Chapter Text
It’s spring when Aziraphale returns to earth. A time of rebirth, new beginnings. The symbolism is not lost on Aziraphale and features rather heavily in the pep talk he gives himself on his way down from heaven. On his way back to Crowley.
Aziraphale walks through Mayfair with a spring in his step. The world is safe, he is safe and, most importantly, Crowley is safe.
He finds Crowley in his flat, or at least what’s left of him. The being calls himself Crowley, he dresses like Crowley, and he certainly curses like Crowley but something has changed.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” asks Crowley when he answers the door, and his beauty takes Aziraphale’s breath away.
Aziraphale had prepared what he wanted to say, had practiced for months in heaven, hoping it would be enough to make things right. But now that he’s face to face with Crowley he forgets every word.
“Crowley, you know who I am. I know you’re angry and you have every right to be, but don’t let’s play these childish games.”
“Fuck, have we met? ’M sorry, really, if we have. I’m just having a hard time placing you,” Crowley says, running his hand through his hair. It’s grown, falling into his eyes and curling slightly behind his ears. It’s been so long since Aziraphale has seen him and he’s felt every one of those moments of separation with his whole body. Well not his body, since he didn’t wear one in heaven. But he would have felt it in every muscle, every bone, every organ and now that he’s back in his body he does.
Azirpahale’s heart plummets into his shoes as he realizes that this isn’t some bizarre joke Crowley is playing on him. “You mean - you really don't recognize me?”
Crowley presses his lips together as he shakes his head. “Nope. Should I?”
Aziraphale doesn’t even know where to begin so he just stands there, staring at the blank expression on Crowley’s lovely face.
“You’re not here to smite me, are you?” asks Crowley, with an indifference that suggests he knows he’s safe, even if he doesn’t know why. “Can sense your angelicness. You should know I’m retired. Would only be doing hell a favour to do away with me.”
“No.” Aziraphale forces the word out. “No, of course I’m not here to smite… I’m here - I’m here to apologize. To you. Make amends,” he whispers the last.
“Oh. Well that’s alright then,” Crowley says grinning. “For what, exactly?”
For everything, he wants to say but doesn’t. For keeping his feelings to himself, for leaving without explaining, for leaving at all and now for returning and expecting Crowley to forgive him. For not kissing Crowley back and for not telling him he was in love with him. For not telling him he’s hopelessly, ridiculously in love with him. For not telling him every day since the very first one.
Aziraphale has been quiet for too long. Crowley shifts back and forth awkwardly before he asks “D’you want to come in?”
“Really? Can I?”
“Sure. Look, I don’t know who you are or what it is you want to apologize for but you knew where to find me so we must have been close before…” He gestures vaguely as he trails off. “I’ve been having some trouble with my memory lately, not that surprised to find there’s someone important I’ve forgotten. Maybe you can help me remember.” And Aziraphale wants to, oh how he wants to come in and maybe have a cup of tea or a glass of wine and see if it can be like before, if they can have what they had without the burden of the last six thousand years of mistakes and hurt. Something of a fresh start.
Only Aziraphale can’t help but think it would be unfair to Crowley, to behave as if nothing had happened. Crowley had left. Had walked out on Aziraphale while he was still trying to sort out his own complicated feelings. Would Crowley - the old Crowley, his Crowley - be willing to forgive him? Willing to welcome him back with open arms?
“I really shouldn’t,” Aziraphale says, smiling politely and breaking his own heart. “I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you. I’ll, um, leave you to it then.” A sob builds in his throat as he turns to go. He manages to hold it in until he gets down to the street and then he cries the whole way home.
***
Aziraphale is supposed to be doing inventory when the bookshop door swings open. He’s supposed to be doing inventory but instead he’s sitting in his favourite armchair, staring into space. He’s spent most of his time staring into space in the days following his visit to Crowley, hasn’t opened the bookshop once. He’s quite forgotten what it sounds like for someone to come in, for the bell to chime behind him.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he says without turning around, “but we’re really very closed.”
“’M not here for books. Not much of a reader, me.” Aziraphale whips his head around to see Crowley standing just inside the door, hands in his pockets. The very picture of cool indifference, which Aziraphale recognizes as the very embodiment of uncertainty.
“Crowley! Where did you - how did you find me?” Aziraphale asks, standing from his chair.
“I’m not actually sure. Just decided I wanted to see you and my car did the rest.” Aziraphale looks out the window to see the Bentley parked in its usual spot. Crowley shrugs and saunters closer to Aziraphale, looking around at the shop through the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
“What can I do for you then?” Aziraphale smooths down his waistcoat and offers a smile that he hopes comes off as perfectly polite rather than hopelessly devoted.
“Honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing. The thing is, I can’t get you out of my head. Been thinking about you since you ran out of my flat.” Aziraphale’s heart comes dangerously close to stopping at that and he can feel a blush creeping up his neck. He isn’t used to Crowley being so open about his feelings, so direct (with one notable exception). But of course there’s no reason not to say what he means, ask for what he wants.
“Is that so?” Aziraphale tries to keep his tone neutral.
“Yeah. I’ve been alone a long time. Terrific at being alone, me. But after meeting you I just thought I might also be good at not being alone and if you and I were friends once then maybe we could be not alone together, again.”
Warmth blooms in Aziraphale’s chest. “I should like that very much, my dear. But I’m just not sure it’s wise - ”
“Because you’re an angel, and I’m a demon?” Crowley asks.
“No. No, that’s not it at all.” Aziraphale won’t make that mistake again, won’t confuse what they are with who they are. “It’s just that the last time we saw one another we didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“Yeah I figured as much. What with your desire to apologize and the strange mix of relief and misery you seem to feel in my presence.” Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. Has Crowley always been so observant? “Can we just take the apology as said and try to start over?”
Aziraphale prepares to turn him down.
The old Crowley had stormed out. He didn’t want him.
But this Crowley does, he thinks and then he remembers that after Crowley had stormed out he had waited, on the street by the Bentley. Had waited until the very last moment, just in case Azirphale decided to stay.
And because he’s a coward and a selfish angel, Aziraphale gives in to his own desire and to Crowley’s and says “I should like that very much. Can I offer you a drink?”
Crowley beams at him. “A drink would be great. Also would be good to know your name.”
Aziraphale extends his hand. “Aziraphale.”
Crowley takes it in his. “Crowley.”
***
Over the next few months, Aziraphale finds himself spending more and more time with Crowley. By the end of summer they’re together almost every day. Mostly, Aziraphale is content with this new arrangement. Sometimes even happy, especially when he finds himself lost in a debate with Crowley or following one of his familiar rants or sharing a moment of stillness in the bookshop.
He’s glad to be back in Crowley’s life, relieved that they are able to fall into something like their old routine. But he can’t help the hurt he feels when Crowley meets his attempts at reminiscing with only a blank stare. He tries not to show his disappointment when Crowley doesn’t order for him at their favorite restaurants, when he has to ask Aziraphale’s preferences for wine or dessert or authors. He longs for the closeness of their old relationship. Longs to be known so thoroughly and still accepted so completely.
They’re having a cuppa in the bookshop one afternoon when Crowley picks up a first edition Dickens. “Horrid man,” Crowley says, leafing through it. “Always complaining, never quick about it.”
“He was rather horrid, wasn’t he.” Aziraphale agrees. “Oh but do you remember -” He stops short, catching himself. Crowley doesn’t remember.
Crowley stares resolutely at the book in his hands, fidgeting with it in discomfort. Aziraphale opens his mouth to recount the anecdote as if to someone who wasn’t there, rather than someone who was at its very center, but thinks better of it. He knows how it will go, how Crowley will apologize for not remembering, as if that could be his fault. How Aziraphale will reassure Crowley that it’s fine, absolutely tickety-boo when there is nothing tickety-boo about it.
“Nothing important,” Aziraphale says, forcing a smile, and the relief on Crowley’s face goes a long way to soothing Aziraphale’s disappointment.
Aziraphale is relieved to find that Crowley is mostly unchanged. He’s still Crowley, his dearest Crowley, even without his memories of Aziraphale. He loves spy thrillers and romantic comedies, prefers his wine French and his whiskey Scottish. He enjoys feeding the ducks in the park, sitting in swanky wine bars and going to the theater. He delights in the odd demonic miracle, tending more towards the mischievous than the outright evil. He’s still the same brilliant, witty, kind demon that Aziraphale is so fond of. There’s something new there, too - a lightness that he didn’t have before. He’s lightened by the loss of his memories. Even if he’s lost parts of himself with them.
“Have a hazelnut one, my dear,” Aziraphale says one afternoon in Crowley’s flat, passing him a chocolate from the box Crowley had bought for him. “You’ve always liked those.”
“Have I?” asks Crowley, taking the chocolate with a genuine look of bewilderment on his face, leaving Aziraphale to wonder if he really did like them. Maybe he never liked them at all and was only pretending for Aziraphale’s sake or maybe, without Aziraphale’s influence, he had never tried the hazelnut ones, or what if somehow, without Aziraphale’s interference, he had ceased liking them in some horrid hazelnut related incident.
Crowley pops the chocolate in his mouth, chewing slowly. The look of pleasure on his face reassures Aziraphale that yes, he does like the hazelnut ones. But after that Aziraphale tries not to remind Crowley of the person he used to be, determined to love the person he is now.
Crowley doesn’t call him angel anymore. Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he did. He should have made note of it, should have memorized the sound of it so he could replay it in his head over and over but it had never crossed his mind that there might be a last time. There were so many things he had taken for granted.
Things are almost as before. They share afternoons in the park, dinners out, drives in the country, and evening’s in. When they’re together they chat and laugh and bicker, just like the old days. It’s almost perfect. Almost. But even when Crowley is right there in front of him, Aziraphale misses his friend.
***
Aziraphale is startled but unsurprised the first time Crowley tries to kiss him. They’re in the park on a drizzly Sunday morning, Aziraphale with a sensible pair of wellies and Crowley with a bag of frozen peas large enough to feed an army of ducks. Aziraphale has mostly been watching as Crowley throws the peas into the pond, aiming them to land between two or three ducks and laughing in delight when they fight over them.
Aziraphale is lost in thought, remembering another generation of ducks fighting over bits of bread Crowley had pulled from his long black overcoat two hundred years ago in the very same park. The same soft expression on his face, the same easy feeling of companionship.
“Penny for them?” Crowley asks, emptying the last of the peas into the pond.
“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing. Sorry, I was miles away.”
“You can tell me, you know,” says Crowley, stepping closer. “If it would make you happy. I want you to be happy.”
“Oh my dear, I am happy,” Aziraphale says, and he almost believes it. And then Crowley is taking his hand. He’s leaning in close and looking at Aziraphale’s lips and Aziraphale realizes what he’s doing. “I am rather cold though,” he blurts out desperately. “Shall we go back to the bookshop? Get warmed up?” He turns to go before Crowley can answer. He doesn’t see the wretched look on Crowley’s face, the confusion and pain. But he knows what that looks like. He’s seen it before.
After that, Crowley is dreadfully open about his feelings for Aziraphale. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be. There is, of course, the fact that he’s a demon and Aziraphale is an angel but they’re retired. Crowley doesn’t have six thousand years of repression and fear holding him back. He doesn’t have the memories of their last fight and a desperate kiss to get in his way. But Aziraphale does.
Aziraphale tries to discourage Crowley’s affections. He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. When Crowley reaches for his hand again in the park Aziraphale politely pulls away. When Crowley offers him his coat or a drive home, he declines. It breaks his heart a little each time to see the hurt on Crowley’s face. But he can’t give himself to Crowley when Crowley doesn’t understand what he’s accepting.
Crowley buys Aziraphale dinner, surprises him with planned outings and little gifts. He brings him flowers - red carnations, yellow tulips, and on one memorable occasion, forget-me-nots.
“I’m relieved to see the memory loss has had no effect on your sense of humour,” Aziraphale teases when he sees them.
“Not sure how I could have forgotten you. But I have no intention of letting you forget me,” Crowley says, holding the flowers out to Aziraphale.
“I couldn't possibly.” He accepts the flowers, trying not to look too pleased. He places them in a vase on the table in the entryway of the bookshop. “There. Very thoughtful of you to help brighten up the bookshop,” he says, as if the flowers are of no consequence, as if they mean nothing to him personally.
He wonders how long he can go on this way, pushing Crowley away despite wanting to pull him close and never let him go. He knows the answer: forever. He’ll do this forever if it means he can be with Crowley.
***
It’s a cold autumn evening and an angel and a demon find themselves, as they so often do, in the bookshop. Crowley is sprawled out on the sofa - his sofa - and Aziraphale is tucked into his armchair, just like the old days. The demon is gesturing wildly, uncovered eyes sparkling with amusement as he attempts an impression of a rather tiresome woman they had encountered earlier that day at the National Gallery. Aziraphale has been reduced to tears amid fits of giggling when Crowley suddenly turns serious.
“Why won’t you let me in Aziraphale?” He blurts out. “I mean I see the way you look at me. I know you feel… but you never let me get close to you. Whenever I try to - to tell you I - urgh. I mean - to say how I feel, you stop me.”
Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but Crowley forges on.
“I don’t know what happened to us. Before, I mean. I don’t much care, really. I know what we are now. Know what I want us to be.” Crowley pauses and Aziraphale sees his chance to put a stop to this, but he can’t make his mouth form the words.
Crowley gets up and moves to Aziraphale’s chair. He kneels in front of him, taking both hands in his and this time Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. Crowley’s gaze travels slowly from where their fingers are twining together to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Just, let us be an us.”
It’s a quiet plea, desperate and filled with longing. It’s so close to words Aziraphale’s heard before from those same lips, words he never thought he’d hear again. His mind is screaming at him to pull away, to put a stop to this. But his heart is swelling in his chest, filling him with warmth at the prospect of being with Crowley the way he’s always wanted, even before he knew he wanted it.
And here is Crowley - beautiful, clever Crowley - offering himself up, without reservation. Crowley’s thumb is brushing over the back of Aziraphale’s hand in calming strokes. He’s so close, smelling of whiskey and cinnamon and, for some reason, apples. Is it his shampoo? Aziraphale breathes in the scent of him, drinks in the sight of him and he’s weakened by it, so weak that before he can think better of it he leans in and presses his lips to Crowley’s.
The kiss is gentle, timid. So unlike their first kiss in every way. Aziraphale lets himself linger there for only a moment - hardly gives Crowley the chance to kiss him back - before he pulls away slowly, preparing to apologize and let Crowley down. Again.
When Aziraphale opens his eyes he’s staring into the sharp amber of Crowley’s gaze. Immediately he senses that something has changed. Crowley’s brow knits together in confusion, then his eyes widen with understanding and he pushes himself up to stand. He takes a few steps back. “Angel,” is all he says.
Hope flickers in Aziraphale’s chest as he looks up at Crowley. “Do you - do you remember? Before?”
Crowley runs his fingers through his hair, nods his head slowly.
Aziraphale stands and approaches Crowley tentatively, like he would a frightened animal. “Crowley, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry about everything,” he starts. “I feel absolutely wretched about the way I left things and about coming back here and forcing myself on you even though I knew you wanted nothing to do with me.” Crowley says nothing, so Aziraphale carries on. “I never wanted to leave you. I never meant to hurt you, especially after you said all those wonderful things and I would do anything, anything you like if only you can find it in your heart to forgive -“
“You came back,” Crowley says suddenly, as if he hasn’t heard a word out of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“Of course I did, my dear. I had every intention of coming back from the moment I left.”
“You came back. And you kissed me.” Crowley brings his fingers to his lips in memory.
Aziraphale nods sheepishly. “And you remember.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“And do you remember why - that is, how - you forgot?”
Crowley shrugs and takes a couple steps in a circle before answering. “Couldn’t stand to be here, alone with only the memory of you, so I took it away.”
Aziraphale begins to shake slightly. He feels tears gathering as regret pools in his stomach. Regret for all the hurt he has done to Crowley. “And now? Why is it you remember?” he asks in a whisper.
“It was a failsafe,” Crowley explains, blushing. “In case you came back. I wanted to be able to remember, if you came back. Always been an optimist, me.”
“And a romantic, apparently. True love’s kiss?” Aziraphale teases as a feeling of calm settles over him. Crowley wants him - both Crowleys do. And Aziraphale can see no reason why they shouldn’t be together in every way they want, every day for the rest of days.
Crowley’s smile lights up his whole face. “Shut up.”
“I love you too, my dear.” There is so much they need to say, but for now this is enough. Aziraphale goes to Crowley, takes him in his arms and kisses him the way he should have kissed him ages ago.
There would be time, later, for reminiscing.