Work Text:
The high of having averted Armageddon - or, as the more astute observer would insist, contributed the barest minimum to the actual events that averted Armageddon - lasts quite a few weeks into the rest of their lives.
By the fifth Sunday after the world did not end, Aziraphale has fallen into delightfully comfortable routines with his no-longer-wily-adversary.*
(* Technically, Crowley stopped being his adversary when they struck their Arrangement circa 1020 AD. In practice, Crowley hadn’t been much of an adversary since Mesopotamia.
Grabbing drinks together whenever their paths crossed, each being the one constant the other has ever known across the millennia, tends to have that sort of effect.)
It is not too different from before, how they indulge in expensive meals at the Ritz, catch a couple of classical concerts, visit museums to admire and criticise each other’s tastes, and take long walks in parks and botanical gardens.
And yet it is wildly different from before, how they do all of these things openly now. No more secret phone calls and coded messages; no more drawing the curtains shut and closing the bookshop* every time Crowley comes over; and definitely no more paranoid looks stolen over his shoulder.
(* Although, in keeping with Aziraphale’s incorrigible covetousness for literature, the bookshop is closed most of the time anyway.)
Where meeting monthly was once considered dangerous and reckless, they no longer go even a week without seeing each other. Crowley pulls up in his Bentley in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop in all his flash bastard glory, and off they go to enjoy the human world, this place where they have made a home for themselves, and it’s all good and lovely, absolutely, but -
But. As the days slip by and summer welcomes the first cool whispers of autumn, Aziraphale finds himself growing ... restless.
Crowley pushes his untouched dessert across the table to Aziraphale, but he withdraws his hand before Aziraphale can reach. They feed the ducks at St James and Crowley hands over half a loaf of bread, but their fingers don’t brush when Aziraphale accepts. They slur over questions of theology and philosophy in Aziraphale’s backroom, downing bottle after bottle of vintage wine, but Crowley doesn’t voice the thoughts plainly reflected in his eyes.
And on his doorstep, well past midnight and six sheets into the wind, Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s lips, maddeningly fond and blatantly longing, but then he shoves his glasses back on, mutters ‘G’night, angel’, and leaves.
The whole thing is, frankly, driving Aziraphale up the wall.
It takes until the fifth Sunday after the world did not end for Aziraphale to decipher his own feelings, pick apart his restlessness and come to the painfully obvious conclusion that he is impatient - increasingly, frustratingly impatient - for Crowley.
Has been impatient, he hazards, since the afternoon they thwarted their respective head offices and began to forge their new life together.
Only, he is quickly realising, they are not as together as he’d like them to be.
And it is entirely his own fault.
‘Oh, you dear, dear serpent,’ mutters Aziraphale to himself, a little overwhelmed as he considers how Crowley is deliberately taking things slow, contenting himself with nothing but the Angel’s company.
The very thought makes Aziraphale wish to take Crowley’s face in his hands and - well, Aziraphale thinks, blushing a little as he catches himself.
Then he thinks it most prudent to let Crowley know of this development as soon as possible, for not doing so is clearly a disservice to both of them.
And so, on the sixth Sunday after the world did not end, after a week of thorough planning and much dithering, Aziraphale calls Crowley on his landline and asks if he would be amenable to a picnic.
In the surprised silence that follows, Aziraphale can imagine, quite correctly, Crowley’s rare blink.
There is a soft crackling sound, as if Crowley has shifted the receiver to his other ear, before he repeats, ‘A picnic?’
‘A picnic,’ Aziraphale affirms, smiling. ‘I seem to recall we once spoke of having one.’
There is a beat.
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Crowley’s voice is emotionless, and Aziraphale, belatedly and all of a sudden, remembers the exact circumstances under which they had spoken of having that picnic.
Oh.
Oh dear. Aziraphale flounders a little. He has barely reached out to Crowley and already he’s gone and messed it all up, hasn’t he?
He opens his mouth to reassure Crowley, then immediately shuts it. He remembers, vividly, Crowley bathed in the neon lights of Soho’s more questionable neighbourhood; long fingers cautiously wrapped around a tartan flask containing destruction; and the devastating tenderness in the gentle plea, ‘Anywhere you want to go’.
The crushing resignation, too, in the wake of a car door slammed shut.
Aziraphale swallows. This isn’t some flippant everyday injury he can resolve over the phone.
Taking a breath he doesn’t need, Aziraphale says gently, ’Well, I was thinking, my dear … perhaps it’s about time we had that picnic, isn’t it?’
There is another nerve-wracking moment of silence.
‘Sure thing, angel,’ Crowley says.
He sounds detached, but Aziraphale isn’t fooled. He’s known Crowley for six millennia, and known him well for the better part of four; he can read easily into the tense silence that preceded Crowley’s disinterested response and knows that his friend is anything but.
And, the unexpected turn their conversation took has made it clear that Aziraphale definitely has a few things he needs to address with Crowley first.*
(* In all honesty, Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten them. On the first day of the rest of their lives, browsing Adam Young’s quirky additions to his restored bookshop, he’d thought with overwhelming fondness about how Crowley knew his abode so well that the dear old Demon had pinpointed the new arrivals at once.
That thought had led to more thoughts about certain events that took place before Armageddon, and Aziraphale reflected that he, ah, owed an apology. Or two.
But as is often the case between the closest of friends, even those that weakly argue they can only be enemies, the apologies never made it past his lips. And with the two of them easily falling back into their usual dynamic, Aziraphale had rather assumed, perhaps not entirely consciously, that his unvoiced apologies were taken as read.)
Well, nothing like a picnic to break open that can of worms, Aziraphale thinks brightly.*
(* The sort of forced, false cheeriness humans and one ethereal being use to mask anxiety.)
They agree to meet in the late afternoon - ‘You need me to bring anything?’ ‘Oh, that’s quite all right, dear boy, I’ll take care of everything!’ - and Aziraphale bustles about in his small kitchenette, packing the wicker hamper he’d bought expressly for today.
Aziraphale isn’t much of a cook. For one, being immortal, it’s not a skill he’s ever had to master, and for another, having tried his hand at cooking twice in the 19th century, he has primly concluded that food simply tastes better when humans make it.
And so the hamper isn’t filled with a myriad of homemade edibles, like how a human couple* may prefer.
(* Aziraphale doesn’t even try to convince himself that this picnic doesn’t carry amorous connotations, which all observers will surely agree is progress.)
However, it is packed with an assortment of foodstuffs Crowley has shown preference for; cheeses and charcuteries, two options of sandwiches, an array of delicate pastries in charming boxes, a bottle of Bordeaux, and a thermos of Earl Grey - all painstakingly picked out by Aziraphale from their favourite eateries. He’s just finished adding choice pickings of fruit - grapes for Crowley who enjoys them with cheese, pears for Aziraphale - when inspiration strikes.
He hesitates. ‘Oh … oh, perhaps I ought not,’ he murmurs to himself.
He stays still for nearly a minute, taking in the carefully arranged offerings inside the hamper. He makes up his mind.
A single apple, its shiny skin as scarlet as the first one ever consumed, joins the lot.
The hamper weighs heavy in his hand when Aziraphale sets out to St James Park, having insisted that Crowley meet him there instead of picking him up as has become the norm. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, bathing the buildings in swathes of gold while gentle breezes, carrying the promise of summer’s end, ruffle through his hair.
Aziraphale awkwardly pats his hair down upon entering the park. With his free hand, he adjusts his freshly knotted tartan bowtie, fingers the polished buttons of his vest, and smoothes down his coat.
Oh dear, the last he’d felt this nervous before meeting Crowley was that time in the sixties -
Ah. Yes, of course. The precursor to this picnic. It is fitting, somehow.
To both his relief and chagrin, Crowley is already at their always-miraculously-vacant bench when Aziraphale arrives. He is in his usual sprawl, an arm slung carelessly over the backrest, legs spread almost indecently out in front of him, and that torso curving at an angle that just doesn’t seem comfortable no matter how many times Aziraphale has seen Crowley sit, well, anywhere.
His hair, Aziraphale notices, is even longer than it had been when they met up last week. For some reason, Crowley has been growing out his hair since a month or so back, and at inhuman speed. Aziraphale will never presume to know the patterns of modern fashion, but he guesses that the long messy look is back to being the latest trend among young human males.
Not that he’s complaining. Aziraphale takes a moment, while Crowley is distracted by a pair of aggressively honking geese, to admire how the late afternoon sunshine brings out the fiery glare in Crowley’s auburn hair. He has gathered the strands that would otherwise fall over his eyes in a loose knot on the back of his head, but the thick mane falling around his shoulders curl in a way Aziraphale hasn’t seen in a few years.
Not a considerable amount of time in the grand scale of their existence, but … he has missed it, he realises with a flush.
Aziraphale is only a few feet away when Crowley finally looks round. His sunglasses don’t hide how his gaze shifts from Aziraphale’s face to the hamper, and back again.
Suddenly, there’s a tense edge to his lazy lounge.
‘You weren’t kidding about the picnic.’
‘Of course, not. I never kid,’ says Aziraphale primly. ‘And hello to you, too, Crowley.’
Crowley gathers his wayward limbs together and rises with an elegance that, to this day, Aziraphale believes should not be possible for someone who melts like ice cream whenever they encounter a chair.*
(* Having inhabited that body once and successfully achieved the melted-ice-cream effect, Aziraphale knows firsthand that it is very much possible. That doesn’t mean it makes a lick of sense.)
‘So, a picnic …’ Crowley regards him with an artfully arched brow. ‘I’m guessing you’d want to relocate.’
Aziraphale clears his throat. ‘Ah. Yes. Well. Perhaps a more … pleasant spot. Not that this isn’t pleasant,’ he rushes to assure. After all, this has been their rendezvous point for nearly a century and it is very nice.
But not what Aziraphale has in mind for their picnic. It is a Sunday and there is an unsurprising number of people around, though it is getting late. And by pleasant, he means to find a more secluded area but isn’t sure how to voice that.
To his relief, Crowley doesn’t prod. He turns to walk abreast with Aziraphale and says, carefully nonchalant, ‘Lead the way, angel.’
They walk quite a ways, leisurely, as Aziraphale tries to decide on an ideal spot. People pass them by, lovers and families, joggers and the occasional spy*, all of them nameless and faceless next to Crowley, who is a silent patient spectre, close enough to touch but never touching.
(* Espionage means giving up your right to work-free Sundays.)
Aziraphale shifts the hamper to his other hand, away from Crowley, but the removed barrier between them offers no closer proximity thanks to Crowley’s walking style, which - again for reasons Aziraphale simply cannot comprehend - demands his hands be in his pockets at all times.
Sighing, Aziraphale tries to chase away the familiar stirrings of frustration and focus on his task. The purpose of this picnic is to put an end to that, after all.
Soon enough, he spots a knot of gnarly trees overlooking a grassy slope, to the left of their path. There aren’t as many people around and, to Aziraphale’s delight, the spot beneath the trees is vacant. He turns excitedly to Crowley, but his friend has already caught on and is half a step behind him.
At the top of the slope, Aziraphale studies their surroundings with a quick sweeping gaze.
‘Oh, it’s lovely up here,’ he exclaims, admiring how the sun, just barely clear of the treetops across the park, casts slanting rays over their slope.
Crowley gives an amiable grunt and makes to sit down, only to shoot upright again when Aziraphale cries,
‘Now, hang on a minute, my dear! We must do this properly!’
‘Properly? What does that ev-?’ Crowley falters, lips parting as Aziraphale sets down the hamper and whips out a picnic blanket with a proud flourish.
He carefully spreads it across the grass and sets the hamper in the middle. Shooting a smile at Crowley, who stills looks a little gobsmacked, Aziraphale takes a seat and then looks up at his friend invitingly.
When Crowley finally finds his voice, the first thing he says is, ‘Tartan? Really?’
His tone is equal parts exasperated and so, so fond.
Cheeks growing warm, Aziraphale replies, ‘It will never go out of style.’
‘There are seven billion people in the world who’d disagree with you, but sure, angel.’ Finally grinning, Crowley joins him, folding his long legs in a manner that just looks off.
Incorrigible, Aziraphale thinks with a gush of affection. Pursing his lips to hide a smile, he reaches for the hamper.
He is aware of Crowley’s focussed attention as Aziraphale takes out the cutlery, and then the foodstuffs, which he carefully arranges on the blanket between them. Crowley cannot have missed the significance of what Aziraphale is placing before him, all of these little snacks he knows Crowley enjoys, but the Demon doesn’t say another word until Aziraphale brings out the wine bottle and thermos.
‘Bordeaux or Earl Grey?’
Crowley considers. ‘Tea,’ he says shortly.
Aziraphale is a little surprised. ‘Wine later then?’
‘Just tea.’
‘Oh.’ Aziraphale is mildly put out. He had envisioned the two of them enjoying a glass - or the whole bottle - between them, should this picnic turn out fine.
No, he’s just being silly. There is no reason to believe their picnic should go awry just because Crowley is opting for sobriety. He enjoys sampling Aziraphale’s quality tea collection as much as his liquor cabinet - wait.
Crowley wants to be sober for this.
The realisation sobers Aziraphale right up as well. Of course. Crowley has been tense ever since Aziraphale invited him to this picnic. What with the memories from that night in 1967, Crowley probably knows that Aziraphale has more to say than their usual banter over expensive lunches.
And Aziraphale does have so much to say. If only he knew where to start.
There is an undercurrent of tension in the otherwise amiable silence that falls over them as they dig in. Crowley polishes off his first cup of tea between bites of his sandwich - he’s picked the chicken one, leaving the beef for Aziraphale because knowing preferences is a two-way street between them - and grunts what Aziraphale can only infer is a thank-you when he refills Crowley’s cup. Aziraphale smiles around a mouthful of pear as he watches Crowley help himself to the fine collection of cheeses and cured meats. He muses, for a sombre second, that Crowley might enjoy them more paired with a good wine, but Crowley appears content with the large, juicy grapes Aziraphale packed for him.
Neither of them touches the apple.
The whole time, they are left alone. The few people who were in the vicinity earlier have disappeared, and no one else comes across their remote picnic. Aziraphale wonders if it’s Crowley’s doing, and then smiles at the thought. He wouldn’t be surprised; he’d wanted a secluded spot and Crowley, for all his fanfare about being ‘not nice’, has quite the propensity to give Aziraphale the things he wants.*
(* For a good couple of centuries, Aziraphale had tried to ignore the implications when Crowley would randomly turn up at his bookshop ‘between jobs’, after having conveniently ‘come across’ some rare book Aziraphale mentioned in passing earlier.
Aziraphale was always too delighted to reject the gifts, and too cowardly to address what they meant.)
By the time Crowley finally speaks, the sun has disappeared beyond the trees and distant buildings, sharpening the golden haze of afternoon into the pinks and crimson of a gorgeous sunset.
‘So, are we going to talk about it?’
Aziraphale blinks at him over the rim of his cup. ‘Hmm?’
Crowley pops the last grape into his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. Aziraphale tries not to stare.*
(* He fails rather spectacularly. Crowley is completely aware of this.)
‘Why the picnic, Aziraphale?’ Crowley’s eyes are hidden behind his glasses. His face is unreadable. ‘This isn’t quite like our usual outings.’
‘Ah. Well,’ Aziraphale clears his throat. He puts down his cup carefully on its saucer. ‘I thought we could do something different today. And,’ he hesitates, ‘like I said, we talked about having a picnic before. It’s not so out of the blue.’
‘You mentioned the possibility of a picnic back in the sixties,’ Crowley tells him bluntly. ‘Fifty years later, I’d say it is a bit out of the blue.’
‘Right…’
Crowley rests his elbows on his thighs, leaning just so towards Aziraphale.
‘You want to tell me something.’
Aziraphale can feel himself blushing, his human body reacting to Crowley’s forthrightness. He is familiar with that aspect of Crowley, how easily he questions and gives his opinion on anything and everything - but not like this.
It was never this personal before.
‘Well?’ Crowley tilts his head, and the gesture would be adorable if not for the visible tension in his body.
‘I, well …’ Aziraphale bunches his trouser leg in his fist, flustered. ‘Your - your hair! I notice you grew it out again.’
Crowley straightens, surprised. ‘My hair?’
Aziraphale nods. ‘You usually let it grow at its natural pace, but over the last few weeks - what’s the rush, my dear?’
For the first time since they talked on the phone that morning, Crowley is the one appearing flustered. He looks away, suddenly focussed on the colourful sky.
‘Ngh. No reason.’
‘I doubt that.’
Crowley glances at him. ‘You’ve never taken an interest in my hair before.’
On the contrary, Aziraphale has. He’s always had an opinion or two* on Crowley’s ever-changing appearance.
(* Most of them positive. Perhaps the blame lies with his human corporation, but Crowley almost always** manages to look quite dashing despite how questionable Aziraphale finds his taste in clothing.
** A rare moment when he decidedly did not, was at the Bastille. As grateful as Aziraphale had been for the rescue, he did have standards and Crowley, looking positively ruffian then, met exactly zero of them.)
It’s just that he has never expressed those opinions to Crowley before.
Why, the closest he’s ever come was only weeks ago, when the two of them passed a group of bebop enthusiasts on the street. Watching them carry those electric parodies of what Aziraphale considers real musical instruments, and the shaggy multi-coloured hair all of them were sporting, he had made a rather snide comment about -
Aziraphale stiffens, staring at Crowley. ‘Is - is that for me?’
Crowley starts. ‘Wha - what? What do you mean?’
‘Your hair,’ Aziraphale clarifies, his voice soft. He takes a moment to admire the long curls, how the last of the light brings out the hidden embers in that deep red. ‘You started growing it out again after I said …’ He pauses, suddenly shy. ‘Do you remember, those young men around the corner from my shop? They were loading their … instruments onto a van?’
Not even his sunglasses can hide the blossoming blush on Crowley’s cheeks. ‘I remember,’ he grunts.
‘And I said, well, I was critical of how,’ Aziraphale grapples for words, ‘ungroomed they looked.’
‘You were,’ Crowley confirms unhelpfully.
Aziraphale sighs, feeling a stab of annoyance. Apparently Crowley is not going to admit anything himself. So much for forthrightness.
‘But then I said -’
‘You said they looked ludicrous and I’m one of the only few who can pull off long hair remarkably well,’ Crowley interrupts, parroting Aziraphale’s words back to him nearly verbatim. ‘I know, angel, I was there.’
Oh. Alright, forthrightness not lost then.
Crowley’s ears are almost the same shade as his hair and he is frowning at the blanket.
Aziraphale, quite hot around the collar himself, smiles. ‘Is that why…?’ He indicates Crowley’s curls with a raised eyebrow.
His friend sighs heavily, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Is that what you want me to say?’ he mutters.
He is not, Aziraphale notes with pleasure, denying anything.
‘My dear, you should know that you don’t have to change anything for me.’ Aziraphale pauses. He takes a breath, not out of necessity but to fortify himself. ’But you do look very handsome … as always.’
Crowley finally looks up. There is a long, pregnant moment; and then he slips off his sunglasses.
Aziraphale stills, suddenly pinned in place. Crowley’s eyes glow like molten gold in the fading light, the rich yellow of his irises bleeding into the whites. His slitted pupils are blown wide.
‘Angel.’
‘Crowley?’
‘Why did you really bring me here?’
Aziraphale exhales slowly. ‘I … I want to tell you something.’
‘Right. I assume it’s not about how good my hair looks.’
‘No,’ Aziraphale admits. ‘Although I did mean every word. It does. Look very good, I mean. And you. Handsome. Erm.’
‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley almost looks pained. ‘As … gratifying it is to know that, just. Look. You’re confusing me. I’m getting,’ he makes a frenzied movement like he’s swatting two flies going in opposite directions simultaneously, ‘a lot of mixed signals here. What you really want to say, just spit it out.’
Aziraphale sighs. ‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.’
‘Well,’ Crowley waves a hand again, ‘start somewhere.’
Aziraphale fidgets. When he’d spent a week planning this picnic, he’d clearly lacked the foresight to plan what he wanted to say. Or maybe he had planned and all the words fled just now, with Crowley looking at him like that.
Aziraphale tips his head back, as if he might find the elusive answers written in the darkening sky. And, to his surprise, there is one waiting for him - the evening star, winking into life in the west.
‘Alpha Centauri,’ he murmurs. ‘Remember when you brought up Alpha Centauri?’
Crowley’s jaw slackens. ‘The hell? That’s what this is about?’
‘You told me to start somewhere. This is as good a point to begin as any.’
Unblinking, Crowley gazes at him for several uncomfortable seconds before giving a curt nod.
‘When you asked me to, to, run away to Alpha Centauri and I … I said no …’
Aziraphale almost wants to look away, his heart quickening at the intensity of Crowley’s piercing stare. But he forges on, keeping eye contact. He owes it to his dearest friend.
‘I want you to know that I, it’s not that I didn’t want to go to Alpha Centauri, but -’
‘Alpha Centauri,’ Crowley interrupts quietly, ‘was not the point, angel. It never was.’
‘No,’ Aziraphale breathes. ‘I know it wasn’t. I knew then too. But … it’s important that you know, the reason I refused to go was that I had to make that one final attempt to reason with Heaven. I wanted to believe they would do the right thing, and I had to exhaust all my means. But you were right about them, about everyone, and I’m sorry I didn’t let myself accept that sooner.’
Crowley’s brows are furrowed, a hint of confusion in his otherwise blank mask. ‘OK … I get that. But what are you - ?’
‘What I’m saying is that I wasn’t rejecting you. That my choosing to stay didn’t mean that I didn’t want to go with you. Because of course I did!’
In the heavy silence that follows, Aziraphale finally dredges up that evasive courage and reaches out, placing his hand on Crowley’s arm, over his jacket. Crowley doesn’t move.
‘I would go anywhere if it was with you, my dear.’
A shuddering breath escapes him and Aziraphale relaxes. He hadn’t expected it to feel so freeing, to finally say it.
‘Aziraphale…’ The emotionless countenance Crowley has been trying to hold together is crumbling, like plaster peeling off a wall to reveal the shock within; the joy too, in the sudden light that blazes in his eyes; and the sheer vulnerability, in the tremble of his lips, the stiffness of his arm under Aziraphale’s fingers.
‘Oh darling,’ Aziraphale whispers, and goodness, how many times has he tasted the flavour of that endearment silently on his tongue when he looked at Crowley before? But never had it been permitted to leave his lips and now Crowley looks as stunned as if Aziraphale struck him.
‘Angel,’ he whispers. Then he looks down and, with a strangled laugh, groans, ‘Holy shit.’
Aziraphale waits patiently, hand left soothingly on his arm, warm but not entrapping, until Crowley is finally able to gather his thoughts.
‘Do you mean it, Aziraphale?’
The Angel blinks. ‘I … oh, my dear, I’m almost offended. I would never say it unless I meant it -’
‘You’ve said things you didn’t mean before,’ Crowley interrupts.
His tone is not unkind, but the statement hits Aziraphale with all the force of a righteous smiting.
… hereditary enemies.
… we’re not friends!
… opposite sides.
There is a prickling sensation at the corner of his eyes. The last time he’d felt that was just hours before an Armageddon that didn’t come, standing in front of Crowley at a bandstand.
… I don’t even like you!
Aziraphale swallows. There is a ringing in his ears and his free hand is trembling. Aziraphale digs his fingers into his knee.
‘You’re right,’ he admits. ‘I have. Lots of times. And all of them unfair to you. I’m sorry, Crowley, I truly am.’ He pulls his hand back.
‘I wasn’t asking for an apology, I -’ Crowley moves, as if to grab the hand Aziraphale pulled away, but stops before they touch. ‘Aziraphale, all that is in the past. I knew you didn’t mean them.’
‘But I hurt you.’
‘Bold of you to assume Demons hurt.’
Aziraphale frowns at him. Crowley drops his weak attempt at a mirthful smirk, sighing.
‘What I’m trying to say is, this isn’t the same as back then. We don’t have our bosses breathing down our necks. We don’t have to hide. And that’s why - that’s why I need to hear it.’
Aziraphale stares, eyes wide.
‘What you really want. Because,’ Crowley gestures between them, longing and desperation etched into the lines of his face, ‘if you mean what you just said, this will be a point of no return. So I need you to be sure, angel.’
‘Oh, Crowley.’ Aziraphale wrings his hands together, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach for Crowley again. His dear, hopeful Demon trying so hard not to be, and that, Aziraphale knows, is completely on him. He doesn’t deserve Crowley.
‘I do mean it. Every word. I’m sure, darling.’
Aziraphale leans forward, gazing earnestly at his demon, his friend, his one constant that he has denied for too long.
‘Just say the word, my dear, and I’ll go with you. Alpha Centauri. Andromeda. A star so far beyond human reach they don’t even know it’s there - anywhere you want to go.’
Crowley goes still, Aziraphale’s last words a sombre promise that echoes between them as it had done once, half a century ago.
Crowley licks his lips slowly. ‘I offered that to you, before. You didn’t want it then.’
‘Oh but I did. I wanted it so badly … which is why I couldn’t accept it. It was so dangerous, Crowley, for both of us. If we’d got caught … I couldn’t bear to think what they might do to you.’
Aziraphale miracles his empty teacup, and the rest of the cutlery and leftovers, back inside the hamper with a wave of his hand. Crowley opens his mouth*, and then immediately shuts it when the Angel scoots closer to him on the blanket.
(* Far be it from Crowley to let serious, life-changing conversations get in the way of teasing Aziraphale about frivolous miracles.
The only thing stopping him is his brain short-circuiting at Aziraphale’s proximity, the Angel so close that Crowley could just lean in and kiss him. If Aziraphale was amenable.**
** Observers may agree that Aziraphale is more than amenable.)
‘So, you see.’ Aziraphale pulls on a smile, small and wistful. ‘It’s not that I didn’t want. I did, and hence why I couldn’t. And … that’s why I wanted you to slow down.’
Crowley blesses under his breath at that. Even as dusk gathers swiftly around them, Aziraphale can tell how red his face is.
’But the thing is, Crowley,’ Aziraphale continues, holding his gaze, ‘I only said you were fast. I didn’t mean for you to stop.’
‘A-Angel…’
‘Do you know,’ Aziraphale leans in, letting their shoulders brush together just so, ‘after our lunch at the Ritz that Sunday, when we were so happy and victorious and free … I, I do believe I was expecting us to, well, move forward.’
‘Move forward,’ Crowley repeats weakly.
‘With us.’ Aziraphale gestures between them, mimicking Crowley from earlier. ‘These past several weeks have been absolutely wonderful, my dear. I enjoy all of our lunches and outings and conversations, but…’
‘But,’ Crowley echoes, and this time he doesn’t mask the hope, the dawning happiness breaking through his disbelief and shock, ‘you want to move forward. With us.’
Aziraphale beams. ‘Yes. I want more. I want the things you wanted before … if you still want them.’
‘Angel,’ Crowley says, and his voice is almost a growl. ‘I have never stopped wanting them.’
‘Oh! Well, that’s all right, then. That’s … what I wanted to tell you today. So. Jolly good.’
Crowley snorts, but he is smiling, genuinely smiling for what feels like the first time today. Aziraphale drinks it in greedily, adoring how it softens his face, just like it had that first day on the Garden wall, before the rain.
He doesn’t offer smiles all the time, but Aziraphale knows, though he’d once pretended not to, that Crowley gives most of them to him.
Just like that look in his eyes. They’ve been hidden from Aziraphale too often ever since humans invented tinted eyeglasses, but the warmth in those ochre eyes, glowing like a pair of stars in the gathering dark, is also solely for him. His heart swells at the thought.
And maybe he gets a little drunk on it all, because he blurts, without thinking, ‘Your eyes are a bit like Alpha Centauri, d’you know?’
It quite effectively ruins the intimate moment and Crowley barks out a laugh, incredulous.
‘Did you sneak in some wine earlier? You sound drunk.’
‘I didn’t and I do not!’ Aziraphale exclaims, affronted. ‘I suppose it did sound odd, but it’s true. Your eyes kind of … shine. When it’s dark. Reminded me of twin stars.’
Crowley raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow. First time I’ve been told my eyes look like anything but a snake’s. I’ll take what I can get, though.’ Though his voice is deadpan, his mouth twitches with a suppressed smile.
‘But I’m right about the twin stars, aren’t I?’ Aziraphale presses. ‘Alpha Centauri has a binary pair.’
‘Did you Google that? Angel, I thought you avoid modern technology more than bebop,’ Crowley drawls, outright grinning now.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. ‘Please, my dear, I was one of the first to own a home computer system when they became available.’
‘And you still use that rickety old box. How you do inventory on it is beyond me. Do you even have an Internet browser on that thing?’*
(* Technically, it shouldn’t be possible. But in the very rare moments Aziraphale decides to Google something - as a last resort, of course - he expects it to be there, and so it is.)
‘You’re deflecting. Tell me about Alpha Centauri. I’ve been curious since that day.’
Crowley leans back on his hands, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. ‘Nothing much to tell, really. It does have a binary pair of stars, yeah, but it’s a triple system. Has a little third wheel that’s the closest star to our sun.’
‘Is that why you picked it? Because it’s closest?’
‘Er, sure.’
‘You’re leaving something out,’ says Aziraphale shrewdly.
‘Ngk.’
‘It’s special to you, isn’t it?’
Crowley exhales loudly, puffing out his cheeks. ‘It’s just nice up there, angel. Got a couple of pretty planets. Can’t support human life, of course, but very picturesque.’
‘And how is it that you know that?’ asks Aziraphale pointedly.
The Demon straightens up, fixing Aziraphale with an annoyed glare that is rendered ineffective by the fond curve of his mouth.
‘You’re not going to let up, are you? Stubborn bastard.’
Aziraphale smiles, the picture of innocence. ‘Just enough to be worth knowing, I’ve been told.’
His quip startles a laugh out of Crowley, who shakes his head in amusement. He looks at Aziraphale for a long moment, his smile dimming.
‘OK then,’ he says very softly. ‘I’ll tell you something too.’
He raises his arms with his palms facing the sky, as if to make supplication.
The irony of that image lasts a mere second before what happens next has Aziraphale sitting straight up, jaw dropped open.
In the space between Crowley’s open palms, there blooms a small, swirling globe of light. It flickers and dances like fire as it grows, throwing shimmering sparks into the air until it finally settles above Crowley’s left hand, the size of a jawbreaker, shining contentedly; a warm, inviting thing.
For a minute, Aziraphale just gapes in silence at the smallest star ever created. It hovers in front of him, right there above those beautiful artist’s fingers which, even after all this time, are stained with the ink that once painted the night sky.
Aziraphale finally understands.
He looks up to find Crowley watching him. The star is the same colour as his eyes.
Gently, he touches his fingers to Crowley’s exposed wrist, guiding his hand and the lovely star it holds out of the way.
Crowley blinks. ‘Aziraphale?’
‘You,’ Aziraphale tells him, ‘are exquisite, darling.’ And he leans in.
Later, Aziraphale will tell Crowley that it felt like kissing a star. A story thousands and thousands of years in the making, made up of journeys across desert sand and storm-tossed waves; of greetings and tales exchanged in long-forgotten languages; of stolen glances and unspoken words; a story made up of vignettes from every lifetime that ever existed, culminating in this moment, this kiss, right here.
And God, it burns.
Journeys end in lovers meeting, good old Will had said, but Aziraphale and Crowley have always been on the journey together. From the Garden where it began, to the garden where they are now, and so what does that make this kiss? A beginning, perhaps.
A beginning, like the new star nestled between them.
When Aziraphale draws back at last, Crowley follows, catching his lips in another searing kiss before they break away.
They regard each other for a moment.
‘For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve spoken fondly of the stars,’ murmurs Aziraphale, almost to himself. ‘You made it, didn’t you? Alpha Centauri.’
Crowley shrugs, but the nonchalant gesture is ruined by his shaky breathing and the way he runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip. Aziraphale can’t help but follow the movement, shivering a little. The feel of that clever tongue pressing between his lips is still fresh, and he wonders, cheeks warming, if Crowley can still taste Aziraphale as well.
He is brought back to the present moment when Crowley replies, ‘I s’pose I always had a soft spot for it. It’s not the fanciest thing I made. It’s not like the nebulae or blackholes humans go crazy over. But…’ He looks down at the minuscule star, floating patiently above his palm, ‘it was one of my firsts that really turned out well.’
Aziraphale looks at him, full to bursting with adoration. ‘You wanted to take me to your favourite star you made?’
‘I think I have a new favourite,’ Crowley says very quietly. He glances at his star again, and in its light, the lovely flush creeping up his neck is obvious.
‘It’s the most beautiful one you made,’ says Aziraphale decisively, ignoring his own embarrassment.
Crowley snickers. ‘There are many that are more impressive up there.’
‘None of those were made for me, though.’
That has Crowley blushing again but the Demon looks right at him when he says, bluntly, ‘Damn, angel, if I’d known you’d react like this, I’d have shown you this thousands of years ago.’
‘Thousands? It’s been that … long?’
Crowley drops his gaze. ‘Not like you didn’t know,’ he mumbles.
Aziraphale bites his lip. Crowley is right. He has known for a long time, and he is the one who took even longer to catch up; who kept Crowley waiting.
‘Then … tell me the name of every star you put in the sky.’
‘Huh?’
‘And I’ll kiss you for each one of them.’
Crowley stares at him, his golden eyes aflame in the light of his new star.
‘And when you run out, tell me their names again. And again. And then again after that.’
‘That’s a lotta stars, angel,’ Crowley mutters, fumbling with the collar of his shirt.
‘Well, I do have a lot to make up for.’ Aziraphale smiles.
‘Wow.’
‘What? What is it?’ asks Aziraphale, furrowing his brows when Crowley fidgets again.
‘No, it’s just …’ Crowley waves his free hand aimlessly, ‘it’s been such a long time, you know? And I’m used to, I mean - I don’t expect to, to hear you say things like that. It’s … a lot.’
‘I’ve been telling you how I feel. And we just kissed.’
‘Yup and I’m still processing.’
‘Oh.’ Aziraphale swallows, his cheeks pink.
‘And for the record, I didn’t name the stars I created. That’s a human thing. I just … made.’
‘Oh,’ Aziraphale repeats, with renewed interest. ‘How do you tell them apart? There must be so many.’
‘Ya make ‘em, ya know ‘em, I guess. Speaking of which,’ Crowley holds up the glowing ball of light in his left hand, ‘you want to keep this? I could put it out. Don’t think it’s a good idea to put it in the sky, though, since that part of Creation is technically over.’
‘Definitely do not put it in the sky. And don’t put it out, it’s not a match!’
’So you want to keep?’
‘How is that even a question, my dear?’
Crowley hums and looks around. His gaze lands on the wicker hamper, sitting forgotten at the edge of their picnic blanket. With a grin, he flips the lid open and pulls out the empty flask of tea.
Aziraphale is confused. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Can’t just leave a star lying around, can we? Hang on just a mo’, angel.’
As Aziraphale watches, Crowley unscrews the cap* and tips the star inside. Once sealed shut, he closes both hands around the flask carefully.
(* A frivolous demonic miracle goes into this. Even occult beings struggle to unscrew caps one-handed.)
In a second, the thermos has transformed, the opaque tartan pattern paling into transparency until Crowley is holding a cylinder that looks to be made of glass. Inside, floating right in the middle, is the newly minted star.
With a look of satisfaction, Crowley holds it out. ‘There. Now you can safely set that up anywhere. And if anyone asks, you can just say it’s a lava lamp.’
‘Do they still make those?’
‘Ah, I knew lava lamps were vintage enough not to be lost on you,’ Crowley says, grinning.
Aziraphale makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he can’t hide his broad smile as he accepts the star - his star - in its new cylindrical home. The glass is warm to the touch but not uncomfortably so, and its inhabitant shines strongly, spilling its golden light in every direction.
A flask of fire from Crowley, in return for the flask of water Aziraphale had given. It’s fitting.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, suddenly a little overwhelmed. He thinks he understands what Crowley meant. It is a lot.
But meeting Crowley’s eyes, watching him with unadulterated affection, Aziraphale also knows it is right. And it is time.
He gently places the star aside, beside the hamper.
Crowley is smiling at him in a soft, shy manner Aziraphale is only privy to once in a blue moon.
‘So … what now?’
Suddenly emboldened, Aziraphale reaches into the hamper. ‘Well, if you’re done processing, my dear…’ He turns to Crowley and, slowly, offers him the single apple he packed for their picnic.
He watches, with baited breath, as Crowley stares at the fruit for a full three seconds before his eyes, fully yellow now, snap up to freeze Aziraphale in place.
‘Angel,’ Crowley’s voice is like silk, and Aziraphale shivers in anticipation, ‘are you tempting me?’
‘It’s just an apple,’ says Aziraphale, sounding breathless to his own ears.
Crowley chuckles low in his throat. ‘Funny. I’d said the same thing.’
Faster than Aziraphale can blink, Crowley leans forward to take a bite, the crisp crunch of the skin breaking reverberating in the air. Chewing carefully, Crowley looks up.
‘It’s sssweet.’ Crowley tilts his head. ‘Don’t you want a tassste?’
Aziraphale licks his lips, keenly aware of how Crowley’s gaze immediately sharpens. ‘Maybe just one.’
But before he can raise the apple, Crowley’s fingers are around his wrist, yanking him forward, and his mouth is on Aziraphale’s, taking full advantage of his parted lips. The apple slips from his slack fingers.
‘Oh,’ Aziraphale breathes as Crowley relinquishes him, just barely, close enough for their noses to brush together. ‘Oh, it is sweet.’ He looks at the Demon, going a little crosseyed. He swallows. ‘I wouldn’t mind another taste, I think.’
‘Bassstard,’ Crowley murmurs against his lips.
‘Just enough - mmph!’
And Aziraphale finds himself pushed down onto his back, with Crowley on top of him, and then he is being thoroughly kissed.
Aziraphale makes a sound that not even the best gourmet food he’s tasted has ever gotten out of him. Crowley smirks into the kiss and then proceeds to positively unravel him, with hot mouth and sinful tongue and teasing hands, scattering Aziraphale’s every thought until all that’s left is pure feeling.
He clings on, giving as good as he gets, trying to convey an immortal existence’s worth of confessions and feelings to Crowley. And, when Crowley weaves those star-making fingers of his through Aziraphale’s - oh God, finally - holding his hand with such gentle devotion even as he makes a mess of him, wrecks him in the best possible way, Aziraphale thinks Crowley knows.
Smiling, he buries a hand in Crowley’s hair, undone and gorgeous, and Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale’s neck, marked with galaxies of his love.
Around them, darkness has fallen.
That’s all right though, Aziraphale thinks, tired and sated and devastatingly happy.
Only in the darkness can you see the stars.
Their star twinkles and shines, a lone song, and far above, the Universe responds, a symphony.