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So this is it.
That’s how it ends.
I guess there’s nothing more romantic
than dying with your friends.
-Till Forever Falls Apart (Ashe & FINNEAS)
The time for sleep is now.
There’s nothing to cry about,
'cause we’ll hold each other soon
in the blackest of rooms.
-I Will Follow You Into The Dark (Death Cab For Cutie)
One night he wakes
Strange look on his face,
Pauses, then says
‘You’re my best friend’.
-You Are In Love (Taylor Swift)
They stood at the threshold to Crowley’s room, their shoulders almost, but not quite, touching. Aziraphale’s were slumped, Crowley’s straight, in a perversion of their usual postures. Both of their eyes fixed on the dark bedroom in front of them- the sleek silver lamps, the huge black bed in the centre, and… nothing else, really. Crowley had heard of minimalism in the 1960s and ran with it.
Unfortunately, that only served to immediately bring their attention to the problem at hand, instead of distracting them with a gaudy portrait or knick-knacks on a shelf first.
They’d ridden the bus in silence, sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. Two weary soldiers readying for a last battle— or that’s how Aziraphale saw it. He’d done most of the readying, truth be told. Crowley had either slept or stared impassively out the window; he couldn’t tell with those sunglasses of his in the way.
As soon as they’d crossed the threshold to Crowley’s sleek and modern lair, Aziraphale had verbalised all of the battle plans that had come to his mind, aided by a slip of centuries-old paper. He was certain he’d gotten it right. His shop had, after all, specialised in prophecy books.
Crowley had been sceptical at first, but after a half-hour-long explanation and another bottle of wine, he’d been forced to admit Aziraphale’s idea made a lot of sense. It was him who’d devised the practical application of the plan and found a way to make it work.
They’d switched. They’d practised (surprisingly, they hadn’t needed long to master the other’s mannerisms. Six thousand years of being in close-ish proximity to another being would apparently do that to someone). They’d shared useful tips and tricks. They’d talked. They’d talked. They’d talked.
Then they’d switched back, and there had been silence for all of three seconds before Crowley had gotten up from the couch, clapped his hands, and said, “Right. I’m going to sleep.”
Aziraphale had nodded, a question as to whether he could borrow a book from Crowley’s astronomy collection on the tip of his tongue, when the demon had looked straight at him, sunglasses gone, face sooty and sagging, and added, “Want to join me?”
The angel’s refusal was already knocking at his lips, coat in hand, ready to go out.
He’d nodded instead.
So here they were.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this before. Communal bedding had been usual amongst humans, once, and he and Crowley had often ended up in the same places for work. There was that other time in Bethlehem, too, when they’d been forced to share a room for convenience’s sake, as all of the city’s inns were already packed. But, somewhere along the way, humanity had shifted its views on what sharing a room entailed, and while neither entity cared for such silly whims or trends, it was hard to not have some things stick to you out of sheer proximity. Aziraphale felt it now, a patina of awkwardness that stubbornly clung to them both. In truth, his reticence had less to do with sharing a room with Crowley and more to do with this being the demon’s private space, as close to sacred as a creature like him could get. It was the only room in the flat that gave the impression of being lived in, despite being as spotless as the rest of them. This was personal, and he refused to step in until Crowley made the first move.
Unfortunately, Crowley seemed to have decided this was the time to make an excellent impression of a Roman statue— pale and immobile.
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“Crowley, if you don’t want me to…”
Crowley snapped out of his trance. “No. No, ‘s alright.” He jerked into motion, the most rigid Aziraphale had ever seen him walk. “Come on in, angel.”
“Are you certain? Forgive me for saying this, but you’re clearly out of sorts.”
“I don’t forgive you,” Crowley replied, automatically. “Demon, remember? I’m just… Hmghhrrr. I need to sleep.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. When he spoke again, the filth was gone from his face; his clothes had transmuted into a looser, more comfortable-looking version, and his voice had softened, “But I do want you here.”
Aziraphale nodded. “Alright. Do you have any, ah–?”
“Pyjamas are in the closet.” Crowley flopped onto his bed and gestured vaguely at the mirror spanning the whole length of the wall adjacent to the door they’d just come through, which Aziraphale supposed must be the sliding door to the closet. “Toilet’s that way if you want to freshen up.” He pointed to a closed door to the bed’s right. “You’ve seen the kitchen, and the study has some books if you get bored— most of them on astronomy, but there’s a Winnie the Pooh copy that I used to read to Warlock somewhere in there, too.”
Aziraphale felt something warm start to trickle down his throat, filling up his ribs. He turned to the closet so Crowley wouldn’t see the small smile that started pulling on his lips. The demon had been through enough for one day already- praise for his solicitous attitude might just be the straw to break the camel’s back. The mirror slid smoothly to the side when he experimentally pushed it, leaving a smudge of fingertips on the polished surface. He would scrub them out later, after they’d switched appearances, maybe, so he could see how he fared in Crowley’s–
Oh.
For how spacious the inside of the closet was, it didn’t actually hold many garments. There were half a dozen racks, three of which held a black shirt, black trousers and a black blazer and waistcoat, respectively. Crowley’s usual getup. The floor of the closet was empty except for two pairs of black snakeskin shoes— one with short heels, one flat— neatly tucked away in a corner. There were many closed drawers, stacked on top of one another, that looked as if they didn’t know dust was a thing that existed. They were made out of dark wood, their handles tiny silver snakes. What made Aziraphale freeze, however, had nothing to do with those oddities (which, knowing Crowley for as long as he had, he didn’t find the least bit surprising), but the other three remaining racks. Each held a pyjama set consisting of long trousers and flannel shirts that all seemed to belong to the same person— and that person was not Crowley. They were too big, for one, and the colours were wrong. Instead of black, dark grey and red, these sets were either cream, light blue, or tartan.
Crowley abhorred tartan.
The thing in Aziraphale’s chest threatened to grow too big for his body. He took a deep breath. It only served to push it against his throat.
With a practiced calm he didn’t feel, he went back to the conversation they'd been having. “I thought you only read war stories to Warlock.”
“It was the idea, but apparently kids get bored of Genghis Khan real quick. I had to improvise.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t put Milne’s work in the syllabus for raising an Antichrist.” Aziraphale chose the blue ensemble, and started changing into the clothes manually. They were soft and perfectly ironed. “Or Kipling's Jungle Book, for that matter.”
“I’ll let you know that those are very evil.” Crowley’s usual defensive response, but spoken in a tired, half-hearted tone. The poor dear was exhausted, Aziraphale thought, buttoning up the chemise. “We focused on the rabbit and the tiger, of course. Taught him…” Crowley yawned. “Taught him selfishness. And power.”
“Right. And who were his favourite characters, again?”
Crowley grumbled. “Piglet and the human kid,” he said, dejectedly. “I’m sure I could find something evil in them, though. When I’m less-“ Another yawn. “Tired.”
Aziraphale finished with the pyjamas. He carefully folded his clothes and, after a moment’s consideration, left them on the immaculate floor of the closet, next to the shoes. Then, when he felt like he could breathe again without his ribcage exploding, he turned to look at Crowley.
The demon lay on his back, resting on his elbows- a sprawl of long limbs and black silk on black coverlets. He appeared to have his eyelids closed, but the dim light filtering through black lampshade was enough to see the flash on his droopy eyes. Eyes that decisively shouldn’t be so reflective…
Crowley opened them fully. They were entirely yellow, the pupil a thin slit. Aziraphale had only seen him like that a handful of times. On the wall in Eden, during the 14th century, today at the end of the world when he’d felt the pull of Satan himself.
Needless to say, he knew by now what such a sight meant.
He sat down by Crowley, who tracked the movement silently, arranging himself so he was facing him on his side.
“Are you… alright?”
“Thinking,” the demon answered. His lips pulled slightly down.
“We’ll be fine,” Aziraphale said. The semi-darkness made him feel like he should speak as quietly as possible, so he did. “It’s almost over.”
“I know. The plan’s good.”
“Then…?”
“I’m just— Ngk.” Crowley’s chest rose with his breathing, a painfully human habit both of them had fallen into long ago. “I’m just thinking about today.”
“Ah. Yes. Loads of things happened.”
“The end of the world, for a start.”
“But it didn’t end.”
“No.” Crowley sighed. His hand twitched at his side. Aziraphale remembered the bus ride home, those long fingers intertwined with his, hanging on tightly. I’m here, you’re here, everything’s still here. “No, it didn’t.”
“Crowley?”
“Yeah?”
Aziraphale’s throat closed up. The constricting feeling was back.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered. Crowley turned puzzled eyes to him. He tried to clarify, “What I said at the bandstand. I– I do like you.” Very much so.
“I know, angel.” Crowley offered him a quivering smile. “You’re here.”
So simple. So easy. But Aziraphale supposed that was the most tangible proof there was. He’d waltzed right into the demon’s lair, to put things literally, fearing not the Enemy but the consequences that would fall on their heads for it, come morning.
He put his hand in Crowley’s. The demon’s curled immediately around it, slotting their fingers together.
“Even so,” the angel continued, laying his head on dark grey pillows filled with that modern shape-adjusting foam, “I wanted you to hear it from me. You’re my best friend, Crowley. My only one, at that.”
Crowley closed his eyes. A sound was dragged from his lips, the hiss of a balloon deflating.
“Thanks. You’re mine, too. In case it wasn’t clear.”
Aziraphale thought back to the hazy image of a bar seen without eyes, a drunken demon’s ramblings, an anguished confession. ‘I lost my best friend’.
He squeezed Crowley’s hand.
I care for you. I care for you deeply, and I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, and we’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, we have to be fine, I lo–
“Since...” Now Crowley imitated a sputtering motor. “Since Uz, really. I think. Not sure.”
“Uz?” Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows. He remembered Uz very differently than Crowley, if that’s when the demon thought they’d become best friends.
Instead of elaborating, Crowley shifted on his back once again, staring at the fluorescent stars stuck to the ceiling, not letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. Maybe the weight on his palm was as comforting for him as it was for the angel. “Probably, yeah. That’s the first time I considered you my friend.”
“For me it was after Babel,” Aziraphale confessed, tracing his eyes over the shiny green shape of Centaurus up above. He felt Crowley’s gaze like a physical weight settling over him.
“The meteor shower?”
Oh. The demon’s voice had gone soft, mellow, and suddenly the tight band around Aziraphale’s chest was back, winding around him like a constrictor snake. He found he couldn’t speak through it, this time. So he nodded and hummed, blinking through suddenly wet lashes.
“Mm-hm.”
He felt like a fool. Nothing had happened in Babylon to justify the sudden pressure on his throat. After the mess that was the Tower, he and Crowley had given up on trying to calm the humans and retired to the nearby gardens to watch the chaos unfold from a safer distance. Technically, their jobs had been done. No one would have blamed them if they’d left the place. But they hadn’t. Instead, they’d talked.
Crowley had seemed more at ease, among the plants. Aziraphale recalled the room just steps away from this one, full of exuberant plant life, and felt his lips twitch. They had sat on the grass, exchanging words in all the languages that had just been created1, until noon had given way to night and, instead of leaving, Crowley had lain down, turned on his side, and smiled.
Ever seen a meteor shower, angel? There’s one scheduled tonight. Oof, what a sight!
The image of that Crowley, grinning wide and sincere, had superimposed itself with an angel’s visage Aziraphale had seen long ago. Look at you, you’re gorgeous. It had been the first time he had seen the demon as happy as he had been back then, the first social call of many more to come. Despite every instinct screaming at him to walk away, Aziraphale had stayed.
Now, another version of Crowley laid beside him— exhausted, melancholy, scared—, but the passion he held for stars, for the universe, for life, hadn’t faded.
And Aziraphale had yet to walk away.
Crowley lifted his head when he noticed the tears clumping on the angel’s eyes had started to fall.
“Hey,” he said, propping up on his elbow, eyes roving over him in search of a problem. Always, always so serviceable, so kind, however much he might snarl about it. “You said it— we’ll be fine.”
Aziraphale shook his head. Words had always been his specialty, but now they simply wouldn’t come. How to explain that he was having a bit of an epiphany, that he was only now starting to see every single one of their outings in a new light, that his heart was crumbling to dust under the evidence of Crowley’s unwavering friendship through the years, his trust, his loyalty, when the angel had denied and denied and denied…?
He brought his free hand to his mouth. The first sob had only just breached his lips when he heard Crowley’s shocked murmur.
“Aziraphale.”
The demon’s hand tightened around his. Aziraphale couldn’t see him— he’d scrunched his eyes shut at some point, and it was so easy to just keep them that way— but he could feel Crowley’s other hand hovering somewhere over his shoulder.
“T-terribly sorry,” the angel sniffed. “I’ll be alright in a jiffy. Right as rain.”
The English disdain for admitting to emotional turmoil is one of the most intense feelings a being can experience. Even if that being is neither human, nor, technically, English.
“It’s alright, angel. Take your time.” The hand finally came down, grabbing his shoulder hesitantly. Crowley’s voice sounded as tight as his when he added, “I can’t say I’m not scared shitless, too.”
Surprisingly, that helped. Aziraphale relaxed a bit, as the tears kept flowing. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he could be— should be— apologising for. Years, centuries, millennia of wrong after wrong. But he couldn’t find the words. Nothing would ever be enough.
Crowley laughed. It sounded like jelly, wet and trembling.
“We had a good run, no?” Aziraphale looked at him then. Crowley’s hair fell over his forehead, messier than he’d ever seen it, and his gaze was far away. “I mean- Sixty centuries. Humans only get one, at most.” He smiled, close-lipped, as his eyes slid over to him. Aziraphale wanted to dissolve into tears again at the sheer emotion in them. “It’s not that bad.”
And it was then that Aziraphale finally understood what the feeling obstructing his airways was. He was afraid of dying— truly dying, with nowhere to go, nothing waiting for him on the other side. But not because of a sense of self preservation.
Because he wouldn’t see Crowley again.
Six thousand years was a long time for all living things on Earth2. But suddenly it was not nearly enough. He wanted to see Crowley forever, with all the implications of that word and all the rewatches of The Sound Of Music it could fit.
Maybe he would get that, eternity at Crowley’s side. Or maybe they’d be destroyed tomorrow and go into the nothingness together. Whatever the outcome, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to change it now. But he could make the most of the moments he had left.
He tightened his hold on the demon’s hand, less desperate than before. Crowley squeezed back immediately. Push and pull, give and take. The angel moved his leg a bit, a measured twitch that put it near Crowley’s lean, long limbs.
A breath, two, and then Crowley intertwined his legs with his. They drifted closer.
Crowley closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “Goodnight, angel.”
“Sleep well, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and did what he’d been supposed to, long ago in the most magnificent garden humankind had known. He kept watch.
Footnotes:
1. All of them in Crowley’s case, at least. Aziraphale and French had started on the wrong foot from the get go. Return to text
2. Except perhaps for sea sponges. Return to text