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It's been four months, two weeks and twenty-one days since Aziraphale left. Not that Crowley was counting.
He's fine, he's fine! Life is alright. He has his apartment back, he's been checking up on the bookshop, Muriel thankfully hasn't sold any books, and he pops in to check on Maggie and Nina sometimes too.
It's weird, being unattached to hell almost completely now, not doing any of their work but still reaping the benefits of miracles. Sometimes he hears from Lord Beelzebub, apparently they and Gabriel took his advice on Alpha Centauri, and they've been singing that Holly song the whole way through.
Alpha Centauri…. Crowley is not jealous of them. Nope. Not a lick.
He doesn't think about how they've got it all figured out. He doesn't think about how easy it was for them to run off together, sing their little hearts away in the stars, the stars he created, he doesn't think about how desperately he wishes that was him, that that was them, him and Aziraphale.
Well, he at least doesn't think about it sober.
It's been four months, two weeks and twenty-one days, and he's fine. He's… he's got it all sorted out. He only allows himself to wallow in self pity at bedtime, so that he can cry himself to sleep.
He scrubs his teeth, and tries not to think of the feeling of Aziraphale's lips. Tries not to think about the way he said he forgave him. For what! For not going to heaven with him? For not being a fucking angel? Like it was his fault, and he somehow wronged Aziraphale!
He spits the suds into the sink, and checks his fangs in the mirror. They get sharper and longer when he's irritated. For the past four months, two weeks and twenty-one days, they've been sharp enough to bite his tongue clean off.
He rinsed his mouth and ruffled his hair. He thinks he might grow it out, who knows.
When he climbs into bed, he counts how long it takes until he breaks down.
He broke his record today. Thirty-five seconds. Last one was thirty-two.
He curls into his blankets, clutching his pillow, and tells himself to breathe as sobs wrack through his body, his sheets damp from wherever the tears fall.
"'I forgive you', huh?" He mutters to himself. "Well I don't bloody forgive you, you-you traitor!"
He openly sobs, not caring about whether Jacobi just under his apartment can hear him and gets annoyed, or whether Mrs. Rita across the way might gossip. He lets his sobs and wails tear his throat, lets his hands rip open his expensive silk pillows.
"I'm lying!" He wails. He feels so foolish, his face flushes. He talks as if he's listening, as if he can hear him, as if someone can hear him. Maybe they can. Let them. "I forgive you, goddamnit, I forgive you!"
He curls further into himself, wanting to become small, molecular.
He wants to be nothing.
He wakes up with a start to a knock at his door. He figures it may be a salesman, or a demon trying to convince him to Join The Ranks again.
He groans, and sits up. "No one's here!" He shouts, but the knocking gets louder.
"I know you're in there, Crowley," their muffled voice replies. "Just open the door!"
Crowley recognizes the voice, and groans louder.
"I do not consort with Archangels, thanks!" he replies to who he assumes is Michael. "If you need something, talk to Muriel or whoever, they enjoy company!"
"Crowley, this is futile." Suddenly the voice was not muffled, but very much clear, and he jumped from where he laid to sit up and stare at the Archangel in all her divine annoyance.
"What do you know about futility, Michael?" Crowley asked. "You being here is futile, since I have no business with you!"
"The contrary is true, actually," she says, and she crosses her hands behind her back. "Supreme Archangel Aziraphale wants to talk to you."
Crowley paused. What a weird thing to hear, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. He seemed to forget it was true that Aziraphale took the position. Sometimes Crowley convinced himself it was a stupid dream. It's not, evidently.
"If he wanted business with me, why didn't he come here himself, ey?" Crowley snarled, and stood up from his bed, pulling a robe over his pajamas.
"As Supreme Archangel he's a very busy angel." Michael replied. "not that you would understand."
"Get out, Michael."
"Here," she said, holding out a slip of perfectly shaped, cream-colored paper. It was disgusting to even look at. "Location, time, the such."
Crowley snatched the paper from her fingers, purposefully burning the edges to give it some character, and read the message.
In perfect cursive, it reads, Berkeley Square, our bench, 2:00 PM today. There are things left unsaid that shall be revealed.
Yours,
-Aziraphale
Crowley's fingers tighten on the parcel, and he shoves the offending thing into his pocket.
"Alright, now get out!" Crowley snarled, and she flew out and away in a ball of light. How dramatic.
He took five deep breaths.
"Breathe, Crowley, you're fine. It's fine. Whatever. S'fine. You'll meet with him, see what he wants, get the hell out of there. This will be fine." He mutters to himself, and ruffles his hair again. Maybe he should cut it.
When two PM arrives, Crowley has been sitting on the bench staring at the ducks for two hours.
"Ducks do have ears, by the way." Crowley mumbles, and looks over to the previously empty seat to see Aziraphale.
He feels his heart race, and swallows. Breathe, Crowley.
"I suppose that makes sense, seeing as those wily things love to talk so much." Aziraphale replies, and Crowley looks away from him, and they both watch the ducks for a minute or so in silence. Almost like before.
Except now, Aziraphale has no familiar tartan, he doesn't smell of hot cocoa or moth balls anymore. Actually, he doesn't smell of anything, and it bothers Crowley more than he expected. He doesn't have those cufflinks that Whitman gifted him, or the familiar caramel vest. He's completely white, almost devoid of anything significant, human.
He's pure. Crowley tries not to choke on the aura of it.
"You get a new halo?" Crowley asked.
"Oh yes, it's less tight than the first one too."
"Good, good good good."
More awkward tense silence.
Crowley can't stand it.
Six thousand years. Six thousand. In that time, there have been times they wouldn't see each other for centuries, sometimes not until the turn of the millennia.
But the four months they've been a part, feels like a bigger gap than the time between Crowley's fall and now.
"What do you want, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked finally, fed up with the awkward silence and stunted conversational topics. Ducks? Come on. Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel of the highest order or whatever didn't find time in his busy schedule to talk about ducks.
Aziraphale shifted and swallowed.
"Well," he fidgeted with his pinky ring, the only splash of color on the other man. Crowley's grateful to see some part of the angel that he recognizes. "I just, well, wanted to talk."
"About?" Crowley turned to Aziraphale, eyebrows raised in expectancy.
"Anything." Aziraphale answered, shrugging his shoulders.
"Anything? Come on, angel, you can't fool me. It's only been a couple of months," Crowley scoffed. "Our history doesn't just- go away once you become head honcho of heaven."
Aziraphale looked to Crowley for the first time and back to the ducks, and swallowed.
"About that," he said, and turned further away from Crowley's face. "I've actually, um, well, you see, it's complicated, but, you know, the Metatron and all-"
"Spit it out, angel!" Crowley exclaimed.
Aziraphale looked back to Crowley and swallowed again.
"I resigned my position as Supreme Archangel." He said softly, so softly Crowley almost didn't catch it.
Crowley blinked. And blinked. And blinked.
"Whhyuhwhahm?" The noise fell out of his mouth, then he cleared his throat. "You resigned?"
"Yes, that's what I said!" Aziraphale cried. He huffed and his hands flopped in irritation. "I-" huff. "I realized that- well, my plan to make a change or a difference was all- bullocks!" He rubbed his face in irritation. "There's an institutional problem, with all of it, and I realized if the previous supreme had to deal with what he dealt with for not adhering to the status quo, then how am I any different? Hell, most if not all of heaven despises me, how would I not fail when even revered, loved-by-all Gabriel had to walk around London in his human birthday suit?!"
Aziraphale had his head buried in his hands, leaning over his lap. Crowley's eyes were wide.
"So… you were wrong?" He said slowly.
"Yes." He said, irritation in his voice.
"So…" Crowley felt a smirk pull his lips. "I was right?"
Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, Crowley."
"You know what this means."
"Crowley-"
"You have to do it, Aziraphale, come on."
Aziraphale groaned, then stood.
"You were right," he swings his arm. "You were right," he swings the other arm, "I was wrong," he spins, "and you were right." He finishes in a low bow, and Crowley smirks.
"Nice," He said. "Anyways, are we done?"
"What- what do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, confusion pulling his eyebrows and his hands held together in front of him.
"Well, I'm a busy gal, I've got- demonic shit to get up to." Crowley says, vaguely motioning to anything around him. "We don't have our side anymore, so I've got to- skiddaddle."
Aziraphale's face panged with pain at hearing Crowley's words, and it hurt to say, but Crowley didn't try to take them back. It was true, right? Aziraphale always said they never had a side anyways, this is what he wants, right?
"Oh."
Crowley swallowed. "Alright. I'm off." He stood to leave, but Aziraphale raised his hands, frantic.
"Wait! There's something else I'd like to discuss." rushes out, and now true anxiety shows on his face.
Crowley felt his stomach turn, having an idea of what the topic might be.
"Go on, out with it." He says, and takes a few deep breaths as Aziraphale takes his seat next to him.
Aziraphale clears his throat. "Well," he starts, and clears his throat again. "You- you remember what happened, back when the Metatron-"
"Yes yes what about it?" Crowley cut in, feeling his face warm with shame. Shame? Something like that.
Aziraphale swallowed. "Well. I realized I said a lot of wrong things."
"Evidently."
"Besides that, what I said about you was wrong. I said that you were the bad guy, that-that you needed to be fixed," Aziraphale huffed. "And for a while, I believed that. If I'm being completely honest, I missed the old you, from when we first met, when you were creating nebulae. I wished that maybe if we were both pure, and holy, we could be together. I didn't realize how wrong that is. I did miss the old you, from before the war, but the you right now?"
He raised a hand and hesitated right near Crowley's cheek. Crowley felt his chest pound.
"I wouldn't trade you for any nebula or pillar of creation in the universe."
Crowley swallowed. "Angel, what do you mean?"
"Crowley, I-" he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, for always letting you down. I always told you no, because I was scared. I let you down again, and I'm so sorry. I have nothing to forgive you for, it's your forgiveness I seek," he finally, finally, let his hand rest on Crowley's cheek, and Crowley felt calm wash over him when their skin connected for the first time in four months, two weeks and twenty-two days. "I love you."
Crowley felt his lips and chin tremble, felt his hands shake.
"Shit," he whispered. He knows what his answer is. It wasn't even a question. "I forgive you. I forgive you."
Relief washed over the angel's face immediately, and Aziraphale's smile blinded Crowley even through the glasses.
"Really? After everything?"
"How could I not?" Crowley says, "you're- you're my angel, Aziraphale. It hurt like hell when you left. All I wanted was for you to be back."
"I'm back now, for good, I promise." Aziraphale said, and he realizes how close their faces are now, their proximity.
Aziraphale swallows. "Can I?"
"Please."
Aziraphale paused to remove Crowley's sunglasses, then, their lips were smashed together, as fierce and passionate as their first. Sparks flew under Crowley's skin, electricity coursing through his veins. Their lips moved in tandem, and it felt like stars aligning.
When they finally pulled apart, gasping for air they didn't need, Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale.
"You owe me at least four more dances, Angel."
"I don't mind."
They sat in silence for a moment, the world seeming to be paused. Maybe it was.
He swallowed.
"I love you, you know."
Aziraphale looked into Crowley's eyes, and Crowley only saw pure adoration, devotion and love there.
"How could I not?"
Crowley smiled, and kissed him again.
"We're our own side, now." Crowley muttered.
"Always."
Fin