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Aziraphale smiles at him, and oh, if that’s the last thing he’ll ever see, this couldn’t be the worst way of ending things.
The angel squeezes Crowley’s hand, the tickle of Aziraphale’s fingers against his lips still lingering as everything dissolves.
~*~
And then there’s Nothing.
No world.
No universe.
Not even the Vastness.
Just … Nothing.
~*~
And suddenly, they both stand in the middle of the bookshop.
It’s empty. No books. No trinkets. Or statues. Or figurines. Or worn sofas. Or Persian rugs. Not even shelves or desks or chairs.
Only yellow pillars, grey stone floor and a bright light from above bathing the angel and his white feathers in warm light.
~*~
Aziraphale seems as confused as Crowley feels. They look at each other for ten breathless seconds.
“Whot. Is this?” Crowley stammers, the weight of their decision still heavy on his shoulders. They ought to be dead. Erased from existence. To have never existed.
And still—
“I- uh—"
Aziraphale squeezes his fingers, turning slowly on his own axis, wings rustling.
There’s still nothing but non-existence outside the bookshop – only bright, blinding, endless white. Crowley swallows, finding that his dark wings had unfurled, too.
“Why are we still here?” he dares to ask, and the angel’s grey eyes land on him, tears on the brink of falling.
“I—,” Aziraphale sniffs, staring at his own clasped hands. Slowly, Crowley creeps closer. Something’s up. He could feel it in the way his feathers prickle.
“We should be gone by now,” he croaks, the impact of them still existing against every expectation coiling in his core.
“And yet, we aren’t.”
A tear falls from Aziraphale’s eye and he looks up.
“I’m sorry, Crowley.”
The demon quirks a brow, fighting the urge to wipe that stray tear away.
Aziraphale sniffs again and pulls something crumpled from his sleeve with trembling hands. Three pages. All scorched on the edges, but still there.
The former demon stares, unable to compute.
“That is not what I wanted.” Aziraphale whispers almost incomprehensible. His eyes swim with pain and guilt, “You once told me that you’d like to spend … whatever it was with me. That you wanted us to be an Us. And I never got to tell you then that this was all I wanted as well.”
His hands spasm violently around the pages, almost ripping them in half.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want you to die. I didn’t want us to dissolve into nothing!” the angel sobs now, curling into himself, “I am sorry, because once again, I’m dismissing your decision.”
Aziraphale pushes the pages against Crowley’s chest, and he catches them before they can fall. He tries to keep his hands steady as he unfurls the crumpled paper and his heart stops for a moment.
Because there are two names and a place written on each of them.
Aziraphale.
The Bookshop.
Crowley.
The former demon swallows, tears stinging in his eyes at the name – his chosen name – is written in black ink on his page of the Book of Life.
“Angel,” he croaks quietly and looks up into grief-stricken eyes. He wants to say something, anything, but Aziraphale interrupts him before Crowley could speak.
“You can still make that choice. Here and now. Destroy those pages and let it all end. But I need to tell you this, before it’s too late again.”
Crowley stares at him, unable to speak, the three pages in his hands suddenly impossibly heavy. Aziraphale sobs again, takes a step closer, chuckles wistfully under tears.
“Knowing now that She always knew about who I really was – lazy and lying and gluttonous and grown too native—”
“Angel, no, that’s not—”
“Let me speak. It was liberating. Her judgement was what I feared most in all of our time – and to know...” he pauses to take a breath, “…to know that my love for you made her smile… It’s just—”
“It would have never been enough.”
Aziraphale freezes, his smile faltering.
“What?”
Crowley’s stomach turns and coils in pain.
“You said it yourself. How could we have been happy knowing what we did to all those people? How can we be happy now when everything is gone?”
The angel’s lip quivers and he looks around the empty bookshop, blinking the tears away.
“There’s nothing left! Michael made sure of it. What was your plan for this? Just us, in a barren building for the rest of eternity? No people, no life, no books, no bloody cocoa? Even a human with a limited lifespan would go mad!”
It hurts to see Aziraphale cry. But Crowley also hurts. He had spent years hurting and losing hope and drinking. Years of denial and grief and torturing himself with the memory of their last interaction.
“Is God still here? Or do you think She just fucked off into non-existence as well? Because then we’re the only two idiotic entities that will have ever existed. What a pair we make!”
He knows he’s unfair. He knows his words cut. But he can’t hold them back either. Aziraphale sets his jaw, hands clenching into fists by his sides. He shifts his wings, feathers ruffling in distress.
“But you were always the one asking me to run away! Why the sudden change of heart? Why choose humans over—”
The angel stops, wiping his eyes aggressively.
“Because they deserve a chance, angel! And every time something celestial meddles with them, it’s not a fair chance for true free will anymore!” Crowley yells, his raspy voice echoing through the vastness.
“And you think destruction and taking us out of the equation is the only way to reach that goal?” Aziraphale comes back at him, anger burning in his eyes. He looks like he would grab Crowley by the lapels and shake him any second, “Didn’t you listen to me earlier?! You are the one who always asked questions! Who always tried to make sense of things! Who always said there had to be another way to do things!”
Crowley growls, tightening the grip around the pages.
“And how, Aziraphale? Tell me!”
He gestures wildly around them, at the barren walls. It’s hopeless. The world is broken. Everything is broken. Even them.
“We could work something out! We always found a way. We’ve been through so much and I will not accept that we won’t find our own happiness! We’ll—”
His hand lands on Crowley’s chest, right above his racing heart, anger dissolving into agony as grey eyes meet yellow ones.
“I chose Heaven because - selfishly - all I ever wanted was a world where we had a chance! Where we don’t have to pretend we don’t like each other. Where we could truly choose our own side!” he whispers desperately. It was the same old argument. They were running in circles. Over and over and over again.
Crowley wanted to argue, that there weren’t sides anymore because there was no bloody universe. But Aziraphale threw a spoke in his wheel before the former demon could open his mouth.
“I want to be able to say ‘I love you’ without the constant fear of punishment. Because that’s the core of it all.” The angel presses his hand closer to Crowley’s heart, another tear trailing down his face, “I love you. In that silly, overwhelming, human way. I always have. I always will. You’re everything to me.”
Make me complete, Aziraphale had told the Almighty. Crowley grits his teeth as the emotions pull him under. Anger. Grief. Fear. The unfairness of it all. Of the years and years of waiting, hoping, aching. Only to be crushed once and once again. And that it took literally until the end of everything to finally to hear those words that he deeply, heavily, desperately longed for across his whole existence. He pushes his jaw forward, tipping his chin up, to keep the stupid tears at bay.
“I know,” he finally manages to say, not able to look at the angel, “I always knew you did.”
Silence stretched for a long moment.
“And do you?”
Crowley bites his lip, their surroundings blurring.
“Of course I do,” he whispers towards the skylight. He flinches when Aziraphale’s hand lands on his cheek, turning his head towards him.
“We are such stupid idiots,” the angel states and for some reason, this makes Crowley chuckle helplessly.
“Yes, we are. Waiting till the literal end of everything. So us, eh?”
Something unguarded flashes Aziraphale’s face. He takes a deep breath before speaking.
“If I asked you. Would you do it again?”
Crowley frowns, confused.
“Whot?”
The angel swallows.
“Kiss me, of course.”
It is humiliating, how even in this dire situation, Crowley’s heart stutters.
“You didn’t really seem to like it last time,” he argued weakly. Aziraphale’s tense face relaxes and he offers Crowley a cautious smile, deepening the lines around his eyes in the way the demon had always secretly adored.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs and brushes his thumb along the former demon’s cheekbone, “I did.”
A wave of unfiltered fondness softens the sharp edges of the former demon’s hard feelings. Teeth clenching, his grip tightens around the pages in his hand and he exhales with a gust. There is no rush at all, isn’t it?
“Right,” He says, shifting his wings, straightening his back, “Then ask.”
Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and for a breathless second, he only gapes. But then, he furrows his brows and clears his throat, blinking away another tear.
“Anthony J. Crowley. Would you do it again?” he asks breathlessly, something akin to hope fluttering in his deep eyes. They always reminded Crowley of the first ever thunderstorm. Of the rough Northern Sea. Of warm tea and old wood. Of home.
Once again abandoned by speech, Crowley hesitates, but then nods. Then he raises a hand, runs his fingertips across a soft lapel, remembering the feel of it when he grabbed it with force, a lifetime ago. This time, he only faintly curls his fingers around it, waiting for the angel’s response. Aziraphale’s breath hitches slightly, and he leans forward only by a millimetre. But it’s enough.
Crowley hesitates for another second, but then he caves. He tips forward, pulling Aziraphale in. Their lips meet in a soft brush, drawing a quiet sigh from the angel. It’s not like the first time, though Crowley feels almost the same desperation. They are still on the end of everything. There is nothing left but timeless infinity, bleak and clean. And still, all those negative thoughts dim under that very human touch, the warmth and the knowledge that for once, truly no one is watching them. Or is trying to rip them apart. It’s literally just them in the whole universe.
Just this one time, Crowley allows himself to have this. If it had to end eventually, at least he knows now how it could have been if they had been honest with each other in the past.
Aziraphale caresses his face when he slowly pulls away. Crowley exhales, mourning the loss of warmth already. His hand shakes when he straightens the angel’s lapel against his broad chest.
“I liked that a lot more than the last one,” Aziraphale whispers, seeking Crowley’s gaze. The former demon wrinkles his nose, but couldn’t hide a shy smile.
“Ngk. Yeah. Me, too.”
They both chuckle wistfully, the brief moment of intimacy dissolving faster than Crowley liked.
“What are we going to do now?” Aziraphale asked after a long pause, his voice a soft vibrato against Crowley’s palm, still resting on his chest. He swallows again.
“I still want true free will for everyone.”
His hand slips, hopelessness embracing him once more. And he freezes. Underneath warm, beige fabric, there’s something hidden. His eyes fall on the angel’s coat, and he traces the little rectangle.
“What’s that?” he asks, confused, leaning away. Aziraphale sends him a puzzled look, before he palpates his coat. Then his brows arch in surprise.
“Oh.”
He lets go of Crowley’s face and slipping his hand into the breast pocket. And produces a small notepad, barely bigger than his palm.
“Oh, I completely forgot about this. One never knows if one needs to take a note,” paper rustles when he flips the tartan cover. It’s blank, “Ah. Well.”
Aziraphale freezes, eyes wide. Then he slowly looks up at Crowley.
“OH.”
“What?”
Hastily, Aziraphale checks his breast pocket again and pulls out a tiny pen. And Crowley understands.
“What if…?” the angel starts, eyes darting through the empty bookshop. He clicks the pen and scribbles something on the notepad.
Out of nowhere, an antique desk appears on the eastern window. Clean, tidy, without clutter – but definitely Aziraphale’s beloved secretary desk. Crowley stares at it, as Aziraphale scribbles again and two armchairs appear just next to it.
“It’s working,” the angel gasps in disbelief. His eyes shine bright when he looks up at the former demon, “You were right!”
Crowley blinks, not processing.
“With what exactly?”
“That anything can be the Book of Life if we want it to, of course!”
“You’re not serious. On a tartan notepad?”
“Do you have any other idea?”
“And what shall we do? Rewrite every bit of the universe we knew from memory?”
“Yes. But only better. Like you said. No Heaven. No Hell. No angels or demons. Just humanity.”
“Angel, that’s madness.”
“Maybe.” Aziraphale smiles, “But with your endless imagination and my impeccable memory … we could do it.”
Crowley stares at him, “So basically what you’re saying is you want to play God?”
“No. I want us to save what we love most. Without losing ourselves.”
“It’ll take time. A lot of time. Rewriting a whole universe without the power of the Almighty. And we mustn’t interact with it or we’re not better than the Almighty. You’re aware?”
Aziraphale turns toward him, a gentle smile on his face, and reaches for Crowley’s hand. The former demon takes it, without hesitation.
“It can’t be that bad when you are here with me.”
Crowley makes a face, but still, a lopsided smile creeps on his lips.
“We’ll be Godfathers again. Sort of. This time of a whole universe.”
Aziraphale almost glows at those words. He squeezes the former demon’s hand, before settling into his chair, ready to start. Crowley sits down next to him on the tabletop, folding his wings tightly. Aziraphale puts the tiny notepad down on the desk, then pauses.
“We need a container.”
Crowley quirks the angel a brow, “What, like a fly?”
“No. That’s too small!”
“A cardboard box, then?”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Then a small smile appears on his face.
“I always liked snow globes.”
Crowley sends him a disagreeing scowl.
“You want to put the universe into a snow globe?”
“Why not?”
“A bit peachy, if you ask me.”
“They’re timeless!”
“You mean vintage.”
“It’s not—” Aziraphale stops as he finally realises that Crowley is fooling him, “Foul fiend.”
Then he pauses again, and his gaze turns dark as it falls on the three pages still in Crowley’s hand.
“Unless this isn’t what you want.”
Crowley grows very still, staring down at the pages. His throat tightens and he clenches his jaw. This was the whole thing, right? Aziraphale would go with his decision once again, if Crowley said no. But this time, there isn’t a blade looming over their heads, threatening to destroy everything. The Almighty hadn’t really loved Earth. Or humankind. Not even them. It had always just been a game for Her to pass time.
And Crowley realises that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for them. Because Aziraphale loves Earth and humankind fiercely. With all of his foolish heart, down to his deepest core. And even though Crowley would never openly admit it, he loves their universe, too. His heart jolts at the thought of creating a new star factory. One that would actually produce stars that could develop at their own pace. They could make a difference, here, at the end of everything. For the first time in years, he allows himself a spark of hope.
Carefully, he flattens the three pages on the desk and puts them right next to the notepad.
“Let’s try it your way. If we muck it up, we can still … decide differently,” he mutters gently, grasping for Aziraphale’s left hand again.
~*~
And so they write.
Not everything at once, obviously. Sometimes, they pause.
Discuss details they're not sure about.
Add something to the space they now live in.
And as the universe inside the snow globe grows, so do their surroundings.
A garden grows around the bookshop, further and further, full of apple trees and birds and life.
The sky, once an eye-piercing white, turns into all the colours of the rainbow, all pinky-blue bits and orange and turquoise. Scattered with little dots that could be stars, or something completely else.
And a bit of it also grows inside. Vines creep across crammed bookshelves, around the spiral staircase.
They lose track of time quickly, if there was time at all.
As the universe in the snow globe continues to develop over the cause of countless centuries, beloved things reappear. Music, books. Art. Food. Alcohol. Cocoa. Coffee. It makes the process of rewriting reality easier, really.
It fills the bookshop at the edge of time with life, with laughter, with quiet moments. With grief what had been lost, and can’t be restored, no matter how hard they try. With joy of watching life and humankind grow again. With the knowledge that they’re the silent watchers now, through the clear glass of a snow globe that now sits throned on the desk like an altar.
They can only watch, and still, it fills both of them with pride that nobody would ever play cruel games with humanity ever again.
That this version of the universe was loved and protected by someone who really, deeply understood how precious it was.
And maybe, when all of it starts to work by itself, billions of years in the future - imagine two celestial beings, neither angel nor demon, in a garden.
Imagine them holding hands, smiling to each other, just beyond the End of Everything, that had slowly become something.
Keeping the whole universe safe and sound between their intertwined wings.
