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Here's the funny thing about Aziraphale and Crowley. It's that no matter what happens, it has already happened before.
Say, you asked for Aziraphale's favourite colour. You aren't the first to do so. Ask anyone else, and they would say, Aziraphale's favourite colour is white. Or blue. Because angels love that sort, don't they? Ethereal, heavenly, whatever.
But ask Crowley, and watch as his smirk (or sneer, they're interchangeable, really) shapens in a funny, odd way (sort of...soft, if you do say so yourself—but who would believe you?), and he tells you in a heartbeat; "It's yellow."
Nobody would believe him. Yellow? But that's not…you know, ethereal, or heavenly, or... whatever it is the angelic sort are into. White seems fitting, considering purity and all. Or blue. Why yellow?
"Don't ask me why. It just is." And for him, that's that.
Ask Aziraphale himself. He wouldn't answer right away. Then he'd think, and he'd think hard, about how happy Crowley looked as the stars smeared across the sky he painted. A warm glow of a colour he'd never seen before shone on an angel's smile. This, God later describes, is—
"—Yellow." Aziraphale eventually replies. You don't ask why...it just... is. That's that, you guess.
But it's strange, isn't it? Yellow...perhaps, it's because of the sun. Perhaps, it's because it's the colour of a flower he likes. Yellow is a warm, happy colour, maybe not of the angelic sort, but definitely warm and happy—just like Aziraphale. Right?
Well, you'd probably be wrong.
Yellow, Aziraphale remembers distantly, through memories of a wing guarding him from stray meteorites falling his way, the colour of little baby ducks, yellow is the colour of mischievous eyes that match their even more mischievous lies—just like Crowley.
Aziraphale smiles, a mischievous cheek that grows on his face, as this time, it's him who guards Crowley. Raindrops, the first of their kind, are beginning to fall, and as Eve takes Adam's hand, Crowley—or, for now, Crawly, takes solace in knowing that Aziraphale is here with him. Aziraphale thinks, oh, isn't this nice. They've done this before. This time, Aziraphale will return the favour.
No matter what happens, it has already happened before. The ducks, the apology dance, the watching this universe shift and shift and shift.
Crowley leaves, Crowley forgives, and Crowley returns. I don't need you, he leaves, forgives, returns. I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving, and when I am off in the stars, I won’t even think about you, he leaves, forgives, returns. So when Crowley says, Don't bother, it'll just be the same.
He will leave, he will forgive, and he will return. Just as they have done, just as they will do, because this has happened before. People will keep wondering what Aziraphale's favourite colour is, Crowley will always have the right answer. They'll keep thinking about ducks. They'll keep sending miracles each other's way. And Crowley, Crowley will change his mind, like he did the last two times, like he's been doing since 1941, like he always will, because they are immortal and they have eternity itself. Most importantly, they have each other.
"You can't leave this bookshop."
"Oh, Crowley." Books aren't forever. Nothing is. But if they leave it, if Crowley would just come with him, they could—are, forever. Because as far as Aziraphale is concerned, this is forever. Not Nina and Maggie. Not this street. Not the bookshop. "Nothing lasts forever."
And he watches Crowley's face shapen in such a funny, sad kind of way.
"No. I don't suppose it does."
He turns for the door, and, ah. They've been here before. This, this is the part where Crowley leaves. But do they have enough time to wait for the forgiving and the returning part? They don't need to do this. They can't do this.
"We can be together!" Crowley needs to understand. "I need you!"
Why can't he understand?
"Hear that?" Crowley's voice is a quill scratching on mouldy paper, pieces snapping away, and ink running dry. They are ripping apart at the seams. What is he supposed to be hearing at a time like this?
"...I don't hear anything."
"That's the point." Crowley exhales. "No nightingales."
No. That's not true, right? The nightingale is there. They just can't hear it. How would Crowley know? The nightingale is always going to be there. This has happened before. The song will play, they'll make up, and it will sing despite being drowned out by the noise of the traffic. It. Is. There.
"You idiot—" Tearing itself apart. Tearing them apart. A quill that tears through aged parchment and Aziraphale looks away because he cannot let himself watch Crowley continue. "—we could have been…us."
Oh.
Oh.
He can't look Crowley in the eyes. (Oh, Crowley could hide his face as much as he pleases, but Aziraphale will always know him.) Then—
Then.
Crowley does... it. Aziraphale doesn't see it coming, but Crowley does it, and it happens and it's the only thing that makes sense to him anymore. It happens, he does it, he…
Why did Aziraphale want it?
He kissed me.
He wanted it. Or did he? He—did Crowley want it? Who knows. He's a demon. He lies.
But he kissed me.
Are the pieces of the puzzle of the plan beginning to align? He's a demon. What would he ever want from you? Why, pray tell, Aziraphale, would Crowley ever want you?
I want him—
—He..he still...he's leaving. Well. Haven't they been here before?
...He will leave, like he has, he will come back, like he has, and they cannot be anything if not together. This...this is irrelevant.
For the record, "I forgive you." Because this has happened before.
Crowley has not looked any more lost. He scoffs.
"Don't bother."
Don't leave.
The door slams shut. His hand lingers over the place where Crowley kissed him, his hand burns the way his eyes are beginning to sting.
I made Crowley cry.
Something inside him wonders if they are broken— Everything will go back to how is used to be. Nothing will change them. It is the only thing he knows because life will always change, humans will always change, the world, the universe, it changes, but never, never them. Crowley will still answer you if you ask what Aziraphale's favourite colour is eventually. This. Has. Happened. Before.
He wipes his mouth. Just a smidge.
He wakes up before he enters the elevator. He looks into the traffic, a reflex built into his 6000-old biology, and searches for a black Bentley. And a reflex built into Crowley is to wait for Aziraphale to see him.
...The thing about Crowley and I is that no matter what happens, it has happened before.
He kissed me. When has that ever happened before?
"Going up?"
Everything will be alright.