Chapter Text
"We have nothing!"
“We have each other, my books, and I’m sure we have some cocoa-“
Aziraphale bustles off toward his kitchen. There's something animated about his movement, almost jovial. It's a bitter thought that slithers into Crowley's head. Unkind, bordering on cruel, but Aziraphale always did want more time to sit and read his books. Now he has all of eternity.
The shop floats in a void of complete nothingness; the warm yellow glow from inside spills out into the darkness, a guiding star for anyone who may still be out there. Only, there is no one out there left to guide.
It's a perfect, peaceful existence for Aziraphale, but what about Crowley? He had no purpose even before the world ended. Now he's just unwanted flesh collecting dust and taking up space.
“Angel.”
“I know we don't have any food in, but I’m sure I can miracle up something tasty. It’s never quite as good as the real thing, but needs must. How do you feel about Chinese? We never did get to finish our meal.”
“Angel.”
“And of course I have a stockpile of fine wines in the basement. I might have some whisky too, but we'll have to take it slow with those because I can never quite get the formula right.”
Why did he have to seem so happy, here at the end of everything?
“Aziraphale!”
Aziraphale stops his chatter and spins around. His bright, hopeful expression hits Crowley like a cartoon piano. His knees attempt to buckle, and he feels every passing second of his six thousand years etched into the bones of his corporation. The weight is almost unbearable.
All he has ever wanted to do is run away with Aziraphale. To take himself away from heaven and hell and anyone else who could hurt them. Now he finally has everything he dreamed of, and it's a horrible, twisted nightmare. The cost of peace came at a startlingly high price, and worse, Aziraphale hadn't chosen this at all. Aziraphale hadn't chosen him.
He never chooses Crowley over Heaven.
Crowley loves this angel. He loves him so much that losing him had damn near broken him. He's not too proud to admit that to himself, even if he could never speak the word aloud. But how could he stay here? How could he ever be happy knowing that Aziraphale only came back to him because he had to? That he only stayed because Crowley hadn't given him a choice. He'd saved them from annihilation, yes, but he had also trapped them here. Now they were reluctantly imprisoned together at the end of the universe.
For eternity.
“I need to lie down.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face falls. “I’ll just… entertain myself. I’m sure Jim’s room is still intact.”
“Yup.”
Jim’s room. A room that could have been his had Aziraphale ever found the courage to ask. Maybe he had never wanted to ask.
As he climbs the stairs, each step coming heavier than the last, he hears Aziraphale’s agonised cry float up from the shop below.
“Oh, Crowley, they’re all blank! Even the Dickens.”
On any other day, Crowley might have rushed back down. He might have deflected Aziraphale from the horrors with his piercing wit or made a bombastic attempt to find a solution. Anything to make the angel laugh or grumble at him in annoyance. But he can't. He just can't.
The door creaks closed. Aziraphale's voice disappears behind the barricade of hardwood and chipped paint. In a room of sunshine-yellow, in a void entirely without sunlight, Crowley falls face-first onto the bed. He doesn't even take off his shoes.
He closes his eyes against the world and remembers the last time he slept in a bed. Aziraphale had stood watch in his flat in Mayfair the night before his heavenly trial—his own personal guardian angel.
There's nothing to guard against now.
It's impossible to track the passage of time. There's no sun to turn about, no gravitational tug of the moon. The clocks have not been wound for a good many years. But when Crowley wakes, the aches in his stiff joints feel ancient. It has to have been days at least.
There's a tiny tap at the door. So quiet and tentative, Crowley questions how it could have possibly woken him.
"Crowley, are you…" Aziraphale sounds more uncertain than Crowley has ever heard him. He wonders how many times the angel has tapped on this door, too afraid to wake the slumbering demon but lonely without.
"Yup," he calls out.
The door creaks open. Wet eyes peer through a sliver of space.
"Oh, good. I was afraid you had… well… we didn't save our pages, did we?"
"What do you want, Aziraphale?"
The door swings open, revealing a fidgety angel with rolled-up shirtsleeves and candy floss hair in disarray.
"Well, it's been three days by my accounting." He tugs free the fob watch still attached to his waistcoat as if to demonstrate his point. "I thought you might want to get up so we can figure out what to do next."
"The world ended. What's there to do? We lost." As if to demonstrate his point, Crowley rolls onto his side and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder. He can still smell the remnants of Jim, of hot chocolate and cinnamon. It makes the acid churn in his belly.
"Yes, but… we can still do something?"
"Like what? I don't have any miracles left."
"Crowley… are you… are you…"
Slowly, Crowley turns back toward Aziraphale.
Hands wringing, lips twisting downwards at the corner, Aziraphale shrinks smaller and smaller with each moment of silence.
"You said you forgave me," Aziraphale says in a tiny voice.
"Yeah," Crowley sighs. The first worms of guilt wriggle into his belly. They bring their friends. He could look into that sad, desperate face of the only being he has ever loved and apologise. He could make this all right with a word. But he doesn't want to. It's not that he wants to hold onto his anger. It's not that he wants to keep hurting and hurt Aziraphale in turn. He doesn't. Satan save him, he doesn't. But everything is broken, and pretending that it isn't won't make it better.
"Crowley!"
"I'm going back to sleep, Aziraphale."
"For-for how long?"
"No idea. I slept most of the fourteenth century away."
"You can't leave me like that. We're alone here." And then in the tiniest voice imaginable, Aziraphale says again, "You forgave me."
"You forgave me. Then you left me. For years. And I had no idea when you were going to come back or even if you would. Let's face it. You wouldn't have had you not lost Jesus."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He doesn't mean to sound so harsh, so cruel. But now that he's opened his mouth, he can't seem to stop the venom from flowing. His heart isn't just broken, it's shattered. It had shattered the moment the lift doors had closed, and Aziraphale had managed to crush the pointed shards into dust when he had said that he wouldn't have come back if I knew where he was.
"Crowley!"
"You left me, and you didn't even care."
"That's not-"
In an ideal world, he would storm off, but nothing here is ideal. Here, sleep is his only refuge.
"Goodnight, Aziraphale."
The next time Crowley opens his eyes, the lights have been turned down low. The lamp in the corner casts a warm glow over an angel seated in a hardback chair. There is an open book resting in his lap, but he isn't reading. How could he be? Instead, his head is turned to stare vacantly out of the window. Right into the void.
Crowley’s minute movement must catch his attention, because he blinks and turns, offering Crowley a watery smile.
“Crowley!” He breathes.
"What are you doing here?"
"I apologise if I'm overstepping," he says. His hands are twisting, turning, tying into knots. "I- I didn't want to leave you on your own again."
The familiar phrasing echoes through Crowley's aching head, a reminder of the too-honest words he had spat at the angel the last time he had been conscious.
"I didn't mean you had to stay in here."
"I wanted to." And then, "I did miss you, you know?"
Crowley doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know if he means now or back when he was in heaven. His brain feels too sluggish to search through the subtext, to guess at what he means. The long sleep has drained the rush of adrenaline and extinguished the furious inferno that had been sustaining him. Now all he feels is numb. To everything.
"Is there anything I can get you?" Aziraphale asks when he doesn't answer.
He wants to say no; he wants to demand the angel leave him to wallow in peace. But his mouth is bone dry, and his lips are cracked. He licks them to no avail.
"I'll leave you be then," Aziraphale says. He droops. He actually droops. His whole body deflating like a bouncy castle without enough air. He shuffles towards the door without even looking back.
"A glass of water?" Crowley croaks.
Aziraphale immediately brightens at the request, and the battered muscle beneath Crowley's ribs tightens in response.
"Of course. A glass of water. I can do that. Right away."
Crowley rolls his eyes at Aziraphale as he bustles away. He pushes himself into a sitting position. His bare toes scrunch in the smooth satin sheets, and cool silk glides over his skin as he wriggles upright. Whilst he had been sleeping, someone had changed the bed sheets and dressed him in a facsimile of his own black pyjamas.
He resists the fond smile that fizzes inside of him like champagne bubbles. He bites it back out of spite. The only time Aziraphale had seen these pyjamas was the night after the world didn't end. The first time around.
Their return journey had been quiet and subdued all the way back to London. Aziraphale clung to his hand like a lifeline, his grip so tight that his fingertips had bitten tiny crescent moons into Crowley's flesh. Crowley has always been one for speaking through actions rather than words, and that night had been no different. He had done everything in his power to make the angel feel welcome, to prove his devotion. He had taken care of him the only way he knew, with little acts of service that eventually chased away the ashen shade from his usually rosy complexion. Crowley had made him tea the human way, tucked him up in his own bed and miraculously discovered a set of tartan fleece pyjamas in just the right size. After some gentle cajoling, Crowley had donned his own nightwear just so Aziraphale wouldn't feel so self-conscious about stripping away the layers of fabric that ordinarily armoured his body. And though Aziraphale never sleeps, not even on that night, he had followed Crowley's instruction to curl up beneath the satin sheets and close his eyes on the condition that Crowley joined him.
And even though it was Crowley doing the loving, he had never felt so loved. It had been the first time he had ever been permitted to hold him. And the last.
It had been foolish to get his hopes up.
"Here you are," Aziraphale announces, backing back into the room a few minutes later, tray jingling in his unsteady hands. He places it down on the bed next to Crowley. It's laden with a crystal jug filled to the brim with water and two empty glasses. There's also a small plate piled with triangles of buttered toast, a jar of jam, a spoon and a small yellow flower added as an adornment.
"Just in case you felt hungry later," Aziraphale says hastily.
"You didn't need to do all this."
"I do. Without your miracles, you're reliant on me for anything you might need. It's a responsibility I won't take lightly."
'I'm not your pet," Crowley spits. Embers start to spark and sputter within. It's bad enough he has burdened Aziraphale with his unwanted presence; he shouldn't have to take care of him, too. Not that Crowley needs to be taken care of. He's doing just fine, thank you.
"I know that, my dear. As wily as you are, I do not doubt that in the world before you would have been very adept at caring for yourself." He generously doesn't mention that he had found Crowley sleeping in an alleyway, soaked to the skin in alcohol and urine. "But here everything will have to be snapped into existence, and for now, only I can do that."
"For now?" Crowley asks, lifting the glass to his lips.
"I don't know if it's possible, but perhaps there's a way you can share my pool as it were. I'll have to give it some thought."
"Right."
Crowley drinks greedily. It's been a good long time since he's consumed anything but wine and whisky, and though the water tastes strangely minerally on his lips, his parched throat demands more. By the time he's finished his second glass, his head starts to feel clearer and his body less sluggish. He stretches out with a grunt and tries to ignore how Aziraphale watches him, how his eyes are drawn to the sliver of skin where his sleep shirt rides up.
Aziraphale licks his own lips and reaches for a glass.
"Thanks for the er- jammies," Crowley says. Heat prickles beneath his skin, but he refuses to show a chink in his armour.
"It's my pleasure. You seemed… uncomfortable."
"Yeah. Well. Thanks."
He picks at a piece of toast for something to do. Looking at Aziraphale doesn't seem possible at all right now, not when Aziraphale's eyes are boring into him like he can see right through flesh and bone.
"I want you to be comfortable," Aziraphale says. "This is your home now. I'm sure it's not at all what you wanted-"
"Not what I wanted?"
"Well, you always seemed to prefer to sleep in your car. I know personal space is important, but-"
Crowley laughs. It's not one born of humour. It's brittle and cracks.
"Preferred to sleep in my car? I had nowhere else to go!"
"You could have stayed here!"
"You never invited me to!"
Silence.
"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale sighs. "This shop has always been your home as much as mine."
"No it-"
"Who do you think '& Co' is?"
Crowley blinks slowly at Aziraphale, his brain whirring as he considers an argument for anyone else who might fit the role of 'company.' But there's no one. Aziraphale has always resided here alone. Until Jim.
Our shop. Ours.
He doesn't know why his heart is galloping like he's just mounted three flights of stairs after being tossed off a horse.
"I might be wrong," Aziraphale continues. "But I'm assuming that's why we haven't perished. The page you rescued was for Wickbar Street, and this shop and much of the street only exist because of our presence here. Perhaps it needs us to exist to keep from causing a paradox."
Crowley doesn't think that that's true, but he also doesn't know enough about the Book of Life to postulate another theory. He just doesn't have enough information. It may be as simple as God wanting them alive, so they're alive. It doesn't have to make any more sense than that.
Besides, he's still reeling from the other piece of information he has just learned. It fills the hollow space inside his skull and forces all other thoughts into submission. Truly, it is the least important part of this whole conversation, and yet the question crowds his throat, clawing its way out.
"Did you want me to live here?"
"Of course I did."
"Oh…" It's barely a breath. He's suddenly exceedingly aware that his glasses have been removed and folded neatly on the bedside table. There's nowhere for him to hide the tears that are threatening to well up.
"I dropped hints, you know?" Aziraphale says, staring down at his hands. His knuckles have turned white from how tightly he's clinging to his glass. "Big ones. I just assumed you didn't want to."
"You told me once that I went too fast for you. I was trying to slow down. I was waiting for you to say you were ready. And then you left, and I figured maybe you never really wanted… us."
"I was trying to do-"
"The right thing. You've said."
"Of course, I wanted to be an us. But Jim and the Metatron made me see they'd never stop trying to end things unless we did something to change that. I'd hoped… well, I'd hoped you and I would do it together."
"I couldn't go back up there, Angel. You have to understand that."
"I don't. It's no worse than hell."
"I wouldn't go back to hell either," Crowley grumbles.
"Alright, alright." Aziraphale sighs. "May I sit?"
Wordlessly, Crowley slides himself over in the narrow bed, leaving a small space for Aziraphale to perch himself on. Returning his glass to the tray, he sits and twists so that he can face Crowley more directly. The warmth from his thigh pressing against Crowley's radiates through the thin duvet. Crowley can't stop looking at the place their bodies are joined, separated only by fabric.
"I understand that I hurt you by leaving," Aziraphale begins after a moment of contemplative silence. "I do. And I am sorry for it, I can't have you believe otherwise. But it was your choice to stay behind. And that hurt me too. I needed you to trust me, and you didn't."
"It wasn't you I didn't trust. I know what they do to angels who try to change things up there. The thought of going through that again, of watching you go through that. I couldn't. It seemed like a pointless risk. You can't change anything, so why risk it?"
"You didn't believe in me."
"It wasn't about you! Nothing changes unless She wants it to. Clearly, She didn't want it to."
"And yet we're here, and we're alive."
"So She's not done with us yet. Don't you think that's terrifying more than anything?"
"I don't think She's terrifying. I don't think this is what She wants..." He trails off, glancing around the room as if She might be hiding somewhere, listening.
It's funny, how, after everything, Aziraphale still believes in the goodness of Her. Depressing might be a better word. Crowley isn't great with words, but the only way they'll ever move past this is if Aziraphale opens his eyes to the truth.
"Aziraphale. Angel." Crowley reaches forward, catching Aziraphale's hands in his. He clasps them tightly, pulling them until Aziraphale's loosened fists are crushed against his chest. Against his heart. "I wanted nothing more than to be by your side. For us to spend- to spend," a sharp hiss of breath between clenched teeth. "To spend eternity together. But nothing happens that She doesn't want, and we can't fight God."
Azirphale swallows hard and swallows again. Licking his lips as if he were too dry to speak. Tears brim at the waterline of his eyes, dampening his pale lashes.
"I erm-" Aziraphale stammers. "Then I suppose we had better make the best of this little hiatus whilst we can."
After that, Crowley sleeps some more. He feels guilty for it, for leaving Aziraphale alone in the void with no books to read or music to listen to—for the vinyls had been wiped clean too—but the conversation had sapped him of what little strength he had left.
When he wakes, he lies alone in the dark. He blinks up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling and considers Aziraphale's words more carefully.
"I don't think that's what She wants."
Aziraphale had said that before. And though it has been clear to Crowley for some time that God's plan and Heaven's plan don't always align, there is something about this time that seems ineffable. It's the serendipity of it. Aziraphale, being asked to return to heaven, giving him hope that She might want the culture in Heaven to change, only for his presence to drive Michael up the bloody wall. He can relate, of course, but never to the extent that he'd chuck the entire Book of Life into a fucking fire.
No, this felt like God's plan. She had given Aziraphale six thousand years to learn to love humanity and then used that love as a weapon against them. But She had succeeded in that, so why were they here? Were they being punished for defying Her, or was this some sort of twisted reward for a job well done?
"Congrats on the successful apocalypse, here's an all-expenses-paid vacation in Nowhere for your trouble," he grumbles at the ceiling.
He turns his head, smirking at the hardback chair in the corner, but is disappointed to find it empty.
"So much for not leaving me alone again."
“I’d wondered where you’d got to.” Crowley peers around the doorway into the kitchen. Aziraphale is dressed as usual, except he has discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He's added a pink checked apron with little white frills around the edges, tied tightly around his middle. He turns to Crowley and grins Cheshire Cat wide when he hears his voice. There are white flour stains streaked across Aziraphale's cheeks and a hint of melted chocolate at the corners of his upturned lips. Crowley doesn't think he's ever seen a scene quite so domestic, and it melts something sharp and brittle inside him.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
“I’m making a cake!”
“You miracled a cake?”
“No!" Aziraphale bounces on his toes. "I miracled the ingredient and then baked them! Would you care for a slice?”
Crowley blinks at him for a moment. The last time Aziraphale had tried his hand at baking was when the world had been overrun with disease. Lockdown laws had been implemented, leaving them stranded apart. He'd wanted to come over; it wouldn't have taken much to sneak in unseen, but he'd been denied. The angel had preferred to spend his lockdown alone rather than in Crowley's company. Our shop, Aziraphale said and then denied him access.
“Nah, I’m alright.” Crowley sniffs and leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.
“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale, already halfway through cutting a large slice of chocolate cake, puts the knife down and stares forlornly at the offending dessert.
The guilt of bursting the angel's bubble rears its ugly head, and he sighs.
“Constitution of a snake," he says, rolling his eyes. "I only ate the other day.”
“Crowley. The Chinese restaurant was weeks ago! You had three bites of toast last week. You need-“
“I’ve been asleep for a week?” He straightens. Frowns.
“Yes," Aziraphale says, and there's a little bit of accusation in his tone, a little bit of hurt. But mostly, he seems concerned. "I didn’t want to wake you; you clearly need the rest, but I’m worried. Here I’ll cut you off a small slice.”
“Why are you doing this?” He doesn't mean to be quite so forthright, or perhaps he does. He's tired of playing word games. He's tired of guessing at what Aziraphale wants. It's clear to Crowley that Aziraphale is lonely without him, but there's something else going on here, guiding his actions. He wishes he'd just say what he needs from Crowley rather than try to butter him up with his niceness.
“Doing what?”
“Flapping around me, acting as if you care. I slept in an alleyway, sustaining myself on alcohol for years. I don't need a slice of cake.”
Aziraphale throws down the knife. It clatters against the work surface and topples onto the floor. They both watch in silence as it plummets. Neither move to pick up.
“Of course I care!” Aziraphale hisses. He's holding onto the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. He doesn't look at Crowley. That makes it easier to speak, Aziraphale cannot weaponise those expressive blue eyes if he doesn't look at him.
“If you cared, you wouldn’t have left me.”
“Crowley!" Aziraphale's expression shatters, and his voice breaks over the sharp edges of his name. "We talked about this. I wanted you to come with me. I never meant to leave you behind. And I missed you every minute. I didn't want to go alone, but you left me no choice."
"You could have run away with me." But even he knows that's not true. Not now that they're living with the remnants of their best attempt at stopping the apocalypse. Imagine being caught blindsided by all of this. His thoughts snap to Beez and Gabriel, wondering what that must have been like to watch the other shatter into pieces moments before you follow. Would that second feel like an eternity? Would you feel the heart rip from your own chest and split in two right as it disintegrates? Crowley really doesn't want to find out.
"You know why I didn't. We've been over this."
“You asked me to become an angel again. That’s a little bit different from just offering an invite.”
“I don’t understand why that’s so offensive to you. I’m an angel. Am I so awful?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why?”
Maybe if he wants Aziraphale to explain what he's thinking, he should start by telling Aziraphale what he's thinking. They've spent so long unable to speak clearly to each other that they have forgotten how. They've both been labouring under misapprehensions. Our shop. Ours. Our car.
Here goes nothing.
“Sometimes… I do things that are good, or at least not very demonic, and you- and you look at me, and it’s like you’re looking for him.”
“For who?”
“You told me once that you knew he was still somewhere inside me. And it's like every good deed came from the ghost of an angel that you knew, and I'm left with the demonic baggage. But I’m not him. I’m never going to be him. I'm sorry if that's a disappointment to you, if I'm not good enough-“
“You are plenty good enough!”
“Aziraphale-“
Aziraphale turns then, and the determined look in his eyes slices through Crowley's self-deprecating rebuttal.
“Listen to me. You are perfect just as you are. I know what happened to you was difficult-“
“Difficult!”
“Fine. Horrific. Traumatic. Whatever word you wish to use. I know that it was hard. That you went through horrors that I can't even imagine. I know that changed you. But he didn't die, Crowley. You survived. You lived. You didn't let it ruin who you are. He isn't "in you" tucked away somewhere; he is you. Older, battle-hardened, perhaps a little jaded. We each grow and change every day. But we are still ourselves. You were the best of them then, and you're the best of all of us now."
Crowley snorts.
“You were. And you still are. You don’t do the right thing because it's mandated that you do. You do it despite it being mandated that you don't. You always cared so much about everything, so much that you were cast out for it. And then you still care. About the world, about the people. You cared about me once, and I took that for granted. So I’m not looking for him when I look at you. I am looking at you."
Silence.
Painful. Awkward. Thick with uncertainty on both sides.
"I do still care about you," Crowley grumbles, because he hasn't quite processed any of the rest of it. And he does care; he's not too far gone that he doesn't remember that. It hurts this much because he cares. Sometimes he wishes he didn't.
"I do hope so. It would be worse than falling to lose you forever."
"I don't know about that…"
"I do."
Aziraphale inches closer to him, reaching out with a flour-covered hand to gently dance over his cheek.
"I was always going to come back. I just thought that together we could fix things. You’re so clever, Crowley, and I thought if anyone could, you could. And then we could come home and never have to worry about heaven and hell again.”
“Home?”
"Yes. Home. Together. Here. Or anywhere else you'd wish to go."
"Not a lot of other options now, are there?"
"I suppose not. But I couldn't have chosen a better companion to live out the rest of my days with."
It's the word "chosen" that finally breaks through the anger that he's been using as his shield. He's never been chosen before. He and Aziraphale simply were because the other options were too lonely to contemplate.
His rigid posture gives way, and he takes a stumbling step forward, right into Aziraphale's waiting arms.
"I've got you," the angel murmurs in his ear.
They stand like that for a long time. Crowley's wet face pressed into the satin skin of Aziraphale's neck, his body a dead weight against Aziraphale's sturdy trunk. And Aziraphale holds him up, holds him close, and dares to thread floury fingers through his loose curls.
"Let's get you a cup of tea," Aziraphale says after a long time, but Crowley only clutches him closer.
"Don't ever leave like that again."
"I won't. I promise you."
Crowley doesn't go back to bed after that. He curls up in the chair in the doorway and cradles a warm cup of tea in his cold hands. He inhales the fragrant steam and listens to the comforting sounds of Aziraphale clattering around the kitchen whilst his memory wanders back in time. He recalls a winter evening when the snow had piled up outside the door, and Aziraphale had insisted he stay the night. He had slept on the sofa, and Aziraphale had sat in his armchair and read his book until the dawn light poured in through the window, crisp and wintery white.
He'll never see snow again, but he doesn't feel all that sad about it, not when the memory feels so warm, so loving. Maybe he had been letting his anger skew events a little. Maybe Aziraphale has always cared, in his own way.
As if to prove the point, Aziraphale places a plate of cake on the arm of the chair beside him and squeezes his shoulder gently.
"Why don't you go sit on the sofa? Surely you'll be more comfortable."
Crowley glances down at his assortment of limbs, haphazardly tossed over the arm of the chair. He is comfortable, but he's also half snake. Aziraphale wouldn't understand. He presses his cheek against Aziraphale's hand and shakes his head.
"I like hearing you," he says.
Aziraphale falters a little and then smiles in the way that he does sometimes, when it seems like all the divine light is glowing right out of him.
"Alright," he says quietly. "I'll be done soon."
They do eventually meander back toward the sofa where Crowley had spent many evenings and afternoons, drinking and talking and, if he's honest with himself, arguing over nothing. Crowley flops down and cocoons himself in his blanket, but instead of sitting in the armchair opposite as he usually would, Aziraphale chooses to join him with a book in his hands.
"Angel, there's no words."
"It's alright," he says. "I remember how it goes."
They wile away several hours like that. Crowley dozing quietly with his cheek resting on Aziraphale's plush thigh whilst the angel read words that have never been written.
I'll rewrite it for him. Crowley thinks as he slowly drifts away. They have all of eternity; together, they could rewrite them all.