Well, once again our pair has received rather dire news. Ugh, now what?

Get ready for some very sappy angel/demon romance-and-doom!

Enjoy!


SEVENTEEN

They were at Kiptyn's Coffee House with pastries and coffee, and yet, Aziraphale was not eating. With discorporation and subsequent dissipation of his soul imminent, why bother? Why bother ever again? Enjoying food on this day would only cause him to cling to this life. It would make him long, make him yearn…

Crowley was, of course, another thing that might make him cling to this plane, to make it harder to leave.

Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been in a similar boat, when he'd thought he was to be cast out of Heaven, and fall to demonhood himself. His great fear was of the unknown, of becoming the opposite of everything he'd ever been. But he now realised, he'd have been lucky to have that happen, because at least he might have the creature comforts, including probably Crowley. Now… now…

Now, just as when Armageddon was coming to fruition, Aziraphale found that he wanted to cling. And that want hurt so badly, it made him want to run.

He was fighting the urge to tell Crowley that he felt it might be easier if they parted ways now. He was also fighting the compulsion to beg Crowley to take him somewhere, where neither Heaven nor Hell could find them. The sensation of being pulled in two directions was quite familiar, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale began.

"No."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, nonplussed.

"You heard me. I said, no."

"No, what? You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I do, angel."

"Something about this next looming disaster has made you able to read my mind?"

"I've always been able to read your mind," Crowley shrugged.

"That's ridiculous," Aziraphale commented, haughtily. "You have the same powers as I do! Being psychic is not one of them. Not as a rule, anyway."

"I'm not saying I'm psychic, and it's not about having powers."

"What's it about, then?"

"I know you, Aziraphale. And I know what you're thinking right now. You're as much an open book as any of those paper-and-glue thingies you have in your shop."

Aziraphale sat back in his chair and looked at Crowley with a droop-eyed tedium. "All right then. Amaze me."

Crowley stared at him through dark glasses for quite some time, before speaking. He wondered if he'd be able to get through this without his voice breaking, so he took a few moments to breathe steadily. "You're contemplating whether it would just be easier for us just to go our separate ways today, so as not to make the discorporation harder. You're thinking that being together is just going to make us want to hold on for longer, and holding on is not an option, so best be done with it sooner rather than later."

"How.. how did you…"

"You're not eating, for a start. That alone is enough to set off bloody alarms in my brain. You usually inhale that coffee cake, and today, nada. Plus, you're sullen. You took my hand to bring me here, but since we sat down, you've stared into your untouched beverage and haven't made eye-contact with me."

"It's difficult to make eye-contact with you, Crowley."

The demon took off his glasses and laid them on the table. "Fine. How about now?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale whispered, still unable to look him in the eye. "Put those back on! Someone will see!"

"Coloured contact lenses have been available to the public since 1980, angel. No-one cares. I only wear the glasses now to avoid conversations with humans. Now look at me."

Aziraphale tried. And failed. "I can't seem to do it."

"Remember the gazebo a month ago? You tried to tell me there is no 'our side,' and that it was over, and you didn't even like me?"

"Yes," the angel whispered.

"You wouldn't look me in the eye then, either. You looked at my throat, or my shoulders, or my hair, the entire time."

"How do you even remember that?"

"Aziraphale, noticing stuff like that, little nuances of people's behaviour, was my job. Plus… you were breaking my heart. Of course I'd remember every goddamn detail."

"I'm sorry."

"So, at this moment, my only conclusion is, once we sat down, and you realised you wanted the coffee cake, but weren't going to have it because it would only make things harder, then you realised the same thing about me."

"Crowley, I just think…"

"I've already said, the answer is no, angel."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale exclaimed, feigning offence. "You can't just tell me no!"

"I can, and I did!" the demon snapped.

"Crowley, not so loud! People are looking!"

"I don't give a fuck if people are looking! You are not going to walk away from me today of all days! Don't you dare push me away to make this easier on yourself. Again."

Aziraphale continued to stare at the table in front of him, about an inch from where the plate containing his untouched coffee cake ended. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I didn't… I mean, I don't…" He stopped to catch his breath, then started again. "I don't want this to end, but it's going to. And this time, we can't make grand gestures to save humanity, because it's just us. And I don't think I have the strength to sit by your side at midnight, and know that… that's it - I'll never see you again. It would be far less likely to break me in two, if we said goodbye at a less-poignant moment. That's all I'm saying."

Crowley sighed, and took a long moment to study his companion. Then he sat forward, and pushed aside his plate and cup, leaned his forearms on the table, and said, "Let me ask you something, angel. Do you love me?"

For the first time since this conversation began, Aziraphale looked him in the eyes, surprised, a bit bewildered by the question. The expression on Crowley's face was crushing. His brow was furrowed, eyes crinkled, mouth gaping, and pain was written everywhere.

"Why, y-yes, Crowley," Aziraphale said, his eyes somewhat matching the searching, gripping pain he was seeing in those of his counterpart.

"Say it, then. Tell me."

"I love you." Aziraphale obeyed the command, without hesitation.

"Good. I love you, too."

"I thought you knew…"

"I did – I just needed a little reassurance. Because you say you don't have the strength to be with me when the end comes," Crowley said, still leaning over the table, barely moving his lips. His voice broke now. "But I don't have the strength not to be with you when the end comes. I just don't. And if you… if you…"

"Oh, Crowley…"

"You say you love me, so that means you care what I want. What I think. And you care about the fact that I don't want to spend the last day of my life – I don't even want to spend one moment of this day – alone. I don't want to be without you, at all, ever again."

"I'm sorry, Crowley. So sorry," Aziraphale said, taking his hands. "Of course I care what you want."

"Then I want you," Crowley whispered, because he couldn't speak any more loudly. He gripped Aziraphale's hands hard enough to hurt. "Until the end. I want us to be happy today, even if it kills us. And it will. Whatever we do, whatever it all means, we go out of this world together."

"All right. Happy. One last burst of happy."

"Promise me, Aziraphale," Crowley continued to whisper. Now, he had one of the angel's gripped fists pressed to his own forehead, and a few tears fell on his Danish. "Promise me you'll be with me today. Forever. And that I won't have to see that drawn-down, doubtful look on your face again."

"I promise."

"If you feel the need to make the face, just… do something else. Lean into me. Kiss me. Just… don't let me see it."

"Okay. I can do that."

"Promise."

"I promise," Aziraphale whispered back. His own forehead was now pressed to their clasped-together hands, and tears were falling down his own cheeks as well. "Of course I promise, Crowley. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd never…"

Their other hands joined the knot of gripping between their tilted heads, and they clung to each other like the world was ending.


They stayed this way a long time, their hands entwined tightly, and both of their foreheads pressed into them, tears falling, time standing still.

Well, if only.

People stared, and talked about them, and they knew it, but they didn't care. Most people in the room assumed one of them had a terminal illness, or else they were breaking up. They had no idea how right they were, and yet, how wrong.

The moment was finally pierced by a familiar sound. It was coming from outside the coffee shop. They both recognised it at the same time.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Crowley chuckled.

It was Suzy Fly, the Meehans' yappy dog. They turned their gaze slightly outside, and saw Mr. Meehan tying her to a post beside an outdoor table, then sitting down in one of the chairs. He took a little treat from his pocket, and fed it to her. She sat down and wagged her tail, gazing adoringly at her person.

"Hi, you two," Mrs. Meehan's voice said from the other direction.

At that moment, the angel and the demon let go of one another, and looked up at her, startled.

"Mrs. Meehan," Crowley managed to croak out, whilst quickly replacing his dark glasses on his face. "Hi."

Aziraphale was dabbing at his nose and eyes with a napkin now, and he was handing a clean one across the table to Crowley, who then did the same, awkwardly lifting the glasses, trying not to let her see the yellow eyes behind.

Seeing that they were both in tears, she fumbled, "Oh, I'm so sorry, gents. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just go order my coffee and mind my own business. I do hope everything's all right. I'll be over there."

With that, she slid awkwardly away, and went to the counter to order.

"Maybe I can ask her to come mist the plants," Crowley said, watching her go.

"Why would you do that? We're going to be dead!" Aziraphale whispered.

"But if she comes in tomorrow morning and finds us, then our bodies won't rot there."

"Oh, good gracious, Crowley, that's morbid"

"Well, it's either that, or we wait for someone in the building to complain about the smell, and call the police. Which would be less traumatic to see? And which option would allow the flat to be resold in a shorter amount of time?"

"Ugh. I hate the thought of it."

"It's not my favourite thought of all time either, but it needs to be thought-about. Or, alternatively, we could go sit on the park bench in St. James' park, and let it happen there."

"So, we're found by whom? A mother and child out for a walk in the morning? A dog? An unsuspecting groundskeeper?"

"Aziraphale, there's just no good way to do this. I'm going for least impact, here. Here are the choices: A, Mrs. Meehan lets herself into the flat in the morning, finds our bodies freshly dead, thinking we fell to some bizarre obsessional suicide thing, or that we just, I don't know, had an apocalyptic shag, and dropped dead of heart attacks at the same time afterwards."

"Crowley!"

"I know, gross. But in that scenario, we're taken out cold, no fuss, no muss. Or, at least, the standard amount of fuss, and minimal muss. Or B, in two weeks, someone calls the authorities because there's a foul odour coming from the flat, and they find us melted into the furniture. Although, I suppose in that scenario, we could spare Mrs. Meehan the trauma, assuming she doesn't horn her way in, along with the investigators. But the tableau will be much more disturbing for whoever does come upon us."

"Or C… St. James' Park."

"Where we would very likely make headlines, cause a sealing off of traffic through the park for a few days… actually, that sounds like fun," Crowley mused.

"It does not sound fun!"

"Well, what do you want from me? I'm a demon. That's my wheelhouse."

Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. "I can't think rationally about this – it's all too much. I'll let you decide. Whatever you think is best, in your… you know, your Crowley way."

"My Crowley way. Heh. Mrs. Meehan, it is."

Aziraphale groaned. "All right. God help her."

Crowley stared off into the distance for a few moments. "You know, angel, come to think of it, what's going to become of the bookshop?"

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "I've no idea. I've never given a moment's thought to what would happen to it if I died. Never planned on dying."

"I suppose you could just leave it. Let the property fall to the council. I think that's what happens if someone dies without next of kin, or a will."

"No, no," Aziraphale said, brushing away the idea. "I couldn't let the council have all those books of prophecy – first editions, no less! They'd never realise the gravity of what they have, and it would go into an archive somewhere and become lost to the ages. No, I'll have to make a plan."

"Okay, but it'll have to be fast."

"I'll tie up loose ends at the bookshop, and you, Crowley… you make a plan for how we'll spend our last night. That sounds like the perfect job for you."

"Yes it does, doesn't it?" Crowley said, with a little smile. "So shall we spend the evening doing what we were meant to do?"

"I should say so, yes."

"Getting stupid drunk on the finest wine we can find, and reminiscing? Maybe a bit of filet mignon finds its way onto our plates? Or crêpes?"

"That sounds wonderful," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "It really does."

"But?"

"Well, when you said doing what we were meant to do, I thought maybe some flying lessons might be in order. What would you say to that?"

"Flying lessons?" Crowley asked, a bit confused. "What, have you got a bucket list now?"

"No, no bucket list. Apart from this," Aziraphale whispered, again, breaking eye-contact.

"Flying lessons."

"Yes, Crowley. Preferably advanced. We haven't the time to work through the intermediate programme, have we?"

Crowley sat up straight in his chair. "Oh! Advanced flying… yes. Y-yes. As you wish."

The thought had occurred to him, of course, but he just wanted them to be together, and didn't want to spend their last bits of time together coercing. This was a welcome, delicious surprise. With this revelation, Crowley might actually get his wish, to go down ecstatic, and for them both to discorporate in the midst of the most poignant moments of pleasure of their very long lives. Mrs. Meehan might get an eyeful, indeed.

"Good. Thank you," Aziraphale said, in his tightly-pulled, Aziraphalian way.

"In that case, I have some prep to do. There's the wine shop, and the organic butcher's shop, of course. And perhaps a stop at the, erm… advanced flying shop."

"Oh, my. Really?"

"Only if you want it to be... er, not painful."

"I don't know what that means," Aziraphale said, blushing. "Don't tell me. Just… do what you have to. And Crowley, are you all right with us splitting up for just a few hours, so as to maximise our efficiency?"

"Long as I know you'll be back well in time for dinner... and after."

"I will. I promise. Do you mind if I borrow your car?"

"Really?"

"Yes. I won't damage it."

"I know you won't. Yeah… no problem, knock yourself out. Where are you headed?"

"Tadfield."


Please pardon the maudlin first half. I thought it appropriate given this pair's penchant for drama. Other thoughts?

Readers have been completely silent, and it's hard to keep going when that's the case. If you're reading, you're probably having feelings of some sort - why not let me know what they are?

Thanks so much for reading!