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The thing about life after then end of the world, Aziraphale thought to himself, was that the worst had already happened. Working for Heaven for 6000 years was rather like having a sometimes-unpleasantly-heavy monkey on your back at all times, one that would say things like “I don’t think Gabriel would like that very much,” or “what if the others were to find out?” at the worst possible moment.
In the Bentley one evening, a song had come on over Crowley’s radio, and, well, it hadn’t really sounded like any Bach Aziraphale had heard before, but the lyrics had embedded themselves in his mind and would pop up now and again, particularly after encounters with the other Angels. Under pressure…
Aziraphale liked his earthly pleasures, but while it was easy to justify having the last piece of sushi, or making sure that he won the bid for a particularly rare book, it was harder to justify-other things. Things like bringing a certain demon holy water (though he had in the end, done the deed), or even spending an evening with that same demon after his bookstore burned down. While he couldn’t deny he’d had lots of fun on earth, there were very few moments he could count in his history where he’d actually felt-free.
Free, like his actions had no consequences, or if they did they were benign. Free, like he didn’t have a quota to fill or demands to meet, and no lost sword that he wondered about every few centuries. Free, like, well…like humans.
It was part of the reason he liked learning the Gavotte so much. In the private club, tucked away from the rest of the world, whirling and beaming, he hadn’t worried that this would somehow-cause harm, or reflect badly on him somehow. When he turned on his toes into the next step, it felt exactly like flying, only he didn’t have to think about people looking at his wings.
He’d tried explaining it to Crowley, one night when they were both very drunk in the back of his bookshop, but Crowley seemed to take it as an invitation to show off his dancing skills, and the result was something so hilarious and distracting that by the time they had both stopped laughing and sobered up, Aziraphale had forgotten the point he was trying to make. He knew Crowley got it, though. He could see the way his job weighed on him, too, sometimes. After all those commendation for a nasty job he hadn’t done, or blanks stares for one he had, Crowley certainly understood the way their jobs could chafe.
That was part of the reason why Aziraphale didn’t understand why Crowley kept asking, in that perfectly innocent tone of his, when he knew Aziraphale had to turn him down. He must know how frustrating it was. Aziraphale sometimes thought, deep down, that he’d give up all the earthly pleasures and small sins he had indulged in over the centuries for a chance for one slightly more demonic one. But he couldn’t, simply couldn’t, and so he’d turn away from Crowley’s yellow, tempting, gaze, and go buy another book for his collection.
Under pressure…
Except that had been before the end of the world.
Before Heaven, and Hell, and everything in between had been thrown from its axis, left to the mercy of God’s Ineffable plan. And for the first time-for the first time since he’d lost his sword, long ago in that Garden, Aziraphale feels-free. Free to do whatever he likes. And watching the newly-restored Bentley pull away from his bookshop one evening, a rather good red still percolating through his bloodstream (or the angelic equivalent thereof), Aziraphale knows exactly what it is.
The next morning, that certainty, that freedom, was still there, but Aziraphale dresses hurriedly, afraid that if he waits too long, his courage will leave him. The walk to Crowley’s apartment doesn’t take long, and he pauses outside the door, suddenly feeling nervous and a bit foolish. What if he isn’t up yet? It’s still early, after all, and Crowley does like his sleep. What if he is up, but doesn’t want company? What if he-
“You’re being silly,” he reminds himself. Crowley’s said he’s welcome here anytime. Crowley’s said a lot more than that, but doubt is creeping slowly across his mind. What if he’s been misinterpreting things? He thinks of the time with the Nazis, or that time when they had crepes in Paris, or more recently, the end of the world, and wonders if he’s being selfish.
Well, so what if he is? Heaven certainly isn’t going to know. Only one person needs to know. Before he can truly lose his nerve, he knocks on the door, a little harder than intended.
“Be there in a moment!” Crowley calls from what sounds like his back room.
“It’s me, Aziraphale!” says Aziraphale through the door, then feels himself go a little pink.
The door opens a second later, and there stands Crowley, hair and shirt a little rumpled, one hip cocked to the side, holding a plant mister in one hand.
“I was just watering my-what’s the matter?”
“I love you,” says Aziraphale, before he can stop himself. “I love you, and I think-I hope you love me too, and I’m tired of pretending that sides matter anymore! The world’s already ended and I-oh-”
Crowley’s dropped the plant mister, sending water spraying all over their shoes and slacks, and if Aziraphale was pink before it’s nothing compared to Crowley’s bright red. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except for a sort of “Egk” noise.
“Are you alright?” asks Aziraphale, and stoops to pick up the plant mister. “I didn’t want to alarm you, I just…I wanted you to know.” He still can’t tell what exactly Crowley is thinking, even after all these years.
“Aren’t you worried about-about Heaven? Or the other Angels? Or the Plan?” says Crowley finally, a little breathlessly, and Aziraphale feels his heart sink slightly, but still soldiers on:
“Well you see, I’ve sort of cracked that code-I mean, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before, but really-couldn’t this be part of the Plan. You know, if we choose it?”
“If we choose it,” echoes Crowley, and there’s an expression that Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s seen before on his face.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says timidly, “if I-you-we choose…”
“-each other,” finishes Crowley, and colours up again.
Drat, thinks Aziraphale, they are both terrible at this, but before he can go further with that thought, Crowley is stammering:
“Angel-I, Aziraphale, I do choose! Of course I do, I’ll always choose you.”
“I choose you too,” says Aziraphale, something more than relief flooding through him, and he steps closer to Crowley, gently reaches up and pulls off his glasses. Crowley makes no move to stop him, and when he meets his gaze, Aziraphale can see that his eyes are full of fear, and love, and freedom. Aziraphale is certain Crowley sees the same thing in his eyes.
“I love you,” he says again, and Crowley whispers “I love you,” and then he is being swept up in the most familiar pair of arms the world has to offer and two pairs of wings are beating and Aziraphale can’t tell if they are still on the ground, if they are on Heaven or Hell or Earth. Earth, he thinks, still Earth.
Crowley’s lips are on his and his hands are warm against his back and Aziraphale hears Crowley whisper “I love you,” again and pulls himself closer in the embrace.
This kind of pressure is far better than whatever Heaven could offer.