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Remember lookin' at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light
Now, I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time
The bookshop’s front bell tinkled.
Muriel rushed from the back room with a pleasant smile-y greeting ready on their lips.
“Good mor—”
They felt the shift in the air, stopping them dead in their tracks to suck in a shaky steadying breath.
Anger. Destruction. Pain.
Despair.
It weighed everything down and seemed to wrap the sunlit room in a veil of shadows. The angel had to physically clutch their chest at the heaviness.
With careful, hesitant steps, they emerged from the bookshelves. Their wide, fearful eyes landed on the black-clad figure framed by the landing pillars.
“Oh…”
The figure turned his head to their direction, hands in the pockets of his too-tight trousers.
The Prince of Hell took off his sunglasses, lifeless yellow eyes sweeping around the books.
“Mr. – Mr. Crow- I mean, L-Lord Crowley. You’ve – er – climbed up the ranks, I see. Congratulations.” The tremble in their voice betrayed their emotions.
“There was a vacancy,” was all he said in a toneless drawl, still taking in the room.
Muriel stammered, “Y-yes, well. It suits you. Jolly good job, and all that.” They wished they could take back their nervous laughter.
The silence was oppressing. The former scrivener fidgeted for a minute as the demon’s eyes seemed to scan every inch of the space. They cleared their throat, ready to ask how they could be of assistance, but –
“Leave.”
They blinked, mouth falling open. “I – I’m sorry?”
A stare that radiated all the dark malevolence of Hell settled on the angel, making them take an involuntary step back.
“I. Said. Leave.”
The front door burst open with such a force that it knocked off the welcome bell. Muriel squeaked, jumping out of their skin. No need to be told a third time, they scampered out, head lowered, practically running to seek refuge in the coffee shop across the road.
With a snap of his fingers, the door closed with a bang, and all the curtains and blinds fell in place, rendering the shop in darkness.
Nowadays, Crowley welcomed the dark – reveled in it, even. It was his friend, his shield against the memories a spot of sunlight always managed to claw out of his hollow chest.
Grief and fury made him lose control of his earthly body, granting some features of his otherworldly serpentine form to peek through. Iridescent black scales dotted his cheeks, down his jaw and the sides of his neck. A forked tongue licked his lips as sharpened canines jutted out whenever he flashed a wicked smile (the only kind of smile he seemed to be able to do nowadays). The darkened fingernails slightly elongating to sharpened claws was a surprise, but he welcomed it as a perfect topper for his new ensemble.
Taking over as the highest commander of Hell had been easy. Once he untethered his powers from any sense of morality (because there was no point now, was there?), it burst out in almost overwhelming waves, filling his earthly vessel. Tendrils of shadows slithered like snakes around his body, as if his new powers were still adjusting to its receptacle and the excess was seeping out from his pores.
It was thusly how he casually walked through the gates of Hell, radiating such intensity that no one dared stop him. He barely even had to lift a finger as he sauntered down the depths to the empty throne room and draped himself on Beelzebub’s former seat.
The handful of brave (stupid) demons who dared to question him (see: one former Duke Hastur La Vista) was melted into nothingness on the spot. The rest took one look at the black shadows exuding from his skin and decided they valued their existence more than the struggle. Even Shax sank into a wordless supplicating bow at his feet along with the rest.
Crowley took it in as if this was what he was created to become, then set to work. Work, after all, was a classic textbook distraction from one’s grief. He poured himself to building a system that harnessed sins and converted them to energy that strengthened demons and expanded the physical planes of Hell.
He sent out hordes of demons on earth to do unspeakable evil. He issued directives for wars with a careless flick of his fingers. Crime, immorality, and destruction doubled, even tripled under his rule. Demons rejoiced, imbibed with more power than ever, in their given freedom to cause more mayhem and suffering.
The Prince of Hell’s former harmless shenanigans and temptations shifted from mere mischief to outright wickedness, as is a demon's nature after all. In hindsight he saw how much he tempered his antics and tomfoolery because he didn't want to be subjected to a certain angel's worried, disappointing gaze. How soft he had become. Revolting.
Hell’s landscape had a drastic makeover – it became cleaner, more organized, sleeker. It no longer looked like a dilapidated basement wasteland. Instead, it looked like a posh, modern office, with black brick walls and slate grey ceilings and hardwood floors. It even had indoor plumbing – a bonus that improved the overall hygiene in the place. The undercurrent of chaos thrummed through its hallways and rooms. And because it was Crowley, certain plant life even managed to grow here and there.
Even the demons themselves had a major overhaul. They were trained to look more human and presentable, now prancing about in the finest suits, leathers, and denims in different shades of envy green, wine burgundy, ash grey, and charcoal black. After all, Crowley is nothing if not aesthetic.
The current state of Hell was better because it was worse. It was loud, it was drastic, it was alarming. It was the perfect outlet for all his misery and aches.
The Seven Deadly Sins had never made him feel more alive.
He didn’t know what prompted him to go back to the bookshop, when three years ago to the day, everything he believed in shattered along with his heart. Was there even such a thing as closure?
“Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.”
With a snap of his fingers, the candelabras flared to life, extending shadows flickering to the room’s crevices. He walked to the liquor cabinet in the back room, grabbing three bottles of excellent vintage whiskeys. Foregoing a glass, he draped himself on the couch, downing almost half of the first bottle in one gulp.
Memories came in unbidden flashes – a congratulatory box of chocolates for the bookshop’s grand opening, countless drunken nights talking about anything and everything, a naked Archangel Gabriel, an apology dance.
A kiss.
With a growl, Crowley threw the now empty bottle across the room, shattering it on one of the shelves. He picked up another bottle and stood, defiant against his unsteady feet. He followed the broken bottle’s trajectory, glass crunching beneath his boots. Taking another swig, he ran his fingers on the old tomes, kept in pristine condition no doubt by Muriel. His claw-like nails stopped at a familiar title. Pride and Prejudice.
“You remember Jane Austen?”
“I’m not gonna forget her in a hurry, am I?”
The chandelier twinkling from the ceiling –
People in formal getups mingling and talking –
A radiant, excited smile. Fingers touching –
“Fat lot of good your balls did, Jane.” Crowley slurred, before the book burst into flames and fell in a pile of curling ashes on the floor.
He continued to peruse the shelf, stopping at a carefully tucked book on the top level. He knew what it was even before extracting it with careful fingers. He remembered plying the Bard with enough bottles of honeyed mead and shining praises until he relented and signed the finished handwritten script of Hamlet to “My avid patron and miracle worker, Aziraphale.”
Crowley scoffed at the memory of how proud he was when he presented the manuscript to said angel, whose smile that day shone brighter than the sun. The old tome was set alight as well, and fell in with the other charred heap on the floor.
He continued his lazy trudge around the room, now halfway deep on his third bottle. The once familiar scent of must and tea had been replaced by smoke and whiskey. The bookshop wore its grief openly, much like the infernal creature who walked its aisles.
He was about to pick up another poor victim when a gentle woosh of air made him freeze.
No.
It can’t be…
Three years he had not felt that warm, enveloping presence. Yet it settled on his chest as if a missing puzzle piece finally clicked into place.
The sudden burst of divine power radiating behind him would have shaken any lesser being.
But the Prince of Hell stood steady and stiff in the presence of the Archangel Aziraphale.
I sent you signals and bit my nails down to the quick
My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick
“Crowley.”
All the languages in all the world, and he couldn’t think of a single word at that moment. He had a litany of things he wanted to scream out, curses he wanted to throw, speeches that ranged from desperation to accusation.
All that was wiped off his mind with one single utterance of his name.
Slowly, he turned. The angel – Supreme Archangel, excuse his oversight – looked at him with too-bright eyes, the usual galaxy of constellations in his irises giving way to oceans of unnamed emotions. He looked tired, older. The gleam of Heaven sat uneasily on his shoulders. He was clearly waiting for Crowley to say something, but after three years of silence, the demon refused to give him that satisfaction.
Seeing he won’t be getting any response just yet, Aziraphale cleared his throat nervously. Awkwardly straightening out his cream and white starch-stiff coat, straining to put on a polite half-smile.
“You – you look well. Your hair,” the angel hesitated a nod at the wavy auburn locks spilling past his shoulders, half pulled back in a messy bun. “It – it suits you.”
The demon suddenly scoffed, sending the tendrils framing his face to flutter against his scales. Oh, so it’s like that, huh? Well then.
“My, my. Look who finally remembered the way back.” he took another swig of wine, his arrogant tone translated well into a smirk as he tilted his head to take in the archangel in all his new three-piece-suit glory.
“What a lucky bastard I must be to have the Commander of All Heavenly Hosts grace me with his presence. Should I bow?” his sarcastic inquiry made the other being purse his lips, upset. “Curtesy? Kowtow?”
Aziraphale seemed to get back some of his snark. He raised his chin haughtily, though his eyes remained guarded. “You seem to be doing quite well yourself, Prince of Hell.”
This time, Crowley did bow, as low as his inebriated brain allowed without toppling over, arms opening widely, sending a slosh of whiskey spattering on the floor. “The one and only. What can I do ya for?”
Aziraphale levelled him with an all-too-familiar reprimanding look. “You could start by leaving the books alone, if you please.”
The demon laughed out mirthlessly, “Knew that caught your attention.” And for good measure, he took another one off the shelf, carelessly flipping it open.
“Great Expectations. How fitting.” With a challenging look at the angel, the book burst into flames and fell on the smoldering pile on the floor, the pages coiling like scorched petals.
To his credit, Aziraphale’s eyes only widened slightly, his chest expanding a breath, before looking back at him in a decisively calm state.
“If you must know, it was Muriel who called me in a panicked state. The poor dear was so flustered that all I could get out of them was “Crowley” and “bookshop”, so I went straight here.”
“Pffft. Tell that nosy creature not to stick their head where it doesn’t belong.”
The angel’s eyebrows scrunched slightly. “Please don’t be so unkind.”
Crowley shrugged, taking a huge gulp from his almost empty bottle. “Like you said, I’m the Prince of Hell now. Unkindness is my kindest setting.”
Aziraphale seemed to chew on his words before he spoke again in a tentative tone. “And, a-are you happy with your new post?”
“Thriving.” Crowley twirled for show, drawing the angel’s eyes to the shadows exuding form his entire being. “Oh! Actually, I should be thanking you for this promotion!” He threw his head back with a harsh bark of laughter. “Silly me, I should have sent up a gift basket or something.”
Taken aback, the angel regarded him with confusion. “M-me? Whatever for?”
“When you decided to leave me, you killed off that infinitesimal sliver of niceness (ugh, disgusting, I know) somewhere inside all this.” The demon gesticulated wildly at himself, keeping his manic stare at Aziraphale. “You uncollared the hair’s breadth of conscience that was apparently leashed around my power.”
He took a menacing step forward, whole body aglow with said energy. Where anyone else would have cowered back, the angel held his ground, albeit looking up at him with wide, nervous eyes.
“So thank you, Your Prestigiousness, for setting me free.”
“I didn’t – I asked for you to come with me! I didn’t decide – ”
“No, you decided!” Aziraphale jumped as Crowley threw the almost empty bottle against the pillar, the shattering glass amplified in the enclosed space. The demon was seething, golden pupils aglow with anger.
In another lifetime, he would have felt guilty scaring the angel like this. But that lifetime has sailed three years ago. This confrontation was a long time coming. He needed this, if only to finally close their chapter and put everything he thought they had together behind him.
He continued through gritted teeth. “I’ve always tried to understand how your narrow-minded tunnel-vision brain worked. Did you never really notice how I’ve always been at your every beck and call? I’ve stormed through hallowed ground for you, saved you from discorporation more times than I could name. Just that one fucking time, I wanted you to choose me.”
Crowley could see the angel was clearly agitated, his hands shaking and flexing in a tight ball by his side. Good. Let him fret. Let him cower. Let him hurt as much as I did.
He poured every ounce of strength he had into controlling the tremor in his voice. “You were my favorite part of being on earth, d’you know? I cared about you so much that I became attuned to you – where you were, how you were feeling. That was how I could sense when you were in danger all those times. And – a-and when you left, there was this great big bugger of a hole inside me that made me realize I got no other reason to stay.”
Traitorous tears unbiddenly rolled down his cheeks. Weak. You are weak.
The angel’s breath hitched, his hand subconsciously, automatically raising to reach out. But Crowley took a step back, sending a clear message.
“You told me that nothing lasts forever,” he whispered, looking away, his vision blurred by unshed tears. “In hindsight, yeah, that may be true. My mistake was that I thought we were the exception.”
“But if you would only – ”
“Stop. Enough.”
“I only meant – ”
“Aziraphale,” he finally looked back at the angel, tears be damned. “I’m tired.”
How long could we be a sad song
'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?
Traitorous tears fell freely down his cheeks as Crowley continued to stare defiantly back at a silent angel.
“What?” he mocked the other being. “You’ve been in a constant tirade earlier and suddenly you’ve got nothing?”
He sniffed, angrily wiping away his wet cheeks. Aziraphale was clearly in shock from seeing him lose control. He could see the warring emotions behind those stormy gray eyes. But the stillness was becoming unbearable. He couldn’t take the angel’s pitiful stare, as if he wasn’t the one in the wrong.
“Say something, damn it!”
Nothing. The Supreme Archangel continued to stare at him with a look too understanding to make Crowley comfortable.
He pointed a threatening finger at the other being, making him take a hesitant step back. His red-rimmed golden eyes shone with fresh tears and old pain.
“Say something. Or I swear you'll lose me forever.”
That seemed to snap the angel out of his paralysis. Brows knitting, he sucked in a shaky breath, his hands coming up to twist themselves together.
“I don’t – I don’t know what to say.” He mumbled hesitantly.
Crowley scoffs. “For someone so smart, how can you be so unbelievably stupid?”
Aziraphale’s automatic reprimand was muttered under his breath. “There really is no need for that kind of talk, Crowley.”
That grounded the demon back to rationality. It almost made him want to laugh. Because what an Aziraphale thing to say. He visibly deflated, the black tendrils that were erratically whipping from his person shrank back inward to its usual wispy flow. His tears may have stopped, but the heartache was still palpable in the low, broken cadence of his voice.
“Aziraphale,” he began wearily. “I couldn’t have come with you. The wrinkly old bastard knew that. He knew I couldn’t. That – that’s not me anymore. And I’m not sorry if it disappoints you. ‘Cause if you ever cared for me, even the smallest bit, you should know that too.”
“B-but,” the archangel took a tiny step forward, imploring gaze drilling into the demon. “Is this you? All this – ” he swept his gaze over his whole person, but Crowley knew he was talking about more than just his ensemble. “Is it?”
Of course it bloody well is, look how good I am in it, was right there on the tip of Crowley’s tongue. And it would have been all too easy to lie. He was a demon, after all.
But what came out was, “I… I don’t know.”
Aziraphale’s eyes softened, as if recognizing the vulnerability and honesty the demon was granting him at the moment.
“Tell me,” the angel gently insisted.
Crowley laughed bitterly at himself. He should have known better than to try and be someone else in front of this angel. He was a master of transformation, rolling with the times, decade after decade. But he had never managed to be anyone other than himself when it came to Aziraphale.
“I – I feel… wrong.” The truth came unbidden and easy. “I don’t – I don’t think it’s who I am.”
“Then who are you, Crowley?”
It was the most difficult question in the entirety of creation, yet the easiest for Crowley to answer.
As there were trials for heroes, and temptations for saints, for Crowley, there was Aziraphale.
And, weak creature that he was, he gives in every. Single. Time.
Maybe that’s why he Fell in the first place. God saw his weakness and deemed him unworthy of his white wings.
He looked straight at the angel, tired golden eyes meeting desperate blue ones. Right at that moment, he knew without a shred of doubt what he was. What he had always been, since the Beginning.
“Yours.” It came out like a whispered oath.
“My – what?”
“I’m yours. Everything I am, that’s – I’m yours.” The demon shrugged in resignation, laying all his cards bare on the table. “Always was.”
Aziraphale’s throat worked around words that failed to come out. He sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes wide and cheeks aflame. “C-Crowley, I – ”
“Heaven and Hell can fuck off for all I care.” Crowley laughed, bitter and low. “I’ve always only fought for you, d’you know? I’ve only ever fought to keep you safe and happy.” His voice cracked with barely restrained emotions. “Can – can you fight for me too?” There was something like accusation in his challenging gaze.
It was too much to absorb for Aziraphale, apparently. His hands had been wringing themselves ragged, eyes flitting to Crowley, then around the shop, and back again, as if looking for help on how to verbalize his feelings.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of fidgeting and silence, the angel took a deep breath that seemed to center his emotions. His hands fell back to his sides, opening ang closing into shaking fists.
“Crowley, I – I know no amount of words I say can undo the damage of the past three years.” He whispered, looking down at the blackened carpet. “I thought – I thought I was doing the right thing. That by standing with Heaven, I could somehow make things better. That I could change it. Fix it from the inside.” He paused, voice wavering. But he pressed on. “I thought if I just tried hard enough, did enough good, I could make a place for – for us.”
“And?” Crowley’s eyes gleamed with wet fury. “Did you?”
“No,” Aziraphale admitted, quiet and small, tired guilty eyes finally lifting up to meet his. “All I did was lose you.”
The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. Crowley stood immobile for several nerve-wracking heartbeats before heaving a heavy sigh, stepping back to collapse against a shelf. He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I hate you, you know,” he said, though without any venom. “I hate that you can still make me care.”
Aziraphale stepped closer and, after a moment’s hesitation, knelt down on the soot-dusted floor in front of him. His gaze never left Crowley’s, even as his knees blackened on the carpet. His hands trembled.
Crowley looked at him with scandalized disbelief. “What the heaven are you doing?”
"You were right.” The angel said, ignoring the demon’s question. “About all of it – Heaven, the Metatron. About them, a-and me. And I was... so blind. I – ” he sucked in a shaky breath, steadying himself. “I broke your heart. I am aware of that now. And I’m sorry, Crowley. I am so, so sorry.”
The demon was helpless to do anything but stare back.
“I have been so selfish. And I took you for granted.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “You offered me freedom, a place where I can be just me. That’s something no angel or demon was ever meant to have. And I—I was too much of a coward to take it.”
Crowley shook his head, lips trembling. “You don’t get to say this now. Not after all this time.”
“I know. But I’m saying it anyway.” Aziraphale whispered, “I was terrified. You a-always went too fast for me, Crowley.”
The demon huffed humorlessly at the angel’s repeated line. But he looked down at the kneeling form before him, eyes losing all malice. “How could you, the highest of angels, ask a demon for forgiveness?” He asked with incredulity.
The angel gave a tiny shrug, as if dismissing the hierarchy. “How about me, just Aziraphale, asking his dearest companion, to forgive him?”
A long pause.
Then Crowley muttered, “Why now?”
A certain steel came back to Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley saw them harden as he launched into a hurried explanation. “The Metatron. He – he has come up with this plan. He calls it the Second Coming. And – oh Crowley it’s awful. Absolutely worse that Armageddon! And he’s the most dreadful creature. He puts on this grand façade of a supposedly compassionate and forgiving entity – to reflect Heaven, he says. But he’s vengeful and selfish, and – it’s not what I want to become. It’s not the Heaven I want to work with. I – I want to put a stop to all of it.”
The angel was talking a mile a minute and Crowley was doing his best to keep up with the narrative. He’s sure after all of this he can get a slower, more detailed explanation. But right now, he allowed the other being to unload what seemed to be a heavy burden he had been carrying for a while.
“And I… I need you, Crowley.” He cried out desperately, reminiscent of the last time he uttered that phrase. “S-so you should hurry on up and forgive me because I need you with me on this. Please.”
A thought, bitter and aching, occurred to the demon. “You say you need me. Do you really need me? Or do you need him?”
“Him?”
“Who I was… before. The angel. The Starmaker.”
Aziraphale crumpled with the weight of Crowley’s vulnerability. It was like looking at a snake shedding its skin – raw, exposed. He was laying out all his fears and insecurities, unsure of the angel’s acceptance.
He stood back up on unsteady legs, eyes never leaving the demon’s. He hoped words would be enough to convey the enormity of what he wanted to tell the only constant in his entire existence since the Beginning.
“I need you, everything that you are. Anthony J. Crowley, once called Starmaker, one of The Fallen, The Serpent of Eden, the Original Tempter, the Inventor of Sin. And now, the Prince of Hell, Lord of Demons.” He stepped closer before continuing, his earnest, determined gaze cracking the armor around Crowley’s doubts and insecurities.
“I need you. My partner, my companion throughout time and space. My guardian, my protector, my wily adversary, my – my best friend. Please… tell me I still have you?”
Tears fell unbidden from Crowley’s eyes. He looked away, squeezing them shut but making no move to wipe them off. For one tense minute Aziraphale feared the worst. He waited for the inevitable lash out and string of hurtful comebacks the demon would surely spit out.
But when the Prince of Hell opened his eyes and looked back at him, they were softer, sadder, more resigned.
“I forgive you.”
Aziraphale flinched from his choice of words – his famous last words from three years ago.
“Tell me what to do, angel.”
The celestial being’s breath hitched at the endearment he hadn’t heard for too long.
“If you're cannonballing again into some risky business that may or may not wipe you permanently off the face of the universe, let me dive headfirst with you. Say the word, and I'd willingly stand on the frontlines of any army for you.”
Aziraphale looked like he was still trying to process Crowley’s words. “You… you forgive me? Just like that?”
The demon’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “Just like that.”
“But… but I hurt you. I made you cry. I—” He faltered. “You shouldn’t… Why would you – why?”
Crowley shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets with practiced nonchalance. “Guess you just bring out whatever’s left of Heaven in me.”
“Crowley…”
“Damn it. Because I fucking love you, you absolute tosspot of an angel!”
A heartbeat. Then another. Then a third.
Crowley almost rolled his eyes—fondly, of course. How could the angel not have realized it yet? Honestly.
“You…”
“I love you,” he said again, slower this time, each word deliberate. His golden gaze didn’t waver. “Does your infernal feather-filled goody-two-shoes brain understand that? For six thousand years, I’ve been hopelessly, recklessly, ineffably in love with you.”
Aziraphale spluttered, blushing scarlet and looking everywhere but at him. “L-love?” he stammered, laughing nervously. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his coat. “But… you’re a demon. The Prince of Hell. Can you even—?”
“How quickly you forget I was an angel once, too. You told me, back at Job’s, that you knew the angel I used to be.”
“And you told me that angel wasn’t you anymore.”
Crowley’s smile faded into something softer. “Maybe not. Maybe I’m something in between now. Somewhere in the grey—where we’ve both been, all along.”
He stepped forward, voice low and unguarded. “I don’t give a damn about Heaven or Hell anymore. Not really. Even this planet, much as I love it, fades into background noise when I’m with you.”
Aziraphale sucked in a few deep breaths, wringing his hands. “Oh dear. I… I rather think I find emotions terribly inconvenient. They make my body behave in m-most improper ways.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? How so?”
“Well. A-at this very moment, if I don’t kiss you, I may very well just spontaneously discorporate.”
Crowley chuckled, eyes gleaming. Deciding to take pity on him, he took a single step closer, shadows curling gently around Aziraphale, brushing his coat like shy fingertips. The angel looked down at the smokey wisps tickling his arms, then back up at him – uncertain, but hopeful.
The demon grinned mischievously. “Shut up and kiss me, then.”
Lose something, babe, risk something
Choose something, babe, I got nothing to believe
Unless you're choosin' me
Aziraphale surged forward.
The kiss was hesitant at first – soft and trembling, like a secret finally spoken aloud, the natural culmination of a lifetime of wanting. His lips brushed Crowley’s with the reverence of a prayer. Crowley stilled for a beat, stunned that this was real, that it was finally happening.
Then he kissed back.
Not gently.
Crowley pressed him back against the shelves with a quiet urgency, a groan escaping him as millennia of restraint shattered all at once. His hands found Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him. Around them shadows unfurled, wrapping around the angel like velvet ribbons – protective and possessive – drawing him into the warmth of the demon’s embrace. Aziraphale made a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat and buried his fingers in Crowley’s coat as if afraid he might disappear.
Six thousand years of unspoken love, of side glances and brush-of-the-hand touches, of near-confessions and narrowly missed chances – it all bled into that kiss.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between them.
Aziraphale’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Then they spilled over. Quiet, unrestrained. He turned his face away, hands coming up to hide himself.
“P-please,” he choked out. “Don’t – don’t look at me. I’m such a mess…”
The Prince of Hell smiled, cradling the angel’s – his angel’s – face between gentle hands, wiping off his tears.
“Look at you,” Crowley murmured, voice rough around the edges with emotion. “You’re gorgeous.”
Despite his tears, Aziraphale’s smile was so big and so bright, that it brought about galaxies bursting forth behind his eyes, dancing nebulas, shooting stars. Crowley leaned in to kiss him again, a soft promise behind his lips.
When they parted, the angel looked up at him. Affection, deep and profound, set his entire body aglow. Slow tentative fingers reached up to Crowley’s face.
"I've always loved your eyes." Soft fingers stroked the scales on the demon’s cheeks. "Pretty, pretty eyes." He murmured almost to himself.
The Prince of Hell knitted his eyebrows, frowning slightly. "Doesn't it remind you of what I am? Of how different we are?"
“It only serves as a reminder of who you are – the only being I most desperately adore.” He placed a gentle kiss on Crowley’s forehead, as if in benediction. “My beloved demon.”
The demon’s breath hitched, hearing those words from the angel.
He couldn’t help his declaration. “I love you. More than all the stars in all the universes combined.”
Aziraphale bit his lip, eyelashes fluttering bashfully downward. Crowley couldn’t help running his thumb under the angel’s plump lower lip, already thinking of biting it in another kiss. But the angel distracted him with a shy question.
“Since when?”
“Hmm?”
“Since when h-have you – rather –”
Crowley chuckled at the angel's floundering.
“Are you asking me since when have I loved you?”
Aziraphale sucked in a soft breath at the casualness of the demon's words. Crowley scrunched up his nose in thought.
“Guess it was the day on the garden wall, when you gave away your flaming sword.” He snickered. “You were entirely adorable, worried but unapologetic. I thought, well, this has got to be the best or the worst angel there is.”
Crowley caressed the blush staining the angel’s cheeks with his fingers. Aziraphale looked at him through his eyelashes.
“I – I’d like to confess something.”
“Yeah?” The demon’s eyes were mapping his face distractedly.
“Do you remember the first time we spoke? Back in – uhm – well, you probably don't, it was quite a while ago, I –”
“It was the day I made the constellations. It may have been millennia ago, and the finer details have started to blur,” a smirk, devilish as anything. “But not you, angel. Never you.”
Aziraphale looked like he was about to combust from the demon’s bluntness.
“Yes, w-well. That day. I – might have already had somewhat of a – a pash for you back then.”
“You – you fancied me?” Crowley had to physically restrain himself from busting out laughing at the incredulity.
“Well you were brilliant.” Aziraphale’s tone was defensive despite his flaming cheeks, sticking his chin out. “You were a Dominion, from the big leagues. And for one of the oldest and brightest angels to even take the time of day to talk to me… I was, well, starstruck, you could say. You were creative and witty and intelligent. You made the most beautiful galaxies.”
“Well, I guess you had me beat there.”
Emboldened, the angel continued. “And I – I suppose my affections may have deepened when you saved my books from the bomb. You didn't have to, but you did.”
“And now?” Crowley couldn’t help but tease the angel a bit. He expected the other being to splutter and fold, but he was pleasantly proven wrong.
“Now…” A blushing angel ran his tempting little fingers up the demon’s lapels to play with the ends of his fiery red locks. The demon held back a groan as he felt the gentle tugs on his nape. “Now I – I love you, Crowley. There's no one else I'd fight alongside with twice for the universe's survival.”
The demon didn’t waste a second more and pulled Aziraphale flush against him, claiming his lips with a possessive growl. The angel was quick to reciprocate, standing on his tiptoes to push up against Crowley, parting his lips and sliding his tongue inside the demon’s waiting mouth. A surprised little gasp from Aziraphale told Crowley he just felt up his forked tongue and was definitely not opposed to it, judging by the tightening of his arms around the demon’s neck.
After a minute (or maybe ten, Crowley lost count entirely), their kisses mellowed into softer brushes and featherlight pecks of their reddened lips.
“What now?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly. Against the demon’s lips.
“Now,” Crowley rested his forehead against the archangel’s. “We go back.”
“Back?” Aziraphale suddenly pulled away in alarm. But Crowley tightened his arms around him, preventing him for stepping further than a hand’s breadth away.
It seemed like he needed to be the voice of reason this time. “Don’t sound so disappointed. You still got a job to do. Plant seeds of doubt, rally a rebellion, all that cream. I’ll do my bit downstairs too.”
“But I don’t…” Aziraphale’s grip tightened around the demon, biting his lip anxiously.
Crowley smiled and placed a gentle kiss on his halo of hair. “We won’t be too long apart this time.” His statement held a finality to it that left no room for doubt. But the archangel still looked at him desperately. He needed to do something to wipe that fretful wrinkle off his brow. That would just not do.
Taking Aziraphale’s left hand he held it to his right cheek and closed his eyes to concentrate. He heard the angel gasp as the snake insignia just below his sideburn uncoiled and slithered down to his ring finger, wrapping its spindly body delicately around the digit and reforming itself into a solid onyx ring. Crowley placed a kiss onto it, and the angel felt the whisper of a demonic miracle settle down on it.
“Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword. Now the Supreme Archangel, Commander of All Heavenly Hosts.” Crowley paused, cradling the other being’s face in his hands. “I don’t give a damn about all of that, to be honest. For me, there’s only one thing about you that you'll always be, one thing you've always been, really.”
“What – what is it?”
“My angel. Mine.”
Aziraphale looked up at him with such adoration that he couldn’t help gushing.
“No one will see it there, angel. You can wear it and think of me.” Fuck it if he’s going soft. His angel was worth it. “This is a promise. Much like the humans do. Know that I will always, always choose us. Against the world. Against heaven or hell. It will always be you. Us. Together. For better or for worse.”
Aziraphale giggled softly. “Oh, you wily serpent. How dare you slither your way around my heart with all your pretty words.”
He takes off his signet ring, kissed it to bestow the same shielding miracle, and slid it carefully on the demon’s left ring finger. It fit as if it was made for him.
“Now we match.” He stretched up for a gentle kiss, the perfect thing to seal their promises to each other.
Standing in the foyer with their foreheads pressed together, Crowley was reminded of their former bosses doing just the same. “Gabriel and Beelzebub would be proud if they knew. I think they started a trend.”
“Oh, they'll be finding out soon, I believe. Once we go and fetch them.”
“They – we – ”
“We will need all the help we can get, darling. This is a rather big one.”
“Huh. So we’re finally going to Alpha Centauri, eh? Who knew it would only take another end-of-the-world threat and a reconnaissance mission to get you up there.” He tugged playfully at one of the angel’s curls. It earned him a swat on the hand.
“Oh hush. We can go anywhere you want once this is over. I rather fancy somewhere open and quiet. Fresh air, maybe the sea?”
“I hear the South Downs is a nice place to retire to.”
“South Downs it is.”
It was almost impossible to force themselves out of each other’s embrace, but both knew there was work to be done. Despite the looming separation, Azirphale couldn’t help the serene smile that settled on his lips – which promptly slid of as his shoes nudged the still smoking pile of ashes that were his former books.
“Oh Crowley. Must you have sacrificed my first editions to your tantrums like that?”
The Prince of Hell shrugged, unapologetic and indifferent. “It was a worthy cause. Brought us here, didn’t it?”
“I know, but still…”
Crowley smirked before snapping his fingers. The pile of ashes vanished and in its place were the three books, all good as new – well, old. Aziraphale gasped and turned back at Crowley, his admonishing expression ruined by a gleeful smile.
“Oh, you fiend!”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, angel.”
“Horrible demon.”
“You love me.”
Aziraphale chuckled and lunged forward to steal a kiss from the demon’s smirking lips. “I do. Most ardently.”
Crowley sighed closing his eyes as he held his angel tightly against him, savoring the arms wrapped around his waist, the soft torso pressed up against his bony chest, and the warm breath that told him this was real. This was his reality now. Finally. Finally.
“You hold my entire existence in your hands.”
The archangel hummed in response. “I'll take good care of it. I’m quite the expert in handling leathery antiques.”
He huffed a laugh. Oh, the wickedness of this heavenly creature. “Bastard. You'd better.”
Their lips met again as if on instinct, making up for the years, decades, centuries of not being able to express the overflowing love they have for each other.
“I’m yours. For all eternity. As long as you'll have me.” Crowley whispered almost reverently.
“Until the last star in the universe dies.”
“Well,” he tucked the angel’s head under his chin and rested his cheek on his downy-soft curls. “Guess it's time to make new ones, then.”
As they stood in each other’s embrace, a soft familiar little trill sang from just outside the window
Crowley turned to the sound and chuckled softly, causing the angel to turn his head in question.
“Well, would you look at that.”
“Oh,” the angel breathed in awe. “A nightingale.”
When it was high time to go, the Supreme Archangel of All Heavenly Hosts went first, smiling sweetly at the Prince of Hell, already unconsciously toying with the serpent ring on his finger. Once alone again in the bookshop, the demon took one last look around, barely believing the events of the last hour or so. He came back down here expecting nothing, wanting closure after three long painful years. And he did get what he went for – closure from heartache, from feeling alone, from all the wondering and what ifs and could-have-beens.
Crowley was helpless to stop the warm smile that stretched his face. He knew complicated times were ahead once more. But whatever happens, he would gladly face them head-on as long as he had his angel by his side.