Sometimes things have sad endings. Sometimes things have happy endings. Sometimes whether an ending is happy or sad is entirely dependent on where the ending lands.
-/-
Crowley paced the length of his tower room, hands clasped behind his back, wringing, wringing, wringing- where was that blasted fairy? He should be here by now, why hadn't he made it yet? Was he stalling? Had he run into trouble? Had he taken a wrong turning in the tunnels, tried going down one of the offshoots? Crowley let out a guttural hiss and ran his hands through his hair. No, no, he couldn't think like that. Aziraphale was fine, he would make it in time- he had to make it in time.
He'd never forgive Crowley if he didn't.
Crowley spun sharply and went over to the window to gaze out at the sands, relief flooding him when he saw the figure approaching across his desert. His shoulders sagged with relief- Aziraphale was about ten minutes away, and he had eleven minutes left- he would make it in time, barring incident.
Hopefully there would be no incident. Part of Crowley wanted to smooth the sands down before him, but he didn't- couldn't. There were rules; he was allowed, nay, encouraged to cheat, but there were certain things that had to happen on their own, one way or another. He couldn't interfere with Aziraphale's path directly, that wouldn't be... Faer.
He let out a breath and spun once more on his heel, scooping up the boy on his way by. He shooed away his goblin attendant and turned to hurry up the steps to the tower roof, where the final confrontation would take place.
Hurry, Aziraphale, he thought. You're almost out of time.
-/-
The tower in the heart of the labyrinth sat in the middle of its own oasis, more greenery- and night-blooming flowers, glowing white in the moonlight. Aziraphale spared them an admiring glance, but barely that: he had only a minute or two left, no time to smell the flowers.
The door sprang up at his touch, and Aziraphale hurried in, the door at the base taking him to top room without bothering to wait between. Aziraphale was tempted to call foul play- much as he wanted to win, winning at the cost of the Rules could lead to worse things- but he'd seen no stairs in the room he'd glimpsed through the door before entering, and could only assume that this was a normal function of the tower.
Anyway, Crowley wasn't in the room. Only a spiral staircase off to one side suggested where he might be- Aziraphale took off at a run, time was running out- he took the stairs a few at a time, using his wings to at least give him some speed even if he couldn't fly -
-he burst through the door to the roof to find Crowley lounging on the rim of a large clock, Adam perched in his lap, held carefully in place by one hand. Aziraphale crossed the roof in a few strides, reaching them, reaching out, just as the second hand ticked over, just as the first of thirteen final grains of sand sank through the slot in the timer.
"He's here, angel," Crowley said, and the clock bonged once.
"Give him to me. Please," Aziraphale begged, and the clock bonged twice.
"It doesn't have to be this way. You could stay here. Stay with me." Three. Four.
"I can't. I have a life of my own." Five. "He has a family, his parents love him." Six.
"You could change their memories. Make them forget they ever had a child at all. Or leave them a replacement, isn't that what your lot do?" Seven. Eight. Nine.
"Please." Ten.
Crowley's face crumpled. Fell. Eleven. "Then say the words, angel." Twelve.
"You have no power over me," Aziraphale murmured.
Thirteen.
The world cracked.
Adam was gone. The clock was gone. The stars were falling; the tower was crumbling beneath him. The sky was going black, and Crowley looked like his heart was breaking alongside his world.
Aziraphale took a step forward, into Crowley's space, and looped a finger through the ridiculous shoe-string tie Crowley was wearing. Pulled him down so that he could ghost his lips on Crowley's ear.
"Breakfast is at eight, my dear," he said, barely audible over the crack of magical drama around him. "Feel free to arrive early, if you like."
He felt more than heard the hitch in Crowley's breath, and then darkness.
Aziraphale opened his eyes slowly to find himself once more in his kitchen. Adam was curled up asleep at his feet, and Aziraphale crumpled to the floor and scooped him up, clutching him close while relieved sobs wracked his body.
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-/-
When Deirdre and Arthur Young arrived home the next afternoon- a day early, but they'd spent most of the previous night feeling as though they needed to be with their son, and concluded that perhaps they weren't ready to leave him for an entire weekend after all- they found that Mr. Fell had a guest, a lanky-limbed man with fiery red hair and dark glasses shielding his eyes. He was sprawled out at the table in Mr. Fell's breakfast nook, the remains of tea spread around the table, and Adam sat on his knee.
Man and child appeared to be having a very serious conversation about- as near as they could guess- whales, but when Adam spotted his parents he babbled a delighted "Da da da da da!" and reached out for them eagerly. The man handed him over, albeit a bit reluctantly, and stared down at his fingers while Mr. Fell introduced him as his "new friend Mr. Crowley".
By the time the Youngs left, Deirdre had noticed the longing way Mr. Crowley looked at Mr. Fell when Mr. Fell wasn't looking, and Arthur had seen the way Mr. Fell kept casting fond little looks over to Mr. Crowley when Mr. Crowley was turned away, and both had decided that it was nice that Mr. Fell, who had always seemed so lonely in his big house without any family, had maybe found someone to love him.
-/-
Once his neighbors had left, Aziraphale magicked away the tea things rather than clear them himself, and then snap of his fingers summoned a pair of wine glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Not fairy wine, I'm afraid," he said. "But it's a good vintage."
"S'all right, I don't feel like getting proper drunk right now anyway." Crowley watched as Aziraphale poured the wine, then took the offered glass and, once Aziraphale had sat as well, offered a toast. "To... new friends?"
"To new friends," Aziraphale agreed, toasting with him. "To finding each other."
"To incompetence!" Crowley said, and barked a laugh. "Can you imagine if we'd been good at our, you know, jobs, I guess?"
"You mean, if you'd noticed I was a fairy or I'd noticed your city in my backyard."
"Yeah."
Aziraphale considered this, and had to concede it was a good point.
"Can I ask you something?" Crowley asked, after a few moments of comfortable silence, and at Aziraphale's affirmative hum, "If you were just going to invite me for breakfast, why did you put me through the whole pining and longing thing?"
Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully at that. He took another sip of his wine, considering, and finally said, "I had the idea fairly early on- it occurred to me that I didn't want you out of my life once I had Adam back. But I couldn't say anything until I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That you would let us go without a fight."
"Of course I was going to let you go without a fight."
"Mm, yes. I figured that out eventually- I think that's what your labyrinth was trying to tell me. Why it kept showing me all of the people who belonged there."
"I thought you said it was showing you that the place was real?"
"That's what I assumed, before you told me what you did..." He trailed off. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to bring it up, but Crowley just gave him a weak, pained smile.
"It's not that I don't like being a goblin king. I can do magic and I'm immortal and I don't have to be bound by human laws- but-"
"But no one ever came for you," Aziraphale said softly. "Yes."
Crowley nodded, slumping a little. "I don't want to be human or have not been taken or anything. It'd just be nice to think that my parents wanted me back, that's all."
They fell silent again, Aziraphale not quite sure how to answer, and in the interest of changing the subject, Crowley asked, "So what would you have done if I hadn't let you go without a fight?"
Rather than answer, Aziraphale set his wine down and stood, disappearing into the kitchen. Before Crowley had much time to wonder, he had returned with the bag he'd carried throughout the labyrinth. Crowley had wondered what was in it, and kept expecting it to see it at every turn, and now he set his wine down to lean forward while Aziraphale unclasped the latches and took out a long, thin bundle wrapped in cloth and set it on the table.
"Don't touch it," Aziraphale said, when Crowley reached out curiously. He unfolded the cloth wrapping, revealing a sword. It was a nicely made sword, more interested in being usable than being ornamental, and even with the space between them the blade rubbed against Crowley's senses in a way that made him want it as far from him as possible.
Despite the warning, he reached out an experimental finger, and then yanked his hand away with a hiss as it burned to the touch.
"That's an iron-bladed sword," he said, incredulous, and sucked on the end of his finger where it still sizzled a little. "You brought an iron-bladed sword into my city?"
"You stole my godson," Aziraphale reminded him, rebinding the sword with slightly twitchy hands. The cloth must be magical, then; as soon as the blade was wrapped the influence of iron was muffled and now barely noticeable. A wave of his hand, and the sword was gone.
Crowley sat back in his chair, wine back in his hand, and took a long drink. Well then.
All right then.
"You never used it."
"I never felt the need to."
Aziraphale took his seat back, this time sitting closer to Crowley than before, and reached over to rest his hand over the goblin's, and smiled. Crowley's eyes widened-
-he turned his hand to lace their fingers together, and smiled back.
-/-