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It’s a less than well-known fact that angels don’t tend to feel exhausted , but then again, angels don’t tend to stop armageddon twice in eight years either. Especially not with attempted assassinations, ended friendships, awful first kisses, job promotions, and a severe lack of food occurring within that period as well.
Aziraphale slept for four days, and Crowley let him.
When he awoke, he was on the sofa (he was fairly certain he hadn’t fallen asleep there), there was a blanket placed tenderly over him, a cup of cocoa steamed warmly on the side table, and someone was humming quite a lovely melody somewhere in the shop.
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They didn’t talk about it. Not yet. For now, it was all about the small things, the little i love yous sprinkled throughout their days. A bouquet of yellow tulips, tickets to Macbeth , a first edition copy of Persuasion , a stroll through Berkeley Square, a vinyl copy of A Night at the Opera , hands quietly grasped together under a table as Muriel chattered away. Crowley supposed love confessions didn’t have to be grand after all.
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Most mornings, Crowley awoke in the small bedroom above the bookshop. Most mornings, Aziraphale awoke with him. Nightmares didn’t plague the demon as much anymore, replaced instead by much sweeter dreams. His angel was a recurring character.
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Evenings often involved wine. Wine often involved proximity. Being close, seeing the freckles and blush of a demon right there , listening to endless, incredible babbling about ducks and music and God knows what else, tangling his hand in red hair, Aziraphale knew this is what made every moment of heaven worth it. This was the real eternal paradise, wasn’t it?
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Eventually, they did talk about it. It was difficult, being open and honest, communicating , but it was good. It was what was needed.
They decided what they were. Partners. A word for equals, for people who care for one another enough to value the other as they value themself, maybe even more. A word for people like them.
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They held hands in restaurants and theatres, in antique shops and parks, in furniture stores and open houses.
They held each other close on sofas and in bed, in the backs of movie theaters and on makeshift dance floors.
The lines between them began to blur, Aziraphale and Crowley becoming Aziraphale-and-Crowley. They were rarely seen without the other nearby, and were always asked about the other when they were apart.
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They shared Chinese takeout on the floor in a countryside cottage, boxes and cartons scattered around them. London had gotten too small, too loud, and the open Dorset air was a welcome change. It didn’t matter anymore if Aziraphale caught Crowley staring, if their hands brushed reaching for the fried rice, if an angel caressed a demon’s face and called him so lovely, my dear . It was all they ever wanted.
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It was a nice day. There had been rather more than two million, two hundred and three thousand, nine hundred and eighteen of them, and although rain had been invented long ago, the lack of storm clouds on the horizon indicated rain wouldn’t visit a certain little South Downs cottage anytime soon.
The angel of the eastern gate glanced up from his novel to gaze at his demonic husband. It was the perfect day for a picnic, wasn’t it?