and let her creations write their own stories.
It's just Aziraphale and Crowley together in the bookshop at the end of the world.
"But how?" Aziraphale asks, after an eternity. (The eternity between 0 and 1). He's sitting at his desk, and Crowley is leaning against a bookshelf.
Crowley shrugs. "Dunno. I'm glad for one."
And after another eternity (the eternity between 1 and 2), Crowley muses, "maybe because we'd both been so... bound up in this place, as it were."
"I suppose." Aziraphale sighs theatrically, again. "If only all the books weren't blank."
And after another, smaller eternity (2 to 2.5) he says, "Maybe this could be our alpha centauri."
And Crowley says softly, "you know that's not really what I wanted."
And Aziraphale says, "I know."
And at some point (let's call it 4.87), Crowley begins to mourn creation. Aziraphale watches him.
"And I never got an answer to my question," Crowley mutters to a bookshelf. "Why would god create a universe, create humanity, just to end it all in a few thousand years? Where's the sense in that?" (He glares out the window, dares the void to answer, but of course it doesn't).
"The humans deserved a real universe."
Aziraphale, looking at Crowley like a nebula in bloom, says, "Oh, my dear." And Crowley pauses at his voice.
"You were the best angel. The best of us. You were an artist. You cared."
And Crowley swallows and says, "it didn't do any good anyway. And I'm not an angel any longer."
"But if the humans deserved a real universe, then so did you," says Aziraphale firmly. "So did all of us."
"Ohh," says Crowley softly, after a couple more eternities. "Of course."
"Oh," says Aziraphale, at some point after that (around 8.73695). "Indeed."
They find pens in the desk. Crowley plucks a book from the shelf. ("Not the Dickens," Aziraphale protests, and Crowley scoffs, "there won't be a best of times or a worst of times if we don't start somewhere, angel.").
Aziraphale taps the pen against his lips. "I suppose we should begin at the beginning. Let there be light, and all that."
"Now hang on." Crowley frowns. "We can't put it all back the way it was."
"Well, we have to, don't we?"
"That's not fair to the humans," Crowley begins.
"Of course, dear, but once we've put it all back we can change it," Aziraphale insists. "We can make it better going forward."
"And go through all that again? Put the humans through all that? We could build anything we want, angel, anything at all!"
"But I wouldn't have you," Aziraphale says quietly, and Crowley blinks at him. "And we wouldn't be us."
"And I've never had any questions," he continues. "Except... why us? Why give me you? And why punish me for taking you?"
"The apple tree, innit?" Crowley's shoulders slump. "We never did figure that out. Who did the good thing and who did the bad."
"We wouldn't be us if we had," Aziraphale said. "And us is all I want."
Crowley shakes his head. "Angel..."
"And I'm a selfish bastard," Aziraphale says, and this makes Crowley look at him, finally. "I always have been."
"So we put everything back," Crowley says slowly. "And then? Free will for the humans?"
"I assume if we write it, it will become true," Aziraphale says. "But not just the humans. Free will for us, all of us. No more heaven or hell, temptation or salvation. No more angels and demons, just... existence."
"I'd just be Crowley," Crowley mused. "And you'd just be Aziraphale."
"We would be us. And we would be free."
Crowley blinks, bites at his lip. When he looks at Aziraphale, his golden eyes are shining.
"Oh, I love you," he says, and Aziraphale's heart leaps. He rises from his desk and Crowley crosses the room and they meet in the middle.
Aziraphale thinks for a moment, and puts his pen to the page.
"Well," Crowley says from over his shoulder. "All the days were nice back then, weren't they? There'd only been seven of them so far."
"Rather more than seven, I think," Aziraphale said.
"And rain hadn't been invented yet," Crowley continued. "But I like rain."
"Do let me keep going, darling," Aziraphale said gently. "We have six thousand years to write."
"And we have eternity to write them," Crowley retorts. "What's the rush?"
(And yes, somewhere in the past-future, a person vaguely named Jim opens a book, long since stripped of its power and tucked away, and reads the first sentence to himself. It was a nice day.).
