While this is intended to be a bit more in the show-verse than the book-verse (although it has some book-verse aspects), it should be understandable to people who have only seen/read one or the other.

Title comes from Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."

Angels were made to be obedient. It's something of a defining characteristic; something built into their genes, if you will. (1) It's something that even, to an extent, remained a trait in demons after the Fall. Of course, the Fall itself was a massive act of disobedience, but it was disobedience of God through obedience of Lucifer. The Morningstar was the only one who really seemed to get a hang of the whole "not doing what you're told" thing. (2) Everyone else simply fell in line under a new leader.

(1) Angels don't really have genes, not in the human way, so this isn't a perfect comparison, but it's good enough.

(2) Of course, there is the question of whether or not Lucifer's Fall was part of the Ineffable Plan all along, in which case his disobedience would actually have been obedience after all. But of course the Ineffable Plan is just that - ineffable - and thus no one can really know what it is except God Herself. It's all very complicated, really, and it's best not to think too hard about it.

Humans are the ones who have free will. Humans are the ones who don't have to answer to a higher authority. Humans are the ones who can do whatever they want and don't have to follow orders from Heaven or Hell.

Humans and, now, Aziraphale and Crowley.

And that's a good thing! It is! Aziraphale knows it's a good thing. Heaven is, not to put too fine a point on it, absolutely awful, and Hell of course isn't any better, so having free will is a good thing. It'll give him the ability to protect Earth in the future, like he tried to protect it this time, and it's not like he wants to be ordered around by Heaven, so it's a good thing. It is.

Except…

Well, Aziraphale's never really had free will before. He's never not done what he's told. Oh, yes, he didn't always follow his orders to the letter, and there was that business with the flaming sword, but a few instances do not free will make. He's always followed orders, in spirit if not exactly as written. He's even followed orders from Hell on occasion, when he was taking over for Crowley, as per the Arrangement. He didn't always like them, but he followed them.

I can't not do what I'm told, Aziraphale told Crowley on that fateful night when they decided that they simply had to avert this whole Apocalypse business. I'm an angel.

And if angels cannot disobey, then what is he now? He'd think perhaps a demon, except for the fact that he doesn't think he's Fallen, and demons are actually more obedient than people expect them to be. The only beings that aren't inherently obedient are humans, and Aziraphale knows he's not human. So, if he's not human, and he's not an angel or a demon, then what is he?

And now that he has free will, what on Earth (3) is he going to do with it?

(3) Literally.

Well. Maybe, if Aziraphale just keeps moving forward, those questions will answer themselves. Now, he just needs to figure out which way is forward.

This may be more difficult than he thought.

"I've got tickets for a musical on the West End," Crowley announces, nine days after the Apocalypse-that-was-not. They're sitting on their normal bench in St. James's Park, and the ducks are still waddling around hopefully, even though Aziraphale's already thrown them all his birdseed. (4) "Mary Poppins, at the Prince Edward Theatre."

(4) He found out recently that bread was actually dreadfully unhealthy for ducks and immediately switched over to birdseed (and made Crowley switch over as well).

"You always did like that one," Aziraphale replies. "I hope you enjoy yourself."

"Well," Crowley says, "I've actually got two tickets."

"Oh, are you taking someone?"

"I thought we could go together."

Aziraphale blinks. I don't think our sides would like that very much, he almost says, except they don't have sides anymore. There's nothing to stop them from going to see musicals together. There's nothing to stop them from doing anything, really.

Nothing except the strange feeling in Aziraphale's gut, that is. Did he eat something that disagreed with him? He never has before, but he knows that happens to humans sometimes. And, oh, Crowley is still looking to him for an answer, and he really ought to give one, oughtn't he?

"When?" he asks, delaying a bit longer.

Crowley snorts. "'Cause your social calendar is so full?"

"I might have plans," Aziraphale replies, a little affronted. He doesn't have any plans for the next few days, but he might have.

"Tonight," Crowley says. "Seven thirty. What do you say, angel?"

You can't, a little voice in the back of his head whispers. You can't. Your side won't like that at all.

I don't have a side anymore, Aziraphale argues. We're on our own side. Crowley said so.

You can't, the voice repeats, and for some reason, it sounds awfully convincing.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he says, "but I actually do have plans for tonight."

Crowley frowns a little, looking over at Aziraphale in clear disbelief. "What plans?"

Oh, dear. Aziraphale probably should have been expecting this question, shouldn't he? "Well, I've still got to work towards putting my bookshop to rights," he explains. It's not a lie, he comforts himself; he has been dedicating a lot of his time towards that. "Adam's repairs fixed the building itself, but the inventory has been rather… altered. I'm still working on rebuilding my old collection."

Crowley's frown deepens. "But you don't have to do that tonight. You could take a break."

"I'm afraid I'd rather like it to be done as soon as possible," Aziraphale replies. "You understand, I'm sure."

Crowley's face twists a little. "Right. Of course," he says, in the sort of cutting tone that makes Aziraphale immediately certain he's said something very wrong.

"Well-"

"No, it's fine," Crowley says. His voice makes it very clear that it is not fine. "I've got to go, actually. Got to start getting ready."

Aziraphale frowns up at Crowley as he stands up. "It's hardly one, and you said the tickets were for seven-thirty. And weren't we going to have lunch?"

"I've got things to do," Crowley says. He… well, Aziraphale supposes the closest word for it would be smiles, but there's something very brittle and sharp about it. "You understand, I'm sure."

And then, before Aziraphale can say another word, Crowley is gone. Aziraphale has no idea what he would have said anyway.

Normally, he'd say that they couldn't be too open about spending time together or Heaven and Hell might notice. And that's still why he's worried, but he knows he doesn't need to be, not anymore. He can do whatever he wants.

And to be perfectly honest, that might be what's scaring Aziraphale more than anything else.

He'll make up with Crowley later. Surely, with time, he'll either be able to get over this unfounded fear, or he'll at least be able to come up with a better excuse for it. Things just need time to settle again, that's all. Aziraphale just needs a bit of time.

He gets up and heads towards the park exit. The Bentley, of course, is nowhere to be seen. Crowley would have sped off the second he left.

Perhaps, Aziraphale thinks tentatively, I ought to go to Crowley's apartment and apologize now. Mayfair isn't really any farther from here than Soho. We can still go to the musical together. There's no reason why not.

Heaven won't like it, the little voice in the back of his head whispers. You're meant to be an angel. You shouldn't consort with demons.

Aziraphale wrings his hands. I don't have to worry about Heaven anymore, he protests. I can do what I like.

Really? the voice mocks. And what's that?

And, well, Aziraphale doesn't exactly have an answer to that. He leaves the park, looks around…

And starts heading towards Soho.

He'll apologize to Crowley later, he will. It's just that, right now, he doesn't know what to say.

Aziraphale does mean to talk to Crowley. Really, he does! Crowley is his best friend, and as much as possible, Aziraphale tries not to hurt his feelings directly. When he does, he always apologizes. (5) And he means to do the same this time. Really.

(5) Well, almost always. There's been a few times over the last 6000 years where he hasn't, although those were often occasions where he didn't realize he'd hurt Crowley's feelings at all. Aziraphale isn't always the best at noticing these things, especially given how much Crowley always tried to hide it.

It's just…

Well, that little voice in his head keeps talking.

It occurs to Aziraphale the day after their spat in the park that perhaps the voice is either occult or ethereal in origin. It's not particularly difficult to search for occult influences (6), but searching for ethereal ones is a bit harder. Aziraphale is ethereal in nature himself, meaning that he rather swamps the signal, so to speak. Finally, though, he manages to filter out his own ethereal essence and look solely for outside influences, and he finds…

(6) None, bar one from Crowley that keeps nightmares away. He originally did it when he convinced Aziraphale to try sleeping in the late 1940s and Aziraphale woke up screaming. Crowley huffed that he could prevent that, and he brushed his fingers over Aziraphale's forehead with more gentleness than he probably meant to use. They lingered a moment longer than necessary, and Aziraphale, who only realized his feelings for Crowley a few years before and still hadn't quite come to terms with them, fled immediately. He hasn't slept since then, but nor did he allow the influence to wear off, though, feeding it a steady stream of power to keep it active. He told himself it was only because it was easier to power an existing influence than create a new one. Aziraphale has always been rather too good at lying to himself.

Nothing. There's no external ethereal influences whatsoever.

Aziraphale checks, then he checks again, then he checks a third time. There's nothing there. There's nothing at all, and that means that the little voice in his head is coming from him. It's not someone trying to influence him, it's not either side whispering in his ear, it's just him.

And, well, Aziraphale can't help but wonder if maybe that means he ought to believe it a little bit more.

He needs to think about it. He needs time to grow more accustomed to his new life. He needs time to gauge the threats to it. And that's fair, he thinks; he's spent the past six thousand years living one way, and now he's suddenly going to live another. If he needs a bit of time to get used to that, he thinks he deserves it.

It might, he considers, be easier to work through all of this with Crowley's help. But then again, figuring out where exactly he stands with Crowley is one of the many things Aziraphale has to do, so he ought to think through that first. Then he'll go to Crowley. He just needs to be certain first that he's doing the right thing.

The problem is, certainty has never come naturally to Aziraphale, and he has the feeling that's only going to be worse now. After all, the one thing he thought he could always have faith in was the goodness of Heaven, and look how that's turned out? And if he could be so very wrong there, then what else could he be wrong about? Crowley, he will admit, has become something of a certainty over the years, but… To trust that he can trust him, first Aziraphale has to trust himself, and he's not entirely certain he can do that right now.

He just needs some time, then everything will go back to normal. Give him enough time, and he'll make sure that everything is tickety-boo.

He's just not quite sure how long "enough time" will be.

Crowley calls for the first time three days after their fight in St. James's. It's unusually quick for him. In the past, they've sometimes waited decades to make up after a fight. Aziraphale had thought he would have a bit more time.

He ignores the first call. He justifies it by saying that he was working, and he was deep in the stacks, and he probably wouldn't have been able to get to the phone in time anyway. And then for the second call, well, he's in the middle of making himself a nice cup of tea, and if he walks away now, he might forget to take the teabag out and the tea will steep too long and be bitter. And when his phone rings for the third time, he simply sits and stares at it, no more excuses, just completely unable to move forward and grab it. If he grabs it, he'll have to talk to Crowley, and he still doesn't know what to say.

The problem is that Crowley is a demon. No, that's not fair; the problem is that Aziraphale cares that Crowley is a demon. Or, no, that's not quite it either; the problem is that Aziraphale is worried other people (7) will care that Crowley is a demon. And he knows he doesn't need to care about what Heaven thinks anymore, but there's still that little voice in his head, whispering, your side won't like it, every time he thinks about picking up the phone.

(7) I.e., Heaven.

There's that little voice in his head, whispering, you were wrong about Heaven, what else were you wrong about?

There's that little voice in his head, whispering, how can you trust him when you can't trust yourself?

Aziraphale wants to talk to Crowley. He wants very desperately to talk to him. And yet…

You can't do it, the little voice whispers, and Aziraphale admits with a sinking feeling that it's right.

Unfortunately (8) for him, patience has never been one of Crowley's virtues.

(8) Or perhaps fortunately, as it goes.

"You've been avoiding me," Crowley declares when he enters the bookshop, six days after their fight in the park.

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale replies, looking up at him and trying to ignore the fact that his heart is racing. His heart doesn't technically need to beat any more than his lungs need to breathe, of course, but it's become rather a habit, and he's noticed that his heartbeat tends to speed up when he's nervous, or when the little voice pipes up in his mind.

"You're avoiding me," Crowley repeats. "Look, did I do something?"

"No, of course not," Aziraphale replies automatically, because he didn't, this is all on Aziraphale.

"Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not!"

Crowley jabs a finger in the direction of Aziraphale's telephone, which is disconnected and has been for days, since Aziraphale decided he simply couldn't listen to it ring one more time. "You unplugged your bloody telephone. You've ignored all my calls. You wouldn't go to the theater with me. What the hell do you call that if not avoiding me?"

"It's not avoiding," Aziraphale protests desperately. "I've simply been busy!"

"Too busy to pick up the phone?" Crowley demands. "And don't try to tell me you didn't notice it ringing, because the stupid thing wouldn't be unplugged otherwise."

"Crowley-"

"Did I do something?" Crowley repeats. "And if I did, can you tell me what it was so I can fix it?"

"You didn't do anything," Aziraphale says. Get him out, the little voice in his head whispers, get him out- "Really, it was all a misunderstanding. I've simply been busy."

"Busy," Crowley repeats flatly.

"And I quite lost track of time," Aziraphale adds.

"Aziraphale" - and oh, it's not good if Crowley is using Aziraphale's name instead of calling him angel - "your bloody phone is off the hook."

"Silly me," Aziraphale says desperately. "I must have bumped into it at some point by accident."

"Would you stop lying to me?" Crowley demands, his voice increasing sharply in volume. "If you're so desperate to keep avoiding me, I can leave, but at least do me the decency of saying you want that."

"But I don't," Aziraphale says desperately.

"It sure looks like it!"

Aziraphale wrings his hands. He and Crowley rarely fight like this, and he hates it when they do. "It's just, my side-"

"You don't have a side-"

"I know!" Aziraphale yells, so loud it makes the nearby shelves tremble. "I know I don't, and I- I-"

The expression on Crowley's face has melted from anger to alarm, and Aziraphale realizes that he's crying. He doesn't think he's ever cried in front of Crowley before (9), and judging by the look on Crowley's face, Crowley would rather he never did. He tries to stop, he does, but his stupid tear ducts won't listen, and perhaps this corporation is defective, he ought to take it up with Adam, because it has that little voice and it won't stop crying-

(9) This, of course, does not mean that Aziraphale has never cried before. There was that business with the library in Alexandria, and more recently there was dear Oscar's trial and death, and of course there are dozens of other moments scattered over the six thousand years Aziraphale has been stationed on Earth. Crowley has never seen any of these moments, however, because in the past, Aziraphale has always been careful not to show them.

"Angel," Crowley says, sounding nervous, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

And it's so like Crowley, his unique mix of tenderness and brashness, that Aziraphale can't help but laugh. The laughing quickly turns to gasping sobs, and Crowley looks even more panicked.

"Did I say something?"

"No," Aziraphale manages, "no, no, I-"

"Do you," Crowley says uncertainty, "do you, I don't know, do you want..." Apparently unable to say the words aloud, he holds out his arms. And, well, Aziraphale would have preferred for their first hug to happen under better circumstances, but…

Your side won't like this, the little voice whispers, but for the first time, another voice replies, a voice that sounds a great deal like Crowley. You two are on your own side now, it says, and you don't need to worry about Heaven anymore.

And really, all of Aziraphale's worrying about whether or not he could trust Crowley was silly, because even when he couldn't trust anyone else - even when he couldn't trust himself - he could always trust him.

He steps into Crowley's arms and melts into his embrace, burying his face into Crowley's neck and trying very hard to stop crying so he doesn't soak through Crowley's jacket. It's a nice jacket, and it doesn't need a wet splotch like that, and it would so rude of Aziraphale to ruin Crowley's jacket by crying all over it-

Crowley wraps his arms tentatively around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale comes completely undone, sobbing into Crowley's shoulder without a single thought of restraint. Crowley doesn't flinch, just keeps holding him, his grip tightening until he's holding Aziraphale so tightly it feels like he's the only thing keeping Aziraphale from shattering into a thousand scattered pieces.

"It's alright," Crowley whispers into Aziraphale's hair. "It's alright, angel, I've got you."

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Aziraphale to regain control of himself, and even after he stops crying, he doesn't want to leave Crowley's embrace, doesn't want to step away and stand alone in the bookshop that's never felt quite this cold before. But he has to. He's imposed on Crowley more than enough as it is, and he shouldn't impose on him anymore. Slowly, Aziraphale lets go of Crowley, and when Crowley releases him in return, he takes a step backwards and tries not to feel too bereft.

"What the hell was that?" Crowley demands. He looks almost shaken. "Did something happen? Did someone from Heaven threaten you, or did someone from Hell, or-"

"No, no," Aziraphale quickly reassures him. "No, I simply…" He swallows. "I'm simply getting used to not having a side anymore."

It's a woeful understatement, but from the look on Crowley's face, it seems like he understands anyway. "But you do have a side," he says gently. "We're our own side. I'm your side, and you're mine. We don't need to worry about Heaven or Hell, we just need to worry about us."

"I'm afraid I've been doing rather a lot of worrying recently," Aziraphale admits.

Crowley's lips twitch just the tiniest bit, like he might be about to smile. "You always did think too much," he says. "Why don't you try sleeping for a change?"

"Sleeping?" Aziraphale repeats. "I don't need to sleep."

"No, but you might like it," Crowley replies. "And it might help calm you down. What do you say? Wanna give it a try?"

Evil never sleeps and Virtue is ever vigilant, but Aziraphale is so very tired. "Very well," he agrees. "How exactly do we do this?"

"It's not rocket science," Crowley says. "You just get into a bed and sleep."

"I don't think I have a bed," Aziraphale says with a frown.

"Mine is big enough for two," Crowley offers.

"Yours?" Aziraphale repeats. Crowley can't mean- Can he?

"You can sleep in my bed, if you want," Crowley says with an air of forced nonchalance. "Or you could" - he waves a hand - "miracle your own up. Whatever you like."

"Well," Aziraphale says with the feeling that he needs to tread very lightly, "I've never slept in a bed before, so I don't know if I would miracle it up properly."

"Would be a shame if you didn't," Crowley says.

"So I think your bed is probably best."

"If you're sure."

"I think I am."

"You think you are?"

"I am," Aziraphale says firmly. "I'm sure."

"Well," Crowley says, "if you're sure, we should head to my place now, I guess."

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, "I suppose we should."

Your side won't like it, the little voice whispers, but that voice doesn't mean anything, it's not right, it's just Aziraphale's fears and anxieties and he refuses to let them rule him any longer.

Crowley and I are our own side, he thinks firmly, and we both rather like this idea, so that'll be quite enough of that.

"Coming, angel?" Crowley asks, standing at the door.

Aziraphale looks up at him and finds himself smiling. "Just let me get my coat."

On the morning of the seventh day, Aziraphale wakes up in Crowley's bed. Crowley is next to him, already awake and playing with his smartphone, (10) but when he sees that Aziraphale's up, he sets the phone aside with something like a smile.

(10) Aziraphale has never understood what's so allegedly smart about the blasted devices; after all, he can never quite get them to work properly for him. Crowley, who may or may not have popped over to California a few years ago to help a certain Mr. Jobs with them, finds this hilarious.

"Well, angel? What did you think of sleep?"

"I think I enjoyed it," Aziraphale says, stretching and sitting up.

"Feel any calmer?" Crowley asks. He doesn't ask if Aziraphale is about to have another minor breakdown, but Aziraphale can hear the question anyway.

"A bit," he agrees. "I really was rather a mess last night, wasn't I?"

"We've all been there," Crowley dismisses easily. "You're better now, though?"

"Indeed," Aziraphale replies. "Thank you."

Crowley looks at him for a moment. "I suppose you can do that now," he muses. "My side can't complain about me helping an angel anymore."

The thought ignites a spark of panic in Aziraphale's gut - you don't have a side anymore, the little voice whispers, what will you do now? - but he stamps it out as quickly as possible. He does have a side, it's him and Crowley, and he rather likes that, thank you very much.

"What time is it?" Aziraphale asks, wondering whether to open up the bookshop today.

"Nearly noon," Crowley says. "You woke up just in time for lunch."

It's not quite an invitation, but it's close enough to one that Aziraphale understands Crowley's meaning. For a moment, he thinks about spinning an excuse - "I'm terribly sorry, but the sign with my hours says that the bookshop will be opening at noon today, and it would be a terrible business practice to go back on that" - and then he remembers that he doesn't need to do that anymore. He doesn't need to worry about how much time he spends with Crowley and how obvious that might be. He doesn't need to hide that from any peeping angels or demons. He doesn't need to worry about what their respective sides think, because they don't have respective sides anymore.

"We're our own side," Aziraphale whispers to himself, feeling a small smile spread across his face.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," Aziraphale says, looking up. "If it's lunchtime, shall I buy you something to eat? As a thank-you for letting me sleep in your bed."

Crowley grins a little. "A new curry place just opened up around the corner. Want to try it out?"

"Ooh, that sounds delicious," Aziraphale replies. He clambers out of bed and waves a hand to switch his pajamas (11) back into his normal clothes. "Shall we?"

(11) Tartan flannel, despite Crowley's best attempts at tempting him into something a little sleeker.

Crowley slides out of bed and snaps, changing his black silk pajamas into his usual jeans and jacket. "We shall."

And, well, Aziraphale knows this isn't going to be the end of it. One night of sleep isn't going to be enough to put an end to the existential anxiety that's been plaguing him since the world failed to end. He's been a mostly-obedient angel for six thousand years, and it'll take time for him to unlearn that. He's going to need to work through some things and work past some others, and that's not going to happen overnight.

But it will happen, he's certain of that, and Crowley will be there to support him if he needs it. And really, Aziraphale thinks all of this is worth it just because he won't have to hide how much that support means to him anymore.

"Coming, angel?" Crowley asks.

"Of course," Aziraphale replies, and he leaves Crowley's apartment with a smile on his face, his best friend at his side, and the serenity that comes from knowing that someday, everything will be alright, and if he's lucky, that day might come sooner rather than later.

And as Crowley grins at him, a quick flash of a smile that warms him from the inside out, Aziraphale rather thinks it will.