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“People deserve the chance to live in the real world,” Crowley said.
Something inside Aziraphale broke at the words. He knew exactly where Crowley was going with this from the moment he looked at Aziraphale with fresh heartbreak and surrender in his glistening eyes, and he could hardly stand it.
Oh, how much he disagreed.
Because their world wasn’t any less real than any other that could replace it. And just because it had not been designed for more than 6000 years did not mean they had to give up on it.
“Even if there are no angels,” Crowley continued, his voice nearly breaking. “No demons. No us. Ever again.”
Oh heavens, this was all Aziraphale’s fault, wasn’t it? How could he have ever let it get so far that Crowley even considered their annihilation as an option? This wasn’t the Crowley he had left on Earth years ago. This was what those lonely years without Aziraphale had made of him.
Aw, no dying! Enough dying! No more dying!
Dying is just . . . it’s just wrong!
The memory of his beloved demon’s words from not even two hundred years ago echoed in Aziraphale’s mind. Such sharp contrast between the Crowley then and the Crowley now.
Trying to kill yourself? It’s—I mean—It’s—it’s not on!
And wasn’t it right after that—after Hell had taken Crowley away and kept him down there as punishment for that laudanum-inspired good deed—that Crowley had first asked Aziraphale for holy water? It was happening all over again, wasn’t it? Only now, Crowley didn’t have to ask Aziraphale for anything. He just had to make a decision and the Almighty would take care of the rest.
Aziraphale could not let that happen. He would never stand by as Crowley tried to hurt himself.
And so, what else was there to do other than pick up the pieces of their fractured relationship and try to fix whatever he still could—try to make Crowley see that his life was still worth fighting for—even if their time was most probably swiftly coming to an end? God wasn’t going to wait for their decision forever, after all. But it was better to die at Her hand, knowing he did his best to make his dearest friend value his life again, than die willingly at his friend’s request.
Aziraphale stared into Crowley’s tear-filled eyes, his own vision starting to get blurry. He noted, with a pang of sadness, the telltale downturn of Crowley’s thin lips. The fragile lines that spun around his uncovered eyes and wrapped around his forehead, now so terribly close to crumpling. How every single shaky inhale was holding back an avalanche of hurt.
This was how Crowley must have looked after Aziraphale had left him for Heaven, wasn’t it? The moment the elevator door had closed and Crowley drove away, this was how hard he must have found it to keep his feelings from showing on his face. And though Aziraphale still stood by his decision to go back to Heaven and try to influence the Second Coming—to try to save everyone, no matter how impossible, and not just abandon the Earth and run off together—this was what he had reduced Crowley to. An angel-less, Bentley-less, miracle-less and homeless demon who gambled, drunk more than he ever had before, and who now stood before him, trying to convince Aziraphale that suicide was the only solution here instead of going back and trying to fix things.
A demon who seemed to genuinely believe that self-sacrifice was the right thing to do.
So, Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath and said the only sensible thing he could.
“No.”
The change in Crowley was instant. A flicker of betrayal passed through his eyes for a second, then a furrow deepened across his forehead in confusion. The corner of his lips curved even further downwards. Though Aziraphale had never seen Crowley like this, he knew the signs well enough. The demon was on the precipice between letting his face crumple for Aziraphale to witness, and turning away from Aziraphale completely, faking nonchalance with an unconvincing scoff.
Aziraphale had to tread carefully.
“No?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale softened his voice as he stepped closer and took Crowley’s hand in his, the touch gentle but firm. He needed Crowley to understand.
“No, my dearest,” he said. When Crowley opened his mouth to protest, Aziraphale stopped him with a careful finger to his lips. “Let me explain.” It was after that—after Crowley gave him a weak nod and waited—that words nearly left him. Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath, and shook his head to try to think past all the emotions in the air around them. In the end, everything he wanted to say, everything that was wrong with Crowley’s plan, boiled down to a single, most important point. “I can’t have you giving up your life, Crowley.” Aziraphale sucked in a breath. This was the whole truth of him. No matter what else happened in the world, he couldn’t lose Crowley. “Not before, when you asked me for the holy water and I thought— I thought—“ Crowley’s eyes filled with fresh tears upon hearing that, but Aziraphale had to finish. “And not now. I can’t have that. I won’t.”
For a brief second, pity flashed through Crowley’s eyes. As if he thought Aziraphale’s admission could not influence the correct outcome and would only make it harder for both of them.
“Angel, this is not—“
“No, but it is, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted. “This is not the right thing to do, this is—this is giving up. Because you see.” He sighed as he fought against his own tears and quickly lost the battle. Crowley’s eyes traced them as they rolled down Aziraphale’s face, the pity in his gaze turning to bitter realisation. “I do think that people deserve that chance. But I also think that angels and demons do, too. Including you, my dear.”
It was clear that Crowley had not considered this point of view at all. It was like looking at a human emotion textbook. His mouth fell open, his eyes widened, and he stopped fighting the tears that now streamed openly down his face. This was the crumpling Aziraphale had known would come. The moment Crowley heard the truth and let it all go, closing his eyes against the power of it and keeping them closed because it was the only line of defence he still had. Because ever since his Fall, Crowley had not properly valued his life. Probably on the account of the fact that he was constantly told he was worthless, by nearly everyone. Aziraphale had never told him that explicitly—he could never, it would always, always have been a horrible lie—but he, too, was not above calling Crowley his enemy.
They didn’t have a choice back then, of course. Constant surveillance from Above and Below tended to bring with it paranoia, which then prevented even the most beautiful of friendships. Fraternising of any sort (because they really couldn’t help but get together every now and again) had to be done in secret.
Still, maybe Aziraphale did bear some of the blame for this. He felt like he did, anyway. There were many “I should have” on his mind, but most important of them all: I should have been braver. Crowley had always been worth it.
Slowly, he traced his thumb over Crowley’s wet face, wiping away some of the tears, even though they just kept on coming. Then—bravely—he cupped the demon’s cheek, waiting for him to open his eyes.
“And we deserve a chance, too. Don’t you think?”
He had to believe that, deep down, there was still a part of Crowley that didn’t want to die. When the Almighty had snapped her fingers and almost ended the Universe just a few minutes ago, Crowley had stopped her, after all. He didn’t accept that the story couldn’t go beyond the last page of its book. Beneath the self-pity, he had to know that Aziraphale was right. And if not, then Aziraphale would just have to reach down, find that part of Crowley that he knew had once been there, and bring it back up to the surface.
Crowley was sobbing now, his face pressing into Aziraphale’s hand, seeking comfort. Aziraphale had never seen him like this, had never even imagined that Crowley could feel so intensely about something that he would willingly lose a fight against emotions. But then again, Aziraphale probably didn’t look much better. And since this was possibly their last moment alive together, he would offer him as much comfort as he could give.
Without hesitation, Aziraphale opened his arms and wrapped them around Crowley’s thin frame, squeezing him as tightly as he dared. He knew Crowley was strong, but right now, he seemed so fragile. He rubbed his palms up and down Crowley’s back, feeling him tremble beneath the touch, and pressed his own face into Crowley’s shoulder, closing his eyes against the new wave of tears. If God was watching, She would just have to deal with them holding each other for a while, because Aziraphale needed this as much as Crowley did, if the way his breath stuttered and sobs burst out of him was any indication.
He would not lose Crowley. Not now, when with a single wish—a single decision—they could have it all.
“Oh Crowley, I’m so . . . I’m so very sorry, my dear boy. I couldn’t turn my back on Heaven, you know that, but I would always, always choose you. Over anyone.”
Crowley just nodded, mumbling something incomprehensible against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and continued to sob his heart out. This had been a long time coming, Aziraphale realised. He wished, not for the first time, that things between them could have gone differently. Years ago, when Crowley had kissed him for the first time, all Aziraphale could think was “oh, do it again”. But then it was over as soon as it had begun, and reality returned to him, as harsh as a slap. And what else was he supposed to do with those odds?
Crowley wanted to run. He always had. He understood that both Heaven and Hell were part of the problem, and maybe Aziraphale was beginning to understand that, too. But it wouldn’t really be him, if he had chosen to abandon them all and run away when Crowley had asked. He would never have stopped regretting it, if he had said yes, wherever he would have ended up. So, he couldn’t have said yes back then. But there was something he should have done after going up the elevator. He should have returned to Earth, returned to his Crowley, and properly explained. He should have done everything in his power to try to salvage their relationship sooner, not wait until just now, years later. Because now, at the end of Existence, what did they have left?
Each other, and one ultimate decision.
And the extension of that desire to run away—to escape by the means of death—could never be on the table. Whatever happened next, dying would have no part in it.
Dying was just not on.
Aziraphale let a moment pass. A slow, tender moment, where they just breathed and cried together. Then, with his voice still shaky, and his hands still fisted into the fabric on Crowley’s back, he said, “Alright. If we are in an agreement, then this is what we are going to do.” He steadied himself with a deep breath. “We are not telling the Almighty we want to die. I know that Heaven and Hell both have their, um, their issues, to put it mildly, but we simply cannot abandon it all and start over. Think of Job’s children, dear.” At that, Crowley tensed, let out a pathetic mix of syllables and squeezed Aziraphale harder. Aziraphale patted his back in understanding.
“What—“ Crowley croaked, then cleared his throat. “But what else can we do, angel?”
For that, at least Aziraphale had an answer. “We are going to do what we should have done from the very start, my dear.”
Crowley slowly disentangled his limbs from around Aziraphale, then let their eyes meet again. His were still red-rimmed around all the yellow, but something new was beginning to show in them, too. Something not unlike hope. Aziraphale had to grab onto that and not let go until more of it reflected on Crowley’s face.
“And what is that?” Crowley asked?
“Work together.”
Aziraphale’s plan to alter the Second Coming had not worked, and neither could Crowley’s plan to run away. So, really, the only solution was to work together on a third, better option. It always had been. During the first Armageddon, when they hid Gabriel in the bookshop for a week, and any other time they had met and helped each other throughout history.
It had always been about the two of them, together.
A small hint of a smirk found its way into the corner of Crowley’s lips, and the hope in his eyes grew by a smidge. Aziraphale was so glad to see it he could burst with the feeling. He kept his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, his mind already going through all the possible scenarios of what to do next.
“Because if you recall, my dear,” Aziraphale continued. “The last time we worked together, truly worked together, it worked rather a little too well, didn’t it? And did it ever occur to either of us why?”
Crowley paused, his eyes widening. “But it was—well, it was . . . a 25 Lazarii miracle.”
“Precisely,” Aziraphale smiled. “And we were each only giving it our smallest effort possible.” When Crowley’s eyes went even wider, Aziraphale hurried to add, “Now, I don’t think we are more powerful than the Almighty.” He gave an awkward chuckle at that, his eyes dancing around the bookshop for a moment, as if She could appear from behind any of the bookshelves. “But I do think that if we work together, there is very little that we cannot achieve. And maybe that is why Heaven and Hell were never meant to work together, because just imagine the power.”
Crowley was nodding. “Oh, I’m imagining, angel, trust me.”
“So, then.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and looked into Crowley’s eyes once more, pleading with him to understand. Please tell me death is not better than our chances now? “Are you with me, Crowley?”
Please, my dear.
To Aziraphale’s concern, Crowley took a moment to think about it. It was clear that he still wasn’t sure about how they were ever going to fix all this on their own—the whole world, the whole universe was broken from the very start—but Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to see the signs of agreement in his face. He knew that if he asked nicely enough, and if what he was asking wasn’t utter bollocks, Crowley was willing to do just about anything for him, especially if it involved working together. After 6000 years together, he had seen proof of that often enough.
So, if Crowley was given the option to keep going—to not die and give up their happy ending—with Aziraphale by his side, he would.
Finally, after whatever inner turmoil Crowley had to work through had finished, he lifted his gaze to Aziraphale’s eyes. He nodded. “I’m with you, angel.” It was a whisper—barely a breath—but that was alright, the words didn’t need to travel far, anyway. Aziraphale caught them easily, mere inches from Crowley’s lips, then saved them in his heart. “Always.”
A relieved laugh bubbled out of Aziraphale’s throat.
Always.
If the Almighty was truly putting this decision into their hands—with no tricks or conditions—then Aziraphale was not going to let them die, and he was going to fight for the happy ending they deserved. He was going to fight for their world and do his best to fix it.
“Now.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. They were still so close, and now that their death had been successfully avoided, Aziraphale was having a very hard time to focus on anything but Crowley’s lips right in front of him. His mind returned to the kiss in the bookshop, to the way his thoughts had settled on a single wish during it, and he had to clear his throat again just to get the words out. “The thing you did—I mean, last time—when we were—when we—the bookshop. Would you, um, would you be so kind as to do it again?”
He stumbled over his words like a human teenager, but he couldn’t help it. He only hoped Crowley would understand what he was asking for. His cheeks were burning enough, and so were his ears, and he was absolutely sure his want must have been embarrassingly easy to read on his whole face, but it seemed Crowley was still a little too shaky from everything they talked about to get the meaning.
He just gawked, eyebrows raised. “Wot?”
Aziraphale sighed in exasperation. “Just . . . oh, just kiss me, will you?”
That seemed to wake Crowley up. “Ohh. Oh!”
Crowley didn’t protest after that. His eyes softened in exactly the same way they had the night in 1941 after they escaped the West End, and back in Edinburgh when they were discussing mortality and the illusion of choice, and when they had crepes in France.
Oh my. Had Crowley wanted to kiss him all those times, too?
Aziraphale didn’t have time to finish that thought, but he didn’t need to. He knew the answer, anyway. And how could he not? It was the same for him, after all, although he had spent most of his life deep in the familiar pit of denial.
But no more.
There was only one thing he wanted, after all.
And maybe, that was still what this was about, even at the end of the world.
Love.
Their lips met—a demon and an angel, for the first time in history—proving once and for all that all the fighting the two sides had done over the millennia had been nothing but a waste of time, orchestrated by whoever profited from it best. Aziraphale’s fingers slid into Crowley’s hair with ease, holding on as firmly as Crowley had that first time they had kissed. In contrast, Crowley’s arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle with undeniable gentleness, tempting the angel to move closer, which Aziraphale did without protest or guilt. And although their mouths were very occupied, Aziraphale felt like this was the first moment in thousands of years that his soul could properly breathe.
It was a liberation.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads now pressed together, Aziraphale couldn’t help but point out, “That was even more scrumptious than the last human food I had, oh my.”
Crowley snorted.
Aziraphale pulled away just so he could witness the genuine smile on Crowley’s face—the effortless joy in his eyes—and he traced the outlines of that happiness with his thumb, his touch as featherlight as if this expression on Crowley’s face was more sacred than the Book of Life itself.
Then he leaned up to kiss Crowley again, even more softly.
“Ngk,” Crowley said, almost squirming under all the sudden attention, but he didn’t sway from Aziraphale’s grip on him. From where Aziraphale was standing, the mix of syllables sounded most like approval, anyway.
“So,” Aziraphale said after the second kiss ended, gripping Crowley’s hand tightly in determination. “Let’s fix our world, then, shall we, my dear?”
He still didn’t know exactly how, or even where to begin to figure it all out, but it hardly mattered. They had each other, they had (some) time, and they had God’s word that She would let them make this one decision. This wasn’t the time to give up or run away.
It was time to go back and fix it.
“Yes, alright, angel.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s forehead in encouragement, for himself and for Aziraphale both, and squeezed his hand. The hope in his eyes now shone as sure and as bright as the Eternal Flame. “Let’s do that.”