Somewhere Anathema Device caught a glimpse of something in Agnes Nutter’s second book of prophecies, gasped, pulled it out of the fire, got Newt to drive at top speed down the M25 (somehow magically free) dashes into Soho, runs into the bookshop, slams the book down on the counter in front of Aziraphale and Crowley and screams
‘Don’t you two FUCKING dare!’
And leaves.
Several large coffees, bottles of wine and a pile of Eccles cakes and a very long reading and interpretation session later Crowley sits back.
‘Beelzebub and Gabriel, huh? Did not see that coming.’
‘Never mind that, dear,’ Aziraphale says, as he continues carving symbols onto the floor. ‘There. That should do it. The Metatron can’t get in here now.’
‘And you?’ Crowley asks delicately. Aziraphale stands up and primly clasps his hands across his stomach.
‘I have no intention of going up to heaven under any circumstances and especially not now I know how it ends.’ He says. It’s his I Will Not Be Moved tone. Crowley knows it well. He is reassured.
‘Well, maybe pop up and get Muriel. But after that we seal up that lift, agreed?’ Crowley adds.
‘Agreed.’
‘Excellent. Dinner at the Ritz called for I think, to celebrate a very lucky escape. Coming, Angel?’
‘One thing…’ Aziraphale says, and Crowley notices the cheeks of his Angel have gone a little pink, and he is turning that ring on his finger round and round. ‘Prophecy number 547.’
‘547? Was that the one with the butterflies the size of giraffes?’
‘It was not,’ Aziraphale says.
Crowley takes a step closer. He always did enjoy this bit of the temptation, although he was not quite sure who was being tempted right now.
‘Ah, the one with the Welsh Choir serenading the Kraken with excerpts from popular musicals.’
‘No, not that one either.’ Aziraphale appears to have flushed a deep red.
Crowley takes a step closer now. He can feel it - the tingle in his fingers and on his lips.
There’s another first time coming. To add to the Wall, and the Temptation of the Ox Ribs and the Rescue of the Books and all those other first times that have led them step by step to this place.
A first time they had in any timeline, but this would their first time - they, Aziraphale and Crowley in this world, their world.
‘Oh, I know, the one with the crystal the exact size and shape of…’
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale snaps. ‘You know which one I mean.’
‘Oh,’ Crowley says softly. ‘The one where I tell you there’s an us.’
‘That’s the one,’ Aziraphale says, glancing down at the ground. ‘Of course, if you’d rather not, I understand, it’s asking too much, it’s…’
‘Angel,’ Crowley says, and he steps forward, taking off his glasses, and looks down at his angel, his enemy and ally, his closest friend. His love since he knew what love meant. ‘We have always been an us. We don’t need a prophecy for that.’
And Aziraphale, a soft and gentle angel, not a soldier or a leader, becomes a hero for that moment, and clasps Crowley’s collar and pulls him in for a kiss.
It was a nice day. It would always be a nice day. There would always be a bookshop, and later a garden. Nightingales would always sing and there would be many many kisses to follow that first kiss.
