Chapter Text
you and me, forevermore
don’t read the last page
but I stay when it’s hard, or it’s wrong,
or we’re making mistakes
I want your midnights
but I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you
on New Year’s Day
(London, June 2000
“Crowley, wait a second, do not get angry.” Aziraphale is still crying. He hasn’t stopped since Crowley started with his little speech. His bloody stupid speech.
Somehow, his tears are steady and silent. He’s not sobbing, which is making Crowley simultaneously angrier and sadder. He wants to hug him, to comfort him, to tell him it’s going to be fine; he wants to scream, to lash out, to storm out of the room and slam the door.
“Do not get angry? You just said no to moving with me.”
“Well, you want to move across the ocean. Can we talk this out? We’re both adults.” He has a point, Aziraphale. Crowley can see it. Still, it really bloody hurts.
“You were just saying we are so young, so dumb and so immature,” he whines, and he’s aware of just how childish and pathetic he sounds but he can’t bring himself to care. The thing he cares about most in the world is crumbling right in front of his own eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous, my worries are legitimate. It’s my life, too.” Crowley would perhaps see his point, if he weren’t so busy trying to see anything past his own tears and the sting of rejection. Because that’s what this is, rejection. Aziraphale just rejected him, has just said no to them taking the next step.
And it’s true, his plan may be a bit mad and a lot impulsive, but Aziraphale hates his life in London, he knows this. He hates the family firm, he hates the thought of being a cutthroat city lawyer, he hates the suits he has to wear every time he meets his brother. The one he’s wearing right now. Aziraphale doesn’t look bad in anything, but black is not his colour. He belongs in his light world, full of cream and pastels, full of softness, full of love. Every time he meets his family he’s forced to live inside a world that’s just black and white. Crowley hates it because he knows Aziraphale hates it too.
“What about your sister?” He blurts out, seemingly out of the blue.
“What about her?” Aziraphale tilts his head to the side, seemingly confused at the abrupt change of topic. The tears are still streaming. It goes against every instinct in Crowley’s body, but he doesn’t lean forward to catch them.
“You told me she moved overseas, too. Why can’t you?” They talk on the phone sometimes, Aziraphale and his sister. Crowley doesn’t eavesdrop, but from what he gathered Madeleine is Aziraphale’s favourite. He figures she could be an ally, in this impossible task of his: convincing Aziraphale Fell it’s time to be selfish.
“It’s not the same thing. She married someone from Boston.” Aziraphale deadpans. Which stings more than anything he said up to this point. A reminder of what they will never have.
Crowley brushes away his own tears. “Right.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Aziraphale says. No, no, he’s pleading. He’s pleading Crowley for something, his eyes shiny and begging for something Crowley cannot give him. He doesn’t understand.
“Of course,” he says instead. “Of course you didn’t.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale leans forward, almost to take Crowley’s hands back into his own. He does not. Crowley wonders how many times his heart can break in one night before it gets to be too much.
One of the things Crowley loves most about Aziraphale are his eyes. Blue, grey, sometimes green, on rare occasion straight up turquoise. Most of all, expressive. Aziraphale’s eyes cannot hide anything, and Crowley knows each and every one of their expressions.
All he sees right now is pain, uncertainty. Desperation.
His own face softens. “You do not want to stay here, angel, I know you don’t,” he whispers. It does not produce the reaction he hoped for.
“It is not up to me!” Aziraphale chokes out, wiping his tears angrily. “I was always supposed to work at the firm, and you knew that from the beginning.”
The thing is, Aziraphale’s not making any sense. They had this conversation before, that part he’s right about, but it was never like this. It was always Crowley saying, you’ll find a way out, angel, they cannot force you, and Aziraphale looking scared but sure of himself, especially as the years passed, replying they’ll be angry darling, but I’ll manage, I think.
He was still scared of his family, he was still following most of their stupid rules, but he was different. He was willing to put up a fight. Tonight, he sounds like the Aziraphale he first met. “Don’t tell me you’re the same person you were four years ago, don’t you dare.”
“Of course I am not, Crowley. But I gave my word.” Those eyes are still begging him for something. Crowley doesn’t understand. Instead of giving in and just asking, he just shakes his head in frustration. “Right, the word of a Fell is legally binding.”
“What do you even want to do in New York?” Aziraphale cries then. He’s acting angry, but Crowley knows him. He’s just in pain. And Crowley doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“Get away from them! Be together, a new beginning, a fresh start!” He’s not above begging. He will get on his knees and pray, if he has to, if this is what it’ll take to make Aziraphale listen to him, to make him stop crying, to make him stop giving him this pained look.
“We could have that in London, too,” it’s a whisper, something not even Aziraphale sounds convinced of. Crowley look into the stormy sea: desperation.
“No, angel, you’re never going to be free if we stay here.” This time, he does take Aziraphale’s hands. He’s shaking like anything. For a terrible instant, Crowley is sure he’s going to flinch away from his touch, but he doesn’t. He just stays still as a statue and let Crowley takes his shaky hands into his white-knuckled grip. “Come with me, we’ll make it work.” His voice is wobbly, but sure enough.
Aziraphale looks at him, still pained, still desperate, still crying. “I’m free when I’m with you, and that’s enough for me.”
This, Crowley knows, is a lie. It’s not enough when Aziraphale comes back home in the state he did today, it’s not enough when he spent the night before graduation crying into his pillow, thinking Crowley was asleep; it’s not enough when Crowley remembers they don’t even have a single picture of their bloody graduation day together, because the family kidnapped Aziraphale for the whole day. It’s not enough for Aziraphale. He doesn’t deserve it. And Crowley doesn’t either. “I don’t think that’s enough for me.”
This time, Aziraphale does flinch away from his touch. “So you’re just going. You’re leaving me.” He stands up, already moving away from the kitchen table. The candle Crowley lit up is still burning, but their dinner has already gone cold.
“I am begging you to listen to me, Aziraphale. We will be happier, together, as far away from those wankers as possible.” Crowley is full on crying now, but he doesn’t care. He’s not a stupid man, and he can feel he’s losing this. Though, he’s not sure he can survive losing Aziraphale.
Aziraphale’s face crumbles. “Well, I’m not even ‘angel’ anymore. Already.” f*ck. He didn’t mean to.
Crowley watches him as he turns to leave the room, almost as if this is an out of body experience. Perhaps it is, as this cannot be happening to him. It’s simply unthinkable. He must be dreaming. “Please, please don’t leave this room.” Don’t leave me, it’s what he means. I cannot survive you leaving me. I take everything back, I’ll stay, we’ll stay, we’ll hide forever but please don’t leave me.
Aziraphale stops then, right by the door. When he turns around, he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He looks utterly desperate. Before Crowley can ask him why, he’s already speaking. “What difference would it make? Your mind is already made up.” With that, he turns and leaves the room. He turns and leaves Crowley.
“I love you, you know?” Crowley says, but the only reply is the door slumming shut.)
***
There is a leitmotiv in Crowley’s novels that his true aficionados know perfectly well.
Déjà vu: an illusion of a memory, the strange feeling that in some way you have already experienced what’s happening now.
His characters always experience some sense of a déjà vu: sometimes it’s a physical sort of reaction, the body remembering something the mind had forgotten (the sensitive spot where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulder; the way he has to move his fingers just so to make him scream; the way Aziraphale’s hands moved across his body, his thighs, his sides, feather-light, unlike anyone else); sometimes it’s all mental, as the characters move through the confusion and unfamiliarity of the feeling to solve a conflict or to move the story forward (they’ve been here before, in a room in an expensive flat just after dinner with no idea how to go on and yet knowing perfectly how the night will end; they’ve been here before, sitting across each other in a cafe with identical grin on their faces and lingering awkwardness in their voices; they’ve been here before, confronted with the enormity of this feeling between the two of them, knowing perfectly what it is but too scared to say it out loud); sometimes it’s just something trivial thrown in, something that’s fairly useless to the plot, small enough to be dismissible but big enough to ignite a spark of doubt, a little treat for his most loyal readers whom he knows will grin at the randomness of it all in the end.
It’s very early in the morning after Valentine’s Day, and Crowley is sitting on the swing on the porch of Anathema’s house in Connecticut having a smoke.
He grins to himself; if this isn’t déjà vu. At least, this time around, he’s not pacing and he knows what he’s waiting for.
Aziraphale has never been a sleeper. Come back to bed, Crowley would say in a London flat, in a cottage down the English coast, in an apartment in Manhattan, in a suburban house in New Dawns. It’s fine love, I’ll just pick up a book, you know how it is, Aziraphale would reply before settling back down, back against the headboard and hands in Crowley’s hair.
Aziraphale has never been a sleeper, and Crowley knows he hasn’t slept at all tonight. He knows he stayed up all night with his newest book; he knows he probably understood what the book was three lines into the sort of prologue that is Crowley’s last letter; he knows he probably fretted over it an unhealthy amount of time; he knows he probably cried, then laughed, then cried some more, then laughed some more. It’s everything Crowley himself did during the years, after all.
(“Do you ever think we’re too different, Crowley?”
“What? Go back to sleep, angel.”
“Please, answer me. Just a simple yes or no.”
“Ugh. What brought this on? We’re the same.”
“Now, Crowley, you’re just saying things to shut me up.”
“No, no, you don’t get it. We are opposites in many ways, but we are the same at the end of the day. I’ll elaborate in the morning, go to sleep.”)
Aziraphale has never been a sleeper, always been an early riser. Crowley is waiting.
He knows his angel’s coming. He is probably (definitely) waiting for a time that’s both early and late enough to be appropriate, tormenting his fingers in that anxious way of his, a movement Crowley always longs to soothe. He wonders, though, wether his voracious reader has finished the letters or stopped reading after the first ten years, to be picked up later, or if he skipped through them, selecting specific years and specific moments.
He think he would have chosen the last option, if the roles were reversed; after all, he immediately looked for his favourite book in Aziraphale’s illustrations. Always impatient, always eager, always too fast.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, is thorough in every thing he does; Crowley bets he read the whole damn thing in one sitting, until his eyes burned and his head pounded, but damn everything if he didn’t consume the entire book in one go.
He takes another drag of his cigarette, a habit he almost lost, an indulgence he still likes (unfortunately, he’s aware) when the moment calls for it. He’s a romantic at heart, Anthony J. Crowley, though he will never admit to it, not even at gunpoint.
This specific moment, the waiting in the purplish dusk, calls for it. A cigarette adds to the drama of it all. Crowley snorts into the quiet of the porch; he should quit with the dramatics once and for all.
He finishes his cigarette and debates wether to light another one or not, kind of missing the swirl of smoke in front of him once it’s gone, when he hears the footsteps.
If this isn’t déjà vu.
“Hi.” Crowley says, taking in the image before him. Aziraphale is wearing the same clothes as the night before, his curls are a proper mess and his eyes are red rimmed and evidently tired. He grins; he knew he wouldn’t sleep.
“Shut up.”
Crowley snorts. “It’s-” he glances at his watch. “Six in the morning and you’re already harassing me.”
“Hi, he says.” Aziraphale ignores him. “It’s just a gift, he says. A little thing I made, he says.” He has his lips pursed his hands on his hips, looking like an angry kindergarten teacher. The only thing he’s missing is an apron and a tapping foot.
“All factual, technically.” Crowley pats the space beside him on the swing. If they are to recreate their second first meeting, might as well do it right. “Wanna share your findings with the class?”
Aziraphale huffs and drops his hands, but a smile is starting to bloom on his pretty, exhausted face. Crowley feels a little bit bad as he spots the bags under Aziraphale’s eyes; he really did put his angel through an emotional rollercoaster.
He puts that thought on hold as soon as Aziraphale sits down beside him, wasting no time as he cups Crowley’s face and kisses him, slow and deep.
Crowley thinks back to the last time they sat on this swing, back when he didn’t even want to look into Aziraphale’s eyes directly. He thinks about the distance between them then, mere inches that felt like oceans, as his hands find their purpose grabbing handful of Aziraphale’s waist, melting into him, pressing closer, closer, closer.
Aziraphale’s thumbs traces his cheekbones as they part, ever so tender. “In case that wasn’t clear,” he whispers against Crowley’s mouth, “I love you too. Quite dreadfully.”
“Dreadfully, really?” Crowley smiles, because what else is he supposed to do? Drop down one knee? Not that he didn’t think about it, mind you, but with his hip he would never get back up. “Of all the adjectives-”
“You gifted me your whole life.” One of Aziraphale’s hands leaves his face to card through his hair. Crowley makes a mental note to grow it out. “Have you got any idea of the things you’ve written?”
“Mmh. A vague recollection, yes.”
“Your entire life, all your milestones, all your feelings, all the love, Crowley. So much more than I ever deserve-”
Crowley cuts him off for two particular reasons: first, he cannot stand that melty thing Aziraphale’s face does. He simply cannot sit and stare at it without doing something; second, they’ve already been through this whole deserving bullsh*t, though Aziraphale can be a bit (read: a lot) dense, it takes a bit of practice to learn how to get things through his thick skull.
Kissing works wonders. Snogging is close to a miracle. This is how Crowley ends up with both arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle, hands pressing into his lower back, an inch from having the man in his lap.
The way Aziraphale kisses is everything. Crowley can feel how his hands follow the shivers up down his body, can feel how every slide of tongue against his own, every small bite, every little breath is thoughtful, focused, loving. It’s so, so loving.
“Did you smoke?” Aziraphale asks after a while, breaking their kiss much to Crowley’s dismay. His lips are spit-slicked and so very red, Crowley just wants to lean back in. “I don’t like it when you smoke.”
“Sure, you seem to hate it right now.” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s back, pulling him even closer. “Besides, the moment called for it. You know, waiting for my long lost love to appear at my doorstep and all that.”
“You were just born to be a dashing romantic heroine, weren’t you?”
Crowley shakes his head and pulls Aziraphale back into his orbit, pressing their lips together again.
“Wait! Wait,” Aziraphale laughs as he pushes Crowley away with a strong hand on his chest. Crowley raises a quizzical eyebrow, but backs off nonetheless, if a bit annoyed. He really likes the non-talking bits. “I had a whole speech and you keep distracting me.”
“Sure, you really seem to mind the distraction-”
“Crowley!”
“Fine! Fine, jeez. I’m listening.”
Aziraphale takes a deep breath and Crowley’s hand, and smiles. “What you did is without a doubt the best thing someone ever did, and will ever do, for me. You know me, love, and somehow you’re still the only person in the world who knows me so deeply, so well, so thoroughly. I know you hate this word but it really is ineffable-”
“Gesundheit.” Crowley says, hating how is voice has gone all wobbly. He smiles tightly as Aziraphale smacks him lightly on the chest.
“The reason your gift is so special, you-” Aziraphale masks his voice breaking with a cough, but Crowley knows. He will always know. “After all these years, you’re still the only person who makes me feel like I’m not alone.”
Crowley swallows, looking down at their joined hands. Not for the first time, he thinks about what would have happened if he didn’t accept Anathema’s invitation at long last, if he would have kept hiding in his opulent apartment, alone and stubborn. He wonders if he and Aziraphale would have met again regardless, if all the ineffability his angel’s blabbering about is actually part of this.
Today, he likes to think it is; he wants to think they still would have met again, because there is no way the universe or whoever is in charge does not recognize this is a once in a lifetime kind of thing, too precious to be lost forever.
“Why the hell are you so good with big speeches?” He grumbles instead of waxing poetically about the magic of their relationship. “I’m supposed to be the author.”
“You made me a book. That’s plenty for me.”
“Mmmnyeah.” Crowley leans forward and rests his forehead against Aziraphale. “Can we go back to the non talking bit? I’m processing too many feelings.”
“In a minute.” Aziraphale sighs. “I just - drat. I never thought we’d-”
“Me neither.” Crowley says, then immediately backtracks. “Well. Not really. I thought, you know, I hoped - you’re the one who’s always going on about ineffability and whatnot-”
“Crowley?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re right. Too many feelings. Could we perhaps skip to the-”
“God, yes.”
They relocate, after that. Déjà vu is nice and all that, but it’s still February in Connecticut and only one of them has a coat that could be defined as such. Plus, Crowley’s room may have ugly walls but the bed is a top tier bed.
It’s even a better bed if Aziraphale’s in it, mapping and touching and kissing every inch of skin he uncovers, whispering sweet nothings, caring, staying, loving.
They’re both too exhausted to do everything they’d like, but Crowley needs the touch, needs to feel Aziraphale’s skin under his fingers, his lips against his neck, not even kissing, just merely breathing. He’s pleading, he’s distantly aware of it, for something he can’t quite name. Aziraphale knows though. He will always know.
So when Aziraphale reaches down to put a hand between their bodies and raises his brows in question, Crowley nods a bit frantically. And it’s a messy affair, uncoordinated and sleepy, but the lack of finesse is what makes it so good, because it’s them, together, chaos and all. So good, just like Aziraphale whispers in the crook of Crowley’s neck; just, just like that, just like Crowley pants back, tightening his grip on white blond curls; love, yes, and it doesn’t matter who says it, because it’s true.
A little later, when they somehow manage to clean up with something better than a shirt (Aziraphale had to insist) and get under the duvet still wrapped around each other (but at least not sticky, as Aziraphale had to point out), Crowley chooses to ignore the pillows to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s soft chest. It’s then, as his hair are being played with and his eyes are fighting to stay open, that he has the epiphany: “How did you - where - Muriel?”
“Sleepover at Sidney’s house.” Aziraphale holds him closer, then snorts. “Who do you take me for?”
Crowley nuzzles closer into his chest, grateful his blush is at least partially hidden. “Right, makes sense. ‘M still getting used to think about a whole kid.”
“They’re eighteen, darling. Technically-”
“Muriel’s a child, you shut up. ‘M too sleepy for this.”
Aziraphale hums. “They love you too, don’t worry. Sleep now.”
Crowley lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and relaxes impossibly further.
He came to New Dawns to see the stars and to get some peace and quiet and got a whole family out of it. Possibly. Hopefully. If he plays his cards right and doesn’t f*ck this up monumentally. He’s definitely too sleepy for this, but still sends a quick thanks to whoever is in charge of how the universe moves.
***
“What are you writing?”
Crowley slaps his laptop shut hard enough to break it. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Mimi? Christ on a bicycle you move like a ghost.”
Crowley had been adamant in finding a a nickname for Muriel, because “I can’t have a nickname for anyone but Muriel, angel, that’s just ridiculous.” Muri was awful, Ellie felt dumb, hellspawn was just totally out of character. So, Mimi it is. And according to Muriel, it is completely original.
Though he’s now reconsidering hellspawn. “Why don’t you let me see it? Just a little snippet.”
“I cannot give anyone any snippet legally.” Muriel opens their mouth to reply, but Crowley stops her with a raised hand. “No, not even your uncle.”
“He doesn’t need snippets, he’s basically the main character.”
Crowley turns his head fast enough to give him whiplash, glaring at the silent Aziraphale stirring their dinner on the stove. “Angel? What happened to not a word to anyone else?”
Aziraphale turns as well, entirely unimpressed. “I did not say a word.”
“Oh, really? Then wh- oh. The witch.” Muriel’s giggle is all the answers he needs. He really, really wants to fire Anathema. Then he thinks about the yellow book on Aziraphale’s nightstand and realizes he’s stuck with her as long as she damn wants to.
“Still, no snippets.”
“You’re just going to wait and see, peach.”
Muriel groans, and Crowley has to bite back a remark on how annoying that is. It would be against the point he’s trying to make, but he really hates the sentence.
“You’re both no fun.”
“How unfortunate. Laptop and books out of the way please, dinner is almost ready.”
Muriel glares, but otherwise gathers her own things, smiling at Crowley before picking his laptop as well. “I got it, don’t worry.”
It’s been a bad day, pain wise. The few steps from the living room to the kitchen have felt like a whole journey, not to mention the stairs from the bedroom. If accepting help from Aziraphale is still hard, accepting it from Muriel still feels almost impossible.
It’s just love, he thinks fiercely, trying to make the voice inside his head sound like Dr. Eve’s. Love is not conditional. He swallows around the lump in his throat and nods once, hoping his grimace can pass as a tight smile, as he watches Muriel hurrying to deposit their things someplace else.
Immediately, there’s a hand squeezing his shoulder. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head back to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.
“Hi. You know, I got some kind of balm from Madame Tracy that’s supposed to help with your pain. We could try it tonight, if you’d like?”
How he appreciates his Aziraphale, facing old annoying ladies just for him. And also for always changing the topic towards something less uncomfortable, too. Crowley puts his own hand over the one Aziraphale’s still has on his shoulder. “My, my. Mr. Fell. Are you propositioning me?”
Aziraphale huffs. “As if. I just need to bat my eyelashes at you for that.”
Obviously, that’s the moment Muriel comes back to the kitchen, catching Crowley in the act of being thoroughly flustered and Aziraphale innocently finishing up the stir fry.
“I won’t even ask,” they say, and it’s honestly for the better.
As they eat and idly chat about their respective days, Crowley thinks he should snap a picture and send it to his therapist. Look at him being all domestic and stable. Most of all, he feels content.
Sure, he still gets nightmares that smells like burnt tires and gasoline and he still needs cold showers and breathing exercises to get back to himself. But now afterwards, more often than not, there are arms waiting for him to come back, hands patting his back, a hushed voice whispering about five things he can see. It’s not enough to make the bad thoughts disappear, but it makes them way less scary.
“So, did you tell him yet?” Of course, Muriel has to burst the bubble of Crowley’s contentment. He’s really reconsidering hellspawn.
Ever so proper, Aziraphale dabs his mouth before replying. “Not yet, Muriel. Thank you for easing into the topic,” he deadpans, glaring lightly.
See, even if he is getting better Crowley’s still anxiety on legs. The way his insides are twisted is not at all pleasant. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing bad, love, I promise.” Aziraphale pats his hand, which helps a bit with untwisting his intestines. “Me and Muriel had a talk.”
Crowley swallows. “Good talk or bad talk?”
Aziraphale eyes his niece and smiles, getting a matching one in return. “Important talk.”
“I can start!” Muriel says, as Crowley forces himself to focus on them and let go of Aziraphale’s hand. “See, I’m going away after summer, and while I still don’t know where, I know I’m moving out of this house and out of New Dawns. And, well, Uncle Azi didn’t choose New Dawns because he liked it, but because I was in it.”
“Not that I didn’t grow to love it, mind.” Aziraphale interjects. “I did and I do love this place, everything it’s given me. But now that things are changing I, or better, we have something else to consider.”
Crowley’s throat is so dry it clicks when he tries to clear it. “Which is?”
“Do you want to go back to New York?” Muriel asks him, with just a hint of curiosity. “Or, well, would you be open to discuss options with-”
“What Muriel means, darling,” Aziraphale interjects again, this time a bit more impatient, “is that I don’t necessarily have to stay here, after they move out, and I don’t necessarily want to. I would like to know your opinion on the matter.”
“My… what?” Crowley replies intelligently. Aziraphale just smiles at him like whatever he’s saying makes any sense. “Do you see yourself still living in New York City, in the future? Or did your stay here change things? There isn’t a right answer, mind. I’ll be happy either way.”
Crowley stares. Then stares some more. He stares so long that he’s afraid he’s beginning to drill a hole into Aziraphale’s head. What he’s saying sounds suspiciously like a sort of invitation to live together, at least in the same place, which is exactly what Crowley wanted, but at the same time - Aziraphale leaving New Dawns? Leaving his - “Your bookshop!” He finally croaks out. “You - your dream. You can’t leave the bookshop.”
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, and his face melts. “It was my dream, you’re right, and it’s been a dream come true for the past few years but, as you know, nothing lasts forever.” He leans forward and takes Crowley’s hand over the table, and he thinks back to a sh*tty cafe in a service stop the middle of nowhere. “I can think about new dreams now. Besides, I’m not cut out for customer service.”
If he had any mental capacity left whatsoever Crowley would laugh, but as it stands he can barely manage to make a sound that vaguely resembles a bunch of consonants. Muriel looks at him puzzled, but Aziraphale, fluent as he is in this particular non verbal communication, just waits for Crowley’s brain to rewire itself and come back online.
“Just to be clear,” he manages after a moment, voice high pitched and definitely shaky, “you’re saying this because you want to, uhm, whatever, with me. Right?”
Aziraphale is not surprised by his usual eloquence. “Yes, you nutter. Why ever else?”
“And you,” he points a finger at Muriel, “are alright with him leaving this town? Your-your home?”
Muriel nods. “Yes. It’s going to be a bit weird, maybe, but I think it’s gonna be good too, and it’s not like I will never visit. It’ll be a fresh start.”
“Fresh start, right.” Crowley thinks about a shared home, in a house chosen together and not randomly found or provided by others, decorated together, in which they’d come back together, with a library and perhaps a garden and guest rooms for the three friends he actually cares about now and maybe a cat because why the hell not and - and he remembers Aziraphale and Muriel’s question. “I love New York, I do, I - it’s given me everything and all that, but-” he looks at Aziraphale for this, lifting his sunglasses up into his hair. Damn his headaches and everything. “It got a bit much for me lately, a bit too much in, well, many ways. I don’t want to stay there necessarily, but if you do angel -”
Because Aziraphale would thrive in New York City, with his endless gastronomical curiosity and his walks in the parks and his bold fashion choices. If he likes, they could find a place in another neighbourhood, something like FiDi or the Upper West Side; they could spend the rest of their days being mean, retired New Yorkers, if he likes, the could even -
“Crowley, I want to find a place for us together, something we both choose, with Muriel’s input of course, but I want to do it together. And you don’t have to say it, but I know that spending more than a few weeks in a town this small will drive you completely mad.” His smile is reassuring and a bit teasing, and Crowley finds himself grinning back. He’s right: for how much he’s grateful to this town and enjoyed his stay and the domestic, familiar vibe, he misses some…action, so to speak. Nina’s gossip is fun and all, but he can live without the whole town not knowing the details of his love life. “We’ll find something in the middle.”
“A compromise!” Muriel chimes in, clapping happily. “I love finding compromises. Head of debate club and all that.”
“Nerd.” Crowley tells them, and gets a napkin thrown at his head.
Dinner goes on without a hitch, as if Crowley’s world hasn’t just shifted.
Sure, he knew Aziraphale was in for the long run, they did talk about it in their own messed up way (them and their damn bubbles), but a place together, a place they both will choose together is…different. It feels definitive, mature, final; it feels simultaneously like the end and like a new beginning. It feels bloody fantastic.
It also feels, unfortunately, a little scary, especially for an anxious brain, always prone to think about the worst case scenarios. That’s why later, in Aziraphale’s room that now smells like the flowery balm he used to massage Crowley’s leg, Crowley’s own mouth betrays him.
“D’you think we’re in the honeymoon phase?” He slurs his words a bit, because with his back pressed against Aziraphale’s chest and strong hands still kneading his sore muscles it’s hard not to doze.
Aziraphale’s hands still. “Elaborate?”
“Ngk, just. Well, uhm.” The silence stretches on a moment more, but it’s not uncomfortable. A bit tense, a lot charged, but not uncomfortable. “A place together is a lot. It’s been a month and it-it’s a bid mad, isn’t it?”
He feels Aziraphale’s whole body tense up before he even spots his hand retreating. “If you don’t want to you can just tell me.”
“What? f*ck no!” Crowley yelps. “Don’t want to? Are you mad? I wanted to ask you to move in with me that first in New York, then I was afraid it would scare you away so I just shut up which is exactly what I should do now. Shutting up.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale speaks into his hair, hands now back onto Crowley’s stomach. He breathes out. “Well, I suppose you’re right. It is mad, hasty, definitely too fast. It’s also you, though. You always had the power to make me forget about the rules.”
Crowley relaxes back into Aziraphale’s hold, tracing random patterns with his fingers onto the soft hands keeping him warm. “I suppose the fact that we have months in front of us helps. We’re not doing the move tomorrow, we still have some time.” Aziraphale continues, never really lifting his head from Crowley’s hair, sighing softly. “I’m scared too, darling, even though it’s all I want. I cannot lose you again.”
And this is what it all comes down to, at the end, isn’t it? These same old fears.
Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hands. “You won’t,” he says, and it feels like a vow. “We won’t. I promise.”
***
Crowley’s first chapter and full outline have been approved, and so have the few other chapters he sent out. This is when the real madness begins.
And by madness he means a lot of meetings. Meetings with his publisher, his editor, the marketing director, the graphic designers, and many other people with other jobs he doesn’t care about.
It also means it’s easier moving back to New York, since everyone else is based there. It’s still a two hour drive, he can get back to New Dawns every weekend, or every time he has some free days, and Aziraphale can do the same. Also, February ended, and it was always supposed to be the end of his little holiday, and they spent the last two weeks spending every minute together, looking all over the Internet for their new place, the place they will choose together to live in together, planning their future together.
Still, he’s leaving now. His things are packed into Anathema’s car and they’re saying their goodbyes as she’s waiting in the driver’s seat. He won't have time to miss New Dawns, not really. He'll mis his routine: coffee at Nina's, idle chats with Maggie behind the counter, weird and inappropriate talks with Madame Tracy and glares from her sister. He won't have time to miss New Dawns, but he will, just as he will be forever grateful.
“Will you stop with the dramatics, Crowley? You’ll literally see him next weekend.”
“Will you shut the f*ck up, Nath?” Crowley says, voice muffled from when his face is buried into Aziraphale’s neck. He hears and feels the way his angel’s body vibrates with laughter. “She spent all morning saying goodbye to her lizard and I didn’t complain.”
“Be nice, now.” Aziraphale says. Then, quieter, “You’re right, though. She’ll get you when I decide I’m done.” Crowley snorts, squeezing him even tighter.
“Gonna miss you,” Crowley mumbles, finally drawing back. “I know this is dramatic.”
“It is, isn’t it? Two old queens being old queens.” Aziraphale grins as Crowley barks out a laugh. “I never thought I would ever hear those words coming out of your mouth.”
“Glad I can still surprise you.” They smile at each other for a few beats, probably looking every bit as ridiculous as Crowley feels.
Muriel breaks the moment (for the sake of everyone else) by crashing into Crowley’s chest. “Sorry to interrupt the flirting, but I wanted my goodbye hug before graduation.”
Crowley laughs and wraps his arms around them, resting his cheek on her dark hair. “How will I cope without you annoying me every waking moment?” He tears up at the thought of not having this wonderful kid he’s grown to love to pieces around anymore, coughing to cover up how choked he sounds. “Love you, kid.”
Drawing back, Muriel smiles and pecks him on the cheek. “Love you too,” a wink. “Uncle Crowley.”
Right. Right. This is absolutely not a thing. He’s pretty sure he’s emitting some sort of sound. Or perhaps his mouth is just open.
“Good Lord, Muriel, now we have to wait for his brain to rewire itself.” Aziraphale puts a careful hand on his shoulder. “Alright, darling?” He asks, and though he’s smiling, Crowley can see the hint of worry underneath the facade.
This shakes him out of his reverie. There is not a single universe in which Crowley’s not alright with the whole thing. “Just peachy, angel.”
Anathema honks, and the smile drops off of Crowley’s face, who takes his place in the passenger’s seat, however begrudgingly.
Aziraphale gives him one last kiss through the window. “Call me as soon as you get home.”
“I will.” Crowley kisses him again. “Love you.”
“I love you too.”
Anathema starts to roll the window back up. Aziraphale giggles and blows her a kiss, which she accepts with a small grin despite everything. “Have a safe drive!”
“We will, Azi. Bye!” As she puts the car in reverse, Crowley gives him one last little wave. He refuses to look in the rearview mirror just to see the two silhouettes becoming smaller and smaller.
He sighs as they begin the drive, his head hitting the window with a dull thud. None of them speaks for the first few minutes, both lost in their own melancholic thoughts.
“When are you gonna admit I was right about New Dawns?” Anathema says after a while, giving him a sly sidelong glance.
“Never.” He sighs, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Thanks though, I guess.”
Anathema’s pearly laugh fills the vehicle. “You’re very welcome ginger.”
***
(Wednesday, March 6th, 2024)
miss you angel
had a sh*t day
i’m drinking wine alone on my couch
you were right it’s uncomfortable as sh*t
miss youuu
where are you
Hello darling, I was in the shower.
I miss you too.
Sorry to hear about your day, what happened?
Also, don’t get too drunk without me on your hideous couch.
and what were you doing in the shower Mr. Fell?
No telematic intercourse if you’re drunk.
Tell me about your bad day.
ANGEL
WHO THE HELL SAYS TELEMATIC INTERCOURSE
never having a boner again
congratulations
you broke me
Fine. I’ll just turn off my phone for the night then.
i was kidding
and i’m not drunk
Care to tell me about your bad day?
i hate bee
bee’s my editor
they’re so annoying
always going on about my typos
and the lack of a title
says they need a title in order to do their job
Are they right?
well
not the point
they’re so MEAN
So, they are right.
who’s side are you on?
Didn’t you tell me you had a title in mind the other day?
Darling, I can see you typing. Muriel finally taught me what the three dots mean.
ugh
i mean maybe
it’s a bit ridiculous
All your titles are.
Tell me.
March 7th, 2024 - 10:25 a.m.
to: Belinda Prince < [emailprotected] >
Subject: Title
Hi Bee,
Chapter four to eight attached with the title I selected.
Let me know if you have any questions.
Best,
A.J. Crowley
March 7th, 2024 - 5.43 p.m.
To: A.J Crowley < [emailprotected] >
Subject: Re: title
Hello Crowley,
I always have questions about your titles and I always keep my big mouth shut. Though let me say, are you sure about this one? Just try saying “A beginner’s guide to gardening with detective interruptions” without cringing.
Book looks good though, nice job with that.
Best,
Belinda Prince
March 8th, 2024 - 10.17 a.m.
to: Belinda Prince < [emailprotected] >
Subject: Re: Re: Title
Hi Bee
Yes I’m sure. Cringe is dead only long ridiculous titles are left.
Thanks for the feedback.
Best,
A.J. Crowley
(March 12th, 2024)
angel
did I left my socks with the red snakes at your house last weekend?
I have no idea, I’m not home right now.
I can check in the laundry when I get back.
Why?
lucky socks
the meeting with Lucy is tomorrow
It’s going to be fine, darling.
You’ll be brilliant, socks or no socks.
thank you sweetheart
Oh, you fiend.
You know what that does to me.
I’m closing the bookshop now.
(March 13th, 2024)
survived the meeting
lucy was less scary than usual
she seemed almost happy
said the romantic bit was refreshing
that was scary as f*ck
i’m in the uber back to the flat now
can i call you when i get there?
angel?
everything’s okay?
Hello darling!
Look at my view!
WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE
YOU BASTARD
(March 27th, 2024)
“Hello darling. Can you see me? Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Angel, there you are. Pull the phone away from your face a little bit, there, perfect. Yeah, had to move a few things around but I’ll be there at eleven-ish in the morning. Anathema’ll come too.”
“Oh, that’s great. I have no idea when the decisions are going to be released, but I’m guessing in the afternoon.”
“This whole Ivy Day nonsense is so American.”
“Indeed it is.”
“How’s Muriel holding up?”
“I think they don’t want to worry me, but I can tell they’re nervous. God knows I am.”
“I can see that. Stop tormenting your poor nails. It’s going to be fine either way.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just that they worked so hard and they wanted this for so long… Gosh, I could not bear to see their disappointment. Also, it’s starting to feel even more real; they really are all grown up.”
“Hey, hey, don’t start crying the night before, it’s going to be even worse tomorrow. Plus, if you cry I will want to cry and then everything goes to sh*t.”
“I’m so glad you’re going to be here.”
“Me too, love. Muriel still doesn’t know?”
“Not a clue. And you know how bad I am at lying.”
“Yeah, yeah, you did great sweetheart. You’re a pretty crier, it’s unfair.”
“You always think I’m pretty. You look dashing though, is that my shirt?”
(March 28th, 2024)
HOLY sh*t CROWLEY
JUST SAW MURIEL’S POST
THEY GOT INTO YALE?????
CONGRATS
can newt and I drop by? he baked a cake
f*ck nath i’m still in shock
they were a bit bummed about harvard
we were already doing the whole it’s okay speech
but then YALE
sh*t
aziraphale didn’t cry but i did
also yes you can come
is there a video of you crying
i think it’s already going viral on tiktok right now
saving it for your wedding
WILL YOU STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT
(April 9th, 2024)
“Hello, Bee. This Crowley. Anthony J.”
“Why are you acting like James Bond? How many Crowleys do you think I know?”
“Right, uh, sorry. Anathema told me you knew I’d call?”
“Yeah, yeah, she said you wanted my husband.”
“I-uh- I don’t”
“f*ck, are you always this neurotic?”
“Hello, Mx. Prince, is that right? I’m Aziraphale Fell, Crowley’s partner.”
“Ah, you’re the angel. The one Aaron Ferguson is based on, I suppose.”
“Oh darling, Ferguson, really?”
“Anyway Bee, Anathema said your husband is a real estate agent.”
“Yeah, bastard’s top of his game or whatever. He’s a proper asshole, but he’s great.”
“Right. Uh.-”
“Well that sounds delightful Mx. Prince! Just what we need, actually.”
“Call me Bee, you’re not my boss. Anyway, where do you want to move? Gabe will want to know before meeting with you both, the control freak.”
“We don’t know.”
“Ah well, that is to say, we have a few ideas in mind but nothing is decided as of now.”
“We’re trying to find a compromise.”
“We’d like something in between a small town and a city, something not overbearing but still stimulating and not too far from New York -”
“I don’t give a f*ck guys. You can move to Saturn for all I care, spare me the deets. I’ll tell this to Gabe and text you his number.”
“Thanks Bee.”
“Yes, thank you Bee dear.”
“Whatever. Good luck putting up with my asshole.”
(April 11th, 2024)
Hi love.
Me and Muriel will arrive Friday night around six.
can’t wait angel
what do you think of the things that asshole sent
I think Mr. Archer was nice to send us so many options.
And references for real estate agents in the areas too!
He is a bit unpleasant, I will admit. Bit loud.
bit loud???
i hear his voice in my nightmares
sooo
did you take a look?
muriel too
We did, actually.
Boston is nice, Muriel loved it when they toured Harvard.
It has that small town charm but it’s still a metropolis.
yeah agreed
perhaps a bit too much of a metropolis?
Not many opportunities for your garden.
some of the listings had a garden
Anything you liked?
mmm dunno
i need to take another look
can we discuss it more when we’re together?
Perhaps that would be better.
Tell me about your day.
(April 23rd, 2024)
“I mean, f*ck angel, I love this place.”
“Well, me too, but it’s so different than what we agreed on! It’s on the other side of the country!”
“Stop moving your phone along with your hands, please. And yes, I know. I would have never even thought about the Napa Valley, but think about it. It’s close enough to San Francisco, what was it? A hour and a half drive?”
“Yes. And the property is absolutely beautiful, oh, look at the view! And the wines are surely spectacular.”
“We can hire people who know what to do and have our own vines.”
“How much is our budget again?”
“Angel, I’m literally selling a penthouse in Manhattan. And you’re selling the bookshop.”
“Right. And I still have a bit from when I sold my shares at the firm. God Crowley, people must surely hate us.”
“That’s actually highly likely.”
“Oh, the villa is so lovely. It almost looks like a cottage, doesn’t it? And it says we’d have a few neighbours so it’s not completely isolated.”
“f*ck, have you seen all the pictures? All those spare rooms? Your library would be epic.”
“Crowley, dearest. We have to talk about the fact that it’s in literal California.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanted something close to New York City!”
“Yeah, well. That was before seeing this place. f*cking Gabe ruined my life.”
“I think maybe Muriel would prefer something closer to Connecticut anyway. Perhaps they’d want to visit during breaks.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Don’t look so sad. We’ll find something.”
“You’re looking just as sad as I feel.”
“We could, oh I don’t know. A little weekend trip? Just to see it once?”
“Angel. I’m afraid we’ll like it a bit too much.”
“It is a risk. But think about it…”
“Aziraphale.”
“… a romantic getaway, just you and me, wine and gourmet restaurants…”
“Don’t give me those eyes. You know I can’t say no to those eyes.”
“…we could have a picnic, stay in a nice resort…”
“f*ck. What would we do in this nice resort of yours?”
“Would you like to know?”
(May 3rd, 2024)
hi mimi, just checked in
your uncle’s phone’s dead and he can’t find his charger
send pics!!!
oh my GOD IT’S SO PRETTY
isn’t it just
azi says hello
you both look so happy
are u going to take a look at that villa you fell in love with?
best not
why?
it’s just not possible
well, why?
you can work remotely and fly if you need to go to ny
or find a new publishing house
you always say you hate everyone there
it’s not that easy mimi
if i want to visit new dawns i can do it on my own, you know?
is this the problem?
i just want you both to be happy
and the place looks PHENOMENAL
DON’T GHOST ME UNCLE C
we’re calling you now
(May 7th, 2024)
To: Anthony J. Crowley < [emailprotected] > ; A. Z. Fell <[emailprotected] >
From: Sarah Dagon < [emailprotected] >
Cc: Gabriel Archer < [emailprotected] >
Subject: villa viewing
Hello Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell,
your viewing is confirmed for this Saturday, May 11th. The owners are an old couple who want to sell to someone who will love the place as much as they did, and look forward to meet you and your kid. I dare say your chances are pretty high should you like the place enough to make an offer! The pictures I sent Mr. Archer don’t do the place justice, you’re in for a treat.
Will you please confirm your estimated arrival time?
Looking forward to seeing you soon,
Best,
Sarah Dagon
***
(May 18th, 2024)
Crowley just sold his penthouse in Manhattan. Gabriel Archer handled everything, from the listing to the showings; he is an absolutely insufferable ass, but boy is he good at what he does. Crowley just accepted an offer that’s just a ridiculous amount of money, way more than he spent for the place years ago.
His things are already all packed and moved temporarily into Aziraphale’s place. Though it won’t be Aziraphale’s place for much longer: as soon as this mess of a summer is done, he’s changing the name on the documents to Muriel’s one. It was their parents’ home, it was always supposed to be theirs. The bookshop will be sold to some hipster Californian looking for a change of scenery; the books will be packed up, the bean bags will stay.
Today is Graduation Day. Muriel is (predictably) valedictorian, which means Crowley is sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a football field, sweating in his best suit under the late May sun. Beside him, Aziraphale is wearing the bow tie Crowley got him in New York and tapping his fingers on his thigh, a nervous motion he knows all too well.
He soothes it by intertwining their fingers, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale gives him a blinding smile.
The bastard spent the night before crying into Crowley’s neck so that his eyes will stay dry today. Crowley will simply never take his sunglasses off.
Muriel speech is scheduled right before they begin handing off the diplomas. In a cruel and twisted sort of revenge, no one has been allowed to take a peek. Not even when Crowley used the accomplished writer card or when Aziraphale tried to guilt trip her with childhood pictures.
They look absolutely beautiful in their white cap and gown. They took pictures that morning, alone and with just Aziraphale and with Crowley as well. “I want more pictures with my diploma later.” They’d said. “The family pictures I’ll be taking with me to Yale!”
Crowley had to lock himself in the bathroom for a good ten minutes.
The rest of the families applaud when Muriel finally comes on stage, with the same beaming smile that gave Crowley a panic attack months ago. Aziraphale ‘wahoos’ lightly beside him, and Crowley puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.
Today, they have the right to be embarrassing.
“Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen and non binary folks.” Some light cheering. “My name is Muriel Sepulveda Fell, I am eighteen years old and I’ve been, technically, an orphan for the past eight. You could say mine has been a journey,” some light chuckles. Crowley already wants to cry. “But this story I’m about to tell you is far from tragic. This is a story about love.”
Aziraphale beside him takes in a sharp breath. Crowley puts his sunglasses further up his nose.
“It’s a story about the love my uncle had for his sister, my mom, and the love he had for despite never meeting me. A love so unconditional it brought him here, to the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, to a town that’s not on any map, just for me. A love so special it taught me that being a parent is a choice, and being a family is teamwork. I will be forever grateful for my team.”
Crowley risks a glance in Aziraphale’s direction. He’s got his handkerchief out and ready but he’s somehow not crying. He must have dried his tear ducts last night.
“It’s a story about the love my bonus uncle shares for his partner, unrelenting and never shaken.” Oh God, Crowley is going to die. He’s literally going to die on this plastic chair in this goddamn field in the middle of Connecticut. Sensing it, Aziraphale squeezes his hand tighter. Crowley chokes.
“And the love he gave me too, freely, so lightly, so bright, from the very first time. A love so unique it taught me time doesn’t matter when the feelings are real, and families will always evolve, but nothing will ever really change if the love remains the same.” Aziraphale hands him his handkerchief, which Crowley uses to blow his nose. He won’t hear about it later because he’s going to die.
“It’s a story about the love this town has shown me from day one. The love every single person has poured into homemade dishes and handmade cards and cheesy festivals. The love that binds me and my classmates and friends, that got us through senior year and college decisions and will forever bind us to this place, wherever life may take us. This year has been a journey, with wonderful highs and terrible lows, and we’re here right now because we reached out to one another. This love taught me that no matter what happens, this will always be home for every one of us. And that is the biggest gift of all.”
At least, Crowley’s not the only one who’s crying. He can hear sniffles all around him.
“Let me finish by telling you this: love can be many things. It can be a healed femur found in the depths of the Earth; it can be initials carved into trees and secrets whispered in the dark; it can be an encyclopedia of letters and a box full of watercolors paintings.”
Finally, Aziraphale’s started crying. f*cking finally. “I could borrow many more words from many more authors, but what I want to say is this: every story can be a love story, if we believe in it enough. Thank you.”
The applause is roaring. Crowley whistles again, Aziraphale’s ‘wahoo’ is way louder.
Crowley’s brain is very much offline, high on too many mushy feelings, but he somehow survives the rest of the ceremony and the family pictures (!) afterwards.
He comes back to himself fully once they get to Anathema’s house, its garden in full bloom having been chosen as the location for Muriel’s Grad Party. They didn’t want a balloon arch (“It’s so bad for the environment, Uncle C!”) but they were ecstatic about flower crowns.
Crowley’s crown is made of daisies, because the white makes a nice contrast with the red of his hair. He’s finishing Aziraphale’s crown (primroses) when his phone pings.
Moments later, he’s dragging Aziraphale away from a conversation with Newt, an arm wrapped around his waist and a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face.
“My- Crowley, what’s gotten into you?” He says, but melts into Crowley’s hold regardless.
“Congratulations Mr. Fell, you’re now the proud co-owner of the villa of your dreams.”
Aziraphale’s eyes are big as saucers. “Did they accept the offer? Oh!”
When Aziraphale kisses him, it tastes like a promise, like a vow, like lost years, like the future.
It tastes like everything, because this man is - always has been, forever will be - his everything.
“So, angel, what do you say? Will you run away with me?” He says, because Anthony J. Crowley is a romantic at heart. Thankfully, Aziraphale Fell is just every bit as ridiculous as he is.
“I say, my love, that it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”
hold on to the memories
they will hold on to you
hold on to the memories
they will hold on to you
hold on to the memories
they will hold on to you
and I will hold on to you
