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Once, long ago, they stood together in a garden. Aziraphale had never liked someone so much. Had never even considered liking as a possibility before, until a demon slithered up beside him and looked at him like someone worth liking too. Oh dear, he’d thought at the time. We’d better not have any more of that. It felt dangerous and wonderful. A flaming sword. A first bite of ripe fruit.
Now, they stand together in a garden, in a bookshop, in the last trace of the world.
Crowley turns to go first, once they’ve made their decision. He’s always been the brave one.
But Aziraphale chooses, at this final opportunity, to be brave too. Perhaps it won’t save the world just yet, but they’ve earned this. One last moment of privacy.
“Crowley?”
Crowley stops. Aziraphale takes his hand - his dear, perfect hand.
Crowley made the grand gesture last. He won’t try again. Won’t risk overstepping, even now, in case it’s something that Aziraphale doesn’t want. Such a funny, sad thought, when it’s the only thing that Aziraphale has ever wanted.
Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s hand in both of his, turns it over to consider his palm. All the beauties of the universe are right there in its lines. How many times have their hands touched over the countless centuries? Not nearly enough. What a waste. What idiots.
Aziraphale leans down to kiss Crowley’s open palm. He feels Crowley’s shiver like a thunderstorm through his own body. He understands, for a second, what it might be like to make love.
Then he looks up to meet Crowley’s eyes. “There will always be us.”
Crowley’s gaze is beautiful, anguish and want all mixed together. “Not anymore. Not after this.”
“Always,” Aziraphale insists gently, “in the way that matters,” and he pulls him in for a kiss.
They kiss here, in the garden, in the bookshop, in the last trace of the world; they kiss in the garden of Eden six thousand years ago; they kiss in taverns and parks and graveyards and theatres, in the smoldering ruins of churches, in the Bentley and strolling down Whickber Street and in quiet, still places where nightingales sing. They kiss softly, indulgently. Taking their time.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Aziraphale confesses against Crowley’s lips in a sigh.
“I know you have.” Crowley brushes a tear from Aziraphale’s cheek.
Even now, especially now, Aziraphale can’t resist the sheer Crowleyness of the answer. He laughs, and Crowley laughs too, and even with some crying mixed in, it feels good. It’s easy to imagine the sparks of their joy sneaking past the bookshop doors, drifting out into the infinite nothing, forever alight in the vast uncertain dark.
“I’ve always wanted you to,” Crowley adds, softer.
“I know you have.” Aziraphale bathes in that smile. A final touch of sunlight. “Well, then. Shall we?”
“No time like the present.”
They kiss one last time, slow and sweet. Aziraphale delights – as he has countless times in Crowley’s company – in the sheer, simple pleasure of lingering together when they should probably be elsewhere. Then they join hands, and leave the garden.