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The Second Coming came as prophesied, and there was only so much Aziraphale could do about it. When he chose to contact Crowley, the information arrived on neatly-typed snow-white sheets in business-sized envelopes, appearing like parking tickets under the Bentley's windshield wipers. More often than not, Crowley did as they suggested; in no case did he try to reply. But Maggie did her part, as did a good number of Erics, and so did Muriel and Mrs. Sandwich (by far the oddest couple, Crowley thought, that his six thousand years had ever seen, not exempting any he had attempted himself).
As for himself, well -- Crowley loved the Earth for many reasons. Whiskey, whales, and women's fashion. Wine and wheels, anodized titanium, charmeuse silk, and steel. Pigeons, ducks, crows, caffeine, and cars, space telescopes and stars. Humanity might never make it to Mars, but Crowley was immortal. He wasn't ready to give up on his nebulae and the stars they were meant to birth, not at Creation, nor for Apocalypse. Never. If the universe ran down or collapsed (humans seemed to think it eventually must do one or the other), he wanted to be around to witness it happening, or whatever else it turned out to do of its own accord. Not because They were bored of Their toy.
So the Second Coming went. It slouched towards Bethlehem to be born, but it scurried away from Soho making other plans. It ended up in Tadfield, something about tropical fish, and Adam and the Them adopted it. Brian asked Crowley not to visit until after the poor thing stopped having nightmares, and the young people came two at a time to London instead. They were old enough to drink at the Dirty Donkey now, and Crowley didn't mind that they weren't children anymore. They had been Crowley's allies since he took Adam out of Time. The Them defeated the Horsemen and Adam claimed his own father, and the Earth was saved for them all.
Aziraphale remained an angel, but His Beatitude returned to his bookshop. Crowley first discovered him right at the edge of Mayfair, in Postcard Teas, being plied by the shopowner with a little steaming cup of Ya Shi Xiang. Crowley lurked (he was a demon, after all) for nearly two hours before Aziraphale emerged with his shopping bag bulging. The demon stalked the angel back to Soho, then slunk into the Dirty Donkey to drink it off alone. It seemed Heaven didn't agree with Aziraphale's constitution. He looked thinner inside his old clothes, his steps shorter, shoulders hunched. Tonight, Crowley spotted him on the sidewalk and watched through the pub window until Pepper flicked her fingernail against his wineglass, making it ring. "You shouldn't just stare," she said when he looked back at her. "Maybe you should talk to him."
Crowley laughed, surprising himself. "I took that advice before," he said. "Didn't go well."
Pepper's brow knitted, and the demon tried to remember exactly how much he had confessed to her over how many glasses of wine. Adam, who looked even more like a Greek god as an adult than he had as the Antichrist, offered an unnervingly beautiful smile. "Doesn't matter how it turns out, does it?" he asked. "If you want answers, I mean. I guess you could spy on him, but that --" his mouth turned, horribly, gentle, "-- won't tell you the same things."
Crowley snorted and Adam refilled their glasses from the bottle. It wasn't bad for pub wine, a lime-colored vinho verde, tangy as if not quite ripe. "He asks about you," Pepper added, "but we won't tell him anything."
"You visit him too then?" It wasn't quite an accusation. The two of Them shrugged.
"He comes to Tadfield," Adam said. "To check on Twooie. And he might still be checking up on me," he added.
Pepper rolled her eyes. The Antichrist, ex- or otherwise, tended to be self-centered. "He asks about you, she repeated, looking back at Crowley as if she could see through his shades. (He was fairly certain she could not. She might have learned the trick from Anathema.) "We tell him the same thing, of course. Mostly he sighs, and one time when he was drunk he started crying." Adam kicked her under the table, and Pepper kicked him back. "Honestly it's ridiculous," she continued. "If you weren't both immortal you wouldn't have a millionth of so many chances."
"You can tell him --" Crowley cut himself off, hard. Pepper sighed; Adam nearly smiled again. "Yeah, all right. Don't tell him anything." Crowley drank more wine and thought about dropping the subject. Pepper and Adam leaned back on their side of the booth, arms linked over the top of the vinyl cushion, comfortable as lifelong friends should be. Crowley sighed, conceding the metaphorical point, and took out his phone.
It rang twenty times, but he knew how to wait. "I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed."
"It's me, you idiot," Crowley said. Probably not the right way to begin, but Aziraphale wasn't listening; he was saying "Crowley!" in a high voice that cracked.
"I just said it was me." Crowley looked up at the humans, who wore identical indulgent smiles; he snarled back. "I'll stop by later. Perhaps we'll talk. Ciao." He hung up.
"Well done!" said Adam. Pepper stood and went to the bar, returning with two glasses of Talisker. Adam did not care for hard spirits; he clinked their silent toast with cider.
None of them mentioned Aziraphale again. Pepper was souping up Dick Turpin. She had painted it over in British Racing Green, but the name still stuck. Pepper also wanted to look under the Bentley's hood, and both Adam and Crowley enjoyed teasing her about why she shouldn't. It was all very easy and good-natured until the young humans took off -- Pepper drove far too much like Crowley, for a mortal. He watched the little vehicle tilt as it turned off Whickber Street.
The Bentley was right beside him. He could drive after them; a proper demonic stalking, lights off. Not that he'd ever been much of a credit to Hell, or for that matter Heaven, or anybody else.
By "anybody else" he meant Aziraphale. Crowley had helped (or at least tried) to save Earth multiple times, and here it was spinning on. He had earned the right to act like he belonged. At nine o'clock on an August evening, Soho smelled of cigarettes, burnt petrol, and human sweat; he let his tongue go snaky to sense electricity and rats. He was walking now, or stalking -- sins lit up his senses, envy and lust and delicious gluttony. Crowley liked it, now that he had no obligation to harvest them. Then he was on a corner, tasting the terrible familiarity of old books.
Dried-out paper decaying, the lignin warm like vanilla. A sharp note of mothballs, the duller edge of resin and carbon in ink, a hint of old tanned leather. Muriel smelled like ozone, but that high note was not there.
Aziraphale should have flooded Crowley's mouth with heat and sunlight, honey and hope. He always had, though the dust in the windows had always been thick and the sign that said CLOSED more often had than not. But the spirit inside felt folded in upon itself, cold as Heaven and strange as a stranger's.
Crowley hesitated. His tongue flicked out and in. The door swung open.
At least this time it was dark inside. No fire. The air was only a little stuffy, a few degrees warmer than outside. Crowley crossed the threshold and the door stayed open behind him. The front of the shop was still as Muriel had arranged it, books in stacks topped by labeled sheets of paper: THE YELLOWEST COVERS. POEMS THAT DO NOT RHYME. ART MADE FROM GEODES. SEX WITH ALL WOMEN. TALKING SPIDERS - FICTION.
One of the lamps on the desk was lit, and Aziraphale stood beside it. His hands were clasped behind his back, which meant he was nervous. "Hello, Crowley," he said. "I'm so very glad you decided to stop by."
That sounded rehearsed. Crowley sauntered towards him, veering off as he had so many times to drop onto the couch. The cushions retained a note of Muriel's essence mixed with Mrs. Sandwich's perfume -- ozone and rose and patchouli, over a feminine musk. The demon tried to ignore that. "Aziraphale," he acknowledged. "You're back."
"I have been for some time," which Crowley knew and continued to ignore. "I did my best Up There. I left when I was quite sure I could not accomplish any more."
Crowley allowed him a nod. "Useful to have a man on the inside. That tip about the pelican helped a lot." He didn't want to talk about Heaven. The typed letters had been formal and discreet -- cold, even, but Aziraphale had so often been cold, for deniability's sake. Crowley could be gracious about that. Aziraphale had chosen Heaven, but thwarted their destructive plans, more effective than he had ever been against Hell. The world survived. The angel's mouth twisted but he didn't say anything, so Crowley prodded. "Do you want me to say thank you?" It was an inquiry, not an offer.
"Please don't." The answer was satisfyingly swift, although Crowley rather thought Aziraphale would have liked it if he had. "Perhaps I ought to do the dance," he added. He released his own hands, one reaching forward as the other went back --
"No," Crowley interrupted. "Don't, not a blessed step of it. It's ridiculous, it's always been ridiculous. I hate it." He realized he was still drunk, not roaringly as they used to get together, but enough to loosen his tongue. Aziraphale's hands fluttered by his sides, which was an improvement. The demon decided not to sober up, but that meant he went on talking. "I hate that you went with the Metatron too. That you chose Heaven, and not," he choked but said it anyway, "me. You weren't even wrong, you know? And we were still on the same team after all. It wasn't just the two of us -- that's where I was wrong. We needed Adam." He could never forget that again, not even if the Antichrist were mortal after all and actually died someday. "All of the Them, and Tracy too. Muriel and Maggie and Mrs. S. This is Earth -- humans matter, they did at least as much as us, every time. Gabriel and Beelzebub never saved anything but their stupid, selfish selves."
He was veering into gossip and complaint, which felt far too much like old times. But Aziraphale stood sober as a stone, and Time never could run backward. Crowley swallowed hard, then got rid of the vinho verde. The Talisker he kept as earned. His spine kinked uncomfortably, and he shifted on the couch. Aziraphale must have read something in his expression, because his voice turned solicitous. "May I offer you a drink?"
He had never said no to Aziraphale's indulgences. Crowley shrugged. "I'll have a nip of whatever you're having." There was a teacup on the desk, half full.
Aziraphale smiled with disproportionate delight. "I'll just be two shakes," he said. There was the familiar spark of a miracle to lock the front door, and the angel headed towards the back room. He stood, Crowley thought, a little straighter than he had on the street.
The problem with being immortals together, Crowley thought, was that it was so easy to let one time's truth bleed into a completely separate occasion. If the lamplight could be oil instead of electric, the year could be 1800, and they could be celebrating his trick on Gabriel and Sandalphon. There had been chocolates, and kissing afterwards. Or it could be 1969 when he'd dragged in the colour telly and they watched Apollo 8 together, six days of sitting side by side, rapt and tense -- Crowley had not slept at all, and they hadn't so much as held hands.
The Them had not been born yet when humans went to the Moon. Shadwell had thought it was witchcraft, which would have made any actual witch laugh until they cried. God did nothing, having apparently given up on altitude restrictions somewhere between Babel's fall and the Wright brothers' success. Aziraphale drank gin, which he only did under extreme tension after 1752, while Crowley drank espresso by the pint. That had not been even one ordinary human lifetime ago, and the years since Aziraphale's defection should have felt like hardly a blink in their long ages of knowing one another. But every day, every unsigned letter, and the horrible I forgive you stuck like ashes in Crowley's throat. He'd learned how to breathe and swallow around all that among his human friends, but he felt it again like being choked.
Then Aziraphale returned with a small, slender bottle and two contrastingly large glasses. "This is an Eiswein," he said, with all the giddy joy Crowley remembered, and remembered having cultivated. It made his head spin. "It's very sweet," Aziraphale was saying, "but with enough acid to cut through. I hope you love it."
Crowley thought he would have liked it better if nobody said the word love. Maybe skip past hope as well. The cork was pulled and the wine poured, gold as honey in the glass, and the stem felt cold in his fingers. It could be 2019 and champagne at the Ritz, relaxing while the angel smiled into his eyes and echoed, "To the world."
Except that it wasn't, and if Aziraphale said any such thing Crowley would put the glass down untasted and leave. Instead he lifted it and sucked the bookshop's stuffy air between his teeth. The angel was watching him, eyes wide, tense around the mouth. "To the future," Crowley said. "May it be unpredictable and long."
"To the future," Aziraphale echoed, tapping their glasses, then almost purring as he sipped. The small sound rang through Crowley's senses, tangible as thunder. He had not expected to hear it again. He drank.
The wine was cool and sweet and, yes, just acidic enough. Crowley swallowed it like a snake. There was not enough alcohol to replace the vinho verde, and he wasn't sure if he wanted more or not. It did soothe his throat, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that either. He put the glass down.
"I was wrong too, though." Aziraphale watched his own hands as he refilled Crowley's drink. "If the Metatron had trapped us both --"
Crowley almost laughed. "He couldn't, angel. Not even God could keep me in Heaven." Aziraphale looked up, regarding the demon with something like fear. "Nor you, old friend," Crowley added, trying to speak gently. He was glad they'd never come to battle; he did not think he could have fought. "Not even you."
He picked up the wine again, sipping this time. He did like it, more than he should have -- was it the acid through the sugar, or only that Aziraphale had poured for him?
The angel sat in his chair, spine rigid as a soldier's -- he'd hardly tasted his wine. But his voice was like a child's when he said, "Are we friends?"
"I felt I was yours," said Crowley, and had to drown his bitterness with another slug of wine. "Perhaps not to your satisfaction," he added, trying to be fair. "I wanted you for mine."
"I wanted you too," said Aziraphale. He wasn't drinking, empty hands flat on his thighs. "Only I wanted Heaven the way I remembered it, too. Before the War," he added, "before I'd ever known such a thing as a sword. Do you remember? You talked to me about stars to be born. You seemed," his voice went small, "so happy."
Crowley remembered his nebulae very clearly: molecular hydrogen and ultraviolet light, the pull and stretch of gravity, the powerful promise of fusion. "It's been six thousand years and more," he said. "I think there'll be time for new stars after all." He did remember the conversation with Aziraphale; he'd thought the Guardian seemed like the nervous sort. Rightly so, after all. "And I have been happy sometimes, since," he concluded. He sipped the wine, which still tasted wonderful. "I think I could be again."
"Would you like," Aziraphale trailed off, then started again, "It would make me happy to kiss you," he said carefully, "if you had no objection, of course."
Crowley felt himself draw back. "Wasn't any good the last time," he said, wary for both of them.
"Of course we don't have to." Aziraphale's hands clenched briefly on his thighs, then fumbled for his glass, which he drained. Nobody spoke while Crowley finished his own wine, one slow sip at a time. He put the big goblet down empty, and was about to rise and make his farewells when Aziraphale said, "But other times, it was good, it really was. Sometimes it seemed like the best thing to me." He wasn't drinking but he swallowed visibly. "I shouldn't have tried to forgive you," he said, hardly above a whisper. "I wanted to say that I love you. I wish I had at least told you thanks."
Crowley knew that Time hadn't stopped. That felt nothing like this paralysis, half mad hope and half disgraceful fear, and he pushed himself through it to answer. "Thanks would not have been ideal," he said, rougher than he would have wished. "But better than what you did say, right." His own fingers clenched around the remembered feel of Aziraphale's soft lapels, the heat and salt of the angel's mouth and tears. Crowley's arms had been braced between their bodies, but he remembered how Aziraphale's hands felt around his back -- one moment like an embrace, another as if he were desperate to escape. "I let go," he added, to remind them both. "I left and I waited for you and I saw when you went to Heaven. It felt like Falling again, watching you go up."
"It felt like War," Aziraphale answered, "when I was taken away." He sighed, a very human sound, then went on: "And then it was. I had my suspicions; I was built for a soldier. But I was sure when the Metatron named the Second Coming." He picked up the bottle and emptied it into two glasses, a gesture of terrible familiarity. "We won again, though, didn't we?" he asked. "Our side, our friends' side too. The world and the universe and a future for --"
He was going to raise the glasses and give one to Crowley. There might or might not be another toast. There would likely be another bottle of wine, or possibly whiskey -- if Crowley mentioned the Talisker then for sure Aziraphale would bring out something he thought was better, probably something Japanese. They would talk about this victory like Armageddon or the Flood, like dolphins and ducks and the kraken and everything else that had ever happened. They might kiss and that would be amazing, and Crowley held up a hand to stop it all.
"What I want," he said, "is just to know, for next time. That we're. On the same side." He didn't reach out for Aziraphale, let alone for the wine. He brought a hand to his face and took off his shades, allowing Aziraphale to see tears standing in his eyes. "Win or lose. We've been lucky. The Antichrist was clever and Muriel was innocent and so many people did whatever they could. You and I are nothing without them. And me, I'm just. Not so happy, y'know. Without you."
Aziraphale leaned towards him, without the wine, without touching. "You deserve better," he said. "I've wanted to be with you since before there was light. I don't think you cared at all at the time; all you had eyes for were stars." He sounded rueful; Crowley was not sure he believed it. But the angel went on: "When we watched the First Ones walk away from Eden, when we lied to Heaven to keep Job's children safe, when you tricked Sandalphon and Gabriel into letting me have this bookshop. You've always taken my side, or a side I was glad afterwards that I took." His eyes were clear water, determined. "I promise --"
Crowley poked him in the chest, not gently, cutting him off. "Shut up," he said. "We'll see, all right? See what you do. I'm not drunk enough for this," he added, as the tears spilled over.
Aziraphale hesitated, mouth open, then handed Crowley his wine. The demon gulped it. The old couch creaked as Aziraphale settled beside him, wiping his face with a linen handkerchief as he cried. It didn't last long; Crowley rarely had the leisure, and when he did he preferred to sleep. When he was quiet again he dragged his own sleeve across his face, and Aziraphale asked, "Do you want to drink more?" Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale added more softly, "Would you like to be kissed?"
Crowley kissed him. The salt in his mouth was his own this time; he clutched at his glass instead of Aziraphale's clothes. The angel tasted like sweet wine and virtue, heady and forbidden and endlessly desired. Crowley reveled in it, then pulled back as he felt his fangs go sharp. He nipped up Aziraphale's jaw to whisper in his ear: "I want you to kiss me till I come. Want to kiss you back and bite you and suck you down my throat, want to push my tongue in till you forget ever caring to consume anything else." He drew a ragged breath and sat back, set down his glass so hard it rang. "It's no use, angel," he said, trying for a normal tone of voice. "Everything is so much bigger than we are, and it's chancy. I don't even want to forgive you, and I hate it every time you forgive me."
"Then I won't." Aziraphale was still leaning in, his pale face flushed like roses. "I won't thank you either, though I believe I ought; you've never cared for it. I'll kiss you all you like instead." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and then took Crowley hand.
That was familiar, the warm palm enclosing his fingers, the broad thumb settling into the hollow above his wrist. They'd been standing on the Wall after Eden, the angel's wing sheltering the demon from rain. The first lightning made him flinch, and Aziraphale -- generous, impetuous, unarmed Aziraphale -- had reached out to steady him through the thunder.
He had grabbed on in a panic, then. Now he placed his other hand over Aziraphale's, only gently, catching it between his own as he stood.
"Maybe," Crowley said, hearing something like a smile in his own voice. "You'll have to try and tempt me to it. First," he tugged and Aziraphale rose up beside him, "let's go for a walk. It's a beautiful night and I'd like to show you some stars."
There was a spark and a click as a miracle unlocked the door, and the two walked out side by side, still holding hands.