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It was pitch dark and Aziraphale was swaying, his body little more than a rag doll tossed in a sea of blackness. He flailed out a hand to catch his balance, his palm landing against something warm and sticky. He would have recoiled if his head wasn’t splitting from the high-pitched screech of metal against metal, a sound underpinned by a rhythmic rumbling that vibrated through his soles.
What was happening? Had God chosen not to annihilate him, but to exile him to Hell?
He jounced helplessly in the dark, barely managing to stay upright. The overpowering scents of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and body odour made him feel faintly ill, then something else — something familiar and pleasant — wafted past his nose.
Toasted bread. Melting cheese. A cheese sarnie? In Hell?
He had no time to ponder this as the world suddenly flickered into light. Aziraphale blinked, his eyes smarting at the rapid change. As the images around him came into focus, he stumbled, shocked. People slouched in seats or stood glumly holding onto straps and railings. No one made eye contact with him, preferring to stay huddled within themselves. He glanced around helplessly until he felt a pair of intense eyes staring back at him from within a crush of bodies.
Aziraphale’s heart leapt as he recognized the unmistakable golden gaze. Crowley!
Aziraphale trembled, his legs weak, when a crackly voice broke through the intercom. “Apologies for the brief blackout, ladies and gentlemen. All lighting systems should be back online now. Next station is Oxford Circus.”
Aziraphale gasped. They weren’t dead. They weren’t in Hell. They were in the Tube.
***
Crowley stumbled out of the carriage and onto the platform, nearly knocked over by impatient humans wielding rucksacks and shopping bags. And then Aziraphale — breathless, panicked, beautiful Aziraphale — was clutching at his arm and pulling him off to the side.
“Crowley — oh, thank goodness, it’s really you,” Aziraphale babbled, grabbing Crowley’s shoulders. “What’s going on? What is this place? I thought — I thought we were —”
Crowley slumped against the cool tiled wall, waiting for his guts to settle. He thought they’d been erased by God. Disintegrated. Zapped out of existence. Nada. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying not to throw up.
He slowly slid on his dark glasses that he’d stuffed into his jacket pocket, finding some small comfort in the familiar action even though his hands were still shaking.
“What happened?” Aziraphale asked again, looking at him with wild, desperate eyes. “Why are we here?”
“Because,” Crowley said sardonically, “God is an ineffable bitch.”
***
They staggered their way to the nearest pub, Aziraphale fumbling out his wallet to pay for two double whiskies from the 90 pounds he habitually carried. They tucked themselves into a far corner booth, not speaking for several minutes as they nursed their drinks and gathered their wits.
“Is this…” Aziraphale eventually ventured, “Earth?”
“Looks like it,” Crowley muttered back. “But who knows?”
“Why would she —? I mean, what is the point —?”
Crowley tilted his head at him, his mouth set in a hard line.
“Oh, you’re right. Never mind.” Aziraphale felt himself on the brink of tears, far too overwhelmed to try to parse the ineffable machinations of a powerful and, frankly, not very nice God.
His mind spun, attempting to piece the last few hours back together. They were supposed to be dead or erased, or whatever the proper term was. They had decided to give themselves up for the good of humankind, they had made a final decision together, and yet here they were, sat in a London pub drinking as if they hadn’t just witnessed the end of the universe and declared their love and devotion to each other in imperfect words and actions right in front of God and Satan. Satan with his turtleneck and bald spot, and God with her rhinestones and flashy trainers — oh, it was all too much to wrap his mind around. He clutched his forehead.
“You alright, angel?” Crowley’s voice was soft with concern.
Aziraphale looked up, managing a quivering smile. “No. I don’t think I am.”
Crowley smiled back, his mouth equally wobbly. “Me neither.”
Aziraphale reached across the table and laced his fingers with Crowley’s, anchoring them together. They said nothing and kept drinking, holding hands.
****
They finished their whiskies and Aziraphale put forth another question. “Do you think this is the same world, only restored?”
“Glued back together like a smashed plaything?” Crowley shrugged, a bitter taste in his mouth. “That remains to be seen.” He had no guesses left as far as God was concerned. Wanker.
Aziraphale was sifting through his pockets again, distracted, and Crowley idly wondered if he could still muster up miracles. On a whim, he swept his hand upwards.
Aziraphale stopped his searching and stared at the small flame dancing in the center of Crowley’s palm. “Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed. ‘You’ve got —”
“Oi!” the bartender shouted from across the pub. “No smoking in ’ere.”
Crowley snapped his hand shut, snuffing out the flame.
Aziraphale was practically wiggling with excitement. “That’s wonderful!” He flicked his wrist and produced a shiny gold coin between two fingers. He giggled with delight. “I still have miracles too!” He leant towards Crowley. “But why? What does it mean?”
Crowley slumped back into the corner. “Angel… we’re never going to know.”
Aziraphale’s face fell, and he nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” They were silent for a few beats, then Aziraphale pulled something from his pocket. “I still have the keys to the bookshop.” He held up the keychain that gleamed in the light slanting through the windows. “Shall we see if it’s still there?”
Crowley sat up, intrigued. Maybe that meant the Bentley was somewhere nearby. They could go to the bookshop, assuming it still existed, lock the door behind them, and figure out what the fuck was happening over several bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
“Let’s go.”
***
Whickber Street was different. No longer run down and falling into disrepair, it bustled with activity, the street tidy and the buildings brightly painted.
Aziraphale’s mood lifted at the sight, even as he noticed a few unfamiliar shops here and there. His heart soared when he saw the beloved facade of his bookshop, as welcoming and cosy as ever.
He slid the key into the lock with ease and pushed open the door. The scent of tea and aged paper, beeswax and leather greeted him like an old friend. He walked around, searching the shop for signs of any changes. It all appeared to be the same, as neatly jumbled as the day he left so long ago.
Crowley trailed behind him, and Aziraphale closed his eyes to take in the moment. It felt… normal. Not claustrophobic or scary, not urgent or perilous. Just… calm.
He could not explain why they were here or why they had survived an unknowable game of divine invention, but he did know where he stored his wine collection. He turned around to face Crowley, who had taken off his sunglasses and laid them on a side table.
“You sure you want me here?” Crowley asked, hesitating. “Maybe you need some time to…” he gestured vaguely at the stacks of books, his posture tense as if he was prepared to flee.
“Of course I want you here,” Aziraphale answered quickly, his voice rising. He did not want Crowley to slip away, reopening the gulf that had threatened to separate them. “We have so much to discuss.” He softened his shoulders, stepping closer. “Please stay. We need to talk.”
Crowley held his gaze, and Aziraphale drifted closer, slipping his hands into Crowley’s. Aziraphale took a steadying breath. “In the other bookshop, the one from the Book of Life, I… we talked in a way we never have before.” His mouth was dry, his nerves still raw, but he needed to get the words out. “I’d like it if we could continue that conversation. About what we each want, since it appears we have a second chance.”
Crowley swallowed hard, his eyes misting. “Aziraphale — what if this is all just an illusion, if this isn’t —”
“Hush.” Aziraphale placed two fingers over Crowley’s lips. “I’ll take whatever we have. As long as we’re together, I’m content.” He gently traced Crowley’s lower lip with his fingertips, drawing closer to his warmth. “I love you so very, very much.”
Crowley’s chin quaked with a tearful smile, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer. He covered Crowley’s lips with his own, pulling him into a soft kiss that made his knees buckle and his heart race, his hands slipping behind Crowley’s neck and pressing their bodies together. The feeling of Crowley’s arms wrapping around him and returning the kiss with renewed fervor was like an elixir, more intoxicating than any wine or spirit.
“I love you too, angel,” Crowley murmured against his lips when they broke apart, breathless and trembling.
Aziraphale smiled, too happy to speak, and dragged Crowley’s mouth back to his own.
Three months later…
“You really shouldn’t drink so much coffee,” Aziraphale tutted, looking with disapproval at the fourth double-espresso that Crowley had ordered that day. “Your heart might explode.”
Crowley grunted and took a long sip from the takeaway cup, ignoring Aziraphale’s well-intentioned but unnecessary commentary. If his heart was going to explode, it wasn’t going to be from caffeine. If anything was going to do him in, it’d be from a certain voracious angel who possessed immense stamina and a deeply erotic nature. That was a new thing, and it was… well, it was bloody amazing. They now shared the bookshop, the Bentley, and a bed, and the latter was currently Crowley’s favourite place to spend time with Aziraphale.
“What are you smirking at?” Aziraphale asked over a sip of his sickly sweet mochachino topped with whipped cream.
Crowley just ginned, wiping away a speck of cream from Aziraphale’s upturned nose. “I’ll show you later.”
They were on one of their meandering walks that took them through the park and past coffee shops and bakeries. It was a lovely day that Crowley once would have taken for granted, but which he now treasured. It was impossible to memorise and hold onto every precious second, but he tried. After all, he wasn’t certain how long they had left.
There had been no sign of Heaven or Hell, no misspelled missives or sudden appearances of constables or plenipotentiaries. The city and wider world seemed much as they had always known them, full of beauty and ugliness, kindness and hate, art and destruction. They had no idea if God was present or not, if their sacrifice had truly changed things, or if She had forged a new bargain that was Her own mysterious secret. He’d given up trying to understand. Instead, he focused on the present and the former angel at his side.
“Look!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Do you mind if we stop for a moment?”
Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze to a small bookshop that had several carts of discounted books on display outside. He sighed as Aziraphale unceremoniously handed him his mochachino and made a beeline to the shop.
Crowley sauntered after him and sprawled on a bench while Aziraphale browsed through the titles, humming and tutting to himself as he flipped through pages. Crowley drained his cup and pulled out his phone, idly scrolling while Aziraphale amused himself.
The bell over the shop door jingled and two people emerged, their conversation floating to Crowley as they paused on the pavement.
“I can’t believe you bought a book this time. It’s usually me,” a man said in a teasing tone.
At that moment, Aziraphale rejoined him on the bench, a thin volume of what looked to be poetry in his hand.
“Well, I couldn’t pass this one up,” the second man replied.
“Ah, yes, multiverse theory. Such light reading.”
Crowley glanced up at that comment, mildly intrigued. Then he froze, his phone still clutched in his hand, and stared at the two middle-aged men. He heard a startled exhale from next to him, then felt Aziraphale’s hand wrap around his forearm, tugging on him as if he hadn’t already noticed the couple, one lanky and red-haired, the other stout and blond. They were grinning at each other fondly, clearly used to bantering.
The blond man reached up to adjust the redhead’s tie, an easy, second-nature gesture of intimacy. He looped his arm through the other man’s. “Let’s find somewhere to enjoy an early lunch. I’m peckish.”
“Hmm… dim sum?”
“Perfect. But we need to be sure to catch the train back to Edinburgh by 4.”
“I’m well aware of that fact.”
As they began to stroll away, Crowley continued to stare, utterly flummoxed.
“Did you see —?” Aziraphale started, his voice filled with disbelief.
“I did.”
“They looked like —”
“I know.”
They were silent, then Aziraphale let out a puff of air. “I’ll be damned.”
Crowley blinked a few times, then tried to shake off the bizarre sense of converging realities. The universe was infinitely unknowable, so he turned to look at the one thing that was a reassuring constant. “Do we sound like that? Like a boring old married couple?”
Aziraphale patted his hand. “I’m sure we don’t, dear.”
He stood up to go pay for the book, leaving Crowley to gaze out at the glorious, mundane, unfathomable little patch of Earth that was their home.