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In a world with ethereal and occult beings, with an Antichrist and his Hellhound playing in the garden, where what is written can be crossed out, and God’s plans are ineffable, not everything goes exactly as predicted.
Anathema Device had every intention of burning the second book of Agnes’ prophecies. She did not want to live her life entirely guided by what someone else had written in a book. But as she watched it burn, she caught a glimpse of something in the flames. Something terrible (yes, she read it very fast. Perhaps a small boy gave her a helping hand. He liked this world, after all.)
She gasped and pulled the book out of the fire, and turned to Newt.
‘London. Now!’
Newt drove at top speed down the M25 (somehow magically free) and found his way around the labyrinthine roads of London to Soho. He had barely parked when Anathema hurtled out of the car, clutching the scorched book, ran into the bookshop, slammed the book down on the counter in front of Aziraphale and Crowley and screamed
‘Don’t you two FUCKING dare!’
And left.
(Anathema had the very useful gift of knowing exactly when to leave a story.)
Aziraphale touched the book reverently. Then, a bit more eagerly, he opened it, and read a prophecy at random. His face fell.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh - fiddlesticks….’
Several large coffees, three bottles of wine, a pile of Eccles cakes and a very long reading and interpretation session later Crowley sat back on the chair and took a breath.
‘‘Beelzebub and Gabriel, huh? Did not see that coming.’
‘Never mind that, dear,’ Aziraphale said, as he continued carving symbols onto the floor. No chalk this time. He wasn’t going to risk anything wiping these marks out. ‘There. That should do it. The Metatron can’t get in here now.’
‘And you?’ Crowley asked delicately. Aziraphale stood up and primly clasped his hands across his stomach.
‘I have no intention of going up to heaven under any circumstances and especially not now I know how it ends.’ he said. It was his I Will Not Be Moved tone. Crowley knew it well. He was reassured.
‘Well, maybe pop up and get Muriel. But after that we seal up that lift, agreed?’ Crowley adds. (He’d rather liked the glimpses of Muriel he’d caught in the book. They felt like a kindred spirit.) (As Aziraphale had read, images had flickered across Crowley’s mind, of a bare white hall, and judging angels in grey, and himself, all in gold and white. It had made him uncomfortable. He was not going to think about it, he resolved.)
‘Agreed.’
‘Excellent. Dinner at the Ritz called for I think, to celebrate a very lucky escape. Coming, Angel?’ He launched himself into a standing position and headed for the door.
‘One thing…’ Aziraphale said, and Crowley noticed the cheeks of his Angel had gone a little pink, and he was turning that ring on his finger round and round. ‘Prophecy number 547.’
‘547? Was that the one with the butterflies the size of giraffes?’
Crowley swung around to face Aziraphale. Aziraphale did not look at him. He stared, steadfast, into the corners of the bookshop.
‘It was not,’ Aziraphale said. His voice trembled a little.
Oh.
Oh!
Crowley took a step closer. He always did enjoy this bit of the temptation, although he was not quite sure who was being tempted right now.
‘Ah, the one with the Welsh Choir serenading the Kraken with excerpts from popular musicals.’
‘No, not that one either.’ Aziraphale appeared to have flushed a deep red. He still would not look at Crowley.
Crowley took a step closer now. He could feel it - the tingle in his fingers and on his lips.
There was another first time coming. To add to the Wall, and the Temptation of the Ox Ribs and the Rescue of the Books and all those other first times that have led them step by step to this place.
A first time they had in any timeline, but this would be their first time - they, Aziraphale and Crowley in this world, their world.
‘Oh, I know, the one with the crystal the exact size and shape of…’
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale snapped. ‘You know which one I mean.’
‘Oh,’ Crowley says softly. ‘The one where I tell you there’s an us.’
‘That’s the one,’ Aziraphale says, glancing down at the ground. He swallowed nervously, and pulled at his precious, threadbare waistcoat. ‘Of course, if you’d rather not, I understand, it’s really asking too much, it’s…’
‘Angel,’ Crowley said, and he stepped forward, taking off his glasses and facing Aziraphale. He looked down at his angel, his enemy and ally, his closest friend. His love since he knew what love meant. ‘We have always been an us. We don’t need a prophecy for that.’
Aziraphale looked up into those golden eyes, and saw the truth in Crowley. The truth of them. And Aziraphale, a soft and gentle angel, not a soldier or a leader, became a hero for that moment, and clasped Crowley’s collar and pulled him in for a kiss.
It was a nice day. It would always be a nice day. There would always be a bookshop, and later a garden. Nightingales would always sing and there would be many many kisses to follow that first kiss.