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Crowley is alone. Completely, properly alone, not the kind of alone he's used to by now after years, decades even (and one entire century on one occasion) on his own without seeing… It doesn't matter now.
He is alone, driving the Bentley aimlessly for what feels like hours, until he remembers his old flat is uninhabited now, and without any other place to go, he gets comfortable in his seat and lets the Bentley take control and drive him to his destination, one the car is very familiar with since it was their home not that long ago.
Although it never really felt like home, did it? Sure, it was a place to keep warm, sleep and keep his plants in, but Crowley's home has always resided somewhere else. Or rather, with someone else. But that someone is gone now, so, does Crowley really have a home anymore?
There's Earth, of course, and Crowley is still very fond of it, but come to think of it, Earth doesn't feel the same to him.
He tilts his head and rests his temple on the car window, staring at the street lights and people passing by as the Bentley finds its way to Mayfair. Everything looks muted now. Grey and dull. Not even the neon lights that start flashing as the evening darkens, illuminating Crowley's features with vibrant colours and reflecting off his sunglasses, help to diminish the black hole that started to form inside Crowley's chest mere hours ago, when he saw for the last time that familiar figure disappearing inside an elevator, taking with it his joy, his hopes, his…
Love me slow and gently.
The Bentley’s sound system comes to life, and the gentle notes and singing voice almost shakes Crowley to his core. He groans, reaching out with a hand to stop the radio to no avail.
“I'm really not in the mood for music right now,” he says through gritted teeth, but the Bentley ignores his complaints and the song continues on.
One foolish world, so many souls
Senselessly hurled through
The never ending cold
And all for fear and all for greed
Speak any tongue
But for God's sake we need
Las palabras de amor
Let me hear the words of love
Crowley groans again, louder this time, and bumps his temple against the window to keep staring at the street and keep himself distracted with something else, trying very hard (and failing) not to listen to the lyrics of the song. Freddy Mercury is right about one thing, though: it is cold, and Crowley can't help embracing himself, rubbing his arms and curling up in his seat.
There was a time when he wouldn't even need to turn on the heating system, not with the warmth that the presence in the passenger's side would emanate constantly, enough to envelop and keep Crowley's cold-blooded body warm even through the coldest of winters.
He glances to the side for a moment, but there is no one there.
This room is bare
This night is cold
We're far apart, and I'm growing old
But while we live
We'll meet again
“I doubt it,” Crowley scoffs. The song is really getting on his nerves now, and he is very close to miracling the Bentley’s radio into a supernova if it doesn't shut up soon. There's a lump in his throat that he's unable to swallow, and the black hole in his chest is beginning to sting like a relentless pinprick.
So then, my love
We may whisper once more
It's you I adore
“That's enough of that.” With a snap of fingers, the Bentley finally goes quiet except for the gentle rumbling of the engine, which soon enough comes to a stop when they finally reach their destination.
The Bentley parks on the street in front of Crowley's flat, its usual spot miraculously empty when they arrive. Crowley doesn't move for a while, still curled up and hugging himself in his seat.
It takes Crowley a tremendous amount of energy to sit upright, and when he finally manages it, it still takes him a long moment to reach for the door and open it.
Just before he steps outside, he opens the glove compartment – although sunglasses compartment would be a better name for it – and rummages through the dozen of spare sunglasses he keeps there until he finds what he's looking for. Without even looking at it, he puts it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and exits the car.
Crowley trudges his way to the flat, the small distance from the car to the building feeling like an odyssey in and of itself, with every step taking more and more energy from him. Once he reaches the front door, his old flat recognises his presence immediately and opens the door for him.
Crowley didn't know what to expect. In fact, he hadn't even thought about expecting anything before he stepped foot inside. But still, it surprises him to find it pretty much the same with just a few alterations.
There is new furniture, no doubt brought in by Shax, but the concrete walls remain the same, and the big TV screen is still mounted on the wall. The table and telephone are still in place, but the throne has been replaced by a boring looking armchair that Crowley quickly miracles away along with the rest of the new furniture.
He finds most of his belongings in his bedroom, which has been repurposed as a storage room. Some of his decorations have been carelessly put into boxes. The stone eagle he retrieved from the church in 1941 sits in a cardboard box too small for it, and the sculpture of a demon and an angel wrestling (or whatever it is they are doing) is on the floor next to it. Clearly Shax got tired of storing things and simply dumped everything she didn't like into the room. It takes a few miracles to put everything the way it was four years ago, and by the end of it Crowley feels even more exhausted than before.
He can't bring himself to take all the plants to the flat manually – it would take him several trips back and forth anyway – so with the last of his strength, Crowley snaps his fingers one more time and the plants dematerialise from the Bentley and take their respective places in the flat. If they had mouths, some of them would have puked from the dizziness.
Now that the flat looks exactly like it used to, Crowley feels himself relax a little, but the dread that sits in his stomach and the sharp pain in his chest haven't faded away yet.
He sits on his throne (or rather flops and sinks into it) and palms over his chest where the inside breast pocket is. He slides his hand inside and gently grabs what he retrieved from the Bentley. He takes a long, deep breath before even daring to look at it.
It's a photograph. A very old one in black and white that has gone a little yellow with time. A memory from 1941.
Crowley stares at himself, at his dumb face as he takes the gun he's being offered by the other figure. For a moment he wonders if the photo has always had this poor quality, until he realises his vision has become blurry. A little ocean had gathered in his eyes the moment his gaze fell on the other figure, and he now stares at that very familiar shape through a veil of his own tears.
The hand holding the photograph begins shaking slightly, much as his hands did eight decades ago as he held the gun and pointed it at his best friend.
Crowley could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has been truly scared during his existence. The fall was one, of course. Probably the first one. That time he got pulled down into Hell in 1827 was another. Then there was 1941 and the stupid magic trick that could have gone very wrong and whose memento he's now holding in his hand. Then there was the bookshop fire and the whole of Armageddon, which could count as one, really.
And there is now. Because, much to his dismay, Crowley discovers that he's utterly terrified right now, and the realisation of it rattles him to his core.
It takes him a long while to register that the tears have finally overflown and begun rolling down his cheeks, and he only notices when he tastes the salt on his lips.
He remembers the aftermath, sharing a bottle of wine back in the bookshop, the shades of grey. He remembers a song playing on the radio, two bodies swaying gently to the slow rhythm of a ballad, that familiar warmth pressed against his body, soaking through his clothes and reaching deep within, flooding his corporation with longing and hope.
He remembers a kiss that almost was. Blue eyes staring back at him in fear. Or was it shame? Memory is a funny thing.
He remembers a rushed goodbye, a broken heart, and the coldness in his bones despite the flames that devastated London.
Crowley hoists himself to his feet with some effort. He takes his sunglasses off and leaves them on the table, but keeps the photograph with him as he walks towards his bedroom.
Night has fallen, and the distant, shimmering lights of the city and the dim pale moonlight are the only sources of light inside the flat, producing a little spectacle of light and shadows on the concrete walls.
Crowley flops backwards onto the bed and stretches his arm over his head to look at the photograph again. He can almost feel the ashes from that night falling on him as he made his way back to the Bentley to drive away from the bookshop. He slept for most of the war. His dreams during that time were haunted by the horrors of humanity, an angelic skull cracked by a bullet, and the memory of a rejection. It wasn't a peaceful sleep by any means.
He wonders if he should sleep again, take another of his long naps and escape from reality for a while. Would his dreams be haunted again? What a cruel joke to give a demon the capacity to dream. Not even in his snake form can he escape it.
Crowley gazes at the photograph for a while longer, and now he can smell the burning. The unmistakable smell of smoke, of buildings ablaze and scorched human flesh. He can feel the heat all around him and burning him from within.
By the time he returns to reality, half the photograph in his hand is burnt to a crisp, his own fingers darkened by his own flame. The fire stops. The two figures have managed to survive, the scorched marks stopping just below their shoulders. Crowley lets go of the smoking photograph and it slowly falls like a feather until it rests next to him on the bed. He drops his arm down too, and stares at the ceiling with an unfocused gaze.
Scared blue eyes invade his thoughts again, but this time Crowley is not in 1941. He is in the present, mere hours ago. Crowley was so scared back then that he didn't realise those blue eyes were reflecting his same fear. He goes over the events over and over in his head, the conversation repeating itself like a broken record on a loop. He searches for clues, anything that would make him understand, anything that would give him hope. But there is nothing. Nothing to grab onto like a lifeline. Just two scared beings with very different goals. Two celestial bodies trapped in a perpetual orbit around each other, unable to get close enough, always doomed to gravitate away from one another.
Perhaps it was true, after all. Nothing lasts forever, and angels and demons are only supposed to be hereditary enemies. Perhaps they have been doomed from the start, and their little dance over thousands of years has been nothing but a complete waste of time.
He might as well try to sleep. There is nothing left for him to do, nowhere else for him to go. Alpha Centauri feels too far away to go to all the trouble of getting there, and he would feel as lonely there as he feels here on Earth.
Crowley closes his eyes and waits for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.
His dreams star Aziraphale, as they often do. Memories from centuries past are jumbled with scenes that never happened, possibilities that never came to fruition, hopes that were shattered and wishes that felt unreachable.
A dimly lit cellar during a thunderstorm. Crowley watches Aziraphale gobbling down an ox rib and wishes he were the one being devoured; to be held in Aziraphale's hands and be feasted on; to melt in angelic lips and tongue; to be swallowed and find his final resting place inside the angel's body. The fruit of his own temptation standing right there in front of him, out of reach, as if the Almighty had put the tree on the top of a high mountain or the moon after all.
A graveyard at night. A gentle but firm hand on his waist, keeping him steady as the world around him spins out of control. A smile and a gaze imbued with fondness. Had Crowley kissed Aziraphale then, he wouldn't have been responsible for it. He could have played the plausible deniability card, blamed the laudanum, and got away with it. Only he didn't get away with anything that night, did he? But the horrors were worth it for that smile.
It's 1941 again. Crowley is on his knees, embracing a limp body in his arms, rocking back and forth, holding his best friend closer, tighter, as if he can somehow fuse with him, bring him back to life by offering his own body as a vessel, a sacrifice so that Aziraphale may live through him. The blood coats his suit, soaks through the fabric and dampens his skin. Because Crowley's mind doesn't feel it's enough, it conjures up a world where the blood of an angel is lethal to demons, more painful even than the holiest of waters, and Crowley screams in agony, still holding Aziraphale in his arms as his corporation slowly evaporates. All that is left of both of them is the clank of a bullet on the stage.
The bookshop in the present. Two hearts beating out of sync for the first time in a long time. Those scared blue eyes again, staring at him with a pleading light, a plea Crowley can't answer. Words like knives that twist deeper and silence like a spear that pierces through them both. The feeling of old fabric clutched in his fists and soft lips against his. Bodies flushed together, closer than they have ever been, and hands that once again hold him steady, as they always have; hands that dig into his back and burn through the layers of clothing and bring him closer still, as if begging to never pull back, to stop time so they can live in this instant for eternity. And yet the kiss ends, and everything else ends with it. Over six thousand years of dancing until the music stops, and they are left not really knowing what to do because this is all they have known for such a long time.
Three words echo in Crowley's mind, Aziraphale's last words to him. They reverberate with such ferocity that Crowley fears they're going to shatter him from within. Or perhaps he had been shattered already, and all that is left of him are the broken pieces of what he once was.
Falling from memory to dream to nightmare, Crowley sleeps unaware of the passage of time. The world keeps moving without him, and his flat in Mayfair becomes his tomb.
***
Aziraphale finds Crowley a year later.
The first place he visits on his return to Earth is not his bookshop. Instead, the first thing he looks for is Crowley's Bentley. Find the car, and you will likely find the demon nearby. It doesn't take Aziraphale long to figure out where Crowley is once he spots the Bentley parked in a familiar street in Mayfair.
The car is cold to the touch, and seeing the state it's in, it clearly hasn't been taken care of for a long time. It doesn't have a scratch on it, and Aziraphale can feel the residual energy of a miracle in place keeping the car from prying eyes, but the miracle hasn't stopped the leaves and flower petals that have fallen on the hood for months, or the thin layer of dust gathering over the seats, dashboard and wheel.
Crowley hasn't driven the Bentley for a long time, and that adds to Aziraphale's worries.
Crowley had never abandoned Aziraphale's thoughts ever since he left for Heaven, but all his attempts at checking on the demon had been in vain. There was always something to do, something that required the Supreme Archangel’s attention, and the very few times where he could escape his responsibilities, something stopped him from being able to see Crowley at all, as if Crowley had put a miracle on himself to avoid detection, much like he had done to the Bentley.
With every step he takes in the direction of the flat, Aziraphale's anxieties grow in magnitude. He's been looking forward to this moment for so long, and dreading it at the same time. The joy of seeing Crowley again, and the fear of what he might find.
The way they left things have haunted him for a long year, the memory of their final words to each other and the kiss tormenting him like an unshakeable shadow that follows him everywhere and always threatens to devour him whole.
It has also kept Aziraphale grounded all this time. Even if Crowley wasn't there with him, at least the guilt and grief of leaving him were his constant companions, a reminder that he's been doing all of this for him, to keep Crowley safe, as well as the whole of creation.
Now that the Second Coming is underway, and the plan to stop it is set in motion, there's only one thing left, and that is to see Crowley. They stopped the end of the world together once, and perhaps they could do it again. Aziraphale doesn't expect Crowley to forgive him or to understand what he's done and why, at least not yet, but if there is a chance to fix things, if there's a possibility to return to the way things were, Aziraphale has to try. Even if Crowley doesn't join him now, he will still save the world for him. And even if Crowley never forgives him, at least Aziraphale would have kept him safe. That's all that has ever mattered to him.
Standing in front of the entrance to Crowley's residence, the whirlpool of hope and dread in Aziraphale's stomach intensifies. The flat recognises Aziraphale's presence and opens the door for him, allowing him the entry that has evaded him for so long.
As soon as Aziraphale crosses the threshold, he's hit with an overwhelming feeling that he can't quite identify yet. The atmosphere has shifted and feels wrong, very wrong. It's almost as if Aziraphale has left Earth and walked into a pocket dimension where time is suspended around one particular feeling. A feeling that Aziraphale has experienced a few times in his existence, and when Crowley wasn't around to help him with it, he has always made an effort to push it down because it's not the kind of thing an angel is expected to feel.
Sorrow.
What Aziraphale is feeling permeating the air around him and clawing its way into his very soul is sorrow.
Crowley's sorrow.
It's suffocating to the point that it makes it hard to move around the flat. Every step Aziraphale takes feels like he's walking through a toxic swamp of miasma, and every step is accompanied by the crush of dead leaves under his shoes.
The plants that once were Crowley's pride and joy and the most luxurious, verdant and beautiful in London, now are a pitiful sight. Most of them have died after being unattended for months – Aziraphale suspects it's been a year for them too – and the few that have managed to survive have become a monstrosity of thorns and dark leaves covering the walls almost entirely and restricting access to what Aziraphale remembers to be Crowley's bedroom.
Fortunately there's still a bit of the old plants left in them, and very slowly the tangle of branches unravels just enough to create a tunnel so that Aziraphale can pass through and reach the bedroom.
It's very dark, so dark that Aziraphale's eyes are having trouble adjusting to it, and through the little light that manages to beam through the leaves of the plants that have also made their way into the bedroom, he can barely discern the bed in the middle of the room, and a shape darker than darkness itself in the centre of it.
If Crowley is there, miracling some light might scare him or even hurt him, so Aziraphale politely urges the plants to disperse a little bit further so that more natural light can enter the room. The sun is close to setting so the light is dim and warm, but offers just enough brightness so that Aziraphale's eyes can adapt better to the darkness and he can properly see what he's looking at.
It's not like his heart needs to beat, but Aziraphale's heart skips a few beats anyway.
The dark shape on the bed, the one that a moment ago looked like a void absorbing all the darkness around it, turns out to be wings. Wings arranged together to form a perfect black cocoon in the middle of the bed, encasing what Aziraphale can only assume must be Crowley.
The feeling of sorrow is stronger here, emanating in waves from its source of origin.
Aziraphale approaches the bed slowly, as if facing a wounded animal that could attack at any second. Only there is no movement, and not even a sound of any kind coming from the cocoon. The dread that had settled in Aziraphale's stomach bubbles up towards his throat, and tears begin prickling to the surface, brimming in the rims of his eyes.
He climbs into the bed, kneeling in front of the cocoon and reaching out to it with a trembling hand. The black feathers rustle softly under his touch, then they begin to shiver, and a moment later the whole structure shakes violently and jolts back and away from Aziraphale's hand, bumping against the headboard of the bed and recoiling from the new presence in its environment. Not so different from an animal, then.
Aziraphale crawls on the bed on his knees as slowly and non-threatening as he can, closing the distance between him and the cocoon once again. This time there is movement and sound coming from the tangle of feathers, as if the whole thing is breathing or pulsing after snapping out of its slumber. Crowley is inside, Aziraphale knows this, and he has to reach him somehow. He has to try.
“Crowley?” His voice barely comes out in a shaky whisper.
There is no answer, so he tries caressing the feathers again, and very carefully nudges enough of them apart to be able to see inside. His breath catches in his throat.
“Oh, Crowley…”
Inside the feathery cocoon hides a terrified Crowley, more terrified than Aziraphale has ever seen him, and he looks very different from the last time he saw him. His hair is longer and dishevelled, long enough to cascade over his shoulders and cover half of his face. The eye that isn't hidden is open wide and full blown yellow, and the visible skin is almost entirely veiled in a mantle of shiny black scales, covering Crowley's jaw and neck and stopping at his cheekbones, and there are more scales peeking out from under the sleeves of his henley and reaching to his knuckles.
Crowley's chest is heaving heavily, breathing so hard that he's almost hyperventilating. He draws his knees up against his chest, curling up in fear. He looks so small like this. His mouth wobbles a bit, as if he's trying to say something, but nothing comes out.
“My dear, can I come closer? Please,” Aziraphale begs in a broken voice, the threat of a sob climbing into his throat. The first few tears are already trickling down his cheeks.
Crowley shakes his head and then hides his face behind his knees. He hugs himself tightly, making himself even smaller. It takes Aziraphale a moment to register that Crowley has finally started to speak, his voice coming out very thin and muffled.
“You're not real. You're just another nightmare. You're not real…”
He repeats the same words over and over again as he rocks back and forth in place, and Aziraphale's heart shatters.
Had it been worth it, to leave Crowley behind? All the decisions Aziraphale had made in the last year had been to protect Crowley; to protect the existence they both had carved out for themselves and to protect the world they so much adored. Fix Heaven from within and you fix everything else, making it all better. Or that's what he thought. Not that he could make much of a difference in the end, but at least the world is still in one piece, and Crowley is still alive. He's in terrible shape, but he's alive, and that must count for something. Even if Aziraphale couldn't fix everything else, at least he could try to fix this. He needs to fix this.
Entering the cocoon and closing the small distance that separates them, Aziraphale sits next to Crowley and gathers him in his arms. This time Crowley doesn't recoil, and instead leans into the embrace.
After a long, exhausting year of living inside memories, dreams and nightmares, Crowley doesn't have the energy anymore to distinguish reality from the worlds conjured up by his mind, but the warmth and weight of the arms wrapped around him are a welcome comfort, real or not.
As if he could hear Crowley's thoughts, Aziraphale whispers. “I'm real, Crowley. I'm here.”
Aziraphale caresses the auburn waves of Crowley's hair, brushing away the locks obscuring his face. Crowley looks up at him like he's staring at something impossible. He can't shake the feeling that this Aziraphale is another apparition his subconscious has created to torture him, but then a tear falls from Aziraphale's eyes and lands on Crowley's cheek, and when it rolls down to Crowley's lips, the salt he tastes feels too real to be his imagination.
“Are you really here?” Crowley asks, his lips trembling with the beginning of a sob.
Despite his now uncontrollable weeping, Aziraphale smiles and nods. “I'm here. I'm sorry it took me so long, Crowley.”
Reaching out with a shaky hand, Crowley cups Aziraphale's cheek and his angel leans into the touch, making Crowley gasp in surprise. All the doubts dissipate from Crowley's mind. This Aziraphale is real. This is his Aziraphale, the one he has loved for thousands of years even if he was too afraid to admit it out loud.
He looks much the same, except for the tiredness in his eyes and the new lines adorning his face. It's been a long year for Aziraphale too, and the anger Crowley once felt for Aziraphale's decision begins to evaporate. But the hurt remains, and he can't help swelling into tears.
“You left me,” Crowley cries in his angel's embrace, hiding his face in the crook of Aziraphale's shoulder, his whole body trembling with his lament. It's not his intention to hurt Aziraphale or to reproach him, he just needs a moment to make sense of everything. What had been a year in the real world felt more like an eternity for Crowley trapped in an universe of grief and solitude of his own making, away from the real Aziraphale.
“I know, and I'm deeply sorry, Crowley. I don't expect you to ever forgive me.”
Crowley shakes his head and tips it back to look at Aziraphale again. “Stop, you— you don't have to apologise.” His voice is hoarse from disuse and his weeping won't stop, but Crowley tries his best to speak, to comfort Aziraphale even though the angel is pretty sure he's not the one in desperate need for comfort right now. “I understand why you did it. Did it work, though? Did you make a difference?”
Aziraphale sniffs and keeps threading his fingers through Crowley's hair to calm his demon's crying. There is real hope and forgiveness kindled in Crowley's eyes, and Aziraphale doesn't feel deserving of it.
“Not as much as I had hoped, but… I must say I'm glad I was there, if only to put everything in motion to prevent the end of the world.” It's too soon to talk about this. There is so much that needs to be said and Crowley is in no state to fight or even worry about the whole of creation when he needs to take care of himself first, or let Aziraphale take care of him, if he will allow him. But Crowley deserves to know.
“It's happening again,” Crowley begins, a hint of fear in his tone. “The big one?”
“The big one indeed, I'm afraid. But you need not worry, everything is in place. I wasn't able to fix everything, but I made sure to make the proper arrangements to avert the Second Coming.” The whole spectrum of emotions seems to flash across Crowley's face, from confusion to horror and finally to reluctant acceptance. “It won't start just yet, but you see, I— Well, I had to see you first. Just in case I…”
And there is horror again in Crowley's eyes. It wasn't Aziraphale's intention to scare him, but he had to be honest with him. Crowley deserves that much.
Crowley breaks their embrace and in a quick movement he springs to his feet and then kneels in front of Aziraphale, cupping his face with both his scaly hands. Aziraphale is now the one sitting with his back leaning against the headboard, glancing up at the majestic creature that has lodged himself between his legs; a sculpture made of obsidian with wings dark as the night spread wide and filling the room, and tiny iridescent black scales glimmering like stars against a veil of feathers, all crowned by the fiery hair that flows down in waves like flames, and two bright yellow eyes that could rival the sun.
Crowley is still utterly breathtaking despite the exhaustion of his restless sleep weighing heavily on him.
Holding Aziraphale's face in his hands, Crowley looks at him with a new fire igniting in his gaze, making his golden eyes glow with a warm light.
“You won't fail, and you won't die. I won't let you. I just got you back and I won't lose you again.” Crowley's voice is now more assured, strength returning to him little by little.
It's only when he notices his scaly hands that he loses a bit of that confidence, and rapidly lets go of Aziraphale's face in shame. But Aziraphale doesn't let him pull back entirely, and he grabs hold of Crowley's hands with his own, squeezing them gently and caressing the scales with his thumbs.
“You lovely, beautiful creature. I should be the one comforting you,” Aziraphale says, his voice dripping with love and reverence. He brings Crowley's hands to his lips and kisses the scales on his knuckles. A blush creeps up Crowley's neck and paints his cheeks a lovely shade of crimson. His wings rustle slightly in reaction to the trail of soft kisses his angel is leaving on his hands, and Aziraphale can't help chuckling at how sweet Crowley is.
All the fears and anxieties that suffocated Aziraphale for the last year begin to dissolve. The fear of never seeing Crowley again, of being rejected once he could come back to him. He knows Crowley is still hurt, he can see it in his swollen eyes from countless nights of crying in his sleep, the constant shivering in his hands, and the way his shoulders sag slightly with tiredness. And yet, Crowley's kind heart is still willing to accept him back as soon as he returns. Aziraphale truly doesn't feel deserving of him, and he doesn't know how he would ever make up for all the damage he's done to Crowley. But showing how much he means to him is a good place to start, and there is one thing that Aziraphale has been anxious to address for a whole year.
“Crowley, remember what you did, before I… Before we parted ways?”
Crowley knows immediately what Aziraphale is talking about, and the blush in his cheeks intensifies. “Yeah, about that… Sorry, guess I was a bit desperate back then.”
“No need to apologise for it, my dear boy. I was wondering if we could— If you would be amenable to— to do it again. That is if you want, of course. I would completely understand if you wouldn't—”
“C’mere, angel.”
Before Aziraphale can even react to that familiar term of endearment – something he's being aching to hear again coming from Crowley's lips for a long year – Crowley is already leaning towards him, still gently cradling his face in his hands, and bringing their mouths together in a deliciously tender kiss, a lot more tender and less desperate than their first, but equal in passion and significance.
This is Crowley, the demon Aziraphale has loved for thousands of years even though he was too afraid of facing that truth, using one of those lovely human customs to express a love that goes beyond human and earthly understanding. And yet, this simple human gesture, this gentle pressing of lips and sharing of breath, can somehow convey millennia of devotion and the promise of eternal adoration without the need for words.
As if sharing one mind, they both deepen the kiss in unison and melt into it. Lips part and make way for their curious tongues, and they begin a tentative exploration of each other's mouths, savouring and delighting in the taste and warmth of one another. Light licks turn into soft biting and then into more eager sucking, and soon their lips begin to swell and redden from their ardent kissing, and a symphony of quiet moans, whimpers and hums spills from their joined mouths and fills the room.
They lose track of time, and it's only when Crowley smiles and begins chuckling inside the kiss that they break apart. Neither of them had noticed until now that they had moved. They are now lying in bed, their bodies flushed together in a tangle of limbs, with both their sets of wings fanning over the sides of the bed.
Crowley's sweet laugh is the most beautiful music to Aziraphale's ears, and he can't help giggling with him. To Aziraphale's delight, Crowley lets out his cute little snort from the back of his throat when Aziraphale smothers him with little kisses. He keeps that knowledge for future use.
“You have no idea how long I've dreamt of doing this,” Crowley admits after they both finally catch their breath. He is returning to his own self, and his face is beaming with mirth. “All those times I wished I could've kissed you. Now I can.”
Crowley's grin is so bright that it makes the room brighter despite the fact that night has already fallen outside, the only other light coming from the streetlights that shine very faintly through the leaves and branches of the plants still enfolding the room. Aziraphale is elated to see Crowley so happy again, to be like this with him after everything they have been through.
“I must confess, there were certain times when I also felt the inclination to kiss you.” Aziraphale feels a weight lifting from his shoulders after finally admitting that out loud.
Crowley's smile gets even brighter still. “Really? When?”
“Well, there was that time when you saved my books from the bombing in 1941. That was awfully kind of you. I could have kissed you right there and then.” A little blush rises to Aziraphale's cheeks. “In fact, I could have done anything to thank you. If I remember correctly, I tried to persuade you during our ride in our— your car.”
Crowley's blissful expression shifts into one of confusion. Aziraphale is sure that, if he paid close attention, he could hear the cogs working in Crowley's head.
“You said something about doing something for me to return the favour, I remember that. You mean—” Crowley's eyes widen so much that they could fill his whole face. Then he frowns. “Wait, what did you mean exactly?”
Aziraphale can't contain a delighted laugh. “You silly serpent, I'll show you one day.”
“You can show me after we save the world,” Crowley replies, and Aziraphale's gaze darkens a little at the reminder.
“You really are under no obligation to help me on this, Crowley.”
“Nonsense,” Crowley shoots back immediately. “We helped save the world together once, and we'll do it again if I have any say in that.”
Crowley's words of reassurance fill Aziraphale with new hope and determination. He had hoped that Crowley would help him, but he would never force him to do anything he wasn't comfortable with, certainly not after the last time and how that ended. But deep down he knew Crowley would never let him down. Not when their own existence and the whole world depended on it.
“I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. That's what you said that day,” Aziraphale reminisces. Crowley's entire speech was burnt into his memory the moment those words left his demon’s mouth. He had replayed them in his mind countless times.
“And I meant it,” Crowley adds, and Aziraphale knows it's true.
Just after placing one little kiss on Aziraphale's forehead, Crowley gets overtaken by a yawn that almost dislocates his jaw – not a problem for his snakish constitution – and comes out of it with glassy eyes.
Aziraphale's heart aches at seeing Crowley so tired still. “Oh, dear, you really should rest.”
“I've literally slept for a year,” Crowley complains, but then feels another yawn coming and lets a defeated exhale out of his nose. “But I could do with a nap right now.”
Pleased with his answer, Aziraphale caresses Crowley's cheek and once again brushes some of his hair away from his face. “I will stay here until you wake up.”
Crowley is about to protest, because he can't think of anything more boring than watching himself sleep, but then reconsiders. “What about you? You look like you need a nap yourself. You could… sleep here. With me. Better than watching me sleep, at least.”
Aziraphale gives it some thought. “You know I'm not really one for sleeping…” He makes his mind the moment he sees Crowley staring at him with those big pleading eyes. “Oh, all right. As if I were ever going to resist one of your temptations.”
The self-satisfied grin that blooms in Crowley's face makes it all worth it.
They nuzzle up into each other's arms, using one wing each as a blanket to cover themselves. Just before drifting back to sleep, Crowley opens his eyes in realisation.
“Freddie Mercury said we would meet again. Well, the Bentley did.”
Aziraphale gives him a puzzled look.
“I don't quite follow, but you can tell that gentleman Mr. Mercury and the Bentley that they were correct.”
A little chuckle escapes from Crowley's mouth. He snuggles closer and burrows his face in Aziraphale's neck. “Hmm, g’night, angel.”
“Good night, my dear.”
***
Crowley sleeps soundly through the whole night in Aziraphale's embrace. Not a single nightmare invades his mind this time, the only thing he feels during his slumber is the warm and comforting presence of his angel by his side.
In the morning, the plants that the day before encased the room in an oppressive cave have untangled most of their branches from the walls and the ceiling, letting the first rays of sunshine enter the room. The few branches that remain have bloomed, and the first thing Crowley sees when he opens his eyes are the little petals and flowers that have fallen over Aziraphale, adorning his white hair with specks of colour. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale's snowy curls, and his heart does a little jump when Aziraphale opens his eyes and looks at him lovingly.
The angel smiles and delicately caresses Crowley's temple, cheeks and jaw, tracing with a feather-light touch the few remaining scales on Crowley's skin.
Aziraphale is really here, and that gives Crowley back his strength and a reason to hope and fight again. They both have a world to save and protect, and it's a happy coincidence that each other's world also happens to be one another.