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Title: One Minute, At The Last
Rating: PG?
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, God
Summary: After a while, the battle fell silent around them. Neither of them cared overmuch.
Wordcount: 2086
Disclaimer: So very not mine
A/N: This is GO fic. I'm pretty sure it minorly (or even majorly) counts as blasphemy. On the other hand, I'd stand up behind it.
A/N(2): Not very Pterry/GNeil in voice, I'm afraid.
One Minute, At The Last
After a while, the battle fell quiet around them. Not the battle. The Battle. The Last Battle. Judgement Day. Apocalypse. Trumpet sound. All of that, and more. After a while, it fell silent.
Neither of them cared overmuch.
Aziraphale knelt in the dust of the field. His wing was broken, shattered really, a bloody rent marking where he had taken Michael's sword in an effort to shield his companion. It was useless, now, flopping brokenly, but he had dragged it up and forward anyway, to drape it over Crowley's knees in genteel, desperate shielding. The other arched determinedly over their heads, hiding them from view.
Beneath it, cradled against his angel's chest, Crowley tucked his face into Aziraphale's shoulder, blessing quietly and steadily as his hands slowly disintegrated in his lap. Holy sword. He'd taken up a holy sword in sheer desperation, one ridiculous lunge and parry to keep Lucifer's sword from Aziraphale's unprotected back. It had been, as Crowley would say, stupid. Absolutely, mind-bogglingly, almost angelically stupid. His hands had lasted exactly long enough for the Devil to bat him -and Aziraphale- contemptuously aside, and resume his attack on Michael. In the way. Dying and desperate and in the way. Both of them. Like always.
"It's alright, dearest. It's alright. We'll be alright," Aziraphale murmured softly, gently, carding his hand through Crowley's hair over and over again. It wasn't true, and angels weren't supposed to lie, but this once, this once, he wanted to indulge. He wanted to tell Crowley those lies, and wish they could be true.
"Shhhhh ... Shut up, angel," his demon whispered, rasped, bumping his head against Aziraphale's collarbone, his arms too withered to try and elbow him. "'m dying. Go away." Feverish, brilliant gold eyes, growling at him to hurry up and join the winning side, before it was too late. Aziraphale ignored them completely.
"Never, dearest. Simply impossible. Now do be quiet. You're jostling your injuries." His voice almost broke, almost crumbled, but Aziraphale was made of sterner stuff than that. If he could shepherd humanity through ten thousand years of unremitting idiocies, he could hold his demon close at the end, and have his voice remain firm and gentle. He could.
"Gonna get in trouble, angel," Crowley murmured determinedly, exactly as stubborn as Aziraphale, and more than willing to prove it. "Go away, hurry up, 'fore someone sees you ..."
"A little late for that," said another Voice, a warmer, gentler voice. A very, very vast Voice.
Aziraphale squeaked. He didn't want to, would forever deny it thereafter, provided there was a thereafter, but he did squeak, and shuddered, and tried not to look too terrified with Crowley glaring blearily up at him. Besides. His demon did more than a little squeaking himself.
"Children ..." the Voice went on, tired and maybe a little amused. "I would like to speak to you, if possible."
Crowley shuddered, hissing in pain and fear, and curled desperately back into Aziraphale's chest. "Tell 'im to go 'way," he bit out, eyes so very, very bright. "Can't we tell Him to go away?" Plaintive, lost.
"I ..." Aziraphale started, and swallowed. "I don't think so, dearest. It's not something one does, really, telling the Lord of Hosts to come back later." He tried a reassuring smile. It came out more than a little wobbly, perhaps.
"Could try," Crowley growled back, for a moment so defiant, so fierce and silly and bright, before his shoulders slumped and two of his fingers crumbled into dust. He gasped a little, making Aziraphale's heart twist horribly, and let his head fall against the angel's shoulder in defeat. "Oh, go on then."
Aziraphale didn't, for a moment. Didn't move, didn't relinquish his useless, pointless shield of battered feather and bone, wanting to just hold Crowley a little longer, to just have him a little longer, to cling and fight and shove back the end for just a few more precious seconds. Ten thousand years. Ten thousand years of familiarity and companionship and understanding and friendship and love. Was a few more seconds so very much to ask? But it was. They knew it was, and while Crowley turned his head into the curve of Aziraphale's neck in quiet despair, the angel gathered what courage he had left, and lowered his wing to meet his Father's eyes.
He blinked. A lot, desperately, as his eyes suddenly watered at the glare. The brightness. The Light. Love and life and joy, and a smile so bright it hurt to look upon. Crowley keened against his chest, and Aziraphale clutched him tight, and fought to meet that brilliant gaze, fought to see past the glory to the warmth and tenderness that shone beneath.
"Oh, my child," his Father whispered. "My children. I'm so very, very proud of you. So proud."
Aziraphale shook his head, bewildered. "I don't ... I don't understand?" And for a moment, just a second, a shadow passed over that glory, a sadness.
"I know," the Lord said, gently. "I know. But it is alright, Aziraphale. My child, it is alright." He reached out, one warm and tender hand, the strength of creation in gentle fingers, and brushed the broken wing, touched the wounds and watched them softly flee. His smile was soft and sad and loving as Aziraphale blinked in shock and helpless love, in endless relief and unyielding fear, and tugged his healed wing forward to better shield his companion. Crowley panted, lips stretching humourlessly, and grinned into his angel's chest.
"Might have known, angel," he rasped, smiling despite himself. "No-one can stay ... can stay mad at you, can they?" And there were a thousand little forgivenesses in his voice, a thousand little hurts they had dealt each other across the eons, all forgiven, all forgotten with a word. It meant more than anything, and Aziraphale could think of nothing to say.
"No, they cannot," his Father agreed, smiling again, this time at Crowley, at his demon. He crouched down beside them, reaching out to gather withered limbs into His hands, stroking gently with a thumb until all the damage faded, until Crowley gasped in shuddering relief, in complete amazement. "Nor with you, it would seem. My precocious, questioning child. Nor with you."
For the longest time, they had no idea what to do, how to react. For moments without end, they lay there, staring at Him, warm and healed and whole, and so confused it wasn't even funny. Aziraphale clung silently to his demon, and wondered when mercy had begun to seem to impossible, so ridiculous and unreal. When they'd realised the Apocalypse was finally come, maybe. When they realised there was no stopping it this time. When Aziraphale had looked at his demon, on the final field, and realised he could stand with no-one but him. When he had realised that the Host and the Legion had no meaning anymore, when Heaven and Hell were just empty words, and the only side he could bear to be at was Crowley's. When he had, knowingly and willingly, chosen a demon over all. Maybe then. Maybe then, he had resigned himself to the Fall. And now ... And now he did not understand.
Then Crowley, blessed, damned Crowley, still staring, still stunned, levered himself up just enough to catch the edge of Aziraphale's wing, smile brightly into the face of the Lord of Hosts, and say: "Just give us one minute, would you?", before pulling that wing down to shield them once more. Aziraphale could swear he saw the Lord grin as the feathers blocked him from view.
"Dearest?" he whispered, somewhat urgently. "I'm not ... I'm not sure you should have done that." Actually, he was pretty positive that Crowley shouldn't have, and should probably say so a little more definitively, but then his demon had wrapped two whole and strong arms desperately around his waist, and had buried his face desperately in Aziraphale's neck, and there was nothing the angel could think to do except wrap his arms around him in return, and hope that his Father understood enough to be patient that little longer.
"What the Hell is going on, angel?" Crowley begged into his neck, raw and pushed past care for the curse. "What ... what just happened?" And his voice was thin and desperate and lost, and it was all Aziraphale could do not to crush him to his heart and hold him there until the confusion went away.
"I haven't the faintest idea, my dear," he said instead, unsteadily. "I really don't." Crowley huffed a little, lips curving into a faint sneer that Aziraphale could feel along his pulse, and suddenly he found himself smiling a little, chuckling gently. "I do know something, though."
Crowley raised his head, golden eyes warm and wicked and faintly hysterical. "Yeah?" he growled. "What's that, angel?"
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, feeling the shivering tremble of humour through his wings, and shook his head. "I could ... I could really use a cup of tea right now," he said at last, grinning a little as Crowley stared in amazement, laughing as his demon thunked their foreheads together with a fond, exasperated sigh, quivering as he held Crowley close through the shudders of desperate amusement.
"For ... You've been in England way, way too long, you bloody angel you!" Crowley hissed, snickering faintly. "Besides. I don't know how you could even drink that stuff!"
Aziraphale smiled against him. "It's an acquired taste," he said, primly, and then curved into his demon, tipping his head to nuzzle gently at the side of Crowley's face, at the wicked curve of his lips. "Like all the best things," he whispered, and hoped Crowley understood. Hoped so hard that he understood.
And then Crowley kissed him, and that ... that seemed proof enough. Of so many things, of the worth of ten thousand years and the fate of humanity, and the last trembling touches of the world they had both loved so very, very much. Of mercy and love and hope, and faith even at the end. Of the truth of his Father's words, at the beginning and at the end, on Earth as in Heaven.
Faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these ...
Crowley shuddered, trembled, pulling back so slowly, so reluctantly, and the look in his eyes, in a demon's eyes, told Aziraphale all he needed to know. All he ever needed to know.
"You are a very, very big bastard, angel," Crowley whispered, swallowing, and Aziraphale smiled against the sheer weight of love in his chest, in his heart.
"And you are a very, very good person, dearest," he murmured back, threading fingers through Crowley's hair, petting almost absently as his heart flopped in his chest, and golden eyes smiled desperately, lovingly. "Such a very good person, my love."
"Sap," Crowley grunted, tipping his head in embarrassment. "Angel." The only endearment he'd ever needed. The only one he ever wanted.
"Absolutely," Aziraphale agreed, happily, ruffling Crowley's hair, just to annoy him, just to see that familiar scowl. Around them, beyond the fragile shelter of his wings, the Lord waited, and the Hosts, and the end of days. Around them, Judgement Day had come, battle had been fought, and all awaited their final judgement. But here, now, in this little circle, Aziraphale did not care, so long as Crowley could look at him with love, and without fear, for just this one moment.
It didn't last. It had lasted too long already, far more than Crowley's 'one minute' and really, the Lord had been more than patient with them, he supposed. Crowley sighed, leaning back, levering himself up onto shaky knees. "Guess we've held up the party long enough, eh?" he said, but he was smiling faintly even still. Faith. Hope. Even in a demon, even at the last. Because love was first, and where it went, all else followed.
"We have," he said, and staggered up, reaching out to catch Crowley, laughing a little as they reeled drunkenly. Crowley's wings brushed and tangled with his own, snarling them helplessly, and with a little thrill of fear Aziraphale realised they were falling, tripping sideways, but his arms were full of Crowley and he didn't care, he couldn't let go, he didn't care, and then ...
Then warm hands that had wrung a world from the abyss caught them, cradled them, and his Father peered over the tangled mess to smile down at them in vivid, endless joy, in infinite love, and that Voice whispered gently to them both once more.
"Welcome home, my sons. Welcome back."
And wrapped in his demon's arms, holding Crowley close, Aziraphale knew exactly what he meant.
