Love Divine

The Bentley wound its way through London, skirting fellow road-users and careening around corners. Crowley drove with his usual intensity, but they were not, Aziraphale noticed, hurtling toward Soho at a reckless, breakneck speed. Oh, they were traveling far too fast for his personal comfort, to be sure, but for the first time, he felt perfectly safe sitting in the passenger's seat—which was ridiculous, of course, seeing as Crowley never had, nor would, put either of them in harm's way. He understood that now, and was ashamed of himself, not having come to the realization sooner.

Aziraphale's gaze slid to Crowley. Anyone else would have remarked on how cool and collected he appeared, coaxing the steering wheel and smoothly shifting gears. Only an angel, and an acquaintance of six-thousand years, would be privy to the subtle curve of the demon's mouth, adoration pouring from him all throughout the car's interior. His was the face of absolute love.

Swaying with the car's abrupt swerves and accelerations, Aziraphale settled in and closed his eyes. Good Heavens, he was full—he and Crowley had done it up right, working their way through the menu's lavish and numerous courses. And why not? It wasn't every day one got the chance to avert the Apocalypse . . . and succeed, no less! Beaming, Aziraphale folded his hands atop his stomach, unable to recall when he'd last eaten so well. Presumably, it had been their most recent visit to the Ritz, prior to this one. How long had that been, now?

Oh, yes—eleven years. The Arrangement's culmination. The night Aziraphale had, unbeknownst even to himself, chosen his side. He stole another glance at Crowley, serpent eyes locked on the road ahead.

We're on our own side.

The car eased up to the curb, right outside the coffee shop on the opposite side of the street. Its blue awnings appeared brighter in the afternoon sunlight—indeed, the entire line of shops and storefronts seemed smarter, cheerier. Crowley opened his door and stepped out onto the pavement, smiling over at Aziraphale as he followed suit.

"Welcome home, angel."

Aziraphale clutched his heart.

There it was, just as he'd left it. Better, perhaps.

Tears leapt to his eyes.

"Angel?" Crowley tilted his head, strolling to the passenger's side of the Bentley. "You alright?"

Aziraphale nodded, blinking furiously, the kind words twining around him like an embrace. "I . . . I'm fine, Crowley dear. It . . . it's just . . . I-I didn't . . ."

Chuckling, Crowley stepped closer. His voice drawled in the background, muttering a form of "I-told-you-so" about the place still standing, or some such thing.

Aziraphale never did make sense of it.

Pure joy zinged through the angel's corporation, launching him into Crowley's arms. For once, his mind was quiet. There was no logic, no reasoning. Emotion had made the decision on his behalf, and he happily succumbed. Champagne bottles and firework displays exploded and fizzed beneath his sternum as their mouths collided.

Almost at once, Crowley's rigid body melted against him. He gathered Aziraphale into his arms, as though the angel belonged there. And perhaps he did. Perhaps he always had. Uncertainty faded with each soft, hungry press of Aziraphale's lips. Crowley was kissing him back, walking the fragile precipice between utmost tenderness and devouring the angel whole. Aziraphale stood at a brink of his own, wanting simultaneously to abandon all control, yet savor every moment to come . . .

Good Lord Almighty.

When the two resurfaced for a superficial breath of air, Aziraphale met Crowley's hidden gaze, beaming as the demon's pulse raced beneath his palm. Crowley cleared his throat.

"Right," he mumbled. "So . . . is this a thing we do now?"

Aziraphale giggled, Crowley's lapels balled into his fists.

"Silly old serpent," he cooed, though he knew exactly what the demon was implying. Much had been left unsaid. Much was left to be sorted. But they had made it to the end of the world, and back—if not now, when? Contrary to all his past assertions, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, it was about damn time. Face burning, he drew Crowley in for another kiss.

Crowley returned it, eagerly, hands wandering along the angel's back, pulling, grasping . . . Aziraphale yelped when something swept across the backs of his knees, hoisting him off his feet.

"Crowley! What in Heaven's name are you—?"

The demon's grinning mouth muffled the question as he carried the angel across the street. Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed, very much aware that they were attracting a mortifying amount of attention. What must they be thinking, the passersby of London, Soho? Were they showing support? Consternation? Glee? Embarrassment? Not that it mattered in the slightest. We're alive, Aziraphale longed to call out to them. And so are you! We're all still here, and that, my dears, is worth celebrating!

At a snap of Crowley's fingers, the doors of A. Z. Fell and Co. sprang open. Gingerly, he lowered Aziraphale down to the hardwood at the bookshop's threshold.

"Welcome home, angel," he repeated, this time through a kiss.

Before he could be reduced to a blubbering mess, Aziraphale released his hold on Crowley, and bustled through each corner of the shop, stroking shelves, hugging piles of books to his chest, taking inventory of all that had been lost in the fire. Meanwhile, Crowley made his way over to Aziraphale's wine collection for a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, but instead returned with something covered in colorful children's gift-wrap.

"Angel?" he called. "Any idea what this is, or how it got to be here?"

Aziraphale spun around and met Crowley in the bookshop's center. He studied the mysterious item, brow furrowed.

"I haven't the foggiest. There's a note taped to the back, though." Aziraphale pointed, and Crowley ripped the message free, scanning its contents while the angel tore into the paper, revealing, of all things, a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Crowley cocked an eyebrow and passed the note for Aziraphale to inspect.

Sorry to put you out. Thanks for all the help!

Yecky da!

(I'm not sure what that means, but Mum and Dad say it every New Years, so I reckon it's right.)

– Adam Young

A grin spread across the angel's face. "Lechyd da," he explained in a harsh accent. "It's a Welsh toast—down the hatch, cheers. Well! Isn't that sweet!"

"It is. Nice kid," Crowley mused, reaching for the bottle. "For the Anti-Christ, and all." He cracked the lid off the rim and poured two servings of the faux cocktail into a pair of flutes he had not previously been holding. "Have to christen the shop with it, though, don't we? Be rude, otherwise."

"Capital idea, my dear." Aziraphale accepted a glass and clinked it against Crowley's, chuckling as the first bubbling sip tickled his nose. Crowley made an affair of downing his portion, licking his lips for added effect.

"Ah, excellent year! Quite the discerning palate, has Adam."

Aziraphale was beside himself, giddy with laughter.

"That's not the only gift the kid left behind, by the way."

"Oh?"

Confused, Aziraphale followed Crowley toward the back room, where a complete set of Richmal Crompton's William stories stood in a uniform line upon the desk.

"Oh, my word!" Aziraphale tugged a book from the center of the row and leafed through its pages. "I'd have to do a proper appraisal, of course, but if I'm not mistaken, these are mint first-editions. Why, in this state, they'd be a prize to the right collector, worth a small fortune!"

"So, you're not selling them, then?"

"Obviously not!"

"You astonish me," Crowley teased, prying the vintage book from Aziraphale's hands and returning it to its proper place. Lacing their fingers, he guided the angel a few short paces to the leather sofa. They sank onto it, knees brushing. Suddenly shy, Aziraphale stared at Crowley, envisioning the serpent eyes beneath the dark glasses. As though reading his mind, the demon reached up and tucked them into his jacket's breast pocket. He met Aziraphale's gaze, grinning.

"Hi, angel."

"Hallo, Crowley dear."

They were much closer than they'd been a moment ago—Aziraphale couldn't fathom how this had been accomplished.

"Well." He swallowed. "It's all over."

Crowley nodded.

"Nothing more to be done."

"No," the demon agreed.

"So . . . here we are, then." His heartbeat quickened as Crowley leaned inward.

"Here we are," he breathed against the angel's lips.

The old piece of furniture was hardly big enough for two, yet, miraculously, it managed to comfortably accommodate them both, no matter how they found themselves entwined. A divine light glowed within Aziraphale's chest as Crowley trailed kisses down his cheek, along his jaw and neck, nipping and tugging at his lower lip. A pair of fists kept trying to puncture his shoulder blades—his wings, straining to be freed—their attempts made all the more desperate with each caress, each touch of lips . . .

Gasping, Aziraphale drew back, his labored breathing forcing his belly against Crowley's torso. The demon's mouth was swollen and flushed, his hooded eyes wide with concern.

"You okay, angel?"

"I-I . . . I . . ." Aziraphale gulped. "I'm fine, Crowley darling. Much better than fine, rather. But I . . . I-I'm honestly not sure what this is—what . . . what we're doing. But, whatever it is, perhaps we can . . . navigate it together? Perhaps we can . . . take it slowly? At least at the start?" Aziraphale shrank with each question, preparing for a flare of irritation.

The whites of Crowley's eyes flooded with gold, his face soft with something frightfully akin to love. He raised a hand to Aziraphale's cheek.

"Don't you worry, angel. I've learned a thing or two about patience in the last few centuries, and I can honestly tell you, you will always be worth the wait." He nuzzled Aziraphale's mouth, planting a kiss. "We can move as slowly as you like. I don't care how long it takes. Now that it's all over, we get to deal with eternity."

Shame crept up the length of Aziraphale's neck. When would he stop assuming the worst? Whenever would he learn?

"Eternity," he whispered, settling into the curve of Crowley's throat.

Not nearly long enough.