Crowley doesn't want to imagine a God who isn't more forgiving. It's why he's asked for all sorts of guidance, even 6000 years after falling. Even after all of the silence. Even after turning his back on Heaven. He doesn't think She's like that, not really. And, most importantly, Aziraphale doesn't think she's like that.
And the angel needs his faith.
"We've still got the chance that she's better than, well, I think," he says. "More like how you think."
He looks at Crowley with sad eyes, and holds onto him. "If there's anything I've disagreed with Her on, the biggest one is that she won't forgive you. And if things don't work out for the best, then... You'll still have me."
He laces his fingers into Crowley's and smiles into his neck, but even though he can't see it, Crowley can probably tell it's not a happy sort of smile.
"Forgiveness was never part of the gig, angel, you know that," Crowley says, twisting his long fingers so that they lace more securely with Aziraphale's. "I knew that when I went in." Did he? Did he really? Because it seems like such a blur looking back on it now. Like one minor decision after another and then he was fallen and gosh isn't this where he's supposed to be now?
But even if God doesn't forgive him, Aziraphale will still be on his side. He wonders if God will make Aziraphale fallen because of him. Crowley doesn't think he could handle that, not that kind of guilt. Aziraphale deserves to be an angel. He's just too good, he's done too much good. He deserves to be part of the light. Heaven doesn't deserve him.
He brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing Aziraphale's fingers.
He would care, of course; he doesn't want to be a fallen angel. He wants to be a good angel, to be beloved in the eyes of God, so precious is She to him. But so is Crowley, and he makes his choice, and it's to be in this bed with the demon he loves in the world he loves and if need be, forsake Heaven as they have abandoned him.
He doesn't have any regrets, if that is the case.
"Crowley," he says, his lips curving, and he doesn't know how to say that it's this moment that is keeping him steady, that it's Crowley who grounds him, moors him to the Earth and keeps him calm. "What if I stop time?" he asks. "And we can be here a little longer."
What if he did? What if Aziraphale stopped time and they just basked here together? Held onto each other and were outside of time for longer? Let the world exist away from them for longer and just stayed, holding onto each other? Crowley had often wanted that, wanted to be away from their respective jobs, away from their respective places so he could just be with Aziraphale whenever he wanted. He would've done anything for that.
He presses his lips to the angel's forehead. His only friend, his greatest companion. He won't let anything happen to him, won't let them give up what they've found.
"Let every man be a master of his time," he quotes, bringing Shakespeare back to them. "We can't hide away from it forever, angel. Once it's finished, once we've won, every night can be like this."
He hopes. He prays, in his own way, that they can still have this after it's all over.
"Oh, swear not by the moon, that inconstant moon," he lobs back dramatically, before laughing. "You know that's what I want. That we're forgiven, and that we have all the rest of our lives to spend together, just like this. Maybe not just like this, I'd hope we get out of bed sometime."
He leans into Crowley's embrace, feeling the need for it in the moment.
"But I suppose we can't have his hanging over our heads waiting to fall at any moment. I do want our freedom." It's still so hard, knowing that he'll have to extricate himself from this position soon. Not soon, but a blink of an eye for a being who's lived thousands of years. "Will you hold me like this a little longer, then? Please, Crowley."
Forgiveness is not something Crowley has ever thought he could have. Not from the angels, not from God, not from anybody. And, frankly, he doesn't see why Aziraphale should have to ask for it now. He didn't do anything wrong. He did what was right. He helped people, he saved the world.
Is it worth it? Prostrating themselves to the Almighty when they were fighting what was wrong? To have this?
Crowley shifts a little, lifting his back off of the bed. He lets his wings extend, long and black, and curls them around the two of them. It doesn't create a perfect cocoon, there's still some light let in from the room, but it's mostly dark, mostly just the two of them, blotted out of the world with the circle of black feathers.
He could stay here for ages. He could ask it of Crowley, and he knows that he would reluctantly get his wish. But he only holds on a little longer, memorizing everything about this moment in the case that things don't go well. He reaches out, and touches feathers gently as if they might burn him.
"Just until morning then," he says, turning his cheek to kiss some feathers. In the moonlight they look almost blue, and he thinks these are the feelings that artists paint, that writers write.
He barely makes any more sound, just basking in this embrace, his possible last days on Earth and he wouldn't want to do anything else with them.
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And the angel needs his faith.
"We've still got the chance that she's better than, well, I think," he says. "More like how you think."
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He laces his fingers into Crowley's and smiles into his neck, but even though he can't see it, Crowley can probably tell it's not a happy sort of smile.
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But even if God doesn't forgive him, Aziraphale will still be on his side. He wonders if God will make Aziraphale fallen because of him. Crowley doesn't think he could handle that, not that kind of guilt. Aziraphale deserves to be an angel. He's just too good, he's done too much good. He deserves to be part of the light. Heaven doesn't deserve him.
He brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing Aziraphale's fingers.
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He doesn't have any regrets, if that is the case.
"Crowley," he says, his lips curving, and he doesn't know how to say that it's this moment that is keeping him steady, that it's Crowley who grounds him, moors him to the Earth and keeps him calm. "What if I stop time?" he asks. "And we can be here a little longer."
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He presses his lips to the angel's forehead. His only friend, his greatest companion. He won't let anything happen to him, won't let them give up what they've found.
"Let every man be a master of his time," he quotes, bringing Shakespeare back to them. "We can't hide away from it forever, angel. Once it's finished, once we've won, every night can be like this."
He hopes. He prays, in his own way, that they can still have this after it's all over.
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He leans into Crowley's embrace, feeling the need for it in the moment.
"But I suppose we can't have his hanging over our heads waiting to fall at any moment. I do want our freedom." It's still so hard, knowing that he'll have to extricate himself from this position soon. Not soon, but a blink of an eye for a being who's lived thousands of years. "Will you hold me like this a little longer, then? Please, Crowley."
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Is it worth it? Prostrating themselves to the Almighty when they were fighting what was wrong? To have this?
Crowley shifts a little, lifting his back off of the bed. He lets his wings extend, long and black, and curls them around the two of them. It doesn't create a perfect cocoon, there's still some light let in from the room, but it's mostly dark, mostly just the two of them, blotted out of the world with the circle of black feathers.
He leans his head against Aziraphale's.
"As long as you want, angel."
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"Just until morning then," he says, turning his cheek to kiss some feathers. In the moonlight they look almost blue, and he thinks these are the feelings that artists paint, that writers write.
He barely makes any more sound, just basking in this embrace, his possible last days on Earth and he wouldn't want to do anything else with them.