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Very well. I’ll let you choose. This decision, this one decision, can be yours. What do you want? Do you want me to put everything back the way it was?
Aziraphale blinked against the sudden burst of white light that engulfed them, and the next thing he knew, he was standing beneath a thick, heavy-branched apple tree. Oh, wonderful. How very symbolic. God and Satan were gone, but somehow, his bookshop was still standing, every single blank book back in its rightful shelf, joined by strings of sunlit leaves that decorated the space like Christmas lights. From some unknowable place around them, a bird sang in quiet encouragement.
Yet all Aziraphale had eyes for in that impossible moment was Crowley. Always, always, his Crowley.
For what was possibly the very first time in 6000 years, Aziraphale knew exactly what he wanted, and was unafraid to ask for it. He would not let fear dictate his actions any longer. It was time to let go of it and make a decision.
“So.” His hands balled into loose fists in a distant remnant of anxiety. That fear, once so ingrained in him, was now a universe away. “What do you want?”
Crowley looked up. “Me? Why me?”
Without his glasses, he couldn’t hide his feelings quite so well, the yellow of his irises, now and always, as bright as the impossible sunlight coming through the windows. Aziraphale liked to think that, after all these years, he could read Crowley as well as any book. And what he saw now was . . . utter selflessness.
He knew exactly what it meant.
He stepped forward, his own eyes now soft. Sad. “Because I only want one thing,” he told Crowley.
I want you. I have always wanted just you, Crowley.
But . . . did it really matter? What Aziraphale wanted? This was bigger than just the two of them, and much bigger than whatever it was they wanted to be together. He had known it since the very beginning. And yet, for once, he had hoped . . . he had hoped he might get to be selfish.
“And that’s not what this is about anymore,” Aziraphale added. “What do you want, Crowley?”
Please, if we can’t choose us, just tell me a plan and I swear I will follow you. Whatever it is.
Crowley took a moment to think before he stepped closer, almost ready to share his answer, but not quite. His warmth, his broken heart, his bright, selfless eyes—all of it was so clearly within reach of Aziraphale’s hand, and yet forever more unattainable.
“You know what I want,” Crowley said.
Yes. Quite right, too.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, willing his tears away.
“I want a real universe,” Crowley continued, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. “I want the people to have a chance. I want Free Will to be a real thing. People deserve the chance to live in the real world.”
Aziraphale understood. Truly, he did. But he could not help the way his eyes fell to Crowley’s lips for the last time. He could not help the tears that had gathered behind his eyelashes and now threatened to spill, knowing exactly what Crowley’s next words were going to be.
“Even if there are no angels,” Crowley said with finality. In the distance, the bird had gone quiet. “No demons. No us. Ever again.”
Aziraphale had to turn away. His heart was breaking, his selfish hopes now turned to dust, his composure crumbling with an unavoidable twist of his face—and all in an effort to save humanity, once again. Could there ever have been space for just them? No, he supposed there couldn’t have been. The very nature of their universe prevented it.
. . . Perhaps this was how Crowley had felt when Aziraphale had forgiven him for the kiss. Did he, too, feel the cracks in his heart grow like this?
“Did I say the wrong thing?”
Aziraphale chuckled through the tears, shaking his head.
No, my love. What you said is exactly what you always would have said. No one else in the history of the universe could ever have been selfless and loving enough to say these words. And perhaps . . . what the universe had truly needed was more people like you.
Stepping back, Aziraphale—his eyes now brimming with tears—took Crowley’s hand and cradled it like the precious gift it was. He ran his fingers over the smooth, wrinkled skin, smiling through his heartbreak, and wondered—for the last time—what it would have been like to spend an eternity with Crowley, on their own terms.
It would have been so very nice.
“I believe we’ve come to a decision,” Aziraphale said.
But Crowley frowned. “You didn’t get to say what you wanted, angel.” He pointed out. Selfless, to the very end.
Aziraphale shook his head briefly, looking down. “It doesn’t matter.”
Crowley disagreed. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, bringing it up to his chest, then pressing it against his heart. His eyes never left Aziraphale’s, searching for—something. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was brave enough to give it a name anymore.
“It matters to me.”
Aziraphale let out a sigh, the sound shakier than he had expected.
How did he ever deserve someone like Crowley? He had asked God just a moment ago, but no answer could ever measure against the gratefulness for having Crowley at all. Nothing could measure against the love that resided in his chest, no matter if it was of their own Free Will, or as predictable as God seemed to think so.
“You know what I want, dear,” Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley blinked, a tear rolling down his cheek. He pressed their joined hands even closer to his heart, more insistent now. Desperate. “Say it anyway. Please. I need to hear it.”
And how could Aziraphale ever say no to him? How could he ever have said no, when Crowley was looking at him like this, his heart on his sleeve? How could he ever have abandoned them?
“I want—”
His poor old heart. Another crack.
With his free hand, Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s cheek, his thumb feeling the shape of his sad smile. Had he ever told him how much he loved his eyes? No, he probably never had. Not even the last few years—when they had enjoyed arguably a little more freedom than they had been allowed in their entire existence—had been enough for him to say it out loud.
But what did that past fear matter now? Crowley was crying, his tears softly tracing the outline of Aziraphale’s palm, and no matter what God had asked of them . . . there really only ever had been one thing that Aziraphale wanted. And he needed to be honest about it.
“I want you, Crowley,” he said, his voice unsteady but sure. “Perhaps I always have, even if I couldn’t say it.”
Crowley nodded. He laughed, the sound wet and heartbreaking. “But you’re saying it now.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale ran his forefinger over Crowley’s furrowed brow gently, trying to smooth the lines there. “Yes, I am.”
And if this really was their last moment at the end of it all, if they would really have to give it all up, just like Crowley had suggested . . . what was one selfish act of love going to change? What was God going to say to one last chance that Aziraphale had to properly fix what he had broken and to seal it with proof?
“Angel—” Crowley closed his eyes, his cheeks now even wetter, sobs starting to surface. “I want—I want . . . “
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale disentangled his hand from Crowley’s by his heart and brought it up to his other cheek. “Come here.”
And right here—at the end of it all, with all the books, the sturdy apple tree and the single avian observer around them—Aziraphale took a step forward and, bravely, standing on the tips of his toes, pressed Crowley’s and his lips together.
It was joyful.
It was heartbreaking.
And it was the single happiest moment of Aziraphale’s quickly shortening life.
When it was over, Crowley’s arms snaked around Aziraphale’s middle and Aziraphale stepped into the small gap between them, choosing to seal the end of their existence with a fierce embrace, as their shoulders shook together.
“Ngk,” Crowley suddenly whimpered into Aziraphale’s neck, his hold tightening.
“What?”
“I just . . . “ Crowley shook his head stubbornly, as if the movement alone could make his thoughts scatter, make what he was about to confess go away. “I knew this would happen.”
“You knew I would kiss you?”
Aziraphale thought it was rather predictable, to be perfectly honest, but he let Crowley continue.
“I knew once I gave in, once I let myself have this . . . I couldn’t give it up.” Reluctantly, Crowley let go, his red-rimmed eyes once again set firmly on Aziraphale’s face, pleading. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t, angel. I can’t give us up.”
“Hey, it’s quite alright.” Aziraphale hugged him again, fighting against his own heartbreak. A small spark of hope was breaking through within his chest, but he wasn’t sure if he could let it grow. Was letting them live the right thing to do?
“Maybe . . . maybe we don’t have to.”
But how? How?
“But how?”
Aziraphale rubbed Crowley’s back and enjoyed the sensation with a small smile when Crowley returned the gesture. They only ever did want to take care of each other, didn’t they? So how was erasing themselves from existence ever going to fit into that? Besides, they had had so much influence on humanity ever since the very beginning—take Shakespeare, for example—so how could the Earth, any earth, be the same without them? Without any of it? Not to mention that starting completely anew and erasing everything that had been before felt uncomfortably close to what nearly happened with Job’s children.
Aziraphale closed his eyes against all the tumultuous feelings gathering strength within him, and focused instead on the uneven rhythm of Crowley’s breathing and on the sad but hopeful tune of the birdsong.
Then it struck him.
“Adam!” he exclaimed.
Crowley pulled away, wiping at his cheeks. “Adam is dead, like the rest of them, angel.”
“Yes, but no, no, I meant—”
Aziraphale could scarcely find the right words when he was so excited like this, but for both of their sakes, he needed to find them now, and in the correct order, preferably. Who knew how much time they still had.
“When the first apocalypse was going to happen, Adam used his powers to rewrite reality,” he said. “In other words, he rebuilt the world, just like we are about to do now.”
People who had died were alive again. And things that had been broken had been miraculously restored.
They could do that again, only better.
Crowley was starting to nod, but he didn’t look too convinced. His voice was gentle when he spoke again. “Angel, but his plan didn’t work. You’ve seen it yourself. Adam put the world back together exactly how it had been, and Heaven and Hell still couldn’t behave themselves for more than a few years. And now we’re back here.”
Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and led him to the nearest chair, sitting him down.
“Yes, dear, I know, but we were given a second chance at Adam’s attempt. I’m willing to bet if we put our heads together—”
Crowley smirked.
Aziraphale blushed and immediately stumbled over his next words.
“Yes, well, if we put our heads together more than we already had, I’m quite sure we could fix whatever shortcomings Adam’s blueprint had, and perfect it. He was just a kid, after all, in his own words.”
Crowley was looking up at Aziraphale hopelessly. “But how?”
Aziraphale stepped back for a moment to spy a bit around the bookshop, peeking behind the tree, then checking outside the window—still nothing, just pure white.
Back at Crowley’s side, he grabbed a pen from the table. “Well, we have no other choice now, do we? If we—” He turned to Crowley, eyes jumping down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “If we want this to, um, to happen.”
Crowley nodded. “We do.”
Aziraphale’s lips curved around an easy smile. (Oh, good. He almost thought he might never get to feel one of those again.)
“Right. How much time do you suppose God is going to let us have?”
Crowley shrugged. “Ngk. I don’t know, angel. She’s God. Unpredictable as . . . well, as God is.”
“Well, then, my dear.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s shoulder in encouragement, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head, surprising even himself. By Crowley’s ear, his cheeks red but hidden out of view, he said, “We have all these books to write into, more than two pens, and with a bit of luck and a generous amount of time, I believe we could draft something workable. So, I suggest we take more than five minutes to think this through before we commit to anything, and get drafting. I’m so very good at making checklists, after all, and you have your wonderful creativity, dear.”
Crowley gave him one last doubtful look, but when Aziraphale took his hand and entwined their fingers, the doubt slowly turned into hope, and then into something akin to determination.
“Alright then.” Crowley gave a nod, his smile still a little shaky, but some of its usual cheekiness thankfully back. He rolled his tongue as he said, “Shall we?”
Six hours later, Crowley and Aziraphale were standing by the entrance of the tree-less bookshop once more, holding hands, and waiting for God to finish reading through their proposal. It was three books long, written on the blank pages of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, John Steinbeck’s East of Eden and, finally, William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Completed in a mix of Crowley’s scrawl and Aziraphale’s neat, loopy letters, it was a creation that Aziraphale was probably most proud of, in all his 6000 years of life. It was theirs. And even if it didn’t work out and God rejected it, well, at least they could spend these last few hours properly working together. (He was ever so grateful for taking that speed-writing course back in the late 1950s.)
They were holding hands, palm to palm, each guarding the other from shaking too visibly. Aziraphale ran his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand, for consolation and encouragement both, and hoped against all hope that this would not be the last time he would ever get to do this. Crowley squeezed his hand in reply.
Satan was looking over God’s shoulder, chuckling to himself. “Oh, this is never going to— What is this? A joke?” But when he searched God’s face, his evil smirk rapidly lost some of its intensity. A nervous frown settled between his brows. “Come on, you can’t possibly—“
Aziraphale didn’t dare breathe in anticipation of God’s verdict. Crowley squeezed his hand a little tighter.
Because God . . . God was nodding her head. “Hm.”
“What the heaven do you mean hm?” Satan exclaimed.
God ignored him. Finally, she closed the last book and gave a rare, satisfied smile. Aziraphale had only met her once or twice before this, at the very Beginning, but from what he understood, God always smiled like an all-knowing poker dealer who wouldn’t tell you the rules but played with you in a pitch-dark room for infinite stakes. This wasn’t one of those smiles. No, there was . . . intrigue in it. Pride. Consideration. Aziraphale almost took a step back when he realised that smile was directed entirely at him and Crowley.
“Congratulations, you two.” God got up from Aziraphale’s chair. “You have successfully come up with a plan that, well, I won’t say it will work, that would spoil the fun, but it will be interesting to observe.”
Aziraphale lit up. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? “Really?”
“And, I mean—“ God shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, we can always turn off the lights again and maybe start anew.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said at the same time as Crowley muttered, “Please.”
Just accept this one and, hopefully, it works and we can be happy for once. We deserve a chance, at least. Don’t we? Another 6000 years, if nothing else.
Satan was pacing back and forth between the bookshelves, muttering some unkind words under his breath. “But it won’t work, you know it won’t!” He hissed in God’s direction. “It’s utter bollocks, is what it is.”
God just raised her hand to shut him up. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smirk at how quickly Satan seemed to bite his tongue at that. With the distraction gone, God turned back to them, her smile regaining some of its fascination and curiosity.
“And you would do this willingly? Take yourself out of the narrative?”
Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look. There was no question about it, no need to discuss. They knew their answer.
“Yes.” Aziraphale assured her. “Yes, as long as—” his eyes returned to Crowley’s, “—as long as we are allowed to stay together. I can’t lose him, you see? I think there has been quite enough of that over the last six thousand years.”
“Yes, quite,” Crowley agreed.
God eyed them for a moment. “So. What you are proposing is basically, your Earth would be restored exactly to how it had been, with angels and demons and everything, just like it was written in the Book of Life, except—” She turned to page sixty of former The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. “No Heaven. No Hell. No holy wars or involvement in human affairs. Just observation, learning and . . . actual Free Will. For everyone.”
“Which means no Great or Ineffable Plan or any of that,” Aziraphale added in a hurry. “That bit is important. See, because it caused such a hassle the last time, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “Angels and Demons don’t have to fight. They only ever did because they were told they should. That they were not equal.”
“But they are! Equal, I mean,” Aziraphale jumped in. “I’m no better than him, really.” He gestured to Crowley.
“He’s really not.”
“Oi.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him, but Crowley just chuckled back.
“They have always been equal,” Crowley continued. “And in this new world, they will know that. There will be no shame.”
“No orders.”
“And no miracles. Imagine the Universe, where after today, every Angel and every Demon have Free Will to be who they want to be. I reckon a whole lot of them will want to abandon their desks and go to, I don’t know, Alpha Centauri. Great cocktails there, I heard. Point is, the point is, that we are all equal, and no one will ever be anyone else’s puppet again.”
“Yes, Angels and Demons could even learn from each other, and from humans,” Aziraphale said. “Take notes. Lots of them, in certain cases. If Lord Beelzebub could change, who’s to say no one else could? Learn to become a better person? Learn to be more like actual people?”
God smirked at them. “Like you two have done.”
Crowley tossed his head. “Yeah, well. Aziraphale and I have already gone through human school, so to speak. We’ve learned what we could.”
“Indeed you have.” God closed the books. When she did, the covers of all three changed into Book of Life Vol. 1, 2 and 3. The air in the bookshop grew a little heavier with the new power present among them, almost making Aziraphale hold his breath.
Were they actually about to win? Have they managed to save the world again?
“They have learned nothing.” Satan hissed at them, returning to the middle of the room from wherever he had been sulking. “You’re all just meddling idiots.”
Aziraphale remembered meeting Satan at the air base back in 2019. He remembered the fear Satan instilled in them by his mere presence. But now? In this bookshop at the end of the universe, with Crowley by his side and God actually listening to them? Aziraphale had nothing to fear anymore. He had already faced the worst that could have happened to them, just hours ago, and he was still here. Still standing.
Satan growled. “What good is a demon if they can’t spread evil and misery on Earth? What would their purpose even be?”
Crowley seemed to feel the same as Aziraphale because neither of them even winced. He gave Satan a look. “Maybe it’s time you people finally figured that out, each on your own. I know I already have.”
He pulled Aziraphale a little closer by their joined hands, and Aziraphale enjoyed the look on Satan’s face as he gulped at them, then waved his hand around and went back to sulk by the shelf with the empty copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, right next to self-help books.
“He’s always liked to sulk,” God chuckled.
“I have not!”
“But back to your proposal.” She clasped her hands. “I understand there would be no me or him, is that right?”
This was the part of the plan that Aziraphale was most scared God would not accept. But in order for the new world to work, it had to happen. God and Satan had to leave. Permanently. He wrote the words carefully, half-expecting to be smitten just for the thought, but nothing had happened, God had read it, and now here they were.
Still, he put on his best apologetic smile. “It wouldn’t work with you two. Some of the angels and demons would always try to seek you out. So, it will have to be as if you’ve never existed. Either of you. It will be, um, it will be a godless universe.”
“Murder!” Satan yelled from somewhere in the back. The sound of something heavy being kicked around followed. “It’s just murder!”
God rolled her eyes. “And what about you two? Who would you be, with no miracles?”
Aziraphale and Crowley shared a look. The word marriage popped into Aziraphale’s head. And a cottage. Another garden. A normal, ordinary, but happy life.
“I was thinking we return to Earth. What do you say, angel? Or,” Crowley gestured with his shoulder to the window. “Alpha Centauri? Though I don’t suppose we’d have anything to run from anymore.”
Aziraphale made a face. “Maybe some day. But, um, I think I like human books a bit too much to leave them for so long.”
Crowley smiled fondly, then tossed his head. “Fair enough. I can’t really leave my plants.”
“And food.”
“Ngk. Wine.”
“We would live on Earth, then,” Aziraphale told God. “An angel and demon, only with no miracles.”
If the world was to work like they had drafted it, they would finally be allowed to retire. They might not have any miracles—no faster-than-light Bentley, no last-minute reservations at the Ritz with a cheeky flick of a hand, no speed-reading five books at the same time. No cheating. They wouldn’t be human, per se, they would still be a former angel and a former demon. But they would be together, and that was the important thing.
The rest of the world—the human world, at least—would be restored to exactly how it had been. Adam and the Them, Anathema and Newton, Maggie and Nina, the Whickber street, all of it. Like with Job’s children, no replacement would ever do.
Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other, still holding hands, still full of hope, the cracks in their hearts mending.
“And we are okay with that.”
God nodded. “Very well, then. So it shall be done.”
Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a grin that he couldn’t stop from lighting up his whole face, but he no longer cared about holding himself back. Crowley wore the same expression anyway, his beautiful yellow eyes swimming with happy tears.
God took the three books and tossed them into the air, letting their words fill the bookshop and then expand outwards, on their way to fix what Michael had destroyed.
In the last few seconds of this tiny plane of existence—in front of God, in front of Satan—Aziraphale looked Crowley in the eyes, leaned in and—
And “Let there be light,” God said, wiping the world around them with another wave of white light.
The South Downs
20 years later
“Oh, look, a shooting star!” Aziraphale exclaimed excitedly, handing Crowley a mug of hot cocoa as he seated himself in the chair next to his yellow-eyed husband.
The garden around them was quiet, far away from the busy London streets they were both used to, but Aziraphale could not be happier. This was their place. Their little piece of the world. Full of very happy plants (they thrived here, no longer stuck in boxes in the Bentley), a vegetable patch and two comfy chairs, just for the two of them.
It was exactly how Aziraphale and Crowley had always imagined it.
What more, they each had a golden ring on their finger. They didn’t go through with a traditional wedding (the paperwork without miracles could get quite messy, plus churches still counted as consecrated ground, technically, even after God had left), but they didn’t need to. They had already declared and stood for their love in front of God herself. And anyway, there was no more God here. No more Satan, no Heaven, no Hell, no grand plans or traditions to follow.
It was just them, the garden and, finally, peace. And what more could Aziraphale possibly want? He had all he needed right here.
“Technically, it’s meteorite debris from Halley’s comet,” Crowley muttered. He accepted the mug, put it on a table next to him and snuggled closer to Aziraphale, his limbs as tight and near-boneless around him as the snake that he used to be. “I worked on that one, too, you know.”
“Yes, I know, dear.” Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder, watching the night sky above them. After centuries, nay millennia, of restraining himself, he could finally just do that. There was no “my side wouldn’t like that” or “what would your people say” anymore.
They were on their side.
Hopefully, more angels and demons were now learning just that, too. That there were no sides. There was just the world and yourself, and whatever you chose to do with it, and who you chose to do it with. And Aziraphale was more than happy with the choices he had made.
“It’s a beautiful comet, darling.”
Crowley grinned. “We should visit it again sometime. Take a ride around the sun. I hear Michael has been spotted there recently.”
“I suppose we could go,” Aziraphale said. “As soon as you finish writing that book on astrophysics, what do you think?” He shook Crowley’s hand with a cheeky smirk and enjoyed the annoyed little ngk he got in return.
“Writing a book one word at a time takes such effort, angel.” Crowley groaned. “Not to mention that I know more about the universe than literally any human alive, so it’s not like I could publish it afterwards. Might . . . influence them a bit too much.”
“Yes, maybe in a few hundred years, then,” Aziraphale mused. “But remember, you chose to write it. We chose this.”
Crowley turned to him, taking his hand more firmly. His eyes never left Aziraphale’s as he kissed his knuckles, one by one, with a smile. “I know, angel. Just like you chose to learn to cook.”
“Burning the kitchen is what I would call it, to be honest.”
Crowley chuckled. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “No, you wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? And neither would I.” Another shooting star flew across the sky above them, as if the universe itself couldn’t agree more. “No holy wars.”
“No assignments from Heaven.”
“No reports to Hell.”
“And . . . no miracles,” Crowley added.
Aziraphale repeated it with a nod. “No miracles. But,” he shook their joined hands, “I have you. And to be quite honest, that’s all I ever needed anyway.”
Crowley gazed at him for a long moment. “I love you.”
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley down for a soft kiss. “And I love you.”
Every time he said it, he could almost feel some leftover grace in his heart, but he knew what it really was. It was just love. And he would never get tired of saying the words. Not ever.
This—this moment, this feeling—was why it all had been worth it.
Crowley reached for a folded blanket on the table and threw it around their shoulders, adjusting it so that the corners didn’t touch the ground. Aziraphale had knitted it himself, some ten years ago, and given it to Crowley on their anniversary. Since then, Crowley and the blanket had been pretty much inseparable.
They stayed like that—snuggled together, sipping their cocoas and watching the stars—for a long while after that. The crickets chirped in the distance, joined by the melodious sound of a happy nightingale. (Well, it wasn’t an owl, in any case, and it was night, so.) The stars continued to sparkle above them, as if saying hello to the two beings who made it possible for them to keep shining, and clouds rolled gently over the horizon once in a while, pushed and pulled by the warm spring breeze.
Crowley and Aziraphale held hands, then clinked their cocoa mugs together.
“To the world?” Aziraphale proposed.
Crowley beamed at him. “To the world.”