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It wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume that Crowley was drunk. After all, it wasn’t a rare occurrence; recently, evenings found him two wine bottles and a Queen song deep into the despondency he had managed to stave off during the day. There had been more than twenty of them so far, but none of the nights had been nice. It was easy to go through the practiced routine of driving to the bookshop to check on Muriel, studying parkgoers through shaded eyes and a slouchy stance, watering the plants, and drinking until he passed out. But when the sun went down, and he was alone with his thoughts, even both he and the Bentley knew it wouldn’t be long before it all became too much, as it often did.
This was why it was somewhat surprising to even Crowley as he scrambled into the car, intent on avoiding the torrent of rain, when getting a drink was the least of his concerns. As he watched the fat drops patter down onto the windshield, he wondered if the weather or the car’s antics were pulling him into the familiar solemnity of a mournful mood.
He was absolutely sure the car was acting up on purpose (it was a reflection of himself, after all, and seemed just as committed to self-pity as he was) as it put on Pale Blue Eyes. He remembered talking to the Angel about The Velvet Underground and felt the uncomfortable sting of regret.
Although hundreds of years of bittersweet memories were recalled as he heard the first note, he always liked the Velvet Underground. Something about the quiet, almost understated nature of the song’s tone and the gentle bassline was irresistible, the perfect backdrop to quiet grief. It was the restraint, the perspective in hindsight, and the doomed nature of love. And if there was anything he understood, it was the ache of hopelessness, the agony of being incomplete.
It wasn’t the emptiness of the shop or the quiet loneliness, but the pain that came from being so certain only to be proven wrong, the pleading and hoping to be enough for the person he wanted. Crowley supposed it made sense, in a way, that he couldn’t have the one thing he needed, the one thing he had lived for. He had never known a love like this since before The Fall, and even then, it hadn’t been the same. It was limitless, without obligation or expectation of reciprocation; the only thing he had wanted from the Angel was time. Despite not giving a fraction of a damn about Heaven or Hell, he had whispered to whoever was listening, “Please don’t take him from me.”
Of course, they had, and Aziraphale was more than happy to go along with them. Nothing lasts forever. As if the burning of wings and loss of stars hadn’t been punishment enough.
Enough of this. Forget him. To hell with the world and everything that had them to this . He put the seat up, scowling as the Bentley refused to move; it probably knew what he was trying to do. He slammed the gas pedal and was thrown back into his seat by the force of the car finally roaring to life. He barely bothered to avoid pedestrians as he tore through the quiet town, and when he arrived at the church–the same church from which he had rescued Aziraphale so many years ago–he slammed the door with more force than he thought possible and set off at his odd gait.
He manifested his wings; something about the rain rolling off of inky feathers and seeping into the fabric of his clothing seemed appropriate for what he was about to do. He had always cut an impressive figure, and he knew it, but now he felt different, dangerous as he stepped into the church and saw the otherwordly shadow he cast on the dark floor.
He had said consecrated ground was hot, like sand on a beach, but now, he couldn’t feel a thing. He had been numbed from the heart; even if it had burned, he was too sick and tired and ill to care. He cringed as the thought crossed his mind; he really needed to stop getting drunk with songwriters. The candles flickered out as he approached the altar, leaving him in the dark.
“The holiest,” he muttered to himself with a dark chuckle. As he stood over the font, he realized he hadn’t really thought out what would happen from now until the end, but he supposed it was more the end that mattered than anything else. He thought back to the last time he had been in this church; nearly eighty-five years had passed since he had saved Aziraphale and taken him on a night of fun. He remembered it well, but the golden haze of his admiration had begun to blur with bitter loss. Enough of that .
In the post-Blitz renovations, it seemed the church had gotten a new font, one that was significantly larger than the previous one. It was smaller than a bathtub, but it would function the same. He stood at the edge of it, feeling the smooth stone and trying not to falter upon sensing the divine energy radiating off the holy water. He figured it would hurt, but not more than living without the only thing he had ever truly cared about. He shifted forward, preparing for the end, but in an instant, something was off.
In the end, he felt him before he saw him, felt his warmth, and the overwhelming sensation of the adoration he still carried. It couldn’t be .
“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale cried. He had also manifested his wings, glowing with a bright, albeit panicked, light. In the dark of the church, he looked golden, like the only star in a billion lightyears of darkness.
“No,” he said slowly, almost condescendingly. He hadn’t turned around, but he could see the Angel’s expression of exasperation. “No.”
Aziraphale sighed, and the font toppled over, landing on the stone floor with a dull crunch. Crowley groaned with frustration and tired anger, wheeling about to face the Angel. He wanted to look intimidating; he really did, but honestly, he had to stop to catch his breath when he saw him.
“ What? ” he shouted as if an hour ago, he wouldn’t have been willing to sell his soul for a second with the Angel. “What do you want?”
Despite the yelling, he was the one who flinched when Aziraphale stepped toward him. “I–”
“Clearly there’s something,” he said.” Go on, then. Spit it out so you can get back to Heaven . The big boss is waiting, right?”
“Well, yes, that’s the thing. I think I’ve chosen wrong–”
“Oh, no, Archangel , I’m not your consolation prize,” he spat. “I’m not some second choice you can come back to when everything’s not going how you thought it would.”
Crowley softened as he saw tears form in the Angel’s eyes and fought the urge to go to him. Instead, he sidestepped the font to put even more distance between them. On top of everything, his feet were starting to burn. Blasted church .
“Crowley, I don’t think you understand,” he said, wringing his hands. “I feel…I feel different. There’s something wrong, but I don’t know what. I feel like Gabriel when he came to us, in a way. Something is happening, and I don’t think I can control it.”
“I don’t know what you expected,” he replied, still trying to maintain his air of aloofness.
“I was trying to make everything good. How was I to turn down an opportunity to fix Heaven for us? Metatron will–”
“Don’t you understand?” he asked, shouting again. He ran a hand through his damp hair, yanking his sunglasses off. “They didn’t like me. They don’t like you, Aziraphale. They get you on their side and use you to carry out their plans like some kind of pet , and the second you show any hesitation, you’re right back where you started before: dishonored or good as dead. Metatron–Heaven–is manipulating you. You’re brilliant, An–Aziraphale! How do you not see it?”
Aziraphale sounded miserable. “I’m on your side, Crowley, I just need time to straighten it all out.”
“You chose your side when you went back to lead the same people who would’ve had you die for trying to do the right thing.” He looked up, around, anywhere but the Angel, trying to hide his own tears.
“How don’t you see it?” Aziraphale asked, moving toward the demon, looking quite determined. “I thought you’d be happy again if you were one of us–them. I wasn’t trying to change you, Crowley. I want…I want you exactly as you are. You’re what Heaven should be.”
“What?” Crowley said quite stupidly. Aziraphale released a shaky breath and closed the distance between them so they couldn’t have been more than a few inches apart. The first tear fell from Crowley’s eye as the Angel placed a tentative but warm hand on the small of his back. Instantly, almost against his will, he relaxed into the touch; his mouth was slightly agape, and he felt as if his heart had stopped. Aziraphale’s other hand reached up to rub little circles around his wings, and he couldn’t help but sigh and lean closer.
He had never been touched with such gentleness and care, and as he looked into the Angel’s eyes, he couldn’t keep it in anymore. Tears streamed down his face, and he choked back a sob.
“Will you…take me back?”
Crowley could’ve sworn the world stopped turning. “I will.”
“Dear boy, do you know you’re everything to me?”
With that, Aziraphale leaned forward, closing the distance between them and kissing him like it was the last thing he would ever do. It was soft and slow, wonderful as it should’ve been the first time, and they were both crying as Aziraphale held him tight. For that moment, Crowley felt like he had been taken back to the beginning, each movement a tiny nebula of their creation. Time moved around them, fluid and irrelevant, as he kissed back, moving to hold his Angel’s face.
When they drew apart, he rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s, feeling the warmth of his breath and the wetness of his tears.
“Angel,” Crowley breathed, running a thumb across his cheek. “I missed you.”
Aziraphale only nodded, beaming.
“What are we going to do?” Crowley asked, taking the Angel’s hands in his own.
“I don’t know, not yet,” he responded, his smile dulling a little. “I’m scared of them, Crowley. I don’t want to…to fall, but I can’t go along with something horrible, either. I just…”
“It’s alright. We’ll figure it out, yeah?” Crowley assured, and Aziraphale nodded again. He hugged him tightly, kissing his hair, and Aziraphale sighed happily. “Is this alright? Are we us again?”
He nodded, leaning his head on the taller being’s shoulder. “Crowley?”
“Hm?”
“I…you know I love you, right?”
“I know, Angel.”
“Do you…?”
“More than anything.” He made his point by peppering little kisses down his neck and shoulders, more for actions than words. He had loved him for so long that he hadn’t thought it possible that his affection might be returned. Now that it was, he would love his Angel for the rest of eternity, no matter how much longer that was and no matter what the circumstances allowed. Heaven and Hell were insubstantial when met with their love. This was the first time they could voice it, but Crowley had no intention of stopping now.
“Can you take us home?” Aziraphale asked, already leading him down the aisle. Aziraphale probably missed the books just as much as he had missed Crowley. Somewhere in the chaos, the candles had been relit, an umbrella had appeared, and the soles of his shoes had gotten about two inches thicker. Miracles indeed .
Crowley didn’t have to be asked twice. In no time, they had left the church and were walking to the Bentley in the rain, Aziraphale holding the umbrella in one hand and Crowley’s in another. When they got in the car, the Bentley’s headlights flashed excitedly; it had missed the Angel almost as much as Crowley did.
Their fingers were still intertwined on the armrest as the car sped off toward the bookshop, and the rain had lessened, pitter-pattering onto the windshield in what Crowley thought were very pleasant little drops. Maybe the world was just more pleasant with Aziraphale in it. He watched fondly as the Angel fiddled with the dials on the radio, surprised when another familiar song came on.
"What’s all this? Thought you hated The Velvet Underground.”
“Oh, no, I do, I just like you more. And this one’s got some applicable lyrics.”
Crowley snorted. “Whatever you say, Angel.”
He was astounded when Aziraphale began to hum along to the words. Who would’ve thought his Angel would get into “bebop”? Certainly not Crowley. He squeezed his hand as his favorite bit played. The lyrics were truly quite fitting; as the woman’s rich voice sounded, he didn’t have to guess at what the words might have meant.
“ I find it hard to believe you don’t know the beauty you are. But if you don’t, let me be your eyes, a hand to your darkness, so you won’t be afraid. When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you’re twisted and unkind, let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down your hands, ’cause I see you. I’ll be your mirror. ”