Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With the war of the fire
My heart moves to its feet
Like the ashes of ash
I saw eyes in the heat
Feel it soft and as pure as snow
Fell in love with the fire long ago

“You can stay at my place Angel”

Aziraphale looked up from his palms, still clutching the 2001 Red Zinfandel, with one hand around the neck and the other resting on the base. He still had a thin lip of currant on his jaw that would go unnoticed by himself for sometime.

The angel looked to his friend who sat beside him as they waited on the bus. Aziraphale had in fact heard Crowley, however the offer did not quite register as there was an eerie pitch that rung in his ears upon hearing the news of his bookshop. Flashes of its state, ashed rubble and discorporated memories of the past 300 years of dwelling, running through his mind all at once.

“Hm?” He asked, despite knowing exactly what he had previously said. He snapped back to the present, as he realised that he was not in the after burn of his beloved bookshop, he was in fact right here. He was here with Crowley.
Crowley smiled weakly, the sympathy for his angel shined through the cracks of his seemly heartless demeanour. He considered a movement of sorts, perhaps a touch of the shoulder or the elbow. Crowley looked to Aziraphale’s hands, the colour of milk spilt on snow, he considered this to be the final destination for his hands, but quickly dismissed the thought as to not aggravate further emotions.

Before another action could be made on either behalf, the rectangular vehicle clucked down the row, coming to a halt before them. Crowley was the first to stand, grabbing his coat that hung on the edge of the bench and throwing it over one side of his shoulder. He looked down to his friend, who hadn’t come to his feet despite it being time to board. He consider Aziraphale’s hands and then his own as he drew one out to his dazed friend. Aziraphale looked up through his brows, red creeping across his ears that failed to be hidden by the pale tuffs of hair.

Crowley smiled without teeth, it was simple and remorseful. He held his hand out to Aziraphale patiently.
“Come on Angel. Let’s go.”

Aziraphale placed his hand in the other, gently, cautiously, as if the action would cause the earth to split in two. The fires of hell and the rain of God would combined to create a terrible rift in the universe, swallowing anything and everything whole. But it didn’t. Nothing happened. At least not to the world around them. Their hands rested comfortably within one another. The world was whole. The world was sane.

But within the chest cavity of the demon and his angel, their hearts pumped fasted than perhaps humanly possible. The sensation of warmth and stone combined to create a perfect equilibrium of heaven and hell. Their own respective worlds seemed to spin violently on their axis’s while remaining perfectly still in their bus seats. Neither of them said a word nor spared a glance, yet their hands remained entwined with one another. The slender boney fingers of Crowley’s slightly shaken hands, and Aziraphale’s, who’s hands remained perfectly still out of fear that the movement would scare the demon off, were as pale a snow and as still as stone.

Neither of them looked at the other, as a common thought shared between them, among other things, was that if either of them made eye contact, if they shifted in the wrong direction or breathed in a way that was even ever so slightly audible, this precious moment they held between their palms would promptly end. And that wasn’t going to happen, at least not until the bus had pulled into its stop.

As ‘ding’ echoed through the hall of the bus, Crowley shot up from his place. The swift movement caused their hands to pull apart, Aziraphale’s flopping to the seat beside him. The sharp action caused an even sharper spike in blood pressure, grieving the angel with a heart ache and the demon a headache.

As the pair stepped off the bus and onto the pavement, the bus heaving away to where ever it wasn’t supposed to be, Aziraphale stared at what he could only describes as a ‘complex’ rather than a home. Crowley lead the party of two through the doorway, both of them pretending that Crowley in fact HADN’T dropped his keys three times upon trying to open the door.

“You can er- well, make yourself comfortable…of course” Crowley said, his back turned to Azirphale as he fidgeted on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the state of his home in contrast to the angelic being that stood in his living room.

Aziraphale said nothing as Crowley awkwardly shuffled out of the room, presumably to make a room that doesn’t exist more to his angels liking. The angel in question, stood in raptures of the house, er, complex, that he was in. It was all but entirely constructed from concrete. It felt cold, ill personal and void of character. It felt so irritably ‘Crowley’ but more like the facade that he tried to sell like a vagabond. Not to everyone around him of course, it seemed like this costume was a private performance for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone. He could never quite understand why it was so important to Crowley that he be perceive as an ill-feeling monster, especially since he knew, and always has known, that Crowley has more heart than himself sometimes. Perhaps Crowley knew this too, but could never bare to pull it above the weight of leather, malice and concrete.

-But there was something else that Aziraphale could sense. Something about each of the four walls that made up the room; as though something had soaked deep into the marrow of the concrete. It smelt of frankincense and lavender; it was warm, hot, almost burning. It was a sensation of colour and brilliance, coming in crashing waves and incasing his lungs with still water.

Aziraphale clutched his collar, “my heavens what is that?” He managed to gasp out through the thick fog of heat and rose, his voice stretching to the walls in pleas that they would cease this infernal tsunami of sensations and provide the exasperated angel with some answers. But of course he already knew the answer, he was a being of heaven, but he wasn’t ignorant to the earth beneath his feet. This feeling that seemed liquify his ability to form a comprehensive thought, could it perhaps be…love?

“Are you alright?” Said Crowley, leaning against the oddly constructed doorway, again attempting to appear unbothered by his presence when in actuality, his hand quivered ever so slightly as it laid tucked between his arms.

“Hm?” he replied, once again his question being crystal clear yet choosing to ignore that fact, “oh yes, fine, fine, just tickety-boo!” The angel chirped like a bird in a tin, or rather concrete, cage.

Crowley’s brows began to knit closer and closer together; it seemed as though ’tickety-boo’ had become somewhat of a tell as to what was in fact NOT ‘tickety-boo’. Crowley considered a step forward, either out of sympathy or curiosity, he would decide on the way. But he decided upon refraining himself and instead just moving the conversation along.

“Ive fixed up my room a bit, so you can sleep in there for tonight.” He said nonchalantly, his mask beginning to slip from his face.

“But where will sleep Dear?” The endearment stabbed Crowley 6 times in the chest, one slice of gooseflesh for each syllable. He tied his costume on tighter.

“On the couch, or I’ll just watch the telly for a while.” He shrugged, cause who cared? Least of all him that was for sure.
Aziraphale frowned, he was no fool, he of all beings needed sleep the least, but Crowley on the other hand, certainly did. Frankly he had never understood the concept of sleeping nor its purpose for timeless creatures such as themselves, but it seemed to be a particularly favourite pastime of Crowleys. And while Aziraphale could never look back at the decades his demon would spend sleeping with fond memories, he would always cherish the day he would wake up (-and come back to him). So of course he would certainly not take Crowleys sanctuary of sleep away from him. Not now, not ever.

“Don’t be silly My dear-“ another 6 stabs “I have no need to sleep, I’d much prefer to sit here and read” he said matter-of-factly, his chin raised ever so slightly as to appoint himself as correct even if he wasn’t.

Crowley opened his jaw to protest, of course he was tired, positively exhausted, but who was he to deny his angel comfort if thats what he wanted? “Are you sur-“ his curtesy was cut off my a frustrated angel.

“Yes of course” said he, and with an awkward down curl of the mouth, bow of the spine and a through-the-teeth ‘goodnight’, the demon shuffled out of the living room and off to bed. In the moment, Aziraphale felt a wash of relief; he sat down in what could only be described as a throne and smiled out of victory, finding comfort in knowing that Crowley would be well rested once he woke.

But as Aziraphale sunk further down into Crowley’s peculiarly placed desk ‘chair,’ he noticed the ever growing absence of the force he had felt only a few minutes prior. During their little spat, if you can even call it that, Aziraphale desperately clinged to his corporated form as Crowley’s presence seemed to overwhelm the rising flood of senses by merely being in the room. But now that the demon was no longer here, while the presence of the force was certainly still there, its electric charge has dimmed to a comprehensible level. The lack of suffocating angelic energy had made Aziraphale acutely aware of just how alone he felt in this unfamiliar place, unfamiliar room. Of course this place wasn’t all entirely unknown to the angel. He’s been here a few times actually, 3 times to be exact. All of which with out Crowley’s knowledge; something he would never admit to the tenant. But in Crowley’s immediate absence, the room became a bottomless sea of unknown space.

The first time he had “visited” so to speak, was in 1941. Crowley had come to his rescue, and more importantly the rescue of his beloved, darling books of prophecies (‘First additions and all signed’ Aziraphale would often chime at the mention of his books). In that moment, as the demon held out the brief of books, their hands colliding ever so slightly as the angel took them back into his possession, Aziraphale had noticed a tuff hair sticking out of place beneath his felt hat. This of course, justified the late night stroll from his soho bookshop to Crowleys flat in central London. Upon arriving, Aziraphale had in fact made the right decision; As Crowley lie there sleeping, the strand of hair that stuck out of place had infected the rest of his head. It was a good thing he came when he did! A moment later and who knows! Aziraphale combed Crowley’s hair back into place with his plump fingers, relishing every strand of fevered hair that kissed his palm. Once the danger had been adverted, Aziraphale’s hand rested on the demons cheek perhaps a moment too log, before vanishing into the night and back to his bookshop.

Azirphale did not see Crowley again until after the war. 4 years later when Crowley arrived at his bookshop, his hair perfectly combed back. How strange.

The second time was in 1967. The word of Crowleys little church heist had reached Aziraphale, due to their respective correspondents being one in the same person, rather quickly. When the vile request for Holy Water was made 105 years ago, his heart shattered all the same as he handed over Crowley’s suicide in a tartan thermos. He had barely been able to choke out his rejection the first time the demon had asked, because why should he say no? Logistically speak, Azirphale should be handing Holy Water out by the barrel to any demon foolish enough to request it, after all, they were on opposite sides (At the time that is). But Aziraphale was selfish, far too selfish to let go of someone he held so dear to him, no matter what side of the line he stood on. But after a century of what the teens like to call now, “the silent treatment”, Azirphale had decided upon giving the demon what he had asked for, not for Crowley’s sake, but for his own; he was rather selfish after all. He could bare to conjure the thought of such an undignified death, but he had a plan. He had decided, that should the day come that Crowley ever decided to use his own version of cyanide on himself, Aziraphale would turn himself over to heaven, informing them of The Arrangement and step into the Hellfire with a smile of relief. The plan was simple, outrageous, derivative and painfully theatrical, but it was all he could think of as he stepped out of The Bentley. It was all he could do as watched Crowley and his vile of cyanide drive off into the bustle of late night London. His second visited consisted of an hour staring at the tartan thermos, insuring that it was still closed and was still full; he considered taking it back, perhaps blaming it on another depressingly suicidal demon prowling the streets of London, but decided against it, remembering the plan once again. The other half of his visit consisted of the Angel sitting by Crowley’s bed side, counting every inch of his form to insure that it was still there, that it was still intact and that it was still breathing. He wouldn’t dare mention how long he stood there for, and he would never admit that it wasn’t until the sun began to rise and the demon began to stir that he would take his leave for the second time.

The third and final time until present day, that Azirphale had visited was only a few days ago. They had agreed that their 3rd rendezvous point, that being the Bandstand in St. James park, was the best place to discuss their little crisis.

They talked about the wrong crisis.

After what felt like the earth splitting beneath his feet, spitting each word like fire out fear of burning his own tongue if the hurt didn’t leave his chest. He watched Crowleys mouth fall agape, as he attempted to say anything in retaliation, perhaps to wound the angel back, but more like to salvage what was left of this 6000 year long conversation. But it was no use, the rising flood waters of anxiety the angel held in his chest had closed the pearly gates to his heart. What was said had been said. But that didn’t mean what was said wasn’t regretted. That night Aziraphale would visited the flat again, in fear that his spit fire had been too hot even for a demon, that perhaps that the wounds he had inflicted would drive Crowley straight to bottom of the tartan thermos, and it was far to close to the end to crash early. But as Aziraphale had arrived, he allowed himself to breathe for the first time in 3 hours 47 minutes, upon seeing Crowley still fully corporated slumped over in his desk chair, or, throne, so to speak. Aziraphale began to approach what he assumed to be a sleeping demon, but as he drew nearer, he halted to a complete stop upon watching Crowleys body stiffen in his chair. Aziraphale froze, like a deer on a website, (he was pretty sure thats how the expression went), fearing that he had been caught red handed. Millions of excuses flew through his head and a billion different ways he could escape this concrete box with his dignity and pride intact. But Crowley remained in place, unsuspecting of the angel in the doorway behind him. The demon sat there solemnly, a glass of bourbon filled to the brim dangling in his hand, threatening to spill or to fall or both. This wasn’t an uncommon sight, a demon drinking to excess that is. It’s part of their job after all. But Aziraphale had never seen him so deflated, so serious with each sip he took. It was the most heartbreaking sight he could bare to witness, watching how alcohol seemed to seep from each cut of wounded pride, pooling into his glass of bourbon. No, he could not bare his crime scene any longer. And with that Aziraphale slipped away once more. Crowley relaxed again his chair, he too breathed for the first time since Azirphale had arrived in his flat.

Azirphale now sat uncomfortably in his chair, it being the first time him doing so to Crowleys knowledge. He bit his manicured nails to blood, the salty tinge of iron awakening him from a nervous breakdown. He had never considered the possibility of a demon possessing the talent to loving anything, yet here he sat in what felt like a wet sponge filled with the ethereal substance. Aziraphale attempted to calm himself to little to no avail. He considered the objects in the room, counting each an every one. The majority of the populated furniture consisted of plants. Yes, perhaps this is where all the love would be oozing from. But as he approached the lusciously radiant plants, he felt only fear. No, this certainly wasn’t it. He wondered around the flat for a few moments more before admitting defeat. What else could it possibly be? He couldn’t give up, not until he had found the source of this unearthly amount of love. He considered one remaining possibility, and it made him light in the head. His conquest would not, could not cease until he had investigated one final option. And it was the option he wanted least to be true. At least, thats what he told himself.

Crowley was of course doing what he often did when he was stressed, he was sleeping. But to be more specific was dreaming; if one can believe that was possible for a demon, but Crowley wasn’t anything if not defiant of what people believed he could or could not do. Although he would never admit that his in his gluttonous use of his ability to sleep for grossly extended periods of time, his dreams were often filled with that of a particular angel. Although if he were to ever ask himself about his own dreams, he would persuasively convince himself that the soft rounded shapes and flashes of cream coloured sheets were NOT his mind conjuring up abstract images of his angel. He muttered his defensive in his sleep until a presence jerked him back into consciousness. The bed dipped down as the figure laid down next to him. Crowley prayed, for what was probably the first time since his Fall, praying to whomever was listening, that the figure that was now nuzzling into his side was not who he secretly hoped it to be. Perhaps it was a demon come to assassinate him in with strange new tactic, or maybe it was a burglar who was a little bit lonely. Anything, anyone would have been fine, grand even. But as he felt the heavenly force beam into his spine, he realised his worst nightmare and greatest dream had come to give him a hug.

Azirphale, upon lying down next to the “sleeping” Crowley, had one arm stretches over his rigid frame, while the other he held close to his chest. He did not want to risk waking the demon by jarring his arm beneath him, nor discomforting him by keeping it there all night. But Crowley wouldn’t have cared. Aziraphale could have strung him up by his feet and he still wouldn’t have cared. The angel wasn’t entirely sure why he was now doing what he was doing, but as he stepped into Crowley’s room to investigate if he kept a prize possession of sorts in here, had been overwhelmed once more by the suffocating influx of love. Aziraphale took a moment to sus out the state of the room, scanning over each item before landing his eyes in the centre of the room. Crowley’s bed. Of course! That what he loved! It all made perfect sense now, of course if you spent as long as he did around that soft thing he would love it as much as he did. Aziraphale had to investigate this gravitational pull of love surrounding the bed Crowley now lay sleeping on. Which now that he thought about it as he lay tangled around Crowley’s body, made perfect sense as to why he was here. But has he cuddled closer to the demon to investigate the root of the love, he realised that the force was getting stronger.

A warm touch of air kissed Crowleys neck, prickling the gooseflesh that began to rise on its tippy-toes. It was Aziraphale, breathing gently in his sleep against his nape. Against the shudders of icy warmth, Crowley began to think of this notion, as he came to realise that neither Angel nor demon actually needed to breathe. The corporation of flesh, bone and blood they inhabited were merely fractures of light and shadow casted by their respective heavenly and demonic forces. They served as timeless vessels that never expired. They did not require nutrients, sleep or air, and by proxy, to breathe. This created two possibilities as to answer the sensation Crowley felt against his neck:

1. That after 6,000 of being an earthly corporation, Aziraphale out of habit and out of an attempt to blend in with earths inhabitants, had become accustomed to the act of breathing and was now doing it without being aware of it. Most likely.

2. The second option, and the one that sent an uneasy concoction of emotions into the pits of Crowleys stomach, was that Aziraphale was doing it on purpose.

What the demon was to do in such a blood-curdling moment was beyond him, he needed a distraction, a focal point. Crowley observed Aziraphale’s hand as it laid softly over his side, bad focal point. The pads of his fingertips were a light pink from the blood rushing to them. His fingers were plump, soft flesh curving over the bone to create the loveliest, most delicate pair of hands Crowley had ever seen in his millennia long existence. His distraction was not helping. He concluded that moving was the best course of action. He dared, he braved the slightest movement. Shifting his hand away from the bed sheets and closer to Aziraphale. What the bloody hell was he doing? He watched in horror has his own hands came into contact with the angels. How dare he do such a brazenly bold thing! But, as their fingers interlocked with one another the whole world electrocuted itself, the surrounding four walls becoming nothing but a stage for this beautiful moment.

Crowley began to shuffle, rotating in his place, ensuring that his hand never left its place in Aziraphale’s. He rolled over until he was now face to face with the Angel in his bed. This had been the first time that they had ever looked into each others eyes with such sincerity. Every emotion they had ever felt over the past 6000 years now laid bare in the space between their eyes. Every ounce of joy and every grain of sorrow sat silently in the 3 inches of room it was allowed. Neither of them said a word, but then again when they looked at each other in such a way, they didn’t have to. Crowley braved another moment, taking the spare hand he had that wasn’t already wrapped around Aziraphale, and placed it behind his head, pulling him closer to his body. The Angel, whose head now rested comfortably in Crowley’s chest in a way as though it was always meant to be there, put his investigation aside and allowed himself to just exist right here, right now.

There are thousands of different ways the dictionary can describe a moment, but only one seemed to fit right.

The pair both knew that this couldn’t last forever, eventually morning will come, and the will have to face whatever infernal damnation their respective sides have waiting for them, and even worse, they would have to let each other go; physically and eternally. But for now, they only held each other and just let this be whatever this was.

The moment is calm

The moment is warm

The moment simply, is.

Chapter Text

“To the world.” Crowley said with a smile, raising his glass and extending it towards the angel that sat across from him.

Aziraphale smiled, his heart beamed from his lips; never before had he smiled with such genuine fondness to the person he was smiling at. “To the world.” He replied.
Yet there was something in his tone, something that hid behind each syllable, indicating that he was not talking about the world beneath their feet, but rather the world that sat across from him. His world.

They had done it. They survived. They sat here in all of their corporated form dining at the Ritz. It was just like it had always been. It was hard to believe that this, right here, wasn’t apart of some divine plan. But then again it almost certainly was. Luck wasn’t something either of them believed in, and neither was coincidence; God was never so lazy as to allow for something so trivial as luck. Therefore, Crowley and Aziraphale were by no means lucky when it came to how their sheer negligence, procrastination and incompetence managed to avert the end of the world, it was all apart of The Ineffable Plan after all; not to be confused with The Great Plan as they are as it would be, consequentially two vastly different things.

However, the pair had mutually, and yet silently, agreed to not discuss the events that had almost resulted in the planet’s demise, but rather just focus on the joys of being in each others company. The discussed many things of interest, and by that I mean, Aziraphale chattered away about any and all things he found of interest, and Crowley sat their dotingly listening to every word. Contrary to what many believe, Crowley was not a particularly talkative person, of course he had the tendency to ramble on nonsensically from time to time, but he would much rather quietly listen as others, particularly/entirely Aziraphale, gush over their interests.

And so they did just that, even as the waiter came around with a bill, one that it should be noted had miraculously been discounted completely by the lovely manager of the hotel, they pair continued their perfectly arranged one-sided conversation out to the car.

“Lift home Angel?” Crowley chimed, climbing into the drivers seat of his completely intact 1933 Bentley.

“Thank you my dear!” Aziraphale responded fondly, the glee of their lovely dinner weaving a sprits of joy in his step. “That would be lovely.”
Crowley thought on the endearment. He felt his heart pound with excitement, and noted how the light shone through the cracks of his skin at the chime of the words; but something he had noticed as he watched Aziraphale fumble into his seat, was how the words no longer hurt him. How when Aziraphale would smile at him with his lovely rosey cheeks and earthly brown eyes, his heart didn’t tear itself apart. In the events of the ‘Armaged-dont’ so to speak, it seems that Adam, Bless and curse his wickedly wonderful soul, didn’t just put the world back together, but fixed everything that had been broken; including Crowleys heart.

Crowley’s smile began to grow wide as he spend through the dusking London streets with dangerous speed, weaving in and out of traffic, and yet diverting the car away from their normal trek back to the bookshop. With his newly mended heart, it was time to put it to some use.
Aziraphale, whom at the time was discussing the fascinating television service he had recently come across called ‘The Net Flix’ and was just about to inquire about what the local youth calls “Net Flix and Chill” entails, when he noticed how they were no longer on their typically route home. “Where are we going Crowley?” He asked, more curious than concerned. Driving was not Aziraphale’s strong suit, but it was certainly Crowley’s; as such he entrusted all matters associated with motorised vehicles and their functions to Crowley, with the exception of his dangerous disregard for the speed limit.

“Scenic route.” Said Crowley, his voice vague and coy as to not provide any hint into where they were travelling to.

“I’ve lived here for over 300 years, I’ve seen all of the scenic routes” The angel huffed playfully. It was true, he had not just been here in London for some time, but he had been on this earth for its entire existence, and as such, there are very few sights left for him to see.

Crowley grinned, a sharp serpent like tooth gleaming through his smile. “Not this one.”

The journey took a little over 33 minutes, one filled with casual, hearty conversation and an ill-tuned sing-a-long to Aziraphale’s favourite of Crowley’s musical collection, Fat Bottom Girls by Vaughan Williams. Neither of them were what one might call, musically inclined. Aziraphale, who considered himself more operatic compared to modern standard; the modern standard being ‘good’ that is. While the angel did not pride himself on being a particularly well harmonised singer, he would take any opportunity to boast about the private lesson he received from Richard Wagner in 1843; It had only ever been brought up twice, both times to Crowley.

-And Crowley, well, he was just pitchy. But the mutual terrible singing made the car ride all the more fun. But as the began their slow climb up a mountain that Aziraphale had indeed never seen before, a certain uneasiness began to claw in his stomach. It wasn’t so much where they were going that he took worry to, but more why they were going there in the first place. Aziraphale attempted to swallow is anxiety further down his digested system, one that he had installed specifically to digest the earths delights, and as such, it was ill-suited to processing the worry he was trying to force out from his body. Crowley noticed the flicker of worry that rested in the crease between the angels brows - “Are you alright Angel?” Said he, already deducing that his response would be a lie.

“Of course my dear,” he beamed, his best smile chipping at the corners of his mouth, “just admiring the scenic route.”

Crowley itched in his seat as he looked at Aziraphale before turning back to the road. He could tell something was off; you don’t spend 6000 years with someone and not know how they tick. But the demon expelled the thought from his mind as they neared their destination, with the evening Crowley had planned, there would be no time for doubt.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen as they set on where they were, tiny glints of light reflected in his eyes from the sun. Crowley smiled, rewarding himself with a small chuckle for a job well done, but then again, the expression his angel made as he barrelled out from the car to get a better view, was reward enough.

“Oh my heavens!” Aziraphale cried with one hand fluttering over his chest, “Crowley this place is-!” the sentence cut off mid way, a single word could not be enough to articulate how truely beautiful this place was, so he considered it better for the scene to speak for itself.

It was beautiful. The proud, lone standing mountain had perfectly eroded away from the gentrified streets of London, and looked out onto the sweeping plains of the English country side. It had been raining for many of the past few days, as it usually did in England, which transformed the fields before them lusciously green. Crowley would never admit that in his many visits to what he considered His Spot, he had had many “friendly chats” with the local flora and helpfully suggested that they wear their Sunday best leaves and flowers for when this day came, and luckily for them, every tree and fern stood proud, and terrified, in all of their beautifully natural colours. It earnestly was a spectacular sight. And has the sun began to set into its bed beyond the hills, the golden licks of sun resting on the horizon, the scene became the envy of paradise.

Aziraphale’s breath became caught in his chest, his jaw agape in awe of all that he witnessed. How on earth had Crowley ever found such a place? -And as though the demon had read in his mind, he stood beside Aziraphale near the edge of the mountain - “I found this place back in ’91, it became a haven of mine after a close friend of mine passed away. I come here when I need to think, you know?” He smiled half-heartedly.

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed, he had always known that he was the possessive type, but that was usually only towards things such as books and his shop; but never people. He wasn’t possessive of Crowley; was he? “I didn’t know you had other friends” mumbled he. Ah, well that answers that question, doesn’t it?

Crowley grinned a toothy, smug smile. “Jealous are we?” His hands stuffed in his pockets as he spun on one heel slowly to face the angel; this game was becoming fun now.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He huffed waving his hand as to dismiss the notion from the conversation, he turned back to the scenery as to hide the embarrassment that was creeping over his ears and cheeks. Crowley’s grin grew wider as he laughed quietly to himself, crooking his neck as to peer down at Aziraphale, who was desperately trying to sink into his shoulders as to escape the embarrassment that was engulfing him.

“You know you’re my best friend right?” Crowley whispered, tucking a pale tuff of hair over an ever reddening ear; the action seeming to make the blush even worse. “You’re-“ he whispered once more, the words getting caught between his heart and his lips. Is he really going to do this now? Did he have the courage? Every possible consequence for what he was about to say flooded through his mind, the anxiety that had laid dormant for the hours they had spent together had now opened the flood gates to every negative emotion known to man.

“Im what?” Aziraphale responded lowly, as if speaking too loud would cause the mountain to spilt in two. The angel looked up through his brows to an increasingly shying demon. He is what? What is he? More importantly, what his he to Crowley?

“You’re-“ Crowley stuttered on his words again, he lungs turning to stone and his words becoming a stubborn sword. Was he ready for this? Was he ready for every conceivable outcome? Of course not, but he of all people knew that if you waited until you were ready, you’d be waiting your entire life - and 6000 years had been long enough. Seemingly on their own, their entire bodies now faced one another and their chests only a step apart. Then half a step. And then-

As Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, the colour of rich earth and honey tea staring back at him, he realised what he had always know; that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right here, in this moment with his angel. He saw forever in his eyes, not a an adventure or journeys of grandeur, he saw life, he saw home. He saw every Sunday morning, when Crowley would take clean cups out from the dishwasher and put them in the cupboard, so he could watch his angel take one and drink from it as he read his book and he read the paper. In those deep heaven on earthly eyes he saw spring afternoons, when he and Aziraphale would have the picnic they had always talked about, sitting beneath a shady tree eating apricots and cream, talking about whatever they found interesting at the time. As time stood still in that moment Crowley saw the late nights of winter, as they sat by a warm fire, bickering about how Aziraphale always left crumbs on the carpet and how Crowley’s little botany obsession had begun to go too far. He saw so much in such a small fragment of time. He saw forever, but more importantly, he saw right now. Crowley didn’t need thrills, or adventures or miracles; he just need Azirphale.

“You’re everything to me.” He whispered. He had done it, the words he had been waiting six thousand years to say, had finally left his chest. Now all that was left, was Aziraphale’s response.

They faces began to move closer and closer to one another, closing the 6inch gap that that felt a million miles wide at the thought that the weren’t touching one another. Their foreheads pressed against one another, the dusking sun shining through the space between their hearts. Neither of them had ever felt bliss quite like this. Aziraphale dared to open his eyes, fearing what he saw in return; Crowley, looked back at him with eyes softer than silk. They were not hungry or lustful, Crowley gazed at him as though he saw everything in return. Aziraphale’s chest began to sink, going further and further down like a lead ballon until it rested sorrowfully at his feet.

His attention was drawn from his feet and back to Crowley, eyes iron locked onto his and refusing to go, as what little space that remained between them began to grow smaller. Crowleys eyes shifted from the angels and down towards his peach coloured lips, his drawing near them. One breath shared between them as their lips stationed centimetres apart. Everything stopped. Every sound that echoed in existence grew gravely silent. Every particle that made up the fabrics of time and space began to disperse around the pair. Nothing existed but this moment right here.

It was the moment of truth, the moment of time and space, just as they were about to come to come together, two universes colliding together in a supernova of expression and emotion; Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath, the influx of oxygen prickled his lungs as he place two hands on Crowley’s shoulder, gently pushing him away.

“We best be getting back now, hm?” He smiled, his eyes tired and he smile plastered falsely across his face.

Crowleys jaw screwed shut, his stomach clawing its way out through his throat. He said nothing, he couldn’t say anything, how could he? The moment he spent 6000 years patiently waiting for, through thick and thin, through literal fire and literal flood, had just pushed him away. He felt like he was drowning in holy water, in such a time, he wished that they had never gone through with The Switch, because right now, he would give anything to have crawled shamefully into that god forsaken bathtub. He offered the angel nothing but a solemn nod in return to twisting knife in his side.

What had Crowley done? What the living hell had he just done? It was all his fault. How dare he do such a thing? Crowley peered over the side of the cliff, considering the notion for half a second before walking back towards the car. He felt awful, not an ounce of self pity wondered his body, no, he didn’t deserve to feel bad for himself. He just thought of Aziraphale and how disgusted he must feel. The pin ball of guilt and anxiety ricocheted off every corner of flesh inside of him.
Perhaps it was foolish of Crowley to hope that after so much he had somehow earned the right to be loved by Aziraphale. That after all of the anger, all of the patience and all of the conversations he had manage to work himself into the grooves of the angels heart. Perhaps it was unfair of him to assume that after a 6000 year long race, the prize now waited for him at the finish line. But it seemed that now, as the pair climbed back dead silent into The Bentley, Crowley had sprinted too fast, scaring the finish line back even further.

The pair sat on their respective sides of the cars. Divided once again by their stupid sides. Neither of them said a word; even as The Bentley hummed to life; what would be the most painfully uncomfortable 33 minutes of their lives had now begun as the car began its decent down the lonely mountain. The car was encapsulated in utter silence. The kind of silence that turns and twists your intestines into the worst balloon animal you’d ever see. The kind of silence that wasn’t really silent since you could still hear the ear scratching ring that came with the silence, but still silence all the same.

Crowley gripped the steering wheel as he felt his insides contort into what felt like very sad looking shark; this was hell. No, it was worse than hell. It was all too quiet. Hell could never have been so clever as to invent the kind of torture he felt in this moment. They were evil, but not ‘Total-silence-after-being-rejected-by-your-6000-year-long-crush’ evil. But good god did this hurt. Everything. Every fibre, very inch of flesh agonised in its seat. How the hell was he supposed to be ok right now? Could he miracle himself back together? No, heaven and hell couldn’t make anything about this ok.

Fortunately, Crowley had something that most demons did not, a specialty that no one in the nine circles of hell had except for him. He had an imagination. And having an imagination meant that he was very good at pretending and very good at convincing the world around him and more importantly himself, that what ever he imagined was the truth.
Which is why in this moment his concentration was drawn away from the road and towards pretending that what just happened didn’t shatter his heart into more pieces than there were stars. That his hands didn’t seep with blood from trying to pick up each piece of fragmented heart. Pretending that the stains around his eyes, while hidden by strategically worn sunglasses, an important fact but irrelevant, due to the fact that he was not crying.

As he said, he was very good at pretending.

But his shadow puppet of a put-together demon fell away as the radio begun to blare out an ill-timed Queen song; (Crowley had never in the past 50 years thought that such a time existed yet here he was.) What the demon had failed to notice as he built up his concrete walls once again, is that Aziraphale had indeed noticed the mourned expression Crowley wore beneath all of his false confidence and nonchalance. It sent millions upon billions of needles into his flesh, twisting and taunting him to bear witness to his crimes against Crowley. It felt as though his eyelids had been torn away as an eternal punishment, so that he may never look away from the pain he had inflicted once again. He prayed, as he often did, to whatever force now sat on what was consider Their Side, if there was one at all; he prayed for reassurance that what he did was truly the Right Thing™. He prayed until the rosary beads rotted in his hands, he knees bled over the hassock and the church crumbled. He had to know that he was justified in his actions, even as he sat silently in The Bentley, too ashamed to ask for forgiveness, but too righteous to admit he was wrong. He gazed at Crowley’s heart as it laid bloodied and hollow in Aziraphale’s hands. How could he possibly keep it after what he had done?

He had to lighten the mood, perhaps if he did the air in the car would turn back from lead and into breathable oxygen. His eyes wondered around the car, observing every loose object within reach, settling on a particular cassette labeled “‘L.73 3.Clair De Lune’ in D flat Major - Debussy”
In seemed far too on the nose to be played in such at such a time, but recalled the first time he had heard the poetic symphony. Each note took him further along the journey of introspection, the song revealing the lifetime adventure of understanding the soul in all its phases. Indeed, it was sat too closely to the predicament that they were now in, but perhaps poetically symphonised bluntness was exactly what this whirlwind of despair need.

Unfortunately for him, the tape that was labeled “‘L.73 3.Clair De Lune’ in D flat Major - Debussy” was not the song that played. As Aziraphale slotted the tape into place, the music began half way through the wrong song, a familiar voice echoed through the car.

“Love of my life, you've hurt me”

Oh.

“You've broken my heart, and now you leave me”

Oh.

“Love of my life, can't you see?”

The entire car screeched and cried to a complete stop, with little to no regard to where it was stopping. Before a single word could be said, Crowley’s hand shot away from the steering wheel, and full-forced, directly into the radio. The Bentley became deadly quiet, not even the impatient drivers behind them had even dared making a sound. Crowley heaved as he glared daggers at his own hand as if it had acted out of line and would suffer the consequences of what it had done. As his hand sat wrist deep into the dashboard, eclectically wiring, shards of plastic and the intestines of the cassette tape tangled his hand, Aziraphale dared a word; Only one, but as it let his lips, it seemed as though he couldn’t have picked a worse one.

“Crowley-“ He whispered, barely audible enough to be heard. But the demon had heard him alright, and each letter, each syllable that left Aziraphale’s mouth caused his rib cage to collapse in on itself, each bone snapping once at a time.

“We’re here.” Said Crowley, his tone void of any emotion as he all but dove out of the car.

Strangely, or perhaps miraculously would be a more fitting word, that were in fact here, at the bookshop.

“Are you not coming in?” Aziraphale asked, his voice breaking between syllables.

“No,” said he in return “I best be getting back.” The words snapped from his jaw, he hadn’t meant to be so harsh or to mock the angel; the words just came out all wrong, as if they were speaking for themselves.

The late night bustle of Soho seemed to have disappeared once they had stepped out of the car as such the entire street had becoming deafeningly quiet. As if they entire world had stopped just to listen is to every word that wasn’t being said. The pair stood in silence on the corner of the street, the 5 feet of distance between where Azirpahle was standing on the curb and where he was standing next to his Bentley felt so far away in this moment. Crowley wanted to nothing more than to throw himself at the angel’s feet; To beg for forgiveness and to pray that he wouldn’t leave him; two things he had sworn by Satan that he would never do, but desperation seemed to be perspiring from every pore. But pride is a poisonous thing, and self loathing is lethal. Crowley, in his mind, wasn’t worthy of forgiveness, after all, you need a heart to be forgiven of its treachery, and his heart now laid bloodied in the palm of Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale knew that if he didn’t say something, neither of them would, and it was all too quiet here. “Why don’t you come in for a spot of tea?” He asked, anxiety ebbed the last letter of every word.

“Aziraphale-“ Crowley protested - the lack of his usually endearing nickname caused a panic to take root in his stomach. He had to say something, to cast a hook out and hope, and pray, that he would catch Crowley’s interests. Something, anything to get him to stay.

“Or maybe a bit of wine? And- and some music?” He croaked. He didn’t mean to stutter or to sound like a scared child. But in truth, he was scared. He was terrified. Terrified that if he let Crowley walk away now, he might never come back. No, he had to stay, perhaps if he could just get him inside and comfortable, he could explain himself and they could just go back to how it use to be.

He just had to get him inside.

Aziraphale stood there patiently, his posture eager and his expression desperate. Crowley sighed, his breath re-inflating his lungs with hope; hope that maybe there was a chance that this…whatever this was could still be salvaged.
“Ok.” He said flatly; he smiled without teeth, it was the kind of smile that made Aziraphale’s stomach dropped to his feet. It was a lie, sarcasm, it was a smile that attempted to deceive him, and Crowley had once promised that he would never lie to him; he supposed that that was a lie to. Could they really go back to they way things were? No, he couldn’t think like that, not yet.

He just had to get him inside.

As the pair entered the bookshop, Aziraphale following promptly behind Crowley. He had never felt so uneasy in his own home before.

Aziraphale spoke up first. “We need to talk,” he said softly, hoping that the topic of conversation wouldn’t scare the demon off. “about what happened earli-“ but his attempt to unpack the trauma of what happen caused Crowley to slam close.

“Wine?” He asked. Aziraphale quickly scurried to his wine winery cabinet, picking out the second nicest one he had, he was saving the first for a nicer occasion. He hurried back to Crowley with two glasses, clinking them playfully together in attempt to add a little light into this dark time. It didn’t work. Crowley cemented his plastered smile across his face. Aziraphale hated it. He didn’t want Crowley to smile, he didn’t want him to pretend to be happy. He wanted him to be angry, to shout, scream, to say anything!
But no, he just stood there, sipping his wine with that stupid smile.

“Now,” he started again, “about before“ but once again he was cut off but an over anxiously uninterested demon.

“Music?” Crowley chimed, is glass now empty as he reached for the bottle, pouring himself another glass.

Aziraphale huffed, he was getting annoyed with Crowleys constant attempts to divert the conversation. They had to talk about what had happened on the mountain. He couldnt bare the tension that threaten to snap at any moment, and he knew that Crowley, who had discarded his glass and opted for the entire bottle instead, couldn’t bare it either.

“Actually-“ Crowley slurred, slamming the bottle down on the nearest surface - Aziraphale halted in his place, half way to the record player with a record in hand. He had chosen the song he had hoped to play in The Bentley, but of course he was infamously deceived by the ill-labeled cassette. “I’ll choose the music.”
Crowley, within four short strides, made his way over to Aziraphale’s personal collection of vintage record. It was quite an extensive array to choose from, but none of them were what Crowley was looking for. After several seconds of not finding what he wanted, he decided that it was just easier for this signed Tchaikovsky record from 1982, to just become the record he needed; he hoped that Aziraphale didn’t mind. (He did. But that didn’t matter right now.) This song was far too intimate and frankly inappropriate for a time like this, but Crowley knew that his words would never find their way out if he tried to say them, so perhaps through song was the best way around it. The air prickled the space around them as the music began hard. Each pulse of the bass echoed throughout the walls of the bookshop, the pairs chest becoming hollow as the music ricocheted off their their ribs.

“Ive never heard this song before.” Aziraphale mumbled, shying behind his teeth as he spoke. “This doesn’t sound like anything you normally listen to”

Crowley laughed softly beneath his breath, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “The artist, he’s friend of mine.” He said as he checked on the gramophone, insuring that the record rested comfortably in place. The voice that began to sing from the copper box, a rich garden of poetry spilling from the sound horn, pooling in the air and decorating the time around them.

‘Boys workin' on empty. Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?’

“I helped him write some of his songs”

'I just think about my baby. I’m so full of love I could barely eat'

Aziraphale felt a flush of blood creeping up his shoulders, taking root in his pale cheeks as they turned rosy. He pictured Crowley, his fevered hair falling over his face, curtaining his dark eyes as he hunched over a guitar concentrating on the artistry that he was listening to. Crowley walked away from the the record player and closer to Aziraphale; each step was calculated and careful, less like a preying serpent and more like a deer stalking through hunting grounds. He was scared that each step he took would be the one to frighten the angel away. And yet, the demon had successfully made his way over the 6 feet of thin ice and over to where Aziraphale uncomfortably sat, a barely touched glass of wine in hand. Crowley looked down at Aziraphale and Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. Only a single thought shared between them - ‘Please don’t go’
Someone had to say something, someone had to say anything -because if they didn’t, well, it wouldn’t be a very interesting story.

“Dance with me angel” Crowley whispered, surprising himself with such courage given what had transpired a few hours ago.

Aziraphale bit his lip. Every muscle in his brain screamed at him to say no, to turn this foul fiend away and never look back; But oh how his heart ached and cried all him to say yes, how it yearned to embrace Crowley in tear drunken moonlight and to never leave the warmth of his arms. But his heart hadn’t won, not yet at least. “I don’t think thats a very good idea” he whispered, his fingers attacking one another as to appear distracted, even if in this moment, his attention couldn’t be more focused on Crowley

Crowley’s jaw clenched as he felt his patience growing more precarious by the second, the wire that held his civilities together clung to the space between his heart and his head by a thread. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him to his feet. Their bodies crashed into one another as Crowleys hand quickly wrapping around the angels waist. They stood there for a moment before the bodies began to sway, with one hand around Aziraphale’s waist and the other in his hand, they slowly moved side to side with the music. Aziraphale swallowed his biblical inherited self-righteousness and allowed this to happen, even if it was only for a moment. He hated being so close to him, everything he had ever known told him that this was wrong, but it killed him to even think of being any further apart when he felt this right. The music played on as he felt Crowleys head lean against the side of his own.

“Cause my baby's sweet as can be”

A warm breath flooded Aziraphale’s ear, vibration ringing through his skull as he felt a familiar voice he had never heard before coming only a few centimetres from his head.

“He give me toothaches just from kissin' me” Crowley sang softly.
(Of course, what didn’t fully register in the angel’s mind at the time, was how the two differently sourced music didn’t quite match up in terms of lyrics; The lyrics from the record of course singing “she,” where as Crowley, by accident or on purpose, said “He.”)

Aziraphale pulled away slightly, not enough to frighten the demon into remembering what had happen earlier, but just enough so that he could see the expression of utter shock across Aziraphale’s face.
“I didn’t know you could sing like that.” Aziraphale whispered, flabbergasted by the beautiful melody he head just heard so close to his ears. He thought back to only a few hours prior, no, before they whole ripping-out-his-heart part, back when they were driving and enjoying their mis-labeled ‘Vaughn William, Fat Bottom Girls’ karaoke; Aziraphale adored Crowley, far more than he was prepared to admit, but his fondness had not blinded him to the demons short-comings, the most notable one being his ability to carry a note. He was pitchy, of course he didn’t sound like he was actually trying to sing particularly well and more like he was just trying to enjoy himself. So, now that Aziraphale had begun to recall the times when he had heard Crowley playfully singing, he had come to the realisation that he had never actually heard the demon sing.

Crowley laughed warmly, still holding his angel close to him, drawing in his warmth. “I guess I’ve always been too embarrassed to sing nicely, you know, being a demon and all.” Crowley inhaled a sharp breath, it hurt him to remember the times before he was a demon, because it was true that he was once an Angel. He remembered the times when he would sit by the edge of heaven, admiring the cosmos above his head, singing gently to the stars. He loved to sing, and always had. But they day he fell, they day they had stripped his memory of his name and his passions, he made the grim discovery that when in Hell, there is little to sing about. But now, as he held heaven in his arms, he felt his love for singing once again. He went on, “singing, its more of a your side thing.”

Aziraphale exhaled harshly as he thought of the institution that was ‘Heaven Above.’ It wasn’t until now, as he stood tucked into the cove of Crowleys chest, feeling the hum of his voice fusing into his heart, that he realised just how cold Heaven really was. Even as he now stood on the devision line between the waring Heaven and Hell, he had not quite fully registered that despite being an Angel, he was no longer a being of heaven. He did not want to think of how they abandoned him, how they tried to kill him or how they tried to wipe everything he had ever loved.

“I think it’s lovely.” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley smiled, moving his hands away from where they were stationed and placed them on either side of the angels face. Aziraphale’s face grew aflame as he felt the demons palms against his cheeks. His objections were lodged in his throat as Crowley thumb slid over his lips, softly, gently.
“You’re lovely.” He whispered, he face growing near his. This scene felt all too familiar. It was frightening, but the sensation of Crowley’s lips so close to his felt electric. How could one not be washed away by this intoxicating current?

But the fear, the fear of everything that could go wrong washed over him in an instant. His hands shot out involuntarily, as if they knew something he didn’t, once again pushing Crowley away before he reached contact. It seems that Aziraphale had been cursed this way, cursed to push anyone, particularly Crowley, away before they got too close; it seems he was cursed to keep everyone at arms lengths, no matter how lonely it felt this far away everything he loved.

“Crowley, please-” He cried, his voice threatening his throat to break. The tears that came as a given to this kind of heartache brimmed his glossy eyes, ones he didn’t dare use to look up at Crowley. “I-, We cant do this. We are demon and an Angel-“ his words seemed to scurry out of his mouth, the déjà vu of his words made him feel uneasy, as if they had had this conversation before - “We wouldn’t have been made this way if it was meant to be.”

Crowley’s eyes grew firm, they harden with what appeared to be anger, but in reality, was actually heartbreak. So all of this was because they were of different kind? Had the angel forgotten that they didn’t have a side anymore? He thought back to his Fall oh so long ago, and wondered if it would be different had he not been so curious. Perhaps had he still had his Halo and pearly white feathers Aziraphale wouldn’t turn him away, perhaps if he had kept his mouth shut 6000 years ago he would still be an Angel and he would be allowed to love. But alas, he was not. He was by the book, evil, wiley, and at the end of the day, a demon. He remembered the day he fell away from heaven, the day he became a demon. He remembered how the eternal fire burnt away his lovely wings, how sulphur poisoned his eyes and how the darkness consumed his humanity. Over the years he learnt to accept who he was as there was no way of being anything but; Under the eternal jurisdiction of Hell he was at last “free” and at liberty to be as curious as he wished. But now, as he stood before the only thing he had ever truely wanted, he realised that all of the pain and suffering had not been worth anything Hell had to offer; no amount of knowledge or freedom could compare to the love he so desperately wished to express. All of the pain he had been through had never good pain, it was just pain.

Crowley swallowed his suffering as best he could as he considered the expression Aziraphale made, how the pain of what he did etched into every crease of his skin, how the colour drained from his face as he uttered out his indignations. With an expression like that, Crowley did not believe that this is really what Aziraphale wanted, not even for a second. Perhaps there was hope yet.

Crowley grabbed the sides of the Angels face, pulling his mournful gaze away from the floor and back into his eyes. He held him firmly, not too hard or in anyway that may cause him discomfort, but just enough so he knew that there was no escaping.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale protested, grabbing at Crowleys hands in attempt to get away. Tears began their decent down Aziraphale’s reddening face. There was so much love in his eyes alone, so much longing and yet so much distance; as if he was a million miles away from right here.

“No.” He growled, because indeed, no. Because he was sick and tired of being denied, especially since Aziraphale wanted to deny him just as much as anyone would want to gnaw their own arm off. Crowley was not hungry, he was not lustful or looking for a quick fuck. He wanted to love, to worship and to give everything he had to the angel in front of him. He would never deny the wishes of Aziraphale, if he truly wanted Crowley to leave, to get out of his sight and never return he would do it all at the drop of a dime. But Crowley wasn’t blind, it was written all over his face what he wanted. All he had to do now, was reach out and take it.

“What do you want Azirphale?” He asked bluntly, it was such a simple question; the kind of simplicity that you would except from a casual conversation, but this was anything but. This was the kind of question that broke the axis Aziraphale’s world spun so structurally on. He had never denied himself the pleasures of humanity, he was gluttonous and greedy and engorged himself in the splendours of the world. But despite his inability to resist the joys of materialism and a good meal, he always held himself to one important rule of being Heaven’s Earthly Corespondent, and that was to not associate with anything Hell related. Of course he infamously broke that rule on day one, but at the time he saw it as a means to an end, or ‘The End’ more like it. But over this journey of eternal life, his means evolved into fondness which quickly grew to a suffocating amount of love. But circumstances would never allow it; even now, as they had been evicted from their respective Sides, he knew it could never be. During the events of Armageddon-gone-pear-shaped, the angel realised that despite being the figurehead of Heaven, it seemed as though God wasn’t on anyone’s side either. If History had taught anyone anything its that God acts outside of what anyone wants or excepts; that she favours no one and the events of time and space happen at her choosing, with no regard or correspondence with Heaven, Hell or Humanity. She was all seeing and all knowing, which means she knew that by creating Aziraphale and Crowley in the forms they now stood in, an Angel and a Demon could never be anything more that enemies, no matter how much they wanted to be. Because if they were meant together, then why were they like this?

“Its not ri-“ Aziraphale opened his mouth to impart this knowledge of good an evil onto Crowley, because knowing the difference between what is right and wrong it worked out so well in the past didn’t it?

“No!” He cries “for fuck sake! what do you want?” Crowley didn’t want to know the difference between good and evil, he didn’t want to hear what was right and wrong, what was meant to be and not to be. He was sick and tired of everyone telling them who and what they were, when all he wanted was to be happy, for Aziraphale to be happy, for them to be happy together.

A sliver of courage began to work its way up Aziraphale’s throat, or perhaps it was weakness as he the felt shards of heavenly self-righteousness shatter on the floor. Would he say it? Would he dare?

“…I want you.” He whispered, so quiet that one might miss had they not been listening as intently as Crowley was.

He said it.

Crowley took in a sharp breath, because holy shit he said it. Every memory they shared, ones that had been suspended above their heads like a constellation of time for the past 6000 years, came crashing down all at once, all in an instant. They did not break, but instead, they swarmed the pair, spinning around them until the morphed into one crystallised fracture of time. The resulting memory was that of what was happening right now. Crowley couldn’t waste another second, not another moment could pass before he gave his response; the words came out before a breath could, words that would alter their relationship forever and befall them with what would happen after.

“Then fucking have me.”