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"I want a universe without heaven and hell," Crowley stated, and the words tasted too sweet in his mouth, but he didn't think that mattered right now. "We both do, don't we?"
"What? No. No, that's not what I want." The softness had bled from Aziraphale's face like sunshine faded behind clouds, and it left behind only a sad sort of confusion. "I want our universe. I want the people on our Earth to have another chance."
It sounded like something Crowley might have said, before he'd found himself all out of chances in an alleyway somewhere beyond heaven's reach.
He gave the faintest shake of his head. "Oh, angel, I don't think that's in the cards for us anymore. I think we're done here. The book is closed, the curtain has fallen. Best to cut our losses and get out."
Out of all the possible reactions Aziraphale could've had, Crowley hadn't expected anger. For a second, he could see him in his full glory, a warrior of Heaven. "I'm not letting you throw away our universe," he hissed—a way of talking which Crowley usually liked to claim for himself. "I refuse to be an accessory to your suicide pact."
"My what?" It was rather strong language for something Crowley would argue was merely a noble act of self-sacrifice. For a second, he feared this was a reiteration of The Great Holy Water Debate.
"Oh, please," Aziraphale replied, and there might've been despair behind the anger. "I'm not blind, you know. Ever since I came back down to Earth, you've been one step away from letting someone set you on fire just for the hell—the sake of it. But—why can't you believe our universe has a future? All that talk about free will and you can't even see that it exists already, that we've had it all along. Crowley, it's always been there, for all six thousand years. We are proof of that. The two of us."
Aziraphale looked at him, and his eyes had never seemed brighter and clearer to Crowley. He dipped his head forward experimentally, his body following along, moving closer to Aziraphale. All the while, he didn't break eye contact for even a second, asking—daring him to do what he hoped they both wanted.
Suddenly, the fate of the universe didn't seem like the most important question anymore.
The most important question was, firstly, where Aziraphale would place his hands—on his cheeks, cupping his face like he was worthy, like he was something that needed to be treasured—and then, where their bodies would meet—Crowley's hands landed on Aziraphale's back, pulling him in closer—and , finally, how Aziraphale's lips would feel on his—rougher than he would've expected, with a little tension, a little bite.
Crowley found all these answers satisfactory, and yet he leant back in for a second kiss, like the answers might have changed. (They hadn't.)
Finally, Aziraphale broke out of it, and looked at Crowley so fondly it made something in him ache. "I should've done that years ago," he whispered. "Before I ever left for Heaven. I never wanted—if I could go back, I would. I'd change it. I'd tell you right there and then that I love you, that it's all out of love for you, always has been."
Crowley blinked. "I wouldn't," he said, speaking equally softly. "I'd do it all again. If it meant that we'd always find each other again, here, at the center of the universe—I'd go through it again, heartbreak and all."
Aziraphale smiled, and wiped away a tear that had apparently escaped his eyes at some point. "For what it's worth, I'm still so, so sorry I made you go through all that."
Crowley nodded, then stretched out his back a little. "So," he said, lengthening the vowel. "What are we going to do about the universe and everything?"
"Oh, I know just the thing," Aziraphale replied, his smile now reflected in the crinkles at his eyes. Crowley couldn't believe he'd ever denied how much he loved this angel.
· ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ·
Aziraphale did know just the thing, it turned out. Just as simply as they had summoned God through their writing, they could write Her back out—"And God left, and took Satan with Her for a catch-up, and Aziraphale was left alone with Crowley" was all it took, in the end. It wasn't even good writing, Aziraphale lamented, but Crowley reminded him their priorities were somewhat bigger than that right now.
So, they set upon remaking the universe through their newly christened Book of Second Life—writing it diligently, painstakingly, bestowing upon each and every human the care they deserved and had earned by virtue of simply existing. And slowly, the world came back to life around them, stretching out around the bookshop, the new centre of the universe.
Heaven and Hell were not that difficult to deal with either, it turned out. Heaven had practically destroyed its own bureaucracy, and Hell wasn't in much better shape either. "Leave them to themselves, they have enough to figure out internally to give us a couple of centuries of rest, at least," Crowley argued lazily, and Aziraphale agreed easily.
Thus, they settled in the bookshop, and when they finally opened the doors again, their SoHo neighbourhood was just as they remembered—a little run-down, a little worse for the wear, but Aziraphale swore he would make it up to their former neighbours, would make sure they could return. (They had a short argument about the concept of gentrification, then, which Aziraphale saw as hell incarnate, and Crowley swore was not one of his ideas.)
Before they could realise it, the days started blending into each other, and they had settled into a routine—long breakfasts, comfortable mornings sorting books and never, ever selling any of them; then at midday, they might go for a drive in the Bentley, or get lunch at the Ritz and then coffee at Nina's; and finally, in the evenings, they frequently settled down with some wine and, more often than not, found themselves reminiscing, telling each other about this miracle, or that temptation; and they marvelled at the peace they had finally, ultimately, found with each other.
Of course, there were still the tense moments, and likely always would be—Aziraphale lapsing into dialectic thinking, with good and bad as clearly defined values rather as something that was constantly up for debate; Crowley believing he'd seen another demon across the street and refusing to leave the bookshop for the next couple of days.
But then, there were the beautiful things that surrounded them now and that would always, always, outweigh the shadows and drive them into each other's waiting embrace again—Crowley's sunglasses gathering dust on a shelf somewhere, long forgotten; his plants all lined up on a windowsill somewhere, getting the light and water they had always needed.
Aziraphale had taken over caring for the plants in an unusually decisive way; and the earnest fashion with which he carried out his watering schedule for them broke Crowley's heart just a little bit every time.("You can't just water them every few weeks at will and expect them to be fine, Crowley. They need attention," Aziraphale had told him with indignation, and it had left the impression on Crowley that their conversation suddenly wasn't about plants anymore.)
· ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ·
One day, as Crowley sauntered down the stairs in the morning (and what a joy that was, to saunter downwards without it meaning anything), something in the air felt different. Aziraphale was out, apparently—that much was normal, he preferred to get groceries early in the mornings. The cloaked figure standing between the bookshelves (Crowley believed it was the letter 'J' section) was, however, most unusual.
"Oh, good morning," he drawled. "Come to reap us, have you? Might have bad news about the mortality thing." He gestured at himself vaguely.
Death turned around. OH, I KNOW. I WAS JUST IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD. THOUGHT I'D DROP BY, MAYBE PICK UP A BOOK.
"Aziraphale doesn't sell his books—what do you mean, you'd just drop by?" Crowley felt a little faint. Death wasn't a regular visitor, even—especially—for them.
JUST THAT. I'VE HEARD A LOT ABOUT YOU, YOU KNOW. I GOT CURIOUS.
Crowley felt a little bit like he was meeting a celebrity, and the celebrity had just told him that they were a big fan of his. Maybe the analogy wasn't far off, after all—he had spent a lot of time contemplating death, and nothingness, and all that came with the proverbial undiscovered country.
He shook himself out of his stupor, and felt like a little child when he asked: "So? What do you think?"
YOU'VE REALLY MADE THIS A HOME, Death said, after a short moment of contemplation. THE PEOPLE HERE ARE NOT EVEN AFRAID OF ME ANYMORE. AND THE CATS ARE NICE.
"Eh," Crowley said. "We're just friendly neighbours, is all. And the cats are just—cats, really."
THAT MAY WELL BE, Death stated cryptically.
Crowley couldn't make out his face—didn't think there was one to make out in the first place—but he still seemed like he was considering something. It was strange, to witness Death's uncertainty; but Crowley had always found himself believing that the Death he kept meeting (after wars, and during apocalypses, and before the outbreak of whatever heaven and hell had cooked up next) was only a pale shadow of a much more complex phenomenon, one that seemed almost gentle now.
Finally, Death spoke again, granite voice echoing against the high ceiling of the bookshop. YOU KNOW, YOU'VE GOT ETERNITY HERE, NOW. I DO HOPE YOU WON'T GET TIRED OF IT. THEY USUALLY DO.
Crowley looked out of the window. Behind the shiny green leaves his monstera kept producing now, he could just make out Aziraphale walking down the street, grocery bags in his hands. He seemed to keep getting distracted, waving at neighbours, trailing behind a cat, talking to a lost tourist (and pointing him in what Crowley assumed was an outrageously wrong direction).
He felt a smile spread over his face—another of these things that just seemed to happen these days, the same way his plants were thriving.
"Oh, you know," he said, slowly, turning back to Death. His heart felt warm and fond. "I think we'll be just fine."