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It doesn’t register as anything special when Aziraphale first meets him. He’s nudged out of the way of a skinny black-haired young man who’s clearly doing the rounds for the court physician. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and all Aziraphale can think is, Oh, he’s a bit brighter than the rest. And he is. Every human emits a vague aura around them, the very fabric of life coursing through their veins, and yet this boy shimmers even with the summer sun beating down onto them. Aziraphale watches his retreating back, a slow curl of curiosity unfurling inside him – the boy feels powerful and old and Aziraphale just can’t place him. He shakes himself out of his reverie, purchases the herbs he needs, and subtly nudges the leaves laid out in the stall to stay fresher for longer.
***
When Aziraphale next sees the man, that’s when he starts questioning his eyesight. You see, living for over 4000 years makes you grow accustomed to seeing a human once, and then never seeing them ever again because of the cruel, ruthless wheel of mortality. There is only one other individual who he can expect to see repeatedly no matter how many years separate their meetings. And yet, this man could be a second.
Aziraphale is browsing the clothes on display in the small shop, while quietly causing his new invention of pockets to sew themselves into the tunics, when the door swings open to admit a young man into the room who goes up to the counter and asks for bread. The first thing Aziraphale thinks is that he looks terrible – sunken eyes, pale skin, grubby clothes. He looks like he’s lost everything and is barely clinging on to his sanity. Aziraphale’s heart instantly swells for him.
The second thing he thinks is hang on, isn’t that the man from Camelot?! He narrows his eyes, steps further into the recesses of the shop, and peers through the hanging clothes. There is no way he can be - he tries to rationalise - Aziraphale was last in Camelot over a hundred years ago, having had a lovely holiday in the Mediterranean sun in the intervening years, and any normal human would have long since passed away. It must be a cannily similar look-alike, or a direct descent. However, the slight quiver of power in the air, and the memory of the man’s aura from all that time ago, makes him think that perhaps this isn’t a normal human.
Aziraphale spends approximately a minute internally panicking and wringing his hands, and then he decides that if he stands here for any longer he’s going to be late. He walks up to the counter as the raven-haired man puts a neatly wrapped loaf of bread into his travel-sack, and buys a large jug of wine from the merchant. He shoots his fellow customer a friendly smile, and only gets a slightly lost, heart-breaking look in return. He wanders out of the shop, glancing back as he walks down the street just in time to see the young man disappear into the woods while the tears in his clothes miraculously sew up.
***
‘I saw someone today who I think I saw over a hundred years ago.’ He decides it isn’t worth beating around the bush with this topic, and just announces it to the air.
His companion falters with the wine jug half way to his mouth, scoffs, and says, ‘Don’t be ridiculousss, angel. That’s impossible.’ He then takes a long swig, and hands it back to the angel beside him.
Aziraphale sighs, fingers fidgeting with the bottle in his lap, ‘I know.’ He admits, ‘But I know what I saw.’
Crowley lazily rolls his head over to look at him rather than the nice lake-view they’re observing, ‘It was probably just a person who looks similar to someone you’ve seen before. There’s so many of these humans nowadays they’re all starting to look similar.’
Aziraphale hums, non-committal, and Crowley groans loudly, ‘Alright,’ he appeases, ‘What did they look like?’
The angel shrugs helplessly, ‘He looked sad.’ Is all he can really say. Those sad eyes had been haunting him all day, and he can’t get them out of his head.
Crowley groans again, throwing his head back, ‘Ugh, you and your sad little helpless people. What have I said, angel? You can’t help everyone you meet!’ He snatches the bottle back from Aziraphale and drains it.
‘I know, my dear.’ He says quietly, ‘But I should try.’
***
Aziraphale doesn’t see him again for about five hundred years, when everyone in England has started speaking a weird new language brought over by the Normans and he has had to have very strong words with the new king regarding the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury. He hasn’t exactly been looking for the man per se, just keeping a vague eye out as he watches the world and the humans turn and change around him.
He’s at a royal banquet in order to try out some ridiculously expensive cheese (of which he has had a taste for since about two hundred years ago) when the man wanders into the room in servant’s garb and Aziraphale promptly spills the wine he has been sipping all the way down his front in surprise. His choking and spluttering draws the attention of the nobles around him, but he only notices the flash of a blue gaze landing on him from across the flagstone floor.
He gets to his feet mumbling apologises, and excuses himself from the banquet hall, turning down the stone corridors and then leaning against the wall in order to catch his breath. Once his heart, which didn’t really need to beat but seems to be trying to fulfil its intended purpose with great gusto, has stopped pounding, he becomes aware of footsteps approaching him. Glancing up, he sees the raven-haired man round the corner, and Aziraphale realizes that he wasn’t mistaken as Crowley had suggested, this was the same man he had seen centuries ago. Same hair, same eyes, same power, same sadness.
Aziraphale straightens himself against the wall and gives the man a small smile, ‘Hello, my dear.’ He says quietly.
The man frowns at him, head tilted slightly to the side in confusion. ‘Do I know you?’ he questions.
‘We’ve seen each other a couple of times.’ Aziraphale beams, sticking out his hand, ‘My name is Aziraphale. I’m an angel.’
One of the man’s eyebrows creeps up towards his hairline in incredulity, but he accepts the hand and gives it a firm shake, ‘I’m Merlin.’ He says, then smirks slightly, ‘An angel, really?’
Aziraphale nods vigorously, ‘Oh yes!’ he exclaims, ‘And I must say Merlin, it’s lovely to be formally introduced, I mean, I’ve seen you around and at first I just couldn’t understand that you could be the same man, but just look at you, you are definitely the same man I first saw in Camelot.’
Merlin shuffles his feet slightly, glancing down at the floor as though in embarrassment. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to look at Aziraphale again and giving a self-deprecating smile, ‘Yeah, I’m sort of immortal.’ He mutters.
‘Oh my dear boy,’ Aziraphale responds, hands flapping slightly as though he wants to pull the man close but isn’t sure his touch would be welcome, ‘I know what that’s like – I’ve been here for five thousand years now.’
Merlin looks up at him in surprise, ‘Really?’ he asks, eyes suddenly bright with interest, ‘Wow that’s incredible.’
Aziraphale puffs himself up slightly, ‘Angel, my dear.’ He reminds him, ‘It’s my job to be here for eternity.’
As quickly as it came, the light fades from Merlin’s eyes and suddenly he looks shy and small and heartbroken again. He wrings his hands slightly in front of him, and bites his lip, and then asks, ‘How do you cope?’
Aziraphale’s heart cracks at the innocent question layered in pain and age and hopelessness. He wants to draw Merlin into his arms, tell him it’ll be okay, but for the immortal beings they are, those comforts scarcely mean anything.
He sighs slightly, shoulders dropping, and decides to be honest, ‘It’s hard.’ He says and Merlin meets his eyes so quickly he thinks the man might have given himself whiplash. Aziraphale gazes at him head on and continues, ‘It’s hard.’ He repeats, ‘to see the world change. To see things that seem like they should be there forever get torn down and destroyed. It’s hard to see the endings of people’s stories. To be there at the beginning, and also to see the end. It’s hard to go through the world and all of time with no one.’ He sighs again, ‘It helps to have a constant. Something you can rely on, something that will likely always be there.’ He doesn’t say there’s a demon he knows, one who fell and yet he’s sure there is still some goodness in him. He doesn’t say he reluctantly looks forward to the next time they’ll bump into each other. He doesn’t say that those feelings terrify him.
Merlin nods slowly, absorbing the words, and gives him a small smile. ‘That makes sense,’ he says. He glances back the way he came where the sounds of the banquet float out of the hall, and looks back at Aziraphale. There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes now, a light that seems to be rekindling in their depths, and he grins as he says, ‘One more question – Do you have wings?’
Aziraphale gapes indignantly, ‘Of course I do!’ he exclaims, and Merlin tips his head back and laughs as Aziraphale realises it was a joke and huffs. Merlin grins at him, says ‘thanks,’ and then heads back to his duties while Aziraphale feels a curl of warmth blossom in his heart.
***
Once they’ve met each other properly, it seems that fate makes it so they keep bumping into each other. The gaps can range from decades to years to merely months, and yet it feels like they’re seeing each other incredibly frequently relative to the centuries they hadn’t known each other.
Sometimes they only exchange smiles and silence, sometimes they exchange a few words of greeting. Sometimes they end up spending the day together, wandering through new cities or across the rolling countryside.
Aziraphale bumps into Merlin numerous times at various markets, walks with him along the Silk Road into Asia, lets him pull out a chair at his table at the tavern after a mischievous grin and an innocent ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ They meet on the battlefield, both on the same and opposite sides. They end up staying for a time in the same village, and Aziraphale surreptitiously helps Merlin’s crops grow quicker even though he thinks that Merlin was probably doing well enough on his own.
They talk about the things they’ve seen, the places they’ve been. Aziraphale talks about the Arc, and the tower of Babylon, and the Garden of Eden. He talks about meeting William the Conqueror, Julius Caesar, and Queen Elizabeth the first. He also mentions a wily demon whom he keeps crossing paths with, and if his lips curl up into a soft smile as he talks about him, well there’s only Merlin there to judge him.
Merlin in response tells him about travelling to Stonehenge, seeing the Holy Land, and travelling all the way down south into Africa. He tells him about fighting at the Battle of Bosworth, about meeting William Shakespeare, and travelling with Richard the Lionheart. He then tells stories of daring knights in Camelot, and a brave King whom he followed for many years and then lost. His voice often breaks in the last stories, and Aziraphale learns not to push. He offers silent comfort, a soft shoulder to lean on, a kind voice to change the subject and complain about the newest fashions that are emerging amongst the humans.
It is within these conversations that Merlin also tells him about his magic, and it all clicks into place for Aziraphale. Merlin feels as old as the Earth, and his power rumbles in the rock. His magic comes from nature itself, and that is what Aziraphale can feel when he’s close by. When Merlin clicks his fingers and releases a blue butterfly from cupped hands Aziraphale gives him a smile, and resurrects a bumblebee struggling in the summer sun. Merlin looks at him with a hidden awe and relief, and Aziraphale looks at him with understanding. He is happy to take this secret of Merlin’s and keep it safe. He is happy to help shoulder this burden. At the moment, he realizes, he is Merlin’s constant. And he is proud of that.
***
Crowley finally meets Merlin in the 17th Century, before promptly having a sulk and sleeping through the entire 18th Century. The thing is, Crowley had never believed that Merlin actually existed. Every time Aziraphale had brought him up in conversation, Crowley had shot him worried looks from behind his sunglasses, and frowned as though he was worried Aziraphale had been hit on the head and had brain damage. Crowley didn’t believe that a human could live through centuries, and certainly didn’t believe that if one did, Aziraphale had managed to find him and befriend him.
So when Crowley is confronted with the black-hair, blue eyes, and trusty neckerchief of Merlin when he and Aziraphale run into him in a London pub, he takes a few minutes to blink stupidly and re-evaluate his whole existence. Aziraphale misses this crisis as he pulls Merlin into a good-natured hug, and smiles broadly while saying ‘My dear, it’s been too long!’.
Merlin claps him on the back, grinning widely, and says ‘Zira! Good to see you! You’re looking well!’
This seems to snap Crowley out of his daze, as he whips his head around to stare at Merlin with drawn eyebrows, and hisses out ‘Zira?’ with his teeth bared.
Merlin finally seems to notice his presence, and looks towards the demon, blinking slightly in surprise, ‘Uh, yeah?’ he questions, ‘Zira short for Aziraphale?’ he explains slowly, as though he’s worried he might be overstepping a boundary he didn’t know was there.
‘I know that, human!’ Crowley snaps, teeth flashing, ‘I just want to know why you’re using it.’
Aziraphale chooses that moment to intervene, ‘Crowley, dear, it’s alright,’ he soothes, placing a hand lightly on Crowley’s shoulder. ‘This is Merlin,’ he continues, gesturing at the man in question who gives a cautious wave, ‘He can call me what he likes.’
‘Yessss,’ Crowley hisses, the sibilance of the snake sneaking into his voice, ‘But I’m the one who calls you Zira, angel.’
Merlin’s eyebrows raise slightly, and a hint of amusement dances in his eyes, ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘You must be the foul-fiend known as Crowley.’
As Crowley almost growls in response he holds up his hands placatingly, and says ‘His words not mine!’ while pointing at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale huffs, ‘Really you two! Stop encouraging each other. Let’s get a drink and sit down.’
Merlin shrugs and turns to the bar, while Crowley glowers and sits down so close to Aziraphale on the bench he’s nearly sitting in his lap. Aziraphale shoots him an exasperated look, while Merlin brings drinks over and let’s his eyebrows rise again as he takes in the seating arrangements. Crowley stays stubbornly silent for the rest of the night.
***
It’s not that Merlin and Crowley don’t like each other, per se, it’s just that Crowley has gotten very used to being Aziraphale’s only friend in the last six thousand years, and suddenly he’s got someone else trying to step on his toes. Whenever Merlin turns up when he’s with Aziraphale, his possessive instincts skyrocket and he finds it a lot harder to not lean on Aziraphale’s shoulder, or drape himself over Aziraphale’s lap, or hold Aziraphale’s hand very tightly. He glares at Merlin a lot, especially when he seems to get a bit too friendly or close to Aziraphale, and even whips off his glasses to try and freak Merlin out when he’s making Aziraphale laugh too hard. To Merlin’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch.
Aziraphale responds to this behaviour with only a few good-natured huffs and chuckles, and he even lets himself run his fingers through Crowley’s hair when his head is on his lap. He allows Crowley to rest a hand on his knee when they’re sat talking in a tavern. He lets Crowley drape an arm around his shoulders as they wander together down the soot-stained streets. He elbows Crowley when he’s been staring too long at the sorcerer and has forgotten to blink, and chides him to ‘play nice’ whenever they arrange to meet up with the young man. But beyond that, he doesn’t seem too phased by the clinging, and even possibly gains some vague amusement from Crowley’s discomfort and resulting displays of affection.
Merlin for his part seems to be very bemused by the whole thing. He doesn’t blink twice when Crowley invades Aziraphale’s personal space, and doesn’t blanch or anything when he sees them holding onto each other. What he does do though, is shoot Crowley infuriatingly knowing looks and small smirks that suggest he’s thinking ‘I know exactly what your problem is and I’m not going to help you one bit.’ It annoys Crowley no matter how many times it happens, and yet sometimes the looks Merlin give him are devoid of amusement. Instead they are filled with pain, and loss, and hopelessness, and regret, and longing, and Crowley unconsciously finds himself wanting to wipe those looks off of the man’s face, to pull his hand away from Aziraphale’s so as to pull Merlin away from whatever memories were haunting him. It was after these undoubtably nice thoughts that Crowley had his most magnificent shouting matches with his houseplants, and caused as many little nuisances in as many people’s lives as possible.
***
It isn’t until half-way through the 20th Century that Crowley starts to view Merlin as a tolerable acquaintance. He wouldn’t say they were friends as that was far too soft - he would compare him more to a small fly that buzzes around a room, irritable yet bearable.
Crowley is regaling the angel and the sorcerer with a tale about how he has invented the ‘junk call’ and the ‘call centre’, complete with dramatic hand-waving, manic grinning, and alcohol, when Merlin pipes up and says, ‘It would be cool if you could get really annoying music to play when people are on hold.’
He takes another swig of wine, and then continues, ‘That would be really… ugh… frustrating.’
Crowley looks at him, swaying slightly in place, eyes wide with amazement as he points soundlessly at Merlin a few times, before curling over in a cackling laugh that is caught by both Aziraphale and Merlin.
‘That is brilliant!’ he exclaims breathlessly, wiping his eyes. He is, he admits, reluctantly impressed by this flare of mischief in the sorcerer. He spins round in a circle, totters slightly, and then saunters to the door, ‘Sorry, must dash! Evil never sleeps y’know!’
After that, Crowley has a sort of begrudging respect for Merlin, although Aziraphale knows the truth. Aziraphale overheard them giggling together about impossible video game levels in the back of his shop. Who would have thought the serpent of Eden would have two friends?
***
Merlin is one of the first people to come to Aziraphale’s newly opened bookshop. Aziraphale is rummaging around behind the counter when he hears the bell above the door ring, and instantly starts practicing his best scowl to try and deter the unwitting customer. It isn’t until a cheery voice calls out, ‘Nice place you’ve got here!’ that Aziraphale lets his face fall into a smile and he bustles over to Merlin and gives him a tour of the shop.
From then on Merlin is a frequent visitor whenever he’s in the area. And he’s a perfect customer. He knows perfectly well to not touch any of the books, and to not even think about buying one, and merely looks interestedly at the spines and covers. The shop becomes a common place for their catch-ups, and it gives Aziraphale no small amount of pleasure to be able to turn around the open sign on the door with an actual real excuse as to why he’s doing it. Not that he wouldn’t do it anyway - it’s a great way to deter customers.
It’s in the early 20th century, with the threat of war hovering over the country like a predator ready to pounce, when Merlin enters the bookshop in a whirl of autumn leaves and raindrops. Aziraphale stumbles out of the back room in surprise, not expecting anyone to be out in such a horrific downpour, and as he sets eyes on the dripping sorcerer shivering on his doormat, he gasps and instantly moves into action. He grabs a warm blanket and wraps Merlin in it after helping pull off his sopping jacket. He pulls the man towards the fire, pushes him down into an armchair, and then wraps his hands around a hot mug of cocoa.
Merlin’s trembling, lips quivering and tears leaving sparkling rivers down his checks that can scarcely be differentiated from the drips of water coming from his hair. As Aziraphale rubs his arms, he stutters out apology after apology, saying ‘sorry, sorry, sorry.’ And ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’ Aziraphale shushes him quietly and rubs feeling back into his frozen fingers.
Merlin gazes into the depths of the fire, the flames reflecting in his wide blue eyes, and then he whispers so quietly that Aziraphale can barely hear him, ‘It’s been over a thousand years. What if he’s never coming back?’
Aziraphale’s heart breaks for the young man, so he sits on the floor in front him and holds his hands and says, ‘He will. You believe in him. You just have to be patient.’ He doesn’t need to ask who Merlin is talking about, has heard enough stories from the man himself, and heard enough legends to fill in the additional details.
Merlin’s gaze falls on him. ‘I’ve been patient.’ He says quietly, fresh tears running down his cheeks. ‘For all this time. And he’s nowhere.’
Aziraphale smiles sadly, ‘I know’ he states calmly, not knowing what else to say. There are no words for these feelings. No miracles with the power to solve this.
Merlin shifts, brings up a hand to rub his face, and then he admits, so softly as though it is a truth he has never spoken, ‘I miss him.’
Aziraphale nods slightly, ‘I know.’ He squeezes Merlin’s hands tightly then lets them go, standing up and stretching out his back with a groan.
‘Drink your cocoa.’ He orders quietly, settling into the opposite armchair, ‘And then tell me about him.’
Merlin looks up at him in surprise, fingers curling around the warm mug. ‘What?’ he questions as though he didn’t hear him.
Aziraphale leans back in his chair, gives a small smile to Merlin, and says again, ‘Tell me about Arthur.’ It sounds like an order and yet they both know it’s a request. This is Merlin baring his very soul to the angel, and Aziraphale knows not to treat it lightly. They’ve known each other for a thousand years, and suddenly this seems like the most important thing in the world. They are here. They are friends. They are constants. And Merlin needs to remember why he’s spent all these years waiting. And Aziraphale is happy to listen.
Merlin blinks at him, and then shifts his gaze back to the roaring flames. He opens his mouth slightly, licks his lips, and then hesitates as though he doesn’t know where to start. He swallows, and then he speaks.
He tells Aziraphale about how he and Arthur met, how he hated him to start with, how he saved his life for the first time only two days after meeting him. He tells him about going hunting together, about learning how to do all of his jobs as the Prince’s manservant. He tells him about saving Arthur’s life again and again and again. He tells him about keeping his magic hidden, about the fear of discovery, about the gut-wrenching thought of seeing Arthur’s face curl in betrayal. He tells him about the smiles, about the jokes, about the laughter. And he tells him about Mordred, and about how Arthur died. Finally, he tells him about the lake, and the prophecy, and about waiting.
Aziraphale doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t comment when Merlin breaks out into a smile or a laugh at a funny memory, or when the tears start trickling down his face again as his story reaches a conclusion. He lets the boy speak. Words he hasn’t said to a single living soul. Words he needs to say out loud. To remember. To accept. To heal. Aziraphale lets the words wash around him, as though he is a stone in a rushing river. A constant. A source of strength. And once Merlin has finished, worn out his voice with talking for so long and eyelids dropping in the comfort of the chair and the fire, he pulls the empty mug from his hands, and helps him up the stairs to his bedroom.
Merlin’s half asleep as he lays down, but his hand reaches out and grasps Aziraphale’s as he turns to leave the room, and he says, ‘Thank you.’
Aziraphale reaches over, and brushes his fringe out of his eyes, and says reverently, ‘No. Thank you, Merlin.’ Then he turns away, and closes the door quietly behind him.
The angel heads down into his study again, checks on Merlin’s drying jacket, and then shuffles through stacks and stacks of books until he finds an empty volume, the pages crisp and clean and clear. He sits down at his desk, frowns thoughtfully, pulls out his favourite ink pen, and then he starts to write a series of stories. They’re very similar to the ones he was just told.
***
Once the whole apocalypse fiasco has been sorted out – which Crowley and Aziraphale had decided not to tell Merlin about so as not to worry the poor boy - Adam Young gets a package in the post. It’s heavy, and as he unwraps it the brown paper reveals an old, thick book. Flipping it open he sees that the pages are marked in neat handwriting, and that there is story after story after story seemingly in no logical order.
Mr Young glances over at the book and asks, ‘What’s that, Adam?’
And Adam, already engrossed in the first page replies, ‘It’s the story of King Arthur, and the sorcerer who’s waiting for him.’
Mr Young scoffs and returns his attention to the newspaper while muttering, ‘What a load of nonsense.’ It’s unfortunate that he doesn’t understand the power Adam has once something has captured his attention.
Adam reads the whole book in less than a week, and then he dreams about the stories. And there’s magic in his dreams.
***
It’s a few weeks later, with the sun shining as though it has decided that this was going to be a good day and no cloud was going to ruin it in any way, and Aziraphale and Crowley are lazing around in the bookshop. They feel as though they deserve a break after surviving the fallout from the failed apocalypse and so they are excelling at doing absolutely nothing of use. In the last few days alone they had fed far too many ducks, eaten a lot of food at the Ritz, and drunk an impressive amount of alcohol to celebrate the fact that the world didn’t end and therefore alcohol is still abundantly available.
They’re sitting together on an armchair, Aziraphale looking through one of his newly restored books, while Crowley is curled up in his lap, face pressed into the crook of his neck. Since his foray in Heaven, Crowley suddenly seemed very intent on being as close to Aziraphale as physically possible and providing a lot of appreciative comments, and had apparently given up on the pretence that he didn’t care about things at all.
The bell ringing above the door is a surprise to both of them as the sign on the door supposedly says that the shop is closed. Aziraphale jumps in his chair, which dislodges Crowley and causes him to fall off the angel’s lap and sprawl onto the floor with a thump. They have a second of curiosity, before a familiar voice calls through the shop, ‘Aziraphale! Crowley!’
Both of them scramble up and head into the main bookshop, where their eyes fall on the figure of Merlin. He looks exactly the same as every other time they’ve seen him, and yet he’s glowing. Positively vibrating with excitement. His eyes are alight with happiness, and his smile is so wide it looks like it might be permanently stuck on his face.
‘Merlin!’ Crowley exclaims in bewilderment, while one of his hands is finding Aziraphale’s, ‘What are you doing here?’
But Aziraphale doesn’t need to hear a reason. His eyes slide from the joy on Merlin’s face, to the blonde man who has been tugged in behind the sorcerer. The man’s blue eyes are bright and clear, but his face is scrunched in confusion. Aziraphale follows his arm down, and notes that the pair are holding hands. His face stretches into an answering smile, and he doesn’t even listen to Merlin starting to reply to Crowley as he extends a hand and says, ‘Arthur, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ Arthur says, lifting his head up slightly, and hesitantly shaking his hand.
Merlin looks between the two of them, eyes bright but also slightly nervous as though he’s worried they won’t like each other. Crowley is mouthing Arthur’s name and looking shocked.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Aziraphale continues, ‘Merlin’s told us a lot about you.’
Arthur’s eyes soften at the mention of Merlin’s name, and he glances at the man in question before looking back to the angel, ‘All good things, I hope?’ he asks cheekily.
‘Oh yes!’ Aziraphale exclaims, ‘And I must say it’s lovely to see that you’re back.’
Arthur smiles shyly at him, and looks back to Merlin, squeezing his hand, ‘Yes, it is.’
Merlin manages to tear his eyes from Arthur’s, and looks to Aziraphale, ‘It’s almost like a miracle.’ He says, quietly, a hint of a question, or an accusation, present in his tone. His eyes are filled with hope, and with cautious thanks, and Aziraphale brushes it away without any fanfare by announcing that they need wine. He hurries to find some, while Merlin starts explaining to Arthur that they are an angel and a demon and Arthur makes a few very incredulous expressions.
After enjoying a couple of bottles together and with dusk falling over the city, Arthur and Merlin get up to leave, leaning heavily on each other. Crowley and Aziraphale stand up with them, and Aziraphale wishes them the best and tells them to come and visit soon. It is Crowley that shoots a hand out and grasps Arthur’s shoulder, pulling him around to face him. He points at Arthur and with a very serious expression on his face – an amazing feat for one well on the way to being absolutely smashed - says, ‘Don’t you dare hurt him again, or I will end you.’
Arthur blinks in bewilderment, glances at Merlin, and then looks back at the demon. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replies, eyes warm and soft, ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ And with that, the two legends escape into the growing night.
Crowley pulls Aziraphale to him, nuzzles his hair and breathes him in. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist, and rests his head on his chest.
‘Hmmm, angel?’ Crowley hums after a few beats of silence.
‘Yes, my dear?’ Aziraphale murmurs against him.
‘You didn’t seem very surprised by Arthur’s sudden reappearance,’ Crowley notes slowly, ‘You wouldn’t have happened to have had anything to do with it would you?’
Aziraphale smiles, arms tightening around the demon, ‘I honestly have no idea what you might be suggesting, Crowley,’ he replies, unable to keep a slight hint of smugness out of his voice.
‘Hmmm,’ Crowley hums again, and Aziraphale can feel the vibrations move through him, ‘Okay.’
They stay there in the centre of the bookshop, arms wrapped around each other, swaying slightly to some unheard music. In that peaceful moment, an angel and a demon were holding each other in silence, the world had survived the end times, and out in the city, a broken man had been healed and had found a new constant. Aziraphale had never felt happier.