. He feels lost for the first time since the bus stop. Crowley isn’t usually so reserved. Typically, he’ll saunter right into the back room and make himself comfortable.
Aziraphale clears his throat. “Miracle us something to drink, dear; I want to know what happened Up there.”
Crowley’s mouth settles into a hard line. “You really don’t.”
“Come now,” Aziraphale tuts, and he presses his hand low on Crowley’s back to guide him to the couch.
Crowley rounds on him. “Angel,” he growls and knocks Aziraphale’s arm to the side. “Sssstop.” He pulls the sunglasses from his face roughly and throws them onto the nearest bookshelf. “Being cruel really isn't your style,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair.
Aziraphale tries to parse his meaning until he realizes that Crowley isn’t referring to his request to explain what happened Upstairs.
“I’m ready now,” Aziraphale blurts, afraid that if he doesn’t get the words out now they will never be said. Crowley’s head snaps around to look at him. “I wasn’t... I know I told you I wasn’t, but I am now.” He reaches out to grab hold of Crowley’s hand again. “I’m ready for this,” he emphasizes. "If you... that is, I mean to say... do you?" He looks at Crowley and Crowley looks at their hands.
His face is filled with something akin to terror, but his eyes, when he lifts them to look into Aziraphale’s, are full of awe. “More than anything, angel,” he says quietly. He lifts their joined hands and encloses Aziraphale’s with both of his. Crowley takes a deep breath and says, “I need a drink.”
“Now there’s an idea.” Aziraphale smiles. “Lead the way.”
They settle side by side on the couch and Aziraphale miracles himself a delectable Cabernet while Crowley decides to down a glass of something that smells strongly of whisky. It has four maraschino cherries in it and he drops Aziraphale’s hand to fish them out with his fingers before he miracles his glass full again.
“Tell me about Downstairs,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale knows Crowley is avoiding his original inquiry but he can’t fathom why, so he indulges his request. “It took an impressive amount of time for them to recount all of your traitorous deeds.” Crowley snorts indelicately and his hand finds its way back to Aziraphale’s without any trace of stickiness. “That fellow with the frog on his head-”
“Hastur,” Crowley hisses.
“Yes, him. He plunged some poor unsuspecting creature into the bath to test it.”
Crowley shrugs as if nothing Aziraphale can say about Hell will surprise him.
“There was quite a crowd in attendance,” Aziraphale says with forced levity. He can still see it so clearly when he closes his eyes: malevolent faces everywhere he looked, no one there to speak in Crowley’s defense, the finality in the last drop of holy water falling from Michael’s pitcher. He doesn’t realize he’s become lost in thought until Crowley squeezes his hand.
“Angel, they treated you like a demon.” For a moment Aziraphale thinks he means Beelzebub and their lot, but then he continues, “There was no divine forgiveness, no civility. And there should have been.”
“My dear-”
“You aren’t Fallen!”
Aziraphale shuts his mouth with a click.
“Surely, surely if She didn’t cast you out they were meant to forgive you.” Crowley drains his glass and refills it for the third time.
“I don’t need their forgiveness,” Aziraphale says and his voice is steady. “I made my choice, and if even if it cost me all of Heaven I don’t regret it.”
They fall into silence for a while until Crowley says softly, gently, “Do you really think the world is worth it?”
“Don’t you?” he asks.
Crowley looks deep into his eyes. “I always have.”
Aziraphale smiles and shifts his hand until their fingers are laced together. Together, what a wonderful word. He sips at his wine and feels almost giddy, so much so that he lifts Crowley’s hand until knuckles meet lips, and his eyes flicker to Crowley’s when he hears him make a high-pitched noise.
“My dear,” he says against Crowley’s fingers, “you look flushed.”
Crowley glares at him, but the effect is rather ruined by the way his hand trembles slightly. Aziraphale turns his hand to kiss the tender underside of Crowley's wrist.
Crowley drops his glass.
Before it reaches the floor, Aziraphale miracles both their glasses onto the table. Then Crowley’s free hand is suddenly cupping his cheek.
“Angel,” he breathes, “can I...?” Crowley leans forward to press their foreheads together, something desperate in his eyes.
How does the saying go? In for a penny... Aziraphale captures his lips in a light, cherry-sweetened kiss.
Crowley gasps and his hands slip into Aziraphale’s hair to keep him close.
Aziraphale dances his own fingers down Crowley's back and up to the fine hair at the nape of his neck, exhilarated by the noise Crowley makes against his mouth before he breaks away from the kiss and rests their foreheads together once more.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, and there are six millennia worth of worry and longing in the question.
“Come here, my dear,” Aziraphale answers. He pulls Crowley close, wraps his arms around him, and doesn’t ever intend to let go.
Being on the same side is lovely, Aziraphale thinks. Rather lovely, indeed.