Inspired by this gorgeous art (click for full image) by Lilpy.
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The last whooshes of tyres across wet tarmac, the last high voices of Human children have faded into the distance. The airfield’s whole again, showing no sign of the heaped and fissured crater where Satan himself heaved his hideous, horned bulk into the light of day. The terror only survives in their hearts, in the distant look of Crowley’s blown-amber eyes and the tremor in his hand.
“Your poor automobile,” says Aziraphale. “There’s not even the bits left. I suppose we’ll have to –”
Crowley snaps. The cool kiss of misting rain, the smell of fried carbon and petrichor, are once more replaced by a plain of cloud, by light coming from all directions and none. Whatever’s solid beneath them doesn’t betray its nature. It’s cloud, that’s all, but it bears their weight.
“Not yet,” says Crowley. “Just need – a moment. Just –”
He stumbles with fatigue then, drops to his knees. It’s too much: his throat’s still raw from screaming Aziraphale’s name in the burning bookshop; he’s shattered from holding the Bentley together through force of will; the terrible, gravitational pull of Lucifer (the Morningstar, the most beautiful of Her children, he thinks grimly) has briefly left his limbs weak as water.
There’s a shy touch at the back of his bowed head.
“Crowley.”
He finds he can’t speak; there’s a sob in his throat and he’s damned if he’ll let it out (well, all right, he is, but still). He’s already wept all the tears, right sorry show for a demon, got to scrape together a little Pride. One of the Deadlies, isn’t it? Get back in the saddle (he’s never applied that maxim to actual riding, of course).
“Crowley. I’ve never seen anyone so brave.”
He finds a laugh then. “Shit, angel. Not me. Brave’s what you do when you’ve got a choice.”
There’s a little shift in the light beyond his closed lids, and Aziraphale’s dropped to the – whatever holds them up in this space outside of Time. He becomes vaguely aware his wings are out, feels the movement of air, so there’s air here, as Aziraphale’s own pinions overlap his.
“I know you think this isn’t over,” says Aziraphale. “I – don’t suppose they’ll let it go. So while we’ve a moment – I only want to say –”
His voice is oddly light. There’s a quaver. He’s heard Aziraphale laughing, and angry, and all atwitter over a chased snuffbox or a first edition, but he’s never heard his words come out wobbly, like they don’t know where to set themselves down.
“I haven’t been much of a friend, Crowley. I – well, it’s hard, when you’ve tried to be a good angel, and do the right thing, and then you realise what you thought was right was the wrong thing, and – I’m afraid I’m making a muck of this – anyhow, I hardly deserve to be called your friend at all, but I’m honoured that we could –”
“Shut it, angel,” says Crowley, and wraps him in arms as unyielding as a serpent’s embrace. “Who’d’ye think I meant, when I said I’d lost my best friend?”
Aziraphale’s silent for a startled moment, before relaxing into the tight clasp.
“You never said,” he all but whispers.
“Your shop burned down. Always known where you were on Earth, always, and you weren’t anywhere.” One palm rises to the angel’s plump cheek, snugging his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Thought they’d done for you.”
Is Aziraphale chuckling? “Dear. All they did was accost me in the street like bravos and hooligans, and bully me about. I’m coming to see that they’re dreadful cowards. Do you know what they called you?”
“Cursed above all the beasts of the field?” says Crowley, finding a small smile. “Never saw what She was getting at, there, mind. Don’t remember Her cursin’ any cows or sheep, far’s I know.”
“Uriel called you my boyfriend in the dark glasses. I wanted to tell her I’d be honoured.”
Crowley finds a long breath, lets it out again. “That who I am, then?”
“If you’ll have me.”
Aziraphale lifts his head part way, and Crowley presses a kiss to his temple. His hair smells of that pomade he gets at the barber’s and ozone from the lightning that Gabriel rode to Earth’s surface and sweat and the ghost of burnt Bentley that had blown toward them across the airfield.
“You’re my best friend,” says Aziraphale. “Like in that bebop song the Bentley pl – played. You always have been. I ought to’ve said so a long time ago, too. I’ll try to correct the error in future.” He cups Crowley’s bony elbow, braces the hand cradling his face, don’t leave.
“Dunno how long that’ll be,” says Crowley against his skin.
“I think it might be quite a long time indeed,” says Aziraphale. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll tell you.”
“Not just yet,” says Crowley. “Stay like this a bit.” The angel’s warm, and solid, as he’s always imagined, and he’s more home than he ever was in his long-faded memories of Heaven, and he just needs it to last a little longer.
“Best friend,” he repeats. “Gonna say it every day after this. Forever.”
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