Chapter Text
One Year Later
“. . . From visionary director Aziraphale Fell and producer Gabriel Winger, in association with MD-T Studios, comes a supernatural love story of devastating proportions. Starring 2024 MTV stunt award nominee Anthony Crowley — Good Omens.
“The end is nigh — and nothing lasts forever.”
Crowley was grinning so wide his face was starting to hurt as the trailer came to a close; he lurched up from his front-row VIP seat and whooped as loudly as he could. Beside him, Nina roared her own applause, Maggie whistling loudly, and down the line, Anathema and Newt were holding hands (the latter sweating profusely), as were Eric and Muriel, who were jumping up and down and cheering, pride and joy glowing on their young faces.
But the only person who Crowley had eyes for was Aziraphale, who was waving at the crowd from the stage, beaming with pride and looking so, so very happy that it made his chest ache with his own joy, because — because if you had told him a year ago that he would be here, the star of Aziraphale’s movie and of Aziraphale’s own life, he would have broken down crying right in front of you.
It had been eight months since Good Omens had wrapped up filming; they had needed to redo so much filming, what with Crowley having taken Luce’s place, but the whole crew had rallied around Aziraphale, and the studio had caved and allowed it, especially with Gabriel pulling a few strings. Editing had been slow at points and miraculous at others (both faults of Newt’s), but they had gotten it done, and it seemed like a miracle now that they were finally premiering the trailer at Comic Con. Critics who had seen the trailer already were saying it would be an utterly smashing hit, and Crowley couldn’t be prouder of his husband.
Oh, yes. That’s right — husband.
Aziraphale had been the one to ask. It had been the day that they had finished filming for good, and Crowley and his pathetic little bag of shit from his Mayfair apartment had gone home with Aziraphale to the South Downs. They had flown back, and had been utterly exhausted and dead on their feet — but then when they had walked up the steps of that beautiful little cottage that was their home now, Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand from behind and had sunk to one knee and had told him he wanted to marry him.
There had never been any question about it, but Crowley had said yes anyway.
They hadn’t done a big thing, in the end; it was a small wedding at a local venue, a lovely little restaurant, mostly attended by crew members from Good Omens. The only family that had attended had been a couple of Aziraphale’s cousins who weren’t shitbags — i.e., who didn’t care that their cousin was gay marrying an openly trans man, which was really the lowest bar, but to digress.
As simple as it had been, the moment that they had both said I do and had kissed so gently would always be the best moment in Crowley’s life — and that’s not even to mention their honeymoon in Santorini.
He had cried, the first night there, lying sprawled across their bed wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms — letting himself be held, be comforted, be cared for, Aziraphale’s lips pressing gently against his brow and his hands stroking softly through his hair as he told him, over and over, that he loved him.
And Crowley? Through it all, Crowley had let him.
Crowley let himself be cared for, now. He let Aziraphale fuss over him when his chronic pain was being a bitch; he let himself cry, and grieve, and have bad days without trying to suffocate his feelings and plaster on a fake smile and cope with a pack of cigarettes — not that he didn’t still allow himself the occasional smoke, when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, but he could admit to himself, now, that he could have bad days, and that was okay, and Aziraphale wouldn’t love him any less. Except for maybe when it came to his cigarette breath.
He felt so weightless now, though. He felt weightless, and he felt happy, and he felt free.
Admittedly, he still felt like a character on a shitty rom-com, now with happy ending and all — and not just for them, but also for the demon and the angel, because along with the title, Good Omens had changed substantially after everything with the two of them, and Gabriel, and Luce.
(Speaking of Luce, a recording from that night at the bar had gone viral online, and had essentially imploded his career and his name as a ‘star’ — leaving Gabriel to get away scot-free as the producer had alleged papers claiming to have cut ties with Luce months prior, which weren’t true whatsoever, but hey, not every shitty person in the industry got exposed. At least in this instance, the shittier of the two was the one who couldn’t show his face in public anymore for being a fucking psycho creep, so they wouldn’t push their luck.)
But this wasn’t about Luce. None of it was; not anymore.
This was about Aziraphale — director Aziraphale Fell, Crowley’s husband — who was beckoning him as he walked offstage and to the back. Crowley followed him quickly, pausing for just a moment to wave at the crowd with a broad hand and a huge, sharp-toothed grin (there was a cluster of younger people up front who were waving pride flags and gushing his name, and he blew them a kiss and a wink, satisfied with the resulting chaos) but still managing to catch up to his husband, who grabbed his hand the moment they were out of sight behind the curtains, beaming up at him.
“Oh, Anthony,” Aziraphale gasped out, “it’s all coming true, and it’s all so perfect!” He stretched up and kissed Crowley, who leaned into it happily, squeezing his partner’s hands in his own; even after all this time, and all of the kisses they had shared, they still felt as indescribable as their new first.
“I’m so — I’m so — goodness, I’m just so happy,” Aziraphale managed when he pulled away, whispering it almost as if a confession, tears welling up in his eyes. He beamed up at Crowley, bringing up the redhead’s hands to his lips and kissing his knuckles. “Thank you so very much, my dear,” he murmured, blue eyes wide and earnest.
“Don’t thank me, angel,” Crowley mumbled bashfully, cheeks pinkening as he gave Aziraphale a crooked smile. “I’m only the stuntman, after all.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, my dear,” Aziraphale sniffed, laughing a little despite himself even as he shook his head. “Even before you took Luce’s role, you were always so much more to me than that.”
Crowley’s expression softened impossibly further with affection. He leaned to press his forehead firmly against Aziraphale’s, squeezing his hands tightly and exhaling a steady breath. “I’m so, so fucking proud of you, Aziraphale,” he said after several moments of just holding him close, and Aziraphale let out an aborted little sob, leaning into him.
“Oh, my darling,” he choked out, “I love you, ever so much.”
“Yeah, well — ‘I was made for lovin’ you’, that’s my middle name,” Crowley countered with cheek, and Aziraphale smacked his arm playfully, laughing as he pulled his hand away gently to wipe at his flushed face.
“Well, I thought it was danger,” he teased, “or, no, what was it — professional, hm?”
“All the best things go through changes, eh?” Crowley shot back, taking Aziraphale’s hands in his once more, squeezing gently. “But it all works out in the end, yeah?” Crowley’s life had; Good Omens had; but most importantly, they had.
“There’s my favorite optimist,” Aziraphale murmured teasingly, and then he lifted a brow suggestively, with an obnoxious wink. “Perhaps you can do just one, as we go out for signatures? Don’t overdo it, though, my dear.”
“No promises,” Crowley grinned, locking his fingers through Aziraphale’s and practically pulling him back out on stage and giving him an equally obnoxious wink in return as he greeted the cheering crowd with an enormous, cliche, no-longer-rubbish stuntman’s thumbs-up.
The End