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At the end of all things, Crowley thinks, feeling each meteor crashing in the hollow of his bones, waiting for his body to snap––at the very end of all things, he will have been grateful he was here, in this well-loved bedroom above the shop, and that the vagaries of Aziraphale's affection have so deeply and wonderfully scarred him that his fleeting vision of the world as a chessboarded battlefield engender nothing but a sad resignation––no pride, no hate, no determination to fix it; he hasn't meddled in years, he's lost the touch.
Then Aziraphale turns to him, and perhaps Crowley has scarred him, too, has lovingly disfigured his pure intent, because his eyes are flashing and his cheeks in are in high color; "No, no, I won't, not again," he says, nonsensically, and Crowley sees a series of concentric gates and a boy in a blue hood and a rainbow splatter of blood, and then the world's born anew in a huge and terrible flash of green light.
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"Mogui?" Camael says, when he can feel his fingers and throat again, the way his toes are curled uncomfortably in his shoes. "Are you there?"
There's no answer and his heart (not that he needs it) stops; then fingers creep into his own, and Z. looks at him with his yellow eyes, barely hidden behind his spectacles. "Camael," he says, "you're here," and reaches for him.