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Every day had become the same for Crowley. Over and over again.
He took money from Ms. Sandwich, went to Brian Cameron hoping to find a dame, failed every single time, and then returned to his place in that filthy alley.
Sometimes he visited the bookshop just to check on it. Muriel had been summoned back to Heaven, so there was nobody left to look after it. And it would have been a shame to let the bookshop fall apart after all those years on Wickber Street — a place once full of books, warmth, and light brought there by one particular angel.
Crowley remembered how happy Aziraphale had been when he first opened the shop in 1800. They drank wine late into the night while Aziraphale excitedly rambled on about all his plans for the bookshop. And Crowley had been ready to listen to him forever, sitting there in that cozy little place filled with soft light and the smell of old books.
But it wasn't that bookshop anymore.
No light.
No laughter.
No classical music.
No wine.
No angel.
Only piles of dusty books nobody would ever read.
And Crowley had lost everything — his car, his plants, his ability to perform miracles... and his angel.
Now there was nothing left in him either. No light, no laughter. Only an absurd amount of alcohol and grief.
He must have looked pathetic.
On one particularly nasty day — though, to be fair, every day was nasty now — Crowley was lying in the alley wrapped in blankets taken from the bookshop, surrounded by rats. He had even given them names just to feel a little less alone.
Then he heard footsteps.
He immediately knew it wasn't Ms. Sandwich. He knew the sound of her steps by now, and these were different.
Lighter. Hesitant. Careful.
Just like someone he used to know a very long time ago.
Someone who—
"Crowley?"
Crowley’s heart dropped.
No. No, it couldn’t be him. There was no way Aziraphale would actually come down to Earth just to find Crowley in some filthy alley.
Crowley raised his head abruptly.
But there he was.
The Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. In flesh and blood.
"I’ve, um…" Aziraphale hesitated. "Please get up."
"I’m fine down here, thanks," Crowley muttered, lowering his head again and adjusting his glasses with his middle finger.
Aziraphale winced at the gesture.
"Look, I know you’re upset with me."
"Yep."
"But I’m willing to overlook that because, well… we have quite a lot to discuss." Aziraphale took a cautious step closer.
"I’ve got nothing to say to you."
Crowley rolled onto his side, turning his back to the angel.
"If you’re expecting me to do the ‘I was wrong’ dance," Aziraphale continued awkwardly, "then I’m afraid you may be waiting rather a long time."
"Oh, we’re far beyond little dances now, angel," Crowley spat. "Close the door on your way out."
"But you… you don’t have a door."
Crowley said nothing.
"Well. Alright then." Aziraphale fidgeted nervously with his hands, still unable to take his eyes off him. "If that’s what you want."
After a long moment, he finally turned and walked away.
"Yes. Go away." Crowley’s voice was barely above a whisper. "That’s what you always do."
A tear slipped down his face, disappearing into the rough stubble on his cheek.
Then suddenly something felt… wrong.
The hard concrete beneath him was gone.
Crowley frowned and slowly opened his eyes.
Soft cushions. Warm blankets. The familiar smell of old books and cocoa.
The bookshop.
He looked around wildly.
A second ago he had been lying in a dirty alley, drunk and miserable, and now he was on the sofa in the bloody bookshop — clean, sober, and tucked under blankets like some sort of overdramatic Victorian patient.
There was only one explanation.
"That absolute bastard," Crowley muttered under his breath.
Before he could fully process what had happened, he heard a quiet voice behind him.
"Crowley…"
"Ugh," the demon groaned dramatically and immediately rolled onto his other side, once again turning his back to the angel.
"Crowley, please. Just listen to me…"
No answer.
Crowley lay completely still on the sofa, and for a few seconds Aziraphale wondered if he had fallen asleep.
"Crowley, please… let me explain everything."
"I don’t need your explanations," Crowley muttered almost inaudibly, still lying with his back to the angel.
"You know, it’s rather impolite to speak to someone while pointedly refusing to look at them," Aziraphale said carefully.
Silence.
"Crowley, please…"
"Can’t you just leave me alone?" Crowley snapped, finally turning his head slightly toward him.
"No, I can’t!" Aziraphale replied, his voice suddenly rising. "Because I already did that once, and it was the greatest mistake of my life!"
Crowley went still.
After a few seconds, he slowly rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling instead of at Aziraphale.
"Well," he said bitterly, "guess that wasn’t your only mistake, seeing as you’re here asking for my help to find Jesus."
Aziraphale blinked. "How do you know that?"
"Live in an alleyway, people tell you things."
Aziraphale hesitated before quietly admitting, "Yes. I do need your help."
"That’s exactly my point." Crowley finally looked at him, eyes dark behind his glasses. "You only come to me when something’s gone wrong. When Heaven’s in trouble. When you need someone to save your celestial arse because you can’t do it yourself."
His voice cracked slightly, but he kept going.
"But I’m tired, Aziraphale. I’m tired of always being useful only when everything’s falling apart." He looked away again. "So do it yourself this time. And leave me alone."
"No, I won’t!" Aziraphale burst out, frustrated enough that Crowley actually looked at him properly for the first time since arriving at the bookshop. "I can’t leave you again, Crowley. I left once and spent three years regretting it every single day, but I was too stubborn and too frightened to admit it." His hands trembled slightly as he spoke. "Do you have any idea what it was like up there? Surrounded by angels and still feeling completely alone because you weren’t there?"
Crowley’s expression flickered for just a second.
"You are my friend," Aziraphale said more quietly now. "My oldest friend. The best thing that has ever happened to me. And there has never been anyone else like you. Never."
Friend.
That stung.
Crowley had never spent much time thinking about what they were supposed to call themselves — especially after that conversation. But “friend” no longer seemed right.
Not after everything between them.
Not after the kiss.
And certainly not between an angel and a demon.
Well. The Supreme Archangel and a former demon.
"History will call them friends," Crowley said with an ironic little laugh. "That’s what people always say, isn’t it?"
He suddenly stood and headed toward the open door.
"I’m sure you’ve got plenty of friends who’d be far more willing to help you." He glanced back briefly. "Enjoy your Second Coming, angel."
Aziraphale panicked.
Before Crowley could leave, he snapped his fingers. The doors slammed shut and locked right in front of him.
Crowley froze.
For several long seconds he stood there with his back to Aziraphale. His shoulders were tense, his breathing uneven.
Aziraphale could practically feel him hanging by a thread.
Then Crowley turned around and strode toward him with furious, deliberate steps.
"Leave. Me. Alone," Crowley growled, pointing a shaking finger at him like a threat.
"Not again," Aziraphale whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. "I won’t make the same mistake twice."
Something in Crowley’s face softened at that. Just slightly.
"Do you want me to do an apology dance?" Aziraphale asked suddenly, voice wavering. "Because I can. Look."
And before Crowley could react, Aziraphale started performing the apology dance.
"You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right…"
For the briefest moment, Aziraphale could have sworn he saw the shadow of a satisfied grin flicker across Crowley’s face.
But it vanished almost immediately.
Crowley said nothing.
Instead, he walked back to the sofa and sat down heavily, crossing his legs and stubbornly avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze.
"Well?" Aziraphale asked cautiously. "Are we alright now? Have you forgiven me?"
"No," Crowley said quietly.
Aziraphale’s face fell.
"No," Crowley repeated. "Because this isn’t about forgiveness anymore, angel. It’s about something else."
Someone else.
About us.
But he didn’t say that part aloud.
"Oh, Crowley…" Aziraphale moved closer and carefully sat down beside him on the sofa.
Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley wanted him to say.
"I know I hurt you terribly, and I am so, so sorry for that," he began quietly, nervously fidgeting with his hands. "But I need you to understand something. I didn’t go to Heaven because I wanted to leave you. I went because of you."
Crowley finally shifted slightly, though he still refused to properly look at him.
"You showed me that I could actually do something good. Something important. For the first time in my existence, I thought I had a chance to truly change things instead of simply obeying Heaven and being their puppet." Aziraphale swallowed hard. "I thought that maybe if I became Supreme Archangel, I could finally stop them from hurting us."
His voice softened.
"So that we could just… be us."
That finally made Crowley glance at him.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, "there is nothing I want more than to be with you."
He hesitated for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.
"I should have said all of this a very long time ago, but I think I was frightened. Frightened of my own feelings. Frightened that if I admitted them out loud, everything would change."
Crowley slowly turned his head slightly towards him.
"Crowley," Aziraphale continued softly, "I value you more than anyone in this universe. I trust you completely. And my dear… of course I love you."
His voice trembled slightly.
"I always have. I simply didn’t realise what it truly meant until 1941. Until you walked into that burning church and saved my books as if they mattered as much to you as they did to me."
Carefully, Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s.
"Crowley," he whispered, "please look at me."
For a few seconds Crowley stayed silent.
Then, slowly, he removed his glasses and finally looked at him.
Aziraphale’s breath caught.
There were tears in Crowley’s eyes.
"There you are," Aziraphale said softly, smiling through tears of his own as he gently stroked Crowley’s hand. "My beautiful, foul fiend. I missed you terribly. Especially your astonishing eyes."
"You are a fluffy-feathered bastard, you know that?" Crowley muttered, though there was the faintest trace of teasing in his voice now.
"Yes, well, I’m becoming increasingly aware of it," Aziraphale chuckled weakly.
He carefully took both of Crowley’s hands in his own.
"Crowley, I am so sorry. For leaving you. For what your life became because of my choices." His expression broke slightly. "Seeing you in that alley… like that… it absolutely shattered me. I was such a fool."
Something in Crowley’s face suddenly crumpled.
Without warning, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale.
Aziraphale froze in shock for half a second before immediately hugging him back, holding him as carefully as if Crowley might disappear.
"Sorry," Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder after a moment. "Probably still drunk. Makes me sentimental."
"Absolutely not," Aziraphale replied with a watery smile. "When I miracled you here, I cleaned you up and sobered you completely."
Crowley groaned dramatically.
"So don’t pretend you don’t have feelings, foul fiend."
"Ugh," Crowley grumbled, finally pulling away and rolling his eyes.
Aziraphale smiled at him warmly.
"That’s all?" he asked gently. "Just hugs?"
Crowley blinked at him in confusion. "What exactly are you implying, angel?"
"Well…" Aziraphale suddenly looked oddly shy despite everything. "I thought perhaps I might reciprocate that rather lovely gesture you made three years ago. In this very bookshop."
His eyes briefly flickered toward Crowley’s lips.
Realisation immediately dawned on Crowley’s face.
His eyebrows shot upward.
"Woah there, angel," he said quickly, holding up a hand. "You don’t have to do that just because I did. Not unless you genuinely want to."
"But I do want to," Aziraphale interrupted softly. "I always wanted to. It simply took me far too long to understand that."
Crowley stared at him for a moment, visibly caught off guard.
Then he shrugged with forced casualness.
"Well. In that case…"
Without another word, Aziraphale leaned forward, gently grabbed the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, and kissed him.
This kiss was nothing like the desperate one from three years ago.
There was no panic in it. No heartbreak.
Just warmth. Softness. Relief.
At first Crowley remained tense in surprise, but after a few seconds he melted into the kiss completely, finally kissing Aziraphale back.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them stayed very still for a moment, sitting side by side on the sofa and avoiding each other’s eyes as they tried to process what had just happened.
Aziraphale glanced sideways at him.
"I didn’t know demons could blush."
"Oh, shut up," Crowley muttered, though a small smile appeared on his face. "Didn’t know angels were such good kissers."
"For your information," Aziraphale replied with mock dignity, "angels are undoubtedly the best kissers in the entire universe."
Crowley snorted softly. "I’m not convinced."
Aziraphale laughed quietly and instinctively leaned in again, clearly intending to kiss him once more.
But Crowley suddenly placed a hand against Aziraphale’s chest, stopping him.
"Angel," he said softly. "Easy."
Aziraphale immediately pulled back. "Oh. I’m sorry, I just thought—"
"No, it’s not that." Crowley sighed and removed his glasses again, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "It’s just… this is a lot."
For the first time since Aziraphale returned, Crowley looked truly vulnerable.
"You vanish for three years, come back, tell me you love me, kiss me, and suddenly I’m expected to behave normally about it?"
Aziraphale’s expression softened instantly.
Crowley let out a weak laugh.
"I’ve wanted this for six thousand years, angel. But I think my brain needs at least five business days to process it."
That earned a quiet chuckle from Aziraphale.
Crowley looked at him again, softer this time.
"I’m not saying no," he admitted quietly. "I’m just overwhelmed."
"Umm, well then…" Aziraphale adjusted his sleeves awkwardly. "I suppose that after we save humanity yet again, we’ll have all the time in the world." A small smile appeared on his face. "Perhaps we could settle down somewhere in the countryside. South Downs, maybe. I happen to own a rather lovely cottage there."
Crowley blinked.
"You have a cottage in South Downs and I didn’t know about it?"
"Well…" Aziraphale suddenly looked almost embarrassed. "It was meant to be a surprise."
Crowley stared at him in disbelief.
"I bought it in 1867," Aziraphale admitted sheepishly. "Just in case one day we were finally on our own and could… live there together."
He said it so casually, as if secretly buying a romantic retirement cottage for your demon of six thousand years was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
Crowley made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, then abruptly jumped off the sofa and started pacing around the bookshop.
"Oh, for someone's sake!" he exclaimed, running his hands through his hair. "You are the most infuriating angel I have ever met! You absolute fluffy-feathered bastard!"
Aziraphale watched him nervously. "Crowley, I don’t quite underst—"
Crowley immediately pointed a finger at him.
"No. Don’t speak. I’m processing."
Aziraphale obediently fell silent.
Crowley continued pacing for another few seconds before finally collapsing back onto the sofa and covering his face dramatically with both hands.
"I’ve known you for six thousand years," he muttered from behind his fingers, "and you still somehow manage to surprise me."
Aziraphale smiled carefully.
"In a good way, I hope?"
Crowley slowly lowered his hands and looked at him.
"Of course in a good way, you idiot." His voice softened despite himself. "I just can’t believe that all this time you loved me and apparently bought us a bloody retirement cottage without telling me."
"Well," Aziraphale said with a small shrug, "I suppose that’s what happens when two celestial beings spend six thousand years aggressively refusing to discuss their feelings."
Crowley let out a quiet snort of laughter.
"Yeah. Fair enough."
For a few moments, silence settled comfortably between them again.
Aziraphale slowly looked around the bookshop, his gaze lingering on the dusty shelves, the armchairs, the stacks of books exactly where he remembered leaving them.
Then something suddenly occurred to him.
"Crowley?"
"Hm?"
Aziraphale slowly stood up from the sofa and wandered toward the bookshelves, absentmindedly running his fingers along the dusty spines.
There was dust everywhere, yes, but beneath it the shop was strangely untouched. The books were still neatly organised in the same peculiar system only Aziraphale himself understood. The armchairs remained exactly where they had always been, and even the records near the gramophone were stacked in familiar order.
Aziraphale frowned slightly.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "it’s actually rather strange."
Crowley lazily glanced at him from the sofa. "What is?"
"Well…" Aziraphale adjusted a book absentmindedly. "I've been gone for years, but... no windows broken, nothing's been taken, no rodent problem..."
Crowley coughed awkwardly.
"And the books are still alphabetised incorrectly," he muttered before he could stop himself.
Aziraphale turned around immediately. "What?"
"Nothing."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously for a second, but then continued wandering around the shop, completely oblivious.
"Honestly, I was expecting complete chaos by now, perhaps mold, or at least several criminally-minded pigeons. There’s dust everywhere, certainly, but otherwise everything is exactly the same."
Crowley snorted quietly.
"Almost as if someone was taking care of the place." continued Aziraphale.
There was a brief silence.
Then Crowley muttered, almost under his breath:
"You weren’t here anymore." He shrugged awkwardly. "Wasn’t about to lose the bookshop too."
Aziraphale went completely still.
Slowly, he turned to look at Crowley.
"Oh, Crowley…"
"Don’t," Crowley warned immediately, pointing a finger at him. "If you start crying again, I’m leaving."
"You tried that already," Aziraphale pointed out gently.
Crowley looked deeply offended. "And look where it got me."
That earned a soft laugh from Aziraphale.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The bookshop felt strangely warm again. Not completely — there was still dust on the shelves, broken years between them, and far too many things left unsaid — but for the first time in a very long while, it no longer felt empty.
Crowley glanced at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye.
"You know," he muttered quietly, "this is dangerously close to being happy."
Aziraphale smiled at him softly. "Well. We have always been rather good at impossible things."
Crowley huffed out something halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
"So… what happens now?"
Crowley got up and walked over to Aziraphale.
"Now, my dear angel," he said, "I suppose we find Jesus, locate the Book of Life, and sort out whatever celestial disaster you’ve accidentally wandered into this time."
Aziraphale smiled fondly.
"Together?"
Crowley squeezed his knee lightly.
"Together."