Chapter Text
No one ever talks about what happens after a big, show-stopping ending. All the best romance movies- or, perhaps, the most predictable romance movies- end just before you really get the full, meat-and-potatoes relationship experience. The conventionally attractive woman ends up with the conventionally attractive man, seals their love with a romantic gesture, a long-awaited kiss, or perhaps a montage of them moving in together or a wedding in extreme cases. The Hallmark channel has never subjected the audience to the fights over who left the tin lid off last night and made the biscuits stale, or the moment when they finally feel comfortable enough to use the restroom in front of each other.[1] Any self-respecting action film ends its story well before the audience is forced to acknowledge that their adrenaline-jockey protagonists also had to submit to the mundane horror of day to day existence. No crowds ever gathered around 14 buses well after Evel Knievel jumped them specifically for the after show of him trying to work through his marital issues or paying his taxes[2]. Crowley never suspected he would see a true ending, just another step in a long, long, sometimes excruciatingly long existence of dodging true loyalty to the downstairs and just generally doing whatever he felt like at the time.
Yet there he was, smack dab in the After. Well, technically the Now, but sometime quite specifically After. He’d helped thwart the end of the world, managed to largely shed his allegiance to good ol’ capital-H-E-double-hockey-sticks, and has successfully avoided being discorporated in the process of both. He supposes from the outside it might not have been so show-stopping at all, and maybe that’s where he kept tripping up. It really felt life-ending, and truth be told it very nearly was. But thanks to Adam, bloody brilliant boy that he is, it looked incredibly mundane on the outside. All those innocents burst into flames on the M25 simply forgot the mortal danger they were in and continued whinging on about traffic as if they weren’t well-done human kebabs barely a half hour prior. Soho residents milled about their business, perhaps stopping to gawk at a familiar, antique building they could’ve sworn was burned to ashes the other day, but mostly just chalking their thoughts up to a random miss-remembrance.
It really was hard; to transition from utter despair, to hope, to despair, to hope, to relief all in the short span of a day, to say nothing of his brief stint as an angel. It all felt, to him at least, that that was the end of life as he knew it. But life, like most ineffable things, had other plans. So there he was, stuck in the After with things continuing on in quite the same way as the Before, with few exceptions.
And much like immediately before the apocalypse was thwarted, Crowley’s main goal at the moment was to get well and truly shit-faced.
Crowley leaned back in the worn, almost overly comfortable armchair stowed away in AZ Fell and Co.’s back room, working his way through a rather watery riesling. He suspects the watery-ness is due to poor Adam’s inexperience with the stuff when he returned the store to working order, but it’s no matter. He simply had to drink twice as much for the desired effect, and that was his plan to begin with.
“I was thinkin’-“ Crowley said out of the blue, halfway through his third bottle, a slight slur to his tongue.
Aziraphale was working on his fifth glass, preferring at least some decorum in the moments before he becomes completely sloshed. After that, he’ll do all the bottle-swigging he wants. It’s the principle of the thing. From his position lounged across a loveseat catty-corner to the armchair, sprawled across the thing like Adam at his own creation, he inclined his head and his precariously held wine glass towards Crowley. “Never anything good that can come from that,” he said, with no real malice.
“I’ve been… thinking.” Crowley waved his hands around haphazardly, as if he couldn’t find a comfortable place to rest them. “You know all these humans, they don’t- they don’t know, you figure?”
“Don’t know what darling?” Aziraphale took a long sip of his wine- more like a gulp, if he were being honest- and turned his drooping eyes to his drinking partner.
“Shhh. I’ve got it. They don’t know… how close they were to ruin,” Crowley slurred. “Like, true ruin. That was some unholy fire, y’know? They were dead! Truly dead and can’t remember a bloody thing about it huh?”
Aziraphale’s brows knit together in deep thought for a moment, before finally figuring together what pearl of wisdom he would bestow on Crowley next. “P’rhaps it’s better that way, yea? If… if you were reduced to say, a pot roast one minute, and back to your own, uncooked self the next, w-would you really wish to remember the part where you were so well done you weren’t fit for Sunday dinner?” He nodded to himself, particularly proud of that particular metaphor. And also slightly hungry.
“‘Suppose not,” Crowley replied after a short bout of silence. Another silence. Crowley practically chugged what remained of his riesling before realizing the point he was originally trying to make. “BUT- but, why’ve they gotta just keep on being so…”
“So?”
“So… human.”
Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “I should think it would be concerning should they suddenly be anything else.” He sat down his glass, uncorking the next bottle and taking a swig straight from the neck. Now is as good a time as any.
“Ohhh, you know what I mean. So…” he wiggled his hand vaguely. “So incredibly…”
“Confounding?” Aziraphale supplied helpfully.
“No no no, it’s… it starts with a ‘D’ angel, help me out here.” He tried reaching for the word physically, stretching the arm not holding the wine back so languidly his shirt rode up to show nearly half of his abdomen.
There was a snort from Aziraphale, followed by coughing, as he tried to dispel the wine he accidentally just sucked up into his airway.[3] “Dense,” he managed to choke out.
“DENSE, yes, perfect word for them, dense. There they are, just… out there… continuing as if everything has been just as it’s always been; they’re out there just… whinging their days away without acknowledging that any day could be their last, and the other day very nearly was.”
“Hmm.” Blue eyes met yellow as Crowley’s shades furthered their descent down the hard slope of the demon’s nose unfettered. “Dense, yes.”
“How much of their little, infini-... infinitta… tiny lives are spent just complaining about whatever is immediately happening to them… o-or maybe wishing the Now away waiting for the Later?”
“A fair amount I’m sure.”
“More than there should be if you ask me.”
“Did I?” Aziraphale smirked over the rim of his bottle.
“I dunno, sure didn’t stop me.” Crowley met his gaze and winked rather drunkenly.
Aziraphale’s comfortable alcohol blush burned a bit darker.
There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence between them as they continued nursing their poor quality wine. Uncomfortable for Crowley because he was clearly leaving things unsaid. Uncomfortable for Aziraphale because Crowley was clearly leaving things unsaid.
“... Strange little word, isn’t it?” Aziraphale offered up to the air.
Plied by so many bottles of liquor, Crowley took him up on that offer. “... What word?”
“‘Whinging’.” Aziraphale pronounces the word as if there were a few more H’s than there truly was.
“Well… I s’pose.” Crowley hiccuped. “Why do you say?”
“You said ‘whinging’ a few moments ago.”
He blanked. “Did I?”
“Would I lie?” The twinkle in the angel’s eye showed that, despite his oh-so-holy nature, he is by no means a stranger to lying.
Crowley searched his face, squinting performatively. “Pro’lly not about this yeah? But reeeeaaally, it’s not that bad of a word.” He shifted in his armchair, throwing his legs over the side in an attempt to lounge more completely.
“No no, you have to say it. C’mon, you’ll see!” Aziraphale leaned so hard over the armrest of the loveseat that Crowley could likely tousle his hair with his foot.
Crowley doesn’t do that of course, because that would be strange. “Whinging. See, ‘s fine.”
“No no, draw it out, whinnnnnnn-jing. C’mon, you now.”
“Whing-“
“No, like this: whinnnnnn-jing-“
“Whinnnnn-“
“WHINNNNNNjhinng.”
“-nnnnnjhing.”
“Well now, tell me if it feels like a word.”
“Certainly lost all meaning, it has.”
“Can’t help but wonder if we had the true meaning in the first place.”
“Sounds rather like a curse word doesn’t it?” Crowley raised an angular eyebrow, possibly trying to get a rise out of Aziraphale, who seemed quite drunk enough to be a little foolish.
“Now, I’ve used this word since the late eleven-hundreds, surely its definition hasn’t shifted…” His eyebrows knit again, he sat up a bit straighter[4] and flicked his wrist. An Oxford English Dictionary pulled itself from a stray pile of texts; thankfully, it was not a load-bearing structure and didn’t topple the whole thing. The pages fluttered open to the W’s, and Aziraphale took it in his hands with a sloppy “thank-you” to the book. He squinted at the pages, holding the book at an arm’s length, as if that would help improve his vision. “Whinge: an intransitive British verb meaning to complain fretfully. Now there, see? I told you it was nothing.”
Crowley leaned his head back for another swig of his riesling, scowling when he realized he had finished it a few minutes prior. His head remained tilted back even when he let the bottle drop from his lips, a comfortable ache to his muscles as he let his neck bend further than it usually would. “A’course I see that you twit, I said the blessed word didn’t I?”
That gave Aziraphale pause.
“Crowley?”
“Yes, luv?”
“I do believe I’m quite drunk.”
“Do you?” Crowley finally raised his head enough to get a good look at the angel across from him. His cheeks, chin, and nose were all a bright pink, and his posture was more loose than he’s sure he’s ever seen[5], and would seem extremely comfortable had he looked like he knew where to put his limbs. “Could’a told you that, angel.”
“You’re drunk too.” Aziraphale said, drawing his knees up closer to his chest. Crowley hadn’t noticed when he’d taken off his jacket, or when he’d loosened his tie, or when exactly his hair had gotten that mussed. With his little indignant scowl he reminded Crowley very much of an angry Pomeranian.
“Never said I wasn’t, eh?” Crowley finally righted himself in the chair, his legs giving him no small protest as he wrenched them awkwardly from over the chair’s arms. He felt distinctly that it was coming to the part of the night where Aziraphale got profoundly embarrassed for being so casual and open with “the enemy”, and suggested they sober up to prevent any further accidental displays of less than holiness. He braced himself for it, watching the angel’s movements over the brim of his black sunglasses.
Instead of sobering up, however, Aziraphale took another long pull from the bottle. “S’ppose you didn’t.”
Crowley was surprised at that. “Fancy a walk on the… er, what’s that saying? Wwww… weird? Www-“
“Wwwwi…”
“... WILD side!” They yelled simultaneously. That sent Aziraphale into a small fit of giggles, which he drowned into the neck of his bottle.
“Thassit, yea! You’re certainly im- imbibb- drinking like mad tonight.” Crowley grinned at him, teeth flashing dangerously in the light from the candle on the side table between them.
“All celebratory, I assure you.” Aziraphale grinned the way only he could, reaching out to pat Crowley’s hand, lingering a bit too long with his drunken reflexes. He pulls back, propping his head up on his palm. “Don’t suppose my side is paying much attention after that scare you gave them in any case.”
Crowley frowned. “Don’t suppose either of us HAVE sides anymore. Not really p-partial to a group who’d have me dissolved.”
Aziraphale frowned too, looking more mournful than spiteful. “I do suppose you’re right. I’m not sure I’d even be wanted back after that display of… demonic immunity.”
Crowley said nothing, frown growing deeper. He pushed his shades back up the bridge of his nose, watching Aziraphale’s movements carefully. He’d always known the angel had a much harder time severing ties with the powers-that-be than he had.[6] How could he still feel so beholden to a group that literally worked with THE enemy to char him into nothing though? He’s always known Aziraphale to be a bit of a rebel when it suits him, how couldn’t it suit him now, when they’re all but abandoned by the sides they never seemed to like from the beginning? Watching Aziraphale sadly fiddle with his tie made something deep in his chest ache in a way it hasn’t since he found the shop in flames and his best friend gone.
Suddenly, a steely look flashed in the angel’s eyes, one full of righteous anger and determination. Aziraphale dropped his tie, grabbed his wine bottle tightly in his fist, and threw back what little was left of the riesling. He turned to Crowley, an excited look on his face and an angry smile on his lips. “Who needs them, though? You’re right. We ARE on our own sides. I’ve never liked the lot of them, anyway.”
Crowley quirked an eyebrow.
“OHhhhhh you know what I mean, of course my allegiance still lies with Her, but Sandalphon? Uriel? Michael? Rot to all of them!”
Crowley couldn’t help but watch and see if there were any sign that Aziraphale might be on the verge of a Fall, any sign that his wings might pop out and be speckled with black feathers, but no. He looked, sounded, and felt the same. He was sure he’d be able to feel a shift, but there wasn’t anything in the still air but the faint tingle of heavenly love. God must think they’re all a group of assholes too, then.
After a pause, Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then rolled back in his head, his head lolling at the same time. “Oh and good LORD don’t remind me of that great prick… the archangel FUCKING Gabriel. Oh, how I wish I could’ve been a proverbial fly on the wall when you showed him what for in that hellfire…”
Crowley, in his uninhibited state, couldn’t help but let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Holy shit, angel, not sure I’ve ever heard you talk like this before. Not afraid of another attempted smiting c-courtesy of the higher ups? That stick lodged up your ass finally come loose?”
Aziraphale bristled, but still seemed to be on the warpath. “If I had a stick anywhere near my person I’d use it the moment I catch sight of that- that, that ASSHOLE next!”
Crowley lost it then, laughing harder than he had in ages, definitely harder than he had in the last week. He clutched at his stomach and accidentally knocked his sunglasses askew as he slapped his free hand on the back of the armchair. “I knew there was a bloody rebel in there!”
Aziraphale ignored him, too stuck in his own manic thoughts. “And should I see that great git Beelzebub, there’ll be a much bigger storm brewing. You should’ve seen the whole lot of them, cheering at the destruction of the… the fucking SERPENT of Eden! One of their own, one of the originals!”
Crowley pawed at his face, wiping away a stray tear and coughing out the last of his guffaws. “Why get your knickers all in a twist, angel? Your side did the same with you- lot more stuffy decorum on their part though.”
“Well… well it’s the- ah, it’s the principle of the thing,” he replied, emphasizing each syllable of the word. “You’re my demon at this point, yes? If there’s any Crowley-smiting, you best believe it’ll be on my terms.” He winked sloppily, giggling a bit too innocently for his words.
Crowley let his eyebrows raise and jaw drop in shock unimpeded. “‘Your’ demon, eh?”
“What other angels do you see… haunting around London? Someone’s got-gotta keep you in check,” he hiccuped.
Crowley put on his best shit-eating grin.[7] “Keeping me ‘in check’? Is that what you were doing when you were doing a bit of temptation on my behalf when you popped up to Edinburgh in the sixteen hundreds?”
Aziraphale bristled again. “SPEAKING of Edinburgh,” he said, artfully avoiding the matter at hand, “... the last time I was there, there was this lovely little restaurant called City Restaurant- a few doors down from Blackwell’s. You know, the bookshop near the royal mile? N-now, the Blackwell’s trip was a bit disappointing- lovely place, lovely little cafe on the bottom floor, but they didn’t have any of the first editions I wanted. There are other shops in the city that would probably be more suited for that sort of thing, but the Fringe was in town and there was a lovely collection of Shakespearean works on display-“
“The restaurant, angel?” Crowley interrupted, before he had to hear about another modern day rendition of Romeo and Juliet where Romeo is wearing a knit hat and knows how to play “Freebird” on an acoustic guitar.
“Oh! Yes, City Restaurant. So I went there between shows and they had just the best fish n’ chips I’ve had in that city in quite a while, and fantastic milkshakes too…”
“Well isn’t that peachy,” Crowley said, wondering when the angel would come around to making his point.
“Now… doesn’t fish sound like it would pair just wonderfully with a white wine like this…”
Crowley balked, before pulling it together and laughing incredulously. “You mean beer-battered, deep fried fish? I’m not quite sure that’s- uh, the type of fish a high-brow wine is meant for, luv.”
“Oh, come off it you- you… fuddy-duddy. It’s barely high brow. Barely more than water, it is.” He flicked his wrist in the air, trying to physically brush away Crowley’s metaphysical doubts.
“ME? The ‘fuddy-duddy’?! Now this can’t stand!”
“Then what’re you gonna do about it?” Aziraphale gave him the only shit-eating grin that might’ve ever rivaled Crowley’s, and the demon absolutely loved it.
Crowley stood up a bit too abruptly for his body’s blood alcohol level, swaying and having to throw a hand out to Aziraphale’s shoulder for security. He leaned heavily on him for a moment before pushing off, the picture of faked sobriety. He flashed a grin right back, more dangerous than smarmy. “Only one thing left to do then, sweetheart.”
The angel peered up at him inquisitively. “And what is that, dear boy?”
“Time to get some god-blessed fish and chips.” Crowley grabbed firmly onto the angel’s arm, hoisting him up. Supporting his weight so suddenly while still struggling to keep himself upright was an ordeal, but Crowley managed it.
“But Crowley, it’s-“ Aziraphale checked his watch. “Good lord Crowley it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning!”
Crowley rolled his eyes, walking into the main part of the store towards the door and pulling Aziraphale behind him. “We’re in fucking London, angel, there’s tons of 24 hour restaurants and near all of them with fish and chips.”
Aziraphale froze, nearly toppling Crowley in the process. “You’re right! This is perfect, I am starving.”
Crowley chuckled, releasing the angel’s arm. He’d never taken to human food in quite the same way his angelic counterpart had, but he couldn’t deny that something deep-fried beyond all recognition sounded so fucking good at the moment. “Lead the way, Zira.”
“Yes! Onward and upward! Alln- allonsi- oh fuck it. I am GETTING my fish and chips!” The angel strode confidently, if not wobbling, to the door and gripped the handle.
“Put on a sweater, first.” Crowley softly reminded him.
“I am PUTTING ON a SWEATER first!” Aziraphale said triumphantly, raising his finger in the air and turning around on his heel, swaying dangerously. He stumbled towards the coat rack by the front door, pulled a soft-looking sweater from one of the hooks, and pulled it on over his head, not bothering to fix his shirt or tie. His curls haloed out around his head when he popped it through the neck of the sweater; with his renewed vigor, he looked much more like a lion than a Pomeranian. He looked up at Crowley with bright, if not still inebriated, eyes.
Crowley smiled back at him, threw an arm over his shoulders and leaned, both of them supporting themselves on the other. He opened the door to the shop with one hand, pulling Aziraphale out onto the moonlit street.
“Let’s go get you some fucking fish.”
[1] Neither side was quite sure who was responsible for Hallmark originals- Crowley had reported back that it was his doing around the same time Aziraphale had mentioned he had a hand in it to the literal higher-ups. Nowadays, Aziraphale is more likely to claim it around Christmastime, and leave it and it’s seventy three assorted Cinderella-story remakes to Crowley the other eleven months of the year.
[2] Evel Knievel was DEFINITELY one of Crowley’s, mostly with the goal of children scaring their parents into swearing in front of them when they see a makeshift ramp in their front garden.
[3] The airway in question was almost entirely decorative, as by all means angels didn’t particularly NEED to breathe, but having a foreign body show up in any part of you wasn’t particularly pleasant in any case.
[4] A seemingly Herculean task from Crowley's perspective.
[5] Barring his brief stint as the pilot of the angel’s body, though technically he just saw that through several reflective surfaces back home in his flat. He wasn't equipped to act that goody-goody for that long of a time, regardless of how stunning an actor he was.
[6] He cringed a little at that thought, as it didn’t seem that hard for the angel to sever ties with him a few times, but that was a depressing thought for another day, or maybe millennia.
[7] It truly was one of the best shit-eating grins in human, demonic, and angelic history. Really one of Crowley’s temptation staples.