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Aziraphale gazed pensively out the doors of his bookshop, through the delicate glass windowpanes and out into the darkness of nothing abounding past the walls of the safe haven. Gingerly, he reached down to brush his fingers over the small sign in the window, flipping it from closed to open — if for nothing more than old time’s sake.
Behind him, Crowley made a small, aborted sound, as though he were going to make a quip but had thought better of it. Aziraphale turned to look at him; the demon stood leaning against a bookshelf, his head lowered and his arms crossed tightly across his chest.
Unbidden, Aziraphale was reminded of the last time they had stood across from one another like this in his bookshop, with this same silence between them. Once upon a time, that silence would have been something comfortable; something familiar. But things had changed between them; had fractured in a way that, in any other circumstances, may have led to permanent disrepair.
But as it were, they were facing the end of the world — again — and anything was bound to happen.
“So,” Crowley said eventually, not looking up. “The only things left — in all of Creation — are you, me, and . . . your bookshop.”
“It would appear to be so,” Aziraphale responded tightly.
He paced from the door to a bookshelf opposite Crowley, gaze flitting to where Brontë’s Jane Eyre was lying slanted and half-open. With a startled gasp of dismay, he saw that the book had gone entirely blank; upon flipping through a couple of others (Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Steinbeck’s East of Eden), he found all of them to be.
The devastating realization threatened to overwhelm him more than anything else had thus far, even at the end of the world itself. He pressed his palms over his face, reeling in a deep, shaky breath and squeezing his eyes shut tight.
Everything was gone.
The Book of Life had been destroyed.
It was only them, alone, at the edge of the universe.
And he could not even look Crowley in the eye.
They had been rushing from one thing to the next, since Aziraphale had found the demon lying drunken in that dirty alleyway — where, he supposed guiltily, he had left him for the past several years. Had left him, since that day in the bookshop; because against all of his own wants, his own needs, and his own desires, he had tried so desperately to put humanity first, believing that he could make a difference.
He had been working his hardest these past few years to prevent the prophesied destruction that would be wrought upon the Earth by the Second Coming. He had tried so hard to save everything and everyone; to bring about peace, and love, and happiness and joy for all of humanity, rather than death and pain and grief. There was so much suffering in the world already; they didn’t need an apocalypse, they needed a reminder of the good that there was.
And perhaps, when Aziraphale had done it — when he had spared humanity, and when the world had come out better for it — Crowley would look upon him and understand why he had done what he had done, when he had left him with burning lips and a murmur of forgiveness . . .
Good, upstanding choices. Does that include choosing Heaven over me?, Crowley had asked earlier, voice bitterly sad.
I chose Heaven because of you, Aziraphale had answered, then, with utmost certainty.
Now, however, he wasn’t so sure of the choices he had made. He was, in fact, decidedly unsure.
Because despite everything — despite all of his efforts; all of the mind-numbing bureaucracy and old laws and diplomatic, Biblical compromise and (just enough) emotional appeal; despite the grief and the guilt that he had battled through every day he had been in Heaven, knowing he had left Crowley behind, alone . . .
The world was ending. Had already ended, really.
Everything was gone, except for the two of them and a shop filled with nothing but blank-paged books.
And nothing Aziraphale had done had changed anything at all.
I had to try, at least, can’t you see that? If I’m the boss —, he had beseeched, trying to explain that he’d wanted to try and change things, trying to get Crowley to understand that — only, Crowley had cut him off.
But you’re not! And you never will be. There’s always someone above you, stacking the deck.
If Aziraphale had stayed . . . if he had — as Crowley had done — ignored what his side was asking of him to focus solely on their own side, then maybe . . .
You could have avoided all this. Crowley’s voice, still a little slurred from his drinking, rang in his ears. We could’ve done a runner, ourselves. I asked you to come with me. We could be drinking cocktails on Alpha Centauri; this is someone else’s problem.
He had been partially wrong there, at least; as much as Crowley would deny it, Aziraphale knew he cared about humanity just as much as the angel did. But there was one thing that mattered more than everything else to Crowley, just as it was for Aziraphale, even if he had chosen to leave rather than accept that.
His wants, his needs, his desires — surely irrelevant, in the face of the imminent destruction of everything and everyone.
But that destruction was happening anyway — had already happened — and if he had stayed —
Perhaps they could have gotten more time together.
More time that wasn’t like this — so unfamiliar and stilted, in ways their dynamic, their relationship, had not been since before the Arrangement. And, really, not even then; even when Crowley had slithered up the Wall of Eden, Aziraphale had offered him a wing that the demon had accepted, gratefully and without hesitation. Now, Aziraphale could only imagine trying to do the same, and watching Crowley flinch away with that look of betrayed hurt he’d been wearing ever since Aziraphale had found him again.
The thought was nearly too much to bear, and Aziraphale dropped his hands from his face and opened his eyes.
Crowley had been staring at him, but dropped his gaze when he saw Aziraphale looking.
“I s’pose there’s not much we can do about all this,” the demon said woodenly.
“What . . . oh.” Aziraphale shook himself a little, wringing his hands together in front of himself. “Well . . . at least we’re here together?” He offered timidly. Small mercies, if only they could sort themselves out. “We have each other.”
“What, that suddenly matters to you now?” Crowley’s voice bordered suddenly on dangerous hurt. “Me? Us?”
“It always did.”
"Really?" Crowley's eyes flashed with a challenge, his gaze snapping up to meet Aziraphale’s. “Always? For millennia, Aziraphale, you sought me out when you needed me — when you needed something from me. Even this, even now — you didn’t come back ‘cause you wanted to, you came back ‘cause you needed me to help you find Jesus, and the bloody Book of Life, and Michael, and —,”
He cut himself off, hands dropping to his sides to clench into fists.
“You were never the one to care about us, about our side, you — you went back to your side the moment they asked —,”
“I didn’t do that for me!” Aziraphale cried out, suddenly and inexplicably angry. “I did that for us! For everyone.”
“And look where we wound up,” Crowley snarled through clenched teeth.
The look on his face faltered immediately after he said it, his sneer dropping into a sad sort of grimace. He looked away again, shoulders heaving with each breath. When he spoke once more, his voice was slightly hoarse.
“I didn’t mean — most of that,” he ground out. “But, Aziraphale . . . I told you nothing could be done to change anything. There was never any stopping the Second Coming. Humanity suffers, humanity dies; that’s the story of the world. And us, too.”
The words were like a vice grip around Aziraphale’s heart; his own anger had ebbed into sharp, piercing sorrow, and he took a bracing step forward.
“Crowley, I —,” He started, then faltered just as quickly. Crowley glanced up fleetingly, then back down again, before speaking in a low voice.
“Whatever you’re thinking of saying . . . don’t.”
“I feel that — that I must,” Aziraphale replied, rather helplessly. “It’s only that . . . I mean to say —,”
He stepped closer still to Crowley who, unlike in the angel’s fearful imaginings, did not flinch away, but also did not look up, nor acknowledge at all the fact that Aziraphale was close enough to reach out and touch him. Aziraphale’s chest ached with the force of his wants and his needs and his desires that he had suppressed in Heaven, and over millennia, and Before the Beginning itself, and that was becoming far too difficult to do now with the object of all of those things standing right in front of him.
“I fear that I have made quite a mess of this — of us,” Aziraphale said softly, after a long moment of standing in the midst of that oppressive, unfamiliar silence. “These past millennia, I allowed myself — and my actions — to be dictated by uncertainty, even over what I was certain of. And — leaving you like that . . .”
At that, Crowley did flinch. Aziraphale’s lips were tingling, and he wet them nervously with his tongue.
“It was the worst thing I have ever done,” he said with surety. “Crowley . . .”
Crowley looked up.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
It was not what Aziraphale had meant to say. He had meant to apologize; to grovel with remorse, really, as though anything he could do could express the grief and longing in his chest over what could have been, what they could have had, instead of this bookshop of nothing, on the edge of nothing.
And yet, he had spoken those damning words anyway, and then his throat went dry and he found himself unable to correct himself. Crowley gave him a long, piercing look, as though he knew (and perhaps he did; they knew one another more than themselves, really) that Aziraphale had asked the question out of compulsion.
“Why,” he said slowly, “do you have such a — a need for forgiveness? All the time I’ve known you . . .”
He trailed away, a look of pain passing over his face. Aziraphale bit his lip, fidgeting slightly, as he wondered if Crowley was thinking of all of the times Aziraphale had forgiven him (always met by scoffing and you know I can’t be forgiven, angel; demon, remember?). Or perhaps he was thinking of the few and far between moments where it had been Aziraphale asking for forgiveness — like right now.
“I suppose if you had asked me only a little while ago, I would have said that it is my nature,” Aziraphale said quietly, after a moment’s consideration. “Only, I am not entirely certain about that anymore. Perhaps I — find closure in it, as humans do. You know as well as I do that that is why our God appeals to them as well; the very essence of forgiveness is a panacea.”
“Even though you know the concept is rubbish?” Crowley sounded disbelieving. “S' all just an — an incomprehensible joke, made up for God’s amusement —,"
“It isn’t!” Aziraphale protested. “It’s — it makes painful circumstances — less painful. For all involved, if done right.”
“S’ that what you were trying to do then, when you forgave me?” Crowley’s voice had hardened. “Make it less painful?”
“That — that was not done right,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice shaking slightly. His hands fluttered uselessly in front of himself. All the things he needed to say would not come to him; he stumbled over the same things he had already said, heart aching as he saw, in his mind’s eye, Crowley turning his back and walking away. Don’t bother.
“Please understand — I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted to help all of humanity. It would be selfish, if I — if I put my own wants — needs — first. But all I wanted, all I needed . . . I . . .”
He gestured helplessly between them, but could not unstick the words from his throat.
“I did everything wrong,” he said instead. “And I am sorry.”
Crowley nodded slowly. He looked away from Aziraphale, staring down at the carpet.
“I know why you did it," he grunted quietly. “You were only trying to help the world, n’ I care about them all; I do. But there are things that can’t be changed; no one with enough power cares enough.” Crowley shook his head, looking pained.
“And I don’t — I’m not angry with you, ang— Aziraphale. I s'pose I was for a while, but . . . not really. I still watched over your bookshop, didn’t I? Even after I thought you were never coming back.”
Hurt passed over his expression at that, and Aziraphale flinched. He wondered how bad things had gotten, those first few months he had been gone; how far Crowley had fallen, in his grief and suffering. For it was one thing to understand why someone had done something, and another entirely to make peace with it.
“I know I said I wouldn’t in the alley, but if you want me to do the I was wrong dance —,”
“No,” Crowley said quickly, with a jerky shake of his head. “No more dancing.”
Silence — unfamiliar, uncomfortable — fell between the two of them for another long, long moment.
“I do also want to apologize for . . . for only seeking your company when I was in need of help,” Aziraphale said softly. Of course, they both knew that he had often parroted ‘needing help’, or exaggerated the extent of it; however, the general sentiment of Crowley’s words was true. “It was never fair to you, especially today; I should have returned to you much sooner, not waited until the world was at stake to reconcile us.”
He hesitated for a moment, uncertain, then barreled forward; there was no use in keeping anything silent, now, so long as he found himself able to speak it. It was the end of the world, after all.
“I say this to try and help you understand, I — Crowley, it frightens — frightened — me. This.” He gestured between the two of them again; Crowley’s eyes flicked to follow his hand. “I thought, if I only kept my distance, if I kept you at an arm’s length . . .” And Aziraphale wanted so desperately to reach out, but he did not. “Only, I was wrong.”
He almost did launch into the dance, then, if only in an effort at a pass at familiarity, but then Crowley spoke again before he had the chance. The demon’s voice was murmuring and wrought with emotion, with a rawness Aziraphale hadn’t heard in quite some time: unrestrained feeling, rolling from him in waves.
“Demons,” he said quietly, “aren’t s’posed to love anything. You know that s’well as I do, Aziraphale.”
Crowley closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub at his temple, where the small sigil of a serpent lay coiled. He drew in a long breath, shuddering and filled with grief. Aziraphale’s own hands fluttered in front of him as he resisted the urge to reach out, to comfort; he opened his mouth to speak it instead, but the demon shook his head, and after a long moment, continued.
“But I always knew that that was wrong, because of you.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out, the sound whimpered and despairing, and Crowley finally looked up. The look on his face was flayed open with emotion.
“I never understood it,” he said, and then he was speaking quickly, as he had been on that day when everything had gone wrong, “I never understood how you made me feel different than everyone else; figured it was a, a nemeses thing — I hadn’t spent much time around angels after the Fall, I figured it was just you, ‘cause angels are love, and demons can’t — but it was wrong, and I know it was, and it still is, right now. That’s still true, even at the end of the world.”
Crowley barked a laugh that wasn’t amused at all.
“S’ always been wrong. I know it, ‘cause I feel it every minute of every day, and it hurts, ‘cause it’s there, and it’s real. Thought it might’ve been real for you, too, n’ when you went away — God, Aziraphale, it felt like I’d been torn in two, and I thought I’d gotten it all wrong, that just ‘cause you’re a being of love doesn’t mean that — that —,”
Crowley broke himself off, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click and going silent.
“Oh,” Aziraphale, shaken and breathless, said again, and then, almost desperately:
“There is — there is something remarkably different between the love of an angel, and the love I hold for you, Crowley. One is for the world, and everything in it; the other is for you, and you alone. Throughout all of this time, on Earth and in the Heavens, that has been true.”
He reached out a hand, and took one of Crowley’s in it.
“That is what frightened me,” he said simply, “for you are my want, my need, and my desire, and an angel shan’t have any of those things.”
“S’ dumb,” Crowley croaked out. “It’s just us, now. Have whatever you like.” He had averted his gaze again, though looked pained to do so, as if hurt to look at Aziraphale for too long, but also hurt to look away.
“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured; almost musing, despite himself. He stroked his thumb along the thin lines of Crowley’s knuckles. Between them, Aziraphale’s plea for forgiveness that had spiraled into these confessions lingered like the smoke that had once filled the bookshop, that first time when Aziraphale had left Crowley behind. It was ironic, the angel thought to himself; that both times he had left the demon (though one more voluntarily than the other, of course) had been on the threshold of this shop, and now here they were in it at the end of everything — together.
“It’s almost comical,” Aziraphale added after a moment’s consideration, “that all of our choices, the right and the wrong, were for naught. Everything we did, even to stop the first Armageddon — everything we sacrificed . . .”
He cut himself off with a sigh and a shake of his head.
“Everything is gone . . . except for us, remarkably alive, against all sense and reason.”
“On the contrary,” spoke a voice from behind them, “it rather is for all sense, and all reason.”
Crowley made a strangled sort of choking noise, serpentine eyes contracting, and tore his hand away from Aziraphale’s. The angel whirled on his heel and felt suddenly faint at the sight of a pristine, dark-skinned woman dressed in pure white sitting in the armchair in the corner of the shop.
She did not look like anyone either of them had ever seen, for they had never seen Her; and yet, they knew who She was at once.
“Regardless,” God continued offhandedly, as though Crowley and Aziraphale were not both stunned into shaking silence across from Her (for differing reasons), “it is rather remarkable, is it not? To that end, I do agree.”
“Remarkable?” Aziraphale repeated faintly.
“Remarkable,” She agreed, folding Her hands together with a nod. “To think that the only two beings — excepting Myself — to find a way of being spared from the destruction of the Book of Life would be the only two beings with the ability to fix it.”
“Lord?” Aziraphale questioned tentatively. Crowley had paced forward, and was standing a fraction of a ways in front of him.
“What’re You on about? There’s nothing we can do,” the demon sneered, anger pulsing from him in waves. Aziraphale supposed, almost hysterically, that once you had challenged God once, it became something of a pastime, especially at the end of the world. “You can fix everything, but of course, as You say, You are excepting Yourself.” He scoffed furiously. “Figures.”
“I believe you value Free Will over most other things, Crowley,” God said mildly. She was perfectly calm and still, with a pleasant smile on Her face. “I did not stop Michael from destroying the universe, and I will not stop you if you endeavor to rebuild it. I am not here to tell you what to do, nor to do it for you. I am, however, here to guide you; you already have what you need within yourselves.”
Crowley was twitching at Aziraphale’s side. The angel could tell that he was moments away from losing his temper — at God, which would likely go down just as well as the last time demons had done that. He hastened to speak instead, wringing his hands together anxiously.
“I don’t understand, Lord,” he said, and he very nearly flinched at his own words; how many times had he thought them, whispered them, spoken them? How many times had they gone unanswered — particularly in relation to Crowley: the good, kind demon who could love?
“No one does,” Crowley growled lowly. “Like I said, s’ all for Her great bloody amusement, isn’t it? Letting us chase our tails in circles like dogs, going round and round, with no real end for any of us — no real end where any of us can be happy —,”
His gaze darted towards Aziraphale when he said it, and Aziraphale felt his heart thump painfully against his ribs.
“— s’ just pain, and there’s no way to fix it, no way to fix this.” Crowley threw up his hands, gesturing around the bookshop; the darkened windows, and the blank books on the shelves. “Everything is gone, and You just sat back and watched.”
God looked thoughtful. “There is always a plan —,”
“Enough bloody plans!” Crowley’s voice cracked. He ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly undone. Aziraphale tentatively brushed a hand over his back, in between his shoulder blades; he felt Crowley tremble, and gently, painstakingly, rested his palm there.
“I think what he means to say,” Aziraphale interjected quietly, “is . . . how can there be a plan, when . . . everything is gone?”
“Not everything,” God corrected him. “You are both still here, as I said.” She tilted Her head slightly, looking pensive.
“Do you know why the Metatron wanted you as Supreme Archangel in the first place, Aziraphale?” When Aziraphale shook his head — he had only seen an opportunity to do good, to fix things, and he had taken it, despite . . . well, Crowley — God nodded and continued.
“He believed you to be carrying an inordinate amount of miraculous power. He was wrong, however; at least, halfway.” She gave them both an almost stern look. “Do the pair of you not remember your miracle of epic proportions, which you performed in this very bookshop?”
Understanding slammed into Aziraphale all at once and he gasped, dropping his palm from Crowley’s back and grabbing his hand without thinking. The demon’s fingers spasmed, but he did not pull away; rather, he returned the tight, reassuring squeeze Aziraphale gave, as the pair locked eyes.
“We rewrote reality,” Aziraphale breathed out, watching the same realization dawn in Crowley’s golden gaze, “to hide Gabriel.”
Was that what She meant? That they could do that . . . for the world?
“The two of you are an unlikely pair,” God said, not giving either of them another chance to speak, even as they continued to look at one another; now seemingly unable to look away. “An angel and a demon, in a cosmic dance of improbable love across the ages — for ultimately, as I am sure you must know, true miracles of unbound power come from a place of deep love.
“When you hid Gabriel, it was your love for one another — in protecting your peace, in protecting the careful, fragile existence you'd carved out for one another —,” She nodded at Crowley, who made a strangled sound of assent — “that created an alteration of reality so that even when Gabriel spoke other miraculous beings, he was unrecognized; that created such a ripple of astronomical power, I Myself felt its strength from the Heavens above.” Her gaze had become more intense, seeming to scorch into them both.
“And that miracle was not even intentionally of that caliber, on either of your parts. I implore you to look deeper within yourselves; you will find what you need."
Crowley dragged his gaze away from Aziraphale’s at last, staring at God with an unreadable expression. Abruptly, the demon once again pulled his hand away from Aziraphale — who was left reeling, still feeling faint — and took a step towards the woman sitting across from them. There was something dangerous in his voice when he spoke, and his words carried the haunted ache of questions that had long gone unanswered; that were only more confused at God’s words. As though he couldn’t accept anything She said without hearing Her answer to this first.
“All this talk of love,” he snarled, "and yet I was left by You to rot with the other Fallen. How can that be?"
“And yet,” God countered, “if you did not Fall, you would not have known this great love.”
Crowley went utterly still, and Aziraphale clasped his hands over his heart.
“But — all of the pain,” Crowley rasped out, venomous and angry — “all of the suffering — not just me, but all of humanity —,”
“Everyone who lives will suffer,” God interrupted. “When you introduce Free Will to Creation, that is what it inevitably leads to; people, beings, make decisions that hurt them, that hurt others, whether they were the right decisions or not. In the end, however . . . it brings about great joy, if only you wait long enough.”
She stood, and as She did, a pulsing, living glow seemed to envelop Her in glory, so much so that both angel and demon cowered slightly.
“In your long, shared existence, you have both known great trouble; trials and tribulations, anguish and grief; and yet, it has made you who you are. Aziraphale, if you had not struggled through uncertainty and doubt, fear and guilt, you would not be who you are today — strong enough in yourself to look even Me in the eye, to be building up the courage to profess what has been kept within you for far too long. And Crowley, if you stayed an angel among the stars, with all of your unanswered questions — would you have been happy, truly?”
“You could have answered them,” said Crowley, voice ragged and worn.
“I could have,” God agreed. “But, allow Me to ask you one: If you had to choose to live your life knowing the unfettered answers to every single one of your questions, or to live your life knowing Aziraphale as you do . . . which would you choose?”
Crowley stared at Her. Aziraphale could not see his face, but he watched as the demon shook and, after a long moment, dipped his head in acquiescence.
“Nothing is worth the cost of him,” Crowley rasped out brokenly, and it felt as if Aziraphale had been dealt a heavy blow, breath punched from his lungs, heart aching so desperately he was sure it had been ripped away from him — only he could feel it beating, pounding against his ribs as Crowley said, “Nothing.”
God smiled at him — at them both.
“You have what you need to right the world,” She said, “because your love is remarkable. Ineffable, rather.”
She took a blank-paged book from the shelf, and handed it to Crowley. Her fingers brushed his, and Her smile did not waver, and then She was gone from their sight.
The silence in Her wake seemed to be a moment in which the entire world (which is to say, Aziraphale and Crowley alone) held its breath as both demon and angel stood dumbfounded, Crowley holding the book out in front of him with open palms. He was completely and utterly still, head still bowed, and Aziraphale wavered behind him, breathing through the aching emotion in his chest.
“Crowley?” He said softly. “My dear . . . ?”
Crowley turned to face Aziraphale with tears in his eyes. He looked every inch exhausted, and every inch shaken, and yet he seemed filled with utter certainty in a way Aziraphale had never seen in him before. It was as if all of the questions he’d ever had had been answered to the fullest extent, and he was relishing in everything he’d found.
Or maybe, he had just found everything.
“‘Course I forgive you, angel,” he professed brokenly, as though no one had interrupted them at all. “How could I not?”
"You . . . should not, I rather think," Aziraphale whispered, feeling wretched relief squeezing at him, dragging in a shuddering breath underneath the weight of it all.
“When has that ever stopped me from doing anything?” Crowley asked, before stepping forward and taking Aziraphale’s hands in his own, tucking the book — which, Aziraphale realized with a jolt, was a blank-paged Bible — under one arm. He hesitated for a moment, wavering, blinking away the tears from his serpentine eyes.
“You aren’t the only one who needs forgiving,” he said when he spoke at last, voice quiet and ragged. “I’m sorry I believed you were wrong to think things could be changed.” Crowley laughed, as though he himself could hardly believe the words God had spoken to them, when God had spoken to them.
The sound of it was nothing like the self-deprecating, angry bark he had made earlier, and was nearly enough to move Aziraphale to tears of his own, especially as Crowley continued, the edge of disbelief to his words overcome by the elation in them.
“We have the power to rewrite this story.” Crowley’s eyes met Aziraphale, his gaze intense and questioning. “Do you believe it, angel?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed out, and through the shock and grief and guilt came a cracking, beaming joy. “I do.” He drew up one of Crowley’s hands, brushing his lips over his knuckles with a smile. “And of course, my dear, I forgive you.”
And he leaned forward and kissed Crowley softly.
It was nothing like that awful kiss they had had once before — standing in the very spot they were in now, when Crowley had seized his collar with desperate grief and expressed what he had not been able to say and what Aziraphale would not have been able to hear into a physical gesture of angry, despairing love.
That kiss had haunted Aziraphale each and every day in Heaven, and had continued to haunt him until now: as he gently drew Crowley close and felt Crowley kiss him back just as softly, almost apologetically — and they had apologized to one another countless times over the ages to the point of making that silly dance for it, but this had to be the best one of them all.
“Where do we begin?” Aziraphale murmured against him, when they had broken apart but not moved apart; Crowley’s hands had moved up to cradle his face, and Aziraphale had done the same for him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley said. He was smiling, and it was beautiful; it reminded Aziraphale of the angel he had been, spinning stars in his palms and beaming at his creations, and God’s words abounded in his mind — that through suffering, there would be joy. And there was. “We have all the time in the world.”
“And all the love,” Aziraphale told him, smiling back. There were tears building in him, burning at his eyes, but they were happy, joyous tears — because he was here, with everything he had ever wanted; with the only person he needed; whose love fulfilled every desire he’d ever indulged.
And that altogether was remarkable enough to rebuild the entire world.