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“Tree looks familiar,” Crowley says, using his sharp chin to motion to the center of the lush garden now miraculously sitting atop the bookshop. Like an image plucked from memory, a small slice of Eden stands before him, even down to the scent of the rich soil beneath his designer shoes.
“Yes, well, it’s not the tree, but a tree,” says Aziraphale, taking a tentative step closer before adding, “I rather thought the space looked incomplete without it.”
Crowley keeps his hands firmly jammed into the pockets of his jeans. No sudden moves, he’d promised himself. Though as he watches the Archangel of Heaven wring his hands with such wariness, he feels his resolve slipping. Slowly. Softly. Gently, he repeats to himself. Aziraphale might be one half of the most powerful force in the universe, but Crowley knows his angel moves at the pace of a gentle breeze rippling a serene lake.
“Taking a stroll through bygone days, then?” asks Crowley, aiming for nonchalance with a hint of snideness, hoping to cut just enough to keep Aziraphale from taking another step closer. Instead, a smile bursts forth on his angel’s features that punches the air Crowley doesn’t breathe right out of his unnecessary lungs. There it is. That smile—a direct vein to the source of all joy, an open invitation for hope. That blinding beacon charmed God herself. What hope did Crowley have against so devastating a weapon?
“We could. Take a stroll I mean, if you like,” Aziraphale gives the slightest wave to the small path weaving through the garden. If you like. Always a choice, never daring to presume. For all the lectures on great design and destiny he and his angel endured over the past few days, Crowley knows Aziraphale will always give him a choice. And Crowley will always choose Aziraphale.
With a resigned sniff, Crowley pushes away from the trellis. He somehow manages to make it past Aziraphale, fighting the urge to reach out and pull him close. Slowly. Softly. Gently, Crowley chants silently as he steps into the green paradise. Thankfully, his angel waits for a moment before following a few steps behind.
The rooftop is flush with the first flowers ever to bloom upon Earth. Crowley never ceases to marvel how plants capture promise and fulfillment, the essence of life in a cascade of color. So similar to a star breaking into existence. Something where there was nothing.
A quiet rustle catches his attention. Several plants down the path appear to straighten their stems as he approaches. Leaves nudge one another, and soon neighboring plants and flowers stand at attention.
With what is certainly not a heart stuck in his throat, Crowley stops to brush his fingers along a spotless leaf. His plants. Somehow Aziraphale had rescued the plants from the destruction of his Mayfair apartment. In all the chaos of that moment, the angel thought to transport his plants to safety. He thought of Crowley and what their loss might mean to him. Crowley takes a steadying breath against the assault of emotions battering him. To ground himself, he raises an eyebrow at the nearest pile of stems and leaves, which has the good sense to cower a bit in his presence. He decides to ignore the fact that they look a rather new shade of green, one that is perhaps a bit more cheerful than before.
The soft chime of a miracle sounds behind him, and Crowley turns to see Aziraphale sitting on a newly materialized bench, sunlight dancing through his white curls. His angel, safe and sound, all buttoned up in his waistcoat, primly seated in the middle of a recreation of the original garden. Crowley aches, aches at the beauty of it.
A hesitant, questioning look clouds the endless blue of Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley violently shoves down the overpowering urge to march over and shake any uncertainty from him. No. Not uncertainty, Crowley reminds himself, compassion. He has always known that when something touches his angel’s pure heart, Aziraphale treasures it, protects it, defends it. The fact that he refuses to surrender a beloved fashion, food, or author makes that perfectly clear. Aziraphale holds hope in his heart for something he loves long, long after the world abandons it. Crowley knows that personally. He also knows that his angel’s paralysis to adapt stems from his unwavering faith in what he loves.
When Crowley tackled him with a desperate kiss in the bookshop all those months ago, he thought it was a simple choice for Aziraphale: the toxic confines of Heaven or the freedom of a life with him. He didn’t realize he was dashing the angel’s hope of having everything he loved together. For Aziraphale, victory meant keeping all he loved intact, unscathed by his actions. For Crowley, it meant abandoning everything that had hurt them. They were both asking one another the impossible – reject part of who you are and come with me. The knowledge did little to ease the heart-wrenching devastation that day as Aziraphale’s reaction tore through him.
“I owe you an apology, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly.
Crowley turns away, pretending to be fascinated by one of the leaves. “Just one?” he manages to scoff. “Will it include the ‘you were right’ dance?” Crowley felt the smirk twitch on Aziraphale’s lips without having to look his way.
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says. “Could I persuade you to join me?”
Crowley crosses his arms. “Sorry angel, I’m not going to follow some stupid plan, any plan, ineffable or otherwise. If you just brought me here to convince me....”
“I meant join me on the bench, my dear,” interrupts Aziraphale. Crowley tilts his head to see the angel lightly patting the bench next to him. Crowley huffs, and makes a show of relenting. He stomps to the bench and flops into his usual slouch.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, folding his hands on his lap. He looks across the garden, then seems to take a breath to gather his strength. Funny, when the two of them together have the strength to bring a universe into existence.
“I am sorry. I’m sorry I did not see it. You had the answer all along,” Aziraphale begins.
“Yeah, well, I was always the brains behind the Arrangement,” interjects Crowley. Aziraphale looks up, perhaps in a silent call for patience. Crowley allows himself a smug smile. He might let the angel call the shots on timing, but Aziraphale would still have to work if he wanted this conversation.
“You were right that ours was never a path meant to be in Heaven or Hell or on Earth,” Aziraphale turns to Crowley. “It was always going to be something that is ours.” Crowley clamped his hands into fists to ignore the temptation to pull Aziraphale’s face in his hands. Slowly, Crowley berates himself. Sloooooowly. Let him get there. “You were the one with the imagination to envision it. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”
Crowley offers a toothy grin. “So, you are saying you were an idiot. I’m down with that angel. That all you wanted to say?” Crowley makes to sit up, and leave, as if moving away from Aziraphale at this moment is even a miniscule possibility.
“In hindsight, I’d say we were both idiots,” says Aziraphale, halting Crowley’s feigned motion. “We should have known from the moment we performed a tiny quarter of a smidge of a miracle on Gabriel together. It blasted a beacon high enough for Heaven to see and Hell to fear. We should have had a clue then.”
Crowley still has trouble believing they are the great key in the Ineffable Plan. According to her royal annoyance God, the sum of Aziraphale and Crowley together was The Point of this universe. It took 6,000 years for it to happen, or perhaps it only took a few moments and 6,000 years for them to realize it. What they built together over millennia was so unique and powerful, a bond so strong, that it will be enough to create a new universe. Something only the two of them could do, together. Something that is wholly them.
A new universe is exactly what God wants, and she had the bloody nerve to ask them for it. Aziraphale, of course, said he would consider designing a new universe, but only if this universe was allowed to continue unscathed. Crowley still snickered at the twinkle in his eye when Aziraphale asked a stunned Metatron where else would he find such marvelous sushi? It still rankled Crowley that God seemed unsurprised when he told her, in no uncertain terms, what a waste She’s made of the space in this one. He did catch Aziraphale’s smile when Crowley let God know he wanted to play with this universe, see what he could do with the old girl before even thinking about creating a new one. And She could stuff “reinstating” his dead name. He chose Anthony J. Crowley, and She could deal with it.
“I’m not joining the cult of universe building,” Crowley huffed.
Aziraphale nods. “I know, dear,” he says gently. “If you do decide to do some work on this one, which I am sure will be beautiful beyond measure, I do hope you will think of Earth as a place to rest.” He glances around Bookshop Eden before his gaze lands again on Crowley. “And maybe think of this place, this garden, as a spot where you are always welcome, just as you are.”
Crowley shuts his eyes tight against the onslaught of emotions. Just as you are. It was the opposite of the words he’d slashed at Aziraphale. “Quit saying you need me! You only want me if I am JUST like you. If I twist myself into whatever you consider good and right. You don’t want me. You don’t need me just as I am, angel. Which means I don’t need you.” He’d spat the words, hurtling toward a target. They hit their mark, but the rebound was instant. “When I said I need you. When I said I want to you to be with me. I meant I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said the phrase so simply then, as if it was not a boulder standing between them for thousands of years.
Of course, that was the moment celestial lightning fell to Earth and they realized some kind of war had started without them. It had been a day of battles and rescues, revelations and reunions, heartbreak and healing. Aziraphale very nearly sacrificing himself for Crowley—before God herself intervened—was a nail biter for sure. It was no wonder they never got around to finishing the conversation.
“Angel,” the word sounds slightly strangled as Crowley speaks it. This time, he promises himself, he will stand still. Not wait. He has been waiting for thousands of years. No, this time he will stand in the moment and see if Aziraphale comes to him. Even if it discorporates him, Crowley will hold firm until Aziraphale is ready to come to him.
“You know, I thought of love as an idea, an aspiration designed for humans, an ideal state of being,” Aziraphale says, looking into Crowley’s eyes. The former demon-turned-other-half-of-the-most-powerful-force-in-the-universe sits transfixed, unable to turn away. “How silly that I did not see it as something I could have as well.”
Aziraphale slowly unlocks his hands, and Crowley watches in half-agony, half-hope (that diamond burglar Austen could really turn a phrase) as one hand slips over his. Crowley's brain short circuits and he stares at their hands for what is probably a ridiculous amount of time.
A glimmer from a nearby stone catches his eye. He sees the words inscribed, “Of all the fires, love is the only inexhaustible one." A line from a poem Aziraphale regaled upon him years ago. Another flicker of light dances off a nearby stone. “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere, they were in each other all along.” That one Crowley knows. Rumi, that cheeky teacher. Crowley takes a moment to sense the stones across the garden. Poems, sonnets, and snippets of letters fill the space. Messages of love covering a garden dedicated to their first moments together at the dawn of the world.
Crowley’s golden eyes focus on the angel before him. “You are a complete bastard, angel,” he manages to whisper.
Aziraphale smiles and places a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “I thought I was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,” he says as Crowley surrenders to the urge to practically nuzzle his palm.
“Let’s just say you’re more than enough to love,” says Crowley. It was an odd sensation, feeling the fear fall away as Aziraphale draws impossibly closer. If Crowley believed one iota in ineffability, he might say it felt like this.
When their noses are practically touching, Aziraphale whispers, “I’d very much like to kiss you, Crowley. May I?” So cautious, so compassionate, so much his Aziraphale.
Crowley cannot resist a slight smile. “Only if you do the ‘you were right dance’ after,” he says, letting the last word catch on a brush of lips against Aziraphale’s cheek.
“Gladly,” Aziraphale breathes and closes the distance between them. Slow, soft, gentle, thinks Crowley before his mind surrenders to the symphony of requited devotion. The delicate sweep of lips ignites an irresistible light of hope, a perfect promise of a beginning. He slides his arms around his angel to pull him closer. The light rises, spreading through him, practically consuming them both before reaching out and engulfing the universe.
A long while later, Crowley slings his arm over the back of the bench and leans in to prop his chin on his hand. “So, angel, what do we do the rest of the day?”
A nearly wicked gleam flashes in Aziraphale’s eyes. Before Crowley can quirk an eyebrow, Aziraphale casts that disarming smile his way. “How about a quick trip? I hear Alpha Centuri is nice this time of year.”
Crowley sighs and rolls his eyes. “How about dinner first, angel? I’ll drive,” he says.