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Crowley sprawled across the couch in the bookshop. This close to the Apocalypse he probably should have been making plans for the best ways to avoid the other demons post apocalypse, but instead he was watching, slightly drunk, as Aziraphale rearranged his books yet again.
“So, do you have your little magician uniform set for the party?”
Aziraphale startled slightly at the words before they sank in and a look of stress and concern crossed his face. “I hadn’t even thought of that, I think I had just planned to wear this. Do you think I should do something else?” As he spoke he made his way over to Crowley, not wanting to hold a conversation across the store.
“You could always wear your ‘Fell the Marvelous’ get up. If you still have it.” He raised his eyebrows faux-questioningly, as if they didn’t both know how rare it was for Aziraphale to get rid of things.
Aziraphale’s face lit up. He started towards the stairs, turning back when Crowley remained on the couch. “Will you help me look for it? I think that it’s somewhere upstairs.”
Crowley sighed dramatically and heaved himself off of the couch. “Can’t you just miracle them on?”
“I could, but wouldn’t it be nice to see what else is in there? Go on a little stroll down memory lane?” He pretended that he couldn’t hear Crowley’s derisive snort, nor that he knew it was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll. The demon was trudging up the stairs after him and that was the important thing.
The storage room at the top of the stairs most likely hadn’t been properly gone through since Aziraphale had bought the shop, with him instead opting to stash things in it haphazardly, with piles of things across the floor and racks full of clothes from as much of his existence as he could save. There were pieces of old furniture that had fallen into disuse, and Crowley pulled out a chair that was sagging somewhat. Before Aziraphale could open his mouth to suggest a sturdier seat, Crowley had fixed it by way of miracle.
Crowley watched intensely as Aziraphale dug through the racks, listening as he was regaled with nostalgic chatter. However, he refused to be nostalgic for a time before now, for times where he went years without seeing Aziraphale, times where he couldn’t just show up at the bookshop, a bottle of wine in hand. He wouldn’t say that outright, of course. The angel was having too much fun and Crowley wasn’t going to ruin that, even if it made him somewhat bitter that Aziraphale looked upon the past that fondly.
As Aziraphale unearthed each of the costume parts, he placed them in Crowley’s lap for safekeeping so the wouldn’t get reburied by the shifting piles of clothes and memories surrounding them. Soon enough, all that remained to be found was the feather boa. Or at least, all that remained for Aziraphale. The boa had been in Crowley’s eye line the whole time, wrapped around a lamp in the corner. As the angel began searching more intently, however, Crowley kept his knowledge to himself. Aziraphale turned agitated rather fast, admitting that even though the boa wasn’t technically part of the stage outfit, he thought it quite added to it. At that point the secrecy lost its fun and Crowley silently pointed to the boa, earning an effusive thanks.
Aziraphale dramatically wrapped the boa around his neck and snapped his fingers, the costume in Crowley’s lap being replaced with the clothes the angel had been wearing seconds prior. The little room faded from Crowley’s vision. In its place were flashes of memories, the nostalgia the angel had been swimming in all night finally pulling Crowley under.
There was Aziraphale on the stage, the fear in his eyes apparent to Crowley, if not the other troops, as his turnip remained a turnip. There was Aziraphale’s back retreating in St. James park, Crowley’s note to him on fire in the water, Crowley’s heart breaking in his chest. There was the burning of the church floor against Crowley’s feet.
Unwillingly, Crowley fell into a pit of what could have been. The feeling of being able to relax around Aziraphale as they browsed the magic shop, as Aziraphale practised his tricks downstairs at that very bookshop subsumed him. The Crowley of the past had been filled, ever so briefly, with the hope that this is how it could be forever, the two of them together. Even as present Crowley knew that that was what he had now, the memory of losing that after being confronted, the two of them silently agreeing that they needed to take space, hit him like, well, a bullet.
Distantly, he could hear the Aziraphale of the present speaking, but he couldn’t pull himself from his reverie alone. Eventually, a hand lightly touched Crowley’s own and he was jolted back to the storage room.
“Crowley, my dear, are you quite alright?”
Crowley sharply cleared his throat. “Just thinking about how much of a wanker Furfur is, pulling that stunt with the miracle blocker and the zombies.” He steeled himself to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, his own begging silently for the topic to be dropped. “I don’t think the kids will go for the whole buttoned up look. You should loosen it up a bit, try to mitigate some of the bullying. You know as well as I do how harsh kids can be.”
Before Aziraphale could even protest that, actually, Warlock wasn’t as horrible as Crowley thought, and that he had put a lot of work into being a good influence on him, thank you very much, Crowley was on his feet and crossing the room, Aziraphales former outfit falling from his lap to the floor.
By the time Crowley made it the few steps to Aziraphale, he was already talking at top speed, beating his emotions back with every word. “Don’t wear the hat, it’s too cliche. You can just bring it out if you need it for a trick. The cloak and boa- do you want them to say something homophobic?” As he mentioned each piece, he removed it from Aziraphale’s person, getting as close as he could to the angel, giving in to the need to be touching him as his brain screamed to fucking run.
Aziraphale stood silently, dumbstruck as Crowley’s fingers fumbled with the clasp of the cloak and his breath came in shallow pants. Aziraphale started when Crowley grabbed his hand, not having the chance to even respond as the demon continued his hurried torrent of suggestions and began to tug the gloves off. “The gloves are too prim and proper. Plus, they make your hands blend in with the vest, it’s more impressive to do the tricks barehanded. Do you even have your tricks planned? I was doing some Wikipedia edits the other night and stumbled on a list of some. You could do your little magic coin one. Or that one with the cups, get the little buggers to participate.” The gloves had both been removed and the two were inches apart, each fighting to not take the other’s hand once more.
Aziraphale shook off his motionlessness, stepping around Crowley. “If I’m going to do anything barehanded, then I want to use my other vest. I much prefer the texture on that one. I do want to do the one with the dove, but I need to prepare my coat for that. I need a topit.”
Crowley could feel his cheeks try to heat up but valiantly fought it as he swallowed. “You need a what?”
Aziraphale was already halfway down the stairs, oblivious to Crowley’s emotional rollercoaster. “A topit. It’s where the dove goes, inside the jacket. I’m going to go to the magic store and pick one up. Would you care to accompany me? I’ll need to sew it in, so if you’d like to stay here, I’ll be back in just a moment.”
“I’ll just wait here for you, angel. Don’t particularly feel like fraternising with the humans tonight. Crowley had made his way back to the couch and collapsed onto it.
By the time Aziraphale returned, Crowley had regained his composure and managed to locate a book of magic tricks and was leisurely flipping through it, brazenly dogearing the pages he found particularly interesting. He barely acknowledged the angel’s return, pretending to be completely engrossed in the book as Aziraphale set up his sewing machine and got to work. As he worked, Aziraphale though out loud about his own ideas of what to do for the show.
“I do think that the coin and cup were good ideas, Crowley. Thank you. And the dove, obviously. I would love to do it all on my own, no miracles, but I wonder if I’m a bit out of practise. Maybe starting with the turnip would be a good idea, use just one little miracle. I doubt that Furfur will be there this time.” He chuckled quietly to himself.
“I highly doubt the children would even know what an inkwell was. By the time those troops were done fighting, ballpoints were on their way up. I personally suggested the mass manufacture of the ones that have about on sentence’s worth of ink in them before they stop working.” Crowley had been quite proud of that one, between the frustration and the pollution and waste it caused.
Aziraphale gave an annoyed sigh. “Well, I need something good. I want Warlock to have a nice party, especially since I guess it will also be an end of the world party.”
“We could do the bullet catch again.”
Aziraphale’s head shot up, his wide eyes meeting Crowley’s. “We cannot bring a gun to a diplomat’s house, Crowley! He may be American, but I think that that would be seen as a threat of violence regardless!”
“What are they going to do? Arrest us? However shall we cope for the few minutes before the apocalypse begins?”
Aziraphale frowned. “Well, then I don’t want to risk myself getting discorporated. Heaven may need me on the ground.”
“I could catch the bullet. I’m sure Hell won’t need me. If you don’t want to have a gun, we could do the zig zag box. Or you could cut me in half. I’m sure those sadistic children-”
“No, Crowley.”
“I could get myself all dolled up.” He stood up from the couch, striding towards Aziraphale, his gaze keeping the angel pinned in place. “I could miracle myself a cute little dress. Be your assistant.” He leaned over the sewing machine, the table it was on keeping space between the two of them, but barely. “If you aren’t going to use the boa, I could wear that. C’mon angel-”
“I utterly refuse to do something where you could be discorporated either, Crowley!” There was fear in Aziraphale’s eyes now. “I’ll do some card tricks, and I have the wand that turns into flowers, and the dove should be spectacle enough. I should probably keep it short, if Warlock’s attention span is anything to go off. Now please move, you are blocking my light.”
Crowley turned, hiding the shock on his face. “I’ll see you when I pick you up next week, angel,” and before Aziraphale could make a sound, the demon was gone.
The day the apocalypse started, Aziraphale wasn’t even sure if his ride would show up. He had spent the previous week fretting about his home, worrying that Crowley would abandon their whole plan. He had tried to calm himself by practising the tricks for the show, but since he only had the one dove and nobody to be the subject of his card tricks, he found himself alternating between the coin vanish and the transforming wand. Not that he would have been successful in practising anything more complicated. He kept getting distracted mid trick, his mind wandering to the way Crowley had stormed out the week prior. He wished he had been able to explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t want Crowley’s help or that he didn’t think that Crowley would have looked lovely. He wished he knew how to explain that it was that he didn’t want to be left alone, to face the oncoming apocalypse alone. That he couldn’t deal with being the cause of Hell getting its tendrils around Crowley for a second time. That he was fucking scared.
He was on the verge of breaking down and calling Crowley when he heard the Bentley roar up outside the bookshop. Before Aziraphale could do more than regain a bit of self compusure, Crowley sauntered in wearing pants so tight that Aziraphale reasoned that they must’ve been miracled on, because he couldn’t see how one could get them on any other way.
Crowley smirked when he saw the angel frozen in place. “Still a no on the needing an assistant? I can always bail on serving, not like I was exactly going to help anyways.” When Aziraphale neglected to answer, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t even dressed. Angling to be late to the end of the world?”
The angel, startled out of his reverie by the reminder of the existence of time, shook his head. “I- No, give me just a moment!” He dashed up the stairs. After taking a breather to properly calm himself from the emotional whiplash, he hastily miracled on his change of clothes, not wanting to be gone long enough that Crowley might get curious as to what was taking so long and come investigate. When he descended the stairs a few minutes later, he held a permanent marker in his hand, and had his tie undone around his neck. One he reached the bookshop proper, he placed his marker on his desk and reached up to tie his tie. Crowley watched silently as the angel fumbled with the tie for a few moments before giving an exasperated sigh and looking over.
“Would you mind lending me a hand, Crowley?I can’t seem to keep my hands steady enough. Same for the mustache, I think. I don’t want to mess it up and have to redo it, since we’re already running late.” He help out the tie, trying to not look to pathetic and hoping that the implicit knowledge that he could have just used a miracle like he did with everything else and was instead asking for Crowley’s help was coming across as the attempt at an apology that it was
Crowley shrugged, desperately hoping that his relief was well hidden. He carefully lifted up Aziraphale’s collar, carefully avoiding any potential brush of skin on skin. He kept his eyes firmly locked on his task, diligently avoiding looking the angel in the eye, going as slowly and methodically as he could. As he was finishing up, his knuckle brushed Aziraphale’s throat and he could hear the angel’s sharp intake of breath. Crowley quickly finished his task and cleared his throat, not taking a step back.
“So. Mustache?”
Aziraphale nodded mutely, grabbing the permanent marker and holding it up. Crowley gave a sharp bark of laughter.
“We probably should use something else, angel. Wouldn’t want you getting high off the fumes and mess up the magic act. Back in the day, as far as the early 2010s can be considered ‘back in the day,’ some people on the internet managed to convince a bunch of young teenagers to draw on their faces with them. Always got a kick out of just how many of them followed along.”
“It’s the only thing I have here. What would you suggest instead? You know I’ve never been much for makeup.”
Crowley took the marker, twirled it between his fingers, and by the time it was still again, it had become a tube of eyeliner. “Long lasting. That was you won’t need to ask me for a touch up once we’re there or risk trying to do it yourself and messing it up.”
Aziraphale glared at him, but was nearly immediately reduced to doing all he could to keep his composure as Crowley gently cupped his jar, holding his head in place. A startled noise came from his throat, but he tried to remain otherwise implacable.
Crowley, for his part, was surprised by his own boldness yet again, and busied himself with drawing on the most perfect fake magician mustache he could. Before he could stop himself, he murmured, “The world is ending. I hope we made the most of it.”
Aziraphale, trying to be a good canvas, didn’t say anything, instead making an incomprehensible noise that neither of them were able to identify as positive or negative.
Seconds later, having distracted himself with that train of thought, Crowley quietly said, “Ah, fuck.” Instinctively, he licked his thumb and used it to wipe off his mistake before it had a chance to dry. The two made startled eye contact, Crowley’s thumb gently resting on Aziraphale’s lips.
Aziraphale took a slow breath, steeling himself. “I don’t think we have.”
Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s face tightened almost imperceptibly as he tried to decipher the angel’s words and then all at once Aziraphale’s hand was covering his, and Aziraphale’s lips were crashing into his, the angel slightly overzealous. Crowley felt himself relax into the angel in a way he had never allowed himself to before, the eyeliner dropping from his hand as clutched at a fistful of Azirahale’s waistcoat.
After a few moments, Crowley pulled away just enough to rest their foreheads together. A weighted silence engulfed the two for a few moments before the demon spoke. “In that case, I would like to be able to make the most of the future. Which unfortunately does not entail any more of this at the moment. We’ve got a hellhound to watch for if we want to avert the apocalypse, and being any later than we already are is not going to help us do that.”
“Yes. Right.” Aziraphale remained frozen for a moment before making a beeline to the Bentley. His head was spinning, although his mustache remained intact. As he regained his composure in the car he fought to convince the part of himself that just wanted to lock the two of them in the bookshop and forgo their plans that they could make the rest of their lives a much longer period of time this way.
As the Bentley sped towards what was meant to be the Antichrist’s birthday, Aziraphale gingerly reached out to grab Crowley’s hand, which was met with his hand being held so tightly that he presumed his bones would have been crushed, should that have been a possibility.