the dawn is a hushed, slow thing, seeping into the room in a wash of grey and violets. it reminds crowley of dust, of all things, as if aziraphale has brought it with him, as if he’s leaving fingerprints of himself behind in all the spaces crowley had never bothered to fill.
there’s a misty drizzle hanging over the city, an unseasonable chill creeping into the spaces between the buildings. the headlights in the fog look like ghosts, like lost souls, wandering and wandering until they find their own ways home.
crowley leans on the railing of his balcony and waits for the sun to rise.
when it does, it comes gently, wearing a soft knit jumper materialised out of the ether and carrying two mugs of cocoa. the jumper is a light, dusty blue; aziraphale presses his arm against crowley’s, taking up his post on the railing next to him, and crowley can feel aziraphale’s warmth through it.
“look at them,” aziraphale says, but he’s not talking about anyone in particular. just the city as a whole, just the unlikely rise of glass and steel, the improbable pinpoints of pale lamplight and neon flickering to life as london begins to wake, the implausible reality of the life humanity has built for itself here. teeming masses, struggling forward together, navigating their way so blindly and yet, crowley thinks, with so much hope. “look at everything they’ve done. everything they can do.”
it has been six thousand years since he and aziraphale had stood on the walls of eden and watched humanity take its first faltering steps toward forging a life on their own.
it’s a lesson that’s been six thousand years in the making, but they’re here, now. pressed arm to arm on the balcony of crowley’s flat, watching out over humanity the way they have done since the beginning of time, taking their first faltering steps into a new life, together – on their own side.
slowly, crowley reaches over and takes aziraphale’s hand, tangling their fingers together.
“this could be the end,” aziraphale says softly, as the dawn begins to lighten, as the rain begins to lift. his fingers are warm around crowley’s; his hold is firm.
“or it could be the beginning,” crowley tells him. “first day of the rest of our lives, angel.”
crowley looks over at him. his hair is mussed from having slept in crowley’s bed; there’s still the faint impression of the pillowcase lines pressed into his cheek. he’s never looked more human, wrapped in a light blue jumper, flushed a little against the chill. he’s never looked more beautiful.
“i’ll come back to you,” crowley says. a promise: maybe something more like a vow.
aziraphale huffs into a surprised little smile. “you always have,” he says. “i suppose it would be terribly impolite if i didn’t return the favour this once.”
“it really would,” crowley answers, and aziraphale’s hand is still in his, and the dawn is starting to give way to light, shimmering through the last dregs of the rain, and crowley has spent six thousand years next to him, watching him, watching humanity and wondering what it was they had that made them so resilient, what made them so sure of themselves, so determined to overcome sheer impossibility and build a life for themselves, so unwavering in their wandering, their reaching, their hope – their search for home.
he stands next to aziraphale now, in the dawn after the end of the world, and crowley thinks he knows.
aziraphale is still for a long moment, looking out over the city. his hand remains firm in crowley’s, though, and crowley can wait. he is not afraid.
then aziraphale finally turns to look at him, and his eyes shine. “i love you too,” he says, his voice cracked and quiet, as though he’s had to drag the words up through years and years of swallowing them back. maybe he has. “i love you, and i’ll come back to you, crowley. i’m always going to come back to you.”
the drizzle has softened the oncoming rush of morning, leaving the brilliance of the sunrise muted through fog and clouds, leaving everything quiet and subdued. crowley thinks about morning glories, flowers that unravel only in the early morning hours; he thinks about the crystalline studs of dew forming on long grasses and the tips of elliptic leaves, gathering lush in the trees. there, and then gone, shifting in and out of the morning and already knowing that tomorrow it will all happen again.
when crowley kisses aziraphale, he tastes like rain, and a promise about mornings.
crowley curls his fingers into the knit of aziraphale’s jumper and holds him closer, thinking about that first storm, his first tremulous steps on two feet under the protection of aziraphale’s wing; how it’s taken him six thousand years to take the the last step in. he’s been wandering and wandering, crowley finally understands, but he was always going to end up back here: side-by-side with aziraphale.
“it’s only the first day,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to aziraphale’s, reveling in the feeling of aziraphale pressing back. “it’s only the first, and we have so much to do.”
aziraphale presses another kiss to the corner of crowley’s mouth, and holds him a little bit closer. “better get started, then.”
