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Aziraphale’s lips formed into a thin line. He has tried reasoning with the other angels, tried talking to The Metatron, even reached out to The Almighty (which of course fell on deaf ears) only for it all to end up in vain.
Heaven is (ironically) hell-bent on the Second-Coming.
“What do you think you're doing?” The Metatron bellowed, “You can't just barge in here.”
Aziraphale didn't even look at him. His focus was directly on the task at hand: to steal The Book of Life. It was simply lying on a top table, not any guards nor angels around (save for the Metatron), not even a protective shield or force field of some kind. You would think such a sacred and perhaps Heaven’s most powerful weapon would be harder to acquire, turns out all you need to do is be the Supreme Archangel.
“You can't just take that!” yelled the Metatron.
Book at hand, Aziraphale finally faced him. All aggravation suppressed by a thin smile. “I believe I just did.”
Aziraphale headed for the elevator back to Earth, ignoring the shouts of protests from the other angel. He passed Muriel on the way who looked at him with such brilliance and innocence.
“Where are you going, sir?” they chirped, optimism never absent.
“We, my dear,” Aziraphale hastily corrected, linking his arm with the tiny angel, “Are going back home.”
“Home, sir?” Muriel asked (Aziraphale had told them that they could simply refer to him by his name, but it never truly stuck). “Do you mean Earth?”
When Aziraphale nodded, the angel jumped with glee. “Are we going to meet your demon friend-friend?”
“Hopefully, my dear,” Aziraphale said, a fond smile on his face. Then quietly, almost to himself, he added, “That is if he wishes to see me.”
Arm in arm, they walked nearer and nearer towards the elevator—the gateway to home. Then Muriel paused.
“But sir,” they said, “What about him?”
There Jesus stood, looking lost and broken and defeated, and what else can Aziraphale do in this situation, truly? Bringing him with them to Earth defeats the entire purpose of preventing the Second-Coming (because His arrival is basically what kickstarts it, does it not?) but the angel knows, with just one look at the Messiah, that he cannot afford to trust the other angels with Him.
“He's coming too.” He took Jesus by the arm who went with them docilely.
With both of his arms occupied—Jesus on his right and Muriel on his left—and a hefty book tucked in his armpit, there really is no way for him to press the button to Earth is there?
“Um, Jesus, my dear,” Aziraphale said.
The Messiah turns to look at him, confusion evident behind those big chestnut eyes but never questioning, only trusting. “Yes?”
“Would you please press that button right there? Yes, the one that looks like Earth. No, no, further down. Ah, there we go.”
And together they traveled home.
Crowley was a mess. What else can he be when he lost his Bentley, lost his flat, lost his ability to make miracles, lost his… his… Whatever. What does it matter anyway? Sooner or later they're all gonna die. Any day now, the Son of God would walk down the Earth and decide who gets to attain eternal life or perish in the Rupture.
He often wonders what Aziraphale is doing. Aziraphale. The name leaves a foul taste in his mouth and an undeniable ache in his chest. He wonders if the angel’s making progress. Was it worth it? To leave him for Heaven? He had asked him to run away with him for what? Three times now? And time and time again the angel would forsake him. Time and time again he would leave.
Yet Crowley himself always leaves first.
It doesn't matter. None of it does. Any time now the Messiah would grace the Earth and—
“Crowley?”
Crowley almost perked up at the sound of his name, particularly because he thought he'll never get the chance to hear it from this voice again. He knows that voice. Have worshipped it for over six millenia. Before him stood Aziraphale, clad in a silver suit and a necktie that is uncharacteristically unlike him at all.
“Oh great, now I'm hallucinating you,” he murmured and resumed his prior position (which is to curl up in a ball.)
“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s frown was obvious in his tone. “What are you doing laying down in that pile of trash?”
“You tell me!” Crowley barked, sitting up, much too venomous than he intended. Regardless, Aziraphale didn't even flinch. It's like the angel have his intentions memorized on the back of his thick well-manicured hands. Crowley scowled at the thought.
“And I could ask you the same thing! What are you doing here, Aziraphale? Or should I say Supreme Archangel Aziraphale? Let me guess, something has gone wrong in Heaven and once again you need my help. That's our little thing, innit? Break apart over opposing sides, then you'll come back to me, and of course I'll clean up your mess, and wahoo! We repeat the same cycle. Well guess what, Supreme Archangel, I'm done with this charade.”
Aziraphale huffs out a breath, defeated. “I do need you, Crowley.”
“Beats me,” Crowley muttered, bringing his lanky legs close to his chest.
“But in more ways than you think.”
That answer did unspeakable things to Crowley’s pliant heart. For a moment, he almost felt hopeful, but he immediately pushed the thought away with another scowl. When the silence drags on, Crowley finally looks at the angel.
Shit. Is he about to cry?
It took all of Crowley’s self-preservation to not run up to him and apologize because why should he be the one to do so? He's the one hurt, is he not? But to actually see Aziraphale in this state of guilt and disbelief…
“Angel—”
“I need your car.”
Ah, there it is. A reminder once more of everything that Crowley has lost.
“It's gone.”
“Gone? Your car couldn't be gone. You've been keeping it in tip-top conditions all these years, it can't be gone now.”
“I traded it.”
“I'm sorry?”
“I traded it,” Crowley barked. “For your— For your bookshop.”
“I-is that why…” Aziraphale stammered. “Oh my dear,” he added. Softer.
Then a pause. “I need you to come with me, Crowley.”
Crowley could almost laugh.
“No,” he said, enunciating the syllable. Mulishly he pressed his body on the concrete ground. “Until you've realized that they're the problem, and no side is better than our side.”
“Crowley…” was that distress in the angel’s tone? Crowley was almost sure he heard Aziraphale whine. “I'm trying here…”
Crowley was tired of Aziraphale’s trying. Even if that is one of the things that made him fall for the angel. He tries harder than anyone, thinks he alone can make a difference. What Crowley wants is for Aziraphale to actually start doing. Anything. Anything that would prove to him that he has learned his point and is choosing—
“What are you doing?!” Crowley had never been manhandled before, nor had they breached this kind of physical contact. Aziraphale is carrying him like he weighed nothing. Just a pile of trash tossed over his shoulder.
“You demons are always so stubborn, so prideful!” Aziraphale complains as he carries him out of the alleyway.
“Wha— and your lot aren't?” Crowley protests. “Put me down, angel. Put me down right now!”
“Not until we're somewhere safe.”
When they reached their— Aziraphale’s— Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley gets gingerly dropped on the couch.
“You are to never do that ever again,” he hissed at the angel, which is not convincing, considering the flush of his cheeks. It’s not like he was uncomfortable or anything, more like his pride couldn't handle being physically unable to do something. It was also uncharted territory. He's never been held before, much more by Aziraphale of all beings.
Yet truthfully… It was sorta nice.
Though it would take Armageddon for Crowley to ever admit aloud.
“The demon, Crowley!” Muriel greeted, hugging him from behind. He's being touched all over today, is he? Almost as quick as it happened, the angel let go.
“Muriel,” he acknowledged, he turned around and to his surprise, “Jesus Christ?!”
A warm contagious smile was plastered on the young lad’s face. “Please, sir, call me Yeshua.”
He envelopes Crowley’s hand into his, and said: “I remember you, you're that demon that showed me the whole world.”
It seems that the cogs in Crowley’s head need refining. Because he couldn't fathom why the Son of God (and a lively little angel) is standing here in this bookshop. He turns to Aziraphale and finds him watching them, a twinkle behind those big glossy eyes.
“What exactly are you planning?”
Clearing his throat, Aziraphale spoke, “We need to get your car.”
Crowley may have overdone it. Sure, he trusted that the Supreme Archangel could handle himself, but there is no way that he would just stand by idly while his angel is being threatened at gunpoint. He practically leaped at Cameron, no miracles and all, transforming his entire head into his serpent form and hissed. If that doesn't make the entire crime syndicate leave them all alone he doesn't know what will.
Crowley couldn't stop the grin forming on his face. Small triumph yes, but he's in the familiar seat of his Bentley, his angel by his side, Muriel and Yeshua at the back, thus whatever’s left of his optimism is starting to come back. (Also, the memory of Aziraphale breezing through the crossword puzzles like it's nothing does things to his poor fragile heart (and maybe his pants too.) It was almost like a temptation. He never knew such a still game could be so attractive (or was he simply biased? What do humans call it? Down bad? Prolly not.))
“So,” Crowley started, popping the o, no longer hiding the mirth in his voice. “Where we off to, Angel?”
“We,” Aziraphale mused, quite joyful he is too, “Are going to Tadfield.”
“Tadfield?” Crowley frowned, “Isn't that?”
With a look on his angel’s face, he knew for a fact that he was serious despite the irony and ridiculity of it all. Crowley couldn't stop the cackle escaping his throat. He heard Aziraphale join him too, soft and concealed bursts of giggles.
“You're lying,” Crowley said, tears building up at the corners of his eyes.
“Angels don't lie, my dear,” Aziraphale supplied.
“What exactly are you planning?” he repeated.
“No plans!” Aziraphale laughed, delirious. “I'm tired of plans!”
With a snort, Crowley drove off. They're about to deliver Jesus Christ to the Antichrist, with no plans nor back-ups. Perhaps this takes the notch of the most blasphemous thing they've ever done.
And it's everything.
The Youngs are of course nothing but welcoming. Mrs. Young eagerly invited them to their humble home and asked them to wait for Adam while she made their drinks.
Aziraphale looked around, checking their surroundings for any signs of threat, then quietly, he whispers a soft miracle that would protect them from Heaven’s prying eyes. When he turned, he saw Crowley watching him and it felt like all air in his lungs has left.
Crowley shrugged, “Well done, Angel.”
And that single compliment is enough to send his toes curling in his boots and return the twinkle in his eyes. They sat in the main area, all four guests occupying the large sofa, particularly in this order: Aziraphale, Muriel, Yeshua, then Crowley. Mr. Young occupied the single sofa, his feet reposed on the footstool.
At last, Mrs. Young returned, hospitably handing them their drinks (hot chocolate for the other two and coffee for him and Crowley). Aziraphale nodded and whispered his thanks.
“I see you've opted for adoption.” Mr. Young commented.
“Pardon?” Crowley asked.
Mr. Young gestured at them, “You and your partner and your little family.”
Aziraphale hid his face behind his cup. It's usually Crowley who does the clarification, while he simply blinks at the accuser with his big blue eyes. However, it doesn't stop the creeping joy in his heart for every time they've been mistaken as a couple. What more now that they've been thought of as a family.
“Oh yeah,” Crowley answered, sprawling his arms on the couch. Aziraphale almost spat out his drink. He turned, ogling at the demon, who only shrugged at him as if to ask what about it?
“Made the home lovelier. Never a day dull with these lot,” the demon finished.
Mr. Young raised his chin with a grin, “I know that feeling,” he said, raising his glass like a cheer. Crowley reciprocated by also raising his cup.
Yeshua, still holding his teacup, is currently examining Adam’s very human room. At one corner, it was littered with paperworks from class, notes he assumed are from Adam’s uni. The bed is quite tidy—homey and cozy with duvet covers and a well-loved plushie that resembles a dog. It reminded Yeshua of his old room, one that he loved to share with his parents.
“You're different too, aren't you.” Adam said. He just returned home from classes and is currently sitting atop his bed. Yeshua looked at him, curious. “I can tell by how your eyes linger on basically everything.”
Yeshua chuckled, then he gestured if he could also sit on Adam’s bed, which the latter answered with a nod.
“Have you ever been far away from home, Adam?” He asked, placing the teacup down at the bedside table.
Adam shook his head. “No, not really. My friends all have left to pursue their studies, but they still come over to celebrate the holidays. My parents have also told me to get out there, broaden my world. But truthfully, I like it here... This is home.”
Yeshua nodded as he listened. “You're very lucky.”
“Thanks.”
“Sometimes,” Yeshua contemplated, biting his lip, “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I had stayed home as well… My parents, they're the best you could ever ask for. But my Mother had grander plans. Plans at the time I felt were just right. But looking back, everything seems too big of a burden to carry. And I can't help but feel I'm in that exact same predicament again.”
“Are you an angel too?” Adam blurted.
“Sorry?”
“An angel like Mr. Fell,” Adam said matter-of-factly. “You speak like him and you don't really come off as a demon like Mr. Crowley.”
Yeshua laughed, softly. “No, no… I’m human just like you.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Yeshua,” the Messiah half-bowed, formally introducing himself.
Adam blinked. The clues in his head connected from point to point until it reached a certain bulb.
“Oh,” he said. Then hastily, he added, “My father was Satan.”
“Oh!”
“But I changed it! I'm no longer the Antichrist!” Adam quickly defended himself.
“It's okay, even if you were,” Yeshua reassured with a smile. “We can't control the origin of our fate… But I'm curious, how did you change yours exactly?”
“I was really powerful when I was eleven. I just changed reality in accordance to what I see fit,” Adam shrugged.
“Can you still do it?”
“Eh, my powers have declined over the years. But I can do some of it. What’d you want?”
Yeshua looked around the room. He didn't really know what to ask from Adam, he's perfectly fine believing just as he was told, but since the latter kindly offered…
“I've heard some people describe snow,” he started, eyes gleaming at Adam. “They always seem happiest when they do.”
Adam’s lips twitched into a smile, suddenly feeling very giddy (which made him unable to think straight.) He closed his eyes and focused all his energy into making snow. But it's harder, you see? He hasn't really used his powers for a long-long time. After a few more attempts, Adam sighed.
“Like I said, powers have declined.”
Yeshua’s warm hands abruptly encased Adam’s sunken ones. Adam froze, shocked by the sudden contact.
“It's alright,” Yeshua smiled. “You did good.” Adam could only rapidly blink in response.
And in the midst of their touch, the first flakes fell on their heads. The very first ever indoor-snow. Yeshua gasped, catching a snowflake in his hand. He giggled and scrunched his nose at Adam when it melted upon contact. Adam was simply stuck staring, mesmerized, a soft smile tugging on the corner of his lips.
“Quite repetitive innit?” Crowley asked Aziraphale who was sitting across him to his right. The angel turned to look at him, a puzzled expression on his pretty face. “To be back in a garden.”
Aziraphale smiled to himself, immediately understanding the joke behind it. They were in the Garden of Eden when the whole world first began, and now they're here, at the Youngs’ backyard, enjoying the view of various flowers and plants and trees, waiting for the whole world to end (but not if they can stop it).
This moment felt so peaceful. To be here with Crowley as they overlook Muriel talk to the plants without a care in the world. Aziraphale wishes he could just live in it forever. To spend an eternity like this, the thought isn't so bad... However, there is more to be done. Firstly, he has to ask forgiveness.
“Crowley,” he warily started, getting the demon’s attention who responded with a soft: “yeah?”
Aziraphale bit his bottom lip (Crowley watching him do so like he's stuck in a trance, or maybe that's just the angel’s wishful thinking).
“There's something I have to show you.” From the jacket of his suit, he took out the Book of Life.
Even with the glasses, he could see Crowley’s serpentine eyes widen. “You had this the whole time?”
Aziraphale shyly nodded.
“Angel,” expressed Crowley, lips curling into grin, “Quite the little rebel you are, aren't you?”
Aziraphale blushed, “Learned from the best.”
He watched Crowley enthusiastically examine the Book of Life, slender fingers flipping through the pages. Aziraphale swallowed.
“There's one more thing.” He can feel the hitch in this throat, a cry waiting to burst.
“Mm?”
“I need—” Aziraphale choked back tears, “I need you— I need you to forgive me.”
He can no longer stop it. Tears streamed down his face like a faucet turned open. Crowley immediately rushed to his front, so fast it seemed like he teleported. He’s kneeling on his feet while his hands cupped Aziraphale’s face.
“Angel, Aziraphale,” Crowley cooed.
“Please,” Aziraphale managed to say in between breaths, “I'm so sorry. I was wrong. I tried to do the right thing.”
“You did,” Crowley said, pressing their foreheads together. “You did… You came back to me didn't you?”
“But it took me so long, I shouldn't have left you,” Aziraphale hiccuped, “I'm sorry… Please, please forgive me.”
Crowley stood up, breaking their contact. The loss of it sent panic jolting to Aziraphale’s bones.
“Get yourself out the suit, Angel.”
Aziraphale eyed him, bewildered.
“I want to see the real you.”
Aziraphale blinked out his tears. With a firm resolve, he stood up and miracled his Supreme Archangel suit for his usual attire—tartan bowtie and all.
Crowley’s lips twitched into a smile, “Maybe without the wings? But it's fine.”
Aziraphale suddenly felt fatuous having his wings exposed, but Crowley’s chuckle eased all of it away. Once more, he gingerly cupped the angel’s face to his hands and bravely pressed their foreheads together.
“I forgive you,” the demon said softly, enunciating each word. “Seriously… What else can I do, Aziraphale? When you're— you're just so…”
The angel smiled, tears drying on his face, patiently waiting.
Crowley grumbled incoherently, as if mentally kicking himself for stumbling through his words.
“Angel, I—” then he jolted back, his face dropped, “That's weird.”
In a blink of an eye, Crowley was just gone. The last thing Aziraphale heard from him was his screams.
“Crowley?” Panic rose up his chest.
No, no, no. Crowley can't be gone, he was just right here! Did Heaven manage to break through his spell? Are they taking away what’s his for the inexcusable act of defying them?
Then Aziraphale realized. His miracles only worked for Heaven, not— not…
Aziraphale was fuming, vibrating with rage. He just got Crowley back and they dare take him away from him? Hands curled into fist, the angel made his resolve. He's getting his demon back—even if it means cracking open the ground of the Earth just to get there.
Crowley landed on the pits of Hell with a thud, his glasses breaking on impact. (Add that to the list of unforgivable things Hell had done to him.) He was choking, coughing for air, his moment with Aziraphale now forever ruined. When he regained composure, Crowley’s first instinct was to lash out.
“Don't you people know how to knock?!”
“Crowley,” Dagon, Lord of the Flies, spoke to him. Crowley only eyed them, eyebrow quirked with disinterest. “I'm sure you aren't well aware of the mishaps Above.”
“Mishaps?” Crowley echoed, playing coy. “In Heaven?” he added, pointing a finger up.
“Yes, well, it seems that their Messiah is missing.”
“You mean Jesus?” The demons flinched at the name.
“Yes, Him... Our sources tell us He once more reincarnated. Currently walking amongst humans as we speak. Now, as Hell’s demon who is most familiar with Earth, we want you to find Him.”
“And do what exactly?”
“Why kidnap Him, of course! Get Him to our side!”
Crowley couldn't even hide the gobsmacked look on his face.
“Jesus?” the demons flinched again. “You want me to kidnap Jesus, when you can't even say His name?”
“Have you got any better ideas?”
Crowley scoffed, “You're all nuts, I tell you that. The gall to even think that Jesus—” the demons' reaction to the name is almost comical. Crowley made a mental note to abuse this fact.“—would what? Cooperate with Hell? Demons?”
“It's worth the shot,” one of the lesser demons said from across the crowd.
“Then you're more dense than I thought,” Crowley grumbled to himself.
Dagon eyed him with suspicions. Their disgusting eyes squinting as if they're trying to see through Crowley’s soul. Fortunately, there's nothing they could do that would crack Crowley’s resolve.
“Have you been fraternizing with that angel again?” Ah, that would do it.
Memories of soft smiles, and blue tear-stained eyes, white curly hair, and magnificent iridescent wings flashed through his mind. Stupid, stupid, stupid demon!
“Who, me?” Crowley faked a gasp, pointing to himself. “What gave you that impression?”
“There's something different about you,” Dagon said. “From the last two years. Now you seem,” their eyes squinted into stilts, “... happier.”
Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. What can he say to repudiate this fact? Finally, he decided with: “You're keeping track of my mental health?”
Suddenly, the ground shook. Demons all around began to scream and scatter for safety, but there really isn't a safe space in Hell, is there? So everyone's just running around in a chaotic circle.
The sky above them cracked open, as if being forcibly cut through by a powerful force. More debris fell and shattered as blinding light seeped through the cracks.
Crowley has to shield his eyes from being blinded by the white light, but when he removed his hand, he realized that he was unaffected.
Huh, that's weird.
Everybody else is either being burned or harmed in some way by the light, so why is he…
That's when Crowley saw him. It's the same white hair with the same enormous wings that he knew and loved ever since the start of time. Only he didn't look like his angel. He looked like—
“Aziraphale. Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Supreme Archangel.” Crowley hated to agree with Dagon, but they voiced his thoughts exactly.
“What brings you here?”
The angel turned, multiple eyes glowing blue with fury. Crowley had never seen such rage from Aziraphale before, and the demon in him is quite savoring the view.
“Ț̵̦̈́͘H̴͖͑͌̕O̵̧̯͌͜U̸̼͖͕͒͐ ̶̡͙̟̓̀́W̴͉͉̱̑O̶͙̥͑̃͠U̸̫̪̓͜L̴̩̾͑Ḑ̴̡͚̽̄Ș̵̈̓̌T̴̩̝̥̎̔͘ ̵̤̳̲́̽̕T̵̢̠̓̑A̶̛̠̓̒K̸̼̫̽́̏E̵͍̤̕ ̷̢̬͓̒̓͋F̷͙͈̀́R̷͉̗̈́̉O̷̡̩̿̂M̸͙͛̅̔ ̵͎͓͑̓M̵̢̟͖͒͒̚E̶̛̬͕̖͑ ̴̱̊̎͌T̸̖͋H̵͈̒̒͝A̵̮͈̒Ț̶̈́͠ ̸͙̣́̎W̴͓͇̣̌̋͠H̶̝̳̦̐Į̶̛͚͖̾̇C̶̛̼̱̈́H̶̰̅̌͛ ̷̲͙͋͆̉I̷͚̗͕͊̊S̴͎͔̉̊͜ ̴̢͘Ḿ̷̫͚͙I̶̟̳͍̚̚͝N̷͇͂ͅȨ̷̫͎̈̿̂.”
Even his voice sounded different. Deeper. More angelic. Sexier. No! Crowley stretched out the groin area of his pants.
“Y̸̰̿I̴̗̋Ê̸̪L̶̬̅D̷͎̚ ̸̢̌Ṵ̴̎N̴̹̕T̵̟̏O̸͍͝ ̸͔̀M̵̝̈́Ȩ̷̇ ̸̻̊T̶͖̀H̶̡͑E̸͕͋ ̴͓̐D̴̰̊È̷̢M̶͕̿O̵̟͆Ǹ̴̳ ̵̺̅C̸̓͜R̴͙͒O̴̲̕W̴͙͝L̴̼̄E̸̜͝Y̸͈͒,̸͔̊ ̶͕̓Å̷̪N̴̫͝D̸̼̃ ̸̏͜Ǹ̸̜Ŏ̷̤ ̸͚́H̶̛͈A̴̘͛R̸̳̎M̶̧̍ ̶̲̀S̴͌͜H̶͎̎A̷͎͗Ļ̷̔L̵̯̆ ̸̜̅Ḃ̸̜E̴̫͛F̶̨͌Ạ̴̈́Ĺ̸̞L̵͉̚ ̴̘͒T̴͔͆H̷̬͠E̵̖͆Ë̷̞́.̴̢̊.”
“And if we refuse?” For someone whose knees appear to be shaking, Crowley had to mentally commend Dagon for their guts.
“T̷͖͑H̸̢̡͓͌̈́̅̿͊̚È̷͍̃̔̈̐N̶̩̔̂ ̶̝̋̓̅S̵̛̮̊͂̇̿H̸̠̻̼͋̓͝A̸̘̍̑̀͌̈́́L̵̡̮̣̻̯͖͌̋͂̓͛̈L̷̡̻̆ ̷͙̖̈́͊́̂̃͝Ī̵̙̞̗̝̞̳̊͗̍͒̚ ̶̞̙̍͌́̄̚V̵͕̙̪̣̭́͝I̴̫̖̖͆̀̕Š̴̨̞̺̓̓͜I̵̜̝̒̋T̸̨͉̜̮̄̏̓͊͘ ̷̮͇̈́̂̊̿͘D̴̡̩̮͚̤͗͜E̴͍̞̹̻̣͝ͅS̸̡̬̀͆͝͠T̴̨̖̅͂͑͋̓̐Ṛ̵̞̱̲̈́͆̕̚͝U̵͕̜͍̟̍̾C̴̯̗̣͕̜̘̎T̵̢̰̮͝I̸͉̼͖̎̾̈́̒̕O̷͈̼̤̺͍͐̊̋̈́̽̈́N̵̢͎̰̺͒̿̃́͆͆ ̷͙̙̻̩͚͆͗U̵̝̩͔̪̍P̵͓̙̮̲̬̥̓̓̄̐O̴͔͙̯̮͖̣͛̚̕N̴̢̥͙͈͎͉̐́͂̏ ̴̹͇̖͓͓̇̆̾H̴̖̭͖̫̱̲͂Ę̴̢̣̗̻̅͛̀͝L̵̠̜͍̲̘͊̈́̈́̅L̸̡͚̆̚ͅ ̶̜͇̥̫̝͊̑̊͗I̸̢̲̞̝̊̽T̶̲̱͕̓͋̄Ŝ̴̛̻̚È̸͎L̵̙͙͙̮̠̋̏͗̓̕F̸͓̑”
Crowley blinked, then gulped. The last thing they needed was to give Hell any more reason to commence war on Heaven. But he can't really blame his angel for acting on instinct, he would've probably done the same thing.
Regardless, he whispered to a nearby demon who was shaking for dear life, just for good measure. “He doesn't mean that.”
“Just take him!” Screamed the demon whom he whispered to, pushing him upfront.
Crowley made a mental thought to get back at him later. But for now, he looked at Aziraphale’s magnificent form and grinned. Absolute perfection.
“Angel?” He called, handing out his hand. “Ready to get out when you are.”
Even though the angel’s still too bright, and still has too many eyes, Aziraphale visibly softened at him. He took him by the arm and intertwined their fingers together.
I love you. The words are at the edge of Crowley’s forked tongue and he's been itching to get it out ever since he learned that the angel gave his flaming sword to the humans.
My heart beats for you. He wants to say as Aziraphale laced his hands with his, their foreheads pressed against each other.
I'm so sheepishly, helplessly, deeply in love with you. Crowley wants to say as Aziraphale wraps his enormous wings around them like a protective shield, before he flies them out of the wretched place that is Hell.
I love you. But Crowley doesn't say it. Not in the place of eternal suffering and damnation. Not where they have demons lurking in every corner. Not now at least, because Aziraphale deserves so much more.
When they return to the Youngs’ garden, Aziraphale is back to his very normal, (albeit still captivating) human vessel.
“Crowley!” he ushers to Crowley’s side, checking his face, his body, for any signs of damage. “Are you okay? Were you hurt? Are you alright?”
Crowley took hold of his angel’s prying hands. “I'm fine. Not a scratch.”
Aziraphale enveloped him in a bone-wrenching hug. “Oh my dear, I was so worried! I fear I was too late. I thought they'd punish you for— for helping me!”
“Aw, angel, hell’s far too slow for that,” he reassured, patting the angel’s back. “But they’re well aware now, yes. With that stunt you pulled.”
Aziraphale abruptly put him at arm’s length, eyes wide and horrified. “Have I messed up?”
“Eh, doesn't matter.” Crowley shrugged. “We got the Messiah, the Antichrist, the Book of Life, and a very mighty angel on our side.”
Aziraphale’s cheeks colored pink at the compliment.
“Muriel,” Crowley clarified.
Disappointment etched on Aziraphale’s face.
“Oh,” he pouted, “Of course.”
Crowley laughed. And before either of them could realize, he planted a kiss on the angel’s soft protuded lips.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds, four.
Heat steamed off from both of their faces. Both equally as red and frozen in shock. Crowley immediately stood up, when the realization of what he just did dawned on him. He placed distance between them, at least a foot wide for good measure.
“I'm sorry!” he practically screamed, wanting to rid himself from the surface of the Earth. No, scratch that, the surface of the universe!
“I— It's fine,” Aziraphale croaked, voice weakened as if his lungs had suddenly run out of air.
“No, no, no, I'm sorry!” Crowley was persistent.
He fantasized about fine dining, a slow dance, maybe a bed filled with roses and candlelights for when they have their first kiss after they reconcile (because deep down he knew he could never resist his angel). But not this! This is very mundane, very impulsive, very wrong! He didn't even ask Aziraphale for consent. He did the exact same thing the first time, desperately, and where did that get them?
Crowley is basically pacing back and forth while Aziraphale is still sitting on the grass, his legs tucked beneath him. How can he look so— so adorable! While Crowley is thinking of ten different ways on how he can annihilate himself from existence in order to fix this.
“Crowley,” he heard Aziraphale sigh.
“No, no, angel, ‘ts fine, everything’s fine. I understand if you—”
“Crowley.”
Crowley finally mustered up the courage to face him. “Yes?” he asked, voice too high-pitched to be considered cool.
“Sit down.”
Crowley immediately folded to his knees, placing himself across from Aziraphale. With the angel so close, he suddenly feels very conscious and naked due to his very bare eyes (dang Hell for ruining his glasses!)
Aziraphale unfurled his wings, wrapping it around them. Unconsciously, Crowley did the same. With this, it's like they're in their own little world. Just the two of them, free from the prying judgmental sight of both Heaven and Hell.
Aziraphale is looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He can feel the uncertainty radiating from the angel. Can practically hear his heart pounding through his chest.
“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale dreamily sighed, “With your eyes this close, you truly are magnificent.”
Crowley’s head is short-circuiting.
“I cannot bear to accept such compliments from an ethereal being such as yourself for I fear a lowly demon such as I do not deserve them,” is what he wanted to say.
“Yeah, you're gorgeous yourself,” is what he ended up saying.
Aziraphale intertwined their hands, the touch sending sparks to Crowley’s entire being. He began to lean in, closer and closer until he's just a breath away.
“May I?” Of course, Aziraphale had to ask. Ever the gentleman.
“Please.”
Thus, Aziraphale sealed the space between them.
Muriel clutched a potted snake plant to their chest, tears streaming down their face as they watched the scene unfold before them.
The demon Crowley and sir Aziraphale were making out beneath their wing-cocoon. They can indefinitely tell by the sound of wet smacks and soft sighs coming from their direction.
Muriel’s heart is filled with joy. They have always rooted for the two, including them both in each of their prayers—or more like their memos to the Almighty.
They should inform the Messiah and the Adversary of the good news. Thus, hurriedly, they went back inside, the potted plant still clutched to their chest. Unfortunately, it seemed that neither of them were anywhere. They're not in Young Adam’s room, not in the kitchen, not even in the toilet where Mr. Young had to scream at them for intruding. Muriel yelped a quick apology.
They're gone. The Son of God and Young Adam seemed to have just mysteriously vanished. Muriel chewed on their bottom lip, anxiety filling them to the very brim.
They considered telling the demon Crowley and Sir Aziraphale of the situation, but with one look of the two’s intertwined wings tells them that they're not to be disturbed. Muriel just couldn't simply make a decision.
“Oh, Mr. Snake plant,” they gestured at the plant in their hands, “What do you think I should do?”
They looked in the two’s direction where both of them were still seated. They seem very preoccupied with each other.
“Should I tell Sir Aziraphale and the demon Crowley?”
“Tell us, wot?”
Muriel yelped. They glanced back at where they last saw the angel and demon but they're no longer there. Because now they're here, before them—lips evidently bruised and their hair disheveled.
Sir Aziraphale smoothened out the wrinkles off his clothes.
“Tell us what, my dear?” he gently asked. Then he glanced down at himself and checked the demon Crowley’s appearance. A knowing grin tugged on his lips. And with a flick of his fingers, both of them looked as good as new (he even miracled a new pair of glasses for the demon).
“The Messiah, Young Adam, they're gone!”
When Muriel broke the news, both demon and angel scattered to look for the missing humans.
“Adam?” Sir Aziraphale would call, checking every room.
“Yeshua!” The demon Crowley would yell, looking through every corner.
But just as Muriel themself tried, their search ended up in vain.
“Are you looking for Adam?” Mrs. Young asked, when the group recollected. “Why, he went out with your son, Joshua, was it? Said they've come back to where the end started.”
Sir Aziraphale and the demon Crowley shared a look.
“Dearest, get our car.”
“On it!”
Shit, shit, shit, fuck, no, shit. Crowley’s mind is racing as he zooms their way in his—their (he and Aziraphale are a package deal now. Whatever he has, his angel automatically has the right to.)—their Bentley. What could've possibly brought the Son of God and the Son of Satan back to Tadfield Air Base? Deep down he knew, but he pushed the thought back to the deepest crevice of his mind, praying to Anyone that he's wrong.
To his horror, he finds himself perfectly correct (the one time he wants to be proven otherwise), for they find Yeshua and Adam, holding hands, talking to both God and—
“Stay away from them!” he hissed at the Devil, putting himself between Satan and the two humans.
God looked at him with genuine interest behind those judgmental eyes, while Satan is the very least amused.
“Crowley,” drawled Lucifer, “Fancy seeing you here.”
Crowley hissed in reply.
“Mr. Crowley,” a soft hand tugged on his sleeves. He turned and looked, it was Yeshua. It was just a few hours ago when the young lad walked the Earth like a kicked puppy, uncertain and mourning, but hopeful all the same. Now, he looked almost grown. Crowley can see the determination in those warm hazelnut eyes.
“It's alright,” the Messiah smiled. Crowley trusted those words and reluctantly stepped aside.
He stood next to Aziraphale, who was clutching his heart. Gingerly, he intertwined their fingers together and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Aziraphale could only muster a small smile.
“Do consider my offer, Mother,” Yeshua said.
“Very well,” God replied and then She disappeared to the skies.
“And that goes the same with you, er, father?” Adam uncertainly added.
“You are no Son of mine,” declared the Devil, before vanishing off from the surface of the Earth.
When the coast was clear, Crowley couldn't help but address the elephant in the room: “Alright you two, what did you do?”
Yeshua and Adam shared a glance, smiling at each other with their still clasped hands.
“I told Mother that humanity is far too beautiful to be eradicated from this world.”
“Yes, and I told my fake father that he should just leave us be—take our sweet time here, living.”
Crowley blinked, “And they… They just agreed? The supreme beings of both Heaven and Hell, just agreed to their… what, their children?”
“Mother is very considerate.”
“That,” Adam agreed, “and they also don't really have a choice.”
He raised their still clasped hands. “He and I, we're powerful together.”
Yeshua nodded, his smile never departing from his face (don't that kid’s cheekbones ever tire?)
“Which reminds me.” He took out the Book of Life, “Best we deal with this, lest it lands on the wrong hands.”
Together, he and Adam took hold of the Book of Life with their free hands, and in the next moment, the Book erupted into flames.
Aziraphale’s soul left his body. Crowley screamed. Muriel buried their face on their potted plant.
Aziraphale waited and waited for it to take effect. He's well aware of the consequences of tampering with the Book. A second passed, then a minute, then a whole moment. Aziraphale blinked.
“Nothing’s happening,” his demon voiced out exactly his thoughts.
“I don't understand. How are we still here when the Book of Life is destroyed?”
Yeshua turned to face him, expression all soft with patience and kindness. “Not destroyed, scattered.”
They all stared at ashen pieces of the Book, all scattered and as if dancing in the air.
“The book is still here. It will keep turning, keep writing. Only intangible,” Yeshua explained.
Aziraphale felt a tear prickle down his cheek. “Thank you,” he truthfully told both the Messiah and Adam.
He turned to Crowley, and the demon’s already looking at him with those fond eyes and soft smile. The same realization occurred to them both—an eternity awaits them. An eternity to express these old feelings in new ways they have never done before.
“So,” Adam clapped his hands together, “My mom's baking pie. Wanna stay over for dinner?”