Note– Inspired by REM's 'It's the end of the world' song, and using Neil Gaiman/PTerry's loveable characters. Not my first try at a foray into GO fandom, but I quite like this one, and the other requires work :D

Summary -It's the end of the world as they know it - but Aziraphale feels fine. A/C. Snapshot set during the end of the book.

Welcome to the End of the World

"There are humans here," he pointed out.

"Yes. And me," Crowley returned. Aziraphale resisted the urge to sigh deeply.

"I mean we shouldn't let this happen to them."

"Well, what-"

"I mean," he continued, "when you think about it, we've got them into enough trouble as it is. You and me. Over the years. What with one thing and another."

He hadn't been surprised that Crowley was arguing with the idea – it just wouldn't have been him if he hadn't. But he also knew that it wouldn't be him to just leave him here. Because they both knew that the angel would do the Right Thing, and that the demon would stay out of some grumbling, obscure reason they never really mentioned.

But he was right – when you got down to it, what did they have to lose?

Alright, so maybe it wouldn't be easy, or simple, or pain-free or peaceful or anything remotely like a good idea… but it was the Right Thing, and that was what mattered in the end.

The sword felt good and familiar in his grip, and that thrill of setting it aflame for the first time in six thousand years was like coming home. Admittedly, coming home to a place you'd loved as a child and finding that your memories had been rather distorted.

Crowley, predictable as ever, hefted his tire iron, testing the balance. He was sure that if his friend wanted to, it could've turned into a massive Flaming Sword of Occult Power within a blink of his snake-like eyes, but he didn't. He just weighed it in his hand, and Aziraphale smiled despite the solemn emotional undercurrents in their conversation. It was an important conversation – the sort of one where the words stick with you for the rest of your life in short, punchy phrases and you remember them vividly years later whilst nursing a glass of alcohol. But in this, it wasn't the words that were important, but rather the things they didn't say.

He made an effort though, because there was nothing worse than sitting with a glass of alcohol and knowing there was something he should be remembering but not being able to put his finger on it.

So he tried.

"…I'll have known, deep inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

It sounded pathetic, and Crowley's reply was almost as bad, but their eyes met – properly met, there were no sunglasses between them now – and whatever it is they had really meant to say was said nonetheless. The lack of his favourite accessory had startled Aziraphale for a moment when they had met up, but the demon had waved them away as being a casualty, along with his badly singed clothing. Looking at his face, the lack of the tinted glass made him look entirely different – both more vulnerable and stronger, more familiar and yet a complete stranger at the same time.

Odd, that one accessory could change your impression of a person.

Shadwell's appearance was a bit of intrusion, but he supposed that if anyone had the right to smite the Devil, then humanity did. After all, they had been the ones screwed over for half a dozen millennia.

It had been an unspoken agreement between them to go 'wings-out' so to speak, and it certainly felt right, though he winced at the thought of the state of his clothing. Sword in hand, wings spread against the sky, he felt finally free, and he could feel Crowley's own tense exhilaration beside him as they walked side by side. He didn't feel scared or worried – just tensely alert and with a strange feeling of destiny that he was probably imagining.

To take his mind off it, he continued his rather rambling train of thought back to the demon at his side, holding the tire iron grimly as if it would get away from him otherwise. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the demon, noting the way he looked strange in the late afternoon light. His yellowy eyes were bright but calm, his somewhat chiselled face shadowed in places and his hair looking dashingly dirty. It was probably, Aziraphale mused in a sudden flash of moroseness, the most annoying thing about demons - they looked dashingly handsome in literally any light, pulling off a range of looks from 'just saved the world with barely an exciting scar' to 'argh I'm dying but damn I look good'.

He desperately restrained a blush as he suddenly realised he'd been looking at his friend rather obviously, and thinking about him in that way. Not that it was unheard of – he'd had plenty of practice, so he could hold back the rush of blood to his cheeks admirably.

Well, he couldn't stare at his best friend all day – they had an Armageddon to stop. He tightened his grip on his blade. If he was going down, he'd da- damn well go down fighting.

Feeling the angel's gaze on him, Crowley looked across, just in time to see Aziraphale turn away. He almost smirked, but held it back, feeling it might be misread given the situation. Instead, he settled for smiling slightly and getting his own back by looking at the angel, noticing the way his jaw tightened so he wouldn't blush. Crowley was very familiar with that gesture – the angel had picked it up a few centuries ago and had used it ever since when he could. He had to admit though that he would've preferred the blush – Aziraphale's skin looked deadly pale underneath the sweat and dirt. Crowley suddenly realised that he was probably as dirty as that, if not a bit more given the still-smouldering state of his ruined suit and the soot and other debris from his poor car. He just hoped he wore it a little more sleekly and suave than the angel.

Not to say that Aziraphale didn't look good. He did, of course he did, in that blonde-haired blue-eyed angelic way he always had. The way his nose held a few rebellious freckles and turned up slightly at the bottom. The way his hair had that slight curl when it got a little long and that damnably cute smile he had when he had beaten Crowley at something. He vowed, if they made it out of this situation that he'd send a memo downstairs about that smile, because he felt it was a whole lot more effective than boasting, and a lot more efficient.

If anything, the dirt that he felt sure was lending him a dashing and dangerous look was making the angel look tragic and ruffled. The solemn expression on his young face held all of his years and yet was not old. He had to fight hard against the sudden urge to kiss him now, while he looked like this, when this could be their last chance. He'd had to fight that feeling far too often recently though, so he merely tightened his jaw against it.

He could hear people talking behind them, and he didn't need to glance round to know they were arguing. That made him feel good – typical humans. It was the end of the world, Lucifer was coming to Earth, it was the end of everything, and still they were stood around arguing.

Hmm… the end of the world. Technically, they were making history. Right here, right now could be the end of everything that had come before. War, love, hate, loyalty, McDonalds…

So wasn't it time they took a few risks?

Raising his wings a little higher to hide them from view, he grabbed Aziraphale's arm suddenly, spinning him round. Without ceremony, the ground rumbling underneath their feet and the tell-tale stench of sulphur tainting the air, Crowley pressed his lips hard against Aziraphale's. The angel froze for a second, before relaxing into the spontaneous gesture. It was all too brief and at entirely the wrong time, but being who and what they were, that made it even more perfect.

As they pulled back, Aziraphale smiled beautifully. Crowley just smirked. Then, heavy implement of choice in hand, they turned back, side by side to face the end of the world.

It's the end of the world as we know it,

And I feel fine.