Another life begins today

Crowley didn't go in much for despair. In his experience, things usually worked out for the best for him, so long as he kept his cool. And he was good at being cool. Cold blood had its advantages.

Even being kicked out of Heaven hadn't been so bad, after the initial shock. Especially after Satan sent him upside. Hell was, by definition, less pleasant than Heaven, but the world was full of interest, adventure, and humans who were good at inventing things like music, fashion and new and creative temptations, all on their own. Once the worst had happened, there were no more terrible repercussions for asking awkward questions about the universe. Well, other than Aziraphale getting a bit miffed and suggesting it was getting late and they both had work to do.

Besides, even though he and Aziraphale had cohabited heaven, they'd never so much as noticed each other until the Garden. Aziraphale had been tight with Uriel and the boys, and Crowley had hung with Lucifer and the guys. Their flight paths hadn't crossed, until that first stormy day in Eden.

Crowley had faith–belief–a kind of comfortable assurance that he always would land on his tail–his feet and that all was for the best in his own particular world. It had never let him down yet.

Until he laid it all out to Aziraphale, in the middle of a fight no less, all the things he thought had been unspoken and shared, and been soundly rejected.

I don't even like you.

Even then, he had dismissed it. Of course Aziraphale liked him. Crowley wasn't stupid. He had intercepted too many tender glances, too many affectionate smiles, not to notice. Maybe Aziraphale was too pure to actually be into him in a human sense, maybe Aziraphale was kind of obligated to love all God's creatures anyway, but even then, Crowley was sure the angel was personally fond of him. And enjoyed his company, all the more deliciously because it was a forbidden pleasure. Aziraphale always tended to deny his forbidden pleasures, even as he indulged in them.

Things were too desperate for Crowley's own indulgence of that nonsense. He was facing an eternity of torment–without Aziraphale. Or even worse, with. It had seemed only mildly evil to tempt Aziraphale to fall and keep him company, until he was facing the thought of all eternity watching him suffer.

Then Aziraphale really said it.

It's over.

The words clanged in Crowley's ears like church bells, racketing and painful, long after he had left.

Over.

It couldn't be over. Not after six thousand years. Not after one stupid quarrel. They'd had loads of quarrels. Only they'd always had time to make up, before.

You go too fast for me, Crowley. But it wasn't like there was any time left to dawdle. Maybe Crowley should have kissed him. Kiss and make up like humans said. Nothing left to lose, anyway. It might just have worked.

It's not like it could have gone worse.

Los Angeles

"Hullo, Crowley. I didn't expect to see you here." Aziraphale wasn't in flamboyant beige and cream this time. He wore sedate black, as black as Crowley's suit jacket.

Crowley was always dressed appropriately for funerals.

"Just thought I'd pop in, you know." Crowley shifted uneasily. "Back down here for the Olympics anyway."

"You knew him?" Aziraphale shuffled slightly closer, his sleeve brushing against Crowley's own, as if moving close for comfort. It made what passed for Crowley's heart jump. He stared at the lowered coffin instead.

"Not really. Saw him around at a few parties, liked his music. Quite promising young DJ, really, even though he didn't make it past the small clubs and backyard parties in the end. I quite like new wave, you know. Lots of hedonism, the lyrics are quite Shakespearean in bits, too. You'd like it." Crowley waited for Aziraphale to say something scathing about electronic music, but there was silence. The boy really hadn't been anyone in particular. Crowley didn't really know em>why he was there, except had quite been enjoying the 1980s so far, and the new wave scene was part of that. He'd always had a tendency to wear black and tight trousers, and all he had to do was add a lot of hairspray and eyeliner. No one could see the eyeliner, of course, but he knew it was there. "Anyway, I thought I, you know, could. You?"

"Never met him. I try to attend as many of these funerals as I can. Sometimes I can say something to help the family. Give my condolences.."

"Condolences?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Funny thing, a preacher down the way was saying this kind of thing was smiting by your lot. Sodom and Gomorrah all over again."

He had meant to needle, but then he saw Aziraphale's stricken face, and was swamped with quite undemonic guilt. He felt he should apologise, but he could only go so far. Instead, he muttered something that might have sounded kind of like, if you really really strained to interpret it, a strangled "s'ry" and looked for a distraction. He found it in a guest apart from the others, the only other one in sunglasses.

"That's his young man, I suppose."

"Oh, it couldn't be," Aziraphale said, immediately. "Not all alone in the back like that. He'd be up with the family."

"You really are too good for this world, aren't you, angel?"

The young man caught their glances, and slowly made his way across. He was wearing glasses as dark as Crowley's own, but Crowley suspected he was hiding his eyes for a quite different reason. Tear tracks showed on his cheeks.

"Hi." He was thin, too thin, and had skin that should have been a rich brown but had some grey underlying it, and a voice that was too weak for its timbre. It should have been a rich brown as well. Instead it was more like railway station cafe tea. "I'm Luke."

"Hi," Crowley said awkwardly, giving a half wave. "Anthony."

"A good name, Luke," Aziraphale said kindly, love radiating from him so hard that it almost hurt Crowley to look at him. "My sympathy, my dear, for your terrible loss."

The boy brightened slightly, although the lines of grief were etched far too deeply around his mouth and forehead for someone so young. "Thanks–thanks for that, I mean it. I mean the others, they didn't speak to me. But you're–he told me he had a funny uncle. From England. You are his uncle, yeah? You look like you would be."

"In a manner of speaking, a manner of speaking," Aziraphale said, very gently.

Crowley suddenly became aware of a pressure on his suit sleeve. He glanced down, and saw Aziraphale's hand gripping the material tightly, as if for comfort. He was unsettled. The two of them rarely touched, and if they did it was more Crowley inching closer than the other way around. Not that they were touching, anyway, but–

This was a damn sight closer to holding hands than Crowley was prepared for.

"Thanks, anyway," said Luke. "For speaking to me. And for having the guts to bring your boyfriend. I guess you understand, though."

Crowley felt a mild shock, and expected Aziraphale to be blushing and startled. Instead, the angel smiled warmly. "Try not to grieve too deeply. He's in a better place, dear," Aziraphale said gently, making no attempt to dispute the relationship. "No more pain, no fear. No sorrow, no crying."

"I wish I could believe that for sure."

"It's quite true. I checked."

The boy looked a little startled, but then obviously decided to dismiss it as kindly meant eccentricity. "I guess I'll be with him soon, wherever he ended up."

Aziraphale released Crowley's sleeve, which gave the demon an odd twinge of loss, and stepped forward and embraced the young man, tenderly kissing his cheeks. Crowley looked away, a different kind of pang in his heart. "Chin up, my dear, dear child. You have a long and, I hope, happy life ahead of you before an eternity together. Another life begins today."

Luke bit his lip doubtfully, but as the human ducked his head to hide a sob and made his way out of the graveyard, Crowley noted that he was moving with less lassitude, and his colour had already improved remarkably.

"You can't save them all, angel," he hissed. "Remember the bubonic plague. Gabriel nearly called you back upstairs for overdoing the miracles."

"Perhaps not. But I could save this one." Aziraphale gave Crowley a smile, bright and brittle as one of Crowley's own smiles on the surface, but with a blinding strength of pure goodness under it. Had Crowley ever been as truly good as that, back in his own angelic days? He couldn't remember having been. "And in the meantime, public education may help. I'm quite sure that would be God's work. Come on, Crowley. I don't feel muchlike speaking to the rest of the family after all. The least I can do is buy my boyfriend lunch before the volleyball."

He has to know what he just said, Crowley thought. Even he could not be so dense. It was at least a couple of decades since anyone had used 'boy friend' to mean 'friend who is a boy', and he must know quite well what that young man thought of us. It's–it's just banter. That's what we do, we bicker and banter. That's all.

As he slithered after Aziraphale, who was already discussing menus, Crowley felt a treacherous warmth in his heart. Being thought of as Aziraphale's significant other felt nice.

There were miraculously seats booked next to each other at the volleyball (an arms dealer was somewhat outraged to find out that he and his mistress had been downgraded), and they chatted about every Olympics since 1896, and back again to Olympia, and not of anything of consequence, as Crowley warmed his cold blood in the summer sun and Aziraphale's presence.

Crowley could still feel the angel's grip on his sleeve.

Notes:

1) Aziraphale quotes lyrics from the Pet Shop Boys' song 'Your Funny Uncle'. It might mean he was more aware of contemporary music than he pretended to be. Or maybe not, as it wasn't released for another four years.

2) I just realised that Luke is the first character to have a speaking role other than the ineffable husbands.

3) Image by Gunther Simmermacher from Pixabay.