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Crowley was not jealous. After all, why would he be? He’d known Aziraphale for over six thousand years, there was absolutely no way some human could come between that. Not with their limited life spans.
And besides, It’s not even like Crowley had any claim to the angel. They weren’t together. Not officially.
Sure, there was the (somewhat obvious) fact that Crowley had been pining after him since… well, the Beginning, if he was being honest. And he didn’t think it was unrequited per se. Just. Nothing had happened yet between them. They saved the world, dined at the Ritz, and went to Aziraphale’s bookshop to get properly drunk.
Vaguely, Crowley remembers flirting. He thinks there could have even been a peck on the cheek. But once the two of them had sobered up (the human way, as unfortunately they got a bit too carried away to remember to do it properly) Crowley hadn’t brought it up, and nor had Aziraphale.
Crowley specifically avoided the subject, even.
So when a nice good-looking ‘customer’ started coming in and finding a familiar place with Aziraphale, Crowley absolutely couldn’t be jealous.
And yet. There it was: that feeling that crawled in his belly, causing his jaw to clench and eyes to narrow at the man whenever he waltzed his way into the bookshop.
Which is exactly what Crowley was doing just then. Usually, he was rather adept at scaring off costumers, and Aziraphale often appreciated it when he was around. But this one would get the message to back off his angel.
And Aziraphale wasn’t giving him it either.
The man – what was his name? Herold? Henry? – whoever he was, strolled into the bookshop with a smile, and Aziraphale greeted him pleasantly. Not at all with the usual offending nature, Crowley noticed, feeling downright grumpy.
There wasn’t any sign that Aziraphale wanted him to go, or even so much of a disapproving glance his way, but still, he found himself sulking into the back room instead of joining in. He made sure he could see (not because he cared if they got romantic… except maybe he did. He just didn’t want the human to do anything… untoward).
He heard Aziraphale gush excitedly about a book, and asking when the newest one might be, and very quickly Crowley started to realize he wasn’t a customer necessarily but a writer as well.
Something hot and vile sprang up in his chest. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that Aziraphale would occasionally become so enamored with an author\s work he would end up having some sort of… relation with the author.
In fact, Crowley still had not read a single word from Oscar Wilde to that very day, perhaps for a similar reason.
He wasn’t good at that. He couldn’t write, could barely say the words he meant elegantly on a good day, and even though he was certain of something between him and Aziraphale… what if it wasn’t enough? If he wasn’t enough?
The thought caused his hands to clench into fists, pressing hard enough that when he released them there were deep indentations in the skin. He could hear laughter, and his eyes stung. Why couldn’t it be that easy between them?
Why, after six thousand years did his own standing with the relationship still feel like it was balancing on a knife’s edge? As if he did one thing wrong or if some other person sauntered into Aziraphale’s life it could all teeter the wrong way, and there was some insecure part of him that was saying that could very well be now.
Crowley crept to the doorway, leaning out just enough so that he could glimpse the angel. His cheeks were rosy with a soft smile, eyes bright, and Crowley thought he was so blessed beautiful he might just discorporate.
He couldn’t stand it.
Too bad there was a very pretty lady walking by, the sun hitting her just right as she strolled by the window of the bookshop. The man who had been talking (flirting) with Aziraphale had no choice but to notice her and how much he suddenly needed to get her number, thanks to a little demonic temptation.
Something cold and demonic swept through the bookshop, not that any human would be able to tell the difference. But to an occult (or ethereal) being, it reeked of sulfur.
A true demonic temptation usually wasn’t Crowley’s style. He preferred just to cause situations which gave the choice for humans to do the wrong thing, not actually change their will. But drastic times called for drastic measures.
As the bell rang and the door swung shut, Aziraphale turned on his heel to where he knew the demon to be lurking.
“Really, Crowley,” he huffed. “What in heaven’s name was that for?”
Crowley rolled his eyes, although he knew they wouldn’t be seen underneath his glasses. “Clearly not in heaven’s name, angel,” he retorted. “Just a little temptation, is all, nothing too unusual. I am a demon, you know,” he grumbled and growled his words.
Aziraphale’s face pinched. “It’s rude, Crowley. And not much like you.” His words were short, and Crowley could tell that the angel was becoming annoyed. Well. Too bad, so was Crowley.
“Don’t see how that’s my problem,” he said, voice haughty and cold.
Aziraphale stepped closer, arms crossed. “If you won’t at least explain, much less apologize, I think it would be best if you left, dear.” His cheeks were tinted red slightly in anger.
Dear. Why did Aziraphale have to call him that if he barely bloody acted on it! He was a mess of jealousy and envy and all the sinful emotions Crowley hated himself for feeling churned inside of him, lapping up to spill over the surface.
“If anyone ssshould be flirting with you, angel, it’sss me, not him!” He snarled, teeth bared.
Aziraphale took a step back, face impassive, if a bit shocked.
Crowley blinked.
His expression of rage turned to one of shock, then regret, and something like embarrassment. “Fuck,” Crowley said, eloquent as ever.
“All that being true, it was still rude,” Aziraphale said quietly.
“M’ sorry, Aziraphale - wait. Ngh, What?” Crowley must be misunderstanding something. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting, so that was seeming extraordinarily plausible.
Looking him in the eye, Aziraphale spoke louder, although he wobbled on the words. “It should be you.”
In the blink of an eye, Crowley had slammed Aziraphale back against a bookshelf, the books teetering, dangerously close to falling over. He had the angel pinned, and not completely gently. A light pink brushed softly over Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he made no move to try and push Crowley off of him.
Crowley leaned in, close enough that they were sharing the same breath. He could smell Aziraphale - warm and comforting, and everything he wanted to be his. But he paused. ‘Angel, could I..?” Despite the rush of emotions he was feeling, he managed to make his voice soft, fragile with the ever-present fear of rejection.
One gets damn good at that after thousands of years of pining, yearning, wanting, after all.
Before he could manage to complete his soft request, Aziraphale leaning forward, pressing his soft lips to Crowley’s.
For a moment it was a soft, pure embrace as Crowley reeled from the feeling. His angel was kissing him, and it was perfect. Warm and loving and so much more than Crowley could have dared to think about just years prior.
But he needed more. Crowley bit down into Aziraphale’s soft bottom lip, a small gasp letting his tongue brush ever so slightly against his. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss and ignoring how his glasses knocked slightly into Aziraphale’s soft cheekbone.
The kiss was a hungry, desperate thing, and something Crowley thought might just go on forever if he didn’t feel lightheaded with the feeling. When he pulled away, both of them were breathing a bit heavier than before.
“You know, jealousy is a good look on you, I think,” Aziraphale admitted shily. “Although I can assure you, none of that is needed.”
Crowley mumbled a response, not quite audible, but presumably admitting he may have, in the slightest, overreacted. “I think the last bit might be needed again,” Crowley finally managed, pressing a kiss to his angel’s jaw.
“Oh, you wily thing,” Aziraphale said, fondness deep throughout his voice. “I don’t think I could tire of kissing you.”