To say that it had been a close call was probably very much understating the case, but then, Aziraphale didn't like to dwell on these things. The Nazis were dead, neither he nor Crowley had gotten discorporated, and the books were...the books were quite safe, in the leather case he clutched in his lap as they careened through the dark streets of London. He'd had occasion, in the decades since automobiles became popular, to ride with Crowley before now, and to say that he drove like a madman was probably also understating the case, but tonight Aziraphale didn't berate him. Actually, he wasn't paying very much attention to the road at all. His thoughts were back in the church. The operatives he'd thought were on his side were obviously very much not, but they were dead now, so need to worry about them; only he supposed someone ought to warn Intelligence, and as he was the only one left it would have to be him. He ought to go to Whitehall tomorrow...but his plans kept slipping from his mind as he returned to the moment Crowley had arrived, dancing down the aisle like someone hopping across hot coals. A demon coming onto consecrated ground--it had to be absolutely unheard of. Certainly Aziraphale had never heard of it. But Crowley had. Rescued him from an untimely bullet and the arduous, bureaucratic mess of getting himself issued a new body, and in the midst of all of that, even when Aziraphale himself had forgotten, saved his books, his books, those precious volumes that would be virtually irreplaceable...why?
He couldn't seem to make sense of it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. It was so extraordinarily kind, so unexpected, and when Aziraphale thought of their various Arrangements, their snipes and spats over the years, none of it seemed to matter right at that moment as much as what had just happened. He stole glances at Crowley as they drove, opening his mouth several times to speak and then closing it again without a notion of what he wanted to say. Everything he might have said was a jumble, an entirely confusing mess of half-formed feelings and ideas. All he really knew was that looking at Crowley just then kept making him feel unaccountably breathless, particularly for an entity that had no real need to breathe, and so he mostly kept his gaze on the dark streets and buildings they passed, windows blackened to hide any hint of light within, as they headed into Soho.
When at last the car stopped, idling at the street corner outside the bookshop, Aziraphale found it was difficult to make himself move. "Well," he said after a pause, fingers smoothing over the leather handles of his case. Darting a swift look at Crowley, he went on, "You're welcome to come in, if you'd like." He paused again, but briefly; yes, this was what he wanted. He very much wanted Crowley to say yes. "I'm sure I've got a bottle of something nice upstairs. And it's been some time since we caught up."
"Could use a nip," Crowley admitted, drumming his fingers on the wheel of the Bentley, too casually, the sort of casual that meant you weren't casual at all. It had been too close a thing, and his nerves were jangling still. A moment later from hesitation or cowardice, and... well, it didn't bear thinking on. At least not actively. He didn't have much choice where his mind went when it came to the safety of his partner in the Arrangement; it got away from him more often than he would ever admit to. "My feet will be blessed aching for hours, could use something to take out the sting. Let's go, angel." He slipped out of the car and stuck his hands in his pockets as he strode ahead, waiting for Aziraphale to catch up with him.
Of course. He hadn't even thought of that, how Crowley must still be feeling the effects of being on consecrated. He'd seemed so...so breezy when they'd left, handing over the case with his books and offering a lift home with barely a glance, that Aziraphale had failed to imagine that he might be in any sort of pain after the church had been blown to thorough smithereens. He fumbled his way out of the car, taking a few extra moments between trying to hang onto the case and open the car door at the same time, several moments, in fact, after Crowley had slid out, and it certainly wasn't his most graceful moment. Huffing briefly once he stood on the curb, a little red-cheeked, Aziraphale wondered why on earth that should matter. "Yes, very good."
The bolts and locks sprang open to the touch of his hand, and he stood back to let Crowley in ahead of him and then stepped in after, lamps lighting at his entrance. "Please--please, have a seat." Upstairs was more figurative than literal, as Aziraphale didn't exactly have much living space in the bookshop, but there were at least a few cozy armchairs, maybe even a settee from time to time.
Crowley obviously knew his way around the bookshop well enough by now, so made his way to a seat with ease and made an effort to relax. "I'm tired of Nazis," he declared, gesturing impatiently. "Taking over the world's all well and good, we can't stand on moral or demonic principle on that one, considering, but they're bombing perfectly good jazzhalls, Aziraphale. That really should be the tip-off to the head office that none of this was my idea, but do they check? No, they just send up the commendation."
He glanced around to Aziraphale. "But if it's big and it works, they think, has to be Crowley. It's one thing to have a reputation, but." He pulled a face. "Nazis. I have better ideas than Nazis. All this to say," he finished grandly, "my side had nothing to do with all that."
While Crowley settled himself, Aziraphale set the leather case down on his desk and opened it with a certain air of reverence. All of the books he had tied up in a bundle earlier that evening were there, the Nixon, the Shipwell, the Binns, his priceless first editions. He lifted them out one by one and carried them back to their proper places in the bookshop, running his fingertips over the bindings rather like someone might stroke a favorite pet. It was so good to have them back where they belonged.
He turned back to Crowley when he was done. "It was uncharitable of me to assume your side was involved," he agreed, and about to leave it at that, he paused and thought better of it. "No, it was unkind of me to assume you were involved," Aziraphale amended quietly. "It is indeed a nasty business. Not at all your, er, style." Glancing around, he reached for an ottoman that may or may not have been there a moment ago, and pushed it over to the settee where Crowley was reclining. "Why don't you put your feet up on that, dear fellow, and I'll see about that drink."
Crowley popped his feet up and considered Aziraphale for a moment. "Have to say," he said, musing, "Principality Aziraphale, OSS, it's a good look. Surprised me when I heard word come 'round." He leaned his head back. "My favorite part's when you show that bit of tough you've got, 'cos I know you've got it."
Mostly, it was to rile him up. Mostly. But, as was frustratingly usual, it was based in genuine sincerity, which was one of those things that he probably should've been working to stamp out. He couldn't. He liked the look on Aziraphale's face far too much.
"What?" Aziraphale was afraid he rather squawked the word. "I don't have any bits of tough! I--I--" Actually, he might have been the slightest bit flattered. A demon, considering him a tough, who would ever think it? The phrase played for suckers flashed through his mind again--he'd gotten it out of some American pop novel, and he'd been rather pleased to find a place to use it that night. Yes, it was rather cracking, getting to play a secret operative. "Ridiculous thought," he added, firmly trying to convince himself of the same.
He decided this night called for hard liquor, and got out a very nice scotch blend, a Dalmore he'd been saving for special occasions. "Anyway, I am sorry you had to come into a church," he said, because if Crowley wouldn't let him thank him properly at least he could still apologize. "Are you in any pain? Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, don't fuss," Crowley chided, though the attention, as usual, was flattering, and all demons had their vanity. "A drink, that's all I'm asking." He contemplated Aziraphale, then spoke up before the angel could. "Thought about sleeping this whole thing out. It can't take more than a few more years, can it?" Of course, he rejected the thought nearly as it came out of his mouth; Aziraphale was going to get himself involved again and again, because humanity was being monstrous and the angel couldn't help but get into the middle, and Crowley couldn't well let him get cornered in situations that polite conversation and a hasty miracle couldn't solve. Still, ignoring a human conflict was a good and demonly thing to do, so he let the comment stand for a moment before adding, "'Course, there's lots to do on the ground in times like these, told the head office as much myself. I might as well... stick it out. Keep my finger on the scale. Balance against all that good you're doing. Drink here now and again."
"Yes, of course. Coming right up." Aziraphale fetched a pair of glasses. Heavy crystal, they were, with a beautiful glitter as he turned them in the light; he did love beautiful things. Pouring a measure of the Dalmore into each glass, he turned to Crowley, about ask again if he was sure this was all he needed when Crowley spoke up once more. Aziraphale kept silent, handing over the glass and moving around the ottoman to sit down gingerly on the settee next to him. He would hardly blame Crowley for not wanting to stick it out for the length of the war. A few years was...well, in angelic terms, not very long at all, but certainly long enough for humans to do quite a lot of damage to each other, and Aziraphale privately hoped that it would be over much quicker than that. But with the way things were going, it seemed a hope in vain.
Gazing down at the glass he held between his hands, trying to think of some reply to make, some way to explain how he felt obligated to see it through himself, Aziraphale looked up when Crowley continued, and a swift smile suddenly crossed his face. "Am I to take it that you'll be sticking it out locally?" Better angels than him would no better than to wish for a demon around in a time of war, but Aziraphale couldn't help but think how lonely it would be without him.
The idea was unthinkable, but Crowley wasn't interested in voicing that anytime soon for hundreds of reasons. Instead, he raised his glass to Aziraphale and drank as he considered what to say, and delayed a moment further by looking at his glass. "Well. You know. There might be a Blitz on, but I did tell the head office there was a lot to get on with here. And nearly everywhere's a bit of a mess right now, isn't it? Might as well stay somewhere comfortable." He barely paused before adding mildly, "Good scotch. This is why I keep you 'round."
For some reason, Aziraphale's imagination ran away with him for a moment or two, fueled by those innocuous words. In that instant he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Crowley was not merely local for the next few years, oh, perhaps the next decade or so, but...here. With him. It wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight, he was distantly aware, because there were certain boundaries they did not cross, even though Aziraphale had for centuries allowed the bookshop to be a place they could drink and talk in private, even though they had their other meeting places, like St James Park. But to wish for more than that, something more intimate than their occasional meetings--
Aziraphale drank some of the whiskey, gulping down a mouthful rather than savoring it as was his wont. It was good, very, very good. He found he couldn't think about it at all. "Is that why, Crowley?" he asked before he'd even really thought of what he was going to say, his voice soft and low.
There was something to the tilt of Aziraphale's gaze and vulnerability in his tone that took Crowley aback, further mental steps than he could easily recover from without a noticeable pause after the angel spoke. "Love a drink, me," he said, but his eyes didn't leave Aziraphale's. A wry smile sneaked across his face, and he instinctively twisted it into a smirk before he could deal with the fact that it was sincere, of all things. "But I'll help you preen your feathers if you like. Good liquor's not a blessed thing without good company."
It had seemed like a good attempt to sate Aziraphale's ego and dismiss the topic, with the more uncomfortable truths that lurked beneath, but the instant the words passed his lips he regretted them. Sincerity. There were few things more embarrassing.
The pause before Crowley replied did nothing for his nerves. It was a space to allow the imagination to run wild again, with theories about everything under the sun that could go wrong from asking a question like that. Aziraphale didn't quite let out a breath when Crowley did answer; he wasn't sure whether to call this sensation relief or not. It seemed to defy such simplistic definitions. Crowley's gaze holding his, the glimpse of a smile before it turned into a more familiar smirk: he wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he wanted to linger over those little gestures like he'd linger over a book to be read cover-to-cover.
"Ah," he said when he became aware he'd been quiet a moment too long himself. "Good. Then we'll always have something to offer one another." There was a little smile curving his lips as he glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Can't remember the last time I had a good preening."
It wasn't the first time that Crowley, at least, had sensed this kind of tension, though Aziraphale had usually been cheerfully, dreadfully polite through it - probably completely unaware, knowing him - and not fixed him with such a fascinated look as he wore right now. It was new. It was interesting. It was probably stupid to the point of insanity to entertain. His eyebrows quirked up with interest anyway.
"You're thinking something," he challenged Aziraphale. It might have been foolish, but, oh, it was what the moment demanded, wasn't it? "Are you too polite to say it, or will I have to guess?"
If he'd thought back over the many, many centuries they'd known one another he might have been able to pinpoint one or three of those times when this sensation, this strange electric anticipation had risen between them, and realize how he had gone right past them without seeing the opportunity to let something new grow into their relationship. But he wasn't thinking at all of the past just now, finding it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything beyond this precise moment, with Crowley regarding him in that way, asking questions that made him feel just the slightest bit flayed open. The choice of playing it off with some frivolous remark and encouraging them both to get silly drunk was always available, he supposed. Seemed cowardly, though, and somehow shameful. Perhaps after the events of that night he was feeling as though he owed it to Crowley to offer the truth.
"I, ah." It certainly wasn't easy to put into words, but he tried. "I was thinking, I was just thinking about the books." Fearing it might sound like a non-sequitur, he hastened on, "It's just that I'd forgotten all about them at that moment, you know, but you didn't. You didn't have to do that. It's more than enough that thanks to you I'm not discorporated right now." Aziraphale took a nervous drink of the scotch, chasing it nearly to the bottom of the glass. "And I suppose now I find myself looking at things, ah, differently."
There was no good hellish excuse for the books, and he'd known that right away as they'd gotten into the Bentley. It was pure sentiment, purely wanting to avoid the pinned back devastation on Aziraphale's face when priceless books burned, and maybe that was the cause of all this right now. Books. Of all things to tip Aziraphale in this direction, it did make the most sense.
"Never know when a good prophecy book might come in handy." No, that was a stupid thing to say. He shook his head abruptly. This conversation might wait another thousand years if he let it go this time, even if it was dangerous to entertain. "Tell me, Aziraphale, what do you see?"
He would let it go, he told himself, if that was what Crowley wanted, he would put these thoughts and feelings away, maybe for another day or maybe not. It might be all to the better that way anyhow, for the two of them--angel, demon, all of that. Or...he would speak truthfully if truth was demanded, as perhaps one ought to when given an opportunity that seemed so rare and precious.
"Well, I think...you, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him again. "Not that you're different, I mean to say, but I--" Oh heavens. He hadn't thought of how difficult it would be to say what he meant without resorting to the kind of sentiments that would probably make Crowley hiss at him for daring to credit him with any undemonic qualities. Aziraphale sighed. "You're so dear to me. I suppose I've failed to see it clearly until now, but you are."
It hadn't been that long since they'd begun drinking, but the liquor was strong enough to make even an angel topsy-turvy in a short amount of time; Aziraphale had recognized the signs of Crowley needing to be distracted from whatever was on his mind. He'd gotten better at it, he thought vaguely, with an equally vague awareness of being pleased by the thought--better at caring for his friend, better at knowing what he might need. He ought to, he'd had six thousand years to get it right. But there'd been the impending Apocalypse, Heaven and Hell and everything else to worry over, and a multitude of things that seemed far less important now, such as being part of opposing forces. Crowley's way of looking at it was so much better.
It all came down to this, the two of them, only them here in Aziraphale's bookshop, on the sofa together leaned quite close to one another, with the liquor loosening things up and all quiet and calm around them. Aziraphale exuded the calm, making a conscious effort to radiate warmth and assurance. At some point Crowley's head had ended up on his shoulder--he wasn't sure if the demon had let it fall there or if he'd drawn Crowley down to him, it didn't seem to matter--and he was stroking through his hair, slowly and soothingly. Glancing at the bottle on a nearby table, he closed his eyes briefly and pushed himself back somewhat towards sobriety. It was best not to go too far, not if he wanted to draw Crowley out.
"You know, my dear," Aziraphale tipped his cheek against Crowley's hair as he spoke, his voice low and soft, "I think it's lovely to be like this. Good of you to indulge me."
Crowley wasn't the sulky, silent type when he got wasted. Usually, when he drank, he ended up mouthing off at a hundred miles an hour (the perfect speed for driving a Bentley through downtown Soho, thank you very much), but since the Apocalyse - or rather, its definitive undoing - Crowley's usual restlessness sank somewhere in his chest, leaving him feeling heavy and slow.
Not that he wanted the world to end, obviously. But Crowley's... for lack of a better term, "relationship" with Aziraphale had always been conditional. The Arrangement, of course, lasted for millennia, and once the Anti-Christ was born, they had a common goal to work towards. Yes, they fumbled at the finish line - more accurately, they fumbled when the gun went off - but they had excuses to fraternize, despite the risks from Heaven and Hell. Not that Crowley ever needed those excuses to want to be near the angel. But he didn't know if Aziraphale still would.
The angel invited him over, of course, but it was difficult finding meaning in that when Aziraphale was naturally kind. A bit of a bastard, to be sure, but there was a difference between being a bastard and being cruel. Despite their fights and jabs over the years, Crowley never felt safer than when he was by his angel's side.
Maybe it was that fact, or his lethargic melancholy, or whatever humans put in this damn alcohol, that made it deceivingly easy for him to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. He had only intended to stay in that position a moment, fully prepared to be rejected and then feign a drunken stupor on his actions. But the angel didn't flinch away, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to move from the spot. Crowley was a cold-blooded thing, and Aziraphale was sunlight; if Crowley lost him now, he wasn't sure he'd survive.
His tumultuous thoughts didn't quite cease when he felt fingers run through his hair, but he was fairly sure that his heart did. For all his boasts of his clever tongue, it failed him when the angel stroked his locks soothingly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Indulge... angel, if anyone is indulging anyone, you're indulging me."
His voice was thick with what he hoped would pass as the alcohol's influence, but when he finally found the words, the truth of them struck him, and he was momentarily overwhelmed with the strangest urge to cry. This can't last. It never could. He resisted, because no matter how drunk he was, crying wasn't something he could stomach. Aziraphale seeing him cry, even less so. So he bit the inside of his lip and dug his nose into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, telling himself he was doing so just because he didn't want the angel to see his eyes.
It hadn't taken Aziraphale long to realize that something was wrong, that there was some fragile, brittle undercurrent to Crowley's usual jabs and more melancholy silences than he was used to from the demon, and not only tonight under the influence of the alcohol, which both of them could of course shake off anytime they wanted. It had started sometime after their too-close aversion of the end of the world. He wondered if perhaps Crowley was feeling a kind of aimlessness without sin to do and people to tempt, or at least not any more orders for all of that: even if one had definitively rejected a higher (or lower) authority, it was entirely possible to be feeling bereft without its direction, especially when it had been there for six thousand years. Aziraphale worried sometimes (perhaps, just a little) that being on their own side now, as it were, wasn't living up to Crowley's expectations.
It was a silly worry. Here they were, after all, and Crowley had come right over at Aziraphale's invitation--actually, they were spending a great deal of their time together, and he found himself missing Crowley's company when he wasn't there more than he'd ever let himself admit before their close call with the end times. And there were other signs, he thought, of something new and different growing between them, little careful overtures. And Crowley's head on his shoulder, Aziraphale's fingers smoothing through his hair.
Crowley's voice, when he answered him, was thick with what might have been the liquor and might have been something else: the emotion beneath whatever was bothering Crowley tonight, keeping him so quiet and moody. Aziraphale shifted to draw him a bit closer when he nestled deeper against the crook of his neck, feeling an almost overwhelming tenderness. All the ways he'd hesitated over the years of their acquaintance, pulling back when he might have had this many times over, seemed faintly absurd to him now. What had he been waiting for?
"Yes, well, I've wanted to do this for a long time, you know. Especially when you wore your hair long. I used to think how lovely it would be to plait it for you." Crowley hadn't reacted, Aziraphale realized, to being called good, hadn't snarled about it as was his wont. Maybe this was one of the new things he would be permitted. "You're very kind to let me," he added, testing the theory.
Edited 2019-07-12 09:26 (UTC)
jfc why do i keep writing novels i am SO sorry please dont feel like u need to match length
Despite his best efforts, Crowley could feel himself start to smile into Aziraphale's shoulder. Plaiting his hair.. he said the damndest things, this angel. Six thousand years and he still managed to surprise him.
As Aziraphale drew him closer, Crowley took the risk of putting his boney hand on the side of his waist. He didn't hold him, exactly - that petrified voice in the back of his mind, the part that acknowledged he was demonic ticking time bomb, reminded him of Soho smog and neon lights and you go too fast for me, Crowley - but he thought he might risk this extra inch of contact if he stayed still enough. If Aziraphale moved away, then... then, Crowley would know, and at least they could go from there.
But right now, Crowley didn't want to move an inch. He had tensed up at some point, no doubt the fault of those slithering thoughts, but fingernails kept carding his hair, and that voice kept dripping words like honey, and even without his snakelike tongue tasting the air, he could smell lavender and settled dust and red wine - telltale signs of safety and home. He shouldn't have liked it here - too small, too old-fashioned, no sign of intelligent technological life anywhere - but despite his best efforts, Crowley grew fond. Crowley felt at his easiest around Aziraphale long before he got a hold of this bookshop, but in the past century or so, the associations settled in Crowley's mind.
Crowley blinked, long and slow, then peaked an eye out from behind Aziraphale's shoulder. "Really?" His words were muffled, mouth pressed against his presine vest, but uncertainly slipped through the cracks of his tone.
He shimmied a tad so that he could turn from those bright eyes, but he couldn't quite manage to break any other form of contact. Something stilled him. Something ancient, and something so tentative and new. Because Aziraphale wasn't pushing him away. He wasn't asking him to please get up and go now, oh, and maybe go fly to another planet while you're at it? No, Aziraphale was right here, petting his hair and talking about braiding it, and -
He closed his eyes. Something thrummed in his chest at those words. This wasn't new, neither Aziraphale's words nor Crowley's reaction, except this time, nothing in him thrashed. The instinct was there, centuries of lashing out instead of accepting the praise... the hersay that a demon of Crowley's caliber could be nice. It was unacceptable. Not if he wanted to survive Hell. More importantly, the stupid angel couldn't go around saying blasphemous things out in the open. Crowley remembered the cruelty of Heaven, too.
But now... there weren't any divine threats. We're on our own side, Crowley had told him, and Aziraphale hadn't denied it a second time. Now it was just them, on a couch, wasted in a tiny bookshop in Soho. They were free to feel without intervention, but there was no excuse to hide behind, either. Either Aziraphale was saying pretty little lies to set him at ease, or. Or. He couldn't think about "or", couldn't let himself think about -
"Angel..." His voice shook, quiet as a whisper, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. His resolve was fragile enough as it was. "Please. Don't you be kind. Not if... not if it isn't true." Demons didn't beg, so Crowley wasn't begging. But his voice trembled just the same.
Aziraphale became aware of the hand on his hip, the stroke of his fingers through Crowley’s hair pausing for the briefest instant as he registered it and then resuming as though there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. It was such a little touch, the barest point of contact between them, compared to how Crowley was very nearly curled into his lap at this point and Aziraphale had been close to holding him in his arms for quite some time, but he sensed the effort it took Crowley to do it, and did not for a moment discount its significance. He could feel the undercurrents of tension in the demon’s body, and he thought to himself, that wouldn’t do: but in many ways Aziraphale had bought this. He had his doubts too: leftover habits from centuries of being all too wary, the remorse of recently coming to understand what Crowley had been offering in those careful overtures he’d made over the years and how Aziraphale had pulled back from it every time, afraid of its meaning, afraid that it was wrong and that it would result in disaster for them both. Still there was at least a convincing voice within him that said it would be very much worth trying now, trying for something new between them.
Aziraphale smiled at him when Crowley looked up at him briefly. “Really,” he answered, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the uncertainty in Crowley’s voice yet responding to it anyway with a soft soothing scrape of fingernails along his scalp, traveling slowly down through the shorter strands of hair near Crowley’s temple to his ear. “Though I like your hair like this, too. Such a modern sensibility,” he added admiringly. He liked the ways Crowley dressed and styled himself very much. His flat could do with some improving, but that was another matter.
A fingertip traced gently over the shell of Crowley’s ear. He was looking away again now, but that was all right, Aziraphale needed the momentary pause too, the courage to go on touching him how he liked. How he’d wanted to for so long. His fingers slid down, his thumb rubbed softly over Crowley’s tattoo, and he felt the twist of his heart in his chest when Crowley spoke again. Aziraphale deserved that. He’d made him wait for so long; it was astonishing, really, that Crowley was permitting him this at all.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I’m not all that kind.” At the moment, at least, he felt selfish, tender, greedy: wanting Crowley very much, enchanted by how beautiful he was when he was so unguarded. It made his wings want to come out to wrap around him, protect him as he had so long ago in the Garden. “There is nothing I could say to you right now that would be a lie,” he went on, absolute reassurance in his voice. “If I told you how much I adore you. How lovely you are. How good,” and his voice had dropped to a whisper, hesitating—he could push too far, push for too much, when all was still fragile between them. But Aziraphale had sensed that reaction from Crowley a moment ago. He thought he had, at least.
He slid his hand tenderly to Crowley’s cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye in the lightest caress. “Of course, I won’t say any of that if you don’t like it.”
When he felt those heavenly fingertips journey from the side of his hairline, over the curve of his ear and down to the serpentine tattoo right below, he couldn't help but let out a breathy, happy sigh. Aziraphale had always known what Crowley was, of course, and they had many conversations over the years about their "sides" and "natures", usually with copious amounts of alcohol. He had never been offended when the angel called him demonic turns of phrase - they both would've gotten into a fat load of trouble if he hadn't, and more to the point, it was amusing, the moral games they played - but right now, beneath Aziraphale's hands, Crowley felt accepted. Nothing this holy should treat a sacrilegious symbol with such tenderness.
If it was true that Aziraphale wasn't lying for Crowley's sake, then maybe... Fuck, hope was such a fragile fucking thing. He wasn't sure he'd survive it, carrying it around for six thousand years. But then, here he was. Here they were. And as the angel's thumb brushed the skin beneath his marble eye, didn't feel quite so afraid anymore. The words of lovely and good wash over him like waves, and Crowley lets himself begin to yield to them. But one of them makes him sit up straighter, concern lacing through him.
"No - no, don't say that." Worried he might be misunderstood, he closed his eyes and willed some sobriety into him. Not the lot, because he wasn't sure he was brave enough yet to settle the rest of his anxieties, but he needed to make sure Aziraphale understood. He wrinkled his nose a moment, then, finally, opened his eyes.
"Unkind creatures don't shield demons from the rain not five minutes after meeting them." And any self-respecting demon wouldn't move closer to accept the shelter, but Crowley had accepted to loving Aziraphale a millennia ago, so he had no qualms about it now. "They don't give away their bloody swords to the first humans in existence. And they definitely don't try and save the world. Aziraphale, you are a bit of a bastard, yes, but you are the kindest person I know. The best."
He didn't mean for it to come out so earnest, but it was the truth, and he needed Aziraphale to understand. He had grabbed his hand at some point during his speech, his thumb brushing over the inside of his palm. And despite the difficulty of it, he didn't look away. He needed Aziraphale to believe him - not just in this, but in all of it. He trembled under the weight of that want.
"Demons... they shouldn't want to be good." His voice was so quiet, and he had to take a few more unsteady breaths before continuing. "But God above, I wanted to be good enough for you. I couldn't say, I couldn't let you say, because if Hell found out I didn't do almost everything I claimed to, I... humans, they hurt themselves so much and all I could do was watch, I couldn't help because of what I am, and I shouldn't even want too, I should revel in their demise, I should enjoy watching you fail but I never did, and, and, and I'm sorry, angel, I'm so sorry -"
He was losing control. His cheeks felt wet and his shoulders hunched over and he couldn't shut up and all he could do was hold onto Aziraphale's hand like a lifeline and pray that he didn't pull away.
Aziraphale was careful not to react when Crowley spoke up, except for letting his hand slip away from Crowley's cheek when he sat up, and met his gaze, watching him sober himself a little. He was determined not to foul this up, not while Crowley was so clearly in need of him to...understand, to show him that it was all right. If he'd misread the signals, if Crowley didn't want to be praised, then he'd stop, but he wouldn't cease holding him, reassuring him--he saw no need to cease doing that. Yet that didn't seem to be what was on Crowley's mind. Aziraphale folded his hand gently around the demon’s when he took it, and smiled; it would have been impossible not to be touched by the earnestness in his voice or the way he spoke as though desperate to convince Aziraphale that he was kind, and good, and true...the theological question of the kindness of angels was one up for debate, but Aziraphale knew it was his nature to try to spread kindness where he could. It was more astonishing, in his opinion, that a demon would do the same in his own backhanded way, though of course he’d never been allowed to say this to Crowley before.
Aziraphale put his other hand over Crowley’s too, squeezing his hand reassuringly between both of his. “Thank you, Crowley. I don’t mean to say that any of that is untrue. I meant I won’t ever lie to you out of kindness.” He watched Crowley gravely, wanting him to understand this. His head tilted quizzically when Crowley said a demon shouldn’t want to be good. He supposed that was true if one considered only the host of Hell; but one could also argue that demons had once been angels, too. He wondered if there were others who remembered it the way Crowley did, who so clearly perceived humanity’s suffering, all their creative ways of inflicting pain on one another, and didn’t like what they saw. Aziraphale didn’t think there were any others like him, but then he himself wasn’t much like other angels either. They’d both outgrown their respective sides too much.
“I know. I know why you couldn’t let me say it, Crowley.” Aziraphale lifted one of his hands to the demon’s wet cheek, brushing at the track of a tear with his thumb, and then slid it back into his hair again and drew Crowley’s head down to his shoulder. His grip tightened fiercely: he wouldn’t let Crowley stay in pain if he could help it. “But you have nothing to feel ashamed of. What does it matter if you don’t want what other demons want? Haven’t you been telling me, we’re on our own side? Surely we get to decide now.”
He pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple, following new and urgent impulses, giving in to the ways he wanted to touch him. They could do whatever they wanted now. “You can be good, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said in a low murmur. “You can be kind. You can be gentle. You’ll still be Crowley.”
Hearing Aziraphale say that he understood managed to calm something within Crowley, but only for a moment before he was overwhelmed with a million other sensations and started crying and blabbering on in a very undignified nature. He felt like a dam opening, releasing the flood of regrets and fears he'd been stoically housing for years. It was embarassing, but in the face of almost being wiped from existence, of losing each other for eternity, it seemed almost stupid to hide it all, now. Especially when his angel wiped away his tears like this was something he had done for him a million times before.
When Aziraphale didn't pull away, when he pulled him in even closer, Crowley released a stuttering breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Blinking away the tears as best he could, his body fell back into a natural rhythm of breathing, relaxing, finally allowing himself to trust that Aziraphale wasn't going to let go. That this wasn't a formality, or a kindness. That maybe... rendering the Arrangement unnecessary didn't mean he would lose Aziraphale for good.
And then Aziraphale kissed his forehead, and it felt like a benediction. Crowley was always so, so cold, but something in that kiss expanded inside of him, warming him from the inside out.
"You'll still be Crowley."
Crowley was on the edge of a precipice here and he knew it. This could be the end of it. He could sit up, smooth his hair back and find some excuse to go home, and they'd never have to talk about this again. It would be painful, but the other option was much more terrifying. It's one thing to yearn for something impossible and accept as many crumbs as you could get from it. It was another to have your existence's desire right above you, holding you tight. He trembled as he held onto the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, but as a few more moments passed, something resolute settled in his chest.
"We get to decide." Echoing Aziraphale's words, he tilted his head back and willed himself to reach out cup the angel's face with his own hand, gentle and reverent. He was a coward, always had been. But just being near Aziraphale helped him be brave. So, even though he trembled like a leaf in a storm and barely raised his voice above a whisper, he met blue eyes and didn't look away as he said:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For justcauseimheartless
He couldn't seem to make sense of it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. It was so extraordinarily kind, so unexpected, and when Aziraphale thought of their various Arrangements, their snipes and spats over the years, none of it seemed to matter right at that moment as much as what had just happened. He stole glances at Crowley as they drove, opening his mouth several times to speak and then closing it again without a notion of what he wanted to say. Everything he might have said was a jumble, an entirely confusing mess of half-formed feelings and ideas. All he really knew was that looking at Crowley just then kept making him feel unaccountably breathless, particularly for an entity that had no real need to breathe, and so he mostly kept his gaze on the dark streets and buildings they passed, windows blackened to hide any hint of light within, as they headed into Soho.
When at last the car stopped, idling at the street corner outside the bookshop, Aziraphale found it was difficult to make himself move. "Well," he said after a pause, fingers smoothing over the leather handles of his case. Darting a swift look at Crowley, he went on, "You're welcome to come in, if you'd like." He paused again, but briefly; yes, this was what he wanted. He very much wanted Crowley to say yes. "I'm sure I've got a bottle of something nice upstairs. And it's been some time since we caught up."
Re: For justcauseimheartless
no subject
The bolts and locks sprang open to the touch of his hand, and he stood back to let Crowley in ahead of him and then stepped in after, lamps lighting at his entrance. "Please--please, have a seat." Upstairs was more figurative than literal, as Aziraphale didn't exactly have much living space in the bookshop, but there were at least a few cozy armchairs, maybe even a settee from time to time.
no subject
He glanced around to Aziraphale. "But if it's big and it works, they think, has to be Crowley. It's one thing to have a reputation, but." He pulled a face. "Nazis. I have better ideas than Nazis. All this to say," he finished grandly, "my side had nothing to do with all that."
no subject
He turned back to Crowley when he was done. "It was uncharitable of me to assume your side was involved," he agreed, and about to leave it at that, he paused and thought better of it. "No, it was unkind of me to assume you were involved," Aziraphale amended quietly. "It is indeed a nasty business. Not at all your, er, style." Glancing around, he reached for an ottoman that may or may not have been there a moment ago, and pushed it over to the settee where Crowley was reclining. "Why don't you put your feet up on that, dear fellow, and I'll see about that drink."
no subject
Mostly, it was to rile him up. Mostly. But, as was frustratingly usual, it was based in genuine sincerity, which was one of those things that he probably should've been working to stamp out. He couldn't. He liked the look on Aziraphale's face far too much.
no subject
He decided this night called for hard liquor, and got out a very nice scotch blend, a Dalmore he'd been saving for special occasions. "Anyway, I am sorry you had to come into a church," he said, because if Crowley wouldn't let him thank him properly at least he could still apologize. "Are you in any pain? Is there anything I can do for you?"
no subject
no subject
Gazing down at the glass he held between his hands, trying to think of some reply to make, some way to explain how he felt obligated to see it through himself, Aziraphale looked up when Crowley continued, and a swift smile suddenly crossed his face. "Am I to take it that you'll be sticking it out locally?" Better angels than him would no better than to wish for a demon around in a time of war, but Aziraphale couldn't help but think how lonely it would be without him.
no subject
no subject
For some reason, Aziraphale's imagination ran away with him for a moment or two, fueled by those innocuous words. In that instant he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Crowley was not merely local for the next few years, oh, perhaps the next decade or so, but...here. With him. It wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight, he was distantly aware, because there were certain boundaries they did not cross, even though Aziraphale had for centuries allowed the bookshop to be a place they could drink and talk in private, even though they had their other meeting places, like St James Park. But to wish for more than that, something more intimate than their occasional meetings--
Aziraphale drank some of the whiskey, gulping down a mouthful rather than savoring it as was his wont. It was good, very, very good. He found he couldn't think about it at all. "Is that why, Crowley?" he asked before he'd even really thought of what he was going to say, his voice soft and low.
no subject
It had seemed like a good attempt to sate Aziraphale's ego and dismiss the topic, with the more uncomfortable truths that lurked beneath, but the instant the words passed his lips he regretted them. Sincerity. There were few things more embarrassing.
no subject
"Ah," he said when he became aware he'd been quiet a moment too long himself. "Good. Then we'll always have something to offer one another." There was a little smile curving his lips as he glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Can't remember the last time I had a good preening."
no subject
"You're thinking something," he challenged Aziraphale. It might have been foolish, but, oh, it was what the moment demanded, wasn't it? "Are you too polite to say it, or will I have to guess?"
no subject
"I, ah." It certainly wasn't easy to put into words, but he tried. "I was thinking, I was just thinking about the books." Fearing it might sound like a non-sequitur, he hastened on, "It's just that I'd forgotten all about them at that moment, you know, but you didn't. You didn't have to do that. It's more than enough that thanks to you I'm not discorporated right now." Aziraphale took a nervous drink of the scotch, chasing it nearly to the bottom of the glass. "And I suppose now I find myself looking at things, ah, differently."
no subject
"Never know when a good prophecy book might come in handy." No, that was a stupid thing to say. He shook his head abruptly. This conversation might wait another thousand years if he let it go this time, even if it was dangerous to entertain. "Tell me, Aziraphale, what do you see?"
no subject
"Well, I think...you, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him again. "Not that you're different, I mean to say, but I--" Oh heavens. He hadn't thought of how difficult it would be to say what he meant without resorting to the kind of sentiments that would probably make Crowley hiss at him for daring to credit him with any undemonic qualities. Aziraphale sighed. "You're so dear to me. I suppose I've failed to see it clearly until now, but you are."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
For machineofadream
It all came down to this, the two of them, only them here in Aziraphale's bookshop, on the sofa together leaned quite close to one another, with the liquor loosening things up and all quiet and calm around them. Aziraphale exuded the calm, making a conscious effort to radiate warmth and assurance. At some point Crowley's head had ended up on his shoulder--he wasn't sure if the demon had let it fall there or if he'd drawn Crowley down to him, it didn't seem to matter--and he was stroking through his hair, slowly and soothingly. Glancing at the bottle on a nearby table, he closed his eyes briefly and pushed himself back somewhat towards sobriety. It was best not to go too far, not if he wanted to draw Crowley out.
"You know, my dear," Aziraphale tipped his cheek against Crowley's hair as he spoke, his voice low and soft, "I think it's lovely to be like this. Good of you to indulge me."
no subject
Not that he wanted the world to end, obviously. But Crowley's... for lack of a better term, "relationship" with Aziraphale had always been conditional. The Arrangement, of course, lasted for millennia, and once the Anti-Christ was born, they had a common goal to work towards. Yes, they fumbled at the finish line - more accurately, they fumbled when the gun went off - but they had excuses to fraternize, despite the risks from Heaven and Hell. Not that Crowley ever needed those excuses to want to be near the angel. But he didn't know if Aziraphale still would.
The angel invited him over, of course, but it was difficult finding meaning in that when Aziraphale was naturally kind. A bit of a bastard, to be sure, but there was a difference between being a bastard and being cruel. Despite their fights and jabs over the years, Crowley never felt safer than when he was by his angel's side.
Maybe it was that fact, or his lethargic melancholy, or whatever humans put in this damn alcohol, that made it deceivingly easy for him to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. He had only intended to stay in that position a moment, fully prepared to be rejected and then feign a drunken stupor on his actions. But the angel didn't flinch away, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to move from the spot. Crowley was a cold-blooded thing, and Aziraphale was sunlight; if Crowley lost him now, he wasn't sure he'd survive.
His tumultuous thoughts didn't quite cease when he felt fingers run through his hair, but he was fairly sure that his heart did. For all his boasts of his clever tongue, it failed him when the angel stroked his locks soothingly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Indulge... angel, if anyone is indulging anyone, you're indulging me."
His voice was thick with what he hoped would pass as the alcohol's influence, but when he finally found the words, the truth of them struck him, and he was momentarily overwhelmed with the strangest urge to cry. This can't last. It never could. He resisted, because no matter how drunk he was, crying wasn't something he could stomach. Aziraphale seeing him cry, even less so. So he bit the inside of his lip and dug his nose into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, telling himself he was doing so just because he didn't want the angel to see his eyes.
no subject
It was a silly worry. Here they were, after all, and Crowley had come right over at Aziraphale's invitation--actually, they were spending a great deal of their time together, and he found himself missing Crowley's company when he wasn't there more than he'd ever let himself admit before their close call with the end times. And there were other signs, he thought, of something new and different growing between them, little careful overtures. And Crowley's head on his shoulder, Aziraphale's fingers smoothing through his hair.
Crowley's voice, when he answered him, was thick with what might have been the liquor and might have been something else: the emotion beneath whatever was bothering Crowley tonight, keeping him so quiet and moody. Aziraphale shifted to draw him a bit closer when he nestled deeper against the crook of his neck, feeling an almost overwhelming tenderness. All the ways he'd hesitated over the years of their acquaintance, pulling back when he might have had this many times over, seemed faintly absurd to him now. What had he been waiting for?
"Yes, well, I've wanted to do this for a long time, you know. Especially when you wore your hair long. I used to think how lovely it would be to plait it for you." Crowley hadn't reacted, Aziraphale realized, to being called good, hadn't snarled about it as was his wont. Maybe this was one of the new things he would be permitted. "You're very kind to let me," he added, testing the theory.
jfc why do i keep writing novels i am SO sorry please dont feel like u need to match length
As Aziraphale drew him closer, Crowley took the risk of putting his boney hand on the side of his waist. He didn't hold him, exactly - that petrified voice in the back of his mind, the part that acknowledged he was demonic ticking time bomb, reminded him of Soho smog and neon lights and you go too fast for me, Crowley - but he thought he might risk this extra inch of contact if he stayed still enough. If Aziraphale moved away, then... then, Crowley would know, and at least they could go from there.
But right now, Crowley didn't want to move an inch. He had tensed up at some point, no doubt the fault of those slithering thoughts, but fingernails kept carding his hair, and that voice kept dripping words like honey, and even without his snakelike tongue tasting the air, he could smell lavender and settled dust and red wine - telltale signs of safety and home. He shouldn't have liked it here - too small, too old-fashioned, no sign of intelligent technological life anywhere - but despite his best efforts, Crowley grew fond. Crowley felt at his easiest around Aziraphale long before he got a hold of this bookshop, but in the past century or so, the associations settled in Crowley's mind.
Crowley blinked, long and slow, then peaked an eye out from behind Aziraphale's shoulder. "Really?" His words were muffled, mouth pressed against his presine vest, but uncertainly slipped through the cracks of his tone.
He shimmied a tad so that he could turn from those bright eyes, but he couldn't quite manage to break any other form of contact. Something stilled him. Something ancient, and something so tentative and new. Because Aziraphale wasn't pushing him away. He wasn't asking him to please get up and go now, oh, and maybe go fly to another planet while you're at it? No, Aziraphale was right here, petting his hair and talking about braiding it, and -
He closed his eyes. Something thrummed in his chest at those words. This wasn't new, neither Aziraphale's words nor Crowley's reaction, except this time, nothing in him thrashed. The instinct was there, centuries of lashing out instead of accepting the praise... the hersay that a demon of Crowley's caliber could be nice. It was unacceptable. Not if he wanted to survive Hell. More importantly, the stupid angel couldn't go around saying blasphemous things out in the open. Crowley remembered the cruelty of Heaven, too.
But now... there weren't any divine threats. We're on our own side, Crowley had told him, and Aziraphale hadn't denied it a second time. Now it was just them, on a couch, wasted in a tiny bookshop in Soho. They were free to feel without intervention, but there was no excuse to hide behind, either. Either Aziraphale was saying pretty little lies to set him at ease, or. Or. He couldn't think about "or", couldn't let himself think about -
"Angel..." His voice shook, quiet as a whisper, and he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. His resolve was fragile enough as it was. "Please. Don't you be kind. Not if... not if it isn't true." Demons didn't beg, so Crowley wasn't begging. But his voice trembled just the same.
no worries, I enjoy longer tags!
Aziraphale smiled at him when Crowley looked up at him briefly. “Really,” he answered, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the uncertainty in Crowley’s voice yet responding to it anyway with a soft soothing scrape of fingernails along his scalp, traveling slowly down through the shorter strands of hair near Crowley’s temple to his ear. “Though I like your hair like this, too. Such a modern sensibility,” he added admiringly. He liked the ways Crowley dressed and styled himself very much. His flat could do with some improving, but that was another matter.
A fingertip traced gently over the shell of Crowley’s ear. He was looking away again now, but that was all right, Aziraphale needed the momentary pause too, the courage to go on touching him how he liked. How he’d wanted to for so long. His fingers slid down, his thumb rubbed softly over Crowley’s tattoo, and he felt the twist of his heart in his chest when Crowley spoke again. Aziraphale deserved that. He’d made him wait for so long; it was astonishing, really, that Crowley was permitting him this at all.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said quietly. “I’m not all that kind.” At the moment, at least, he felt selfish, tender, greedy: wanting Crowley very much, enchanted by how beautiful he was when he was so unguarded. It made his wings want to come out to wrap around him, protect him as he had so long ago in the Garden. “There is nothing I could say to you right now that would be a lie,” he went on, absolute reassurance in his voice. “If I told you how much I adore you. How lovely you are. How good,” and his voice had dropped to a whisper, hesitating—he could push too far, push for too much, when all was still fragile between them. But Aziraphale had sensed that reaction from Crowley a moment ago. He thought he had, at least.
He slid his hand tenderly to Crowley’s cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye in the lightest caress. “Of course, I won’t say any of that if you don’t like it.”
no subject
If it was true that Aziraphale wasn't lying for Crowley's sake, then maybe... Fuck, hope was such a fragile fucking thing. He wasn't sure he'd survive it, carrying it around for six thousand years. But then, here he was. Here they were. And as the angel's thumb brushed the skin beneath his marble eye, didn't feel quite so afraid anymore. The words of lovely and good wash over him like waves, and Crowley lets himself begin to yield to them. But one of them makes him sit up straighter, concern lacing through him.
"No - no, don't say that." Worried he might be misunderstood, he closed his eyes and willed some sobriety into him. Not the lot, because he wasn't sure he was brave enough yet to settle the rest of his anxieties, but he needed to make sure Aziraphale understood. He wrinkled his nose a moment, then, finally, opened his eyes.
"Unkind creatures don't shield demons from the rain not five minutes after meeting them." And any self-respecting demon wouldn't move closer to accept the shelter, but Crowley had accepted to loving Aziraphale a millennia ago, so he had no qualms about it now. "They don't give away their bloody swords to the first humans in existence. And they definitely don't try and save the world. Aziraphale, you are a bit of a bastard, yes, but you are the kindest person I know. The best."
He didn't mean for it to come out so earnest, but it was the truth, and he needed Aziraphale to understand. He had grabbed his hand at some point during his speech, his thumb brushing over the inside of his palm. And despite the difficulty of it, he didn't look away. He needed Aziraphale to believe him - not just in this, but in all of it. He trembled under the weight of that want.
"Demons... they shouldn't want to be good." His voice was so quiet, and he had to take a few more unsteady breaths before continuing. "But God above, I wanted to be good enough for you. I couldn't say, I couldn't let you say, because if Hell found out I didn't do almost everything I claimed to, I... humans, they hurt themselves so much and all I could do was watch, I couldn't help because of what I am, and I shouldn't even want too, I should revel in their demise, I should enjoy watching you fail but I never did, and, and, and I'm sorry, angel, I'm so sorry -"
He was losing control. His cheeks felt wet and his shoulders hunched over and he couldn't shut up and all he could do was hold onto Aziraphale's hand like a lifeline and pray that he didn't pull away.
no subject
Aziraphale put his other hand over Crowley’s too, squeezing his hand reassuringly between both of his. “Thank you, Crowley. I don’t mean to say that any of that is untrue. I meant I won’t ever lie to you out of kindness.” He watched Crowley gravely, wanting him to understand this. His head tilted quizzically when Crowley said a demon shouldn’t want to be good. He supposed that was true if one considered only the host of Hell; but one could also argue that demons had once been angels, too. He wondered if there were others who remembered it the way Crowley did, who so clearly perceived humanity’s suffering, all their creative ways of inflicting pain on one another, and didn’t like what they saw. Aziraphale didn’t think there were any others like him, but then he himself wasn’t much like other angels either. They’d both outgrown their respective sides too much.
“I know. I know why you couldn’t let me say it, Crowley.” Aziraphale lifted one of his hands to the demon’s wet cheek, brushing at the track of a tear with his thumb, and then slid it back into his hair again and drew Crowley’s head down to his shoulder. His grip tightened fiercely: he wouldn’t let Crowley stay in pain if he could help it. “But you have nothing to feel ashamed of. What does it matter if you don’t want what other demons want? Haven’t you been telling me, we’re on our own side? Surely we get to decide now.”
He pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple, following new and urgent impulses, giving in to the ways he wanted to touch him. They could do whatever they wanted now. “You can be good, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said in a low murmur. “You can be kind. You can be gentle. You’ll still be Crowley.”
no subject
When Aziraphale didn't pull away, when he pulled him in even closer, Crowley released a stuttering breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Blinking away the tears as best he could, his body fell back into a natural rhythm of breathing, relaxing, finally allowing himself to trust that Aziraphale wasn't going to let go. That this wasn't a formality, or a kindness. That maybe... rendering the Arrangement unnecessary didn't mean he would lose Aziraphale for good.
And then Aziraphale kissed his forehead, and it felt like a benediction. Crowley was always so, so cold, but something in that kiss expanded inside of him, warming him from the inside out.
"You'll still be Crowley."
Crowley was on the edge of a precipice here and he knew it. This could be the end of it. He could sit up, smooth his hair back and find some excuse to go home, and they'd never have to talk about this again. It would be painful, but the other option was much more terrifying. It's one thing to yearn for something impossible and accept as many crumbs as you could get from it. It was another to have your existence's desire right above you, holding you tight. He trembled as he held onto the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, but as a few more moments passed, something resolute settled in his chest.
"We get to decide." Echoing Aziraphale's words, he tilted his head back and willed himself to reach out cup the angel's face with his own hand, gentle and reverent. He was a coward, always had been. But just being near Aziraphale helped him be brave. So, even though he trembled like a leaf in a storm and barely raised his voice above a whisper, he met blue eyes and didn't look away as he said:
"Aziraphale. I love you. I always have."