Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Ritz, St. James’, London. 
Sometime after averting the Apocalypse.

[Aziraphale and Crowley are sat in front of an empty plate each, having ordered only the finest of champagne and sweets off the menu; today’s events called for the highest of celebrations.] 

The waiter finishes pouring them each a helping of champagne—“ Whatever’s most expensive,” Crowley had ordered. Money was most definitely not an issue, and the angel deserved only the finest. 

Crowley grabs his now-full glass and tilts it towards Aziraphale with a grin, “To the world.”

Aziraphale reciprocates with a smile Crowley hopes he gets to see everyday, gently clinking their glasses together in a cheers as he echoes with a soft “To the world.”

Crowley tries not to think about the implications behind those words, opting to take a few heavy gulps from his flute. Aziraphale sets his own down after a sip and splays his hand on the table between the two. Crowley's hand twitches at the movement, finding himself gravitating towards the angel. He lets the back of his hand brush against Aziraphale's fingers, and in turn, Aziraphale slides his hand into the upturned palm. Scanning Crowley for any hesitation, he can't seem to find a sliver of it. He beams and gives Crowley's hand a light squeeze.

A soft tune plays on the piano across the room, Aziraphale gushes about the new books Adam had put in his shop, and Crowley can’t seem to tear his eyes away from their intertwined hands.

 [Crowley used a miracle to sober up, as Aziraphale was still wary of using his own grace following their trials. Aziraphale had played with Crowley's hand—the one not on the wheel—the entire drive home, tracing light patterns on the back of his hand. Crowley goes under 90mph for once, though there wasn’t another car in sight.]

A.Z. Fell and Co., Soho, London.
Following approx. 2 hours of solid drinking at the Ritz. 

[Crowley parks right outside of the bookshop, two white lines miracle their way to bracket the Bentley. He quickly makes his way to the passenger side to open the door for Aziraphale. What an absolute gentleman.]

“Funny how strong champagne is these days,” Aziraphale had muttered as his foot bumped the car door. That’s what happens when you drink two bottles of it, Crowley thought to himself. It was damn good champagne, though. The headache he gained from sobering up, on the other hand, was not. Crowley offers his hand and Aziraphale takes it with a grin, pushing himself out of the car seat.

The two make their way inside the bookshop, tripping over each other through the doorway. Their auras linger together in a faze of love and contentedness. Crowley moves his hand to half-heartedly hide his laugh at a comment Aziraphale had made, whatever it was he couldn't remember. He was just overjoyed in the angel's presence, his touch. Aziraphale excuses himself with a small kiss, a pat to the other's hand, and a promise to return with a nightcap for each of them.

Crowley meanders throughout the living room—even after a miracle, books and playwrights are strewn about. In the corner of the room, a box catches his eye, it looks to be full of vinyl and cassettes that were definitely not there before the… incident. He makes his way over to the collection, sifting through the ungodly amounts of various orchestrated arrangements, and he spots it—there’s no way Adam would have thought to conjure the surrounding vinyls, which means this specific album was most definitely Aziraphale's. 

Crowley’s pulled out of his thoughts as Aziraphale re-enters the room, drinks in tow. He holds up the album in question, “Why in heavens do you have a signed copy of Tumbleweed Connections?” 

“You’re not the only one who enjoys the occasional bebop, you know.”

“Don’t–Y–You can’t call Elton John bebop, angel.”

“Lovely chap, though. He still sends me cards on Christmas.” Aziraphale remarks with a warm smile, handing Crowley his glass. 

“Elton sends you.. cards? Sssir Elton John sends you Christmas cards, annually , and you never once thought to mention this?”

“Crowley, dear, how could he have ever come up?” And he supposes Aziraphale is right. But still. He takes a sip out of his glass, some sort of fruity red wine. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before Crowley moves to put the album away, but fleetingly thinks fuck it, maybe it’s the three bottles they shared, maybe it’s the overwhelming clarity of freedom—no more Heaven or Hell, they’re on their own side now . A surge of new-found will flows through him at that reminder. 

He goes up to the vinyl player and moves the needle to the seventh track. A soft guitar fills the room.

The words I have to say

May well be simple but they're true

Crowley gently takes Aziraphale's glass, placing it on the nearest empty surface and curls his hand around the other’s. 

Until you give your love

There's nothing more that we can do

Love is the opening door

Aziraphale’s blush deepens when he recognizes the song. He moves his free hand to slide Crowley’s glasses down, making sure to leave room for him to retract if needed.

Love is what we came here for

No one could offer you more

Do you know what I mean

Have your eyes really seen

Crowley simply watches in adornment as his glasses are removed, discarded somewhere. Aziraphale's breath hitches in his throat as he catches Crowley’s gaze. 

You say it's very hard

To leave behind the life we knew

But there's no other way

Crowley’s arm snakes its way around Aziraphale's waist, closing the distance between them. Aziraphale's nose nudges Crowley’s.

And now it's really up to you

Aziraphale brings a hand up to rest on Crowley's jaw, letting a smile break out though it falters as soon as it had appeared, “Can I-” 

Love is the key we must turn

Truth is the flame we must burn

Freedom the lesson we must learn

Crowley wastes no time in closing the distance between them, deepening the kiss slightly before pulling away. He rests his forehead against the angel’s.

When Aziraphale flicks his gaze up to Crowley, his eyes are still shut, as if opening them would ruin some illusion, as though he were in a dream. He takes this time to scatter light kisses across his cheeks, grounding him, finding his way to Crowley’s jaw,—

“So how did you know Elton?”

“Really, dear, I’m trying to get something started here.”

Crowley nudges the side of his head against Aziraphale's, pressing a kiss in his hair before he speaks, “Well, it’s a pressing matter.”

“If you must know—we had a…” Aziraphale paused, thinking of the right word for their situation. “Companionship.”

"Companionsssship!" Crowley hisses, "You mean to tell me you fucked Elton John?"

Aziraphale straightens himself up enough to catch Crowley's gaze of disbelief, "Crowley, really, there's no need for theatrics. But, yes."

"Not sure if I can live up to that," He mutters and moves to rest his hand on the nape of Aziraphale's neck, toying with the curls there.

"Well," Aziraphale pauses to adjust the stark black collar, noting the flash of tartan he catches. "You could always try."