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Aziraphale doesn't sleep. Not really. His rare attempts have never been especially successful, and after a couple of millennia, it had hardly seemed worth it to keep trying.
But at just this moment, cuddled up on the bookshop sofa with a warm, happy demon dozing in his arms and no one else in the universe to answer to, it seems, finally, to be the easiest thing in the world to close his eyes and to just... let go. To think of nothing but the sheer, human comfort in his body and his heart, to let the past and future condense themselves down into this one, still, perfect moment. To let himself relax into that moment, to drift into it, to simply be, and to let everything else in Creation fade away in a delicious, misty cloud of contentment.
He only realizes he has in fact fallen asleep when he becomes aware, in a vague and abstract way, that he is dreaming. How interesting. How lovely! He has always been curious about dreams. Humans have used them as metaphors for so many beautiful and inspirational things over the years.
He is, or he perceives himself to be, at the Ritz, sitting at his and Crowley's favorite table. And yet, at the same time, he is also in the Garden of Eden. Tree boughs hang low above his head, laden with fruit. Vines twine around the legs of his table, and grass softly tickles the bare soles of his feet. He'd almost forgotten these colors, a thousand freshly created shades of green he hasn't seen in six thousand years. He hopes he will remember them all when he wakes.
He looks down at the dessert menu in his hand. All the dishes are apple-based. All of them look delicious. He hears a waiter approaching and realizes it's time for him to make a choice, but when he looks up to place his order, it isn't a waiter at all.
It is Her.
"Hello, Aziraphale," says God.
He can't see Her face, not really. He never has been able to. She is too bright, even for an angel's eyes. There is only a sense, there, of a face. A voice. A personality whose wry, warm nature seems at once utterly sincere and very much a mask, stretched thin across something terrifying and powerful and impossible to understand.
"Oh," he says. "It's... it's You. Er. Hello." Oh, dear. How embarrassing. He seems to have forgotten how to talk to God.
If he ever knew how to talk to God. He isn't certain, suddenly, that he ever truly did.
"Hello, Aziraphale," She says. "Yes, it's Me." It is. That much, Aziraphale is certain of. He could never dream that Presence up on his own. There isn't enough holiness in him to create it. "It's good to see you again," She adds. "Well. Not that I haven't always seen you. Being, as I am, omniscient. But you know what I mean."
Aziraphale manages a nervous smile. He realizes his hands are crumpling up the dessert menu, and forces himself to put it down. He ought to say something, but none of the words crowding through his mind seem at all right. Certainly not, Would You like to join me for dessert? or Well, I haven't seen You for a long time, so I'm afraid You have me at a disadvantage, or So, how have You been? He finally settles on. "To... to what do I owe the honor, Lord?" Oh dear, is it still all right to call Her that, if he no longer works for Heaven? It must be, surely. She is the lord of everything, after all. Except, perhaps, of Hell.
She doesn't correct his use of the title. She also doesn't answer his question, not directly. Which is rather typical of Her, really, now that he thinks about it. "I hope you don't mind Me interrupting your sleep," She says. "It's been a long time since I did a traditional dream visitation, linearly speaking. But it seemed like a nice place to have a little chat."
She is asking him if he minds? She's never done that sort of thing before. Although presumably She's only being polite. "Of course," he says. "Certainly. Yes." Without thinking, he makes a please-sit gesture towards the chair across from him. The Divine Presence does not sit, but moves forward in some indescribable way to occupy the same space as the chair.
A thought comes to him. "I've never actually dreamed before. If I had, if I'd fallen asleep earlier..." During the apocalypse, perhaps? Might it have been that easy, if he'd only thought of it? "Were You waiting to speak to me? Waiting until I fell asleep, I mean?"
Somehow, the holy presence across from him gives the impression that She is shaking Her head. "I wouldn't worry about it, Aziraphale. These things happen when they need to."
"Oh. I see."
He doesn't know what else to say. If he were Crowley -- and how odd it is to think of him, still in Aziraphale's arms through all of this, back in the waking world -- if he were Crowley, no doubt he would have a million challenging, pointed questions. Starting, perhaps, with Where have You been? and What do You think You've been playing at? But, to his shame, Aziraphale finds the only ones he truly wants to ask are Did I do all right?, and Did I help things work out the way they were meant to, after all?, and Do You forgive me?
Not that he would change anything, if the answer to those questions turned out to be no. Not that he would wish he'd done anything differently, all things considered. But, selfish angel that he is, he very much wants the answer not to be no.
God sighs, a sound as soft as the breezes through Eden, but wearier. "I can't answer your questions, Aziraphale."
He begins to make a noise of denial, but She cuts him off, gently. "I can see inside your heart, angel. I hear your prayers, even when you don't know you're making them. A fact which, if you think about it, may be relevant to some of your questions."
Aziraphale blinks. "Is it?" It occurs to him, now, that when he was trying to contact Her, to persuade Her to call off the end of the world, She must have already known everything he wanted to say. But does that mean he needn't have bothered, because it was all part of the Ineffable Plan and She had it under control all along? Or that he was a fool for believing She couldn't hear him, when She simply had no interest in listening? "I'm afraid I don't entirely understand."
"I know. But I can't explain it to you. Not in a way you can understand."
"You can't?" Aziraphale says. He feels an odd mixture of curiosity and irritation. He tries to keep the latter out of his voice. Not that She won't be aware of it, anyway, but it is only polite. "But You are all-powerful. Aren't You?
"Am I?'" says the Almighty. He can feel Her smiling at him now, in a paternal sort of way. "I can't make a rock bigger than I can lift."
"Oh, really, now," says Aziraphale. He has never had much patience for such theological sophistry, despite, or perhaps because of, having read a great deal of it.
"Really," She says. "I'm afraid you're going to have to keep accepting 'it's ineffable' as an answer. Or not accepting it. It's all right if you don't. But it's the only answer you're going to get. Anyway, that's not what I'm here to talk to you about."
Oddly, Aziraphale finds himself feeling a little relieved. Or perhaps it isn't odd at all. She hasn't told him he is a bad angel. She hasn't given him any orders or inflicted any punishments. It's more than he would have dared hope for, to be honest. He can live with a lack of answers. There is even, perhaps, something newly exciting about it, the endless, thrilling possibility of the unknown.
Unless, of course, She is about to pull the rug out from under him. He doesn't think so. But... He swallows nervously, wishing he had some dream-wine to wet his lips with. "Yes?" he says.
"Yes," She says. "I am here to give you My blessing."
"Oh," he says, pleased, but no less confused. "Oh, thank you. That's lovely of You, really, although I'm not entirely certain I actually need--"
Warmth and a sense of fond, tolerant amusement radiate from Her Presence. "Not that kind of blessing," She says.
He blinks. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Again."
"I mean, Aziraphale, that you have My blessing to marry your demon."
Around him, the dream lurches, colors and shapes and sounds fizzing into white static for a moment. When it stabilizes again, he can hear a nightingale singing somewhere, faintly. Across the table from him, the Almighty is saying something about not waking up just yet. But he can hardly focus on any of it, cannot concentrate on anything but the word still echoing around in his mind in the voice of God Herself.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. Did You say... marry?"
He had not even thought of it. It would not have occurred to him that such a thing might be possible, might be something an angel or a demon could even do, let alone do with each other.
Marry?
Somewhere, he can feel Crowley stirring in his arms, can hear him breathing, can feel the heat of his body, the bony jut of his elbow, the smoky ethereal tingle of his demonic presence.
Marry? What a thought. What an unimaginable thought. What a strange, beautiful, overwhelming, unimaginable, possible thought.
Aziraphale looks into the face of God, and the awe and wonder he feels are not for Her. Except, perhaps, for the way She has set this idea free in his mind.
"Mmm-hmm," says God. "If you want to, I mean. It's your choice. Yours and his. Everybody gets one, you know. Even you. Don't let anyone tell you angels and demons don't have free will. But if that's what you want to choose... Well, I just thought you ought to know that I don't mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. I may not be able to explain the divine order of the universe to you, but I can tell you that you and Crowley coming together the way you have isn't something that violates it, but rather something that enhances it. And so will any other sort of coming together you might want to indulge in. I'm sure you're capable of thinking up any number of possibilities."
Did God just make some sort of sexual innuendo at him? Aziraphale thinks She might have, but he's too busy trying not to feel faint with giddiness to ponder the question too far.
"What I'm saying to you, Aziraphale, is that it's all good. Not Good with a capital G, mind you. Not the divine working of My will. Not something holy, and certainty not something I am commanding of you." A smile radiates out from Her in the form of golden light. "That is to say, nothing Crowley would object to. But if it's right for you two, then it's right. That's all. Not that you actually need Me to tell you this, but you deserved to hear it, anyway. I know you well enough to know you'd have moments where you couldn't help but fret about not knowing My opinion on the matter, otherwise."
There are so many things he could say to this. So many. Starting, no doubt, with thank You. But a different response bubbles up from his heart and slips past his lips instead. "Does this mean You've forgiven Crowley?"
God laughs. "Crowley doesn't need Me to forgive him. You can tell him I said that, if you like. It's the only statement from Me on the subject he's ever likely to want to hear."
"Oh," says Aziraphale. "Yes, all right. I will." And, realizing he still hasn't said it yet, "Thank You."
"You can thank Me for this," She says. "But from here on out, it's all you. You and him. The only other thing I'd ask is to be invited your wedding, but you know I'll be there, anyway. I can't not be."
"Ah, yes," says Aziraphale. "Omnipresence."
"Yes. But don't worry. I won't stare at you during the wedding night."
He laughs. He can't help it. It's all too wonderful, and too absurd. "If we have one," he says.
"Still your choice! And speaking of choices... Do you think you might like to wake up now?"
He considers the question. Whether or not She attends his wedding -- his wedding! what an idea! -- he has the distinct feeling he is unlikely to speak with Her like this again. And there are many, many things he could still say to Her.
He can feel Crowley again, waiting in his arms.
"Yes," he says. "I believe I would, rather."
"Good luck, Aziraphale," says God.
And Aziraphale opens his eyes. Soft morning light is streaming in through the bookshop window. Strangely, he thinks he can still hear the nightingale.
Against him, Crowley stirs and stretches, sinuous and slow, as if he has all the time in the world. He opens his eyes and smiles at Aziraphale, wicked and lazy and fond. "Mornin', angel," he says.
"Good morning," Aziraphale says. He feels no urgency, either, no hurry. For a long, lovely time, they simply sit together, basking in the warmth of sleepiness and sunlight and each other.
Until, as the sun climbs higher, Aziraphale shifts his position, takes Crowley's face in his hands, and looks deep into the demon's eyes. They are beautiful, his serpent's eyes. So much better to look at, and so much easier to love, than the blinding countenance of God. The blasphemy of the thought might have bothered him once. It no longer does.
He imagines the Almighty watching over his shoulder. And then he dismisses Her from his thoughts.
"Crowley," he says. "I have something I believe I'd like to ask you."
And fearlessly, joyfully, he offers the demon his choice.