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“Please,” Crowley’s voice cracks around the word, “Don’t cry.”
Aziraphale, from where he stands looking down at his desk, lets out a small gasp. With his cheeks wet, and his eyes rimmed red, he is more vulnerable than Crowley has ever seen him. For centuries, Aziraphale has pushed away his tears, so it is no wonder that they overwhelm him now with their sheer force. He shudders and trembles, his chest rising hard and fast.
“I-“ Aziraphale starts to say, but he chokes on it. He puts a palm on the centre of his chest and presses down as if he can push down whatever is escaping from inside of him.
Crowley wants to reach for him, but something keeps him frozen still. Perhaps it is the weight of the moment that makes him hesitate. The small space between them feels too wide, and the bookshop, though it is a home, is tense and heavy with the memory of last time they were here. There is no way to ignore what happened between them, no way to brush that day under the rug. None of their other arguments had been so final. An apology dance wouldn’t be enough to forgive such painful words, or such a rash kiss.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley says, gently.
He hovers by the sofa, uncertain. The tenderness of his voice is a touch of its own, but Aziraphale does not welcome it. He turns his face away and tries to swallow his tears, but he can’t, not now, and so he covers his face with his palms instead.
“Look, it’s over.” Crowley says. “You- We did it. It’s done. Heaven, hell- They won’t bother us again.”
Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley can’t see his expression, but he can see how Aziraphale’s shoulders shake, and hear his tiny, muffled whimpers. The sight of him like this makes Crowley's chest ache, and it is a dull, endless pain. No matter how much they hurt each other, Crowley doesn’t want to see Aziraphale suffer. It’s torturous. He wants to hold him, so closely and so tightly that Aziraphale can’t breathe, but that’s too much, too soon, and they haven’t touched since-
Since Crowley pulled him closer by his collar and kissed him like a fool.
But what a kiss it was. What a damn kiss. Even The Second Coming couldn’t distract Crowley from it. He’s been replaying it in his mind ever since, and it doesn’t fade, not even for a moment. He can recall in vivid detail the moment their lips touched, the press of Aziraphale’s palm against his back, the hot stirring in his chest-
“We won.” Crowley says, casting his thoughts away. A spark of hope alights inside of him at the sound of his own words. He tries to dampen it, but it flickers still. We won, we won, we won. “Just- don’t cry.”
If only there was a way to soften Aziraphale’s pain, to take some of it into himself. His ragged breaths are too much for Crowley to bear.
“Angel.” Crowley says, desperately now, “Breathe. Breathe."
But Aziraphale still weeps, still struggles for breath, and so Crowley surrenders. He can't think of another way to comfort Aziraphale, and so he pushes away his hesitance, his uncertainty, his fear of rejection, and strides to Aziraphale's desk. He pulls Aziraphale to his chest roughly, and the angel staggers against him, still and surprised. Trying not to shake, Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale's back, and holds him close. It is not in a demon's nature to be comforting, but he has to try. He has to.
"Breathe." Crowley says again, softer now. Aziraphale's face is pressed to his chest and already Crowley feels his shirt become wet with tears. "It's okay."
Crowley repeats it, over and over, presses his mouth to Aziraphale's soft hair and murmurs the words there. Slowly, slowly, the rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest becomes more steady. His breaths even out, and Crowley, relieved, loosens his grip a little.
"Better?" Crowley asks.
After a long moment, Aziraphale lifts his arms, and wraps them around Crowley's back. Crowley almost stumbles, surprised by Aziraphale's touch. He did not expect reciprocation, did not even think of it
"Thank you." Aziraphale mumbles into his chest, and Crowley hisses.
"Don't." He warns.
"Crowley." Aziraphale says, and is that almost a smile in his voice? "Really. Thank you."
Crowley's fury scalds him, makes him stiffen in Aziraphale's arms. Even now, after all that has happened, kind words anger him. It is his nature, after all, demon that he is. Still, still, it is relieving to hear Aziraphale's voice, to hear the tiny smile in his voice, and so he tries not to protest too sharply.
"Yeah, yeah." He grumbles, and then, "...You alright?"
When Aziraphale does not reply, Crowley pulls out of his grip to look at him. Aziraphale turns his face away, avoiding Crowley's eyes, but Crowley won't allow it, not now that he has seen the true extent of Aziraphale's pain. His fingers cup Aziraphale’s chin and turn his head, so that Aziraphale has no choice but to hold his gaze.
Those eyes, Crowley thinks. Always so blue, clear as the ocean or the sky, sweet and soft and intelligent and always warm, when they look at him. Now, they are so very sad, and Crowley searches them. How can I help you? He thinks. What can I do? He often wishes Aziraphale could read his mind. Perhaps it would have made the past six centuries easier, if he could.
"What's all this about, hm?" Crowley says. He tilts his head, keeps his fingers tight on Aziraphale's chin so he can't look away. "I've never seen you-"
Cry like this, Crowley doesn't say, feel like this. I've never seen you fall apart.
"Talk to me." Crowley says. "You can, you know. You could have all along."
Aziraphale's eyes flicker over his face.
"I, ah-" He swallows. His lip still wobbles, and his eyes still shine with tears. "I would not know where to even start."
When his eyes flicker away from Crowley's, Crowley lifts his chin slightly.
"Look at me." He says. "Start anywhere. The beginning, the end, whatever. Just talk to me, for once."
And then he blurts out, to his own surprise, a word he hardly ever says, a word he usually couldn't bear to speak,
"Please, angel."
Aziraphale's eyes widen. He nods, slightly, and Crowley feels a glimmer of relief.
"I, um, I-" Aziraphale takes a deep shuddering breath.
Crowley, against his nature, tries to be patient. He waits, and Aziraphale tries again.
"I just can't believe that I'm- here." The angel says. "I never thought I'd see this old bookshop again."
A tear slips down Aziraphale's cheek.
“And if we hadn't intervened-" Another tear, and another, "If the Metatron had won-"
"He didn't." Crowley cuts in. "He's gone, Aziraphale. It's over."
"But if he had." Aziraphale's voice is stronger now, sharper, "All of this would be gone. All of it. My books, London, our friends. You, Crowley. He almost- He almost-"
Aziraphale's tears overflow.
"He almost destroyed you. The Book of Life-"
"I'm fine." Crowley says, simply, "The Book of Life is destroyed. There was no war. No casualties. The Earth will keep turning, as it always does-"
"You're not listening." Aziraphale cuts in. "You don't understand. What I'm trying to say- What I mean- Is that you were almost erased from existence. I almost lost you, and I would never have been able to forgive myself-"
"But it wasn't your fault."
"Listen to me, you stubborn demon." Aziraphale says, and Crowley, startled, falls silent. "I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if I hadn't told you how much you meant to me, and how sorry I was for- Well, for everything."
Crowley blinks.
"I have spent so very long," Aziraphale's voice cracks. He presses his mouth together, composes himself, and continues, "I have spent millenia pushing you away, Crowley. Perhaps it was because I wanted to protect us, or perhaps, more selfishly, I wanted to pretend I was a better angel than I was. But no more."
"...What are you saying?" Crowley asks, carefully. He doesn't allow himself hope. The last time he indulged in hope, he was left alone while Aziraphale became Supreme Archangel. He has learned, over time, not to let hope in.
"I am saying," Aziraphale says, quieter now, "That I am tired, Crowley, and I am old, and I cannot continue living the way I have for so long, in such pain. I can't bear it."
It doesn't have to hurt, Crowley thinks. It can be easy. It can be simple. It can be just the two of us.
"I cannot help but weep, because if you had ceased to exist, and were erased from my memory," Aziraphale's voice is a teary whisper, now. His voice trembles around every word. "I don't think I could have ever been happy. I don't even know who I would be without you, Crowley."
His words tug at Crowley's chest. He looks at Aziraphale, wide-eyed, and that hope he has been pushing away becomes more persistent.
"You," Aziraphale struggles with his words, now, forces them out of his mouth, "You, ah, I-"
Aziraphale closes his eyes. His tears fall freely once more, though his eyes are closed, but he does not hide his face.
"I know." Crowley says, softly.
"Do you?" Aziraphale asks. He opens his eyes. "I'm not sure that you do."
"...Then tell me." Crowley says, and hope is everywhere now, pushing at the edges of him, biting at his skin. Please, please, please, he thinks.
"The last time we were here- Everything you said- It wasn't the right time." Aziraphale says, "But now, I-"
"There was never a right time." Crowley bites. "Not in 1941, not in 1967, not ever. It was always too fast for you, too much-"
"Crowley." Aziraphale cuts in. "I know, I'm sorry. But listen to me, please."
Crowley falls silent again. His hands are still warm on Aziraphale's cheek, and he sighs.
"Yeah." He says, "Yeah, okay."
Aziraphale attempts a smile
"As I was trying to say, before you rudely interrupted me..." He takes a breath, steels himself, and then speaks again, "I do want you. For eternity, if you will have me. I am only sorry that it took me so long to acknowledge it."
For once, Crowley does not interrupt. He stares at Aziraphale as if he has never seen him before. I do want you. I do want you. I do want you. The words ring over and over in his mind. For eternity, if you will have me. It is Crowley's turn to choke on his words, because what can he say to that? After 6000 years of tentative friendship being all he is offered, this is- Is everything. Everything he has longed for. He dared not hope for it, but here it is now, real and true.
How can he begin to respond?
"Crowley." Aziraphale says tearily. "I am so very sorry."
Crowley does not know what to say, not in such a precious moment, and so he raises his hands. He brushes the tears away from Aziraphale's cheeks with his thumbs, and their holiness burns his skin. It is a scalding pain, hot and sharp, but Crowley does not wince. His eyes are, against his better nature, gentle.
"Oh." He manages to say. "Ngk."
Aziraphale laughs, at that.
"Yes." He says, his voice thick with tears, "Yes, quite."
And then, with trembling hands, he pulls Crowley's face to him, and kisses him. He is so soft, so sweet, wet with tears and unbearably gentle. Crowley makes a noise in his throat. He never expected to feel the press of Aziraphale's mouth again.
When Aziraphale pulls away, his cheeks are pink and he is golden, golden, a glowing angel in Crowley's arms.
"Oh, please, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "Will you have me?"
What a ridiculous question, Crowley thinks, as if there could be any other answer.
"Idiot." He grumbles, "Come here."
And then he pulls Aziraphale closer into his arms, and kisses him, warm and deep, lets all the words he is not ready to say yet flow into his kiss. I've missed you, and don't leave me again, and most of all, I love you, I always have, I always will.
Aziraphale cries, through it all, and Crowley thinks it must be such a relief to weep like this, after so very long.
So when he feels his eyes prick and burn with tears, he doesn't blink them away. He doesn't tell himself, don't cry.
Let them fall, he thinks, instead, let me feel.