A Nightingale Sang On Berkeley Square -- Aziraphale x Crowley. GOOD OMENS AU

angel

Aziraphale walked alongside the Metatron, the events just prior playing back in his mind over and over. He couldn't help but think..was this the right choice? Crowley just didn't understand. If Aziraphale was in a position of power, if only he could be higher up, things could change for them! The world would no longer be in danger of total destruction! They wouldn't have to worry about living life without sips of wine, lovely little restaurants, or old timey book shops. After all, Heaven had to be right. Heaven is good. Good always triumphs over evil. Always. 

Or does it. 

Aziraphale stood in front of the elevator. He turned back to take one last solemn look at his bookshop. He remembered the day it had first been erected in front of him. Its beautiful parchment colored walls, the smell of fresh paper and earl grey. His eyes glazed over with a fresh, stinging layer of tears, a sharp pain only growing bigger and bigger in his chest. He looked over to see...to see him. 

There he was. Crowley stood by his Bentley looking right at Aziraphale. It was often very difficult to read Crowley. He was one to have his guard up at all times. He hid his feelings behind a wall of coolness and a certain swagger. Behind an illusion of demonic evil. Behind sunglasses. Over six thousand years, Aziraphale gained a grasp on how to read the demon. There, by his Bentley, Aziraphale observed as Crowley leaned against the car, cool as ever, calm as ever, but there was a tremble in his lips, lines across his forehead, a certain stressed fortitude with which he gripped the door. Aziraphale's heart swole with love. He was smitten. Smitten by a demon. 

That was where he would face a sort of intellectual whiplash. How could God's ineffable plan be of any merit if I, an angel, am able to feel such feelings for a demon? How can I reform a system whose entire power hierarchy hinges on a being who acts upon whims and holds not an ounce of human empathy? How can I work with people who kill children, harm innocent people, do not address systemic inequities, think solely in black and white, and want to end the world? It's lunacy, he thought. Utter lunacy. 

Aziraphale began to cry, his fingers angrily wiping his tears. He turned back around to see the Metatron already in the elevator, looking back at him in confusion.

"Aziraphale, we haven't got all of eternity." 

Aziraphale muttered something akin to an apology and pivoted on his heels. He could not be in denial any longer. He ran and leapt toward Crowley who dashed forward in response. Crowley threw his sunglasses to the ground and tears flooded down his face. They held each other tightly, quiet sobs wracking through their bodies. Aziraphale clasped Crowley's face in his small pudgy hands. He met his lips with his own passionately. Crowley was drunk on Aziraphale's presence, his eyes maddened, his heart palpitating. When their faces finally parted from one another, Crowley smiled through his tears. 

"I forgive you, angel," he said quietly. 

"I didn't want to lose my best friend," Aziraphale said, his voice cracking. 

"Oh angel," Crowley said, tightening his grip on Aziraphale. "I didn't either!" he exclaimed, a strangled sound of pain emerging from his throat. 

"I need you, Crowley, I can't go on without you by my side." 

"Angel, it's just the two of us from now on. Like it's always been. No more anti-christ. No more naked angels. No more Heaven, no more Hell. Just us. We don't need them, we're on our side. I'm by your side and you're by mine."

"That sounds perfect, Crowley," Aziraphale sniffled. Crowley pulled away from him and held his hands. 

"Now, get in the car." 

"W-where are we going? Don't tell me we're going to Alpha Centauri, Crowley, I haven't packed in the slighte-" 

"Even better, angel. We're going to the Ritz. We're going to have some us time. We are going to consume a copious, extravagant, irresponsible amount of alcohol." 

"Temptation accomplished!" And as the two of them ran to the Bentley to begin their afternoon of love and alcohol, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.