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You don’t have a side anymore.
The words were already said. He heard them, acknowledged them, knew them to be speaking the truth. But it catches up with Aziraphale all at once, on the bus, just how alone he is.
“I used to have the entire host of heaven at my back,” he whispers — half confession, half plea — when Crowley has asked for the third time what is the matter and the answer will no longer be swallowed back. “A whole host. And now…”
Admittedly, as was very recently demonstrated, many of those other angels among the host were probably about as likely to stab him in said back as they were to guard it. But still. They were there, and at least in principle — if not always in practice — they were on his side. He had a unit; a group; a team.
You don’t have a side anymore.
And now… now, he is alone.
Except, no. He swallows hard. That’s not completely true.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly, and a long-fingered hand lands on the bus seat between them, laying itself gently over the back of the angel’s own hand. Present enough to offer reassurance. Light enough to be easily eluded if Aziraphale should choose to do so.
He does not choose to do so.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Aziraphale, I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“I mean, actually it kind of is. But either way, I’m still sorry.” Crowley sighs. “Look. I meant it, when I said you could stay at my place. ‘S up to you. You can go to a hotel or something if you prefer. But… but…” He falters. “But, you aren’t alone. And if I have to make up for the whole fucking heavenly host, just tell me how and I’ll fucking do it.”
The raw earnestness in his voice goes directly to Aziraphale’s heart — overwhelming and almost alarming in its intensity, yet simultaneously quite possibly the most comforting thing he has ever heard. He finds himself giving a tired nod before he even fully realized he made the decision to accept the invitation.
“I guess,” he offers in hopes of lightening the intensity that he doesn’t quite feel like dealing with just now, “if I stay the night at your flat then that will make you a host already. A step in the right direction, hm?”
Crowley laughs, far more enthusiastically than is warranted by the atrociously weak attempt at a joke. Aziraphale thinks that perhaps they are both bordering, just a little bit, on hysteria. It’s understandable, all things considered. Especially given that they haven’t even begun yet to talk about the fates that may lie in wait for them in the near future — nor about interpreting the enigmatic prophecy tucked away in his pocket.
But he also thinks that, perhaps, neither of them is so very alone after all. And perhaps, together, they can find a way to make things okay again.
You don’t have a side anymore.
We’re on our own side.