Work Text:
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to believe, dear. We both saw it, didn’t we?’
‘Well, yeah, but you’ve got to admit–’
‘I’ll admit nothing of the sort,’ Aziraphale interjects, ‘You know as well as I do that it happened.’
‘But it never happens,’ Crowley hisses, leaning forward.
They’re sat in the cellar of a tavern in the Land of Uz, Crowley lounging on a large sack of barley and Aziraphale perched neatly nearby on a left-for-dead barstool which has miraculously repaired itself. As a treat, they’ve helped themselves to a glass of red wine each – after all, the celebrations going on upstairs are mostly thanks to them, as well as a little bit of Job’s strong will and faith. It only seems fair they get to join in on the festivities.
‘God never talks to anyone. Not even Their angels, let alone humans.’
Crowley is trying to tempt him into blaspheming, Aziraphale thinks, and he simply isn’t willing to let that happen. His belief is much stronger than that, solid as a rock. Well, maybe a small rock that’s been chipped away after being beaten with a hammer.
‘I think you’ll find They just did,’ Aziraphale remarks pointedly with raised brows and a smirk, taking a sip of his wine to punctuate his point, ‘Perhaps Job has been the only human worthy of direct communication so far.’
‘Come off it,’ Crowley huffs, swilling his drink frustratedly, ‘What about Abraham, hm? He did basically exactly the same thing, putting up with God killing his children and all that. Why didn’t he get a call?’
‘Perhaps he did.’
‘Actually, come to think of it, it’s exactly the same story. ‘s a little unoriginal of God, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t think,’ Aziraphale says harshly, his tone telling Crowley he’s just about done with this line of questioning, ‘What I do think, however, is that you were wrong.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ Aziraphale repeats, pointing at the demon with his index finger, instinctively finding irking him exhilarating, ‘You. Were. Wrong.’
‘And how, pray tell, was I wrong?’
It’s a clear indication that Crowley’s getting angry when he starts using proper grammar and phrases like ‘pray tell’, ‘pardon me’, and ‘I sincerely apologise’ in his responses. It makes Aziraphale positively beam.
‘You said that God’s actions would make Job doubt his faith, but they didn’t. In fact,’ Aziraphale looks upwards, gesturing to the floorboards from which a thin sprinkling of dust is falling as Job stomps his feet and dances, shouting holy worship upstairs, ‘I think it’s safe to say his faith is stronger than ever.’
‘Ah, but we can’t be sure, can we, because the plan wasn’t fully carried out; God never actually killed Job’s kids, nor burdened him and Sitis with seven more of the buggers. So I can’t be wrong, technically, if we–’
‘You said putting Job through all of his losses would make a heathen out of him,’ Aziraphale interrupts, never a fan of technicalities, at least not when he’s on this side of them, ‘The fact of the matter is that he lost his animals, his home, and his children. Whether we gave them back to him or not is inconsequential; Job’s faith never once wavered. And so…’
The sour look on Crowley’s face tells him he doesn’t need to repeat those three words again, unless he’s looking to be devoured by an angry serpent. Crowley’s practically writhing in his seat as is, so Aziraphale decides to leave the matter rest in silence – for a minute or two, anyway.
‘I think,’ he chimes back in when Crowley’s grip on his cup slackens slightly, ‘We ought to devise a system for times like this.’
‘A system?’
‘Yes, you know, an etiquette. A custom, for whenever one of us is…’ Crowley’s glare cuts off his final word, but it’s inessential anyway, ‘I think we should have a tradition.’
‘Like what?’ Crowley asks this in a flat tone, the sort a person might use if they asking a question more out of obligation and common decency than genuine curiosity.
Aziraphale takes a moment to consider the options at his feet. He’s always been partial to gifts, especially of the sweet treat variety, but it hardly seems fair to suggest given how Crowley seldom eats, and when he wants alcohol he miracles it for himself or steals it from an unsuspecting tavern owner. No, it’s got to be something more mutual – even if he expects Crowley will be apologising more than he will.
Then, the perfect idea pops into his head.
‘I think we should create a dance.’
‘A dance?’ Crowley squints at him through his glasses, as though he’d said something incredibly stupid, or otherwise had suddenly become very small, ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Not at all!’ Aziraphale says, springing up from his chair, ‘You see, it would only have to be something small. A simple way to say ‘I’m wrong and you’re right’, see?’
Wracking his brain for his learned dance moves, Aziraphale practises a couple of small routines until he lands on one that feels sufficiently long and sincere, comprised of twirls, outstretched arms, and a wonderful finishing pose. When he finishes, he looks up at Crowley, positively twinkling with delight.
‘No, I’m not doing that. Not a chance,’ the demon insists, and yet Aziraphale is getting closer, and is reaching for his shoulders with both hands, and he’ll be damned if he resists such contact even under these circumstances, ‘You can’t make me do it.’
‘Oh, I could make you, dear, but where’s the fun in that?’ Aziraphale pouts, finally grasping Crowley’s squared shoulders and deftly tugging him up to his feet, ‘Besides, I think you owe it to me. After all, you didn’t have complete faith in me, and as a result I’m feeling rather hurt.’
He pouts, feigning dejection, which surprisingly seems to work.
‘Fine, alright, I’ll do it,’ Crowley splutters hurriedly, then adds through gritted teeth, ‘Just sit down, would you?’
Aziraphale happily obliges the order, clasping his hands together and leaning forward to observe the performance. Crowley sighs a weighty, defeated sigh.
The dance itself is straightforward enough, but Aziraphale has to stifle a giggle when Crowley assumes the position of a bird, with his arms to the sides and one leg bent at the knee, suspended in the air. He passes it off as a chuckle, finding he rather enjoys hearing the improvise words Crowley has decided to add to the piece.
‘You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right,’ he grumbles, deliberately avoiding Aziraphale’s enthralled gaze in favour of the incomparably interesting wooden floorboards. When he finishes, bowing, the glare Crowley gives is so intense he’s not entirely convinced the demon isn’t trying to explode his head with it.
As if only to add to his shame, Aziraphale erupts into applause, showering him with compliments about his form, timing, and lyricism. Cursing, Crowley flops back onto his grain sack and reaches for the jug, now more desperate than ever to drink himself catatonic.
‘That was ridiculous,’ he grumbles, ‘I’m never doing that again.’
***
To his credit, Crowley doesn’t have to do their dance for a very long time. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is doing it every other century. In 1868, however, everything changes, because in 1868, Crowley accidentally gets caught in a demon trap.
Obviously, she doesn’t do it on purpose. Hell just said ‘get up there and make trouble’ and she thought it’d be funny to do so in an abandoned house, because what were creative liberties for if not for times like these? The plan was just to throw a few scares into some unsuspecting paranormal investigators – a busy profession lately, with the growing popularity of horror literature – and maybe crash through a window or two while she was at it; hell was always a big fan of criminal damage.
As she was chasing a mad bloke around said house, however, that was where she’d run into a spot of trouble. It was fun at first, especially because the man was calling her a flurry of fun names like ‘siren’, ‘enchantress’, and ‘vampire’, but the enjoyment quickly faded as she rounded a corner into what was once the living room.
Smirking, Crowley had started briskly making her way to the man cowering in the corner, arms outstretched as though preparing to grasp his cheeks and pull him in for a kiss, or otherwise snap his neck. However, she only made it to the centre of the room, and no further.
‘Ah-ha!’ The man’s voice quivered as he guffawed, pointing at Crowley accusatorily and chirping in an Irish lilt, ‘Now I’ve got you trapped; you won’t take my soul today, demonic mistress!’
Though Crowley rather liked the nickname, she didn’t like anything else about what the man had said. What did he mean, ‘trapped’? Looking down, she finally noticed a faint chalky outline of a circle with markings inside which appeared to be sigils. She swore.
‘Look,’ she had said, abandoning all pretences, ‘I sincerely apologise for chasing you around the house, and for throwing that book at your head back there. But I have very important work to get back to, so if you could just let me out, I’d be happy to forget all about–’
As he skirts around the circle, it’s clear the man isn’t listening, and this fact is completely unavoidable when he darts out of the room, leaving Crowley alone in the dark to pace on the creaking floorboards.
This hadn’t been part of the plan. That much goes without saying, because now she’s well and truly up to her neck in shit. Crowley couldn’t even touch the chalky outline without getting a burnt toe, let alone walk over the confines unscathed. At best, she’d be a severely charred snake surrounded by a pile of ashes which were once a very fine silk dress. At worst… well, that wasn’t worth thinking about right now.
Considering her options carefully, she’s realises quickly how limited they are. The options are as follows: (a) reach out to hell, explain to them why she’s trapped in a pentagram instead of tempting and pillaging and murdering to secure souls for Satan, and that’s if they even answer her call, or (b) accept spending eternity in this demon trap locked in a decrepit haunted house in the middle of nowhere.
Neither sound very appealing.
But there is a third option, a niggling voice in the back of her mind whispers to her, though she tries unsuccessfully tries to silence it. There is someone else she could contact, someone who she knows is always handy in a time of need.
But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Because six years prior, back in 1862, after their last fight she’d told him she didn’t need him, didn’t need his help and friendship, nor their Arrangement. Calling for his help now would be exceptionally embarrassing because, for demons and angels, six years is nothing – the equivalent of saying goodbye to someone then walking the same way after all.
And yet, as mortifying and soul-destroying as it would be, deep down Crowley knows she has no other choice. So, shutting her eyes and clenching her fists, she begins to pray.
‘Oh holiest Aziraphale, principality, representative of heaven and general do-gooder,’ she says, allowing herself to smirk despite undoubtedly having the lower hand, ‘Please spare a moment for an associate in need, and show forgiveness for any wrongdoing on my part.’
Nothing happens. At least, not for a good minute, which Crowley spends mentally berating herself for stooping so low, for being so weak as to ask for help from her mortal enemy. When she hears a voice from behind her, however, she forgets all about this.
‘What the heaven happened to you?’
‘Accident,’ Crowley murmurs vaguely, swinging around to face the angel, who is looking at her with utmost concern, ‘Bit of help?’
Aziraphale’s eyes drag up and down her body in a way that she supposes the angel finds subtle, but in actuality is entirely conspicuous. She can feel him observing her, studying not only her situation but her corporation, and it makes her cheeks flush bright pink. As a distraction, clears her throat and quirks a brow.
‘Love to,’ Aziraphale smiles, but this drops in favour of a pensive expression, which he accentuates by tapping his forefinger on his chin, ‘Only, well…’
‘Don’t you start bargaining with me – not now, angel,’ Crowley barks, the wick of her patience burning dangerously low.
‘Of course not, never,’ Aziraphale reassures, but takes a deliberate step around the circle, ‘It’s just that you asked for my forgiveness, and surely you remember the deal that we made…’
Crowley growls – honest to God, growls – when she realises what Aziraphale is asking for.
‘You can’t be serious.’
Aziraphale’s mouth folds into a straight line, and a sadness arrests his eyes. ‘You know, our last conversation really–’
Crowley can’t stand to hear any more, in case Aziraphale’s experience of the ordeal was anything like her own. So, like a wound-up ballerina in a lady’s jewellery box, she begins twirling, turning, and singing to stop the angel talking. Admittedly, the dance is more fun in a dress which flutters with her motions, but only slightly.
‘You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right,’ she races through the words, but if Aziraphale notices he doesn’t mention it. Admiring her movements, he seems to have no room for critique when she finally stops dancing, ‘Now, please will you let me out of this damn circle?’
Grinning, Aziraphale finally steps forward and, with only the tip of his shoe, erases the outer line of the trap. It’s like a physical weight is lifted from Crowley’s chest, and she breathes properly for the first time in what feels like an eternity. She elegantly lifts the hem of her dress off the ground, sticks a heel out of the circle, and steps out.
Luckily, she does not burst into a great ball of flames.
No, not luckily, she has to remind herself. There’s nothing of luck about it. Turning to Aziraphale, she finds gentle eyes watching her movements, and finds herself overcome with… gratitude. Seeing as saying thank you is unseemly for a demon, however, she stuffs this feeling down inside of herself, and instead proposes the next best thing.
‘Lunch?’
‘It’s more of a supper now, my dear,’ Aziraphale corrects, but offers his arm to Crowley anyway, in a perfect gentlemanly manner. Crowley shrugs and accepts, linking her arm around his elbow, ‘How did you end up in that trap, anyhow?’
‘Chap called Sheridan Le Fanu, or something like that,’ Crowley says, and the pair begin to walk in perfect synchronicity, ‘Don’t worry; he’ll have forgotten all about me by tomorrow.’
***
‘It’s bloody awful, is what it is.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that; I completely agree with you,’ says Aziraphale solemnly.
‘But there’s – there were so many people!’
‘I know, dear.’
‘I mean, for Satan’s sake, there were kids! You can’t kill kids,’ Crowley implores to an unforeseen force – not for the first time, and unfortunately probably not the last. ‘If you’re going to sink a giant ship, at least make sure there’s no kids on board.’
‘Supposedly that’s what the lifeboats were for,’ Aziraphale suggests.
Crowley scoffs. ‘Please. There weren’t enough lifeboats on board, angel; Hell made sure of that.’
‘So this was your doing?’
Crowley feels his eye subconsciously twitch at the insinuation. ‘My doing?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean you personally, I just meant– well, this was Hell’s doing, was it?’
‘Yeah, well, I heard them talking about it, but I didn’t think they’d actually go through with it,’ Crowley’s stare turns glassy, reflecting the guilt blocking up his throat, like cement poured down his oesophagus into his stomach.
‘I know, dear, you told me when we were discussing…’ Aziraphale trails off, clearly deciding against his next words, but he’s said enough – too much – and Crowley’s cottoned on, squinting at the angel from behind his glasses.
‘I suppose you were right, then. You warned me Hell was perfectly capable of sinking an ocean liner filled with families for its own sadistic enjoyment, and I didn’t lisssten,’ Crowley hisses, and neither of them knows who the anger emanating from the demon is directed towards, ‘Would you like me to do the ‘you were right’ dance now?’
Aziraphale winces.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,’ he says, voice barely above a whisper, all tender and compassionate in a way only an angel could be. It infuriates Crowley, who suddenly stands from his seat on Aziraphale’s couch and bows half-heartedly in the centre of the bookshop’s backroom.
‘Well, you were right,’ he acquiesces, dropping his empty wine glass onto a side table with so much force he nearly shatters it, then sighs, ‘I’m going to sleep.’
‘Have a good rest, dear,’ Aziraphale says, smiling softly and sadly up at him, and with a heavy heart Crowley miracles himself into bed, where he stays for the next couple of decades.
***
In 1978, Crowley and Aziraphale set aside an evening to go to the cinema. No matter how it might look, or the comments they receive from the overenthusiastic American ticket clerk, they’re only doing it to settle a debate. The debate in question, naturally, is about Grease, and Crowley is left in total disbelief by the crowd, most of whom are dressed up as characters from the film, or at least already know the songs off by heart, despite it only having officially released last week.
‘I just don’t get it,’ Crowley says as they exit the theatre, following behind a Sandy and Danny who are holding hands and chatting about how much better the film is after the fourth watch, ‘I mean, what’s so appealing about a good girl, bad boy romance? It’s been done a million times before. Remember Romeo and Juliet? And Rebel Without a Cause?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Aziraphale replies, catching the swinging door and holding it open for Crowley to pass through before him, ‘I think it’s got a certain special something to it.’
‘A special something?’
‘Yes, you know, a charming quality about it. Plus, the music is catchy, which is always an added bonus.’
‘If you say so,’ Crowley shrugs as they leave the building, emerging into a warm summer night not unlike that sung about by Mister Zuko himself, ‘But it was a little too happy-clappy for my tastes.’
‘Your tastes being what, exactly?’ Aziraphale asks rhetorically as they wander down the street, ‘And anyway, personal preference wasn’t what our deal was about. General consensus is that ‘Grease’ is to be the next greatest blockbuster in cinematic history, therefore…’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Crowley rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his excessively tight flare jeans, ‘You were right, and I was wrong.’
‘I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.’
‘I said you were right–’ Aziraphale’s expectant gaze stops Crowley dead in his tracks, ‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t dare.’
‘Dare what, my dear?’ Aziraphale says innocently.
‘You wouldn’t make me–’ Crowley whips his head around, spotting at least a dozen people dotted around on the street on both sides. Lowering his voice, he whispers, ‘Here?’
Aziraphale pretends to look thoughtful, then says, ‘Well, when you’re wrong, and I’m right, there’s only one thing to be done about it, isn’t there? And besides, you made me do it on the Ark in front of Noah and all the rest, so I think it’s only fair…’
‘A boatload of animals does not count as an audience,’ Crowley chides, but after a moment’s consideration he caves in, ‘Oh, alright.’
Before the angel can say anything, Crowley’s got him by the lapels and is tugging him backwards past a gate, into a more secluded area of Central Park. Aziraphale stumbles but catches himself on Crowley’s shoulder, straightening up. Neither of them mentions the brief but unexpected (and rather thrilling) proximity, and then Crowley’s dancing.
‘You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right,’ he moves quickly, spinning so fast he nearly sends himself flying into Aziraphale in return. He holds the angel’s gaze as he bows, looking up at him as though waiting for permission to rise. ‘Satisfied?’
Aziraphale watches him, denying the demon the right to straighten his posture, and finally nods, face breaking into a wonderful smile. ‘Very much so.’
Crowley finally stands and stalks off, making Aziraphale jog slightly to catch up to him.
‘Though I would be even more pleased if you were willing to sing a duet, karaoke-style, with me–’
‘Don’t push it, angel.’
***
There’s a million things they could call it: The End of the World that Wasn’t, Apocalypse Never, or (Crowley’s personal favourite) Armageddon’t. But the most important thing is the world didn’t end, at least partly thanks to them, and they’re still here to enjoy it.
Enjoying it is what they plan to do as often as they can from now on, and they’re doing just that first and foremost by getting disgracefully drunk at the Ritz. Aziraphale has ordered the entire menu’s worth of desserts, and Crowley has quite literally ordered the entire wine list for them to share. Most of the other patrons have already left by now, but there’s still one table left in the dimly-lit restaurant that the remaining staff inexplicably can’t bring themselves to clear.
They’ve just finished their seventh bottle of champagne – an Italian one this time, much better than the ones they’ve had so far – when Aziraphale makes the observation.
‘You were wrong, you know,’ he says, and continues when prompted by a dark eyebrow quirked above tinted glasses, ‘about Armageddon. You said it was hopeless, that earth was a lost cause and that we should just run away and let it happen. Well, you were wrong.’
Aziraphale raises his glass to exemplify his case. Crowley, on high spirits and royally smashed already, can’t resist raising his glass back, though predictably there’s a contradiction on his forked tongue.
‘I might have misjudged, a bit. Technically, though, I said reaching out to God was hopeless, not saving the world.’
‘Oh, but I did,’ Aziraphale says matter-of-factly, ‘I reached out to God, and They spoke to me.’
Crowley nearly chokes while taking a swig of his drink.
‘What?’
‘Well, sort of. The Metatron answered, which is the same thing, really.’
‘Not the same thing,’ Crowley says, trying to sound unimpressed to retain control over the situation, but his redundant heart is still hammering in his chest.
‘Stop trying to distract from the point,’ Aziraphale mumbles drunkenly, putting his glass down and tipping dangerously forward on his chair, using his newly freed hand to poke a finger in the centre of the demon’s chest, ‘You were wrong, again.’
If he were in a worse mood, Crowley might take offence to the angel’s phrasing, interpreting it as a personal slight, an insult to his intelligence and overall capabilities. As is, however, he merely smiles and holds his hands up in surrender, plonking his glass on the table and standing up, swaying as he does so. Then, cheerful as a showgirl without being paid, he does their usual dance, more leisurely than usual, like they have all the time in the world.
Because they do, he thinks giddily. They finally do.
‘You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right,’ he slurs, bowing gladly before his angel.
In the instant where their eyes lock, it dawns on Crowley how he could kiss Aziraphale right now. Not just in terms of practicality, and definitely not in terms of willingness, because God and Satan both know how much he’s wanted to do it before. No, this time it feels like he really could do it, like there’s something in Aziraphale’s eyes – a willing glint – that tells him it would be quite alright if he leaned in and did it. Maybe more than alright, even.
But the tenseness of the moment is gone when Aziraphale’s parted lips close, stretching into a smile, and he begins clapping, a one-man applause for the blushing demon.
‘Thank you,’ Crowley says, feigning humbleness as he stumbles back into his seat, reaching for his glass and raising it towards Aziraphale, ‘To the world.’
Aziraphale, who has been grinning so much tonight that the pert apples of his cheeks almost look sore, showers him with yet another smile, and clinks their glasses together.
‘To the world.’
***
At that same spot at the table in the Ritz, there is always one vacant chair. Or, rather, a chair which has been vacant for just over a fortnight – fifteen and a half days – ever since its rightful occupant left earth for a more favourable position upstairs.
The chair beside this ever-vacant one, however, is hardly ever empty. The fancy couples having their anniversary meals and employees at extortionately expensive business meetings who dare remark on the solitary man’s presence are always met with the same answer from staff: nobody sees him come or go, but the money he spends on alcohol is enough to be considered official rent, so they leave him be.
Crowley’s world has been turned upside down, and he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. After all, what does one do with an inverted world, except look at it and wish that it would just go back to the way it was already? He’d been so sure Aziraphale was his – well and truly his – that he’d gone and done the thing he’d been dreading for six-thousand years now, told Aziraphale how he felt and kissed him, and his worst nightmare had come true.
Aziraphale had left.
Not just left him, which was bad enough, but he’d left earth altogether. The place they’d vowed to save together, their place, the bookshop and the Bentley and the Ritz, St James’ Park, all of it. The worst of it was that he’d offered to take Crowley with him, which just confirmed his suspicions: Aziraphale was just pretending to be happy with him. After all, how could an angel be happy stuck on grimy old earth with a demon as his only company? Crowley had been a fool to ever think otherwise, even just for a moment.
The wine at the Ritz doesn’t taste the same anymore. Whether there’s something wrong with his taste buds or whether the world just isn’t as vibrant and delightful without Aziraphale in it, Crowley can’t be sure, but he keeps drinking it anyway, because it’s the only thing he can think to do. It’s got a memory of Aziraphale attached to it, so he’s willing to put up with the bitter taste on his tongue.
Every so often, somebody will approach his table, either to ask him whether he’s feeling okay or to ask to borrow the spare chair. No matter what the question is, he’ll always grumble something displeasing and inky-black to make them go away, once or twice resorting to physical threats to drive them off. It’s bad enough seeing the empty spot on in his car’s passenger seat; if Aziraphale’s seat at the Ritz disappears, too, he might spontaneously combust.
So, when a hand appears on the back of the chair, like it’s ready to drag it off without even bothering to ask, Crowley’s quick to react.
‘Oi! Get your own, this one’s taken,’ he half-lies.
‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear. Shall I grab another, then?’
The voice that responds is chipper and weightless as a nightingale gliding across the sky on a fresh spring day. It halts Crowley reaching for his knife (only a butter knife, but he could make do if needs be) and for a second he can’t bring himself to look up, in shock. When he does, however, he sees exactly what he anticipated – the last thing he ever expected to see.
‘Aziraphale,’ he says, the name fading into a relieved sigh which is far too revealing. He gathers himself and forces a steely expression, reminding himself that this is more than likely just another plot to get Crowley to agree to be reinstated as an angel.
‘May I sit down?’
Crowley gestures across the table. ‘By all means.’
‘Thank you.’
The silence that follows Aziraphale sitting down is so tense it makes Crowley’s throat seize up. Drowning in the anticipation, he finally crackles to life, ‘You’re back already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Archangeldom not all it’s cracked up to be, eh?’
He pretends not to hear the jingle of hope in his own voice, and wills Aziraphale to do the same out of respect for his dignity. The worn half-smile that crosses the angel’s face tells him this isn’t very likely.
‘Actually, my dear, I’m afraid it didn’t matter half as much as I thought it would without you by my side.’
Crowley’s silly heart flutters, then stops beating entirely.
‘So… you’re not here to take me back to heaven?’
‘Of course not,’ Aziraphale reassures, reaching out and delicately placing his hand in the middle of the table. Crowley’s gaze follows the action intently. ‘I came back because I missed you. And, well… I was wrong.’
Crowley lets his own hand creep across the table, hesitant to touch Aziraphale in case his skin disappears beneath his touch. He’s had a couple of drunken Aziraphale hallucinations lately, and he wanted to be certain. Eventually, he dares to hook his pinky finger around Aziraphale’s, relishing in the reassuring warmth of his gold signet ring. Only then does he look back up at the angel’s face.
‘Wrong?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Aziraphale hums, ‘Quite wrong, in fact. Terribly, awfully wrong, if we’re being completely earnest. And I know we have something of a tradition when it comes to this sort of thing, so I thought it best to admit my wrongs and to do it in person.’
Crowley never wants to let Aziraphale go – not now that he’s finally got him here, not only touching him but willingly holding his hand, or finger as it were – but he’s got no choice when the angel suddenly rises, letting go of him, and steps into the open aisle between the restaurant tables.
Before Crowley can ask him what the hell he’s doing, Aziraphale’s got his arms outstretched, and he’s bending and pirouetting and kneeling before him, singing those stupid words like they’re his last lifeline.
Still curtsying, Aziraphale observes the demon intently. He’s got a good poker face, but Crowley knows his tells all too well. There’s a slight trembling in his arms and a quivering of his lower lip that gives him away, and Crowley can’t stand to watch it any longer for fear of bursting into tears himself.
‘Alright, I forgive you. Now please, would you stand up?’
‘Really?’ Aziraphale asks optimistically, obliging his request, ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Yes, of course I forgive you, you bloody idiot. I forgave you the second you got in the lift.’
The mere mention of Aziraphale’s abandonment sends a pang of hurt reverberating through Crowley’s chest, and judging by the angel’s worrying brows the feeling seems to be mutual. Sick to death of these emotions, having lived with their burden for the last two weeks, Crowley tuts and forcefully pushes his chair back, making a right racket as it scratches along the polished mahogany flooring.
He’s going to do it again, to grab Aziraphale by the lapels and drag him in for a kiss like he did fifteen days ago, but he stops himself. Just because Aziraphale said he missed him and they’d briefly held hands didn’t mean he wanted everything Crowley wanted. And that was fine, because if all Aziraphale ever wanted to do was bicker and go for meals and hold hands, Crowley would still feel like the luckiest demon who ever existed. It was better to have Aziraphale in his life at a slightly further distance than he would have liked, if the alternative was not having him at all.
But Aziraphale, it seemed, wasn’t very happy with this arrangement at all, because this time it was him who reached out and grasped at lapels, dragging Crowley in by his dark collar and kissing him so forcefully he nearly snaps the bridge of Crowley’s glasses clean in half.
The kiss communicates all of the words they aren’t yet brave enough to utter, for fear of breaking something so dear and fragile. There’s solemnity, grief, and anger, but more than anything there’s forgiveness, understanding, and love.
By the time they part, every pair of eyes in the Ritz is focused on them. Some of them stare in bewilderment, disgust, or empathy, but none of them matter, because the world has spun itself back into place now, and Crowley knows exactly where’s meant to be now.
The angel and demon wordlessly make their way out of the restaurant, with twin grins and fingers intertwined, and hop into the Bentley parked on the double yellows outside. Watching them leave, the host rolls her eyes, mumbling something unintelligible under her breath as she gathers fresh menus to put in their now-vacant spots. When she turns back, however, the table has vanished, leaving only the bill – paid in full, with a generous tip included – in its wake.
If Crowley’s flat has a new decoration to commemorate the momentous day, the Ritz staff needn’t be any the wiser. Besides, Aziraphale thinks it looks rather dashing indeed.