Work Text:
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter, Witch. A memoir by…
Aziraphale frowns with his pen still hovering over the paper. He’s felt the itch to write a memoir ever since he learned what writing was , and now that the apocalypse has been thwarted, he has so much to write about! Plus, Aziraphale has nothing to do now but read and lounge and eat and read some more. He sort of misses having a purpose, something to do, and there’s something so thrilling (and a little vain…) about the idea of sharing your life with an audience. He wants to impress, to make humanity ooh and aah at the sheer absurdity of what he and Crowley have been through. So of course, he wants to sign the title of his memoir with A. Z. Fell.
But then again, authors could become, at their peak, minor celebrities, and though Aziraphale doubts he will acquire such fame, he shudders at the idea of people coming into the bookshop and engaging in conversation with him. He imagines streams of eager readers lining up to meet the esteemed A. Z. Fell and he feels, while flattered, extremely uncomfortable.
So, with a flourish Aziraphale signs his name Anonymous and considers it the perfect level of melodrama. Satisfied, Aziraphale begins to write.
At the beginning, he writes, there was a wily old serpent, and I, Angel of the Eastern Gate, was technically on apple-tree duty…
Writing comes quickly and easily, and Aziraphale writes the centuries-long story of himself and Crowley with tenderness, with humour, starting with his discarded flaming sword and the Garden of Eden and ending, as it were, with a delightful evening at the Ritz. He writes about Adam and Shadwell and Tracey and the Four Horsemen and smiles. He relays all the little details, right down to the shade of Crowley’s hair and the amber of his eyes, and he doesn’t realise as he’s writing that the majority of the memoir is about Crowley, and his time spent with Crowley, but how could he? When you are with someone so long they become just another part of yourself, unremarkable, second nature.
But to a reader, this preoccupation with a certain, as Aziraphale describes, charming, cunning, wily, amusing, endearing, handsome, ridiculous, grumpy, and really very nice demon would be painstakingly obvious. To anyone who picked up Aziraphale’s memoir, they would find, not as Aziraphale expects, a thrilling retelling of an apocalypse that never was, but a love story.
That’s exactly what happens, as one might expect. But as he writes, for days and days on end, Aziraphale is completely oblivious to it.
“So.” Aziraphale clears his throat, staring into his mug of tea and wishing he could drown in it, because what could be more embarrassing for an author than the question he’s about to ask? “Have you, ah, read
it
?”
Crowley raises his eyebrow.
“Your memoir?” Crowley drawls, and oh, Aziraphale should’ve known he’d find it ridiculous. “Difficult to avoid. You’re a bestseller. The cover is plastered all over London. I’m sick of the sight of it, they’ve got my hair all wrong.”
Aziraphale flushes pink. He was right to publish the memoir anonymously. Goodness knows how harassed he’d be by the readers of London if not.
“A charming, exciting novel about an angel and a demon saving the world.” Crowley quotes. “Good Omens is a treat not just for fantasy lovers, but anyone who enjoys-“
“Enough.” Aziraphale huffs. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Well, anyway, you needn’t ask. Of course I’ve read it.” Crowley says.
“You have?”
“Oh, yeah.” Crowley grins, so warmly that Aziraphale flushes even darker. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of me.”
“Sorry?”
“Or that you knew so much about fashion!” Crowley says. “You described each of my outfits perfectly, right down to the shoes. Didn’t know you paid attention.”
“Well.” Aziraphale sniffs, deeply embarrassed now, though for a different reason. Had he really been so detailed? “It’s important to be accurate.”
“Right.” Crowley laughs. “Well, it worked. You’re a resounding success.”
Aziraphale, despite his embarrassment, feels very pleased. It was one thing to be the top of the bestsellers list, with the majority of reviews (yes, Aziraphale read them all) being positive, but it was another to have Crowley, who never read anything if he could help it, praise him.
“Thank you.” He says warmly. Crowley averts his eyes.
“Yeah, well.” He mumbles. He picks at the fabric on Aziraphale’s sofa, coy all of a sudden. “…‘N anyway, I do have one problem.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a demon.” Crowley says. “I’m not nice, or kind, or generous, or any of the other bloody words you decided to describe me as.”
“Well.” Aziraphale says. “I wrote only the truth.”
“Shut it.” Crowley mutters. He pauses, then glances at Aziraphale, and there’s something in his eyes, something searching and curious. “You know, your memoir-“
Crowley stops, unsure.
“Yes?” Aziraphale asks, not understanding what Crowley could possibly be so conflicted about.
“It’s just…” Crowley swallows. “Some of the stuff in there- about us- about me - made me think you might- ngk.”
Crowley stops himself again, and waits for Aziraphale to reply, but Aziraphale is more confused than ever. He can’t grasp what Crowley might mean. He wrote everything that happened to them, word for word, and he can’t think what could’ve possibly made Crowley seem so… Upset? Confused? Scared?
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Aziraphale says. “I’m terribly sorry. Did I offend you somehow?”
“You really don’t know.” Crowley blinks at him. “But everything you wrote-“
“What?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley stares at him, then shakes his head.
“‘S nothing.” He says. “Forget it.”
“But Crowley-“
Crowley smiles, suddenly, brilliantly , the strange tension in the room fading as he does so.
“Sorry. You were just so, ugh, nice to me.” Crowley spits the word nice like a curse. “I’m not used to it. Head’s so big it might not fit through the bookshop door.”
“Well, you saved the world.” Aziraphale says. “You deserve every possible compliment.”
Crowley’s smile flickers, just slightly, then he plasters it back in place. What is it, Aziraphale thinks, frustrated. He still doesn’t understand.
“Look, I’ve got to head home. Got a date with some green-leaved pests.” Crowley says, ever so cheerfully.
“Oh!” Aziraphale says, even more confused now, because Crowley has only just arrived. “Well, would you like to have dinner later?”
“Another day.” Crowley says.
“Are you sure? There’s this new restaurant-“
“Not today, angel.” Crowley says, interrupting him gently, and Aziraphale nods, respecting the boundary yet confused why it exists. He scours his memory, searching for something he wrote that could’ve insulted Crowley and upset him so.
“Alright.” Aziraphale smiles weakly. “I’ll see you soon, then.”
Crowley nods, and leaves the bookshop, and as soon as Aziraphale hears the Bentley drive away he picks up his copy of the memoir and stares at it. The artwork on the front is beautiful - an angel and a demon standing together, with the angel’s wing sheltering the demon from the rain.
He opens the first page, and begins to read, determined to find out what Crowley’s problem might be. But the more Aziraphale reads, the more confused he becomes, because he had showered Crowley with every possible praise, had even dared to call Crowley his friend at one point, and he has no idea what could have possibly made Crowley act so strange.
Alas, Crowley never mentions his concerns again, and so the rest of the year passes peacefully, with the angel and the demon meeting every so often for a coffee or lunch or dinner or the occasional brunch. Eventually the memoir is replaced by other bestsellers, and Crowley’s strange reaction to it is forgotten about… or at least never spoken about again.
One year later
It’s on a walk to a nearby bakery (his absolute favourite, with homebaked, delicious flaky pastry), when Aziraphale sees something very peculiar.
He’s ruminating on how pleasant the day is, and how much he wishes he could share it with someone (Crowley), when his eyes catch two young people dressed in a very familiar way. One sports a short blonde wig, a cream blazer, a waistcoat that has faded in an identical way to his own, and a lovely tartan bowtie, finished with trousers and brown shoes. As if that isn’t startling enough, the other young person wears a crimson wig, a black blazer, a tight black waistcoat with a black shirt beneath, and a grey necktie that dangles down their chest. Aziraphale cries out in surprise when he realises the one with the red wig has yellow eyes!
Those eyes can’t be real, Aziraphale thinks, gawking openly at the person dressed like Crowley. Indeed, they do look like contact lenses, and Aziraphale can see the difference in shade between Crowley’s eyes and the stranger’s. Still, it’s like looking into a funhouse mirror, and for a moment Aziraphale expects Gabriel or another angel to appear in front of him and laugh at him, for this is all simply a cruel trick.
But the two young people continue walking, and so Aziraphale, ever curious, subtly follows them, forgetting all about his pastries. All the while, he’s thinking he wishes he could tell Crowley about the whole affair, and vows to call him later to tell him all about it.
As the young people continue to walk, and Aziraphale continues to follow them, he realises there are more people dressed like himself and Crowley. They’re walking in the same direction, some in identical modern outfits, others sporting outfits from Aziraphale and Crowley’s past adventures. Others have put their own spin on the outfits, and Aziraphale finds it fascinating. By the time he’s seen several of this outfits, he’s calmed down, and has realised there must be some sort of event happening.
Aziraphale has no concept of fan culture, or fandom. Rather, he knows of idolisation, because it’s a sin that’s occurred since humanity was created. He remembers the devout followers of Shakespeare, or the decade where Crowley followed rock bands around in their tour buses. But Aziraphale hasn’t quite caught up with the modern era, and to see such a gathering, with people dressed as himself and Crowley, is a completely ridiculous concept, but also, he thinks, as he comes to terms with it, rather endearing too.
It isn’t just himself and Crowley, though they are the majority of outfits. There are other people too - an Anathema, a rather dashing Madame Tracey, even a Gabriel, which makes Aziraphale shudder. He approaches the Anathema with a smile, determined to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.
“Hello.” He says pleasantly.
“Uh.” The woman blinks at him, brushing her long, dark wig out of her eyes. “Hi?”
“ Hi .” Aziraphale smiles. “I was just wondering, ah, what exactly is going on here?”
He gestures to the building where so many young (and older) people are entering. Some of them linger outside taking photographs with their mobile phones.
“Oh.” The woman smiles at him, uncertain. Aziraphale keeps smiling, trying to come across as curious rather than rude. “Well, it’s London’s first ever Good Omens convention.”
“Convention?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? I mean, you’re wearing your cosplay, after all.”
“Cosplay?” Aziraphale asks.
“Your outfit.” She says. “It’s really very good. You look just as I’d imagine Aziraphale to.”
“But I am-“ Aziraphale stops himself. “Sorry, dear, but may I ask what a convention is?”
The woman blinks at him, but she indulges him anyway, bless her.
“Well, a lot of fans meet up. Usually there’s guest speakers, things like that, but as Good Omens is anonymously written, we’re running everything ourselves.” The woman smiles.
“Fans?” Aziraphale asks.
“People who like the book.” The woman says. “A lot.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale feels a rush of warmth. “I see. And you meet up and… talk about it and the like?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Isn’t that lovely?” Aziraphale smiles.
“Look, is this some sort of…roleplay?” The woman asks. “It’s just, you really remind me of Aziraphale. It’s remarkable.”
“Roleplay?” Aziraphale asks.
“Nevermind.” The woman laughs. “Sorry if I’m doing this wrong. I’m new to this sort of thing. Good Omens is my first- I mean, I’ve never… LARPed or anything like that.”
Aziraphale decides to stop asking questions. Instead, he takes the woman’s hands in his own.
“I’m so very glad you liked the book enough to make a community like this.” He says.
“Well, yeah.” The woman says. “That’s why we’re all here. I don’t just like it, it changed my life. Before Good Omens I didn’t have the courage to be myself.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale says, and he feels like he might cry. “Really?”
“It’s the same for a lot of us.” She says. “I never felt accepted by anyone growing up, I didn’t fit anywhere, just like Aziraphale and Crowley… and now it’s like there’s this family who understands me, and would never turn me away for being queer or different. Sorry, it’s just that- It’s a story with so much love for people like us.”
“It is.” Aziraphale realises, and there really are tears in his eyes now, and so he blinks and turns away. “Oh, thank you. Sorry to intrude. I’ll leave you to it.”
“But- What’s your name though? Are you online?”
“No, no, certainly not.” Aziraphale chuckles, his eyes still wet. “But do enjoy yourself, dear!”
He quickly escapes the crowd, his eyes burning and his heart full. He had no idea his writing could make anyone feel that way! And though these people seem to think it’s fiction, that doesn’t make the memoir’s impact any less poignant. The woman’s words linger with him. I didn’t fit anywhere, just like Aziraphale and Crowley… It warms Aziraphale’s heart that, in the absence of acceptance from their families or their peers, these people had found love with each other. And there was love, everywhere, spilling out of the building, touching the ground beneath everywhere those “fans” walk.
As Aziraphale turns the corner, lost in his thoughts, his eyes land on two people, on the steps leading up to the convention building, dressed as himself and Crowley. Aziraphale stops and stares when their version of Crowley leans forward and kisses Aziraphale. Someone snaps a photo of them as the other Crowley’s arm intertwines around the other Aziraphale, and pulls him closer. For a long time, Aziraphale stares, even as the couple disperses. His mind races, his heart startled and confused.
In the end, Aziraphale chalks it all up to the people being a romantic couple, who just so happen to be dressed as himself and Crowley because they liked their “characters”. He calms down, after that, because what other explanation could there be? Of course it unsettled him to see two people kissing who looked like them. But that doesn’t mean anything.
… Does it?
“Crowley!” Aziraphale bursts out, as soon as Crowley picks up the phone, “You’ll never guess what happened to me today!”
And then it’s all spilling out of him, the convention and the cosplays and the fans, and Crowley is laughing as Aziraphale relays his conversation with the pretend Anathema. For some reason, Aziraphale doesn’t tell Crowley about the kissing couple. It would be awkward, he decides, and ignores the memory.
“Looks like Good Omens has a fandom.” Crowley says, when he’s finished.
“A what?”
“A group of fans who- Oh, nevermind. It just means they like your book.”
“Oh, it was really very sweet.” Aziraphale says. “I thought it would just be a bit of fun to write about how we stopped the end of the world, but it’s become so much more.”
“You should look online.” Crowley says, still sounding amused. “I’m sure there’ll be loads more stuff about your book. That’s how these fandoms work. It’s all on social media.”
Aziraphale decides not to ask about social media. He’s heard enough already.
“Really?” He asks, instead.
“Dust off your old computer and have a look.”
“I don’t think it works anymore.”
“Don’t worry, I fixed it a few years ago. Connected it up to the Internet and everything. It’s ancient, but it does work.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale smiles at the phone. “Thank you.”
Crowley clears his throat.
“Whatever.” He says.
“But can you believe they were dressed as us?”
“Gotta admit, I’d love to see that.”
“It was delightful.” Aziraphale says.
“Did they get my outfits right?”
“They were perfect.” Aziraphale says.
“Well.” Crowley says. “I won’t complain then.”
They talk a little more, make plans for lunch the next day, and then Aziraphale decides to say goodbye and turn on the computer. It takes him a while to get the hang of it, but he works it out, and soon his cursor is hovering over the search bar, and he’s typing in Good Omens.
A Wikipedia page comes up first, then website after website selling his book. Aziraphale frowns, frustrated, and tries another search. Good Omens fandom, he tries, and this time, he gets different results. The first result is a “Tumblr” page, with a big “ Good Omens HQ” title in bold. The description reads “ For fans of the 2019 fantasy novel, Good Omens. Its ineffable!”
Aziraphale smiles at the page. He scrolls down, to find a large artwork. He puts on his glasses and peers curiously at it. It’s really rather lovely, a scene of himself and Crowley on a picnic blanket. The caption reads, perhaps one day we could go for a picnic. He thinks of someone lingering long and hard over their artwork, perfecting it before posting it online. Aziraphale, touched, gazes at the art a little longer than necessary. They never did have that picnic.
Aziraphale keeps scrolling. Another art in a different style, this one of himself looking very intimidating holding a flaming sword. Another of Crowley as a snake, which Aziraphale vows to show Crowley later. Another of he and Crowley at the Ritz. Each interpretation of them is different, but they all hold the same tenderness, and Aziraphale is embarrassed to see that the art version of himself looks at Crowley with the same sweet admiration that real Aziraphale always looks at him with.
Another scroll, and this time it’s a block of text.
Ask: Does anyone have some fic recs set in 1941? It’s always bothered me that Aziraphale never finished that lovely shades of grey conversation. It just fades to black…
Answer: Sure anon! I’ve always wondered about 1941 too… Did something happen that night to inspire Aziraphale to say “you go too fast for me”???
“ honey, you’re familiar like my mirror years ago.” by ineffably. The perfect mix of angst and fluff. The author captures Aziraphale’s inner conflict so well, a delightful slow burn.
“lift home?” by constellate A much needed conversation in the Bentley. Aziraphale, for the first time, takes the lead.
“Shades of Grey.” by zirafells A continuation of the shades of grey conversation that ends in a night of passion… This one was hot!
“linger on your pale blue eyes” by hereditary enemies Anything by this author is a treat, but this one is a classic. Crowley saving his books is a confession, but Aziraphale isn’t sure how to return it… Or, 5 times Aziraphale tries and fails to reciprocate Crowley’s feelings, and one time he manages it.
and last, but certainly not least… “ little demonic miracle of my own.” by queencrowley Not set completely in 1941, but worth the read, and so underrated! Crowley keeps trying to show Aziraphale how he feels, but Aziraphale, as always, is delightfully oblivious. Fluff fluff fluff!
Hope these are okay!
#ficrecs #goodomens #ineffablehusbands #crowley #aziraphale #1941 #asks
Aziraphale, bewildered, tries to decode the post, but it proves too confusing. So he simply clicks on one of the links, which takes him to another page.
As he scrolls through the page, titled lift home , Aziraphale begins to understand. The fans are writing stories. Stories about himself and Crowley. He’d heard of such things before, people writing different endings for books that angered them, books very, very strongly inspired by other books (to the point of plagiarism), but this is different. They’re recreating scenes. Reimagining them. Is there something wrong with what he’s written? Aziraphale thinks, disheartened.
The story itself is set in the Bentley, after Crowley asked if he wanted a lift home in 1941. Aziraphale wonders why the author chose this night in particular. Once Aziraphale adjusts to the idea of reading about his own life, he devours the story. The scene follows along with the one from the memoir, but then takes an interesting turn…
Aziraphale glances at the demon in the driver’s seat.
“Are you quite sure there isn’t some way I can repay you?”
“Not at all.” Crowley says. “It was my honour. Now drop it.”
Which makes real Aziraphale grin, because he’d love Crowley to say something so sweet, but he doubts the demon ever would.
“I’m really very grateful.” Aziraphale says, “I want to prove it to you.”
“It’s fine.” Crowley says. “Seriously, angel, leave it.”
“But-“ Aziraphale gathers his courage. “Oh, you’re being ridiculous, Crowley. Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over.” He says again.
Crowley obeys. He pulls the Bentley to the side of the road, and parks, and then turns to Aziraphale with a frown.
“What?” He asks.
“I’m going to repay you for your kindness.” Aziraphale says, his heart racing.
“How, exactly?” Crowley says. “Look, if you’re really that bothered, maybe you can buy me a drink, or something, but I really don’t see how pulling over-“
Crowley’s ramblings are interrupted when Aziraphale leans over the drivers seat and kisses him.
Aziraphale jumps to his feet.
He steps away from the computer, his heart pounding.
“Um.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Ah.”
So that’s why they wrote the stories. That’s why, Aziraphale realises, that couple kissed dressed as himself and Crowley. He feels hot from head to toe, and starts to pace back and forth. They think- But why- how had such an interpretation come from his text? Why 1941? Or were there others too, other stories just like this, of Aziraphale kissing Crowley- Goodness, Aziraphale feels so very hot and flustered.
Half of him wants to turn off the computer, but the other is so very curious. He can analyse why and how this came about later. For now, he walks gingerly back to the computer, and slowly lowers himself back into his chair.
There are more stories. Stories about Eden, about the Ritz, about Crowley as an angel, about Aziraphale as a demon. There are even stories where they’re humans, living ordinary lives. Short stories and long stories and sad stories and sweet stories and beautiful stories and in all of them, they are in love with each other.
Why? Aziraphale thinks.
He reads and he reads but he still doesn’t understand. In all of these tales he is oblivious and smitten and Crowley is desperately in love with him and it confuses Aziraphale to no end, because he wrote about their friendship, and yet-
The rabbit hole goes deeper, not just stories but artwork too, and Aziraphale spends hours staring at the screen trying to unpiece it all. He eventually clicks on his web browser and searches,
Why do people think Aziraphale and Crowley are in love?
A forum entitled the same thing reads,
From az123.
Title: Why do people think Aziraphale and Crowley are in love?
Hi guys. So I finished reading Good Omens and thought it was a unique fantasy novel about male friendship. I was excited to come discuss it online, just to find out everyone is shipping them. Did I miss something? 🤔 It’s completely platonic, come on.
@ineffablelove you’re joking right? did we read the same book?
@angeldemonlove I’ll sum it up in three words… to the world.
@ineffablelove or six… you go too fast for me.
@angeldemonlove Ouch!
@ineffablelove yeah. the epitome of “male friendship” lmao they’re not even men
Aziraphale clicks off the forum and is startled by the title of another.
From: bookworm12
Moments that prove Aziraphale is hopelessly in love with Crowley
so we love talking about how crowley is down bad for aziraphale, but what about the reverse? I mean, aziraphale basically spends the whole novel waxing poetry about crowley… let’s start a thread.
I’ll start… when aziraphale “lights up” seeing crowley in rome and is so very excited to get oysters with him. how cute was that please?!
@ineffablelove ooooh smitten aziraphale is my speciality. I think my favourite is during the ritz scene… “if you weren’t, at heart, just a little bit of a good person” andjdjdjdj he loves crowley because he’s good and kind despite being a demon
@handsomedevil basic answer but 1941. when aziraphale described being speechless after crowley hands over the books… my heart flutters.
@cupoftea unpopular opinion but I think it was love at first sight. aziraphale saw that giddy little angel at the start of the universe and thought yep, he’s mine! or in eden. he never stops mentioning eden.
@bookworm12 oh I just remembered! job! realising crowley saved the goats after all. notice how all the moments aziraphale is most in love are when crowley is doing something kind
@ineffablelove aaaaaaaaaa :’) crowley is a softie and aziraphale loves him for it
@handsomedevil crowley would kill us for saying it but it’s true lol
@bookworm12 do you think aziraphale had a lightbulb moment? like an oh? does he know he’s in love
@handsomedevil I’d love to say 1941, or at the ritz, but tbh by the end of the book I still don’t think he has a clue
@ineffablelove 6000 years in love and they don’t even know it
On and on they go, analysing and picking out moments to prove that Aziraphale is in love, and Aziraphale can’t look away, though he wants to crawl into a hole and never face reality again. Is this really how he came across in his memoir? A smitten, lovesick angel? He finds compilations of things he wrote about Crowley, handsome, and dashing, and cunning, and sharp. There are so many passages online about how he was so scared of being close to Crowley, how he hurt him and always regretted it, how life with Crowley was so much better than life without him. And as Aziraphale puts the pieces together, he has to admit that he understands why people have interpreted his writing this way.
How could they not? He concedes that most of the memoir is about Crowley, especially when he finds a statistic made by a fan that says 70% of the book references Crowley in some way. Aziraphale admits that his constant rejection of Crowley reads as forbidden longing, and even admits that he wrote a little too much about Crowley’s outfits and his posture and the tone of his speech, to the point of desire.
How was it possible that strangers could interpret Aziraphale’s true feelings better than he himself could? Was he truly in love with Crowley? Had 6000 years buried such feelings in his subconscious, and now they were second nature? Aziraphale had always known angelic love but romantic love? It was a human emotion. Could that really be what he had been feeling since the dawn of the universe?
Aziraphale pauses halfway through another what he now knows is a fanfiction. One of the lines reads and Aziraphale could not bear living a lie for eternity. What sort of life was that? He leans back in his chair, and covers his face with his hands.
God, he blasphemes, accidentally, the word slipping to his mind in his terror and his shock. What has he done?
And then he remembers Crowley, a year ago,
Some of the stuff in there- about us- about me- made me think you might-
Had Crowley thought the same? Had the memoir shaken him because he read their life through Aziraphale’s eyes and came to the same conclusion these fans did? How could Aziraphale have been so blind?
A thousand memories flicker before Aziraphale’s eyes, overwhelming him with feeling, and he realises yes, yes, it’s true, he’s in love, and he’d accidentally shown the whole world. Aziraphale longs to take it back, to erase the memoir from existence, but it’s brought such hope and joy to so many people, such love.
It isn’t just a fantasy, one fan wrote, it’s a love story. Aziraphale is inclined to agree.
“Ready for lunch?” Crowley calls.
Aziraphale startles, almost falling from his armchair as Crowley strides towards him. He spent the entire night online and now he’s exhausted and vulnerable and completely unprepared for Crowley’s presence, his sharp gaze, the sudden curious glint in his eyes. Aziraphale’s heart races, and he feels very much as if an I’m in love with you sticker has been plastered on his forehead.
“You okay?” Crowley asks.
“Fine.” Aziraphale says. “Splendid.”
“Splendid?” Crowley scoffs.
“I’m ready for lunch.” Aziraphale says, ignoring him.
“What is it?” Crowley asks. “I know you. Something’s bothering you, angel.”
The words warm Aziraphale’s heart, because Crowley is so very thoughtful. Aziraphale is reminded of those forums ( Aziraphale is most in love when Crowley is doing something kind ) and he flushes.
“Talk to me.” Crowley says, and then he’s leaning against the armchair, looking down at Aziraphale with those gentle amber eyes, and Aziraphale feels like he’s going mad.
“Well, I-“ Aziraphale swallows. He supposes he must bring the whole thing up, because it’s eating away with him, this new, terrifying realisation. “I looked online.”
“Okay.” Crowley says. “And?”
“Have you ever looked?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley shakes his head.
“Ah.” Aziraphale pauses. “It’s just that- Oh, Crowley, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Look, fandoms are crazy.” Crowley says. “Loveable, but completely mad. I should’ve warned you, there’s all sorts of weird stuff out there. That’s why I never looked.”
“It’s not that.” Aziraphale says. “It was all rather lovely, actually.”
“Oh.” Crowley says. “So what’s the problem?”
“They all seem to think- Well, these fans, they’ve come to the conclusion that I- and you- and us-“
Aziraphale takes a breath. He looks up at Crowley - lovely, beautiful Crowley, who he wrote a love letter for without even realising it - and wonders how he never named this feeling before.
“It seems that the general consensus from anyone who reads the memoir,” Aziraphale says, “Is that I, ah, I am in love. With you.”
Crowley stares at him for a moment.
“In a human way.” Aziraphale adds. “Romantically.”
“Ngk.”
Crowley is still staring, and Aziraphale can’t bear it, can’t even look at him.
“Are you, though?” Crowley blurts out. Aziraphale turns impossibly more pink.
“Well, I-“ Aziraphale thinks of the other versions of him, the versions in fanfiction, confessing his feelings, kissing Crowley, being so bold and so brave. He feels such jealousy, because he never can find the courage. “You read it too, Crowley. What do you think?”
Crowley hovers above him, still leaning on the armchair, and Aziraphale wants to be closer, wants to tell him the truth. So many centuries he’d buried this feeling but now it’s here, in full force, and it burns and it hurts in the sweetest way.
“For a while I did hope-“ Crowley cuts himself off. “But then you seemed to have no clue it could be interpreted that way, so I thought- Nah. Course not. Just your flair for the dramatic.”
“No, Crowley.” Aziraphale closes his eyes. He has to, he must. He thinks of those young people kissing, dressed as them, and feels such envy, because he wants their freedom, their joy, and so he dares to speak, dares to be brave. “No, you were right.”
Silence, and then Aziraphale speaks again.
“You were right.” Aziraphale says. “I’m in love with you and I’m the last being to know about it.”
When Aziraphale dares look at Crowley again, the demon’s eyes are a little wet.
“So all that stuff you wrote.” Crowley says, his voice cracking. “You really-“
“I’m sorry for not realising it sooner.” Aziraphale says gently. “I’ve been so afraid.”
As Crowley tries to gather himself, Aziraphale wonders why he never felt the need to find out if Crowley loves him, and realises that he doesn’t need to, because Crowley has already shown him in a million ways.
“So you want-“ Crowley lets out a shaky breathe. “You and me-“
Aziraphale manages a terrified smile. He thinks of all of those scenarios in the fanfiction, so much love and hope and picnics and dinner together and evenings in each other’s arms and he wants and he wants and he wants. They can be an us.
“If you’ll have me.” He says.
“Yeah.” Crowley breathes. “Course. Yeah.”
They look at each other, uncertain now. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to Crowley’s necktie, dangling in front of him, and he reaches out and touches it, feels the fabric beneath his fingertips.
Those stories opened his mind to what could be, and he’d been imagining it ever since, kisses and touches and embraces… He tugs on the necktie, and Crowley stumbles, almost falling into his lap. Aziraphale thinks of all the compliments he paid Crowley in his memoir, cunning and charming and handsome…
“Come here.” Aziraphale says, and then tugs a final time, and then Crowley is in his lap, all warm and close and lovely, and he’s blinking at Aziraphale in surprise. “Are you alright?”
Crowley nods, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed. If he were to write about him now Aziraphale would call him beautiful.
Aziraphale sets his hands on Crowley’s waist, wonders how he’s never imagined this before, knows it will never leave his mind again. Crowley says nothing, still so startled, so surprised by this change in Aziraphale, and Aziraphale can’t blame him.
But the angel has never done anything by half. With his food, he devours, and with his love, too, now he has accepted it.
“What you said, about being on our own side.” Aziraphale murmurs, his thumbs brushing over Crowley’s hips, Crowley’s eyes unable to look away from his own. “That darling woman, she said my memoir gave her the courage to be herself. I want that too. I want to be us, and not be afraid of it.”
“Yeah?” Crowley whispers.
“Yes. Everything I wrote is true.” Aziraphale says. “Everything and more. Crowley, I-“
So much feeling, and this time Aziraphale can’t quite put it into words. He knows there is another way to express it, knows now he has to be brave, and so he tilts his head, and gently, awkwardly, leans forward and presses a kiss against Crowley’s lips.
Crowley is warm and still and surprised beneath him. Aziraphale pulls back, shocked at his own courage, fearful that this time, he had gone too fast.
“I’m sorry.” He says quickly. “I should have asked, I-“
But then Crowley’s hands are on his cheeks, and he’s pulling Aziraphale to him for another kiss, his lips tender and insistent. Aziraphale wrote about Crowley’s mouth in the memoir. A quick-witted, sharp-tongued mouth. He wonders how long he’s secretly wanted to kiss Crowley, to feel Crowley kiss him back.
Aziraphale pulls back, looks at Crowley, wants to memorise the moment. Perhaps he’ll write about it later, the shine of Crowley’s lips, the joyful glint of his eyes.
“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks.
“More than,” Crowley’s smiling, and it grows until it’s huge. “Um, you know, I’m not as good with words. But, ngk, me too. You’re my- Well, we’ve been on this planet a long time. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We’re a team, an us, and we’ve spent so long pretending that we aren’t. And I would like to spend-“
A shuddering breath from Crowley, and then-
“There was so much regret in your memoir.” He says. “No more.”
Aziraphale is smiling, too, and there are tears in his eyes. Yes, he thinks, no more regrets.
“Oh, Crowley.”
“Don’t.” Crowley says, though he’s grinning, so wide it splits his face, as if he can’t quite control the force of his happiness. And then he’s kissing Aziraphale again, and Aziraphale loves him, and it’s so good to name it. So good to be free.
A year later his memoir is republished with an exclusive bonus story.
The real memory of Aziraphale’s confession is a secret, kept only for himself and Crowley. He wouldn’t want to share it with the world, not ever, but he isn’t content to leave the story the way it is, not when there are thousands of people left wondering how Aziraphale really felt, not when the memoir was written when Aziraphale’s feelings were repressed and ignored.
And so he dabbles in fanfiction himself. Aziraphale writes of a cottage, in the South Downs. He writes of warm kisses and honesty, of an angel living his truth.
Crowley loves it, of course. He reads it in the bookshop, his feet in Aziraphale’s lap on the sofa.
“I just have one question.” He says. “I know it’s not real, but… How would you feel about actually moving to a cottage in the South Downs? You make it sound so…”
Nice, Aziraphale thinks, though Crowley would never say the dreaded four letter word.
“Ah.” Aziraphale smiles. “Well, as a wise man once said, life imitates art.”
“You always did love Oscar Wilde.” Crowley says. “So. Should I start looking at cottages?”
“Perhaps.” Aziraphale says.
And as Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, he thinks of the thousands of people smiling at his memoir, knowing that he has finally realised it was a love story all along.