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Considering millennia of precedent, Aziraphale doubts that their first post-Armageddon argument is the end of a six-thousand-year-old relationship.
That confidence only thickens the shame in the pit of his stomach.
He’s always thought Crowley would leave him someday. It seemed inevitable. Crowley is a creature of change, Aziraphale of habit. Crowley is bold, Aziraphale cowardly. Crowley is fast, Aziraphale slow. And…
Over and over through the centuries, Crowley has reached out, and Aziraphale has pushed him away. Refused, rebuffed, repudiated, again and again — forfeiting any right to Crowley’s time, Crowley’s effort, Crowley’s company.
It’s a wonder Crowley still tries.
Often, Aziraphale has believed it over. An impending Flood; a disgusted You can’t kill kids. A rejected Arrangement; a disappointed Right. A paper scrap; a barbed I don’t need you.
When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you.
And yet, Crowley has always returned. There’s no reason to think this time different.
No, it’s not the end. Crowley will sulk, simmer, nurse his wounds. But sooner or later he’ll come sauntering back, eyes hidden, festering hurts suppressed, pretending normality into reality.
Crowley always comes back.
The knot in Aziraphale’s gut grows. Because Crowley shouldn’t come back, shouldn’t have to, Aziraphale has never deserved it, Crowley would be better off without him, and…
Aziraphale sits in the aftermath of their argument, paralyzed with guilt, and aloneness, and guilt for wishing he weren’t alone.
He doesn’t bother trying to read.
~ ~ ~
Eventually, Aziraphale realizes what he’s doing. Here he sits, aching and alone, waiting. Waiting however long it takes for Crowley to do the work, reach out, bridge the divide.
The same old pattern. Self-loathing twists tighter.
They’ve seldom resolved a fight in under a decade. Armageddon was a special circumstance.
But Crowley deserves to have Aziraphale reach out for once.
Crowley deserves Aziraphale’s remorse.
~ ~ ~
Aziraphale dials on his rotary telephone. Crowley picks up after one ring.
“Crowley, please…” No, that’s wrong. This isn’t a plea, it’s an apology.
“This is Aziraphale. I…” No. This isn’t about Aziraphale. This is for Crowley .
The words come. “I’m so sorry.”
Aziraphale anticipates coldness; harshness; the bitterness he knows he’s earned. He’s prepared.
“I’m ssorry, too,” says Crowley.
Aziraphale is not prepared.
But if nothing else, Aziraphale knows how to forgive.
~ ~ ~
He walks to Mayfair.
Even after their telephonic reconciliation, Aziraphale would have resisted the selfish yearning to suggest meeting so soon. But Crowley asked.
So here they are.
“I,” Crowley begins, and wets his lips. “Glad you called.”
“I wasn’t certain you would be,” Aziraphale admits.
Crowley makes an incredulous sound. “What’d you think I’d say?”
“I don’t know.” Aziraphale stares into the distance. “Until you can return the time I wasted on you, I don’t want anything to do with you, perhaps. Or some such. Something I deserved.”
Crowley makes another sound.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” Aziraphale adds. “You have wasted rather a lot of time on me over the years, and I didn’t exactly make it worth your while.”
Crowley jerks. Aziraphale tears his gaze from nothingness to find the demon’s teeth bared.
“It wasn’t wassted,” Crowley hisses, and it should sound fierce, but instead it’s tender. “You hear me? I don’t care how long, or slow, or anything. If it had you, it was worthwhile.”
Aziraphale swallows, hard. “I’m… still sorry.”
“So’m I. Said so on the phone, didn’t we? Fighting was a waste, I grant.”
“I don’t just mean the argument.”
“I know.” Crowley sighs, ferocity evidently exhausted. “But, look. It all got us here, right? To… together. So…” He hesitates, suddenly seeming unsure. “So.”
He makes a tentative hand motion — obvious enough that the invitation is clear, ambiguous enough that Aziraphale could ignore it.
But this is one invitation Aziraphale will never ignore again, so he takes Crowley’s proffered hand.
And Crowley’s face splits into a smile, and oh, in all his self-flagellation, Aziraphale realizes, he forgot this. That when Crowley is with Aziraphale, when they talk or touch or just stand in peace, Crowley practically radiates happiness.
And, well. If something makes Crowley smile, who is Aziraphale to argue?
Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand. And the knot in his stomach loosens, for now, as Crowley squeezes back.