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Crowley naps for a year after it happens. He’s finally got his flat back. He might as well. Sure, a bigger change of scene sounds ideal. Running away to a distant star. But he finds he hasn’t got the energy for it.
When he wakes up, his flat is full of mail, flooding the area beneath the mail slot in the door. Nothing from Aziraphale, he notes, still foggy-headed from slumber. A stupid thing to note. What was he expecting, a postcard from Heaven?
He swears never to give the angel another thought.
Not long after, he finds himself standing outside the bookshop, staring through the window while Muriel – who’s finally gotten out of that bloody police uniform – sells something to a customer. The part of him that leaps to Aziraphale’s defense like a well-trained dog wants to run in, bellow EXCUSE ME? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?? , and knock the book out of the customer’s hands.
Instead, he moves along. A glance into the coffee shop reveals Nina and Maggie leaning over each side of the counter toward each other, canoodling.
Right. Good for them.
Time for a change of scenery.
+
He tries out hopping around space for a time, but the eternal vastness is depressing. So he takes to the English coast instead. His plants could use some nature after spending so long in the car, and then so long napping with him.
He lets a cottage in the South Downs: a tiny thing, barely more than a room, made for people to be cozy in together. It’s horribly cutesy; vomit-inducing, really. Aziraphale would love it. He pictures the angel walking around it, beaming, and almost turns and drives away.
But if he tries to outrun every place that reminds him of Aziraphale, he’ll never sit still again.
And at least the plants seem to like it. They bask in the sun that comes through the tall windows, looking deep green and hearty.
Meanwhile, Crowley leans into his new passion for sitting on the sofa and staring at nothing, pretending he can’t hear the tick-tick-tick of the world nearing its end. Funny; it feels over already.
+
One day, there’s a knock on the door.
He opens it. There’s Aziraphale. Instead of his old clothes, he’s dressed sleeker and shinier, looking not quite like himself in a shining white suit. His hair is slicked back.
“Um, hello,” he says with a nervous smile. “I’ve found that — well, as it so happens, I’m going to need to overthrow Heaven.”
“Bully for you,” Crowley says, and slams the door.
When it’s closed, he leans against it, resting his forehead there. He has a headache. His chest is woozy. He feels like a human.
Aziraphale knocks again, three times. Crowley doesn’t answer.
+
Aziraphale comes back a week later.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” he says, “but it’s becoming a bit urgent. You see, they want to end it all, despite some very good points I’ve made to the contrary.”
“And that’s news all of a sudden, is it? I thought that’s what you wanted, the pair of us in our fluffy white wings ushering in the mass death of humanity.”
“No,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “No, not at all. I thought that perhaps–”
“You thought what?” Crowley interrupts, glowering.
“Well. It doesn’t matter. The point is, we really must do something.”
“‘We’? What’s that?”
“Oh, Crowley, don’t–”
Slam!
+
“The thing is,” says Aziraphale the next month, “it’s all absolutely lousy without you.”
“I bet it is,” Crowley says.
Slam!
+
It’s winter when Aziraphale tries next. The ground is all covered in heavy snow; strange, for this part of the country, but the planet’s been making her umbrage known in all kinds of wonky ways lately. The end of the world as we know it, and all that.
The angel almost blends in with the landscape behind him. It makes him look oddly insubstantial, faded. His face is tired. His hair is back to normal, at least. “I’d like to talk about it. I’m ready now.”
“What?”
“The, um. The.” He points at his own lips.
Crowley scowls. “You can’t even say it. Pathetic. It’s one tiny word. It’s not concupiscent. It’s not hexametaphosphate.”
But he finds himself opening the door.
No deeper meaning to it. It’s cold out. That’s all.
Aziraphale steps inside. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Hmpfhhhhh,” says Crowley.
Aziraphale closes the door behind him once he’s noticed that Crowley isn’t going to do it. He stares around awkwardly for a moment, then sits down on the small sofa. He politely pushes aside the heavy quilt that Crowley found in a cupboard and has been spending most of his time sitting under, listening to “Blue Eyes” by The Velvet Underground on repeat for days at a time.
He could do with a bit of quilt time about now.
He grabs the blanket off the couch, abruptly so it startles Aziraphale, and drapes it around himself like a melancholic Virgin Mary.
When he sits on the other side of the sofa, Aziraphale bristles.
“Don’t worry,” Crowley spits. “I won’t kiss you again, if that’s what you’re so twitchy about.”
Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Finally, he settles on, “Why did you do it in the first place?”
“Seriously? Were you not listening to a word I said beforehand?”
“No, I was. I know. I feel – I felt – I know just what you meant. But … kissing’s not for us.”
“Says who?”
“I didn’t know anyone needed to say it.”
“You know what else isn’t for us? A nice hot cuppa on a cold day. But go on, make yourself one if you like.” He gestures toward the kettle on the stove. “I can’t be bothered to wait after guests who show up unannounced.”
“I was a bit announced. I have been stopping by for the past few months.”
Crowley ignores him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a fifty year nap to get to.”
“Oh, but you can’t have one of your naps now,” Aziraphale protests.
“Watch me, angel.” He catches himself. Lip curled in a sneer, he says, “I’m sorry. Supreme Archangel.”
Aziraphale frowns. He gets up and goes to the kettle.
While he putters around, making the cottage feel far more like a home than it has so far, Crowley leans back and pretends to sleep.
After a time, the kettle wails, then quiets. Crowley opens one squinting eye and watches Aziraphale pour himself a cup, and then a second one for Crowley. The courteous bastard.
“I know that you don’t want me anymore,” comes Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley squeezes both eyes shut again. “That’s all right. Well, not all right, really; what I mean is, I understand it. But please. For the world. I can’t stop what’s coming all alone. You still love them, don’t you: the humans? Even if you’ve had enough of me?”
I’ll never have enough of you. That’s the problem.
“What’s the point?” Crowley asks, keeping his eyes shut. “It was always meant to be this way, yeah?”
“Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe we were meant to stop it. Together.”
“Can you stop trying to make me part of the grand ineffable bloody clusterfuck? It’s all directionless. All pettiness and scrambling with good PR in front of it. Sound and fury, vacant hullabaloo. You should know that by now. You must be scrambling if you came here.”
“I came here as soon as I could work up the nerve, I’ll have you know. It was my first choice. And I’ll keep coming here, too. This is too important for you to sulk through.”
“Maybe I’m not sulking,” Crowley snaps, forgetting to keep his eyes closed. “Maybe I’m heartbroken.”
Aziraphale meets his eyes, then looks away. “Heartsore, maybe. But surely not broken.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Crowley shakes the quilt impatiently off his shoulders. "The thought that you haven’t done any permanent damage. You could never do anything too bad – not you, not the angel.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, very quietly.
Crowley glares at him, teeth bared. He wants to keep on with it, go for the kill, but the tremor in Aziraphale’s voice chokes him. Even now, it’s hopeless.
Aziraphale sniffs. “I do lo—I do love you, you know. Oh, of course you do. You must. And I’ve missed you terribly.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grunts, dizzy. It’s nothing. It’s love, offered freely to him for the first time in his long, long life. Nothing to write home about. “None of that if we’re going to do this. I mean it. That’s all over now. Let it go. Those are my terms.”
Aziraphale looks stricken. Crowley can feel it climbing up his throat. Not really, angel. I didn’t mean it. Of course I missed you. Of course I–
Aziraphale nods, grim. “Terms accepted. Now: tea?”
+
They do stop it all ending again, in the end, after weeks of high-stakes calamity and near misses and both of them nearly meeting their doom more than once. The doom isn’t quite as scary as the moments where they accidentally meet each other’s eyes too long. Aziraphale doesn’t say that he loves Crowley again, but that doesn’t stop Crowley from hearing it in his head in every quiet second that passes. Fortunately, there aren’t too many quiet seconds.
When the shit really hits the fan, the two of them on wing lifetimes away from Earth, it becomes clear they’ll need a weapon they won’t get back to stop it all from crumbling, so Crowley decides to give himself up for the cause. He’s old, he’s tired, the world has lost its sparkle without someone to share it with. He feels like a worthy sacrifice.
Aziraphale decides not to let him be.
Aziraphale kisses him this time, but Crowley’s not sure it counts. It’s a breath-of-life, resurrection sort of thing. Not kissing for kissing’s sake. Just Aziraphale, clinging fast to him, the two of them drifting in the wide, pulsing stretch of the cosmos.
It does the trick. He survives. So does Earth, life, the unkillable divine spark.
+
Once it’s all blown over, and humankind is safe(-ish), and Heaven and Hell are reassembling themselves into some new configuration that will no doubt prove equally annoying in time, Crowley finds himself sitting with Aziraphale out in the garden of the South Downs cottage. They’re opposite each other at a little table, with toast and bacon and steaming cups of tea between them. They’ve both got dressing gowns on over their pyjamas: Crowley’s is black, Aziraphale’s a pretty hideous gold paisley. Aziraphale has been very insistent that now that they’re properly retired, they must conduct themselves like gentlemen of leisure.
Crowley's taken off his sunglasses, despite the sunshine. He's starting to suspect Aziraphale likes to see him without them.
“A lovely morning,” Aziraphale declares. It’s spring again, blue and green and gold. They’ve eked out at least one more of those.
“Yeah, it’s all right,” says Crowley.
“It’s extra sweet, isn’t it? Knowing we might have lost it all. If you really pay close attention, I swear you can smell each individual flower.”
You can, is the annoying thing.
“I don’t go around smelling flowers, now, do I?”
“Yes you do,” Aziraphale says, with only the most tasteful hint of a smug smile.
“Nah,” says Crowley. “No way.”
He makes a point of pushing away the daisy in a vase that Aziraphale had included in their breakfast spread. Aziraphale tuts and pushes it back.
“So. Since we survived, and we’ve officially retired, and there’s nothing very pressing going on just now …” Aziraphale pauses, clearing his throat. “Ahem. Can I try to kiss you again?”
Crowley peers over at him. “You did that already.”
“Well, yes, but that was life-or-death stuff. A matter of ritual. I didn’t really have time to focus on technique.”
Despite himself, Crowley snorts. “Technique?”
“Oh, yes. There are all sorts of things to keep in mind when you’re kissing. I did some research; I read a few shelves in the romance section. (There’s a romance section now, bless Muriel.) Bodice-rippers, they’re called. Neither of us tends to wear bodices these days, but I figured the same general principles apply.”
Crowley tries very hard not to look as amused as he is.
“And,” Aziraphale continues zestfully, “I even looked at a webpage full of fun and flirty tips.”
“How did you access a webpage?”
“Maggie and Nina helped.”
“That was good of them.”
“They’re rooting for us, you know. They said so.” Aziraphale reaches across the table, resting his hand in front of Crowley, palm upturned. “And so am I.”
Crowley stares at his hand. “You don’t have to do all this.”
Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I get it. I got you into food, drink, catchy little ditties. All your indulgences, I suppose you could say I tempted you into them. And I’m not a total knobhead; I know I’m always full speed ahead, a million miles too quick for you. But I don’t want you to– to feel like you don’t have a say in, er, how we are. Together. If you don’t want to do kissing, angel, that’s fine with me. Whatever makes you happy, well, I’m happy too. Or, well. You know. Glowering, most of the time. But content-ish.”
He looks up. Aziraphale is watching him with an expression of wonderful softness.
“I know you’re not tempting me, silly.”
“Since when?” Crowley asks with a scoff. “You’ve been accusing me of tempting you into unsavory conduct for the last, oh, what is it, several thousand years?”
“Well, I’ve moved on from that. It was an immature way of thinking. I haven’t a care in the world about that sort of thing anymore. I’m zen now.”
Crowley can’t help a grin. “Oh, are you?”
“Very. And …” Aziraphale’s face goes particularly fond. “You’re not at fault for anything. You’re my partner, as the humans say these days. That’s all. And I’m yours. And I think we should enjoy it.”
“Oh? Oh. All right, then.”
Aziraphale wiggles his fingers encouragingly. At last, Crowley takes his hand. They sit in silence for a moment, holding hands and enjoying the morning breeze and the sun and the merry chirps of a nearby squirrel.
It’s nice. Really nice.
“Just out of curiosity,” Crowley says offhandedly, “what did the, er, webpage say?”
Aziraphale perks up. “I’m so glad you asked. You see, one mustn’t just charge in, tongues a-blazing.”
“There’s tongues involved?”
“Apparently so.”
“Huh. The same tongue you use for enunciation and tasting your food and all that?”
“The very one. Apparently, it’s very multipurpose.”
“How about teeth?”
“No mention of teeth.”
“Right. That seems for the best, doesn’t it? Could get a bit bitey, with teeth. Anyway. Carry on.”
“According to the webpage, it’s good to start slow. To begin with just a gentle press of lips, and then to linger, and be present in the moment.”
“I suppose we haven’t had time for much of a linger yet,” Crowley acknowledges. “It requires that the world’s not actively ending around you, a linger.”
“And then, well, go from there, based on each other’s body language. Play it by ear.”
“Play with my ear?” Crowley repeats, wrinkling his nose.
“No, no. The metaphorical expression. I think.” Valiantly, Aziraphale adds, “I could, um, try playing with your ear, if you’re interested in that.”
“Let’s stick with lips for now,” Crowley says with a furrowed brow.
“Right,” agrees Aziraphale, looking relieved. “Best not overcomplicate things.”
Crowley frowns thoughtfully. “How do you know when to start? I think I got that bit wrong the first time.”
Aziraphale heaves a wistful sigh. “You did and you didn’t.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, if you hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have had it to think about constantly while I was up there, and perhaps I wouldn’t have been so keenly aware of what I had lost and what I was getting wrong and what I couldn’t let slide, even if it was the right thing in Heaven’s judgment. And then everything would be over and gone, and we wouldn’t be sitting here now. So in that way, your timing was impeccable.”
“I see. Well, you’re welcome, then.”
“But it was also very tactless,” Aziraphale adds, darkening. “You can’t just spring a first kiss on someone after six thousand years in the middle of a horrible argument. What were you thinking?”
Crowley lifts his eyebrows. “I see. Well, I’m sorry, then.”
“Apology accepted. You’d best make it up to me.”
“Now?”
“Or later. Whenever works for you.”
Crowley considers the being sitting across from him. His dearest friend. His bleakest heartbreak. Everything in between, forever after. “I think I want to do it now.”
“I think I want you to do it now.”
“Right,” says Crowley, “good.”
Aziraphale smiles, nervous and charming.
Crowley leans across the small table, and Aziraphale does the same in his direction. It makes Crowley remember Nina and Maggie over the coffee shop counter.
This time it’s not really him kissing Aziraphale, or Aziraphale kissing him; they meet in the middle and stay there. Aziraphale tastes like tea and jam, and his lips are kind. Firm, and soft, and certain. Glad to linger.
They part, and stare at each other, and mutter little reassurances, and then kiss again, heartened by the success of the first time. Crowley’s starting to get what it means, playing it by (metaphorical) ear.
Then:
“Listen,” Aziraphale says, pulling away.
“What?”
Aziraphale’s eyes dart briefly up; then he’s back to looking at Crowley again, a smile on his face. And Crowley hears it – birdsong.