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It’s been several decades since The End of the World, and no one acts any different. Crowley knows, he watches them. People feeding ducks, yelling at other drivers, falling in love, hating themselves. And Crowley doesn’t do much different either, but things have changed.
He’s still evil, at least, on paper, and Aziraphale is still technically a Principality, but neither of them get up to much tomfoolery and neither of them have been contacted by their respective bosses. Crowley is starting to wonder if they’ve just been… forgotten about. He isn’t about to complain.
He looks up from his spot at the kitchen table, yellow eyes flickering from the steaming mug of tea in front of him, to the angel, sprawled on the couch. He’s asleep, God help them all, Aziraphale,
sleeping
, but he isn’t very graceful about it. Well, the angel has never been very graceful about anything. His shirt is ruffled, his hair is a mess, and his glasses - “Why, on this good earth, angel, do you need glasses?” “Blending in, my darling, all bookstore owners have glasses,” - are in very serious danger of falling off the one ear they’re still hooked behind.
Crowley stands and moves over to the angel, crouching down to pull them off gently, setting them safely aside on the shelf. Upon further thought, he moves the book off his chest as well, and miracles the blanket from Aziraphale’s bedroom over him. A sensation shifts through him just then, and Crowley retreats quickly to the table, unwilling to look too closely at the feeling, or at Aziraphale again, for a long time.
His tea is cold when Aziraphale finally wakes up, and Crowley has been experiencing the last fifteen years through the lens of California’s booming wine industry, giggling when Aziraphale rolls over to stretch and falls off the couch with a loud and undignified squeal.
“Really, my dear, you don’t have to laugh at me, for heaven’s sake,” complains the angel as he moves into the small kitchenette, once again looking around and bemoaning that, even after the reversal of the fire that had ravaged his books and shop, it’s still the same, down to the wine stain on the floor where he and Crowley had spilled some one evening when he’d first taken over the place. It also seems, that Crowley is adding to the mess on his nice carpet - there are a few new spots, “Starting without me, I see?” He asks, slipping into the chair just to Crowley’s left, close enough to snag the glass he’s barely holding onto and sniffing at it before humming appreciatively and taking a sip.
“Wasssn’t really waiting for you,” Crowley responds, glasses off and large eyes big and wide as he grins like a snake, “But I’m glad you’re awake, all the sssame,” he snorts, pouring a new glass for himself again, “Can’t believe I’ve finally corrupted you to take part in Sssloth.”
“‘It’s not Sloth, it’s taking a day off,’” Aziraphale air quotes, rolling his eyes affectionately, manicured fingers curling elegantly. Crowley finds himself distracted by this, the feeling he’s been carefully avoiding all day slamming back into him full force, and doesn’t know how to respond. Catching the odd look on the demon’s face, Aziraphale reaches out to clasp his shoulder, frowning, “My dear, are you quite alright?”
The smile he gets back is one of the most genuine that Aziraphale has ever seen, and Crowley sits back with a calm sigh, suddenly very sober, “I’m quite alright, I’m very alright,” he tells the angel, who smiles and reaches out to squeeze his hand at the following statement.
“I’m home.”