Crowley couldn't help feeling a bit like a puppy slinking back in after his mistress had found her chewed up shoe, as he pushed into the shop. Or a chewed up book? No, he wasn't actually that scared. He was pretty sure Aziraphale wouldn't quite discorporate him. He still felt guilty and, because of that, bristling and defiant.

Aziraphale greeted him with a quiet, assessing look. No waspish remark, no blazing anger. The mild contemplation and the lack of comment on his dark glasses and demonic state was worse than being scolded, especially when the clear gaze fell on his chest, where the invisible chains lay again, as if he could see them.

"Well, dear, let's be off," Aziraphale said at last.

Crowley managed to sway semi-arrogantly rather than lurch to the Bentley. He paused before he started the engine. "Angel," he said, and stopped.

"It's quite all right," Aziraphale said. "I talked to Sandalphon. We'll talk over lunch."

The Bentley might have been a bit out of sorts, because it played Queen for the short drive back to Mayfair. Crowley tried three CDs and was hit with You Take My Breath Away, One Year of Love and Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow in quick succession. Aziraphale stopped him trying to shove on a William Walton CD in a desperate attempt to escape too-apposite lyrics.

"Please not that, or more bebop," he said wearily. "Just drive."

They didn't talk much until they were seated in the Reading Room at Claridge's, had disposed of the canapés and first course, and Crowley was picking moodily at his lobster risotto in truffle sauce. "Why do I keep ordering things with truffles? You'd think I'd learn from my mistakes the first seven hundred times or so. I always think I fancy truffles, and then they taste like licking the walls in Hell."

"I'm not going to ask how you know that." Aziraphale pushed over his plate of lamb, which Crowley was startled to notice was untouched. "Fortunately, I love truffles, I know your moods, and I remember how to order for you." He daintily picked up the rejected risotto and brought it to his place.

Crowley stared at him, stunned, and Aziraphale gleamed back at him, radiant as a small sun, and took a forkful of risotto. "Angel. You remember.Everything."

"I had a productive little chat with Asmodeus." Aziraphale twinkled at him.

"You what?" Crowley hadn't been so deliciously taken aback since the garden of Eden.

Aziraphale told him, glowing and practically tittering, and Crowley had no trouble responding with proper amazement and admiration and laughter and ego-stroking. It was only afterwards that he said, quieting down, "I suppose you think I let you down terribly by choosing to Fall again."

"No," said Aziraphale unexpectedly. "I was upset at first. But I had time to think on your way over, and in the car. It was very noble of you to want to Rise for my sake, but it was also, I think, wrong. You had no genuine repentance or desire to return to Her in your heart, and Gabriel knew that. That's why the contract could only work through deceit on his part, and you would have Fallen again." He smiled faintly. "You like being bad, even though sometimes you can't help being a bit good. I need to accept that about you."

"And you like being good, even though sometimes you can't help being a bit bad." Crowley said heavily. "I need to accept that about you. Always on opposite sides. I just—I just wanted to be what you wanted, be on the same side for real so we could spend time together and both stop hurting each other so blessedly much." He gulped down a glass of Le Grande Anne, which would have gone better with the lobster. At least Bollinger was always pretty acceptable. And why was his cowardly mind skittering off into wine matching? "I always wanted to be on our own side more than anything."

"I need to tell you," Aziraphale said, looking down at his own glass, hand curving softly around it, "about the visit Uriel and Dagon made to me, so you can understand why I was acting like I did."

Crowley listened, and then he laughed, because it was that or scream and cry. "We are the worst. We are completely the worst. Six thousand years, and we still don't talk to each other about the big things."

"I thought I could save you," Aziraphale said, in a very small voice.

"You should be old and wise enough to recognise a trap when you see one. I wouldn't have been saved. I would have tried to seduce you and you would have agreed to have Fallen, and it would have been my fault. Personal Hell, right there."

"I don't think Michael meant it to be a trap."

"Yeah, well, Michael and Uriel should know better than to collaborate with Hell." Crowley whistled. "Good old Dagon. More than happy to send me for a bath in holy water after all our time working together, but seems they still have a soft spot for you. You really are irresistible to demons."

"Don't be silly." Aziraphale blushed to the roots of his hair, just as his dessert arrived.

"Which brings us to Sandalphon's offer," Crowley said, and the words fell into the room like bricks.

"He said you agreed to it. If I consent."

"Yeah." Crowley watched Aziraphale take a spoonful of meringue and swirl it in the custard, lift it to his mouth and chew. There was something magical about the process. Crowley didn't particularly enjoy dessert in general, let alone jumped-up nursery food like îles flottantes. Still, watching the angel, he could almost taste the crisp sweet chewiness of the meringue, the way it contrasted with the creaminess of the custard, far more vividly than if he ate it himself. After all, he didn't even like custard. Aziraphale swallowed and delicately removed a crumb of meringue from his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and Crowley sighed. The blessed angel was like temptation incarnate, and didn't even know it. No wonder demons were drawn to him.

Crowley worked on his next glass of booze. Well, convince Aziraphale to accept Sandalphon's offer, and watching Aziraphale eat would no longer be sweet torture. He told himself it would be easier.

As if picking up on his thought, Aziraphale said, "Were you happier the way? I mean, at the flat."

"Happy is a lot to ask, angel." It felt like echoing something. "I'm a demon, I don't really do happy. That's for your lot. I was—enjoying myself. Looking forward to spending more time with you, not having to sneak around. Pleased about the future. Expecting fun."

"In less pain," Aziraphale said, and his eyes were very kind, and sad.

"Not in any pain at all. You see, it's better." The words come out in a rush. "We don't lose memories, hardly any at all." Just the moment of sunlight and falling in love on the Wall. Just the times they lived together, back in a newer world. Just years of aching and longing and rejection. "Six thousand years of best friendship, still. All the world to each other."

"Some things changed."

"Yeah. I mean, they would. I mean, I have to accept that he was a bit of a prat. Looks like without trying—I mean succeeding—in being all sexy to impress you, I naturally run to dressing like an executive." He shuddered.

"I liked the suit." Aziraphale circled his spoon in his merengue. "Very attractive."

"You're telling me that instead of pouring myself into jeans that barely let me walk, all I needed to do for you was wear a nice suit?" Crowley caught himself. No even talking about temptation.

"You can't tell me you actually climb into your jeans instead of just clicking your fingers."

"Well, no. But that's not the point." Crowley shook his head. "Actually, the point is, were you happier?"

"I wasn't unhappy," Aziraphale said slowly. "I was—yes, I was happy. Because I could tell you were fond of me, because we had time to spend together. The beginning of the rest of our lives."

"Well then," Crowley said flatly. "You see my point. And it doesn't mean—well, not forever. If I'm not pressuring you and tempting you and making you run away all the time, post-Antichrist crisis might—well. We were planning on spending a lot of time together. It might happen naturally. At your speed." Oh, why was he such an idiot? Even when contemplating pure friendship, he couldn't get rid of hope cutting into his soul like a knife. But that would go away when Aziraphale chose.

"Oh, let's go home," Aziraphale said abruptly, almost peevishly. "It's too hard talking here." He pushed away his half-finished dessert, which was a miracle all on its own.

"Which home?"

"Oh, mine. I don't think I can bear playing Schrödinger's flat."

The trip back to the bookshop was silent, except for the somehow screamingly loud fact of Aziraphale's hand on his thigh, fingers digging in so hard that Crowley wondered if he would bruise. Aziraphale didn't seem to realise he was doing it, and Crowley didn't dare comment. After all, this would probably be the first and last time it ever happened, so he didn't want to risk interrupting.

Not that he would remember it. Well, take his thrills where he could, while he could.

Remembering how to walk was even more complicated than usual, until Aziraphale slipped hand to his back and guided him, like he had outside the wine bar. How could that have been only a few days ago? How could he cope with the idea that it wouldn't happen again? But then, it wouldn't hurt. He wouldn't miss something he'd never even considered. And he would have Aziraphale in his life.

The bookshop was warm and crowded, not just with books but with things. Notes, bookmarks, silver snuffboxes, pictures, knickknacks, statues, programmes, jewellery. Mementos. Aziraphale stuffed his surroundings with memories, and rarely gave up anything he had become attached to. The bookshop held centuries of memories. Asmodeus—Gabriel—had been here, and was extremely intelligent. Taking the memory of someone like that had to have been calculated cruelty.

Crowley felt a flicker of guilt, especially when his gaze fell on an ancient board game stuffed behind a lamp. Maybe they would remember the game anyway.

"The exact words of your offer," Aziraphale said eventually.

"Nah, it's too embarrassing." Crowley fidgeted. "They weren't actually meant to be spoken aloud."

"All right. Let's have some music to ease it." Aziraphale gestured, and the gramophone began to play. The Duet of Prunier and Lisette, in the middle of Prunier objecting to Lisette's fashion taste. Oh, really. Why La Rondine, of all things? He could at least have picked something with a happy ending even if he wanted operetta, which probably meant no Puccini, but even so. And why this song? Were they going to start bickering about clothes again already, with so much to settle?

"I like this jacket,"" Crowley muttered. "But I can get used to suits."

"I know, my dear." Aziraphale reached out and took both his hands in his, and Crowley immediately shut up, his brain stopping working. "It's a very nice jacket and you look lovely in it."

"Thankss." Human talking was hard.

"Just let me be able to be what he needs. Whatever he needs me to become, I'll become," Aziraphale said softly.

> Muses, forgive me for abandoning my vocation, but I love her to distraction

Crowley didn't know where to look or what to say. He stared at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"What makes you think you weren't already exactly what I need?"

>- Someone loves me?
- I'm that someone.

"Six thousand years of evidence," Crowley said bitterly. "Also, I'm a demon, and you're an angel."

Aziraphale stepped closer, hands still linked, and pressed his warm mouth to Crowleys cool one.

-> Who will kiss me?
- These lips of mine will.

What was left of Crowley's brain seemed to short circuit. He couldn't even kiss back. He just stood there, feeling like Aziraphale had hit him over the back of the head with a velvet wrapped brick, clutching the angel's hands like a lifeline.

>Can you tell me why they will?

Aziraphale pulled away, looking shy and a bit disconcerted by the lack of response. "Was that all right?"

>To assure you that I'm yours heart and soul

"Wh—why?" Crowley stammered. "Why now?"

"I don't think it was the lack of, ahem, this kind of feeling that made us happier in the other reality," Aziraphale said. "It's that you weren't trying to tempt me, and I wasn't trying to save you. We were content being an angel and a demon and letting each other be so."

>Forevermore.

"Th-this kind of feeling," Crowley repeated blankly.

Aziraphale kissed him again, more forcefully and more tenderly all at once, lips moving to part Crowley's, and it was good, so good, it was better than years of imagining, heat was flooding through Crowley, but the demon's heart was hammering and he was panicking.

"I don't want to be a temptation any more," he repeated.

"That's fine." Aziraphale kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other side.

"Then what is this about?"

"Love." The stars were crashing around Crowley, and he thought he recognised some of them as they flamed. "A choice. I love you, I want you, I choose you; you are all I need."

"Angel. My angel." He released his hands at last and pulled Aziraphale tight against him, the soft coat and vest and softer self under, the surprising strength of rounded arms going around him in return. He pressed his face against the angel's hair and breathed in expensive shampoo. "I—I— His chains lay between them, strangling the words.

"You can't say it any more, I know." Aziraphale ran a hand down his spine, and Crowley shuddered. "So show me."

"Aren't you afraid of Falling?" He was kissing the pale curls despite all his resolutions to convince Aziraphale to be just friends.

"I won't Fall. This isn't about sin. I love you, Crowley. I love you so much, and I need your love, all of it, and I won't ever allow this to be taken away from me again."

"Dagon and Michael warned you not to confuse lust with love," Crowley managed, despite the still exploding stars and the hair that had somehow become stuck on his tongue. He was afraid spitting it out would be less than suave.

Aziraphale chuckled at him, the most delicious sound, delight and joy and sunshine and blazing angelic fire intermingled. "Why can't I have both?"

Crowley couldn't think of a single reason, although he was aware his brain was not at full-functioning capacity. He surreptitiously snapped his fingers behind Aziraphale's back to clear the hair from his mouth, and sharply nipped Aziraphale's earlobe to distract him from what he was doing.

"Wicked snake." The gently chiding tone made the stars reform themselves just to go supernova with desire. "Besides, do you really want Sandalphon to be proved right?"

"Absolutely not," Crowley said fervently, and kissed him deeply and possessively, the way he had always wanted to, feeling hands catch in his hair and Aziraphale's mouth opening eagerly and returning passion for passion, longing for longing. This had to be some kind of trick, nothing so perfect could be true, Asmodeus or someone was going to pop out and burst the bubble at any moment, but who could blame him for taking what he could from this delirious moment?

"That's not a normal human tongue, I'm sure."

"Sorry, if you would prefer I can—" Crowley said, and was pulled closer, tighter.

"No, you're perfect, perfect as you are. My darling."

"Too many clothes," Crowley muttered against Aziraphale's neck, trying to shove his coat off his shoulders without losing contact between lips and warm skin. "Why didn't we go back to my flat if this is what you had in mind?" He looked around, looking for somewhere, anywhere, that wasn't crowded with books and flotsam. There wasn't even a reasonably sized couch, a decent stretch of floor or a handy wall that could be pressed against without risking an avalanche of books and ornaments. Perhaps the door? The kitchen table seemed to lack romance for a first time. "At least I have a bedroom."

Aziraphale was breathing heavily as he cooperated in being divested of his coat and didn't even complain about it being tossed on a chair. "I have a bedroom. Why ever would I not?"

"Why ever would you?"Crowley lifted his head suspiciously. "Who have you—"

"I need a residence for tax purposes. You know I always try to do my taxes properly. And they might check."

"I think Schrödinger's flat is less confusing than Schrödinger's bedroom."

"You do babble nonsense at the strangest times, my dearest," said Aziraphale, with a kind of stern tenderness that melted every remaining bone in Crowley's body.

"Why are you always so radiant?" he asked, voice as unsteady as his legs, aware that he was as far from being cool as he possibly could be, and let a warm arm around his waist guide him up the stairs, and there, at the East point of the shop compass—of course it was the East, of course, above the office—there was a door between the books and a perfectly reasonable bed, at least once he'd magicked the books off it and onto shelves. A single bed, because bless Aziraphale, Crowley would have to get him a new bed tomorrow if they were going to keep this up, which they were, or Crowley would go mad. And get rid of the tartan covers. But it was going to be fine.

"You are shadows and fire and everything, everything, and I love you," Aziraphale murmured.

"Now who's babbling? And I do—you know I do—always—"

"I know. I know, my darling boy."

His own jacket was gone, and his shirt, never well done up at the best of times, was open without him remembering dealing with it either, the snakehead buckle was dangling loosely from his belt, but Aziraphale's hands were trembling and Crowley wasn't entirely sure it was all with desire. He took his time, letting the angel calm down. He gently unbuttoned Aziraphale's worn, beautiful waistcoat, soft and touchable as Aziraphale himself, unknotted and removed the tie. unhooked the pocket waist chain, removed the cuff links with deft fingers and set them carefully on the bedside table among more books. He tried to communicate care and comfort and cherishing with each movement, remembering that Aziraphale had asked him to show love if he couldn't say it.

The trembling settled a little, and Crowley lingeringly kissed the wrist at one open cuff, touching his tongue to the pulse flickering there. "I'm with you, angel. I will stay by your side."

"I know, my dearest," Aziraphale said again. "You always do." His voice was so rich with love that there was no room for fear or doubt, just kisses and touches and embraces and being able to slide his hands down the back of firm heavy thighs and savour the feeling, pull the solid weight over him, comforting and exciting all at once. His jeans were too tight but gentle, affectionate hands were undoing them and yes, right there, holding and stroking.

Crowley had imagined so much, so many times, but for this first time, simple and close and perfect was what he needed, legs hooked around each other, chests pressed together, drowning in kisses, as if they were trying to dissolve the boundaries between each other. He hungrily devoured every moment, every unexpected sound pulled from Aziraphale by touch and caress, Ingraining on his memory forever the way Aziraphale looked at climax, as if surprised by overwhelming sweetness, so that Crowley gasped "Angel, angel," out of a mouth that could barely form the endearment and pressed up, that lovely, perfect hand wrapped around him as he fell apart.

Slow, deep kisses pulled him back together, and he melted into the embrace, stroking soft curls, luxuriating in being held and loved and feeling adored, the aching painful sense of emptiness he had held for thousands of years filled with light. Oh, he would be embarrassed later at the nakedness of his need to be doted on, he supposed, when he was more calm, but right now, this was his everything, and he had waited so long.

"I still seem to be an angel," Aziraphale remarked with what sounded like mild surprise some minutes later, and Crowley laughed ruefully into his shoulder.

"Oh, you sneaky bastard. You were only pretending to be confident you wouldn't Fall."

"I was pretty confident," Aziraphale said defensively.

"Nrghk," Crowley said doubtfully and kissed his shoulder. "I'm glad. Someone with your light should not be in Hell."

"Well, apparently I'd appreciate the taste of the walls better than you do," said Aziraphale, which set Crowley off into laughter he was sure was half hysterical. Aziraphale held him through it, patting his back.

"I'm surprised I didn't Rise, frankly," Crowley said when he'd calmed down a little. "It felt like I would there, for a moment."

"It would be worth seeing Uriel's face," Aziraphale said peacefully, fingers playing in his hair. "I think Michael deserves a new palace. But would you be able to stick to it?"

"Nah." Crowley was grinning. "I'd Fall again fast enough. But if I Rise every time we fuck, I'm planning on bouncing back and forth between Heaven and Hell like a ping pong ball. Uriel and Michael will be building each other entire celestial cities."

"Just think of all the paperwork," Aziraphale said, pink again.

"Yeah, I'd be Dagon's favourite again in no time." Crowley's smile faded a little. Asmodeus might be in Dagon's team with him, and that was a worrying thought. At least he had made Falling dependent on Asmodeus being unable to touch him, regardless of whether he took Sandalphon's offer or not. Maybe not having Gabriel in Heaven would make things a lot easier on Aziraphale, which would be worth any amount of trouble when it came to that.

"I love you so much," Crowley said as protective thoughts overwhelmed him. He bit his lip, aware of what he had just said, but the chains binding him to Hell were still there, and not burning or freezing him.

"Well, how about that," Aziraphale breathed. "I have no idea what the rules are for us any more."

"Me neither." He pinched Aziraphale's cushioned hip lightly. "And the correct response is I love you too, my perfect, sexy, amazingly talented Serpent."

"I love you too, Serpent."

"That will do. For now. We have plenty of time to practice proper praise." He stroked where he had pinched. "No more contracts, no more deception, no more forgetting. Oh, my angel, my love, my sweetheart, why couldn't we end up here before? Was there a point to any of that?"

"All of it, perhaps," Aziraphale said, his face thoughtful. "I needed to know, really really know, what I really wanted and needed—and so did you, my dearest love. Best to assume that She knows exactly what She's doing."

"Don't bring faith into it, please," Crowley grumbled. "My only faith is in you."

"If you have faith in love, then it's all one and the same. And I do love you, so so much."

"I love you too," said Crowley, because he could, and because he would say it forever.

He snuggled up. He knew without asking that Aziraphale would stay with him until he was asleep, and then would be close by, bustling around the shop, busy and—happy. Angels were made for happiness. Those blue eyes were practically incandescent with happiness. Crowley, Fallen as he was, had helped to make that happiness. Demons could be happy too, apparently, so happy that the world could barely contain the happiness. Maybe angelic stock didn't change as much as he'd thought.

He'd redecorate the flat, he supposed. Not cold concrete, and not a freezing imitation of Heaven. Nothing as chaotic as here, either, but comfortable enough for Aziraphale. They'd compromise somehow. A big bed. This room wasn't really big enough for one, and they were cramped up in a small space. He'd have to drive Aziraphale to work in the mornings. After Aziraphale made breakfast. He was sure Aziraphale made wonderful indulgent breakfasts, although Crowley would probably have to teach him to make coffee.

His thoughts were rambling and uninfernally domestic and sleep was creeping up over him, almost as warm as Aziraphale's embrace. Six thousand years of memories, and now the future spreading in front of them, unknown but full of love.

"Goodnight, angel," Crowley said, and this time the angel didn't leave his side.

Notes:

1) Thank you to you all so much for getting here. Hope the ending was worth your patience.

2) The Duet of Prunier and Lisette/T'amo! Menti (I love you! Liar!) really is a weird mixture of being nasty about hats and jackets and soppy love declarations. From Puccini's La Rondine, libretto by Alfred Maria Willner and Heinz Reichert.

3) Sorry to be behind on comments, but I really really wanted to get this finished and up, and it was a longer chapter than usual. I will catch up! Every comment is appreciated.
4) What's next? I have a lighter, fluffier (so far!) story about checking in on Warlock starting up, which is unlikely to turn into a twisty angsty epic. Will probably upload in the next few hours. I'm also deep into researching and planning a longer story which will be set in the fourteenth bloody century, and why Crowley hated it (history and pining) and also how he managed to keep his optimism and belief the universe would look after him (angel), and probably will be more angsty and full of historical fashion, yay. I've also joined the Ineffable Husbands Bingo. Hope you will join me, but either way—thank you, my rock-solid darlings.