Archive of Our Own

I. so long, London

London, United Kingdom – 2010 

Eight years ago, Aziraphale Fell cried in a Waterstones. 

It was dreadfully embarrassing, seeing as he normally only allowed breakdowns in the privacy of his own bedroom. Doing all of that in the middle of a bookshop, a Waterstones of all bookshops, was simply humiliating. 

Seeing Anthony J. Crowley’s face again after two years on the back cover of New York Time’s newest number one bestseller was a punch in the face, one could say. And yet, he didn’t cry because of it; seeing that familiar sneer, that shock of red hair, the line of people at check-out ready to buy the book caused a surge of pride so strong it nearly made him fall over, but he did not cry. 

He picked up the book, of course he did. There was no way in Hell or Heaven he wouldn’t buy his, well – Crowley’s first book. So he picked it up, and opened it to read the incipit, a habit of his Crowley could never stand. He used to ask why, and Aziraphale would say he just liked an amuse-bouche before the main course. Crowley never laughed, but Aziraphale always saw he wanted to. 

Instead of the incipit, he read the dedication. It wasn’t even on purpose, he didn’t even think about possibly finding his name there. And there wasn’t. The actual dedication was way worse. 

No one else called him angel, no one else ever did. And there it was, printed out for everyone to see and no one else to understand. 

A gift. From another continent, another life, still Crowley found a way to get to him. He cried in the middle of a Waterstones, while older ladies sent him worried glances and the cashier told him he’d need to buy the book if he damaged it. 

That very copy is still on his nightstand, together with Crowley's second and third book. The dedication is always the same. 

And the books are – oh, the books are marvelous. Witty and passionate and thrilling and emotional, the product of a mind he loved so fiercely, a reminder that he can still hear Crowley’s voice no matter the distance, no matter how much time has passed. And still, Crowley dedicates his books to him: the cruelest and sweetest reminder they existed. 

He never questioned Crowley’s motivation, partly because he does not have the right, not anymore, and partly because he’s selfish, and every time he reads those words he feels something warm burning in his chest that cuts through the general numbness he always feels nowadays. 

Crowley’s latest book has been out for a week, and he still hasn’t bought a copy. It’s been ten years: a whole decade of not seeing him, of not hearing him, of not touching him. Every day he forgets the exact shade of brown of Crowley’s eyes a little more, and he knows he never managed to paint it right, back then. One day, he’ll wake up and forget the way Crowley used to roll his R’s and hiss his S’s and the way his hair glowed when hit by the sunset light, and he’ll have nothing left. 

Almost nothing left. To the Angel of the Eastern Gate, you know where you are. What if it isn’t there anymore? After ten whole years, what if it’s different now? If he does not have that anymore, what will be left? Old paintings, a set of watercolors long dried out by now, a box full of journals where he hides all of his longings. 

So, he hasn’t bought Crowley’s book. And now he stands in a bookshop – a proper independent one, not a Waterstones - and sees it. A new title, that same picture of Crowley on the back cover, which makes Aziraphale irrationally angry. Why can’t they convince him to take a more recent one? One that shows new wrinkles, new flaws, everything Aziraphale is missing and will always miss. 

The Crowley he knew stares back at him. Aziraphale swallows, and feels his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Gosh, this may be worse than crying in a Waterstones. 

“Mr. Fell?” Ah, there it is. “Everything alright?”

Mr. Adams is the owner of Adams' Books and Trinkets, Aziraphale’s very private and very secret slice of Heaven. A maze of dusty shelves and various knickknacks, hidden from the outside world by stained glass windows and heavy burgundy drapes, always bathed in a soft, golden light.

It's a place outside time and space, in Aziraphale’s opinion. He always forgets he’s in London whenever he visits, which is exactly what he was looking for when he accidentally stumbled in this little corner of Soho after a meeting with a client that left him particularly drained, even more so than usual. He was looking for an escape, for a five minute break, and he found Mr. Adams and his books. 

Mr. Adams is old. Aziraphale doesn’t know how old exactly, but he’s got that kind of look in his eyes that speaks of experience and life lived, the secrets of a mysterious existence etched in the lines on his forehead and woven into his white hair. Mr. Adams is also incredibly perceptive, and always seems to know when something is wrong with Aziraphale. 

He wouldn’t say they’re friends – it is a bit weird, being friends with someone older than your own father, isn’t it? Then again, the friends department is something severely lacking in Aziraphale’s life, nowadays. 

“Everything is tip-top,” he lies, trying to ignore Mr. Adams’ knowing look. “I was, uh, I was browsing.”

“Tip-top,” Mr. Adams mumbles. “Well, I see you’re looking at the newest arrival.” 

Ah. Perfect. Just what Aziraphale needed. He hums, almost noncommittally, except for the light shaking in his fingers and the stinging in his eyes. It’s ridiculous, really. All of it is ludicrous: it has been a whole decade, and a book is able to do all of this. “I am,” he says out loud. Then, because apparently more than half of his brain capacity is dedicated to not breaking down inside Adams' Books and Trinkets and the rest of it cannot be bothered with his nonsense, he blurts out. “I know him.” 

Which is a little bit of an understatement, now that it’s out in the open. Mr. Adams doesn’t reply, which is a small mercy, and merely keeps looking at Aziraphale with a quirked eyebrow. And Aziraphale, somehow, needs to say something more, because ‘ I know him’ is such a disservice to everything Crowley and him were. Aziraphale knows the way Crowley’s nose scrunches up when his coffee is too bitter, knows the way he has to brush his hair not to make it frizzy, knows the way he drops one pinch of hot pepper whenever he makes sauce because he hates when it gets too spicy and covers the flavour of tomatoes and – and he should be using the past tense, shouldn’t he? 

It’s been ten years. Maybe – maybe he doesn’t like coffee anymore. Maybe he doesn’t cook for himself, and maybe someone else does his hair for him. Aziraphale doesn’t really know anything anymore.

At least this time he doesn’t cry. He starts laughing instead, which may be the first sign of hysteria, but he cannot stop, not even when Mr. Adams’ look shifts from bemused to downright worried. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and manages to huff out another sentence. “I rather think he is the love of my life, actually.” 

To be fair, Mr. Adams handles it well. He waits until Aziraphale composes himself, more or less, offers him a cup of tea as British men are bound to do, and tells him he’ll listen to him, if he ever wants to tell the whole story. 

Aziraphale does not. Not today, at least. Today, he wants to keep their story for himself a little while longer. He gets home late, much later than he intended, with Crowley’s book tucked under his arm. 

He waits until he’s settled in bed before opening it. On his nightstand, three books with an identical picture on the back cover wait for their fourth companion to join them. Under the bed, a box full of long unused art supplies screams at Aziraphale, begging to be opened again. 

In bed, Aziraphale sighs. Three times, in and out. He opens the book. 

It has been a decade. Ten whole years of forgetting and heartache and silence. The dedication is still the same. 

II. all I do is try, try, try 

New Dawns, Connecticut – 2016 

Aziraphale is – not meant for this. 

He knew he did not want kids for a reason, said reason being kids do not like him. He knew this, everyone in his life knew this except Madeleine apparently, who went and died and left him with a whole daughter to raise. And what was he supposed to do, say no? Leave Muriel to his parents? Good Lord. It was a lose-lose situation for the poor child, but he supposes he is at least a bit better than them. He’s not – he will never force her to attend Mass on Sundays, for starters. And yes, she may now hate him and yell at him how much she misses her mother and father and how inept he is at all of this, but in a few years she’ll understand that getting stuck with her ultra-conservative grandparents would have been way worse than a useless uncle. 

At least, that is what he told himself all throughout the custody battles and what he tells himself every time he makes Muriel cry now that he won.

He lets his head hang against the wall of what is now his study. It feels wrong to even think about that, living in his dead sister’s house, where all of her stuff still is, where he never set foot in before a few weeks ago because she left him, too – 

He takes a breath. He’s spiraling again. 

The only silver lining of the whole custody battle business – besides finally standing up to his parents, of course – was the lack of time and mental strength to think about him. He had too much on his plate to keep up with the publications of the long lost love of his life, thank you very much. 

But now? Now he lives in the United States of America, of all places. Connecticut. A two hour drive from New York City. It’s harder not to think about Crowley when Aziraphale knows they are looking at the same sky for the first time in sixteen years, or when he tries to remember how Crowley used to trick every kid he met into falling in love with him, and managed to get a couple of them to tolerate Aziraphale as well. It’s hard not to think about him when he’s so, so lonely and the only person he ever thought of doing this with is – well, not far, not anymore, but gone. 

Definitely gone. 

He scrubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the stubble on his chin growing in uneven patches. He drags his weary bones over to the desk, where his little project sits unfinished. 

He started it the night he moved into this house. He dug up his watercolors and his brushes from one of his boxes and just – just started painting. Doodles and random shapes at first, just to remember the weight of a brush in his hand and the rush of endorphins in his brain, and before he knew what was happening, something was staring back at him. 

Someone , actually. Someone that does not exist, if not in one specific book the only man he ever loved wrote. 

He laughed at himself then, and laughs at himself now. How wonderfully embarrassing. 

Sixteen years and now he’s illustrating Crowley’s books, in his dead sister’s house no less, trying and failing to raise her daughter. If only she could see him now.

God. Madeleine. Maddie for Aziraphale, Seraphina for their parents. Maddie who had a husband and a child and a life so full, a future so bright. Maddie who Aziraphale hadn’t talked to in years but still trusted him enough to end up in her will. Maddie who died, and Maddie who loved him, and who knew and – and Aziraphale didn’t even tell her. 

He feels the tears on his cheeks before he even registers them. His sister is dead, and he never told her about himself, or Crowley, or everything he lost, or how miserable he was in London, or how badly he despises their father too. His sister is dead and he will never get to tell her, now. 

She is gone as well, and now he’s left to steal her life. 

The door creaks open a fraction, and Aziraphale hurries to dry off his eyes. “Muriel?”

It’s past her bedtime. Muriel peeks through the door, curly hair wild after a whole day of meltdowns, yellow pajamas almost too small on her. She has a frown on her little face, wide eyes so similar to Maddie’s darting all over the room, never landing on him. “Nightmare,” she whispers. “You weren’t in your bed.” 

Aziraphale allows himself a second to squeeze his eyes shut, before exhaling. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and is thankful she doesn’t get the deeper meaning behind it. “Do you want some tea?” 

It’s definitely wrong to offer a child caffeine after her bedtime and a nightmare, but, as he said, Aziraphale is useless. Thankfully, Muriel shakes her head. “What are you doing?” 

Ah. The million pound question. “Nothing important,” he says. “Why don’t you head to bed and I’ll… read you a story?” 

Is she too big for bedtime stories? She is starting middle school next year. Perhaps it’s… embarrassing now, or something. He really is not meant for this. 

Muriel stomps her foot and pouts in a way that, with a lurch in his chest, reminds Aziraphale of himself. “I want to know what you’re doing.” 

There’s a flash, then. A memory, kind of. A conversation he hasn’t thought about in decades. “You need to treat ‘em like they’re their own person, y’know? Because they are.” Crowley on the way back to the flat they shared, Christmas light above them, snowflakes in his hair. “And never lie, because they know. Cheeky little shits.” Crowley walking backwards, almost falling over just to look Aziraphale in the eye when he told him, “But you were a natural, angel. I knew you would be. Just needed to loosen up a bit.” 

And his eyes fill with tears again, but he cannot cry, not now. He swallows, hard enough to dissolve the lump in his throat, and decides to trust Crowley once again. “Uhm, why don’t you… well, do come here, dear.” 

Wordlessly, Muriel does. She walks over to him, silent as her socked feet slide over the wooden floor, and eyes the desk curiously. “What is that?” 

Aziraphale looks down as well. The shiny black car he just finished is still wet, glistening in the low light of the studio. “That is, uhm, that is a painting.”

Muriel is still frowning, but her expression is more curious than wary now. “Did you… make it?” 

She’d be the first to know about this side of him since Crowley. Crowley used to spend hours watching Aziraphale paint and spent all of his money on new supplies for him. Aziraphale has to blink back tears again. “Uh, yes. Yes, I did.” 

Muriel lips part in a perfect little ‘O’ with a little gasp, and Aziraphale sees it. This little girl is his family now, and there is something of himself in her. “But it’s so… pretty!”

Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “Yes, well. Thank you.” He doesn’t want to think about the implication of his niece being so utterly flabbergasted at seeing him being good at something. 

Muriel puts her hands on her desk, eyeing the painting closer without touching it. “Are you sure you made this?” She looks back at him, suspicious. “Are you lying?” 

“Absolutely not!” It comes out way too outraged. Aziraphale takes a breath, and reminds himself he’s talking to his recently orphaned ten year old niece. “I mean, no, I am not. I –” He looks up, searching for inspiration, and of course he thinks about Crowley again. Of course he comes to his rescue, even if only with memories. “I can prove it to you.” 

He stands up, awkwardly lifting Muriel to sit on his chair, and turns to look for the stool he is sure is there somewhere. On the far corner of the room, under a pile of books he was supposed to sort and put in the bookshelves days ago. He sighs, and hurries to free the stool, tipping a few books over in the process. “Goodness gracious,” he murmurs, leaning down to retrieve the books and almost dropping them once again as he hears a giggle from behind him. 

Muriel never once laughed since he came here. She cracked a smile a few times, but never as much as a snicker, and certainly never with him in the same room. Aziraphale approaches the situation as someone would approach a venomous snake ready to strike. 

He drags the stool over to the desk, keeping his face as neutral as possible, and carefully moves his piece aside to grab a clean sheet and a pencil. “So,” he starts, taking a deep breath. “Any requests?” 

Aziraphale waits, pencil in hand, as Muriel taps her chin with a finger, trying to suppress a smile. He’s still cautious about all of… this. “A peach.” 

Aziraphale bites his cheek. “A… peach?” 

“It’s my favourite fruit.” Muriel shrugs. “Mom used to cut it into little slices and put sugar on it.” 

Aziraphale is definitely not able to cut a peach into little slices, but he knows how to draw one. He rolls his sleeves up, and starts tracing lines. “Alright then. Peach it is.” 

It’s a good peach, actually. The shading could have been nicer and it is a little plumper than any peach he could possibly find at the farmer’s market, but it’s a peach. And at least Muriel likes it. 

She beams at him for the very first time, and somewhere around Aziraphale’s stomach, a knot comes undone. “You did it!” She holds the paper close to her face, looking for any flaws in his design. “Can you make a pizza with a lot of toppings now?” 

Aziraphale chuckles, a bit breathless. “Are you hungry, perhaps?”

Muriel giggles. “You speak funny,” she says. Aziraphale gets it. He almost fainted when he heard just how American she sounds. “But, no. Just bored. Will you do it?” 

And really, Aziraphale should just send her to bed. It’s late, and it’s been a long day, and she was crying and yelling not two hours ago. But she’s smiling at him now, and Lord knows how long that’ll last. He wishes he could thank Crowley for this little miracle. 

He has no time to linger on the residual heartache. “Of course I will, peach.”

*

A few days later, Muriel has smiled at him five more times, laughed twice more, and told him goodnight every night. She’s also eaten two broccoli and hasn’t told him she hates him anymore. Aziraphale calls it progress, and also a miracle. 

He’s been thinking about Crowley a lot more, lately. He owes most of the changes in his and Muriel’s relationship to him, in a weird way, and even if he will never know about it, Aziraphale will always cherish it. These nights, after Muriel goes to bed, he locks himself inside the studio and paints. He’s already up to book four, and he switched to journals where he can actually keep track of the whole story. Just last night he finished journal number three. He’s writing the number four on the front page of his newest project when someone knocks on the door. 

He frowns. It’s much too late to have visitors, and he doesn’t get visitors in New Dawns, Connecticut. 

So if he hides a pocket knife in his back pocket, no one can judge him. He has a child to look after now. 

But what he sees through the peephole is not – dangerous looking. An old lady stands there, cane in hand a placid smile in place. Aziraphale opens the door. “May I help you?”

“Ah, yes. It’s definitely you.” The old lady says, tapping her cane once. “You’re about to become the books’ keeper.” 

Aziraphale blinks. He looks to his left then to his right, behind the old lady, checking for some youngster pulling a practical joke on him. “I beg your pardon?”

“The foreign gentleman is set to keep the books. The prophecies are clear.” The lady stretches a hand, which Aziraphale shakes politely, still in a daze. “Agnes Nutter, witch. I live down the street.”

Aziraphale blinks again, discreetly pinching his left thigh. “Witch,” he says, before shaking himself. “Well, uh. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. You’ll be good here.” She looks at him for a long beat. “Yeah. You need not worry. Things will fall into place, bookkeeper.” 

Aziraphale frowns, but keeps his polite smile on his face. “May you, uhm, elaborate, Mrs… Nutter?” Jesus. Fitting surname, at least. 

Instead of doing just that, Agnes Nutter the witch turns on her heels, taps her cane once more, and leaves. “Worry not, it’ll be clearer in the morning,” she calls behind her shoulder, clearly not waiting for a reply. 

Aziraphale stands on the porch for a few more seconds, blinking rapidly. He gets back inside, closes the door, and leans with his back against it. “Bloody Americans.” 

He hears a noise at the top of the stairs. Muriel runs down, eyes wide and curls clearly in distress – another thing Aziraphale needs to get better at. “Who was it?” 

“Oh, a lady who says she lives down the street. Do you know one Agnes Nutter?” Aziraphale asks before remembering a ten year old should definitely be asleep at this hour of the night. “Actually, let’s get you back to bed, now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No!” Muriel yelps. “It’s late, and people don’t knock when it’s late unless it’s bad news!” She’s crying again, and Aziraphale watches all of the progress he made crumble in front of him. “Who is it? Are you leaving too? I don’t want to go back with that lady from the group home!”

It’s instinct, what moves Aziraphale next. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why this is happening, or how to move forward from something like this. Muriel is crying, and he’s had enough of it for a lifetime. 

He crouches down and gathers her into his arms, holding her tightly. “No one is leaving, Muriel.” He murmurs. “It’s alright. No one will take you away.”

It takes a while, but it works. Eventually, Muriel stops crying, but he doesn’t stop hugging him. Tiny hands fists on the back of Aziraphale’s jumper, and he suddenly feels like every word he murmured earlier is a promise. No one is taking her again, not anymore. He carries her back upstairs, and lays in her bed until she finally passes out again. 

Aziraphale is still very much not meant for this. He is a disaster in the kitchen, does not know how to tame curls, has no idea what a scrunchie even is or why Muriel needs a specific backpack for middle school and cannot use her old one anymore. But he’s here now. And he’ll stay as long as she needs to, just like Maddie wanted him to. 

In the back of his mind, he sends a thought to Crowley. He hopes he’d be proud of him, if he were to see him now. As terrified as he was sixteen years ago, but braver now. 

He needs to buy two more journals. 

III. lumière, darling

New Dawns, Connecticut – 2024

He shouldn’t be smoking. 

For some reason, it is the only thing Aziraphale can focus on. There are twenty three years and a pathway of gravel between him and Anthony Crowley, and the only thing Aziraphale can properly elaborate is the burning stub between his fingers. 

He should have stopped smoking a long time ago. He almost did, forever ago, because Aziraphale never liked the taste nor the smell, and Crowley was never very good at saying no to him. But he still got away with a cigarette or two, on special occasions or particularly stressful times, and Aziraphale let it slide with the promise that one day soon Crowley would light his last cigarette. “I’ll let you have a drag of the final one,” Crowley always said.  

Apparently the bad habit stuck around for longer than he did. Aziraphale had hoped, during the years, that Crowley threw away the cigarettes even without his influence, that someone else loved him stubbornly enough to get him to stop. 

The swirl of smoke around his hand is almost beautiful to watch. Little puffs of smoke lingering in the cold air of January, twirling all around him as they follow the frantic movements of his hands. 

Aziraphale knows he’s rambling. He spots Anathema’s pinched face, suddenly recalling Mrs. Nutter telling him about her granddaughter’s job in New York City and cursing himself for never ever thinking about him . And he spots Crowley’s restless hands, the way his head shakes and – Good Lord, he hasn’t seen his face, but he knows already he looks the same. That shade of red above his head, those almost sickly pale hands, the way he dangles his cigarette between pointer and middle finger, sticking the pinky out like a noblewoman having tea with the Queen. It’s him. It’s him, and Aziraphale remembers. 

His hair is shorter. The last time Aziraphale saw him it was almost long enough to wrap into a bun. He looks skinnier, and he’s still not wearing an appropriate coat. Who told him he could survive a winter in Connecticut with that jacket? Aziraphale almost smiles. It’s such a Crowley thing, braving the colder months with nothing but his fashion sense, and it is so familiar it almost knocks him off of his feet. 

Crowley is nervous; that too is familiar. Aziraphale can tell the two are having an animated conversation, based on the way Anathema’s eyebrows shoot up and Crowley’s hands wind up in his hair. It’s because of him. He doesn’t know how he knows, and he hates making everything about himself, but it’s because of him. He can feel it. The nervous energy in the air has found a home in his stomach ever since Muriel came home earlier and shattered his world with a simple sentence, and recognizes a relative in those wandering hands and half smoked cigarette.

He doesn’t even remember making the conscious decision of coming here. His feet dragged him here out of their own volition, his mind disconnected from his body, taken back to an evening twenty three years ago that ended with tears and a slammed door. And then he spotted a shock of red hair and an all black ensemble and his feet stopped working as well. 

He wants to turn around. Leave Crowley alone, disappear for a month or two or however long he’s staying, not daring to disturb him. He wants to let him go, thank the Universe for the chance of getting to see a glimpse of him again, something he never thought he would get, and then leave Crowley to his beautiful, successful life, away from him. 

He wants to walk up to him. He wants to gather him up into his arms and hold him close enough to hear his heartbeat, tell him he’s sorry for staying behind, yell at him for not picking up a single call, beg him to tell him why he let him go so easily. He wants to ask about the dedication, why he’s never changed it and why he never looked for him, if he still thinks about him, if he still hates him. He wants to hear his voice again. He – goodness gracious, just a glimpse of his eyes and he’ll leave him be. 

He doesn’t even realise he started moving again until he gets close enough to be heard. Anathema Device, as perceptive as her late Grandmother, spots him first. He sees her mouth moving around some words, but he doesn’t hear them, because Crowley stopped moving. He even dropped his cigarette. 

And Aziraphale – Aziraphale cannot go back now. He can never be the same person he was this morning. He will never live again in a world where Anthony Crowley is nothing but a memory. So he keeps walking forward. He hides his shaking hands into his pockets and says, “Hello?”

*

“Tell me about them?” 

Once upon a time, forever ago, Aziraphale let a boy he didn’t know very well but already liked more than it was healthy drag him to the English countryside in a car held together by prayers and miracles, in the middle of a cold November night. They looked at the stars, and the boy turned out to be somewhat of an amateur astronomer, and he had warm hands and warmer lips, and Aziraphale remembers thinking, I will fall in love with you. 

Perhaps, he already fell at that time. 

He’s holding that same boy’s hand tonight. He’s not a boy anymore, and neither is Aziraphale, and they aren’t in England anymore, nor are they together. But they sit on this swing, in a playground in a small American town, and they hold hands. 

Crowley squeezes his hand, keeps looking skywards. “That one on your right is the Cassiopeia constellation. You can only spot it from October to January.” 

Aziraphale has never been good at stargazing, since he was always distracted by someone else. The years did not make him any better. Crowley looks at the stars, Aziraphale looks at Crowley. He does squeeze his hand, urging him to go on. “The Greeks were not very generous to Cassiopeia.”

Crowley snorts. “Nah. She was a total bi–”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes, laughing quietly. “Language.” 

It’s easy. It is so easy to fall back in love with Crowley. He still listens, he still knows exactly what to say and, even if he cannot voice it as he once did, he is still in Aziraphale’s corner. 

Today has been an awful day. Hearing Sandy’s voice again, having all of his old doubts come creeping back in, the cruel reminder of the ability of the Fell family to get under his skin. It was a nightmare, start to finish, and the only thing he could find himself looking forward to was to get home, hide in his room, and pass out until he stopped hurting. 

But Crowley was there. And Crowley sees him, still. Of all the people in the room Aziraphale calls his friends, Crowley was the only one to understand. 

And maybe Aziraphale did tell him too much; unloading decades of family drama to the one person said family managed to snatch away from him is not something his therapist would recommend. But Crowley – Crowley took his hand, and didn’t let go. 

“Well, moving on from the Queen, that one is Orion.” Crowley uses his other hand to point at a spot somewhere above Aziraphale’s head, a bit to the left. “See?” 

Aziraphale tilts his head, pushing every other thought to the back to focus on the moment. “I… see.”

Crowley drops his gaze on him, an eyebrow raised. “You’re lying.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale starts. He sighs. “Yes, yes I am.” 

“Jesus Christ, Aziraphale.” Crowley huffs, clearly fighting a smile. “It’s right there!”

He looks up at the sky again, squinting. It’s – it’s a pretty view, a stunningly clear night sky even, but that’s all. Stars everywhere. “I just cannot make out the different patterns!” He waves his free hand around. “It’s all – they all look the same.”

Crowley shakes his head. “The lack of light pollution is wasted on you.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Which is why I asked you to tell me about them, not bully me.” He looks down at their joined hands, smiling more as Crowley gives another squeeze. 

“We’d have to stay here all night.” Crowley mumbles. “Do you – do you have to get back?”

Aziraphale sobers up quickly. He glances at his watch with a grimace. “I am sure Muriel appreciates not having an old man around,” he doesn’t miss Crowley’s bark of laughter. “But I do worry about teenagers left alone in a house with many books.” 

Crowley hums, and doesn’t drop his hand. “Then we should start heading back.” 

Aziraphale frowns, masking it with a quick smile. “Are you – do you perhaps want to call Ms. Device? Ask her for a lift? Or I could go back and pick you up with my car.”

Crowley’s leg is something he handles with care. He doesn't know what’s wrong exactly, but something clearly is. And while Crowley doesn’t immediately clam up when Aziraphale mentions sitting down and resting anymore and he even lets him put an extra pillow on the armchair he always uses in the bookshop, he still tenses up. The grip on Aziraphale’s hand grows tighter, and he squirms a little on the swing. “I – I think calling the witch would be best, yeah.” He says, quieter than Aziraphale would like, looking down at his feet.

He swallows. He wants – he wants to fix it. He wants to make him laugh again. “I – do you think I could bother her as well?” Crowley’s gaze snaps up to meet his. “I’m not young anymore, and it is a very cold night.”

Crowley blinks at him, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Yeah, no problem. You’re just down the road.” He looks at Aziraphale for a beat more, features melting into something Aziraphale can’t name, but that is way softer. “And, uh. I – thank you.” 

Aziraphale blushes. Thank the Lord for New Dawns’ lack of proper nighttime illumination. “I do apologise for cutting your stargazing session short.” 

Crowley is still looking at him. Aziraphale wonders if any of them is even blinking. “Nah. I get it. And we –” Crowley cuts himself off, shaking his head. 

Aziraphale takes a breath. Their hands are still joined. It must count for something, right? “We could… do it again?” 

The smile he gets in response definitely counts for something. It’s pretty much everything. 

*

Aziraphale finds Crowley and Muriel in the kitchen. He immediately feels like an intruder: Muriel is at the sink, soaping up the plates while Crowley sits down at the table, drying whatever comes his way. “The witch is going to yell at us for this.” 

“We’re just being good guests.” Muriel says, handing him a glass. She – they remind him so much of himself, sometimes. 

Crowley is wearing his glasses, but Aziraphale feels the eyeroll. “Gosh, you sound just like your Uncle.” 

He knows eavesdropping is bad. He’s supposed to keep his smile private, turn on his heels, and get back where Anathema and Newt are waiting in the living room. 

Of course he doesn’t do that. 

He stays right where he is, partially hidden by the kitchen door. He cranes his neck to make sure Anathema is not calling him, or Muriel or Crowley, and when he’s sure the coast is clear, he starts listening in to their conversation. Like any good, responsible parental figure would. Obviously.

“I was never worried about his reaction, actually.” Muriel is saying now. “I told him before I even told my friends.”

Aziraphale has cried enough for a day. Still, his eyes sting again. “That took some balls, kid,” Crowley replies, as he tries to mask the wobble in his voice with a cough. 

“I just feel like I am very lucky.” Muriel says, sounding just so happy a tear escapes Aziraphale. His brave, brave Muriel. “I don’t think I could have realised it without him. Or you.” 

He hears Crowley coughs again. “You need to stop saying that.”

“I mean it!” Some of the water in the sink sloshes out. “I never say things I don’t mean. Which, speaking of…”

“No,” Crowley hisses. “Not here.” 

Aziraphale frowns. Not here? “Oh? Not here? You were making eyes at him all night –”

Crowley makes a somewhat distressed sound, loud enough to cover Aziraphale’s distressed sound. Is it true? Did he miss it? “I was not!” Crowley yelps back. “And keep your voice down!” 

Aziraphale feels on fire. He’s pretty sure his face definitely is, and his heart might need medical attention after this kind of day. “You two are just unbelievable.” Muriel says, still unflappable. “I just don’t understand why you don’t talk to each other.”

“We do!” Crowley echoes Aziraphale’s thoughts. “We had a very… important conversation just this afternoon.”

Aziraphale nods along dumbly before shaking himself. Why is Crowley even having this talk with Muriel? “Why am I even talking to you about this?” Aziraphale internally – and embarrassingly – rejoices at the display of unity. “Finish up with that glass before Anathema comes yelling.” 

It’s the reminder he needs. He flees the scene as quietly as he can, locking himself in the guest bathroom, which was his intention all along, actually. The man who looks back at him in the mirror has cheeks splotched red, glassy eyes, curls all over the place. He’s also – smiling. He puts a hand to his chest, wanting to keep everything in – he wants to bottle the feeling of belonging he yearned for all his life. He wants to keep listening to Crowley and Muriel talking over the dishes and laughing at dinner, he wants to hold Crowley’s hand under the stars and sit on the icy cold ground like two overgrown teenagers, he wants to have his family close and together always. 

Someone in the living room calls his name. He takes a breath, and nods at the man in the mirror. He wants to keep seeing him too. 

IV. do you picture me like I picture you? 

New York City, New York – 2024

Aziraphale remembers how the nights were like in London: constant traffic noise, sirens everywhere, twinkling lights from the skyscrapers acting like artificial stars. 

The night in New York City is similar, but different. Everything is – bigger. Louder. More beautiful, in a way. The view outside the floor to ceiling window in Crowley’s bedroom cannot be described as anything else: the City is alive beneath and all around them, buildings lighting up the dark with blues and yellows, the traffic below almost a melody of sorts. 

It is as beautiful as it is jarring, now. Aziraphale is used to the silence, to the chirping of the birds in the mornings and the barking of dogs at night. He is certainly used to a smaller bed, and to sheets with a way lower thread count, and to reach over to feel a cold left side. 

Aziraphale reaches over, and finds Crowley’s hand. “We were supposed to take this slow.”

Crowley shifts then, laying on his side so he can face Aziraphale properly. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, and his eyes are so bright even in the dark. “We can’t be trusted alone.” 

“Have we ever made a sensible decision once in our whole life?” Aziraphale chuckles quietly, reaching over to trace Crowley’s collarbone. “Before you answer, this is a rhetorical question.” 

Crowley clicks his tongue. “Not complaining if this is where I end up.” He punctuates the sentence by shuffling closer, throwing one arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “Never complaining again, actually.”

Aziraphale goes easily – always so easily when Crowley is concerned. He gets comfortable, breathing in the soothing scent in the crook of Crowley’s neck. It’s the same, amazingly enough. The cologne he wears is different and so is his aftershave, but the scent of him, that basic, incredibly human smell of bare skin is something Aziraphale’s brain would recognize anywhere, anytime. He breaths in again, pressing his lips there, featherlight. “Thank you for today.” 

He is not talking about the Cloisters, or that library straight out of a dream, or the sunset over the Hudson River or the incredible duck they had at dinner – even though everything had been more than perfect. He’s talking about the way Crowley held his hand, and kept smiling at him, and told him all about his favourite places even when the ache started to become unbearable, even when tiredness started sweeping into his words. He just kept looking at Aziraphale, smiling wider whenever he laughed, sighing with poorly conceived fondness at every one of his delighted gasps, laughed fully when he tried on his new bow-tie, not caring in the slightest about the people looking at them. 

The day has been incredible. Crowley has been perfect. 

“I should be thanking you,” Crowley says, tracing circles on Aziraphale’s back. “Made it all better.” 

Aziraphale swallows. He knows Crowley won’t mind some tears, but he’s determined to end this perfect day with dry eyes. He kisses the first patch of skin he finds again. “You are such a romantic.” 

It gets the reaction Aziraphale expects. Crowley groans, the vibration of it under Aziraphale’s cheek making him giggle. “No, I’m not. I make a living out of writing about murders. Ugly, violent murders.” 

“Mysteries,” Aziraphale quips. “And your fifth one did not have a single murder in it.” 

Crowley’s hands stop their ministrations on his back, and for a second Aziraphale worries he gave away too much. Then again, why should it matter now? The… thing between them is out in the open now, perhaps it always has been. The dedications, the books, the unanswered phone calls, that final rejection: they will always be there, but they are not painful anymore. Aziraphale lifts his head, and finds Crowley already looking down at him. It should be impossible to hold this much feeling into a pair of eyes. “Alright Wikipedia,” he mumbles. “Still very much not a romantic.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “If you say so.” He leans back down, resuming their previous position. “Where are you taking me for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

Crowley’s answering chuckle reverberates through his temple. “Aren’t we demanding?”

“I’m a guest in your house. It’s about politeness.”

“Obviously.” Crowley pinches his side. “Not about the bakery you spotted on our way back.” 

Aziraphale giggles again. He hasn’t felt this young in – he doesn’t think he ever felt like this. “Not at all.”

When he lifts his head again, Crowley is still smiling down at him, still lighting up the room with those pretty eyes on him. But there’s something else there. Something – frail, something uneasy around the edges of that smile. 

Aziraphale doesn’t have to think much. He pursues his lips, and pushes down on Crowley’s chest until he’s laying on his back, ignoring his protests (and not-so-subtle propositions). 

He leans over Crowley to retrieve the pillow they discarded sometime during their afterglow activity – giggling to himself as he pictures Crowley’s reaction to the words afterglow activities and not because of the hand wandering way lower than what is polite. Once he’s found it, he taps Crowley’s hip once, mumbling a soft “Up,” and smiles as Crowley complies. 

Crowley’s face is pinched when he looks at him again. “Sorry. Shit. You don’t –”

Aziraphale smacks his chest. He preens a little when Crowley gapes at him, unblinking. “What the fuck was that for?”

Placidly, Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “You may want to start that sentence again.”

Crowley glares. It’s not very effective, but still a valiant try. “You don’t have to do all this,” he grits out, gaze wandering lower as he squirms a bit, grimacing as he twists his bad leg too fast. “Shouldn’t even look at it.” 

Aziraphale almost smacks him again. Almost. He puts a finger under Crowley’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I don’t have to,” he relents, and his heart breaks as Crowley nods. “But will you let me anyway?” 

Close as they are, Aziraphale can hear every one of Crowley’s breaths. The one he takes now is sharp, and the following one is deep. Aziraphale waits for Crowley to find whatever he’s looking for in his own eyes. I love you, he keeps thinking, hoping Crowley will learn to read his thoughts. I love you, and I want to do it right this time. 

“Alright,” Crowley whispers after a small eternity. “Not like I have much of a choice with you anyway.” 

Aziraphale kisses him. He won’t press further tonight. This has been a perfect day, and he wants to end it feeling Crowley’s lips stretch into a grin beneath his. They have time to talk about the rest. 

When they part, he leans down on the pillow, right next to Crowley’s head, and keeps one hand above his beating heart. “So, about breakfast?”

V. wanna be with you everywhere

Napa Valley, California – 2024

The house is perfect. White stucco, a terracotta roof, high windows that let in a light that looks too perfect and golden to be real. There is a veranda, of all things, where Aziraphale can perfectly picture a swing, and a garden big enough to plant herbs and flowers and whatever the heart could possibly desire. 

It’s perfect. 

“I need to kill him,” Crowley comments, almost nonchalantly. “Can I murder him, angel?”

Aziraphale spots the real estate agent’s panicked glance, and glares at Muriel when they giggle. “Darling, it’s fine.” 

It is not fine. His heart is actively breaking right now. 

“It’s not fine.” Crowley says. “It’s perfect.”

“I know!” Aziraphale whines. “Have you seen the garden?”

“Have you seen the library?” Crowley adds, sending Aziraphale into a further spiral. “It’s like – it’s like a worm crawled into your brain, sucked out all of your deepest desires and sold them to the – the guy who built this place.” He kicks the couch (a perfect cream shade that matches Aziraphale’s cardigan, by the way) before he sits down, groaning. “Fucking Gabriel Archer.” 

The real estate agent, poor woman, tries to cut in. “Ah, I gather you… like the property?” 

Aziraphale sighs, and sends her an apologetic glance. “We do. Tremendously.” He shudders as he thinks about the vintage copper bathtub in the main bathroom. An ensuite, of course, because Crowley’s worm theory actually makes sense. “But it is in California.” 

“Oh, not again.” Muriel sighs. “How is that an issue?” 

“Uhm, excuse me?” Crowley yelps from where he’s now sprawled on the couch. Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly, and promptly gets ignored. “What was our request? I’ll tell you what our request was.”

“The East Coast.” Aziraphale breathes out, longingly gazing at the mantle above the fireplace. 

“The East Coast!” Crowley throws his arms up. “Does this look like the bloody East Coast to you?”

The poor woman who chooses to lead them through their tour clears her throat, a bit awkwardly, and smiles faintly. “I think I’ll leave the three of you alone to… discuss. Yes,” she hurries out before making a very swift exit. Aziraphale cannot blame her.

Muriel waits for the front door to click closed before speaking again. “You should buy this house.”

Crowley makes a pained noise, and buries his face in one of the many throw pillows. Aziraphale swallows, and turns to face them fully. “Muriel, darling.”

“Uncle Az,” they say, in the exact same tone – condescending, Crowley would say. “I want you two to buy this house.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut. The only reason they came here is because Muriel requested it. They started talking about it while Aziraphale and Crowley were lounging poolside during their Californian weekend getaway, and somehow Muriel managed to convince them touring the house and actually considering buying said house was a good idea. 

Him and Crowley accepted, only because they thought Muriel would end up thinking about the distance, and realise they would not want the two of them a plane ride away during their college years. 

They already knew the house was perfect. Sure, seeing it in person was… a dream come true, but it doesn’t change what they already know. The house is perfect, the house is in California, Muriel thinks the distance is not an issue. 

Aziraphale has his doubts. Mostly, he does not think he’s ready to put a plane ride between the two of them. And Crowley, sweet, wonderful Crowley, confessed to him he does not want to lose the family he just found. (Aziraphale cried, of course. His heart cannot stand many more grand romantic gestures.) 

Hence the meltdown on the cream sofa. Hence Aziraphale yearning for a fireplace that can never be his.

But Muriel is half Fell. Stubborn to a fault. “Alright. Why don't you want to buy this house?” 

Crowley is unhelpful, groaning into his pillow. Aziraphale stares into Muriel’s dark brown eyes, wondering how it is that they are not related to Crowley in any way, and yet they share that earnest, open glint that is just a portal to their feelings. “We do not want to be a plane ride away from you.” 

With a sigh and an eye roll, they march forward until they’re close enough to engulf Aziraphale in one of their infamous hugs, tucking their head under his chin. For a second, Aziraphale is holding a ten year old again: the weight of Muriel in his arms is heavier, the curls shorter and the person different, but it’s still his Muriel. The hugs are definitely shorter now, but Aziraphale always accepts them. “It’s 2024!” They exclaim as they draw back. “There are so many planes leaving every day, which is so bad for the environment, and phones that work well enough if you know how to use them.”

Aziraphale ignores the jab. “But the distance –”

“I told you this before. Both of you.” They march to the sofa and drag a groaning Crowley up, steadying him with a hand on his back. “New Dawns will always be home. It’s not like I can’t have more than one.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes are starting to sting. Crowley finally decides to intervene. “We’ll see each other, like, twice a year.”

“No, we won’t.” Muriel says, and this time Crowley’s the one to receive the hug. “Thankfully, my uncles are pretty resourceful.” 

Aziraphale laughs, a bit disbelieving. Crowley looks up at the ceiling while breathing out of his nose like some kind of disgruntled horse. 

“I could tell you that we do not need to live under the same roof to be a family, but I was kind of saving it for graduation.” Muriel shrugs, as if what just left their mouth is nothing. “Now, I will go and take another look at the guest room facing the garden, which will be my room by the way, and you will decide to make an offer. Bye!” 

Crowley looks after their retreating form helpless, sniffling like anything. “Fucking fuck.”

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale agrees. Then, quieter. “Darling?”

Crowley lifts the glasses onto his hair. “Angel.” He walks closer, cups Aziraphale’s face with a reverence he will never get used to. “We kind of have to buy this house.”

Aziraphale loses the battle with his tears. “The kitchen has dark green cupboards.”

“It’s creepy, I’m telling you.” Crowley laughs against his face, breathless as Aziraphale feels. “I will not thank Gabriel Archer.” 

“You most definitely won’t.” Aziraphale leans forward and lets their forehead touch. “I never dreamed of this.” 

It’s the truth. He did not allow himself to dream, more often than not, but on the rare occasions he did, he wished for a quiet existence, some peace after all the storms he had to weather.

Crowley was too big of a dream to even entertain. He feels him nodding, and hears his shuddering breath. “You – you cannot even imagine –”

“I can,” Aziraphale cuts him off. “I can.”

Crowley kisses him then. Long and lingering and definitely not appropriate for a house tour, and Aziraphale wants to live in this moment forever. “This – this is it, right? Our,” Crowley stops and swallows roughly, letting out a slightly hysterical chuckle. “Our home.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale vows. “Our home.”

VI. daylight, daylight, daylight 

Napa Valley, California – 2026 

It is not a good day. 

Aziraphale knows it as soon as he opens his eyes, and finds Crowley already awake, sitting up beside him in their bed. “Good morning,” he says carefully. “Happy wedding day.”

Crowley doesn’t smile. “I’ll stand up when I marry you.” He grits out. “I’ll wait for you at the end of the aisle and I’ll – I’ll walk down with you afterwards, and I’ll dance with you, and I won’t –” He cuts himself off, grimacing as he shifts, trying to find a better position. “Fuck.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. Chronic pain never goes away: there are good days, bad days, terrible days and excellent days. Every day with Crowley is a good one, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but Aziraphale is not the one in pain. Wordlessly, he gets up and walks into the ensuite, grabbing one of the emergency heating pads he keeps on his side of the double sink, and drops a kiss on Crowley’s cheek before walking downstairs. 

In the kitchen, he heats up the pad and prepares Crowley’s favourite lavender tea – more a comfort for the soul than for his aching muscles, and throws a glance at the clock. The flowers will be here soon, and the caterers not too long after. Getting married in their garden seemed like the only feasible option at the time of planning and, truly, Aziraphale cannot wait. 

On a bad morning, however, he wishes for a little more time. 

He returns upstairs, finding Crowley in the same position, eyes shut and mouth pressed into a thin line. Gently, he sits back down on the bed, and places the heating pad in position. 

Crowley hisses, but shoots Aziraphale a grateful look. With a smile, Aziraphale hands him his tea. “Happy wedding day,” he tries again.

“I love you,” Crowley replies, very seriously. 

Aziraphale chuckles. “I sure hope so,” he aims for levity, brushing hair off of Crowley’s forehead and subtly checking his temperature. “This is not a very good day to change your mind about it.”

It draws a smile out of Crowley. “Nah, I’m good. My vows are so sappy you’ll cry two seconds in.” 

“I’ll cry two seconds in regardless.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss a beat, grinning as he thinks about his vows. “You will cry after five seconds tops.” 

Crowley huffs, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t comment as Aziraphale starts kneading into the cramping muscles, in the way the physiotherapist taught him. He knows better now than to fight a determined Aziraphale Fell. “How long till the flower guy gets here?”

“An hour and a half,” Aziraphale murmurs, pressing an apology onto Crowley’s cheek as his fingers work on a particularly tight spot. “You have time to take a warm bath and do some stretches.”

Crowley’s frown comes back with a vengeance. He averts his gaze, looking out of the window. A perfect blue sky, not a cloud in sight. His voice is small when he speaks next. “I hate this.” 

Aziraphale sighs. His hand keeps working, and he encourages Crowley to take a sip of his tea. “I know,” he says, equally quiet. “But you love me, and you’re marrying me today. I say this is a good day, all in all.”

Crowley snorts, shaking his head. He stills Aziraphale’s movement with his own fingers, and brings his hand up to his lips, kissing the ring finger and making Aziraphale’s poor heart skip a beat. “You’re insufferable.” Another kiss on the back of his hand. “And I can’t believe I’m the luckiest bastard in the universe.”

Aziraphale promised himself he’ll cry only after the wedding starts. He takes a deep breath to ensure he doesn’t break said promise before breakfast. “I believe that title belongs to me, actually.” 

“Sap,” Crowley has the audacity to comment. “Can I draw the bath myself or will you make me stay put until it’s ready?” 

“What do you think?” Aziraphale sing-songs. “You’ll do as I say.”

Crowley grumbles, releasing Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t I always?” 

Aziraphale resumes the massage, making sure to press the heating pad on the right spot and not to apply to much pressure. “I would love for you to stand up as you marry me.” Aziraphale says, quiet in the spot between them, in this liminal moment between their past and their future, twenty five years in the making. “But I would very much prefer having you standing up tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.” Forever. His vision turns blurry. “I’ll sit down with you, if needs be.” 

“I know you will, angel.” Crowley whispers, infusing his tone with the fondness he reserves for Aziraphale only. His eyes shine in the same way they did the first time they laid upon Aziraphale, in a different life. Those eyes Aziraphale almost forgot the exact shade of, those eyes who are the last thing he sees before falling asleep now, those eyes who have more lines next to them but are still the very same. The colour of honey, the colour of amber, the colour of the sunset when the light filters through the window in their living room. 

Aziraphale’s favourite. “It will be a nice day,” he says. “That I’m sure of.”

Crowley’s muscles relax the tiniest bit under his fingers. He smiles. “Yeah. ‘S long as you’re there.”

*

One week later, it is an excellent day. 

Crowley waits until Aziraphale is distracted, a bit tired after a long drive to the seaside and back, and strikes right on the threshold of the bedroom. 

Aziraphale finds himself lifted up, bridal style, and deposited right at the foot of the bed before he can even begin to process what’s going on. He shrieks, and yells, and almost gives himself a heart attack with all the fretting. 

Crowley laughs. He doesn’t stop as he lifts Aziraphale up, as he puts him down, or when he flops down on the mattress and pats the space beside him. “Come on, angel.” He laughs and laughs and laughs. “Been waiting only twenty five years to do that.”

Later, Aziraphale will hurry downstairs to prepare an emergency tea (for himself) and heat up a pad Crowley will deem unnecessary, and he’ll have Crowley sleep with one of his special pillows under his hips, and he will moan about this for hours on end until Crowley has to threaten him to go and sleep on the sofa. 

For now, he leans in the space beside Crowley, and kisses the laugh straight from the source. 

It makes it all worth it.