Work Text:
Aziraphale didn't know what to do with his hands. He rarely did, but this was a once in an ethereal lifetime's occurrence and he didn't know what to do.
The pressure was warm, firm. As solid as Crowley had ever been.
Aziraphale's hands grasped at his back, unable to find purchase on a dark coat and unable to try hard anyway. His mind was as adrift as his hands. Worrying itself in dizzying circles while his own lips yielded despite himself.
Confusion was paramount.
Crowley wasn't happy.
It didn't make any sense.
Aziraphale remembered moments before time. He remembered an angel with white wings, white robes - he couldn’t recall the eye colour, only gold even though that hadn’t been possible then. But he remembered the giddy way he’d babbled about nebulas and star clusters and- and watching the stars grow. Having the time to let all of those twinkling, colourful little lights grow into beautiful things all their own.
He remembered being frightened for this beautiful, unusual angel who spoke of stars and nebulae like they were children. Long before the concept of a child had come into being.
He remembered the joy that had radiated from him then.
And he remembered when that same person had slithered up a wall in Eden in robes black as the night. He remembered the similar way his hair had curled, even though it had gotten longer between their meeting amongst the stars and the one atop a wall. That person had been cynical, still questioning everything as he had amongst the stars even after receiving his punishment for it.
Aziraphale remembered that and so much more. So many little instances of kindness, niceness, goodness. 6,000 years of goodness radiated from a demon who’d done nothing wrong but ask a few simple questions. A demon who, as far as Aziraphale was aware, had never truly been as happy as he’d been looking over newly created stars. As an angel. Why wouldn’t he want that again?
Why wouldn’t he come with him?
The nearness ended with a small shove, Aziraphale quick to step away as he gasped and tried to find words that mattered when everything was so confused.
“I forgive you.” Because they were old, familiar words. Good words.
“Don’t bother.”
Crowley walked away. Azirapahle’s ears began to ring. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Why hadn’t he been happy?
Fingers lifted to his lips, pressed a little as if he could imprint Crowley there forever.
Not… not that he needed to. Right. No. Buck up. It was just the shock. Crowley just didn’t understand, whatever he’d said.
No nightingales…
Crowley was the one being unreasonable. As always. Just as he’d been when Gabriel had appeared in their lives a few terribly short days ago. He would come back. He would come back, apologise - Aziraphale might even be benevolent and not ask for the dance. All he wanted was another-
The bell rang above his door, but it wasn’t Crowley. Aziraphale looked to the side as if Crowley might appear there instead, but the bookshop looked - it looked as if the ball had never happened at all, actually, oh, Crowley. He wiped wet eyes and spun back.
Crowley would appear soon.
“How did he take it?”
“Uh. Not well.” Which was honest. As the Metatron had said, he was honest.
He wasn’t always, though, was he?
“Ah, well, always did want to go his own way. Always asking damn fool questions, too.”
Aziraphale felt a surge of heated irritation. He banked it. He wasn’t going to prove Crowley right by- by standing up for him when he was the right one. Crowley could be happy again as an angel.
Why hadn’t he been happy?
He backed away, looked towards the windows. Would he be there? On his way back inside before it was too late? Aziraphale’s feet carried him nearer to the window, mouth moving as it always did when he was trying to stall. Crowley just needed a bit more time, that was all.
More time to be happy and… and proud of Aziraphale for fixing what he’d broken in the first place. If he had never told Crowley about- about the timeframe of Earth, he never would’ve been upset. He never would’ve been silly enough to start thinking about blasted suggestion boxes and wondering if he could change the Almighty’s mind.
If he hadn’t babbled to him and upset him and- And if Crowley hadn’t been so blasted irritating himself, even then…
Only Muriel was there, waving cheerfully with a book in hand. She was going to have his bookshop. Not forever. Nothing… nothing lasted forever.
Where was Crowley?
“Anything you need to take with you?”
I need you.
Had he ever told Crowley that before? He couldn’t recall.
Where was he?
“No. Nothing I can think of.”
As the Metatron made their way to the door, Aziraphale floundered. Crowley wasn’t out there. He wasn’t coming back and they couldn’t have another incident like what had happened at the bandstand. Had they talked about that? There was so much to talk about and he could still feel that phantom pressure on his lips. “I think I-”
He could go find him. He wouldn’t be far. Waiting at the Bentley. Waiting to… to go off together. Go off and… and change nothing? Fix nothing?
“Nothing at all.”
With a small laugh, he followed the Metatron out. Things couldn’t change for the better if he didn’t go. If he went, he could always come back down again. Whenever he wanted! Gabriel had certainly popped in a time or two as Supreme Archangel. There was no reason Aziraphale couldn’t either. Crowley could have all the time he needed. There would never be another Armageddon to worry about. He could watch his stars grow and, eventually, he would come upstairs with him and… and everything would be okay again.
“Well, I can’t think of a better angel to wrap things up. And to set into motion the next step in the Great Plan.”
“Um, yes, you mentioned that.” There wouldn’t be another Armageddon. Aziraphale wouldn’t allow it anymore than Gabriel had and, with the way the Metatron had so readily brought Aziraphale on board, naturally that meant he must agree.
Mustn’t he?
But when he asked for clarification, Aziraphale wasn’t given a full answer. Something we need an angel of your talents to direct.
“We call it the Second Coming,” he said, turning away, and Aziraphale’s stomach dropped to his toes.
The Second Coming.
The Second Coming.
The Second Coming.
No. No, they couldn’t actually be planning-
They couldn’t.
Toxic, Crowley had snarled.
Aziraphale turned because he was there. There, always. Leaned against the Bentley, watching him, waiting for him to make a choice. Waiting for… Aziraphale looked at the car. Lovely little thing had taken care of Crowley for so long and Aziraphale just needed a little more time.
Because the Second Coming couldn’t, well, come. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it, and the only way to not allow it… He sent the song to the car, knowing it would play. There could still be nightingales so long as Crowley would wait for him a little bit longer.
With a sigh, he stepped onto the elevator and they went up.
Maybe… maybe he should’ve run up to Crowley and told him right then. Maybe he should’ve waved him over. Maybe he should’ve…
There were so many maybes.
As he and the Metatron rode in silence, Aziraphale thought of thousands of maybes. Thousands of times where he could’ve said something about the things that were in his heart and mind. He could’ve apologised? Would Crowley have accepted?
Aziraphale hoped so. He hoped… he hoped for so much. The two of them had weathered so much together already, so surely they could weather this as well? They needed more time, and there was always plenty of that so long as everything was kept going.
There wouldn’t be a Second Coming. Aziraphale would prevent it, he would tell Crowley, a-and everything would be okay again.
Better than okay, he thought, and smiled.