#i don't think anyone on the planet is pushing this agenda harder than me.

[the-girl-who-didnt-smile]

Minnie the Moocher!

[mandysimo13]

hey! you wanted those prompts. how about: "i don't want to be just friends"? (good omens/ineffable husbands, pls)

Ooooooooh yesssssssssss, @ina-k, you speakin’ my language!  This is now also a fic on AO3, so please be sure to pop a kudos or comment on it, lovelies! 

                                                      ///~\\\

Two weeks after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t, the Nope-pocalypse, the Armaged-dud, the Ragnar-Went-Wrong, two celestial beings found themselves in a familiar setting, in familiar bodies, feeling decidedly unfamiliar with a variety of new feelings. 

First and foremost was relief - relief that the world was, in fact, not over. Relief that there were still ducks to feed, crepes to eat, and plants to spritz and terrorize. 

Secondly there was a feeling of directionless. They had not so much mislaid their intended purposes as much as they yeeted them into the heavens whilst flipping the bird for good measure. For the first time, since the dawn of time, neither of them could feel the little niggling tug that told them to cause mischief and to spread grace. Doing either seemed to them like going through the well oiled and practiced motions of blessing and tempting and it made them wonder what the point of it all was. 

Third, and most surprisingly considering their shared aimlessness, was a sense of urgency. Like there would be another Gotcha! moment and that the armies they had pissed off would be back with a vengeance and that there wouldn’t be enough time. 

“Enough time for what” is a perfectly acceptable question and one that both angel and demon would rather not have to answer, though both answers would be the same. They both wanted desperately to find their courage and scream I love you, I chose you, stay with me, pick our side every day for the rest of existence, all you need to do is speak and your will be done by my hands. But, you see, courage is a tricky thing. It comes and goes unexpectedly, even though it comes in times when all the signs and motifs and themes and histories tell you to expect it. Courage came for them when they faced down Gabriel, Beelzebub, and Satan. It filled their ribcages with fire and moved their hands, making them feel about as powerful as when Herself created the whole world. But then it seeped out of them, slowly and then all at once, leaving them deflated, tired, and with an irony flavor in the back of their throats. 

Now, when courage was needed most sorely, it sat back with a glass of wine watching the scene unfold and wishing for popcorn. 

The scene, in question, was Aziraphale and Crowley sitting in the intimate and well loved back room of Aziraphale’s “bookshop”. More parlour than back room, it contained the things it had always contained, plus a few extras thanks to Adam and his reshuffling of the universe. Before the End-Times-that-Wasn’t, the angel and demon would sit close but separate, always on separate pieces of furniture but close enough to touch should the occasion call for it. But in the After the pair decided that since they had shared bodies perhaps they could share a couch. Backs leant up against the armrests, knees turned towards each other as they lounged thoroughly drunk on the choice wine of the evening, they conversed as they ever did. 

“I’m telling you, koalas are the most useless lump of fur on the damn planet,” Crowley exclaimed, gesticulating with his glass. 

Aziraphale tutted and made a swishy swat motion in the air to bat away the, to him, unfair comment. “They’re adorable creatures! What with their big noses and their soft fur-”

“Their rampant chlamydia, their toxic bodies from eating toxic leaves-”

“They don’t all have chlamydia,” Aziraphale, defended. 

Crowley scoffed, “enough of them do. And ya know, nothing eats them either!”

“Why would you want to eat a koala?”

“Exactly my point!” 

Aziraphale began to laugh at that, slinking further into the couch as his body shook with ridiculous mirth. His knees slid along the couch until they bumped up against Crowley’s (not that that meant anything, it was a rather small couch). Joy and drink making him comfortable, he was reluctant to remove himself from Crowley’s space. A quick glance saw that Crowley had relaxed further as well, joining him in laughter, and looked to be in no hurry to part their small connection. 

Giggles eventually turned into happy silence, renewed glasses of wine, and lingering looks over the tops of said glasses. 

Crowley, glasses firmly placed upon the bridge of his nose, looked his fill without exposure. He watched as Aziraphale’s face creased with his smile, perfectly angelic in appearance, radiating love and happiness in such amounts that even Crowley could feel it. 

It was said that demons were not meant to feel love, that they had lost the ability to feel love when they fell. The truth of it was that they were able to feel love but it was often drowned out by the forced feeling of the absence of love. Her love. The love of her creations. Her love permeated everything from the grass, the oceans, the people, even the fucking koalas - though they had a funny way of showing it by literally showering one with chlamydia. Crowley could feel the Absence so acutely in every stare from a human who could feel somewhere in their primordial makeup that he was meant to be unforgivable, unfathomable, unlovable. Since the invention of sunglasses things had been a bit better, he could sometimes shrug off that feeling for a time. When the one real tell of demonic-ness was hidden, it took longer for people to catch on. He knew the other demons mocked him for his glasses, for hiding away his traits, but he figured they were just jealous because it was easier to hide snake eyes than it was to hide a persistent cloud of flies and the inherent smell of poo. 

But when he looked at Aziraphale, especially after the End Times ended, love radiated so strongly that he thought that, maybe, he could be forgiven and thought and loved. But even with the evidence wafting about his being like waves on a shore, he second guessed it. Aziraphale was a being of love, he loved everyone and everything regardless of their deserving of it. Unlike his counterparts who got caught up in the bureaucracy of it all, all the “who’s what’s where’s when’s why’s and how’s”, Aziraphale did everything just because he knew that somewhere along the line his actions would give pleasure and happiness, and not just for himself. What may seem gluttonous in a plate of crepes was actually a desire to make sure a local creperie, run by a Senegalese couple, would stay in business despite the hike in rent. What may seem prideful in buying an extensive wardrobe was really a way to ensure that the true art of tailoring never died, that there was always someone ready to pass down the knowledge of the old traditions, even if the tone changed with the times. He knew that Aziraphale felt bad occasionally for his indulgences but, even if it wasn’t obviously to himself, Crowley could see the angelic intent behind it all. 

Which is why he couldn’t read too much into anything Aziraphale said or did around him. Sure, he was often prickly with him and had often insisted they weren’t friends, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He had been unfailingly kind to Crowley from the very beginning, raising his own wing to shield them both from the rain as they watched the first two humans trudge away from paradise. He knew that Aziraphale loved him but what did that really mean when he loved everything? 

So, instead of gathering courage to speak, to declare, to move towards something, he sat and watched the angel giggle to himself, cheeks red with joy and wine. 

He could watch that face forever.

Aziraphale finally caught him staring, his glasses slipped down his nose without his permission or notice, and his expression changed to something unbearably fond and concerned. “Is everything alright, dear?” 

Dear, his heart clenched at the old endearment. Slowly, hand shaking slightly, Crowley pushed his glasses up to where they belonged. “Why would it not be,” he asked. 

“You just...you seemed lost.” 

Lost in you, he didn’t say. Instead, he shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Seems like we’re both a little lost. Having no bosses, no one to answer to, no agendas, having freedom. It all seems to be a little overwhelming, no?” 

Understanding filled Aziraphale’s face and he sat up a little straighter. He scooted just a bit closer, unwilling to part their knees from each other for the time being. “It does, doesn’t it. I’ve never really considered the consequences of freedom. Always seemed like something for only Her mortal creations and not for us.” He looked at him openly, questioningly, “what does one do with freedom?”

Crowley licked his lips, eyes cast down towards his glass and missing how Aziraphale tracked the movement of his tongue. “I suppose it’s up to us to make our own agenda.” He looked up and smiled at him, hoping to bring back their easy, happy glow from before. “Can’t be harder than making our Own Side, can it?” He chuckled, hoping that would sell it and make Aziraphale smile once more. 

Instead, it made Aziraphale lean closer in curiosity. “What...what’s on your agenda, Crowley?” 

Blinking, immediately uncomfortable with the direction they were headed, Crowley leaned back as casually as he could. “What makes you think I have one?

Aziraphale smiled, then. “My dear boy, I have known you for over 6000 years. And if there’s one thing I do know about you is that you always have an agenda.” He huffed a brief chuckle and added, “even if you don’t have a plan for it yet.” 

If Crowley were being honest he would tell Aziraphale how his agenda included nothing other than walks through parks, holidays to wherever was warm and sunny and abundant with good food, talks of books and plants and frivolous topics, and doing all he could to make the angel keep choosing him, them, until God Herself chose to end the world. But he wasn’t planning on being honest so instead he asked him, “what is your agenda, then?” 

“To live,” Aziraphale said simply. “To really, truly live and enjoy all the things I’ve done, have yet to do, and yearn to do.” He smiled shyly then, shifting back a bit, and added, “I’d love for you to be there, too, Crowley.” 

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered against the glasses pressed close to his face as his blinked rapidly in surprise. He hoped he wasn’t too drunk and unable to keep his face cool. “Really? You’d want me there with you on all your post-heaven adventures?” 

Aziraphale’s voice was full of excitement meaning to assure him. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends!” Then he said softer, love dripping from him, “the best of friends. Of course I would want you there.” 

Despite himself, Crowley’s eyes became wet with an unasked for wave of emotion. He felt a lump in his throat at that threatened to choke him, if breathing was at all necessary for him. Without stopping to think he said, “what if...” He hesitated, feeling that creep of something monumental happening between them. He felt that same creep when something told him to wake up the 18th century because Aziraphale was lonely. He felt it when Aziraphale had taken a leap he didn’t want to make, for his sake, and handed over that thermos full to the brim with his “insurance policy” and he had asked the angel to tell him how to repay the favor. He felt it when Aziraphale threatened to never speak to him again. 

Courage was back. Most rudely and inopportunely. There was no way to sober and restart the conversation and not lose the...something that was there and bubbling between them. Fuck. 

Aziraphale swallowed, his throat bobbing. Hesitantly, he repeated, prompting Crowley to finish his thought, “what if?” 

Fuck it. All or nothing, Anthony J. Crowley. Both feet, nose closed, hope for the best. “What if I don’t want to be just friends.” 

Aziraphale sucked in gasp, shock on his face and Crowley couldn’t help feel like he had fucked up royally. That he had ruined everything beyond repair and that he would spent the rest of damned eternity alone. His tears finally spilled over and ran down his cheeks and Aziraphale said a soft, gentle “oh” and Crowley felt like death would be less painful. 

Aziraphale reached out to his cheek and Crowley ducked his head, trying to avoid the contact. But backed against the couch and heavy with the weight of his confession, he was unable to move and Aziraphale closed a gap between them, palm coming to rest on Crowley’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the salt of his tears. 

He opened his mouth to say forget it, it’s stupid, I know I moved to fast, I’ll stop it, I’ll be good, good for you, I’ll give you all the room and space you need, just don’t forsake me, don’t leave me alone, but was stopped by a finger pressed to his lips. He opened his eyes to see the one being in 6000 years who had ever given a damn about him looking at him with awe and such overwhelming love that he physically hurt. Beneath his ribs his vestigial heart beat faster and he braced himself. For what, he couldn’t say. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice shaky. The angel’s eyes watered as well, tears shining in the dim light and it made Crowley hurt even more to see what his words had done. 

He tried to lessen the pain for them both, “just-”

“No! Don’t say anything. Unless it’s to tell me only good. Don’t,” Aziraphale choked on his plea. He physically swallowed around the lump in his throat and begged, “don’t take it back.” 

“W-what?” 

Aziraphale sighed and gently placed his forehead against Crowley’s. “I thought that I was too slow. That I had made you wait so long you could not possibly ever want me that way. That my own cowardice, my pride, had gotten in the way of the one thing I want most in this world.” 

Crowley dropped the wine glass in his hands, caring not a whit for a stain that could be miracled away later, and clutched Aziraphale’s hands in his own. Trembling, not daring to believe, he asked, “what is it you want, Aziraphale?” 

“You,” he said confidently and without shame. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. To acknowledge it. To feel its rightness.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead, lips lingering. “I can’t undo all the hurt I’ve caused but...let me try?” 

Crowley tipped his head up to look at him and whispered, “oh, angel.” He pulled his glasses off, willfully sharing vulnerability, and said, “you have me. You always have. You could never lose me. Even if I had buggered off to Alpha Centuri all it would take is a snap of your fingers to bring me back. You have to know.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed. Then he chuckled wetly, “look at us. Blubbering like old fools.”

Crowley’s low laugh joined him. “We have been for a long time, angel.” 

“May I...” Aziraphale hesitated, though logically he needn’t have. “May I do something I’ve been wanting to do since approximately 1941?” 

“Anything.” 

“May I kiss you?”

“You’d better,” Crowley said, barely getting the words out before he had a lapful of angel and lips pressed blessedly to his own. 

Their first kiss was tinged with the salt of tears, first of sorrow then of relief. It was full of joy, thankfulness, and above all love. It seemed to go on forever, as if they were making up for lost time all at once. 

When it finally ended Crowley said, breathlessly, “I love you, angel.” 

“I love you too, Crowley.” 

Somehow they had ended up laying stretched out on the couch, Aziraphale atop Crowley while he snaked his arms around the angel’s middle like a vice. He stroked Aziraphale’s hair and asked, thinking of their previous conversation with a smile, “what else was on your agenda, angel?” 

Aziraphale giggled, nuzzling his face into Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“I would, indeed. Whatever you like, whenever you like, however you like. And,” he paused, tipping Aziraphale’s face up with a finger under his chin, “we can even start with dinner.” 

Aziraphale beamed at him. “That is an excellent place to start.” 

Slowly, they detangled themselves from the couch and each other, never moving too far out of reach. They righted their creased clothes, sobered themselves and made their way to the Ritz which, incidentally, had a miraculous cancellation. Much like their first meal together after they both quit their respective sides, the meal was delicious and the conversation easy. Only this time, it was filled with plans that included the pair of them. 

And for the second time in history, and this time heard by one lonely bum on a park bench, a nightingale sang in Berkley Square.