at last.

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Once Crowley's breathing slowed signaling he was fully asleep, Aziraphale cautiously stands, not wanting to wake him, and goes to his desk. He opens the top drawer. He finds the paper.

And he looks over all of the hundred or so crossed out names, also letting his eyes fall lovingly around the few still there. Like Madam Tracy, the nice old lady he sheltered in his shop for a few days back in the 50s, the members from the discreet dance club, and even Shakespeare.

But then, he picks up a pen. And at the very bottom of the list, he writes: Anthony J. Crowley, with the tiniest heart next to his name.

After a moment of staring lovingly at the new letters on the page, he straightens and looks over his shoulder at the sleeping fallen angel, thinking of all the pain Crowley's been through; thinking of all the ways he was determined to rid his partner of it. "You are so loved." he whispers, ready for this new chapter of their existence. Ready for eternity, now that they have one another.

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