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They are walking to the bookshop from the Ritz for a well-deserved nightcap, side by side, their fingers brushing, and suddenly Crowley is overwhelmed by that rush of boldness that comes from an intent, absorbing sense of security. It is dizzying, and simply lacing their fingers together isn’t enough to steady himself, he needs to pull Aziraphale close and kiss him because now they are free.
But, judging by Aziraphale’s lack of response and shocked expression, maybe, maybe Crowley should have consulted him first before going too fast. In his growing panic, he opts for an other F-word and goes for ‘flippant’ (which might be just one step away from ‘fuck-up’).
“What? Can’t I kiss my husband?”
Now Aziraphale’s eyes are big as saucers, and when he asks “What husband?”, Crowley wants to faint dramatically (and it’s definitely, definitely the last F-worded option before ‘fatalic fuck-up’). His sense of security pops like a soap bubble and ice cold horror is filling his veins, because either Heaven and Hell got their hands on Aziraphale and brainwashed him, or, and it might be even worse, Aziraphale meant every angry word at the bandstand and divorced him.
“We’ve been married for a thousand years, you can’t—”
You can’t end it with a single “I don’t even like you”, he wants to say, but Aziraphale interrupts him,
“Crowley. We’ve never been married.”
and Crowley realises that there might be communications issues lurking around. The situation calls for big words (preferably starting with F).
“Ngk.”
Or not.
In retrospect, Crowley should have been more specific. 'It’d be easier if we both stayed at home.' wasn’t a very romantic proposal, he realised that back then, in the middle of his silent brooding after Aziraphale’s rejection. Since getting down on one knee wasn’t an option (certainly not in that armour and not in that mud), at least he should have worded it better. But then Aziraphale turned up after all, ready to enter the Arrangement—Crowley found it a clever code name—, and it all seemed to work out just fine.
Of course, Crowley wouldn’t have minded some kissing and hand-holding, but he knew that after their first kiss, he could never stop. He would have been stealing kisses and secretly interlacing their fingers, and with such a reckless creature like him involved, it would have only led to getting caught by Heaven or Hell. Or both. Communicating affection through words? Abso-fucking-lutely out of the question. Walls have ears and ducks have ears, not to mention sneaky ethereal or occult beings.
Thus, their relationship became a chain of implications. Crowley implied himself into Aziraphale’s life in the Garden of Eden, and then Aziraphale asked him out on a date in Rome— well, it was more of a suggestion than an actual date invitation, but it successfully founded the secretive language of their love.
And now those foundations were crumbling faster than the walls of Jericho.
“Angel,” Crowley croaks, “who do you think we’re then? To each other, I mean.”
It comes out surprisingly collected for the state he is in, but it only earns a confused (and slightly worried) frown from Aziraphale.
“I don’t understand. If this is about what I said at the—”
“No, it’s— Hng. Please. Just tell me, okay? What do you think. Of us.”
Aziraphale seems to concentrate on choosing his next words very carefully. “Well, you’re my best friend.” But these aren’t the words Crowley wanted to hear. “Obviously.”
“Right. Obviously.”
This is bad. No, not just bad, it lives in the neighbourhood of ‘terrible’, and probably shares a flat with ‘absolutely awful’.
“Look, about what I said—”
“It’s not about what you said,” Crowley says in a defeated tone because it’s all about what they didn’t say, really. And maybe, in Aziraphale’s case, what he didn’t feel.
He has to close his eyes, because hotter-than-hellfire tears are threatening to spill and he’d rather take a holy water shower than cry in front of his angel. Again. (Could he be any more pathetic?) Or, he supposes, the angel, and this thought prompts a new kind of pain to wash over him. During his long and quite immortal life Crowley has lost many things but until today he didn’t know he could lose something he had never had.
Tears are falling now, stupid salty water from his traitorous demonic eyes, and all Crowley wants to do is to drop on the spot and have a century-long nap. Make it half a millennia, just in case.
“Crowley, darling.” A soft thumb is brushing away the tears but it only makes him want to cry harder. “I’m afraid I’m quite dense. One would think I’d be better at understanding you after so many years.”
A hand cups his face, and, with herculean effort, Crowley orders his eyes to stop spilling unnecessary fluids and opens them. Aziraphale is standing very close to him; his face is a mixture of sorrow, remorse, affection, and hope.
“It was the Arrangement, wasn’t it?” Maybe they shouldn’t have this conversation in the middle of Brewer Street, but Aziraphale’s voice is mesmerisingly tender and Crowley feels rooted to the pavement. “When we held hands and vowed to work together for better for worse.”
Crowley slowly nods; it is the shadow of wanting to bang his head against something hard, preferably a wall or at least a very old oak. Making things better or worse is literally in their job description. He is the biggest idiot in the universe—a pathetic, delusional, idiotic demon who believed that an angel could love him back.
“Is it a good marriage?”
This is the last question Crowley wants to answer now but how could he refuse Aziraphale’s pleading look? So he thinks of ‘fraternizing’ and ‘You go too fast for me.’ , thinks of all the times he wanted to kiss his angel so badly he nearly gave into temptation, thinks of every smile, thinks of every time his name was uttered with unspeakable affection, and nods again.
“Bloody fantastic,” he whispers. “Fucking perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“Ngk. I would have preferred more touching, maybe some kissing but— Still. Perfect,” Crowley admits because what does it matter now, humiliating himself just a little more?
“I’m so sorry, my dear. I should have paid more attention to you.” Aziraphale is drawing gentle circles on Crowley’s cheek with his thumb, slowly turning his mind into mush and making it difficult for him to understand his words—but then they hit him, and Crowley realises that the conversation took a turn for the hopeful. “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”
What kind of question is that now? He is not sure he can forgive himself, not that it matters, but Aziraphale could do the worst and cruelest things to him and he’d still forgive him. Obviously. Where are they going with all of this?
Aziraphale must see Crowley’s turbulent emotions reflected on his face (the sunglasses are doing a poor job of saving the last crumbs of his dignity), because he quickly clarifies,
“I love you, Crowley, with my whole being, and if you accept me, I’d love to continue to be married to you.” He looks wonderfully flustered when he adds, “With much more touching.”
“How much?”
“Well, for a start, our first kiss was far too short.” Aziraphale brushes Crowley’s lips with his thumb, and both of them shiver at the contact. “I’d like to kiss you for a significantly longer period—after all, we have to make up for a lot of time.”
“Fifteen years long enough for you?” Crowley leans closer, inhaling his angel’s scent. “For a start, I mean.”
In the end, their second first kiss doesn’t last fifteen years. There is just too much left to say, to touch, to taste, to hear, to express, and since now they are free to do so, they want to do everything at the same time.
But their marriage will last for eternity and that should be enough time to clear up a thing or two. Even for them.