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“Oh, look, a shooting star.”
“Technically, it's -- it's meteorite debris from Halley's Comet.”
“Well, I know it's not a real shooting star, but I want to make a wish.”
“Oh, right.”
“... There.”
(3.01)
***
Aziraphale wakes up.
He hadn’t expected that, what with the melting into oblivion and all.
He’s in the dark – but it’s not oblivion dark. No, just a fine, late evening, and a sky full of radiant stars above. Not too far away, a nightingale is singing. This – it dawns on him – is a garden.
He’s resting upon someone’s shoulder.
Of course, it could only ever be one someone’s.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale pulls back, astonished. “Crowley!”
“Mmmmphffffff,” Crowley replies, still asleep.
“Wake up!”
“Five more min–” At last, Crowley pries an eye open behind his glasses. Not sunglasses. Spectacles. “Wait. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why are we here?”
“I don’t know!”
“We’re not supposed to be anywhere. We’re supposed to be nothing. Never existed, you and me.”
“I’m aware of that,” Aziraphale says impatiently. “But the fact remains … ta da!!”
Crowley grimaces. “Oh, it’s far too early in the day for magic.”
“It’s night.”
“Still.”
“Hold on a moment.” Aziraphale finally registers the full truth in front of him. “You’re old!”
“So’re you,” Crowley snarks automatically. “Comes with the immortality. So what?” Then he blinks, staring more intently at Aziraphale. “Wait. So are you.”
“I am?”
“You are. You’re a proper pensioner.”
“Am I?” Aziraphale can’t help wilting a little.
“A very good-looking pensioner,” Crowley amends quickly. “One of the cute ones.”
“Oh, thank goodness. You too.” Aziraphale peers at him closer. “And what’s happened to your eyes?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not …” Aziraphale almost says They’re not yours, but then it strikes him that that’s not true. They’re different, yes. But Crowley still shines right out just the same. “They’re lovely. But they’re …”
“Short-sighted,” Crowley observes, taking his glasses off. He squints experimentally around the garden.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says wonderingly. “Human eyes.”
“Wait,” Crowley says, looking rather woozy. “I think I’m – I think I’m remembering something.”
Crowley isn’t alone in that. Suddenly, it all floods back to Aziraphale: his own childhood; his parents; his sisters; the beloved old family dog. Spending as much time in libraries as he possibly could, enchanted by the innumerable feats of the human mind and heart. Blushing around handsome boys. Going to university. Having his heart bruised once or twice, but never won quite enough to be broken. Working in the bookshop. Resigning himself, with quite a lot of dignity, to a life alone. Meeting a man with red hair and a brilliant smile and feeling oddly as if he’d known him for a million years.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says faintly, “have you had an entire life here? A … a human life?”
“Yup,” says Crowley. He tries to put his glasses back on, and misses his face the first time. He looks the way Aziraphale usually does after a ride in the Bentley.
For a moment, they sit in stunned silence. The stars wink happily above them. The nightingale sings.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says then, “you’ve written books.”
“Loads,” Crowley agrees. “You can find most of them in our garage.”
“Oh, hush. They’re magnificent. Astrophysics has never been so much fun. Not to mention they’re why we met in the first place. And the Metatron – why, the Metatron was a nice old man called Derek and he told me to go after you and get your number.”
“Good to know he finally did something useful. About time.”
“And you said I didn't need your number, because–”
“I would wait for you.”
“And you did.” Aziraphale smiles.
“‘Course I did.” Crowley smiles back.
“And – and that’s our house!” Aziraphale points at the cottage.
“It’s a good house. Ten years in that house.”
“Eleven this July!”
“Nineteen years married this October. There’s a big number for you.”
“We had a wedding,” Aziraphale recalls, barely able to contain his joy at the words.
“Everyone cried,” Crowley reminisces.
“But mostly us.”
“Ehhh.”
“You cried, Crowley! You most certainly cried.”
“Maybe one tear. The rest was rain. It rained buckets.”
“Liar,” Aziraphale says affectionately. He feels as if he’s in two places at once – here, now, with Crowley, and swaying in his new husband’s arms under a tent in a field while it rained, surrounded by smiling loved ones. “The first dance was to Queen, of course.”
“Well, you’re never escaping Queen.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Oh! We went on that honeymoon cruise.”
“And got food poisoning. One cruise ship bathroom – talk about hell on earth.”
“But we came out the other side admirably.”
“Don’t talk about things coming out sides,” Crowley winces. “Too soon.”
“We have two cats,” Aziraphale remembers, thinking of sweet Jim and Muriel curled up together in the bedroom at this very moment. “And three godchildren, and thirteen nieces and nephews between us - and these days they're starting to have babies of their own.”
“They grow up so fast.”
“They do! Bless them. And that’s not even to speak of the plant children.”
“Don’t call them plant children.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says firmly, “you feed them, water them, sing to them, play them educational podcasts. Dust their little leaves. They’re our plant children.”
“Yeah, all right,” Crowley relents. “They’re good kids.”
Aziraphale stares proudly around them. “We designed this whole garden together.”
“We did. The previous owners had really let it go to ruin. Bastards.”
“But we knew just what was there underneath,” Aziraphale says, “and couldn’t let all that potential go to waste.” His eyes are hot with tears. “Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” Crowley agrees, meaning Aziraphale. After millennia, and twenty years, you begin to pick up on these things. “Paradise.”
Aziraphale dabs at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “I didn’t expect this. Really, I didn’t. I was ready to give us up without anything in return, if it meant that the humans could have a chance.”
“Me too.” Crowley sniffs. Perhaps it’s even a sniffle. “She’s a kind old universe, ours, isn’t she?”
“It would appear so.”
Crowley grins at him. “Not bad work, angel.”
Aziraphale definitely sniffles. “Not bad at all.”
They shake hands, a familiar old bit of camaraderie. Then Aziraphale puts his other hand atop Crowley’s, too. These hands were made to hold each other, after all. The wedding bands are proof of that.
“Do you think this is a dream?” Crowley asks, staring down at their joined hands.
Aziraphale considers it. “I think perhaps it’s a wish.”
The recent thought still rings in his head: I wish to stay with you always, my love, no matter where existence has taken us or will ever take us. I wish to always remember just how lucky I am.
“Ah, right,” says Crowley. “The shooting star. Well, shooting meteorite debris.”
“You astrophysicists are at times very unromantic, Professor Crowley.”
“Is that so? I’ve not had any complaints from you before, Mr. Fell.”
“No, not really.” Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s shoulder, smiling.
“Out with it,” Crowley says, his voice warm. “What did you wish for?”
Aziraphale looks up, gazing fondly at him. “What have I ever wished for, save one thing?”
Crowley’s eyes gleam in the moonlight.
As their lips meet, the memory of thousands of other kisses crashes in. Hellos, goodbyes, just-becauses. Hungry I need to have you right nows and distracted Yes of course, dears. Great joys and deep sorrows and everything in between. Earthly delights unending.
“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale sighs in bliss. The garden lights seem to dance around them, the air suffused with gold. Crowley smiles at him, glowing brightest of all, and adds another kiss to their long list.
***
Asa blinks. It’s the oddest feeling – as if he’s waking up, even though he logically can’t be, since he’s in the middle of kissing his husband. “Have we been sleep kissing?”
“I wouldn’t put it past us,” says Anthony.
“Is this why everyone says we’re one of those obnoxiously in love couples?”
“Nah. Can’t be. We’re delightful. We dozed off, old man.”
“No wonder. It’s so cozy out here.”
“If we sleep in these chairs, we’re neither of us walking for a week.”
“That would be quite nice,” Asa hums. “A week together in the garden.”
Anthony laughs. He gets up, grunting with the effort, and then holds a hand out. “All right. Come on, angel. Off to bed.”
“Angel?” Asa raises his eyebrows as they walk to the cottage, arms around each other.
Anthony scrunches his face up endearingly. “Sorry. Not sure where that came from. Too much?”
“No, no,” Asa says, feeling rather smitten. He decides aloud, “I like it.”