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There was a day a world ago, a lifetime ago, when Crowley and Aziraphale sat at a table in the shadowy back corner of a café, discussing the progress of their united effort to raise a perfectly normal human boy. The boy’s behavior had not as of yet tipped them off to the fact that he was not the antichrist, because it turned out that perfectly normal human boys acted rather a lot like one would expect the antichrist to act. Warlock was eight years old, he longed to smush bugs underfoot but he would rarely do it[1], he hated science and he loved math, and he had a newfound fascination with Edgar Allan Poe.
Aziraphale and Crowley both encouraged his interest, the one because he thought studying Poe’s work was part of a well-rounded education, the other because he thought learning about Poe’s life might lend the boy a taste for the macabre. Unfortunately, this led to a heated conversation or two consisting of the boy’s tutors snapping and snarking over Warlock’s head while he was reading and pretending he couldn’t hear them.
From eavesdropping on these conversations[2], Warlock ended up with a lot more knowledge of the finer points of philosophical debates than the average eight-year-old boy[3]. Despite internalizing it subconsciously, Warlock did not at that time recognize the educational potential of his tutors bickering about allowing him to read Poe. Mostly he thought it was annoying. He didn’t see the issue, seeing as they had both independently suggested it to him, and they seemed to both think it was a good thing for him to study, but for some reason they were still disagreeing.
“What does it matter, though, Azsss – Mr. Cortese,” Crowley caught and corrected himself halfway through hissing the angel’s name. “If he’s reading it, that’s good, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Aziraphale replied stonily. “Not if you’re using it to encourage him to – or to teach him about – no.”
“I’m doing my job. And if you’re doing yours, then it should all be fine.”
“Of course I’m doing my job. I just think your intentions with this are low and dirty.”
Crowley laughed, putting his hands on his hips. “Since when do my intentions matter, huh? It’s what I’m doing that’s important, and what I’m doing is the same thing you’re doing, so please hop off your high horse.”
“Intentions matter!” Aziraphale was almost yelling. He had to take a breath to calm himself, casting a furtive glance toward Warlock, before continuing. “They have to matter.”
"What is an intention without the action?" Crowley sounded as if he thought he'd won, but he didn't sound very happy about it. "Thinking really hard about doing something isn't the same thing as doing it. It doesn’t change anything."
Aziraphale scoffed derisively at him. "We're not having this conversation right now," he stated, leaving no room for argument.
Crowley gave him a curt, bitter nod and continued with his lesson[4].
It was the next day, at their secluded café table, that the argument almost came up again, and this time they didn't have the presence of Warlock holding them back from speaking openly about their experiences, but they did have their own walls in the way. These were the same mental blocks that had kept them from being honest with each other about everything from their evening plans to their deepest emotions for the past six thousand years, and they were sturdy, load-bearing walls, and they were not about to be torn down by a pesky little disagreement such as this.
Crowley couldn’t tell Aziraphale that he was afraid that the angel was right, that his beliefs and feelings mattered just as much as what he did, because it would have some serious implications about his demonic achievements, his Fall, their relationship – pretty much his entire life. He had always been a doer, even when it came to things he didn’t particularly want to do. Up in Heaven, he’d gone along with what everybody around him seemed to be doing, to disastrous consequence; how would the angel spin that? Did he think Crowley’s Fall was a reflection of his intent?
More likely was the possibility that Aziraphale simply hadn’t thought of it that way. He could be a bit thoughtless, a bit tactless sometimes, and Crowley knew this, so he always tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he wasn’t trying to be mean. But then a voice in the demon’s head reminded him that Aziraphale was being mean, and his feelings were still wounded, so what difference did it make whether Aziraphale meant it or not?
This was the crux of his side of the argument: actions had consequences, regardless of the beliefs behind them. It was hard for him to maintain his sensitivity to Aziraphale’s point of view when Crowley had rarely been given the benefit of the doubt in his life.
In fact, the only person who’d done him that kindness was Aziraphale.
So maybe it was for precisely that reason that Aziraphale valued inner thought so highly. Perhaps it was because he had spent six thousand years watching Crowley go through the motions of his demonic duties while his heart was completely devoid of any malice toward mankind. He had fun with it, of course, but it was more because he enjoyed testing the limits of his own ingenuity than because he truly wanted anybody to suffer. It would make sense, then, that Aziraphale chose to dwell on the one thing that truly set Crowley apart from other demons, that made him special enough to keep.
Of course, the opposite was true of the angel. His thoughts and intentions were Good in the Heavenly Righteousness type of way, but his actions were good in the human way, and that was what Crowley loved about him. Aziraphale would never accept that, though, would never understand how rare and special and wonderful it was. He would only see Crowley telling him he wasn’t a good angel, and he would be hurt and upset, and Crowley didn’t want that.
That was why Crowley made the decision not to pursue the issue. He was perfectly willing to let it go, so long as it meant he could keep all of these thoughts to himself and continue living normally[5].
What Crowley didn’t know was that Aziraphale had been going down a very similar trail of thought, and had ended up at a very different conclusion. Aziraphale was not the type to let things go; he never had been. He had an irrepressible need for closure, and he would not be deterred from his path once he had resolved to flesh out the issue in a civil manner[6]. He brought it up abruptly and out of the blue between sips of his coffee, casual as you please.
“Do you truly think your intentions don’t matter?”
Crowley straightened up in his seat, his mind moving at a mile a minute, considering all his options; he was tempted to deflect and change the subject, but something in him said it was a good idea to tell the truth. “Not exactly,” he said slowly, carefully. “It’s obviously a bit more complicated than that.”
The angel put on an expression of innocent curiosity, cocking his head to the side, tapping his finger on the table idly. "Is it? Please, enlighten me."
"I just think…" Crowley paused, attempting to process his feelings and shape them into words. "I think it's more important to make a difference than to want to make a difference."
Aziraphale took another long sip before raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "And are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Making a difference?"
"I think so," Crowley answered quickly, then hesitated. "I hope so. Do you think I'm not?"
It was a trick question. Crowley didn't know it, which may have undermined the trickery of it, but it was absolutely a trick question from Aziraphale's perspective. There was no way he could explain to Crowley the immense impact he had, all the changes he'd effected, not without showing far too much of his own hand. He couldn't possibly look the demon in the eyes[7] and say Of course you're making a difference, look at me, look at who I am, I would be nothing if not for you.
"I hope we both are," he said instead, his tone measured and precise. "Disastrous if not, really."
Crowley smiled, a slow and steady thing unfurling on his face, his eyes lighting up. "Isn't that the big picture, angel?" He leaned forward across the table, lowered his voice to a murmur. "We're going to save the world. Isn't that more important than a petty squabble like this?"
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flickering to the floor and his cheeks burning under the intensity of Crowley's gaze. "Well…" he hedged, fidgeting with his sleeve.
"If you want to talk belief, I've got belief," Crowley continued, his tone only becoming more convincing, more persuasive by the second. "I've got good intentions and pure motives in spades."
Aziraphale was struck dumb with the realization that Crowley's statement was undeniably true, as well as the surprise of hearing the demon admit it himself. As a rule, Crowley did not allow the fact of his goodness to be spoken aloud, by himself or anyone else[8]. Aziraphale was left wondering whether Crowley had experienced personal growth or simply wanted to win the convoluted argument they were not having.
On the chance that it was the former, Aziraphale took a moment to examine his own beliefs, his motives in this whole endeavor, his strongly held notions of right and wrong and good and bad. He considered whether it mightn’t actually be rather selfish of him to attempt to ruin the Great Plan, just because he would miss the world and all its delights. He considered whether it wasn’t arrogant and presumptuous to claim to know the Plan better than his higher-ups, to think he had a better grasp of the Almighty’s desires than Gabriel or Michael or anyone else, and to lie and sneak around to achieve an end that went against everything he had been told. After that, Aziraphale arrived rather quickly at the conclusion that he did not want to think about it anymore.
"I suppose you have," he said eventually, shaking his mind free of his introspective thoughts and returning to the conversation. "But is it working?"
"I honestly don't know, angel." Crowley blew out a long breath and shook his head. "Never done this before. All I know is the boy is strikingly average."
They talked for a while more about Warlock and his little quirks and his menacing energy and his impossible attitude before going their separate ways for the evening. In the morning, they were back to work, snarking and sighing away the hours, exasperated by the boy and by each other, and then they met up discreetly in the park to talk again. It was routine: work, clandestine meeting, home. Lather, rinse, repeat.
And time passed, as time is wont to do, all the way up until the end of the world.
There was a day a world ago, a lifetime ago, when Crowley and Aziraphale sat on the tarmac of an air base, passing a bottle of wine between them and discussing the recently-aborted end of the world. They were each experiencing some combination of fear and exhaustion and relief and confusion and anger that amalgamated into a single mono-emotion which could not be categorized or understood. It was ineffable, but even Aziraphale was too far gone to say it.
Crowley was pontificating on a theological point, as he tended to do when he didn't know what to say, and Aziraphale was trying to listen, but his blood was pounding in his ears. He caught a snippet of the demon's diatribe regarding the Almighty's unwillingness to answer questions, but not enough to properly agree or disagree with him. Crowley ended on a bitter note, something about the Almighty knowing something he didn't, and Aziraphale frowned.
"Of course that's true," he said, quiet and pensive. "Otherwise, what'd be the point?"
There was a pause, just long enough for Crowley to run through the last six thousand years in his mind, to furrow his brow and close his eyes and think about things he would have preferred to ignore, just long enough for Aziraphale to consider the long future stretched out in front of him, to wring his hands and imagine the terrifying expanse of possibility. Then Crowley turned and spoke.
"What'd be the point, angel? The point? The point of what?" He barked out a cold and bitter laugh. "The point of us? The world? Humanity, religion, what?"
Aziraphale blinked. "Well. All of it, really."
Crowley took a long, tense moment to grit his teeth, clench his jaw, hold down every screaming urge in his ancient, tired soul and think about what he wanted to say. Aziraphale eyed him warily the whole time, wringing his hands in his lap.
"The plan was the point, Aziraphale. The point was for the world to end, and for Heaven and Hell to go to war, and for Heaven to win. We deliberately derailed the point."
"Oh," the angel breathed softly, "so we did." He looked into the distance, his gaze unfocused, for a moment fearing he might cry, but the moment passed. "It all sounds rather hopeless, when you put it that way."
"No, angel, not hopeless." Crowley murmured, a gentle hand shifting to settle safely on the angel's forearm. "When was the last time – before all this, I mean – when have you ever stood up and fought for something?"
Aziraphale began to ponder the question. He thought of Sophia Duleep Singh, he thought of Darcus Howe, he thought of Radclyffe Hall and Alan Turing and Oscar Wilde. He had fought, he had been there for them and with them, he had shared their struggles and proudly stood alongside them. This had never been an order from his superiors in Heaven; it was him, living his life among humankind, sticking to those people who reminded him of himself, supporting them and – yes, and loving them.
The angel became lost in his memories, and Crowley pressed on before he could answer. "With Heaven, that is – and I mean really fought, not lying or sneaking or hiding. You might've done it with humans at some point, but you've never put your foot down against Heaven. Not until now." The demon took a deep inhale, shaking his head. "That's not hopeless, Aziraphale. That's brave."
Almost without hesitation, Aziraphale turned an intense gaze on the demon. "Why did you do it?" he asked, direct but not unkind.
Crowley gnawed at his lip, huffing out a breath. “I had to,” he sighed wearily. “How could I not? We – I mean, I’ve always known that this world was – was where I belonged. That’s what I believe. Who would I be if I just let it all end like that?”
“I was prepared to let it happen,” Aziraphale murmured, sounding mournful.
“No, you weren’t,” Crowley replied with a sad shake of his head. “You wanted to be, but you weren’t. I mean – I’m a tempter, angel, but we both know I could never have convinced you to do any of this,” – he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, still holding the bottle, splashing wine onto the tarmac – “if it wasn’t what you thought was right, deep down. That’s the trouble with standing up for what you believe in: you have to decide what you believe in.”
“I suppose you’re right,” the angel conceded.
Crowley smiled, genuine and gentle. “And you know what else? You didn’t just decide, you’ve done something about it, something loud and impossible to ignore. There’s no going back. Everything’s different now.”
Furrowing his brow, Aziraphale considered the massive, terrifying implications of this massive, terrifying realization. “What are we supposed to do, then? Of course we can’t just keep doing our jobs as if nothing has happened.”
“No, definitely not. You took a step, angel.” You took my hand out there, at the end of the world, Crowley thought, biting his tongue to avoid saying it aloud. “You should keep going.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… you – we, both of us, I mean, we have to do things that matter.” Crowley paused, biting his lip. “What matters to you?”
A pause. A long, thoughtful pause, wherein Aziraphale tried to put his feelings into words and Crowley tried to keep his feelings inside, at least long enough for the angel to answer his question. When he did, he spoke slowly and carefully, as if reciting an incantation: “The world. Just as it is.”
Another pause, this one full of Crowley’s raised eyebrows and Aziraphale’s nervous fidgeting, wherein both beings remembered all the awful things about the world. “Not just as it is, then,” the angel amended eventually. “But the capacity for change is one of the wonderful things about this place, isn’t it? Humans challenging each other, making the world a better place, fighting for what’s good and right, always making progress. That’s what matters.”
“‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,’” Crowley murmured, mostly to himself, then looked up again, his bright eyes studying the angel’s face[9]. “I’m really glad you said that, angel. You have no idea.”
Aziraphale smiled, causing a hot, fluid feeling to swirl around the demon’s chest, and asked, “What about you? What matters to you?”
“Oh, you know,” Crowley mumbled, turning away so Aziraphale couldn’t see his cheeks darken, “same stuff, really. Humans and mountains and oceans and flowers. Espresso and champagne and mimolette. Ballet and opera and theatre and poetry.” He took a deep breath, exhaled shakily, looked back up at Aziraphale with a guarded expression. “And you,” he added, so softly the angel almost didn’t hear it. “You matter to me, angel, an awful lot.”
The angel inhaled sharply, pressing his lips together in a tight line in an effort to suppress the disgustingly fond expression he wanted to give Crowley. Things may have changed, he thought, but they certainly hadn’t changed that much. Not enough for Crowley to accept all the love Aziraphale held for him. Not yet. He took a moment to compose himself before daring to respond.
“I feel the same,” he said, his tone measured, affected only as much as he wanted it to be. “Your companionship is invaluable to me, my dear, I do hope you know that.”
Crowley swallowed hard, screwing his eyes shut, and nodded his head. “Yeah, angel. I know,” he murmured as casually as he could manage. Then, casting a glance around, taking in the dark and empty site of the day’s ordeal, he sighed. “You think we should go now?”
Aziraphale blinked, surprised, as he remembered where they were and how long they’d been there. “Yes, I think I’d like that,” he answered, standing and extending a hand to help Crowley off the ground. He nabbed the bottle from the demon’s hand and took a swig.
Watching the angel intently, Crowley saw the ripple of his throat as he swallowed the wine, the barely-there flick of his tongue to wet his lips, the comfortable, contented smile that settled on his face. He couldn’t help a twinge of heat in his stomach, but much more prominent was the all-consuming feeling of safety and belonging, the sense in his mind that at least in this moment, all was right in their little slice of the world. They were together, drinking like they always did, smiling like they never had, and they were going home.
[1] Aziraphale was smug about the fact that Warlock had absorbed and kept the gardener’s lessons about the intrinsic value of all life, even years after Brother Francis had gone. He would have been disappointed to find that it was simply because Warlock had a strong aversion to getting bug guts on his shoes.
[2] Warlock didn’t think it counted as eavesdropping when they were quite literally standing on opposite sides of him, one at each ear, and having a conversation at full volume. The one time he tried to say something, though, the fussy one had told him not to eavesdrop, and the nervous one had rolled his eyes and left the room.
[3] It was a big part of the reason why, years later, he would become enchanted by Hamlet despite his repeated claims that he wasn’t even that into theatre, and then he would go on to be one of the most well-respected Shakespearean actors in the world. Aziraphale and Crowley would catch wind of his accomplishments, and they would shake their heads and smile and say He always was a tad dramatic, that boy, completely oblivious to the depth of their impact.
[4] As part of Crowley’s ongoing efforts to teach Warlock about the Darkness Intrinsicate in the Human Spirit, they were reading The Tell-Tale Heart. When Warlock pointed out that the narrator's guilt couldn't undo the fact that they'd killed someone, it took every part of Crowley's willpower not to stick his tongue out at Aziraphale. And then when Warlock pointed out that the guilt was what made the narrator imagine things that weren't there, their inner conscience warping their reality, Aziraphale gave a haughty little Hmph from his seat off to the side. The lesson dragged on for a while.
[5] Or as normally as he feasibly could while actively trying to prevent the end of the world, in tandem with his angel best friend who he was in love with, by influencing the antichrist’s upbringing and education from opposite ends of the spectrum and being stupidly, blissfully unaware that the child was not the antichrist at all.
[6] In six thousand years, Crowley had not yet managed to deter Aziraphale from any of his paths, but the angel was particularly stubborn about his civil debates. Coming from Aziraphale, this meant he wanted to make Crowley explain his perspective so that he could poke holes in it until the demon conceded that he was right.
[7] As they were in public, Crowley was wearing his trademark dark sunglasses. This was only a secondary reason why Aziraphale was unable to look him in the eyes.
[8] At one point in the ninth century, Aziraphale saw Crowley surreptitiously repair a farmer's cart in the market before the man had even noticed it was broken. When the angel brought it up much later as evidence of the demon's kindness, Crowley vehemently insisted that he'd been the one who broke the cart in the first place, so really he was only saving himself some trouble. Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale had actually broken the cart, so he was caught in that lie, at which point he didn't speak to the angel for twelve years.
[9] He was not wearing his sunglasses anymore, a fact that caught Aziraphale's attention and kept it for a good few minutes. It was a symbolic change, of course, reflecting the seismic shift in their relationship; Crowley had dropped his pretenses and his walls, and Aziraphale appreciated the familiarity and the intimacy of the gesture. More than that, though, he was simply mesmerized by the demon's eyes.