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Aziraphale paced around the back room of the bookshop, unable to decide what to do with his hands. He wasn't sure why he was so out of sorts, after all today had been a fairly successful day. Both he and Crowley had managed to outsmart their respective superiors, dodge an execution or two, and topped it off with a spot of food at the Ritz. A good day by anyone's standards, really. Crowley had walked him back to the bookshop as streetlights flickered to life above them, and then...
Well, that was just it, wasn't it? And then Aziraphale had said, "Alright then, have a good evening, dear boy. I expect I'll see you shortly." The words had spilled out of him involuntarily; a reflex, a millennia-old habit that kept the demon from getting too close (or really, kept Aziraphale from getting too close to the demon, if he was being honest with himself. Which he rarely was). Crowley had opened his mouth, eyebrows reaching towards his hairline, and stuttered out a wobbly "er, sure, okay then" before Aziraphale hastily retreated into the safety of the bookshop, where he was now wearing a track into the wooden floor with his aforementioned pacing.
Of course, now that he was thinking about it, what he would have liked to have said was, "Crowley, my dear, won't you please come in for a drink, I do so enjoy your company, oh and I have also been in love with you for quite some time, please would you stay the night?" On reflection, that might also have been an excruciatingly embarrassing thing to have said. Perhaps just the first bit, then. Crowley would have undoubtedly agreed to that, and they could have been sitting on the sofa in his back room right now, pleasantly sloshed and laughing over their shared accomplishments from the last 48 hours. After all, Crowley had looked somewhat crestfallen when Aziraphale had scurried away like a frightened mouse, hadn't he? Or maybe he was making that up, maybe he'd only seen it because he wanted to see it. Projection, humans called that.
Aziraphale decided to sit down at his desk, hoping that if his body was no longer moving, then his brain might stop going a mile a minute. He dropped himself rather unceremoniously into the chair. In an attempt to turn his mind to absolutely anything else, he straightened his back and began fiddling with some loose papers he'd left strewn about on the workspace, but it was no use. He gave up the pretense almost immediately and let out a tremendous sigh, collapsing his head onto folded arms as he deflated entirely.
It wasn't like he hadn't mucked it up with Crowley before. This certainly had nothing on that dreadful holy water debacle back in the 1860s (best not think about that particular shambles right now). Somehow, though, this felt different. Things were different. They'd managed to break free of the chains of Heaven and Hell, were on their own side now. All the previously established rules had been set on fire and thrown out a window. Stamped on a few times for good measure. If Crowley had come inside, who knows what could have happened? Maybe their legs would have brushed together, and he wouldn't have pulled away like he'd touched a boiling pot. Maybe Crowley would have made a joke, and Aziraphale would have giggled and leaned into his side, lingering longer than was strictly necessary.
A manic peal of laughter burst out of him. Even in his fantasies of all the new possibilities that presented themselves now that they'd dispensed with celestial and infernal threats, the bravest he could get was accidental touching. Crowley had been willing to whisk him light years away just to ensure they could stay together, and he couldn't even ask him in for a tipple after they'd escaped certain bloody death. The angels had really done a number on him, hadn't they. Too terrified to ever ask for what he wanted, lest he face divine wrath. Aziraphale let out a frustrated groan. Actually if he thought about it, he was, quite frankly, downright livid about the entire thing. He gathered himself up in the creaky old chair and balled up his hands into fists.
And what exactly was he going to do now? Fling himself at Crowley's door and profess his unyielding love like something out of a Jane Austen novel? Preposterous. Yes, outrageous, he thought as his legs carried him from the desk towards the front door of the bookshop. Just entirely bonkers, he mused as he shrugged into his aging overcoat. Absolutely stark raving mad, he postulated as he stepped out into the crisp night air.
And just like that, he suddenly found himself walking the affluent streets of Mayfair.
It wasn't long before Aziraphale was staring down the imposing black door of Crowley's flat. He stood awkwardly in the coldly lit corridor of the flat block, surrounded by angular shadows criss-crossing the stark white walls. He reached out a shaky hand to the doorknob, but stopped short. Wouldn't it be awfully rude to just waltz into Crowley's flat unannounced at whatever hour this was?
Well, Crowley barged into the bookshop whenever he felt like it.
Yes, and Crowley was very rude.
Aziraphale sighed. No, he wasn't rude, he was always welcome to swan into the bookshop whenever he pleased. There would never be a day that Aziraphale was put out by the sight of Crowley turning up at his bookshop. Alright, alright, back to the task at hand.
He decided that the proper thing to do would be to knock politely.
No answer.
He tried again, a little louder.
Nothing.
"Crowley?"
There was the sound of shuffling, something scuffing the floor, and then the door opened.
"Aziraphale? Is everything alright?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth with every intention of starting a conversation, but found himself very distracted by the somewhat disheveled Crowley that was now filling up the space in the doorway. His glasses had been pushed up on top of his head and tufts of hair poked out in several directions. The black shirt hanging off of him had been unbuttoned to halfway down his torso, revealing a delicious strip of pale skin. A wave of heat rolled up Aziraphale's neck and crashed across his cheeks. Oh bugger, this was quite embarrassing.
"Aziraphale?"
Crowley had twisted at the waist to try and catch his line of sight. Aziraphale startled and looked into Crowley's eyes; his uncovered, golden, beautiful, soulful...
"Are. You. Alright?" he repeated slowly, worry mingling with irritation in his voice.
Aziraphale gawked at him, bug-eyed, and finally his blasted corporation seemed to remember how to speak.
"Oh, yes, quite alright. Splendid. Absolutely tip-top."
Concern evaporated from Crowley's face, leaving exasperation to crystalize on his features.
"Then why are you pounding on my bloody door?"
Alright, this is it. Time for that declaration.
For the second time in short succession, Aziraphale's brain forgot how to speak. Perhaps he should have prepared something on the way over. Really this was most ridiculous, he'd spent the last two-hundred-odd years surrounded by words, and now he was scrabbling to cobble together a single sentence. Well, why not just go for some of the classics?
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
No, that one's a rather tired cliche these days.
You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
Good lord no, don't think Crowley would appreciate an actual Jane Austen declaration of love.
You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.
Oh, now really...
"May I come in?" his mouth said on autopilot.
Crowley glowered at him, mouth agape, before moving to the side, allowing Aziraphale to shuffle past into the dark lair of his flat.
"Angel," Crowley started before making a strangled noise in his throat. "What... Is this important? I was about to get some sleep."
Aziraphale turned round to see him slouched against the closed door. Oh, of course he was about to go to bed, after the day they'd had. Aziraphale shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with himself now that he'd made it this far. A prickling anxiety crept up his abdomen like ivy on a wall.
"Fancy a drink?" his stupid mouth asked.
Crowley dragged a hand down his face before pushing his lithe body off the door, and trudged towards Aziraphale.
"Always fancy a drink," he muttered.
He moved past Aziraphale, close enough that he could smell his distinctive cologne wafting delightfully in the air, setting Aziraphale's heart fluttering against his ribs. Crowley stalked into what just about passed as a living room, with Aziraphale in his wake. The demon pulled his glasses off his head and sent them clattering onto a side table. A very large and very modern looking coffee table sat in the middle of the room, home to a bottle of merlot that Crowley had apparently already left out to breathe.
"Thought you were heading to bed," Aziraphale said in a desperate attempt at light-hearted banter.
"It's called a nightcap, Aziraphale," Crowley replied flatly as he conjured up two glasses and filled them with wine.
Yes, that rather went down like a lead balloon. Aziraphale took one of the glasses, paying careful attention to not allow his fingers to graze any of Crowley's, no matter how enticingly close those elegant hands of his were. He sat down on Crowley's leather sofa, all sharp edges and no give. He tried to make himself comfortable, giving himself a little wiggle but it just wasn't quite the plush old thing he kept in the bookshop.
"Not really all that cozy, is it?" he said, trying levity again.
Crowley huffed down onto the opposite end of sofa. He looked into his glass before taking a sip.
"Did you come here just to insult my furniture, or was there something else?"
Aziraphale laughed, except it stuck in his throat and sounded more like a strangled cough. He glanced down at the wine glass in his hand and rubbed the rim absentmindedly with his thumb. Wine, yes. He took a gulp (how terribly uncouth) before he realised what an awful idea that was. Did he really want to be drunk for this? No, that wouldn't do. He set the wine glass down on the coffee table and clasped his hands on his lap. Crowley had been watching his every move.
"Don't like it?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Oh, no, it's quite lovely," Aziraphale said, rearranging his hands. He took a breath.
"Crowley..." he started. "I... ah... hm."
Well wasn't he just quite the wordsmith tonight. He grasped at his thoughts, any thought really, but came back empty-handed. Crowley was growing more suspicious by the second, and finally Aziraphale's old reliable habits took the controls.
"Ah, well, look at the time, eh?" he said glancing down at his watchless wrist.
Aziraphale stumbled to his feet, having apparently decided the best course of action was to simply leave before anything regrettable happened, although it was already too late for that, really. He could hear Crowley making some noises of protest behind him.
"What? Oi, angel... Oi!"
Aziraphale froze as Crowley's hand clamped down on his wrist. He whirled round to see Crowley standing there, only an arm's length away with a look of confused annoyance on his face. Aziraphale's eyes zeroed in on the point of contact, skin aflame underneath his cotton shirt. Crowley snapped his arm back as though scolded, flexing his hand a few times before it settled at his side.
"Come on then, out with it. What's bothering you?"
Aziraphale's chest was filling up with something; affection perhaps, or nerves. Likely a dreadful combination of the two. He met Crowley's incredulous stare, and there was a pang of heartache as he remembered the first time he ever looked into those curious eyes on the Garden wall. He swallowed down on the hard lump in his throat. Now's the time. Be brave, for once.
"Crowley, I... Wanted to rectify, ah... Well, earlier I was very hasty, and... What I had actually wanted was..."
Well, this was going swimmingly. Yet again, he was completely lost for words. But of course he was. What words could possibly explain how he felt about Crowley? There existed not a single language with the vocabulary required to fully capture the breadth of his emotion. This whole venture was doomed from the start. Perhaps he needed to switch to more direct forms of communication. There was always...
No, that would be a bad idea.
But not anymore? Of course, he'd thought about it over the centuries, but...
Well... Maybe, but...
Oh, fuck it.
Aziraphale took a step closer to Crowley, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pressed a kiss onto his lips.
For several blissful seconds, the world consisted of little else other than Crowley, Aziraphale, and the thunderous pounding of his heart in his own ears. When he pulled back, Crowley was standing completely, silently still, eyes wide and slightly panicked. A cold stone of dread started weighing down Aziraphale's stomach.
"Well, I'll be off then," Aziraphale said. He was aiming for cheery, but the tremor and pitch of his voice gave it a more frenzied note.
He made to leave once again, but Crowley gripped his shoulder with surprising strength.
"You... You what?? Angel, you... You complete... you utter... fucking idiot."
Before Aziraphale had the chance to protest his idiocy (which, on reflection, was quite hard to deny at this stage), Crowley had pulled him into his arms and was kissing him.
Crowley was kissing him.
Passionately. Desperately.
The contact of Crowley's mouth sent a cold shock through his entire body, lighting up every nerve ending, raising every single hair. All the mounting tension melted off him as Crowley pushed a hand into the small of his back, it faded to nothing as Crowley deepened the kiss, frantic and fierce and full of want. Thousands of years of fear shedding away, leaving this new, vulnerable thing exposed. Aziraphale reached his arms up to wrap around Crowley's neck, afraid that this whole thing might be lost in the ether if he didn't hold it down. A few seconds later they parted lips.
"Oh," Aziraphale breathed.
Crowley's eyebrows started climbing his forehead.
"Oh?" he asked, unable to hide the growing mirth in his voice. "Oh?? I sweep you off your feet, and all you can say is sodding oh?"
"Well, you certainly think a lot of your romantic abilities," Aziraphale replied with a chuckle. But it was no use denying it; if he looked as flushed as he felt, Crowley knew exactly the effect he'd had on him.
"Oh, shut up," Crowley said, trying his best to smirk. His eyes were wet and sparkling, and Aziraphale realised that his own face was rather damp.
They stood in silence for a few short moments, still wrapped up in each other's arms. Aziraphale slid his hands from the back of Crowley's neck down to his shoulders, fingers gliding over the silk shirt and learning every slope and incline of muscle and bone.
"Stay?" Crowley asked in a small voice. Aziraphale felt his heart crack open. When was the last time he'd seen Crowley this unguarded?
"Of course," Aziraphale said, his own voice raw with uncut emotion.
"And... take your bloody coat off."
Aziraphale chuckled and touched his forehead to Crowley's collarbone, the cool skin a salve against his own blushing face. He could hear Crowley's heart and took solace in the fact that it was thumping as hard as his own.
And so it was that Aziraphale at last found himself sitting on a sofa next to his oldest, dearest friend, drinking good wine and reflecting on the events of the last few days. Their legs jostled together, testing the fragile new ground of their post-apocalyptic relationship, as Crowley began enthusiastically regaling him with another story about the incredible feats performed by the Bentley. Aziraphale leaned into his side, resting his cheek on Crowley's shoulder, and felt braver than he had done for a very long time.