Archive of Our Own

One year after Armageddon

It is a nice day; as, Aziraphale reflects, all of them have been since the world didn’t end.

There is something to be said for the threat of complete extinction – without the actual extinction, of course. Even the more mundane parts of human life still strike him as more precious than he suspects they really are, and the less charming specimen of the human race instill a certain fondness in him rather than annoyance these days. So even ordinary days are nice, and strange encounters with strange humans are but another anecdote to tell over dinner.

And, of course, most of the days have been spent in good company.

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley every day. Sometimes they only talk on the phone. They have even been known to go for a stretch of two or three days with no contact at all, though those extreme cases always leave Aziraphale with an ashen taste in his mouth – probably all the words he would have said to Crowley that instead died on his tongue unspoken – and seem to have ceased occurring altogether quickly.

Where the failed apocalypse and respective quitting of their jobs might have been taken to mean that there was no reason for them to keep seeing each other regularly, it turned out that there was also no reason not to. And, really, why change a running system? If there was anything to be learned from aborted Armageddon, certainly it must be that. A good lesson, Aziraphale feels – after all, who doesn’t enjoy taking a friend out for a lovely dinner and a catch-up?

Though catching up is more of a ‘continuing the conversation where they left off last time’ these days, now that they see so much of each other that they never quite reach the stage of being out of the loop.

Still, Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy hearing about all the details making up the fabric of Crowley’s life. Even when they’re rather too modern for him to really make sense of.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he admits, lifting his eyebrows. “So this web portal, wine-“

“Vine,” Crowley corrects.

“That’s what I said. So, that shut down. And you’re working on influencing the replacement for it for the worse, which is a portal for… clocks?”

“It’s just called TikTok, angel. It’s got nothing to do with clocks.”

Crowley’s exasperation makes the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth tick up.

It’s not about the making sense of it, he reflects. It’s about the being told, and the wanting to tell, really. Everything else is inconsequential.

“Right. And it’s going well, is it? Or not well, which is how you want it to go.”

The irritation disperses, quick as it came. Crowley rarely manages to stay mad at him for long. The few times he did, Aziraphale takes great care not to think of excessively.

“Give it a few more years, it’ll be a complete disaster. Best part is, I barely had to poke around in it. They already had plenty of terrible ideas on their own! I got to sit back and enjoy the show, make a suggestion here and there, then leave and congratulate myself on a bad job well done.”

“You can be proud, I’m sure.”

“Always am. One of the better cardinal sins, if you ask me.”

Crowley sits back with a lazy grin, evidently very pleased with himself. The sun catches on the rim of his sunglasses. In this light, Aziraphale can almost make out his eyes behind them, the one constant in his ever-changing appearance.

Crowley has grown out his hair again after the world didn’t end, an appropriate occasion for change if there ever was one. It comes down almost to his shoulders now, framing his angular face with the kind of soft curls some humans spend hours in the bathroom trying to achieve. He has also changed the color to a slightly darker red, starkly contrasting the paleness of his skin.

It’s a rather fetching look on him.

“We’re not starting that debate again,” Aziraphale mutters, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“Spoilsport. Anyway.” Crowley shrugs. “Old habits and all that. Gotta do something to pass the time, don’t I?”

Aziraphale sits up straight, trying and failing to reign in his excitement as Crowley presents him with the perfect opening.

“Quite right,” he agrees primly. “And since we’re on the subject of pastimes already – as it happens, I do have some news to share.”

Because this, today, is not just a regular catch-up. Today, Aziraphale has finally gotten confirmation of what he’s been dying to tell Crowley about for weeks, though he always willed himself to hold back, to wait until there was actually something to announce. It’s half the excitement, after all; the anticipation preceding a reveal.

“Oh?” Crowley cocks an eyebrow. “Pray tell. Or, no, let me guess. You’ve gone and taken up baking again.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Er, no.”

“Cooking this time?”

“No.”

“Knitting?”

“I already knit, on occasion. You know this.”

During the world wars, when it got cold in the winters, Aziraphale took to the craft like a duck to water – it was something to keep his mind off the horrors unfolding outside his doorstep, while also providing a number of disadvantaged citizens with warm hands and feet. Crowley saw the heaps of wool when he stopped by in 1941 – his pointed remark about the goodness of angels lacked any real heat.

“Thought you might have taken it up full-time. Opened a new shop. Repurposed the old one.”

“I have not,” Aziraphale returns, affronted. “My shop does not need repurposing, thank you very much.”

“No, course not.”

He shakes himself impatiently. Puffing his chest, he lets a moment pass for dramatic effect before he announces, “I have written a novel.”

Crowley makes a sound that doesn’t quite convey surprise.

“Have you, now.” He regards him, amused. “Really should have guessed that. I’m losing my touch. Do as the humans do, isn’t that your device?”

“It was ours, I rather thought.”

Crowley tips his head to concede the point.

“So you’ve finally gone and written your own book,” he says, going heavy on the final letter so that the word pops in his mouth. They speak all the languages in the world and then some, and Aziraphale has heard him use a number of them in their time, but there is something about the way he wields the English language – how he plays around with the accents, how he has settled so comfortably into this one – that, for lack of a better word, comforts him.

Most people probably wouldn’t describe it as melodious, but it is – its very own melody, the music of Crowley that one understands better and better the more one listens, and after several millennia, Aziraphale is starting to get the hang of it. Is it because it’s so familiar, both of them having been based in London for so long now, or is it something inherent to Crowley that reassures him so, that feels like home when the sound washes over him?

It might very well take several more millennia to determine an answer. Luckily for them, they have the luxury of time. Perhaps not forever, as Crowley seems to think, who still believes this is only a breathing space before the big one, but still. There is time.

“What are you going to do with it now?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale makes, then remembers what they were talking about. “Oh! As a matter of fact, this is the actual bit of news – I have sent it to a few publishers, and one of them has responded. They’re interested in printing it!”

“Really?” Crowley makes an impressed face, and it’s not even his sarcastic one. “You astonish me. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, beaming. Then he remembers to be humble and backpedals. “Of course, with everything that’s being printed these days that passes for literature, I’m not sure someone’s willingness to sell my book is any kind of proof of skill on my part.”

Not that a mediocre book isn’t worth publishing if it brings someone joy – that is, after all, one of the main points of a book, second only to spreading knowledge, though that seems to have migrated over to the online spheres these days. Somewhat disappointing, though there is something to be said about accessibility, he supposes. So, joy. Not a bad reason to print a book in the slightest. Certainly not a bad reason to write one. If he thinks about it, it’s practically part of his job description. Fomenting and all that.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’ve picked up plenty of markers over the years.” Crowley searches for words. “You know, what to put in a story, what not. How to make it entertaining.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You don’t have any idea what those markers could possibly be, do you.”

“Not a one,” Crowley agrees. “But anyway, this calls for a celebration.” He snaps his fingers, and two flutes of champagne appear next to their wine glasses.

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes, already reaching for his. “I don’t think they even sell that here. Somebody’s bound to notice.”

“If they do, they’ll just think we sneaked a bottle in ourselves.”

“And throw us out. And then we’ll never get to go here again, and you know how much I enjoy their entrées.”

Crowley snorts. “Relax, angel. Nobody will care. Call it a little demonic intervention. My treat.”

He clinks their flutes together, catching his eyes over the rim of his glasses.

“To Britain’s newest, yet oldest, published author, and his novel- what’s it called?”

“’This ancient Darkness, ignited by Stars’,” Aziraphale tells him, beaming with delight.

“That’s the title? That’s… a whole title. Alright then. To you and ‘This ancient Darkness, ignited by Stars’. Satan, what a mouthful.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks strain with the force of his grin.

“Thank you, my dear. I’m quite excited, I’ll admit.”

Crowley hums. He leans in, his voice dropping when he says, “For the record, it suits you too. Pride.”

Aziraphale lowers his gaze. “Quiet, you old serpent,” he murmurs fondly.

Crowley’s lips are stretched wide when he sits back, taking a gulp before swirling the contents of his glass lazily.

“This ancient Darkness, ignited by Stars,” he repeats to himself, rolling the words on his tongue like he’s sampling wine. “Yeah, that seems about right. Wouldn’t do things by half, would you? Why choose between prose and poetry when you can do both?”

“Well, there’s no harm in indulging oneself a little when playing around with language, is there? Otherwise, why bother? Just look at dear old Oscar. Using flowery prose certainly didn’t hurt him.”

“That’s who you’re looking to? The man who was quite literally persecuted for his writing?”

“That was hardly his fault, was it?”

“Still. Not the best example, you gotta admit. So. Darkness. Stars. It’s fiction, I assume, not a book about actual physics?”

Aziraphale nods.

“Let me guess.” Crowley raises his glass to his lips again. “It’s historical fiction. Theological too, I suppose. Set in a garden, perhaps? On an ark?”

“It’s set in London,” Aziraphale says primly. “In the 1960s, so barely historical. And as a matter of fact, it’s a romance.”

Crowley almost spits out his champagne.

“My dear boy, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, flustered by how flustered Crowley seems as he puts down his glass. He hands him his napkin on reflex when it spills over, then picks up Crowley’s and starts dabbing at the splashes.

Crowley holds the napkin and stares at him. With the glasses obscuring his eyes, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but it certainly seems to be something.

“You… you’re writing romances.”

“Yes.”

“As in love stories. Stories… about love.”

“That is what’s generally understood as a romance, yes.”

“Right. Right, right, right.” Crowley purses his lips, making an undefinable sound in his throat. Aziraphale really wishes he could see his eyes. "What, uh. What's brought this on, then?"

The way he’s asking makes it sound like he is desperate to appear uninterested in the answer, while most certainly being deeply interested in it.

“Well… nothing, really. I suppose I was just inspired.”

Crowley opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is another strangled noise before he clamps it shut again.

“Really, whatever is the matter with you?” Aziraphale frets.

“Inspired,” Crowley pronounces with the same level of condemnation he’d pronounce the name of a stuffed animal christened by a three-year old. “Who’s inspiring you?” He leans in, his arms crossed on the table. “How have you been keeping busy?”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat up. “What are you insinuating?”

“Answer the question, angel.”

“There’s nothing to answer! What, do you think I’ve been going around courting humans behind your back?”

Crowley stares at him for a few seconds, then seems to relax marginally.

“Well. You could have,” he returns, his nonchalance a stark contrast to the intensity he displayed not five seconds ago.

“Well, I haven’t been.” What a suggestion, really. It’s not even the idea of consorting with humans, but the notion that he’d do something like that and keep it from Crowley. As if he wouldn’t have mentioned it to him, what with how often they talk to each other! It’s like Crowley has no faith in him at all.

For a few seconds, silence reigns between them as Aziraphale struggles to regain control of the conversation. Nothing in the world could have made him predict this strange turn it has taken.

Before he can pick up the thread, Crowley slinks back in his chair and crosses his arms.

“Suppose it does make sense,” he mutters. “You being a being of love and all.”

“Well. Certainly,” Aziraphale agrees. A perfectly sound explanation. No reason to still be so flustered. Even Crowley seems to have recovered from whatever just assailed him.

“Can I read it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snap up. “What?”

“Read it,” Crowley repeats impatiently. “Can I?”

“Oh.” Somehow, Aziraphale has failed to consider this possibility. “I didn’t- I assumed you wouldn’t want to. Since you don’t read. Generally speaking.”

Crowley lifts his shoulders. “Gotta do something to pass the time, right?” he echoes. “And if I’m gonna start, I might as well do it with one of yours. Like I said, you must have picked up some stuff over the years. Maybe it’ll be worth my while.”

“Or maybe you’ll have something new to make fun of,” Aziraphale adds, sighing when Crowley’s mouth ticks up. He doesn’t join in on the joke though, and eventually Aziraphale grows fidgety underneath his silent stare.

“Well, it’s just a- a story. About love, and humans being good, of course, at the heart of them, and- oh," he mutters, dropping his eyes, suddenly bashful. "You'll think it's silly."

"I'll think it’s- what do you- life's silly, angel, have you looked around recently? Not like- not like I'm not used to it or anything, what with having been around since always. And what's wrong with silly, anyway? I'm a fan of silly, personally, me. Can't go wrong with silly, I always say."

Crowley shuts his mouth abruptly, as if clamping down on more words that are attempting escape, not few of them being silly.

Aziraphale blinks. They look at each other.

“I mean, if you don't want me to read it-"

“No, I wasn't saying that-"

“I wouldn't want to force you to share-"

“I never-"

“If the idea is so terrible to you, only I don't know why you'd even bring it up then-"

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cuts him off. “I didn't mean I wouldn't want you to read it. I just wouldn't want you to be bored.” He inhales sharply, feeling the truth of it. “I would love for you to read it.”

Processing this, Crowley nods slowly.

“Well then.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I suppose I'll do it. As a favor and all.” He holds out his palm as if expecting him to pull out a manuscript, or perhaps miracle it up. His fingers wriggle impatiently. “Hand it over.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Obviously I don’t have it on me. And it isn’t quite done yet, anyway.”

“I thought you said you’d sent it to publishers.”

Aziraphale feels himself growing hot beneath his collar. “Well- yes, but it needs polishing. And I’m sure I’m not supposed to show it to you before it’s released anyway.”

Crowley just looks at him. His silently lifted eyebrow says more than any words could.

Aziraphale sighs, feeling his already weak resolve crumble. “Fine. Come back to the bookshop with me, I’ll give you the most recent draft to read. Confidentially, it goes without saying.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make any TikToks about it until after it’s released,” Crowley assures him with a shit-eating grin.

“You know I don’t know what that means,” Aziraphale tells him, exasperated.

“Which is precisely why I said it.”

“Sly devil,” Aziraphale mutters. Crowley looks pleased enough to start purring, were he more felinely inclined.

They finish dinner – and indeed no one bothers them about the champagne that most certainly isn’t on the menu – before Crowley drives them to the bookshop. He has carried on with the conversation as usual after the little hiccup from before, but Aziraphale can tell that his thoughts are occupied when they commence the drive in silence.

Still, it’s hardly uncomfortable, and Aziraphale feels his own attention wander once he’s in the passenger seat. The Bentley is as good as new, or it is new, after Adam remade it. You would never know, by looking at it, everything that happened. It’s the same with his bookshop. Exactly the same, and yet not. All the more surreal, then, to remember. How close they came. How much was already lost, and would have stayed that way if Adam had been any less the person he is.

Aziraphale rubs his hands over the dashboard, feeling the rough material. It does all seem a bit ineffable, in hindsight.

Crowley parks in his usual spot next to the bookshop, unoccupied and waiting for him as always. He trails after Aziraphale, who lets them in and fights a flutter of nerves as he shuts the door behind himself.

“There we are, then. Make yourself at home, dear. I’ll just be a moment.” He turns, then realizes that he has nowhere to go, because he has nothing to do. “Er. Do you want something to drink?”

“What’ve you got?” Crowley asks, already claiming his armchair, which he can’t help but notice contrasts nicely with his new, darker hair.

“Red,” Aziraphale says, then starts. “Uh, red wine, I mean. An 1890 bottle I’ve been saving.”

“Good year, yeah?”

“Good enough. I knew the lad who ran the vineyard, though. He was marvelous at his job.”

“I’ll take it.”

Aziraphale nods. Happy to now have a task to complete, he fetches the bottle and two of his nicest glasses by hand (the choice takes the better part of five minutes; all of his glasses are exceptionally nice).

Crowley accepts it with a nod, sniffing the contents and making an appreciative noise before he puts it aside untouched. He has taken his glasses off while Aziraphale was gone, and his eyes bore into him without any barrier now.

“So. Where is it?”

Aziraphale sighs. He takes a sip of liquid courage, then puts the glass down as well.

“Wait here.”

He heads for his desk in the backroom, where the latest draft of his novel lies as a neat stack of papers. Still, he fusses with them in an attempt to straighten them even more as he returns, knowing full well that they will likely end up in complete disarray before Crowley is through with them.

“Well. This is it. Not even all that long, really. They say that’s for the best, when it’s your first. Something to do with publishing.”

Crowley’s eyes zero in on the script.

“Angel.”

“Yes.”

“Have you been writing this book… on a typewriter?”

He doesn’t see why he needs to ask, since the evidence is clearly in front of him. 

“What if I have?” he asks, holding the pages to his chest. “It’s not like it’s forbidden, just because there are other ways of writing things now.”

“Faster ways. Better ways.”

“I simply happen to enjoy the act of it, rather than tapping away on those modern machines all day.”

Being able to simply miracle away any typing mistakes does help, he’ll admit. But then, he isn’t an angel for him not to make use of his abilities.

“Easier ways,” Crowley carries on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Oh, do be quiet.” He moves to hand it over, then halts. “Just… give it a fair chance, will you? I have grown rather attached to these gentlemen. I’m not sure I could take it if you took them apart.”

Crowley’s gaze has sharpened as he spoke.

“It’s a gay romance, then?” He makes a low sound, entirely too gleeful as his lips stretch into a grin Aziraphale can only describe as sardonic. “Say, angel, did you write a spicy romance? You know those will sell very well with a certain crowd. Not a bad decision, commercially, if you ask me.”

“It’s not ‘spicy’,” Aziraphale returns with a pointed look. “But it is gay, yes. You know what they say. Write what you know.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline.

“Well, that’s a different tune than before. Thought you said you hadn’t been busy. Someone specific inspiring you after all, then?”

“Oh, not like that and you know it!”

Why does Crowley insist on riling him up? Well, he is a demon. Aziraphale tends to forget the fact, these days. It hasn’t seemed to matter in a long time. Not that it ever did, except officially, where head offices were concerned, not when Crowley was always rather less demonic in nature than some of his colleagues. Kind, Aziraphale has thought time and again over the years, and even dared to say on occasion. These days, Crowley tends to forget why he used to get so mad about it too.

He realizes he has stopped speaking when Crowley gives him a flat, yet somehow expectant look. It’s a look very clearly asking him to explain himself. “Like what, then.”

Aziraphale sinks into his chair, smoothing down his waistcoat.

“Well, you know about the clubs I used to frequent. As it happened, most of them were home to a particular crowd.” He sighs. “All those lovely boys, having to hide away for so long – and they created such strong communities among themselves, I’m sure you’ll remember. I’ve always felt quite at home there. I suppose I’ve felt… like them. A kinship, almost. I understood. And they understood that I understood them.”

“And so you got adopted by a bunch of gays.”

“If you want to put it that way. I did pick up a thing or two about the queer lifestyle in those circles. And I live in Soho, for God’s sake,” he adds. “It’s harder not to become familiar with it.”

Crowley concedes the point. “Well then,” he says, wiggling his fingers expectantly.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale loosens his clutch on the paper. “Here you go. I don’t suppose you’ll enjoy it very much, but, well. Enjoy.”

“Right,” Crowley mutters. He accepts the script, then settles in, flips the first page, and begins to read.

“Oh. I didn’t mean for you to- never mind,” Aziraphale changes course when Crowley’s eyes slide up to him. What’s the harm, really? If Crowley wants to read it here, now, then he is more than welcome to. Aziraphale hardly minds having him for company in the shop; in fact, he rather enjoys it.

Besides, it’s a nice change, not having to find an ending to their time together merely because it’s getting late and propriety dictates that they should.

For the first two pages, Aziraphale sits and watches Crowley read, then has to admit to himself that this kind of behavior is perhaps not quite acceptable, socially speaking. So he retrieves the book he started this morning and settles in.

He tries not to pay too much attention to Crowley as he reads, but even so he can’t help but notice the shift in his posture a few pages in. When he looks up, Crowley is frowning, his eyes moving rapidly. Aziraphale watches him a few more seconds, but he seems fairly absorbed, and disturbing him would be entirely beside the point.

So he returns to his own book, the turning of the pages coming from the other chair the only sound disturbing the silence.

It disturbs it… frequently. More and more frequently, actually. Unusually so.

Aziraphale lifts his head, no longer worried about coming off as rude as he stares at Crowley. He’s reading at a speed that is notably inhuman, turning the pages faster and faster until he’s practically ripping through the script.

“Uhm. Crowley?”

Crowley doesn’t answer.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale tries again.

“Fine,” Crowley chokes out.

He doesn’t sound fine, nor does he seem to be really enjoying the experience of reading, though the story is certainly eliciting some sort of emotional response.

Eventually, Crowley looks up, staring at him unmovingly.

Aziraphale blinks at him.

“I honestly can’t tell if this is a good or a bad reaction,” he finally says, just to break the tense silence.

Crowley does something with his face, makes an unhelpful sound, and then buries himself in the remaining pages again. He is halfway through already, and it looks like he’ll be done before the sun comes up.

And he hasn’t even touched his wine.

Aziraphale gives up any pretenses of not watching before long. It’s not like Crowley notices, anyway. So instead he tracks his progress and his reaction to what he reads until he finishes the final page, blowing out a deep breath as if coming out of a marathon.

“So,” Aziraphale tries.

Crowley shakes his head, eyes raised to the ceiling.

“Do you know-“

He breaks off, then sits up, his expression somewhat wild.

“Do you realize what you’ve written, angel?”

Huffing, Aziraphale straightens.

“Well, considering my occupation, I should very well hope to recognize a novel when I write one, Crowley. Whatever are you on about?”

He looks at him like he’s a bit slow. Considering that he isn’t following Crowley at all, he may very well be.

“This guy. Your character. Andy.”

“Yes.”

“He’s an astronomer.”

“Indeed he is,” Aziraphale confirms, still unsure where he is going with this.

“An astronomer,” Crowley repeats, like it might click the second time around. “Who loves the stars. Yearning for a place he can never go. Where he could take his boyfriend away from- from all the shit happening on Earth.”

“The conflicts with their families, yes,” Aziraphale agrees.

“Right. And where he could.” He breaks off with a choked sound. “Where he could keep him safe.”

Taking a deep breath, he looks at him desperately, willing him to see a point that still very much eludes Aziraphale.

“Cast out by his family,” he carries on when nothing comes. “He can never go home.”

“Yes. I thought it was rather sad. It happens to a lot of people, even today. I’m sure many readers will be able to relate.”

“No shit,” Crowley says flatly, still staring at him. The look in his eyes is pleading, bordering on frantic.

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re starting to worry me.”

For a moment, his desperation seems to peak. Then, with a deep breath, it crumbles and changes into something more contemplative.

“You gave them a happy ending,” he then says, apropos of nothing.

“Of course I did. What, did you think I wouldn’t?”

“No,” Crowley mutters. He purses his lips, his eyes now carefully averted. “Just saying. Would be more realistic if you hadn’t, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. Yes, lots of gay people haven’t gotten their happy endings in history, but they have certainly gotten their happy times. Happy moments. And some did live happily ever after. It was possible. And either way, they deserve it, don’t you think?”

“They deserve it,” Crowley repeats.

Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s just an echo or agreement, but he says anyway, “Certainly.”

Crowley seems to struggle through an internal debate. Then he lets out a noisy, deep breath through his lips.

“Right, well. That was… something. Not a bad job, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale flushes, pleased. “Do you really think so? I’m so glad, I really wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

Crowley makes a vaguely affirmative noise. “You got any more of those?”

“What? Stories?”

“That you’ve written, yes. Romances.”

Aziraphale can’t help but preen a little.

“Developing a taste for it, are we?”

Crowley makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Maybe I’m, er. Getting into all that. Reading, novels. Not sure yet. We’ll see.”

“Well!” Aziraphale claps his hands together. “I’m sure I can help you out. There are plenty of good ones worth reading. But yes, I am writing another one myself, as it happens. I do have a few more lying around, from when I first tried my hand, but those weren’t very good.”

“What’s it about? The new one. Or the old ones, really.”

“You’ll find out when I’m done with it,” Aziraphale says primly. “And I’m not telling you about the old ones. I might reuse some of those plots. That would entirely spoil the surprise.”

For a moment Crowley looks like he is going to threaten his books to get it out of him or start smoking (literally – Aziraphale glances at his smoke detectors, hoping he won’t have to miracle them off). But then he deflates, finally reaching for his wine and staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Yeah,” he mutters, raising the glass to his lips. “You can’t rush these things, I suppose.”

*

Two years after Armageddon

“Finally,” Crowley says, crossing his arms. His foot is tapping a restless rhythm, as if he’s been waiting for decades and still hasn’t been absolved from it.

“You could have read any number of well-written novels in the meantime to keep you busy, you know,” Aziraphale admonishes, a well-worn argument that has the same effect on Crowley it had the first time he said it – none. He can’t remember how many times they have gone through this exact conversation over the past two years, whenever Crowley started needling him about his next book and he started telling him about not rushing the process. “You didn’t have to wait for mine.”

“That would have been beside the point,” Crowley says nonsensically. Aziraphale, who has gotten used to his antics long ago, only hums.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

“Can I finally know what it’s about now?”

“You can read it and find out,” Aziraphale tells him. Unable to help himself, he starts beaming as he presents Crowley with the first advanced copy of his second novel. He did make him wait this time, not until the official release but at least until he could hand him an actual book rather than a stack of loose pages. For propriety’s sake, he told him when asked. In truth, it was mostly because he enjoyed watching him squirm now that he knows Crowley is actually interested in his writing.

Grumbling, Crowley snatches the book out of his hand, then stares at the cover.

“’Home, approximately’,” he reads. “You actually went with that. Still don’t know what that’s even supposed to mean.”

“Well, it’s one of the central themes of the story. The concept of home.”

“Will I even understand what you’re on about, or is this whole thing just you talking in riddles?”

“Really, it’s not that hard to grasp, my dear. It’s about feeling lost, and not knowing where home is, and coming to understand that it might not actually be a place, but a person.”

“Right,” Crowley says very slowly, drawing out every single letter.

“No need to sound so dubious. It’s something a little more modern this time, which I’m sure will be to your taste. Oh, and you’ll like this – one of the characters drives a vintage car!”

Crowley jerks in response. His mouth makes a valiant effort at forming words without ever getting to the point of speaking them out loud.

“Not a Bentley, surely,” he finally says, somewhat faint.

“Oh, no. I did think about it, seeing as I’m so familiar with it, but I don’t want to just borrow from reality for my stories.”

Crowley narrows his eyes at him. “Wouldn’t want that, yeah,” he says flatly.

He turns the book over to skim the summary on the back, then cracks it open.

Aziraphale stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Before you get into it, I had an idea I wanted to propose. I thought we could make a day of it, actually. Since you wanted to read it right away last time, and I’d quite like to do something to celebrate, and it’s such a nice day today…”

“Sure,” Crowley agrees, more readily than Aziraphale expected. “Where do you want to go? I can take you anywhere you want.”

“Oh, this is just like in the book,” Aziraphale notes, delighted. Crowley trips over his feet when he steers him out of the bookshop, locking up with a snap of his fingers. “Just make a stop at that Italian bakery we went to last month. I did call them in advance, I thought even if you didn’t want to – but most of the time you do – and it’s never a bad time to have pastries, even without a picnic…”

He chatters on as Crowley drives, and once they have retrieved the baked goods along with something to drink, he directs him to a nice little spot outside the city, away from all the bustling noise.

“Oh, how lovely,” he sighs when they step into the meadow. Wild flowers are growing everywhere here, a sea of color amidst the low buzz of the busy little insects they’re disturbing. Something about it reminds him of Eden, a little, though that might just be the looming presence by his side.

Crowley makes a nonchalant sound. “’s not bad. Bit bright,” he adds, squinting at the sun.

“Well, it’s a good thing you brought your sunglasses then,” Aziraphale tells him mildly, though he’d personally much prefer for him to take them off.

Drawing up a nice, big blanket with a few fluffy pillows for comfort, he sits down and opens the box of pastries, inhaling deeply to catch the buttery scent.

Crowley plops down next to him and picks up the book while Aziraphale miracles them two glasses and fills them generously.

Crowley accepts one without looking up, which gives Aziraphale an opportunity to look at him without being caught. His eyes are concealed, of course, but even so he’s quite good at reading his expressions these days. The lines on his forehead are pronounced, probably in thought. His lips are ever so slightly pursed, looking exceptionally pink and soft like that. The low ponytail he’s wearing, reaching just past his nape, swings softly with every shift of his head, the few loose strands framing his face swaying in the gentle breeze. He certainly didn’t look like this in Eden. Always changing, not just going with the times but playing with them in a way Aziraphale has never learned. And yet, underneath it all, unchanging. A constant like the tide, or the turn of the seasons.

Crowley lifts the wine to his lips, a brief expression of appreciation crossing his features when he takes the first sip. He opens the book with one hand – a needlessly complicated move that somehow still works – and starts reading. Allowing himself a few more seconds to watch, Aziraphale then busies himself with the pastries to avoid staring at him the whole time.

A few pages in – at a guess, the characters have just decided on their spontaneous road trip after one of them, Alan, finds himself overwhelmed with his life and his friend (and unspoken love interest) offers to take him away – Crowley squints and starts leafing through the pages.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes.

“Just trying to see something.”

“You can’t just do that! What are you trying to see?”

“Is the whole thing just gonna be the road trip?”

“For the most part, yes. There are flashbacks peppered in. And I’ve placed them very deliberately, so you really shouldn’t read them out of order,” he emphasizes.

He’s pretty sure Crowley is rolling his eyes.

“Something’s going on between them. I can tell,” he mutters. “And I don’t mean the romantic tension, I’ve picked up on that well enough.”

Secretly pleased, Aziraphale sits back. Something is going on – the last time the two characters saw each other, they shared a moment that was too romantic to explain away, and they haven’t addressed it since. He made sure that it’s palpable in the atmosphere as they drive, like something sitting between them in the car. It is a big reveal, when it comes. What happened, and why it scared them so much. Why they aren’t yet together, even though they both desperately want to be. He’s quite proud of how it all came together.

“Pastry?” he offers cantingly, and the flat look Crowley gives him in return isn’t at all diminished by his glasses.

He does accept the pastry, though.

Aziraphale watches in dismay as crumbs land on the pages, accompanied by greasy fingerprints. He wills himself not to say anything – this is, after all, Crowley’s copy. He can do with it what he likes. And really, if he decides to leave his mark on it, there is something nice about the idea.

If he doesn’t think about what exactly that mark looks like too hard.

“Satan,” Crowley mutters a couple more pages in. He’s about a third through. The book won’t last him very long like this. Maybe this time he’ll let Aziraphale recommend something to read afterwards, to keep him busy while he waits for the next one. Aziraphale is already working on something new – his publisher has expressed interest in the idea and was confident that ‘Home, approximately’ would sell well enough for him to offer another deal. He thinks this next one might take some time, though. Crowley will have to be patient.

“What is it?”

“They’re obviously in love. Mutually. You can spot it from a mile away. Why aren’t they talking about it?”

“It’s not always that simple, is it? Just love isn’t always enough.”

Crowley glances at him over his glasses.

“That’s a radical take, coming from an angel.”

Something tightens in Aziraphale’s chest, an awareness of the fundamental truth of his own words. “Well, it’s true. I’ve been around long enough to realize that.”

Crowley keeps looking at him, his lips twitching with words yet undecided.

“What’s missing?” he finally asks. “What more do they need, so that it’s enough?”

“Finding that out is what the whole book is about, dear.”

“Indulge me. Say it.”

He sighs, popping a bit of cherry pastry into his mouth as he thinks. He makes an appreciative sound as the flavor unfolds. “Really, you have to try this one next. It’s lovely.”

Crowley’s gaze flickers to his lips.

“The question, angel,” he hisses.

Swallowing, Aziraphale licks the crumbs from his mouth. “Some of it is their respective backgrounds, of course. Things they assume to be insurmountable. But what they do over the course of the journey is stop assuming and start talking about them. And as their understanding of each other and their feelings develops, so does their relationship.”

Crowley looks unconvinced. “So all they needed to do was talk? That doesn’t make sense. They talk all the time. They’ve been talking for pages and pages.”

“I think you’ll find it’s not the talking itself, but what’s talked about that makes a difference.”

“So they talk their backgrounds away and it’s happily ever after from there on.”

“Their backgrounds remain the same, of course,” Aziraphale tells him pointedly. “But they find ways of dealing with them. Together. Without spoiling too much of the ending.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Crowley mutters, picking the book back up.

Undeterred, Aziraphale asks, “Cherry pastry?”

Eyes already back on the page, Crowley distractedly opens his mouth.

Aziraphale falters only for a moment, then tears off a small piece and gingerly places it between Crowley’s lips. His fingers brush them as he retreats, the warmth and the hint of wetness sending a very immediate sensation through him that is hard to identify. Some demonic side effect, perhaps? He dismisses the idea out of hand – it wasn’t unpleasant, is the thing.

Then again, neither are his eyes, and there is certainly something demonic about them.

At the contact, Crowley has suddenly gone rigid, as if realizing belatedly that he’s made a mistake. His gaze flickers to him, and they stare at each other for the span of a heartbeat, neither of them moving.

Then Crowley shuts his mouth and starts chewing furiously.

“How, uh, how’s that?”

He’s taking a good long while to swallow. “Good, yeah,” he finally croaks. Aziraphale hands him his glass, which he accepts gratefully, gulping down the contents before burying his nose in the book again. Quite literally; between the cover and the glasses, there isn’t much beyond the forehead that Aziraphale can see of his face.

“Are you quite alright, dear boy?”

“Hng,” Crowley says, which Aziraphale takes to mean yes.

He picks up another pastry and, now that he is hidden from Crowley’s sight, abandons all pretenses of not watching him.

Time passes amiably like this. There’s an almost meditative quality to it; their peaceful surroundings, good food, cherished company, and enough space to let his thoughts wander; back to Eden, to Crowley, to the new story he’s writing, to the not pressing and yet significant question of which pastry to try next.

Crowley shifts eventually, his posture relaxing again in time. He has made good progress with the book when a low growling emerges from his throat.

“I thought you said they’d talk,” he says accusingly when Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow.

“Well, not all at once, obviously. These things take time.”

“So I’ve heard,” Crowley mutters. He crosses his legs and leans across them until his back is draped over his lap, a pose Aziraphale has witnessed similarly in many yoga classes, though never to read in. His elbows are on the blanket, the book in his hands, and he seems to be having no trouble remaining in this position for longer. Then again, he was a snake. It seems to Aziraphale he has picked the parts of that he liked best and refused to let them go even in this form, which has physical limitations that should technically prevent him from those.

Still, he doesn’t seem entirely happy. There’s a frown on his forehead, and he’s practically slapping the pages away rather than turning them. When he makes another sound of frustration, Aziraphale huffs.

“What is it now?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, clearly not.” He looks at Crowley’s face, which is doused in sunlight. He admires the sight before it hits him. “Oh, is it too bright for you to read? Of course, it is rather sunny, isn’t it? Must be hurting your eyes a little, I imagine. Here, how about I take over for a while and you just lie back and relax?”

Crowley looks up at him. The frown doesn’t disappear, but he doesn’t decline the offer either. Slowly, he unfolds himself into a sitting position, thrusting the book towards him wordlessly.

Then he flops down on his back, stretching out his legs.

“Where were you?”

“Crepes,” Crowley says tersely, which is a funny way to pronounce something so lovely. It almost sounds like an accusation.

Well, they haven’t had any of those in quite a while. Perhaps reading about it made him remember the last time, like it made Aziraphale remember when he wrote it. He’s probably in the mood for some now as well. Something to keep in mind, Aziraphale thinks to himself, and then picks up where Crowley left off.

He reads to the end of the chapter, and then halfway through the next one before he pauses, eyeing Crowley for a reaction.

“Well, what do you think so far?”

Crowley has both arms flung over his face, so it’s hard to make out any kind of expression.

Then again, he has been lying there in absolute silence for quite some time – and he has not fallen asleep in the middle, Aziraphale has checked. If he’d hated it, surely he wouldn’t have suffered through it so quietly.

“Inconclusive,” he mutters.

“Well, there isn’t all that much left, but I do believe the ending is defining.”

Crowley pushes himself up on his elbows, eyes boring into Aziraphale’s over his glasses. They look like molten amber in the sunlight.

“Tell me something. And don’t say I’ll have to read it to find out. They get together, yes? And home- home is each other, isn’t it? That’s gonna be your whole point?”

“I rather thought it was a nice one,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley grumbles something unintelligible, fingers tightening around the picnic blanket.

“And it’s a happy ending.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Cause they deserve that. And it’s not impossible. For them to have it.”

“Quite so.”

Crowley’s fingers relax.

“Well.” He sniffs, then lies back down with a lazy wave of his hand, face tilted skyward. “In that case, read on.”

*

Four years after Armageddon

The doors to the bookshop burst open only seconds after Aziraphale senses him. He’s on his feet in an instant, rushing out of the backroom.

“Crowley!” He beams. “I didn’t know you were back from Japan already. How did your little temptation go?”

Crowley impatiently waves his hand, taking off his glasses and pushing them over the neck of his shirt. He hasn’t been gone for long – he only saw him last week, but Aziraphale still drinks in the sight of him, cataloguing any changes. The braid is new, he notes, reaching down his back far longer than his hair was at their last dinner.

“I heard your new book’s out,” he says instead of a greeting.

Aziraphale gives him a look. “You make it sound like you had to hear about it on the street, my dear. I did send you that picture.”

He received a stack of copies fresh off the printer just yesterday and decided to put the smartphone Crowley has forced him to get acquainted with to good use. He still mostly uses it to text Crowley – any other function feels superfluous to him, having the ability to make any phone do whatever he wants by asking nicely. Still, he has to admit that it’s nice to send the occasional picture, or receive one in return when Crowley has seen something that made him think of him.

“Don’t tell me you came back early just for that.”

Crowley shrugs, making a beeline for the armchair.

“Kept me waiting long enough for this one, didn’t you? Wasn’t gonna waste any more time.”

“You can’t rush art, Crowley. And this one was more emotionally challenging than the first two. I had to allow myself some time to get it right.”

“Two years,” he accuses through his teeth.

“You cannot tell me this has felt like a significant amount of time, given your age.”

“You could have just shown it to me before. But no, you had to go about it the proper way. Well, it’s out now, so hand it over.”

“Really, now, this isn’t a robbery, Crowley. Do sit down and have some tea. I’ll bring you a copy in just a moment.”

As he clutters around the room – he has just brewed a fresh pot, as it happens, and only needs a couple of biscuits to go with it – he calls over his shoulder, “It’s not technically out yet, anyway, so you should be glad I’m letting you read the advanced copy out of the goodness of my heart.”

Crowley snorts, loud enough for him to hear in the other room.

“Thanks, angel,” he emphasizes when Aziraphale hands him the cup.

“You’re quite welcome.” He picks up the book he set aside for Crowley, studying the cover for a moment. He wonders if this will be more to his taste, if he’ll get a straight answer from him at any rate. Crowley seems to have a rather complicated relationship with romance books.

“Don’t say anything about the title,” he warns as he gives it to him. “You’ve told me what you think.”

“I didn’t say it’s terrible, angel. ‘In Lasting Darkness, A Slumber Deep’ just feels more like some melodramatic poetry collection than a romance novel. Plus, I’m sensing a bit of a theme with the dark stuff.”

“I don’t see what’s bad about that. In any case, it’s appropriate.”

“Because that guy’s in a coma?”

It’s about as much as Aziraphale has let him coax out of him about the plot.

“Partially. Read it-“

“And find out, yeah. I know the drill.”

Crowley leans back in the chair and gets right to it.

Aziraphale finds himself more nervous than expected, certainly more than the previous times. There’s just something about this one that feels… vulnerable, in a way he can’t really put into words. But it’s written now, and whatever Crowley has to say about it, he’s just going to have to accept it.

He wills himself not to linger on the thought and finds something to keep him busy. He has barely gotten started on his own reading, though, when the silence is disturbed by an ominous, “Uh.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks, a tad too fast to be casual. Not that Crowley seems to notice, eyes still fixed on the book, deep lines creasing his forehead.

“That guy. He’s called… Tony.”

“It’s a nice name. Don’t you think?”

“And he’s already in the coma.”

“Well, yes. Indeed.”

Crowley throws him a suspicious look, but doesn’t elaborate his obscure point further.

When he reaches the end of the chapter, he makes an affronted sound, his head whipping up.

“He has been sleeping for several years, angel?”

“Well, sleeping is perhaps not the right word for it. But yes, that is essentially the story. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

Crowley scowls. “Nothing,” he hisses, which sounds like everything, and returns to the book.

He reads for a while, uncharacteristically quiet, which is enough cause for concern that Aziraphale keeps stealing glances at him, just to see what’s going on. His frown lines are so deep they seem permanently chiseled into his face. His breathing is harsh, perhaps with frustration or with anger, and it seems to grow more strained the more Aziraphale pays attention to it.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” he asks when he can no longer in good conscience pretend not to notice it.

Crowley looks up, and Aziraphale is struck to find an expression of genuine distress on his face.

“Oh, goodness. Oh, you really don’t like this one, do you?” He wrings his hands, growing distressed in return. “What’s the problem, is it too triste? I thought you’d like that about it. There is a happy ending, of course, but they certainly have to wait for it this time.”

Crowley shakes his head mutely.

“Angel. It’s so…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Lonely.”

Considering this, Aziraphale nods slowly. “I suppose it must be. Think of it – your partner is there, in some way, but he is still entirely out of reach. And you have to go on by yourself, day by day, taking the long way around until you can be with him again one day. If you can.”

Crowley doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the book. “And it’s worse, because- because he doesn’t sleep. The other one.”

Aziraphale nods avidly. “I did rather like that little dichotomy. His partner, unconscious, life passing him by, while he, an insomniac, has to stay awake and bear it all.” He halts. “It’s a good thing, though, the loneliness. Isn’t it? That you feel it. That means I’ve told the story right.”

Crowley grimaces. “Suppose so, yeah.”

He stares at the pages. Then he shuts the book abruptly. Aziraphale blinks.

“Don’t you want to finish it?”

“I will. Later. Gotta get to that promised happy ending, don’t I?” He rubs his nose. “Don’t mind taking a break though. Been a while since I ate something. How about it, angel? Let me take you to dinner. Feel like I still owe you a few.”

“Oh!” It would be ridiculous to keep count at this point, and if they’re entirely honest then it has always been ridiculous, given their unlimited access to money, but Aziraphale isn’t about to turn down an opportunity when it presents itself to him on a silver platter. “In that case, how do you feel about something on the fancier side? I haven’t been to that Italian place in Chelsea since they got their Michelin star. Or sushi at our usual spot? Though you did just come back from Japan, you’ll want some variety, I suppose.”

Crowley gives him a contemplative look, then unfolds his limbs as he gets out of the armchair.

“Let’s do the Ritz, if you’re in the mood for fancy. Might as well do it right. And I do believe they’ll find a table freeing up for us just as we arrive.”

“How convenient,” Aziraphale says, poorly suppressing a delighted smile. “We haven’t been there in far too long, you’re quite right. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

It is, after all, one of the greatest pleasures in life, to have all the world to choose from and go back to a familiar favorite anyway, knowing what awaits, knowing it will not disappoint.

He watches Crowley drop the book on his coffee table, and he smiles, because that means he will come back to the shop with him later. Predictability can be a wonderful thing indeed.

Then Crowley holds out his arm for him, and he takes it, still beaming and already considering what they’ll have for dinner.

*

Five years after Armageddon

“I have a surprise,” Aziraphale announces. They’re strolling through St. James’ Park, nothing but a leisurely afternoon ahead of them, and the sun catches on the auburn of Crowley’s hair brilliantly as he turns to look at him, an eyebrow lifting over his sunglasses.

“You’re finally opening that bakery, then?”

“Oh, do shut up. If I take up baking again, you’ll know. You’ll have to sample the goods, after all.”

“Right. Course.”

“It’s about my new book,” Aziraphale reveals.

“Oh?” Crowley asks, suddenly looking very interested.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it’s done.”

Crowley promptly trips over his feet. Aziraphale reaches out to steady him with a hand on his arm, meeting his accusing look with an indulgent smile.

“How do you mean, it’s done?”

“Written, sent out, and as of this week printed as well.”

“You’ve finished it already? You never said anything.”

From his tone of voice, one could think this was the greatest betrayal he has ever been subjected to.

“I did say I was writing something new. I just didn’t mention how fast my progress was. I was a little surprised myself, I’ll have you know. This one practically wrote itself.”

He realizes he never let go of Crowley, then finds that it’s actually quite nice to walk like this and loops his arm through his.

“Don’t worry, it’s much more lighthearted than the other one,” he carries on. “Not exactly a comedy, but it does have its funny moments, in my opinion, at least.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, I think. What’s it called?”

“’Towards the Light we Grow’.”

Crowley does not look impressed.

“Taking a break from the darkness then, are we?”

“That was only twice, Crowley.”

“Twice out of three times is not exactly a little.”

“Four times, now. An even balance. I have a copy for you in the shop, if you want to read it. It arrived just this morning. You can pick it up whenever you like.”

In response, Crowley promptly turns them around and guides them towards the nearest exit. So much for their walk. At least he never pulled away to separate their linked arms.

“Do let us stop for some treats to go with tea, at least,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “I’m getting peckish, and you’ll be reading for a while.”

Crowley mutters some mild complaints about the delay, but makes the small detour to Aziraphale’s current favorite bakery without having to be asked twice.

“Oh, don’t look so pleased,” he grumbles when he catches sight of Aziraphale’s smile as they get back into the car, the scent of fresh pastries weaving into the air between them. “Can’t have you interrupting me in twenty minutes because you’re hungry, can I?”

“No, certainly not,” Aziraphale agrees serenely.

If he is impatient to get home and devour the pastries, Crowley is more impatient to get there and devour his book.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Aziraphale asks as he carries two cups and plates out of the kitchen, the kettle whistling behind him.

“Just tea’s fine,” Crowley says, already squinting down at the blurb on the back of the book. He looks up flatly when Aziraphale sits down opposite him.

“This is about a gardener? The title is a plant metaphor?”

“I was fairly proud of it, actually. One is a gardener, yes. The other one is a literature professor, come to spend some time at an old family estate. Which is being looked after-“

“By the gardener, yeah, obviously.” Crowley narrows his eyes, thumbing at the corner of the book until it’s bent. Aziraphale has learned by now not to let it bother him, or at least not to let show that it does. “What’s he like, then, this gardener?”

“Oh, terribly gruff at first, which was quite fun to write. There is more to him though, as you’ll discover. He’s very nice, deep down. A good person, who’s just had a troubled life.”

Crowley’s eyebrow twitches.

“What is it?”

“A gruff gardener with a tragic past and a secret heart of gold. Really, angel?”

“I think he’s rather charming,” Aziraphale says defensively, not sure what the problem is.

“Well, this is insulting,” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale blinks at him, somewhat out of his depth. “How on earth is it insulting?”

“You wouldn’t get it. Apparently. Never mind,” he snaps, then opens the book aggressively and starts reading. Aziraphale has never seen someone consume a novel so angrily.

He does read, though, making his way through the pages at a steady, if somewhat forceful pace, and so he decides to let him be, devoting himself to brewing some more tea. That’ll calm Crowley down, surely.

It doesn’t, but at least it doesn’t anger him further, as far as he can tell. He’s still fuming – thankfully only metaphorically, for the moment – one chapter in, but the story seems to be doing its job and hold his attention. Eventually, Aziraphale sits back and relaxes, perfectly content with a pastry on his plate and Crowley near him. Even if he is in a mood. It’s still preferable to Crowley not being near, after all.

Though the fact becomes somewhat harder to remember when Crowley growls at whatever he’s reading on the page.

“Someone give me strength,” he mutters.

There is only so much Aziraphale can take before he gets defensive. “Really, Crowley. If you’re finding it so distasteful-“

“I never said that, did I,” Crowley cuts him off, tightening his hold on the book like he fears Aziraphale will snatch it out of his hands.

Aziraphale huffs in frustration, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” he tells him.

“Same here,” Crowley mutters darkly, eyes fixed on the book.

Aziraphale watches him for a few more seconds.

“I’m not even sure you like reading my novels, you know. You’re all over them as soon as they’re ready, but all they seem to do is give you grief.”

At that, Crowley finally tears his eyes from the page, the molten gold of them so striking in its intensity that it momentarily startles Aziraphale out of his irritation.

His anger, he notes, has dissipated, or at least turned into something more mellow. There is still an air of grumpiness around him, but the immediacy has gone.

He forgets that he’s still waiting for an answer when Crowley finally responds.

“They don’t give me grief. They confuse me.”

Taken aback, Aziraphale parts his lips to respond, though no sound emerges.

There are plenty of things he could ask – what confuses him about them, why he keeps reading them then, but what eventually comes out of his mouth is, “Is that a bad thing?”

Crowley regards him intently, taking his time to really think about the answer.

“Not sure yet,” he finally says, eyes lingering for another beat before returning to the book. “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.”

*

Six years after Armageddon

At this point, Aziraphale is almost afraid of how Crowley will react to his books.

While the final verdict is never bad – he usually finds enough to criticize and has no qualms about letting him know, but ultimately admits that it was a good read – his reactions are certainly of a more varied nature than Aziraphale would have thought possible, considering all he writes are simple romances.

There has been a variety of theatrics, lamentations and anger and genuine sadness in response to what he’s written, though the latter was so visibly uncomfortable for Crowley that he let it go largely unaddressed.

This, however, is new.

Crowley is opposite him, curled up in the armchair Aziraphale tends to think of as his these days. He’s reading his latest book, a deep crease of concentration on his forehead.

He has been reading for a considerable amount of time, and he has yet to really… say anything. Or do anything, other than turning the pages and reading silently.

Aziraphale has long given up trying to predict his reaction, which so rarely aligns with what he expects it to be, but this – no discernible reaction – still unsettles him.

Crowley seemed intrigued when he presented the different nature of this new book – a gentle foray into magical realism – but has since gone quiet, entering this uncharacteristic state after the two-chapter mark, when the story really kicks off.

The protagonists, due to a mishap, swap bodies at this point, which leads them into all sorts of perilous situations with their enemies, yet ultimately turns out to be the key to their salvation. And they return to their original forms in the end, of course.

Aziraphale greatly enjoyed playing around with the idea, and he thought Crowley would have a blast with it too, seeing as the two of them have some experience with swapped corporations themselves. It should be an entertaining, relatable read.

And yet Crowley doesn’t look very entertained.

In fact, the longer Aziraphale looks at him, the more certain he gets that he’s made a mistake. Maybe his creased forehead isn’t a sign of concentration at all. A closer study of his expression reveals that, instead, he almost looks… pained.

Swallowing, Aziraphale sets down his tea, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat as he watches him.

There. When he next turns the page, he spots the confirmation he hoped he wouldn’t find: the movement is uncharacteristically shaky, his hand ever so slightly unsteady.

“Uhm. Crowley?”

His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, venturing further when there is no response. “Are you quite alright?”

Crowley doesn’t look up, but he stills, his eyes stopping their track across the page. For a charged moment, he stares at the book while Aziraphale stares at him, neither of them moving or making a sound.

Then, very quietly, he says, “I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

His voice lacks all humor, anything that would lead him to assume he means to tease or annoy him. It’s not playful at all – it’s just honest.

His knuckles are white where he grips the book, still looking at it, though Aziraphale doubts he’s seeing anything.

“Crowley. What…”

He trails off, and Crowley finally looks up.

“What, angel?” he repeats. “You’re really asking me?”

Aziraphale has to swallow before he finds his voice. He isn’t sure where his sudden hesitancy comes from, only feels it closing up his throat, tightening his lungs.

“I am, yes.”

Crowley stares at him, as if he were a particularly complex conundrum and his life depended on figuring it out.

“Are you sure you want me to say it?”

Why wouldn’t he be? He opens his mouth to answer, but falters before the words find their way out.

Why wouldn’t he be?

Crowley is still staring at him, looking like he’s caught between fight or flight. A sudden panic seizes Aziraphale that he’ll chose the latter, that he’ll get up and leave and he will never get to hear him say what it is he means to tell him.

Why wouldn’t he be?

It doesn’t matter. Not anymore, not now that they’re on the brink of something, now that there is only forwards, and Aziraphale, faced with Crowley and that look in his eyes, understands with visceral clarity that there is no going back. Not anymore.

“Yes,” he finally says, and it feels significant somehow, in a way he can’t fully grasp yet but knows he is about to.

Crowley inhales sharply. His throat shifts as he swallows, and Aziraphale finds himself holding his breath when he speaks.

“You haven't written a romance novel, angel. This is a love letter.”

The words hang in the air between them, crystal-clear, irrevocable. Aziraphale has never heard an explosion so quiet with so vast an impact.

“A love letter?” he repeats weakly, his voice small in the heavy silence.

“Or a confession,” Crowley adds quietly. His eyes are wide, fixed on him with their startling yellow intensity. More yellow, the more stressed he is. They are so yellow now.

“All of them have been. I thought I was imagining things, the first time, that I was delusional or something. But then it happened again. And again. Every time. In every one of your bloody romance books. Right there. For the Almighty and everyone to see.”

“I…”

Haven’t. Or has he?

The cast-out astronomer wanting to run away to the stars. The vintage car, the road trip, I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go. The insomniac, and his partner who slept for years and years. The gruff gardener, hardened by life with so soft a heart underneath. And now this, the body swap, that he didn’t even pretend to himself anymore had nothing to do with them.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks. He has been rather transparent, hasn’t he?

Crowley, unaware of the realization setting in, seems to take his silence as a sign to keep talking. He gets up, still clutching the book to his chest.

“Right. Okay,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair as he stalks back and forth. “I didn’t think... you'd ever do this. That either of us would. But I guess it’s time for me to return the favor now.”

He stops short, looking at him head-on. So terrified, Aziraphale can see that now. So terrified, and so brave.

“Thing is, I knew, angel. Or I thought I knew. What we are. That we are... something. Friends. Only different. But I didn’t know you... but you do. It's not just me. You do, too.”

He breaks off, swallows. Then he lifts the book.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? This is me. You and me. You’ve written about us.”

There’s pleading in his tone now, in the depth of his eyes.

“Tell me I'm not crazy.”

This is his cue, Aziraphale understands. It’s his turn now. His turn to be brave.

“You're not crazy. But I think I may have been a rather big fool.”

Crowley regards him warily, and Aziraphale, realizing how his words could be interpreted, quickly gets to his feet, stopping a few steps away from him.

He takes a moment, but only to gather his thoughts, to make sure that what he says comes out right. Because it’s time to stop talking in riddles, hiding behind metaphors, and saying what he wants to under the guise of fiction.

This time, he will say what he wants to say, to the one he really wants to say it to.

There are a thousand things he could lead with, a million different ways of phrasing it, to convey the sentiment.

But in the end, it’s simple.

“It’s you,” Aziraphale says. “And it always has been. From the beginning, and before that, too. It was always going to be you. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to catch up. But I’m with you now. I’m ready.”

He takes a deliberate step towards him, then another, watching Crowley’s expression all the while. He looks somewhat reminiscent of a deer in headlights – he thinks about saying as much out loud and is suddenly struck by the hilarity of the situation.

He takes the sentiment and, instead of laughing, lets it play on his lips in a genuine smile. Lifting his hand, he cradles Crowley’s jaw as gently as he knows how, acutely aware of every point they touch.

“It’s you. And I suppose I shouldn’t let this moment pass without telling you that I love you.” He pauses, then does huff out a laugh. “I don’t mean that in the angelic way. I am in love with you. In the human way.”

And then, because it’s important, he adds, “Thank you. For waiting for me.”

It really has taken him quite a long time to come around. And Crowley has been so patient.

Crowley’s eyelids flutter when he drops his hand, as if waking from a trance.

“Um. Don’t mention it.”

This time Aziraphale can’t help it, he snorts. Perhaps he’s getting a little giddy. Though, who can blame him? After 6000 years. It’s bound to make him dizzy.

The sound instantly takes Crowley out of his stupor, who scowls and puts an accusing finger on Aziraphale’s chest.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to just- come right out and say all that, was I? Cut me some slack for not seeing that one coming.”

“That’s quite alright, dear. You take as long as you need. I’ll do the waiting this time.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth. Aziraphale is delighted to spot a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

“Well.” He sniffs. “I love you too. For the record.”

Something glows in Aziraphale’s chest, bright and fierce, like recognition, like understanding. Of course he does. He shouldn’t, by all accounts, shouldn’t even know how, but of course he does.

“Quite right,” he says softly.

They eye each other, not entirely sure how to proceed. Crowley lifts his hand, scratches the side of his neck.

“So, uh. Those characters. In your books. They all- well, they, you know, did all that stuff. Like-“

“Kissing,” Aziraphale breathes out in a rush.

Crowley gulps. “Yeah. So, would. Would you. Want to? Do that? Too?”

Aziraphale swallows twice to find his voice, already angling his face upwards before he has even responded. “Yes.”

“Right. And– with me?”

Oh, good lord.

“Of course with you, Crowley. Who else would I-“

Crowley shuts him up with a kiss.

Aziraphale is swamped by the immediacy of the sensation for only a second before he grabs Crowley by the lapels and reciprocates.

It’s a bit uncoordinated, more an enthusiastic and heartfelt crashing of lips together than anything else.

As far as Aziraphale is concerned, it has to be the most magnificent kiss in the history of the earth.

It’s a good thing the world never ended, if only because it means the two of them are right here, right now. He would have been terribly sorry to miss this.

There is something complicated and yet very simple happening within him, a mix of hormones and emotions that overwhelms him fast, the only clear thought in his head being that it turns out he desires Crowley in a number of ways, and one of them appears to be carnally.

At a guess, going by his eager participation, Crowley is not opposed to further explorations on that level either. The thought sends enough of a jolt through him (arousal, he notes in some distant part of himself, that’s what this is) to break the kiss and open his eyes.

Crowley is already looking back at him, and when their eyes meet, it’s with a sudden and fierce understanding that yes, this really is happening. They do get to do this now. And they don’t ever have to stop.

Aziraphale knows himself enough to be aware that if they don’t pause now, he is most certainly going to test the limits of that.

“A moment,” he requests, mostly for Crowley’s sake, who looks a little overwhelmed and like he could use it. “To process.”

Crowley nods, then stands there for a few seconds before he remembers the chair and sinks into it. His lips are red and shiny, and it takes an inhuman amount of restraint not to kiss him again right this instant.

Unwilling to part entirely, Aziraphale lowers himself on the armrest, smiling when Crowley shifts to make space for him immediately.

They sit in silence for a while before Crowley makes a huffing sound, something between disbelief and amusement.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you decided to start writing novels.”

“Not the outcome I expected, I’ll admit,” Aziraphale says, “but I’m certainly not complaining.”

He looks ahead, contemplating, then turns to Crowley with a raised eyebrow.

“You know what else they had in common? The books.”

“They were bloody awful,” Crowley mutters, then amends when Aziraphale pinches his waist, “sappy. They were sappy.”

“Perhaps. But more importantly, they all had a happy ending.”

Crowley’s shoulders relax. He glances up at him, then looks away again.

“Yeah. I noticed that.”

“You liked it.”

Crowley shrugs, refusing to meet his gaze. Aziraphale takes his hand and lifts it, placing a gentle kiss on his wrist before firmly locking their fingers together.

“I think,” he says, nudging him gently, “it’s our turn now, don’t you?”

*

Nine years after Armageddon

Summer in the countryside is a pleasure Aziraphale has forgotten after decades in the city, but is delighted to rediscover that first year in their new home.

Looking back, he isn’t quite sure how the idea of the South Downs came about. There was talk of a cottage, careful probing and subsequent discovering that a change of scenery would be welcome to both of them, and then looking, mostly just for inspiration, until it took shape and solidified and then there was a house, and two sets of keys (though mostly for symbolism, since neither of them actually need them).

There was all that, a time of chaos and upending he looks back on fondly despite everything now, because for the first time it was purposefully done together.

But South Downs, that was a coincidence. A happy accident, if he were asked, something he might say about a lot of things that happened in his existence.

The air is warm when he opens the back door, though not oppressively so. Aziraphale blinks up at the sky, squinting at the sun as he takes a moment to acclimatize. It does get a fair bit hotter in England than it used to these days, but the house is always miraculously cool, and they are close enough to the coast to benefit from the breeze.

That breeze is currently tousling Crowley’s hair when Aziraphale looks back down and finds his gaze drawn by him, automatically, inevitably. The perfunctory ponytail he made has loosened and a few strands have escaped, a wild and frenzied frame of his lovely, achingly familiar features. 6000 years Aziraphale has been looking at him. It’ll never be enough; he will never have his fill.

He is learning, still, to acknowledge this kind of selfishness as a victory. To recognize greed, and acknowledge it as an act of rebellion against a constraining past rather than failure or sin.

Sinning’s not so bad, Crowley would say. And perhaps he’s not so wrong about that. Not when it comes to things like this.

He’s moving towards him before he consciously decides to, like the pull of one magnet to another is reeling him in. His safe haven, a harbor promising comfort and rest. He never did think it would look anything like this.

He may have dreamed of it, though, had he allowed himself the pleasure.

Crowley is kneeling at the edge of the flower bed he has recently started working on. He won’t tell Aziraphale what he’s planted there yet, which means it’s something he chose specifically for him (yellow, he thinks without a doubt, it’ll be something yellow).

Aziraphale comes to a stand behind him, then bends down and wraps his arms around him when he still finds the distance between them too big.

Crowley makes a small sound of surprise, but leans into him reflexively.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.”

Aziraphale rests his chin on his shoulder. It’s a good thing Crowley is so tall – this will still get uncomfortable fast, but until then he is going to be damned if he doesn’t enjoy it.

“Growing well?”

Crowley hums in agreement. “Look over there,” he says, nodding towards the far side of the bed. A few sprouts are pushing through the soil already, straining towards the sun.

Aziraphale smiles. “Lovely.”

Crowley hums again, a little longer this time. It’s a sound of contentment, like a cat’s gentle purring. Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Crowley after a morning’s hard work in the sun, the earthy soil, and the perfume of the flowers growing all around their little garden.

He can feel the movements of Crowley’s shoulders as he keeps working, careful enough not to jostle him.

“Crowley,” he murmurs.

“Mmh?”

His voice is low, almost lost amidst the buzzing of the bees, the rustling of leaves in the light breeze, but Aziraphale feels it, through Crowley’s body straight into his.

“I finished it. The book.”

Crowley pauses, surprise stilling his movements.

“Oh?”

Aziraphale makes a sound of confirmation.

“Well, that’s nice. Good job.” Crowley reaches around without separating them, squeezing whichever part of Aziraphale’s arm he reaches. There’ll be a stain, a little smudge of soil. Nothing a quick miracle can’t fix. “Look forward to reading it.”

Aziraphale responds with a smile, then buries it in the nape of Crowley’s neck, leaving it there with a gentle kiss.

“You can read it right now, if you want.”

At that, Crowley finally twists in his embrace. Aziraphale reluctantly lets go of him and straightens, looking down in amusement as Crowley squints up at him.

“Really? You’re not making me wait until it’s printed?”

“I don’t see why I should. And I want you to read it now. If you want to.”

Crowley gets to his feet in a fluid motion that shouldn’t be physically possible, especially after kneeling for some time in a body that is quite past its youth (or would be, if it had ever had one).

“Course I do. I’m just surprised, ‘s all. You’ve been very secretive about this one.”

“And I appreciate your patience. But I think I’ve done with it now what I wanted to. It’s ready for you.”

Crowley blinks at his phrasing, but nods.

“Right. In that case, just let me get this soil off… everything,” he finishes with a glance down his body.

Rather than stepping into the shower, he snaps his fingers to make the particles jump off him. Then, remembering something, he leans in and gently blows on the smudge on Aziraphale’s arm, which has much the same effect, but feels significantly more intimate.

Their hands entwine naturally as they head back inside.

“So. I finally get to know what it’s about then, this new one?”

“Certainly.”

“Don’t- don’t tell me to wait until I’ve read it, angel. We’re not going there again after all the things you’ve put me through.”

Aziraphale smiles indulgently. “Very well. I suppose at the heart of it, it’s about… the idea of a soulmate. About finding someone, and finding them again and again. As often as necessary.”

Crowley stares at him, then shakes his head.

“Satan, am I glad that it’s out in the open now. I think this one would have done me in for good.”

“I don’t think this one would have existed, if it hadn’t been out in the open now,” Aziraphale corrects.

It’s true. This book is different, because this time he knew. And he wrote it this way on purpose, because he meant to. He wrote about them, in the truest way he was capable of. It’s a bit unnerving, handing it over to be read and judged by the only one who will understand what he was really saying.

But this is Crowley. There is nothing to be afraid of. The worst thing that could happen is that he doesn’t like it, and Aziraphale has a feeling he is at the very least going to appreciate the message.

“And what’s it called?”

“See for yourself,” Aziraphale can’t help but tease him, gathering the stack of pages from his desk and handing it to Crowley.

“The Measure of Us,” he reads, then makes a thoughtful sound. “Bit sentimental, if you ask me. Not bad, though.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I was considering calling it ‘A Light in the Dark’, but I did fear you’d have my head for it.”

Crowley’s eye twitches. He turns the first page instead of responding, then stops at the dedication.

Aziraphale bites his lip, watching in silence as he reads.

He knows it by heart, has mulled over the words for hours until he felt that he got them right. He’s still not sure that he did, but he trusts Crowley will understand his meaning, because for the first time in over 6000 years, they really do understand each other. Completely.

It says, Crowley – this book is for you, my wily serpent. I don’t know who I’d be without you, but I do know how lucky I am that I never had to find out.

I’m so glad it’s you.

No more waiting.

Crowley gulps, then looks up and blinks.

“Angel. That’s…”

“Yes?” Aziraphale probes when he stops.

“Sappy as all hell.”

“Oh, for goodness-“

“What? I didn’t say I don’t like it-“

“You know, if you’re going to be rude about it-“

“It’s just- just a bit-“

“Really, you try finding the right words with the entirety of human language at your disposal, then we’ll talk.”

Crowley imitates his voice (very poorly), then we’ll talk, and sticks out his tongue, which is the end of that particular exchange.

He turns another page.

“I do. Like it, I suppose” he then admits grudgingly. Aziraphale, who has already gathered as much, merely lifts an eyebrow.

“Is that so.”

He still gets flustered when it comes to talking about things, Crowley. And Aziraphale gets it – it still feels new to him too. Exciting.

That doesn’t mean he can’t tease him about it sometimes.

“Yeah.” Crowley rubs his nose, looks away. “Anyway. Worth it, if you ask me. The waiting.”

At this, Aziraphale has no choice but to melt.

“Glad you think so,” he says, stretching to place a kiss on the tip of his nose. Crowley immediately hisses, as he knew he would.

“There, there,” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning his forehead against his. “My wily serpent,” he adds, and it sounds like every pet name ever invented, like every dedication and every confession and everything they need in order to understand, to know.

Crowley lets out a deep breath, his eyes closing before he opens them again, staring at him intently from up close.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Aziraphale knows exactly what he’s telling him.

It’s a promise.

It’s happily ever after, at long, long last.

And it is – miraculously and inevitably – forever.