Chapter Text
After the Notapocalypse, after the switch and after several dinners at the Ritz, an angel and a demon were stood by an immaculate vintage Bentley on a golden autumn afternoon. The demon with his foot in the door, ready to swing inside.
"Lift home?" Crowley's eyes were hidden behind his glasses, but the angel could picture them anyway.
"No, thank you… I don't think I'm ready to go home yet," Aziraphale waved his hand at the city around them. "I think I'll wander for a bit."
Even though the days leading up to today had been long, he wasn't tired. He wanted to go and see what they have saved, see it all anew. And there was something delightful in delayed gratification, and he felt no need to rush home.
"Would you like to join me?"
"Not today angel - think I am going to go home and take a nap." Crowley had sobered up to drive, but Aziraphale hadn't and his wave was tipsy as he headed off into the city with a cheery "I'll speak to you soon my dear."
….
He wandered down from the Ritz, looking at the white buildings and the black wrought iron fencing. The sun was shining and the park was full of people enjoying the first days of autumn - some with ice creams, some with winter coats.
The edge of the park intersected Birdcage Road and Aziraphale crossed it almost without thinking, hands behind his back as he strode happily along the river until he reached Waterloo bridge. A breeze blew off the Thames and he felt a familiar fizz of pleasure that had bubbled up regularly over the last few weeks. It was wonderful.
Students needing to start their university reading found the Southbank sheltered and the grass blessedly dry yet soft as they stretched out.
All of the servers and baristas in every bar and coffee shop around the West End found their feet didn't hurt as much as they normally did at the end of a shift, and that their customers had tipped a lot more generously.
A couple on holiday, short-tempered and tired of lugging backpacks, found themselves having lunch at a lovely little hole in the wall chatting away with the owner for hours, the place recommended by Tripadvisor quite forgotten.
Visitors to the Globe found the clouds would break in just such a way that they didn't have to squint against the sun to see the stage, by stayed warm and comfy for the entire 3-hour performance of twelfth night.
...
It was starting to get a bit nippy, so Aziraphale wiggled his hands into his gloves and made his way to the underground.
He'd ride the tube for a bit, then walk the short way home. Aziraphale was not normally one for the underground, but he felt quite up to it today. And it was terribly clever what these humans had managed to do.
As he stepped on off the escalator, a busker who'd been struggling to keep her guitar in tune suddenly found it hitting all of the right notes, almost regardless of how she had played it. Aziraphale checked the line (South) and made his way straight onto the carriage.
On more than one occasion Crowley had taken credit for the state of advertising on the London underground. Waiting until people were on their way home to remind them that they needed to go to the gym, go back to university or take multivitamins if they were ever going make something of themselves when they were too exhausted or fed up to do anything about it.
What Crowley didn't know was that the poetry on the underground was down to Aziraphale. The idea being that he could surprise people with a little moment of joy or a moment comfort when they needed it most was delightful. If he was being honest, even the angel had been surprised by how well it had taken. When he saw the little white rectangles across from where he was sat neatly on the tube, he felt a little frisson of pride in an angelic job well done. Hands clasped neatly in his lap, Aziraphale settled to read.
When he got to the end, his stomach dropped and he read the poem again, trying to fight his rising panic.
On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love
Well, that was silly. They had said goodbye at the Ritz, where weather had been quite nice. And his gloves were cream cashmere, thank you very much, not black wool.
On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?
The champagne had been delicious. And it probably was nothing. Crowley had not been any more charming than he had been at the dinners or lunches or general time together since the end of the world. Aziraphale was made to love everything. And anyway, there was nothing wrong with loving your best friend. That's what friendship was all about.
On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across
The weight in his chest sank further. That was the worst of it, wasn't it? His heart did always know what was right - even when his brain and his stomach and all the rules of heaven were telling him something different.
Oh, bugger.