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A starry sky expands overhead. The blanket below their backs and heads is soft, but rough with use, well-loved by time. Faintly, crickets sing to each other in the distance, but above all, it is quiet. Peaceful, in that way Earth likes to pretend.
“You really hurt me, angel.”
“I know. I never meant to.”
It is late. Later than is wise, perhaps, to be out like this, in a field, under the weighty gaze of the world. But they are not alone – they may never be again – so it’s okay.
“You can’t fix a pain like this quickly.”
“I won’t go too fast for you, Crowley. I promise. And… I’m sorry. More than I can say.”
Somewhere, a rustling, a woodland creature stirring from its nap before curling back up cozily, at home in the universe. It knows its place. It knows where it belongs, and that is here.
“I don’t want to forgive you, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The closest star to Earth, aside from the sun around which we orbit, is called Proxima Centauri. It’s about 4.3 light years away. Humanity aches with the space between us and what we reach for, even though we know we can never touch it.
“I’m not apologizing so that you will forgive me.”
“Then why, angel?”
“You deserve to hear it.”
Perhaps there are millions of universes, billions, each set off by new choices. The differences may be big, or they may be very small, but each thought and action dislodges one more universe out of alignment. Do you return the kiss? Do you enter the lift? Do you mean it when you tell him that you’re sorry?
“I’m still angry.”
“You’re often angry.”
“Yeah. There’s a lot to be angry about.”
Somewhere in a little English village, there is a boy who sometimes, despite himself, still wishes he could remake the Earth into something better. There is as much wrong as there ever was, and he could’ve fixed it, and he didn’t. He wonders if he’ll always regret it, just a little.
“You don’t have to forgive me. Maybe I’m more unforgiveable than you ever were.”
“Don’t say that, Aziraphale.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
There is a universe where that little boy chose to become a monster instead of a son.
“You’re not unforgiveable.”
“Then neither are you.”
There is a woman who lost her ancestor’s book and burned the next. It is so much harder to make choices without a plan to guide you. Every day, she wonders what the right thing to do is, and she has no map to follow. She has to decide for herself.
“Angel…I’m sorry, too.”
“Why?”
“I hurt you, too. I know I did.”
A retired sergeant abandoned a lifetime of prejudice because two can live as easily as one.
“Do you want me to forgive you?”
“…I don’t think it would help, angel.”
A coffee shop owner is learning how to live with her past hurts. She still lashes out when she gets upset, and she tries to ignore the hurtful words in her head that came from someone who said she loved her. That was a lie. She knows that real love looks like a place where there is room for mistakes, where she can come home late or not reply to a text and the worst she’ll receive is a concerned, “Are you alright, love?” She will not give up on her ‘us.’
“I can’t bear to hurt you again, my dear.”
“Don’t know if we know how to stop.”
“Can we try? Can I try?”
There may be billions of universes, and in them, there are so many love stories. Not all of them are happy. Not all of them aren’t.
“Angel. You love me.”
“I do. And you love me.”
It is often easier to love than to be loved. Yet, some things are easier to say than others.
“Do you need my forgiveness?”
“I think I do. But you don’t have to give it.”
“Demons don’t offer absolution. We certainly don’t receive it.”
“I understand.”
A television evangelist in the States is rich from his manipulations. Grandmothers tune in to send him their grandchildren’s birthday cash. When they die, the letters still arrive at the same address, with his smiling face, begging for more.
“Let me try.”
“Try what?”
“I forgive you, Aziraphale.”
“Oh.”
There is a sensation like heartburn that you can only feel on a particular sort of night. The kind when that someone’s voice is in your ear, and you nearly convince yourself you can reach out, but you can’t. Even if you wanted to, and you do want, you can’t.
“I mean it.”
“I thought you didn’t want to forgive me because you’re angry at me.”
“I never said I was angry at you.”
A falling star is a bit like a broken promise. Call it one thing, and it’s another.
“Are we going to be okay?”
“Is there a ‘we’? An ‘us,’ I mean?”
“Do you want there to be, Crowley?”
“Were you even listening? Have you ever been listening? I told you.”
Supernova remnants scatter to create something new. They will have time to do so, now. A timeline learned on the cusp of existence, disallowed by hearts burdened with the yearning ability to care far too much for the things they shouldn’t. So, the stars have eternity, cradled in the outstretched palms of the one who put them there.
“I heard. But you might have changed your mind since then.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I left.”
There was soot on his hands when he reached for the next bottle. He never meant to Fall. He just hung around the wrong people.
“I left you when the world was ending. The first time.”
“Only because I hurt you then, too. I only ever seem to hurt you.”
“Your love has thorns, angel. I’ve always known that.”
A rose is a cliché for all the right reasons. Because sometimes, it is beautiful. And sometimes, it is bloodletting.
“I’ve only ever been loved with thorns, I think. It’s the only type I know.”
“Even by me?”
“Never on purpose, Crowley.”
The blanket beneath them is slightly damp, and the cold is seeping through their clothes, to their bones. The stars will not last much longer in Earthly sight. They will go on rebuilding themselves, but the night will end, and in 5.5 billion years, the sun will have no hydrogen left. It will consume the remains of the Earth entirely. It won’t have been enough.
“I was careful with you. But I wasn’t as gentle as I wanted to be. Not exactly my prerogative, as a demon.”
“You were a-“
“I was never that angel, angel. It doesn’t-“
“I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that you have always been gentler than you give yourself credit for.”
“Only because you’ve always been good at seeing that I could.”
Every choice, a new universe. Do you want to be in the one where you can hold his hand?
“I love you, Anthony J. Crowley.”
“Oh. Huh. I didn’t expect you to say it.”
“Would you prefer I not?”
“No, ‘s okay. Better than forgiveness.”
Are you a place where the one in your heart can land safely?
“May I hold your hand, Crowley?”
“Gosh. ‘F you like.”
“Not too fast?”
“Just right, I think.”
A pulsing beat of heat, and how unnecessary. Their hearts are decorative at best. Their lungs an accessory. What is a body, really? It is how we experience everything. Your memories are imprinted in the freckles on your arms, the mole behind your ear, the hair on your thighs, the stretch marks on your stomach, the deepest lines of your face, the tongue that sits heavy in your mouth with words unsaid.
“Do you know when the first time I ever wanted to hold your hand was?”
“Angel, how could I possibly know that?”
“It was the Wall.”
“Really?”
Have you been starving?
“The humans held hands as they left the first garden. I’d never seen that before. Then there you were, familiar and yet…so unknown. And I…”
“Wished I was different?”
“No. Despite what you may think, Crowley, I have never wanted to remake you.”
“You wanted to make me into an angel.”
“I wanted you to be as happy as you were as an angel.”
When the dust settled, the golden ichor spilled and staining, he wondered if the Starmaker had made it. He hadn’t wished to ever know.
“I wasn’t as happy as you think I was. I didn’t rebel out of boredom.”
“Why did you?”
Most of the troubles of the world can be drawn back to the fact that the folks best able to become leaders, through their influence and power and wealth and charisma, are simultaneously, usually, the least qualified to use their leadership for good.
“I…don’t think I can tell you. Right now.”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry I asked.”
“’S alright. Just a bit much.”
Dawn is approaching. The stars are beginning to fade from the eyes of two who have lain awake the whole night, not looking Heavenward at all.
“More than anything, I wanted you to be safe. That was why I asked you to come with me.”
“I know. I always knew. That’s why the angriness wasn’t about you. For the most part.”
They had dreams about each other, while he was away, even though neither could sleep.
“Did you…”
“…Go on, angel.”
“Did you always believe I’d come back? To the Earth? To you?”
Did you have faith?
“Yes.”
There is a place, far from where they are now, where the fence is rotting. What was once a bed of tomato plants is full of dandelions. The porch steps creak. Three of the windows are cracked. The fireplace will have to be swapped with something electric and fake. Most rooms will need a good paint job, and the hinges replaced, and the kitchen appliances updated with shiny silver. A fox family is living under the shed.
“Thank you.”
Eternity.
“Are you going to stay, angel?”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Well, it is rather damp.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh. You mean…with you?”
Isn’t hope the thing with feathers that never stops – at all?
“That.”
“Well, yes. Of course. My goodness, Crowley. Why would I ever want to be anywhere else?”
“Just checking.”
“Is that…alright?”
“To be with the one I love, forever? What a trial.”
A breath of fire, a cup of cocoa. His only offerings to a judge.
“Live with me.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to ask yet. Forget I said anything.”
“You want me in the bookshop? I don’t know how I feel about that. Though I am really sick of living in my car.”
“No. I was thinking…somewhere no angel or demon but we know of. Somewhere new. A fresh start.”
The gate rusted years ago with neglect. In that moment, it springs open, just a little, pulsing with inevitability.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll live with you, angel. And you’ll live with me.”
The sky is pink, dusting cheeks and noses with light. They can see each other better, more clearly, more honestly now than they ever have before. Not because of the sun.
“I’m sorry I never ran away with you.”
“Eh. Probably best we left the eloping to the humans. Besides, what do you call this?”
“Oh. Well, that’s a terribly lovely thought.”
Love is no substitute for respect, kindness, mercy, honesty. Yet love, too, is all of these things, when the feeling is made into the right kind of action. The farthest star that humans have presently detected is called Earendel, viewed through the magnifying glass of a galaxy, 28 billion light years away. Such a large star has no need of a companion, yet it appears in observance of the colours that there is another one tucked so close, it is nigh indistinguishable from its partnered star.
“Let’s start a little simpler. I could go for a bite, I think.”
“What would you say to some crepes?”
Soon, they will push that rusty gate open the rest of the way. He will not need to ask before taking the other’s hand. They will stargaze in their own backyard, telling each other stories they already know. Though they do not need to, they will breathe, and breathe deeply. Because they want to. Because love, ultimately, is the choosing.