Work Text:
It must have been the hand-holding that did it.
At least, that's what Crowley had decided. For as much as he and Aziraphale had been absolute shit when it came to communicating their feelings over the last six thousand years, this time, in that moment, there had been no question as to what needed to happen. One last miracle between them. Even though Crowley had lost his powers, even though Heaven and Hell no longer existed, he trusted Aziraphale to understand this. He trusted Aziraphale completely. That wasn't the problem. He just wished there had been more time.
But time, as it existed now, was about to end.
It was the hand-holding, for sure, Crowley thought, vaguely. And perhaps a great deal of imagination. And that's how they'd ended up in this new reality.
Just the two of them, it seemed.
“Crowley… where are we?” asked Aziraphale uncertainly.
Crowley couldn't answer. He was at a loss.
The world they existed in now was tiny—hardly large enough to contain the two of them. Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves pressed nearly flat together, practically occupying the same space. Around them stretched a white haze of absolute nothingness, and yet it had weight. It pressed against them from all directions like wet sand, thick and suffocating, threatening to condense them even further.
He could hardly move beneath the pressure of it. Aziraphale was so close, pressed right against his body, their mouths only a whisper apart. There was hardly enough room for Crowley to lower his head and rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s. Distantly, he realized that this was the closest they'd ever been.
The angel shut his eyes and found Crowley’s other hand, grasping it tightly, their fingers intertwining. Crowley shut his eyes too. It was too suffocating otherwise.
"Why is it just us?" Aziraphale's voice was quiet, barely audible and muffled against Crowley's shirt, yet it was the only sound in the entire universe, which was, at this moment, just the two of them.
"Nothing exists but us," said Crowley, as the unsettling reality dawned on him. "Not yet."
"That's what I was afraid of," the angel replied, and he trembled.
Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hands. "It's not that bad, is it? Just us? I could think of worse people to be stuck with for eternity."
"You know that's not what I meant," Aziraphale said hotly.
“Sorry,” Crowley whispered, his lips brushing slightly against Aziraphale's temple. Right now, Aziraphale was his whole world. He could have stayed in that moment a lot longer, listening only to the symphony of their heartbeats. But their universe was already beginning to expand around them. “I think we'll need to stretch our wings a little bit,” Crowley murmured. “Metaphorically.”
Aziraphale blinked at him, then turned his head to see what he was talking about.
Next to them, where moments earlier there had been only blank nothingness, sat a familiar antique wooden desk. It was Aziraphale's desk, the one from his bookshop. Atop the desk was an open book, its pages blank, and an old-fashioned quill and inkwell.
"My desk," Aziraphale mumbled. “Crowley… is that—”
Crowley stared at the blank pages and understood. "Angel," he said quietly, watching the realization settle across Aziraphale's face even before he said the words. "Unless you want our universe to consist entirely of you, me, and this desk, I think we'd better get started writing."
Aziraphale nodded. He swallowed, then disentangled himself slowly, almost apologetically, from Crowley. Then, he settled into the chair, taking a deep breath.
Crowley, realizing he'd also forgotten to breathe, inhaled slowly. It wasn't actually oxygen he was breathing in, he was fairly certain of that, but whatever filled the void around them now felt terribly empty without Aziraphale against him. He watched as Aziraphale hesitated, the quill hovering precariously over the vast, terrifying expanse of the blank page. The angel frowned as the weight of it settled on him, the sheer, staggering terror of holding the responsibility for everything. Every leaf, every star, every atom yet to be conceived.
"Where shall I begin?" he asked after a long moment.
Crowley moved closer. "Start small, angel."
Aziraphale took a shallow breath, centered himself, and finally set the tip of the quill to the paper.
Let there be light, he wrote, the ink dark and hopeful against the void.
But the haze remained. Nothing changed. The nothingness persisted, heavy and indifferent.
Then, without a word, Crowley reached over. He placed his hand firmly over Aziraphale's, their fingers locking together over the quill. Suddenly, the white nothingness shattered. The void bloomed, splitting open into a brilliant, incandescent gold.
Aziraphale’s face broke into an astonished smile. He looked at Crowley, his eyes full of something so openly adoring it nearly undid him. "Oh," he breathed.
"Just a start." Crowley bit his lip. “Right. Now, what else do we need?”
Aziraphale pondered this for a moment. Then he set the quill to the page again. “I think I'll definitely need a cup of hot cocoa,” he said, already scribbling it into existence. "And perhaps we could use another chair..." He glanced up at Crowley. "Would you like something to drink?"
Against all odds, Crowley felt himself start to smile. "But first coffee?" he teased.
"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale asked, the joke having gone over his head.
"Yes, go ahead, write it down."
Once cocoa, coffee, and an extra chair had joined the universe, it was finally time to get serious.
Aziraphale continued to write. “Along with light, there came warmth…”
The air around them grew warmer by degrees. The void had apparently been the same temperature as their bodies all along, though Crowley hadn't noticed it before. The warmth felt nice against his skin.
“Air too,” Crowley said. “We'll need something to breathe.”
“Yes, of course. And sound,” Aziraphale murmured, writing quickly now. “The world ought to have sound. And music!" he continued, "Let there be music… and books, so many books!"
The space around them shimmered, as reality began to take shape into something comfortable and familiar: the bookshop.
"It will take me awhile to recall my collection, but—"
"Shakespeare," said Crowley. "Can't have a world without Shakespeare."
"Jane Austen," Aziraphale added quickly, starting to scribble faster. "Oh dear, there are so many authors. This is going to take some time."
"Time!" Crowley cut in. "Jot that down."
"Right, of course. Let there be time. But we're not starting from the beginning of time. We're a ways into it now, aren't we?"
"I would say so," said Crowley.
"Let there be rain."
"Mmm. Yes. And thunderstorms."
"Yes," agreed Aziraphale, writing it all down. "Oh! And let there be wine."
Crowley nodded enthusiastically. "Right, yes, we mustn't forget the wine. You still have a case of Chateauneuf-du-Pape in your cellar?"
Aziraphale's eyes twinkled with excitement. "I do now."
Crowley couldn't help but grin. Just minutes ago, he hadn't thought he'd feel anything ever again, let alone joy. But here they were, and yes, it was definitely joy he was feeling, it had to be. It had been so long.
"Now, before we get too carried away, we can't forget the big things. Crowley, I think this might be your area of expertise?"
Aziraphale wrote: Let there be stars.
Crowley wiggled his fingers. "I thought you'd never ask."
The world took form under Aziraphale's quill as he covered the empty pages. Before them, the bookshop materialized just as it once was, its shelves packed with a record of human history that only the previous universe's most devoted historian could have assembled. Beyond its walls, the world unfolded; London emerged first, followed by the rest of the globe. Soon, the universe was filled with magnificent constellations crafted by the most imaginative engineer of the former universe. Aziraphale had rewritten plants, animals, and all the natural beauty the Earth had once held before everything disappeared. They weren't creating anything that hadn't been there before, only rebuilding what had been lost.
Hours later, Crowley stared out through the bookshop window at a London skyline that had not existed mere hours ago. He still wasn't entirely certain whether they'd created this new universe themselves, or whether God had simply stepped aside long enough to let them believe they had. Perhaps it didn't matter.
For once, he found he didn't particularly care.
He poured another glass of wine and sauntered back towards Aziraphale.
Aziraphale's hand stilled over the page as Crowley approached. He wasn't finished by any means: reconstructing the world was one thing. Rebuilding Aziraphale’s entire literary collection alone would likely take years. But they were off to a good start, and Crowley had been not-so-subtly tempting him into taking a break for the last thirty minutes.
The retired demon leaned against the side of the desk with an impish smile and handed the retired angel a glass of wine. Aziraphale accepted it tiredly, sitting back in his chair. He set the quill down and observed his work.
"Do you think it's ready?"
He didn't need to elaborate. Crowley knew what he was referring to.
"No Heaven,” Crowley said firmly.
Aziraphale looked up at him.
“No Hell either,” he continued. “No sides. No games. No one pulling the strings.”
“Just people?”
Crowley nodded once. “Just people.”
Something painful twisted suddenly in his chest. Hope had always been a dangerous thing for Crowley. This universe, this world. It was all for humanity. What would happen to him and Aziraphale once the book of life was filled… once they were done writing. How long did they have before all of this was going to disappear? Because he should have known better. He had never been allowed happiness for long. There was always a punishment, something or Someone waiting in the wings to take it all away. Crowley hadn't liked who he'd become once he'd stopped daring to hope.
"What is it?"
Aziraphale was studying him with quiet concern.
Crowley stared down into his wineglass. “There’s always a catch,” he muttered. "Every fucking time."
Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and touched Crowley’s hand.
“No," he said gently. “There used to be. You’re right. But there are no sides anymore. No Heaven. No Hell. No one deciding what becomes of us.” His thumb brushed carefully over Crowley’s knuckles.
Crowley finally looked at him, and the tenderness in Aziraphale’s expression made something in his heart ache. Shit, he might cry again.
Aziraphale smiled back, open and entirely unafraid. “For the first time in our existence, we get to choose. And my choice is you, Crowley.”
Oh, he was definitely going to cry now.
"Aziraphale," was all he managed to say.
"And," Aziraphale pressed on, determined, "if the universe truly belongs to humanity now… surely you and I are allowed a small corner of it for ourselves?”
Crowley let out something halfway between a laugh and a broken sob. Before he could stop himself, he reached forward and pulled Aziraphale out of the chair entirely. The angel stumbled into him with a startled noise, nearly knocking the wineglass from Crowley’s hand. Crowley set it down blindly somewhere on the desk before wrapping both arms tightly around him. Aziraphale made a soft, desperate sound against his shoulder and immediately folded himself into the embrace, arms winding around Crowley just as tightly. Crowley buried his face against the side of Aziraphale’s neck, trembling all over now that he’d finally stopped trying not to.
There had been so many almosts between them. Almost confessions. Almost touches. Almost happiness. Six thousand years spent circling each other while Heaven and Hell dictated the shape of their existence. Six thousand years of loving Aziraphale in every way that mattered while pretending he could survive without being loved back.
But Aziraphale was here. Still here. Choosing him.
He felt the angel’s fingers slide gently into his hair, holding him like something precious instead of something dangerous. It was nice.
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you.”
Something inside Crowley cracked wide open at that. He laughed shakily against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tears dampening the front of the angel’s waistcoat. “Yeah,” he managed weakly. “Yeah, I suppose you do.”
He pulled back just enough so he could look at Aziraphale properly. Aziraphale's expression grew impossibly affectionate, something achingly fond settling into the corners of his stormy eyes. Crowley had seen this look before in increments; still he wasn't entirely certain how he was expected to survive being looked at like that so openly for the rest of eternity. Assuming eternity was still on the table.
Aziraphale’s hands stilled against the sides of Crowley's face, thumbs brushing at the wetness beneath his eyes. “May I?” he asked.
Crowley laughed weakly through what remained of his tears. “Took you long enough.”
Aziraphale smiled, small and unbearably hopeful, before leaning in and kissing Crowley gently.
It was nothing at all like their last kiss had been. There was no desperation in it. No fear. No anger or grief hidden beneath it. This kiss asked for nothing. It simply was. For the first time, Crowley understood what it meant to be kissed without saying goodbye. He made a soft, wounded sound against Aziraphale’s mouth and kissed him back with all the tenderness he’d spent the last three years trying not to want. He could hardly believe it was happening now.
When they eventually unraveled themselves much later—Crowley wasn't entirely certain if time had stopped, but it certainly seemed like it had—Aziraphale took a seat at the desk once more. He did not let go of Crowley's hand. The unfinished pages of the book of life waited patiently beneath the warm glow of the shop lamps. Outside the windows, London shimmered expectantly in the rain.
The angel picked up the quill.
Humanity had always been the point of it all. Heaven and Hell had spent millennia treating people like pawns in some endless celestial game, pushing and pulling at human lives in the name of victory, righteousness, punishment, obedience. And humans, stubborn and extraordinary creatures that they were, had continued making art and music and terrible decisions anyway.
Aziraphale glanced at Crowley one last time. Crowley nodded. The quill touched the page.
And let there be people.
Nothing exploded. No heavenly trumpets sounded. No divine voice thundered through the skies to judge them for their audacity. The universe did not split apart beneath their feet. Instead, the world simply breathed into life. Car engines rattled to life on the streets of London. Lights flickered in windows one by one across Whickber Street. Voices outside burst suddenly into laughter. Somewhere else, a dog barked excitedly.
Crowley felt it then—billions of lives unfolding all at once. Messy. Loud. Imperfect. Alive.
Aziraphale exhaled shakily. “We did it,” he whispered.
Crowley looked around. At the shelves full of books. At the rain pattering against the windows, and the half-finished glasses sitting abandoned on the desk. At his angel, glowing beneath the lamplight, ink stains smudged across his fingers and happiness written plainly across his face.
The world was still there. More importantly, so was Aziraphale. And Crowley was so very much in love with him.
"Well," Aziraphale said after a long moment, "what are we meant to do now?"
"You mean you and I?" Crowley shrugged. “I thought we might finally get lunch.”
"I'd rather like that very much," Aziraphale laughed, wiping tears from his cheek. "There's just one more thing I need to write."
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Forgot something?”
Aziraphale just smiled. He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. Then he started a new page and wrote at the top:
Let there be us.