Archive of Our Own ^beta

Unfortunately, Aziraphale finds Ligur before Crowley can hide him properly.

That had been a bit of his fault, Crowley would have to admit after the fact. It wasn’t like he had the time to think about hiding it in the first place. What would he have done? Conjured up a mop and scrub the floors clean while Armageddon was on the rise? If they lived, he told himself, that would be the time to think about it.

Then the angel happened. His livelihood burned to the ground, he needed a place to shelter, and Crowley was the only option for miles around. There would be no time to go back home alone, and by that point, Crowley had forgotten all about the altercation. A simple mistake, but a dire one.

The idea of tidying up before letting guests in comes to Crowley while he and Aziraphale are walking to his flat. The bus did leave them in London, yes, but far enough from their desired destination that it took a considerably long walk to make it there. The angel and the demon stroll side by side, any sense of urgency little more than a distant thought, and it is… nice. Unsettlingly nice.

You would think an ordeal such as facing down Satan would leave your head rather crowded. For Crowley, it is the opposite; everything is suspiciously coherent. There’s the London sky, nary a cloud in sight despite the earlier storms. There are the people, the new couples and the workaholics bustling about their business with no memory of the chaos. There’s the temperature, which is hot but not sticky. And then there’s Aziraphale—the way the streetlights illuminate his hair, the few inches between his and Crowley’s arms, the stupid bowtie that he still has on, the ring that he’s been fidgeting with non-stop ever since they got off, the—

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, his eyebrows pinched in light concern. “You look…unwell?”

Even if that hadn’t been phrased as a question, it still would’ve hurt. Crowley shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from his right and towards a white wall nearby. “Spectacular,” he says dully. “Ten out of ten.”

“You’re usually a much better liar than that.” Aziraphale frowns. “Is this it?”

Crowley looks up to where Aziraphale is gesturing at, gaining a sense of where they are. He’s surprised to find that the building they’re standing in front of is the exact one they were looking for—a structure composed of windows and metal beams, where his flat sits inside. “What? Is it not fancy enough looking for you?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale trails behind him as they enter the block of flats. “It’s just…changed. Considerably.”

Aziraphale has visited Crowley’s flat only once, and he barely remembers a lick of it. It was one of those few times he forgot to sober up before the effects began to wear on his corporation—September, 1945. But he can remember a few details if he tries hard enough—the smooth grey tiles were the same. The lift music up was still the same tune, even if the floor was an odd carpet and the kind operator was no longer needed. Crowley’s door is still black, and still has the same golden 666 to indicate his flat number. Yes, some things do endure. That will have to suffice. 

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Crowley says as he closes the door behind Aziraphale. “Can’t exactly be tidy when you’re a known traitor.”

“I can see that.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around the room as if he’s trying to commit every frame to memory. He makes his way towards the door heading inwards, his head acting as if it’s on a swivel. “I must say, Crowley, this is very well-put-together. Very you, I should say. I wouldn’t put it past you if—”

Squish.

Right. The body.

Aziraphale stares at Ligur for a long time. Crowley stares at Aziraphale staring at Ligur for just as long a time. It will be something to laugh at, in due time; the tip of Aziraphale’s foot stuck in demon goop and Crowley’s eyes blown wide like he’s been personally embarrassed, which he has. For now, it is on the cusp of nightmarish. Not cleaning up after yourself isn’t a very good look when you have guests over.

“I can explain!” Crowley blurts out the same moment Aziraphale lifts up his shoe, absolutely horrified at the liquid sticking to it like chewed-up gum. “That, right there, is a Duke of Hell. S’like one of your archangels, but not as nasty. They were quite rude coming in, so I—er—”

“First of all, I know what a Duke of Hell is,” Aziraphale says snippily, smearing the goop on a nearby piece of dry floor. “And secondly, I can recognise holy damage when I see it. I’ve seen it before.”

Crowley heaves a sigh, rubbing his face exasperatedly as he goes to push the door open fully, revealing the knocked over throne and out-of-order desk. He is just barely able to speak casually. “And? What do you think?”

“I think,” Aziraphale says slowly, fixing his sleeve cuffs, “I understand you a lot more than before. I should have understood earlier.”

“Ah.” Crowley blinks slowly, his sunglasses doing little to shield the disbelieving look on his face. “Right. Maybe we should tour around…later. They might come looking for him.”

The terror that flashes briefly across Aziraphale is not unmissable, but still a surprise to see. Before Crowley can question it, Aziraphale rushes over him. “Oh, you’re right. We should wait it out while on the move. At least for a little bit, you understand.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says before he realises it. He’s just grateful for a decent enough excuse not to think about the emotional bullet that was just shot through his head. “Any ideas on where to go?”

“I am feeling rather peckish,” Aziraphale muses. “But we can’t go anywhere sit-down, no. Maybe a pastry would do the trick.” He turns around far too quickly, his beige coat swirling with the movement as he exits the flat with four hurried steps. Ligur’s remains make faint smudges on Crowley’s floors, but he couldn’t care less. “I know just where to go. If we hurry, we might make it before closing time!”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale is the one to close the door behind him this time. “Alright, then. I’ll follow your lead.”

—————

The café Aziraphale would like them to visit is near the River Thames, so they haven’t got a long way to travel. Still a decent walk, but only about twenty minutes or so. Crowley doesn’t mind this very much—as long as they keep moving, it’s alright by him. 

London is surprisingly quiet for a night after the end of the world. It’s as normal as it can get—the steady breeze ruffles their clothes, the streetlamps glow softly in the stark night, and the humans get on about their business ignorant to what transpired as they were having their tea. All Aziraphale and Crowley can do is look, really. They’ve eaten, drank, danced—but it’s been a long time since they’ve just looked.  

“I wonder what they must be thinking,” is the first thing that’s said, and Aziraphale is the one to pose it. “Or thought, anyway. Do you think they ever realised?”

“Nah.” Crowley stuffs his hands into his miniscule jean pockets, purposefully looking straight forward. “Think of it like…other people. They’ll only see what’s right in front of them and ignore the rest of it until it becomes their problem.”

“Most likely.” Aziraphale sighs, the troubled look on his face not yet subsided. “But I suppose they’ll get through it. They always do.”

Crowley waves at a blue car that lets them cross without needing to slow down. “Exactly. Humans’ll make do, same as always. What needs to be worried about is us. Got any ideas on…Up There?”

They’ve stopped at another red light surrounded by finely-dressed people, tall buildings, and traffic. That was another thing Crowley saw when it came to humans—wherever you moved, they always changed in some way, even something as simple as clothing. Here, Crowley looks more at home than he could ever look in, say, Soho. Vice versa could be said about Aziraphale, who sticks out here like a speck of vintage beige in the sea of sleek greys and blacks.

Aziraphale says plainly, “I suppose they’ll try and dispose of me quickly. Heaven does prefer getting rid of the things they don’t like.” 

Crowley ignores the chill that goes down his neck, blaming it on a sudden bout of wind. “Typical,” he scoffs. “I’m guessing Hell will do the same to me. Either that…or something far slower.”

Aziraphale nods gravely. He makes haste to keep going, the only sign of him feeling anxious being the incessant fiddling with his ring. “You can’t expect any better, I suppose. It will work out, though.”

“You really think so?” 

Crowley hadn’t meant for it to come out so skeptically, but Aziraphale takes it in stride. “Wholeheartedly. It’s high time I begin returning all of your favours throughout the years, starting with…wherever you’d like to pick first. Maybe two. That would help.”

“Hm. Well, if you insist.” Crowley makes a show of putting his hand under his chin to convey that he’s thinking very critically. They’ve crossed two more streets and towards a more well-lit area when he says, “1941. We’ll start recently.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, now also thinking critically back to the past. “Wouldn’t ‘recently’ technically be last June? You helped me plant those bushes near the Dowlings’ garden.”

“Watching you doesn’t count as helping. Besides, I think I’d like some reward for nearly discorporating you.”

“Oh, that used to happen all the time.” Aziraphale waves his hand around flippantly. “In the early days, at least—why don’t you pick one of those? I mean, really, you cannot be saying that night wasn’t the least bit—bit…”

Crowley pulls himself away from the curb he was about to cross when he realises Aziraphale is no longer next to him. He’s a few steps back, facing the building they were just passing and standing completely motionless. “What are you…?”

Once Crowley stands by Aziraphale again, he catches on to what the angel is entranced by; a boutique. More specifically, the display behind the boutique’s window. A sign written in bejewelled letters sits propped up on the floor: Dancing Among the Stars. There are three mannequins, two locked in what looks to be mid-waltz and the third standing regally on its own. They all wear ballgown-worthy dresses, large satin skirts with laced corsets and cool colours that blend perfectly among each other. It could have been a scene pulled straight out of the Victorian era if it wasn’t for the modern spotlights, painting them with a lively facade. 

Crowley can appreciate good clothing when he sees it, but Aziraphale is absolutely enamoured. His face has become slack, a smile forming almost without his knowledge. Whatever nostalgia he was about to spew has been long forgotten, and Crowley doesn’t mind all that much if it means looking at…well, him.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one of these,” Crowley says mildly, leaning in to take a closer look at the black dress, the one that is being held by the other mid-dance. “Not even back when it was in style. Wish I hadn’t missed that.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to respond before he snaps out of his little trance, shaking his head and giving a half-suppressed laugh as if he were chiding himself. “Oh, I’ve never worn anything like this. I…just haven’t seen such spot-on replicas. Even down to the frills…” He lets out an aching breath, then turns away. “The bakery should just be a few more minutes. We’re almost there.”

Aziraphale hurries away, waving his hand distractedly to turn the stoplight green so he can exit as quickly as possible. Crowley has no choice but to saunter after him, the memory of him wearing a gown almost just like that black one flashing though his mind. Though Aziraphale may believe he could never wear something like that (which was not true), at least Crowley had proof he could.

—————

When they enter the bakery, Aziraphale holds the door open for Crowley. The tension crawling underneath his round features dissolves upon smelling the baked goods he likely believed he would never smell again. The walls of the small shop are painted to the ceiling with rainbow swirls and multi-coloured patterns, the furniture small and wooden. It’s the calmest Crowley has seen him all night so far, and at this point, he’s just grateful for it. As long as it puts them more at ease, it was fine by him.

Aziraphale makes a beeline for the cashier at once, the promise of food being the thing that is currently sustaining him. Crowley, however, is more occupied with the conversation from earlier. They’d fallen into silence when he’d caught up, and while it had been warm and companionable, it still did not sit right with him. Many questions lie at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t let them out, lest he ruin the amiable peace they’ve created. 

As Crowley sits down at the nearest table, he keeps replaying what they both said in front of that display. He can’t see anything wrong with what he said, as far as he can tell, so it must’ve been something Aziraphale deigned to mention. Surely. That had to be it.

Crowley can’t hear what the angel and the human are talking about, but from the looks of it, the human is very put-off by Aziraphale’s eagerness. They fiddle with a lanyard chock-full of pins and their loose shirt as they take his order, a painfully obvious nervous tick. Aziraphale ignores this, which is likely the only thing putting them at a bit of ease—he rattles off their order with eagerness, staring at the displayed pastries with the mark of an angel who now understands the finite of existence. 

As Aziraphale sits down with their ticket, however, he looks worried at the cashier’s back. “Did I make them nervous? The anxiety must be rubbing off of my surroundings. Crowley, are you anxious? Anything feeling out of sorts?”

“Not any more than usual,” Crowley says shortly. He then takes a better look at their lanyard once they’ve turned around again, and the picture starts to paint itself. He examines the chosen colours, recalls what he’s learned in the places engrained with lust and rebellion, and it clicks. He should’ve recognised it earlier.

Crowley lounges back in his chair, as he can be at ease now that the mystery has been solved. “I’d suspect it’s because you look ancient, angel.”

Aziraphale takes a little gasp, holding his hand up to his chest in shock. “I’ll have you know—”

“No, no, not like that,” Crowley says, flitting his wrist for emphasis. “It’s not you. Humans like them—” he gestures to the cashier, “expect you to stomp on their roses whenever you stare at them for too long. You spend enough time being laughed at for existing and you pick up an image of who’re the ones laughing.” Crowley then remembers that he was trying to act more delicately to keep the peace. “No offence.”

“I see.” Aziraphale frowns. “Then I must make it up to them. Perhaps a blessing would do?”

“To do what? Knock some sense into the humans that should’ve already had it?”¹

“Exactly. They do really need to catch up with the times.”

Crowley scoffs. “I still don’t understand how you’re more modern than half of the damn planet. What has the world come to?”

“The end of it, for a start.”

“Right.”

The clock ticks by excruciatingly slowly. The idea of using a miracle has slipped from both of their minds, so they are left to stare anywhere but directly across the table. Crowley taps multiple surfaces over and over as Aziraphale fiddles with his clothing, from the lapels on his coat to the button on his waistcoat. Every time a human walks through the entrance, they both turn towards the movement on the off-chance they’ll recognise one of the faces. Heaven, Hell, Someone else entirely—none of the possibilities are at all promising. They will simply have to hope they’ll be allowed one night of radio silence. 

“I suppose I simply don’t understand why they wouldn’t think I would,” Aziraphale says suddenly, as he’s put down the pocket watch attached to his waistcoat. “Understand, that is.”

Crowley looks up from his crossed arms. He only gives a miniscule nod to signal that he’s listening, keeping his mouth firmly shut. Aziraphale continues on, unbothered by the silence. “I adapt to their symbols just fine. I may not identify with them, but—I learned, didn’t I? I had to. Or I felt like I had to. That means something.”

The thing that worries Crowley is that it sounds like a question. He sits up once more, readjusting his sunglasses as an excuse to process what he’s just heard. “S’not anything to with you, angel, honestly—”

“Like that one, right there on the human’s collar.” Aziraphale jerks his head towards the register, where the cashier has returned with an extra pin on their lapel. “I believe that’s supposed to mean ‘neither man nor woman, but a secret third thing’. There’s one on their badge that says ‘does not experience carnal desire on a regular basis’. Ah, and another that says ‘polygamy’. Oodles of them on the walls now that I—”

“You don’t have to prove it,” Crowley interjects. “I believe you. Simple as that.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says airily, but it doesn’t match the heavy exhale of relief afterwards. “I’m glad the reading hasn’t gone to waste. This is their realm, after all. They choose the boxes, they choose to break the boxes. Hm.”

Soon enough, a ‘Fell’ is called, and Aziraphale nearly runs to the counter with newfound determination. The cashier hands him his food; two bags of the freshest eccles cakes in the city. Crowley shakes himself out of the bliss that had been creeping up on him, noticing the distinctly more relaxed demeanour of the human. Whatever Aziraphale was able to say to achieve that is lost on him, but whatever worked, worked.

“They calm you down, from what I’ve been told,” Aziraphale says as he passes Crowley his bag of sweets, who sniffs it for inspection. “It seemed appropriate.”

They walk out with their goods, and Aziraphale gives a little wave back at the human as he does. For a brief moment, their face begins to light up, but it is soon obscured by the door shutting behind him. He is proud of himself regardless; blessings do not always have to be miracle-worthy.

“Everything’s so different,” Crowley says as they begin strolling again with no set destination, back out into the cold London air. “I mean, humans are always different, but now different feels different than before different. Ngh.”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale brings his eccles cakes close to his chest to inspect their flakey goodness. “The point of reversing means everything is exactly the same. Not one detail out of place.”

“Like Hell you believe that.” Crowley peeks into the bag he’d been given and pulls a sour face. “S’hard to notice, I guess. But it is. Like turning the world upside down switched something in everyone’s brains and it’s making me see things. Humans, more specifically. Like walking paradoxes. Absolutely no sense to it, I swear.”

Aziraphale takes a large bite of an eccles cake and swallows it down easily. “There has to be some explanation. God made everything for a reason and such like. It was meant to be.”

Crowley rolls his bag and slips it in a jacket pocket. His eyebrows knit together in thought. “Not everything, certainly. She just made the ingredients. Free Will and all, you know that.”

Aziraphale tuts. “We’re talking about identity here, Crowley. Surely She must have had a hand in something that encompassing of Her Creations.”

Crowley has no idea when the conversation turned this way, but so be it. “Angel, until you heard about it, you had no idea what the word ‘gender’ was.² You’d have thought She would’ve built the rules into us. S’not like the colour of the sky or the cycle of life and death—it changes, so it’s human. That’s easy enough to get, I think.”

This does not have the educational effect Crowley had been hoping for. Aziraphale’s face has become completely impassive, concerningly so, and he begins to pick up the pace as he cries, “I do! Have a grasp on gender. I mean, I think so. I think? I do. I need to have one of those. It’s my job to blend in. To be normal.”

“Normal. Pfft. Since when have you ever—”

Aziraphale whips around, forcing Crowley to skid to a stop to prevent knocking into him. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do! You have to. Y-You’re the only one who can.”

Crowley is on the brink of impatience. Had they still been on the road and not in the middle of a park they’ve somehow ended up in, he would have been liable to run off home and lock the door behind him. Just for a little while, though. He needs to think, and Aziraphale is not helping him do that in any cohesive way right now. It’s not his fault, not really, but—well. He doesn’t really know whose it was. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says slowly, “I’ll be plain when I say this. And I hope you’re actually listening this time, since it seems you still haven’t got it through your head after the last hundred or so—you don’t have to conform. You can wear whatever the Hell you want! Feel whatever the Hell you want! You’ve never been subject to human whims! Come on now, angel, you’re better than that.”

“Heaven is very big on conformity,” Aziraphale says sharply. “Very pro-conformity, I believe, though I think we can both recall it clearly. I emphasise saying that it is my job.”

“Was your job.”

Aziraphale jerks back as if he were slapped in the face. “You don’t mean that.” 

Crowley starts walking away. “That’s up to you. Demons lie, remember?”

“Oh, don’t I know it!” Aziraphale outright sprints to catch up, and it becomes difficult for him to breathe at a rhythmic pace like he’s trained himself to do. “That’s just it, isn’t it? Demons. You. I—I am not a demon. I’m meant to be rigid, ever—everlasting, inflexible.” He lets out a sound that is a mix between a resigned sigh and a dry sob. “Now I hope you’re listening as I say this. Crowley. You are the flexible one. The rebel, the thinker, the blessed engineer, a good—” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I…am not that. I am—I should be a good—”

Crowley sticks his arm out suddenly, nearly knocking Aziraphale over with the momentum he’s been maintaining. He shoots Crowley a look of contempt before he thinks to look forward—and is left with little air in his lungs. 

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Somehow, someway, they’ve ended up at a rendezvous point. The third alternate, to be precise; the bandstand, Battersea Park. Their last official clandestine meeting before everything went to shit, where many hurtful words were thrown and bonds were nearly severed. Crowley can’t help but be drawn into it, walking up and under the canopy of metal. He looks out into the other side, where he recalls storming off just a few days ago. Bitter, angry, and pitiful. Looking back on the whole thing now…

“What gives?” Crowley asks as he turns around, an honest-to-Satan confused look on his face. “You–you love humans. Why let it happen? And even better, why go back on it?”

Aziraphale stares up at Crowley, feeling ever so small in the shadow of the demon. But, as he is always bound to do eventually, he follows Crowley up the steps and under the canopy too. “I…don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”  

Aziraphale huffs, but when Crowley doesn’t say more, he is forced to explain. “Well, we both understand one thing. I should be a good angel. I don’t think I am one.”

Crowley doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move—he simply keeps his gaze on Aziraphale. Aziraphale stares back, the pain of his words rolling off him in waves and held back only by his lips being pressed in a thin line. They’ve reached a stalemate, but it won’t hold on forever.

He thinks Aziraphale wants him to deny it all. That Aziraphale wants Crowley to insist on the opposite of what he’s saying—oh, no, you’re an amazing angel, just brilliant, no need to worry about your crippling woes—but the truth? The truth is that was the reason why they were still here to live another day?

He’s not wrong.

This is the moment where the final wall crumbles. Aziraphale has wrung himself to a frenzy, and he paces with jerky steps around Crowley as he continues to spiral. “You think I would be. Being here all these years, I would know how to balance it, be an angel, be satisfied with what I was given, and I was for so long. I was lucky. The worst part of it is that I don’t even feel bad! I should be, but I’m not, I loved Heaven and God and—and everything!”

Crowley reaches out to stop him, but Aziraphale jerks away at the outstretched hand. “Angel…”

“A lousy one is what I am. I’ve never said it before, but I knew. Heaven might as well have known! All of these expectations they put on everyone else, and frankly, they are very poorly communicated.”

“If you just thought about—”

“And they all sound the same, you know. I must be perfect, I must be untarnished, I must be rigid—but I’m not! I never was! I-I must be above human pleasures and whims, I should be grateful I don’t need them, I should be grateful Heaven is forgiving, and yet—”

“Are you hearing yourself? Do you get what you’re saying? You’re sounding—”

“—I’m not any of the demon sort, I’m unfit and soft and strange, my skin is too marred, my body is too small and too large at the same time where it was made for me, neither human nor angel, they’ve always said so, always managed to terrify even when no one was there—”

“I have a feeling this isn’t really about wearing dresses anymore,” Crowley can’t help but say dryly. “Am I right?”

That comment is far more effective than Crowley meant it to be. Aziraphale looks outright mortified having been cut off, turning away and sniffing. He says weakly, “They can go hand in hand.”

“Okay.” Crowley nods to mostly reassure himself. “That’s fine. Just…think about it for a second. Inside. Not out loud.”

“Aren’t I supposed—”

“Trust me.”

That’s the ticket to get the angel to listen. Aziraphale’s lips press together again, and while it is of great effort, he is able to keep to himself for a moment. His thoughts are so loud that he might as well be speaking, but it does the trick; actually processing the words he’d just woven. Safe to say, he is more than embarrassed.

“See?” Crowley says triumphantly. “That right there is a case of stopping to think.” He pauses, then asks, “Can I put my two cents in?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, since you were going to do it anyway.”

“Naturally.” Crowley paces back and forth in his little bubble, keeping to his side of the bandstand. Once he’s cobbled up his monologue, he takes a step forward. “You know how long we’ve known each other. Don’t need to repeat that anytime soon. How many empires have we watched fall? Adapted to? Learned from?” He takes another step. “More than there is to count. And in all that time, I’ve never seen you do anything you thought would hurt anyone. Maybe it didn’t always end how you wanted, maybe it wasn’t always the good thing, but it was the right one. Not a human, not Heaven, not…you know.”³

“I do.”

Crowley nods. He takes another step. “Anyway , the point is that you aren’t good. But you are kind. Flexible too, if you want. We aren’t meant for it, but we’ve got human looks, the same as everyone else.” Another step. “Like you said—you’ve seen me do it plenty, change what I am, how I look, and I quote ‘we’re from the same stock, after all’. Our efforts can be switched and appearances be fluid as water and they can be whatever we want them to be. That’s the bloody point! Even if Heaven or Hell won’t ever get it, because we’re the only ones who’re clever enough to figure it out. You’re not a good angel, and I’m not a bad demon. You’re you. I’m me. We’re…”

“We’re us?” Aziraphale supplies helpfully. 

“Exactly. We’re…us. You like us, right? You can do whatever you want with it. Dress how you’d like, eat what you like, look how you like, because—well, how long have we got on this Earth, anyway? Not forever. We just learned that. What’s it matter that some wankers hate that you like frills? Or bowties? Or dresses? That’s them. They don’t get to ruin you. You can’t let them.”

There are no more steps that Crowley can take in this scenario. This is for two reasons: one, he’s said what he’s said, and he’d been dying to for a rather long time. Two: they physically cannot get any nearer, as their chests are a mere inch from touching. Both of them have stopped breathing entirely, but the heat blooming from their faces is warming enough. 

This could have been the moment. The world was saved, they could be destroyed as early as right then, and there was still the elephant in the room that was them to address. They could have solved it right here, just by leaning in only a bit closer—

—But being the angel he is, Aziraphale can’t let it happen so easily. “Do you really think I’m clever?” 

Crowley, having been inching closer and closer by the moment, looks as if he’s been caught stealing from a cookie jar. He backs away at once, readjusting his tousled clothes and stuttering out excuses to forget how close they’d been to go against everything they were put on this Earth for. “Er, forget that bit. Slipped out. That doesn’t mean it’s not true, everything about it is, everything about you, I’d—well—” 

Aziraphale’s grin only grows wider with Crowley’s increasingly rapid fumbling. To avoid facing the answer, Crowley saunters away and back the direction they’d come in. Aziraphale hovers over his shoulder happily, and they’re able to sync back into their stride. The angel feels like he could walk on air, which is theoretically possible, but he just hasn’t tried it out of apprehension. Maybe he will attempt a little trot soon.

Baby steps. That would be a good start.

“You know, I do agree with you,” Aziraphale says as they leave the park. “About everything.”

Crowley clears his throat as to duck his head down, the blush returning in full force for a brief moment. “Good. I’ve been trying to tell you for…I don’t even know how long. I’m glad it’s finally gone through your thick skull.”

“It wasn’t that I was against experimentation. I’ve done it before. I simply didn’t think that Heaven would have wanted it for me. Looking back on it now…what is it that you say? Yikes.”

Crowley chuckles. “Then I’m also glad about it. I, in my personal opinion, think you’d look great in a dress.”

“And I think you looked great in them.”

“Oh, I know. It was the fashion of the times. S’always moving.”

“Well, then maybe I should start looking around for a change. Have you got any suggestions?”

“Mmm. Start by losing the shoes.”

“My brogues? I distinctly remember you loving pointy shoes. You’re wearing some right now! And even before, you looked quite smashing.”

“You mean while I was wearing those tuxedos? Really?”

“Yes! Of course! Why would I mention it if it weren’t true?”

“Don’t act so innocent, angel. I distinctly remember a painfully fake monologue about my moustache a few decades ago…”

And on and on it goes. Crowley brings up the seventies, Aziraphale pretends like the decade never happened. They follow the typical route, and though they can’t see it in the heart of London,⁴ the stars are sparkling twice as brilliantly that night. Their chests are full, their smiles are big, and the looming shadow of retribution is little more than a phantom lurking in the corner. There is no confusing the feeling in Crowley’s stomach, and it is not dread. It is just nice.

And before Crowley realises it, he’s mumbling, “We can’t lose this.”

Their laughter subsides immediately, but the high still buzzes under their skin. They’ve stopped at the corner of a desolate road, Crowley’s building of glass visible from there. They can’t do much more than just look at each other, as they’ve done all night. Let the exhilaration rush though and leave them weak in the knees naturally. Par for the course. Typical. Unremarkable. Other words for ‘not even worth noting’. 

Normal, that’s it. It’s normal.

“Come on,” Crowley says quietly, the first one to break eye-contact and look ahead. “Back to the flat. We need a plan. We can…make coffee. Get rid of the body.”

Aziraphale turns his gaze to the block of flats as well, squinting as if he were confused by it. “We don’t need coffee. We don’t sleep. Why would—”

All Crowley has to do is look back at him, raise an eyebrow, and they start chuckling again. The rush isn’t as intense as the last instance, but comforting nonetheless. “Coffee it is, then. Lead the way.”

That would have been the end of it had they not still had the problem of ‘impending punishment’. Neither of them voice it, but it’s clear enough in Crowley’s skittishness despite having the angel’s arm pressed against his. (When did that happen?) Their deadline encroaches by the minute, and they have no clue where to begin.

Had he been facing this alone, Aziraphale would have been reduced to a panicked mess by this point. Now, though? At least he has the reassurance that there is something beyond the world to protect. Someone that would see to the true End if he has anything to say about it. Aziraphale doesn’t intend to perish, but in the one-in-a-millionth chance that he does, there is that comfort. 

But they’ll live. They always do.

As they end up in front of the block of flats, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror-like windows of Crowley’s home. He locks eyes with his image, and for just a moment, he imagines what he would have done differently during the era of ballgowns and laced gloves. It would have been a lot more fun, for one. He could’ve tried to change his hair a little bit, maybe make it a tad longer. If he’d had full reign, changed absolutely everything just for the kick of it, he doubts that even Heaven would have been able to recognise—

…Oh.

Aziraphale reaches into his coat pocket, where a piece of crumpled and ashy paper still sits. He runs it though his fingers, tempted to read it one more time for good measure, but he engraved it into his mind the second he’d first caught it.

Choofe your faces wisely, for ye will be playing with fyre.

Well. That just might be a solid idea.