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The Metatron, the corrupted mouthpiece of God herself, had been defeated, alongside his attempt at the Second Comming, for three- almost four- hours. And an angel named Aziraphale had been drinking for two- nearly three- of them. After the dust settled, and it was clear that the Second Comming would not be taking place that day or any day following, the ex-Principaliy, now Supreme Archangel1, had retired to his bookshop in the bustling streets of Soho.
1. Well, if you wanted to get technical, Aziraphale was an ex-Cherub, then ex-principality, and then now potentially retired Supreme Archangle- he had yet to decide on that front. return to text
He had tried to enjoy a quiet night inside the bookshop: an excellent book and perhaps a glass of red. It was the type of night he frequently partook in when he lived on Earth full-time all those years ago and one that he thought of almost hourly when he was stuck in the sterile office space that was Heaven. Yet, after all that had gone down right before it, Aziraphale found himself unable to fully immerse himself into the novel he snagged from the now dusty shelves. It could be that he was out of the habit- there weren’t precisely plenty of books in Heaven for him to read, let alone any time to relax- but he had a sneaking suspicion that it instead was the heavy weight of an important decision that needed to be made, partnered with the smothering, heartwrenching memories of his last moments inside the shop that kept him distracted.2 He was restless, almost itchy, and his spine had begun to ache as it always did when stress and anxiety began to lap at him.
2. It also very well could have been caused by the book itself, specifically the connotation of it. Aziraphale had foregone his unique biblical texts for obvious reasons, the last thing he wanted to read about was work. Instead, he opted for a Jane Austen, before he remembered that the dark horse herself was a centerpeice of his and Crowley’s last scheme. He had pictured himself and Crowley in her novels so many times, imagined a first kiss that would blow her novels out of the water as humans like to say. It forced him to remember how it really went- a bitter and heartwrenched goodbye. It made him think of how excited he was to ask Crowley to dance at his Austenian ball, how excited he was to simply see him in general, how much he lov- not that it was of any importance now. Aziraphale had resigned himself to that fact long ago. return to text
Resultingly, Aziraphale decided to partake in the human custom of “getting some fresh air” before he relocated himself to the roof of his bookshop/flat with his seemingly infinite bottle of red. He had settled on the ledge, his elbows resting on the concrete wall that lined the roof, shoulders slumped forward, as he gazed over the city and at the now-setting sun. As a breeze blew by, slightly billowing his old waistcoat, Aziraphale let himself breathe before taking another long swig of his wine.
With the Metatron gone, a new voice of God would need to be appointed, preferably one that cared less about settling a 6,000+ year turf war and more about maintaining peace and balance within the universe- most importantly, Earth.3 Naturally, all eyes had turned to Aziraphale. By all standards, he had Earth’s best interest at heart, having spent thousands of years there himself, and had displayed those interests by not only stopping Armageddon once but twice.4This proposal had initially taken Aziraphale aback, albeit flattered, before a tsunami of unease and worry had settled over him. It was after that wave crashed over and washed away the new life a small part of him wanted so desperately still wanted to build in Heaven that Azirahale politely said he would need time to consider.
3. This decision to reappoint a new voice hadn’t been the first option. It was first proposed that, to prevent future events like this from happening again, the Almighty herself should act as her own voice. This was soon shot down given that the Almighty, despite her infinite wisdom, wasn’t well endowed with communicating with her creations, as seen with Job. return to text
4. The other angels, during this discussion, decided to skim over the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t acted alone either of these times but rather with adversary Crowley. They also neglected to reflect on how the first thwart had made both Aziraphale and Crowley traitors to both Heaven and Hell respectively, and how they would be viewed as the same should things have gone more pear shaped this time around.return to text
Azirapahle should have been ecstatic had he been like any other angel or even like he had been years ago. This was the ultimate chance to do good; the world needed him. There was seemingly no one better for the job; no one else seemed equipped with enough empathy for Earth or its inhabitants to ensure its safety for its continued role in the Great Plan. But the more he thought about stepping back into that elevator, the more he thought about leaving Earth, the tighter the knot in his stomach wound. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Heaven was no longer a home; it hadn’t been for a long time- perhaps it never had been. It was cold, cruel, and calculating. Heaven didn’t have small shops filled with friendly faces that knew him, only diligent and impersonal angels. It didn’t have the soothing music he could find stored on the records in Maggie’s shop. It didn’t have the nostalgic smell of his bookshop or the wet, earthy one that often clung to Soho after the frequent rain showers. There were no antique shops, no magic shows, no bottles of wine from decades prior, no soft lounging chairs, no strange little restaurants where the owner knew you by name, no nightingales singing in Berkeley Square, no Crowley-
Crowley.
Aziraphale let his head drop, hanging low between his shoulders. Despite everything Aziraphale had put him through, Crowley had shown up today when he needed him most. When the stars began their descent, the sea started boiling over, and everything began to feel so unbearably unbearable; Crowley had been there5. He stood by Aziraphale, had taken his hand, and helped him bring the Second Comming to a screeching halt, and he had done it all with that devilish grin cemented on his face. And all Aziraphale could do to thank him, outside of the copious amounts of pining glances he sent his way throughout the ordeal, was a soft thank you before they were enveloped in discussions for what came next. His last interaction with Crowley was a brief nod to each other before Aziraphale departed for some much-needed rest.
5. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure of whether or not the Kraken had risen to the surface of the ocean, or how the dolphins and whales reacted to the sudden influx of seafood gumbo. He certainly wasn’t sure how the gorillas reacted, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley might know. return to text
Perhaps it was for the best. After all, things didn't exactly fare well the last time they saw each other. One moment, Crowley tried confessing his feelings, and the next, Aziraphale desperately tried to do what he thought was right to ensure their safety. He hadn’t realized then that things wouldn’t be different, no matter his position. Nor had he recognized that perhaps his ideas got lost in translation in the high intensity of it all, not that it made that much of a difference; they weren’t ever really that good at communicating, to begin with. It was unlikely that today of all days would be different. It was even more unlikely that they could come back from this. The war had been waged, and the damage had been done; whatever their relationship was or could have been was just another casualty.
Aziraphale raised his glass and tossed back its remnants before quickly refilling it with the snap of his fingers. A short, rough chuckle caused the angel’s head to perk up slightly before he scolded it back into its previous position. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who was sauntering up behind him; after 6,000 years, the two had gotten quite good at sensing each other’s presence.
“Drinking already, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, his tone laced with a jesting sort of amusement that filled Aziraphale with a sense of nostalgia, joy, and sadness. It was so painfully like it had been before, but it could never be like before. Aziraphale had ensured that all those years ago, and Crowley had made his agreement clear when they first reunited when he greeted Azirapahle not with a softspoken angel but a calloused, scolding supreme archangel. “A bit unprofessional for an angel in charge, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale tried not to look at the tall figure now stationed beside him, focusing all his attention on the sun setting before him. He wouldn’t be able to take it. They both knew it. If the angel turned his head to take even a glimpse at Crowley, he would crumble just like he did in the bookshop. His throat tightened to the point of pain even just thinking about it.
“Crowley,” he rasped, attempting and failing miserably to scold his tone into one of polite recognition.
“Angel,” Crowley responded, and Aziraphale winced. That wasn’t the term of affection that Aziraphale had heard for thousands of years, the term that, in hindsight, was dipped in love so thick it was the consistency of honey. No, it was a statement of fact. Bland. Neutral. Aziraphale was an angel, and so Crowley called him one. There was no affection in that voice. He supposed he had it coming.
They stood in silence; there was nothing left to be said.
The angel couldn’t take it.
Aziraphale swallowed before glancing at the bottle and glass before him, quickly shifting it over to the demon and back. With a small, albeit frivolous, miracle, he summoned a second glass filled to the brim with wine and slid it towards the demon. Crowley would accept the olive branch or cast it into hellfire, but either would be better than the heady silence they were soaking in.
Please, the angel thought, just say something. Be angry. Fight with me. Scream at me. Call me a traitor- anything. Just speak, I beg of you.
He watched from the corner of his eye as Crowley looked down at the newly brandished glass before smiling. The demon took a small swig from the glass before him before giving another chuckle, and Aziraphale almost felt like he could collapse in relief.
“Can you believe,” he laughed, almost disbelievingly, before resting his elbows on the roof's ledge. “That we stopped Armeggdon twice? Us! A lowly angel-oh, my apologies, Supreme Archangel, and a demon, former archangel. Take that for ineffability.”
“I could hardly believe we pulled it off the first time. I surely never would have imagined a second,” Aziraphale admitted, still desperately attempting the unphased, all-knowing, angelic facade that he never quite got the hang of. “Luckily, it appears this will be the last Armageddon that needs fending off, with the Metatron gone and all that…”
“Right,” Crowley drawled. Silence plagued them again temporarily, and Azirphale absently wondered if Crowley felt the same call back to when they were stationed similarly to this back in Eden, watching Adam and Eve stumble away from the garden as he was feeling now. He doubted it. “So…., when do you go back?”
“Excuse me?”
“Y’know, back THERE,” Crowley tipped his head up, gesturing to the sky scrawled above them. “The great big ol ’nine-to-five in the sky.”
“Oh…,” Aziraphale whispered, swearing that he could feel his wings droop. He refocused his attention on the sunset in front of him. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Not entirely sure? That doesn’t sound like a very ethereal answer, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s tone was jesting, borderline taunting. “C’mon, you’re an angel. Aren’t you supposed to be longingly waiting until you can go back to pushing paperwork in the name of the ‘greater good?’”
“Maybe, but I’ve never really been that good at doing what an angel is supposed to do. If I'm being honest, I’m not entirely sure if I’ll even go back- ever.”
Crowley turned to him like he had just given away his sword again, “You what? Why wouldn’t you? This is the ultimate promotion, angel. The brand new Voice of God- with the little trademark symbol and everything! With the Metatron gone, you’ll finally be able to bring about all of that change and good you drawl on about. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
Aziraphale felt something strange bubble in his chest, constricting his lungs before quickly downing the rest of his glass to banish it. It came right back.
“I used to think so,” he whispered, voice raw once more. “I used to want it to be so. But the more I think about it? No- it’s not.”
He turned to face Crowley in time to witness the demon’s eyebrows. Race towards his hairline, the motion causing his sunglasses to slide down the bridge of his nose-
His eyes.
The angel hadn’t seen those eyes in years, hadn’t taken in that bright shade of yellow since he let Crowley leave the shop- hadn’t seen him unguarded and laid bare as he had craved all this time. He never knew he was starving for it until he was fed, even if it was by accident. But then again, Crowley wasn’t hurrying to push up his glasses like he used to. He stared at the angel expectantly, a bit of him finally daring to hope. And so, Aziraphale continued.
“It’s no surprise, my dear. I never quite fit in upstairs, no matter how hard I tried. We both know it. No matter how much I gave, no matter how much I sacrificed of myself to fit in with ‘the great plan,’ no matter how many assignments I completed to the extent of my very being- it wasn’t good enough. I gave everything I loved and cared for, and it was never enough. I thought it would be different when I went back. I thought that with my guidance, my forged humanity, Heaven could be a welcoming place- that it could be good- that it could be like what it was supposed to be! I thought I could make it so no one felt like how I felt….how you felt. I thought I could make Heaven good enough for you, Crowley. And in doing so, I thought I could ensure that the fragile existence you carved out for yourself- that we carved out for ourselves- would be safe. But I was wrong, and I see that now!” He sobbed, his chest so tight it hurt. Aziraphale quickly turned back to the ledge, bracing his hands on either side of his body as he stared down at the city below before Crowley could watch him cry. He felt like throwing up, and it was all too much. He felt so small. “No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried or fought, it was always the same. It was like I never even left- I was still just Aziraphale. And for the longest time, for lifetimes, I accepted it as the way it simply was. I never thought it could be different, that it should be different until you showed me.”
“Aziraphale…,” Crowley whispered, his voice strained.
“You were there when I needed you most.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley was touching him now, his hand on his shoulder, grasping the fabric of his shirt tightly.
“You, whether you meant to you or not, taught me to love me- all parts of me- and in that way, you made me human. You made me the angel I needed to be to protect Earth, to protect people like Maggie and Nina- and,” Crowley pulled Aziraphale to face him again, glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide and glassy. Aziraphale took in a shuttering breath, attempting to still his shaky hands as they came up and clutched at the lapels of Crowley’s blazer, head hung low between them. “You made me who I am, what I am. And all I could do to thank you was leave, to run away from everything you helped me learn, and I am so sorry, my dear. I was just so scared-”
“Oh…oh, angel,” Crowley whispered gently, hands coming up to hold the angel’s face. Those hands, Aziraphale’s mind reeled, those hands had crafted stars with individual care, had brought entire nebulas to life, had seen to the creation of incomprehensible beauty, and yet they were cradling his face like it was the most precious thing they had ever had the honor of touching. Crowley's thumbs stroked his cheekbones, wiping cascading tears streaming from his angel as he sobbed once more.
“I-....,” Aziraphale choked again, barely able to get the words out on his second try. “I love you, Crowley. And I’m so sorry for everything.”
“You love me?” Crowley’s face was much closer now, to the point where Aziraphale could feel his breath against his forehead. He couldn’t look at him, couldn’t risk it. He just nodded dejectedly. “Angel, look at me, please?”
The angel screwed his eyes shut before looking up at the demon, one of his hands instinctively coming up to remove his glasses before halting just before he could grasp them. Crowley nudged his head forward, a silent act of permission. Aziraphale softly slid the sunglasses off of his face before gazing up at him, wide-eyed, this time with nothing between them, nothing left unsaid.
“There you are…,” Aziraphale smiled at him.
“Here I am,” Crowley returned it before leaning down and resting their foreheads together. “You love me, angel.”
“I do- so much that I feel like I’m about to burst.”
“I love you too,” Crowley tugged his angel closer, and a weight felt lifted. Crowley thought absently they hadn’t gotten this far last time, although no annoying old man was offering a lousy job looming over them this time. It was just them- just their us. “I’ve loved you since the creation- before Eden was even a concept. And then I loved you again on that wall, and again in Rome, and again in-.”
The demon was quickly cut off as Aziraphale pulled him down to his height, meeting him halfway by surging up on his toes and pressing a kiss onto his lips. Some humans equate the feeling of being kissed by someone they love to fireworks; Crowley found that to be a major understatement. He would describe it as watching a nebula burst by one’s hand. 6Crowley had felt the swell of pride and love in creating the stars, had traveled the earth, and had defied god herself, but that all felt like a pale imitation of what he felt at that moment.
6. Crowley’s assessment wasn’t entirely wrong, either. Because although neither of them knew it at the time, thousands of light years away, a new nebula later deemed Semper Fidelis by a strange man in a waistcoat with a telephone booth, burst to life. The celebration of two halves of one soul finally returning to each other, just as intended. return to text
This, he thought absently, is the point of it all.
“I love you,” Aziraphale breathed as they broke apart, arms wrapping around his demon’s neck. “And I think it’s time for me to show it.”
“Mm,” Crowley hummed, eyes closing contently as he leaned into the angel. “I think a few more of those will work, y’know, just to get the message across.”
“I’ll have to arrange one to be like those Richard Curtis films you like so much,” Aziraphale chuckled, blazing a trail of kisses across the planes of Crowley’s face, leaving freckles in their wake. “Need to brush up on my weather miracles- CROWLEY!?” Aziraphale gasped, pulling away as far as Crowley’s arms would let him as a sudden downpour manifested at the snap of the demon’s fingers. “WHAT THE HEAVEN ARE YOU DOING!?”
“We recreated Jane Austin! It’s only fair!” Crowley laughed, and a smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “C’mon! Give me a canopy, a fabulous kiss, and then we can go inside- where I expect an apology dance, more wine, and a cuddle.”
“What was the term you used, my dear? Vavoom?” Aziraphale teased, poking at Crowley’s sides before he unfurled his wings to come up and shelter the demon. Crowley swatted away his hands before pulling him closer, his wings covering the angel in kind.
“Shut up,” Crowley smiled before kissing him once more.