Work Text:
Something in Crowley told him to keep asking, to keep extending a hand even if it was never taken.
The Arrangement, his mind supplied helpfully, is to lend a hand when needed.
But it wasn’t that, it was something far, far more embarrassing than some (mostly unspoken) code that they were making up as they went.
He thought it would get easier, but ignorance could only go so far. Around a couple thousand years, if he were to put a number to it. It wasn’t really ignorance, if he was being honest, it was avoidance. Fear of confrontation.
Fear of rejection.
But he kept asking. Driven by something a lot more personal and dangerous than he was willing to admit — and almost every time he was denied.
The almost started with an “Oxford” bus that was inexplicably headed to Mayfair. To Crowley’s flat, with both of them.
Our side, he had said, and something seemed to ground itself within Aziraphale.
Crowley never expected the angel to take his metaphorical hand that night, and was, right then, still reeling at the new beginning he found himself in. One where Aziraphale took him up on something more than lunch or a quiet night out.
One where they could be something more, a stupid, stupid voice chimed in, making Crowley fluster.
Aziraphale shifted in his seat, the edge of his pinkie grazing Crowley’s upper leg. The demon was already trying to ignore the heat of the angel’s thigh pressed against his own, and fuck, did that make it a thousand times harder to concentrate.
Post-Armageddon nerves were one hell of a thing, he thought, it’s like I’m in a new body.
Lying to himself was the only way he got through 6000 years, and he wasn’t about to stop now. He didn’t want to acknowledge that it always felt like that anytime Aziraphale touched him.
That would be confrontation, a voice popped up, and we all know you’re a coward.
Fuck off.
“Dear?” Aziraphale’s palm moved then, taking residence on Crowley’s knee in a gesture of concern. He felt like he was burning alive. You’re a demon for Christ’s sake, pull yourself together.
He didn’t trust himself to speak (or make any noise for that matter), so he tilted his head in a questioning manner, cursing at how stilted it seemed.
“We both lost something, didn’t we?” Aziraphale said, wistfulness creeping into his tone, “I’m sorry.”
He looked so lost, and Crowley’s chest tightened with every word.
“No need, angel,” Crowley rasped, voice shaking slightly, “I’m sorry too. Think I’m still in shock about it all.”
Aziraphale gave a small, empathetic smile, “It doesn’t seem real, does it?”
He saw them burn. The only two things he ever gave a toss about, burnt beyond salvation.
Crowley gave a weak laugh in spite of himself, wanting so badly to intertwine their hands that it was downright pathetic. He wanted to be in Aziraphale’s arms, holding (and being held) while they talked about nothing and everything all at once. He wanted it to be the same, but entirely different in ways that Aziraphale would surely smite him for.
“Not at all.”
He didn’t know how it was possible to somehow love and hate a person at the same time. But then again, he’s been doing it for a while.
Really, could he not see how absolutely maddening this was? Was it necessary for him to be sitting this close?
Feeding the ducks was always a fun pastime; sitting a comfortable distance away from one another talking about whatever the hell suited their mood. Crowley could sit and listen to the angel laugh for millennia... the curl of his lips...the crinkle of his nose…
“Crowley?”
Shit, he was talking. Something about Barcelona? Jians?
“Hm? Right, yes?” he was fumbling, noting the concerned look on the angel’s face, “sorry, it’s been one hell of a week. I mean of course you know, you were there, but —”
“It’s something different.” Aziraphale said simply, eyes trailing over Crowley’s person.
He felt exposed, flushing under the principality’s gaze, “I really think it’s the whole barely avoiding Armageddon situation, I mean c’mon, we barely got out alive! Not to mention the body-swap escapade, now that was playing with fire.”
Aziraphale did one of his half-smiles — the one that let you know he wasn’t going to push but it was definitely going to bother him, “I suppose it was rather nerve-wracking, wasn’t it? So much for our Plan,” he chuckled, “We were virtually useless.”
“To be fair, I did help with the whole time-stop thing-y. Crucial, that.”
“You were wonderful, Crowley,” he said softly, “I’m terribly sorry about my little threat, but it was successful in motivating you nonetheless.”
“Forget it.” He growled with no real heat behind his words, fighting the urge to smile.
Crowley ignored how fluttery his vessel’s heart was being, attributing it to some sort of malfunction. After several millennia this thing was bound to have some faulty wiring , he thought, a tad bit desperate.
You were wonderful.
He was so fucked.
Crowley has survived 6000 years of this shit; skirting around his feelings, moving too fast to acknowledge them, and of course, pulling back when things start to blur the line between being Aziraphale’s friend or something beyond that. If this were any other situation, he would feel deserving of a medal.
Aziraphale had always been soft, tactile even (mostly when they were drunk off their arses), and Crowley loved hated him for it.
But never like this. It was making his...condition worse, it was getting harder to ignore. Maybe it was just because they’ve seen each other more times in the past 11 years than ever before and he simply didn’t know how to cope. Maybe it was the demon’s resolve finally imploding in on itself, cracking with every visit or luncheon Aziraphale took him on. Maybe it was Armageddon.
Either way, it spelled trouble.
“You know you don’t have to wear your glasses when we’re alone? It’s absurd to wear them indoors, especially in the back.”
He had a point, but the demon wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Some human could come waltzing at any moment, angel, they’re nosy and unpredictable.”
Aziraphale hummed, taking a long draw of his cocoa, “Quite, but need I remind you that they are also noisy, and the dreadfully creaky floors do them no favors in that regard. You would hear them coming.”
Crowley fidgeted in his seat, “What’s it to you?”
Aziraphale’s face turned a lovely shade of pink, “Well, I simply don’t get to see your eyes as much as I’d like to.”
The angel looked timid, but a small, boyish grin tugged at his lips.
How could he refuse that?
Crowley set his glasses down on the coffee table, ignoring the heat that rose to his cheeks.
“Happy?” he bit out, trying not to focus on how the angel’s smile made his insides flood with a thick, syrupy sweetness that made his jaw hurt.
“Very.”
Demons or angels didn’t need to breathe for the same reason they didn’t need to eat or sleep. They were beings powered by pure occult (or ethereal ) energy. That didn’t stop Crowley’s breath from quickening, however, and he said a silent prayer to somebody that the man in front of him wouldn’t notice.
“Dunno what the fuss is all about,” he mumbled, “you’ve seen them plenty of times.”
“Only before Rome,” Aziraphale replied, “you’ve hidden them ever since.”
He was acutely aware of how close the angel was getting, inching towards him ever so carefully. Crowley’s skin seemed to ache in response.
“Ah, well, can’t blame the humans for being a little weirded out by them.”
Was his voice normally that high? Can’t be.
“They are quite striking,” Aziraphale said, “in a good way, might I add.”
“Tell that to the bloke that ran me out with a broom in Gallia,” he huffed, and could his heart not be difficult right now? thanks, “chased me into the woods, that one. It was humiliating.”
“I’m sure you got back at him somewhere down the line,” Aziraphale teased, “not that he didn’t deserve it.”
“If he so happened to run into some particularly nasty barbarians near Gaul, well, ’s neither here nor there. Did him a favor really — the Posca tasted like utter shite,” he made some overly dramatic retching sounds in typical Crowley fashion, “surprised the soldiers didn’t run him out.”
Aziraphale made a face, “Posca was abhorrent, well, there were some bearable mixes, but I must say — I stuck to wine.”
“Now that hasn’t changed.”
The angel laughed, light and breathy, and it caught the shell of Crowley’s ear.
If anyone brought up how badly his hands were shaking beside him they would be dead in an instant without question or warning.
“Simply beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered, almost to himself, and fuck, he could feel the angel’s breath ghost across his face.
“Angel?” he managed, mind otherwise preoccupied, “What’re you d—”
They were jostled out of whatever this was by a loud jingle, followed by, “Hello? This place still open?”
He briefly wondered why he had ever taken mercy on the human race as Aziraphale quickly got up and squeaked out a quick, “Hello! Yes! Terribly sorry!”
Fuck the human race, he thought darkly, unappreciative little pricks, all of them.
It wasn’t his fault. Wrong place, wrong time.
His wings were hideous, boils and burns mixed with the few strong, charred primary feathers that had managed to hang on, reminding him of what he is now, and what he would never get back. No matter how much he repented, he walked the desert blindly.
The divinity imbued within him was gone, ripped out of him as he fell, it was as if someone had cut out his tongue or gouged his eyes out; the sense was gone, wholly void, and he couldn’t feel anyone there. His voice was hoarse as he called out, and his tears seemed to burn his flesh as he cried and cried and cried.
He was expecting his skin to meet black satin as he shot up, but he was shocked to find soft tartan sheets, smelling of a certain angel.
The headache came a second later, making him cry out loudly, and if Aziraphale hadn’t heard him yet — he definitely did now. The hell? I haven’t been this hungover since the 70’s—
“Crowley?”
Fuck.
The demon turned away, his wings reflexively curling around him, shielding him from Aziraphale’s pity, he knew the angel thought him weak…
He felt fresh tears prick his eyes, blurring his vision — he could just about make out a figure coming up the stairs, a dim light at his back. His head pulsed again, wincing as another wave of pain shot through his body.
Pitiful, utterly pitiful.
He felt a hand on his back, and he tensed up, barely managing to keep his wings from flaring out. Aziraphale’s hand was warm, a stark contrast to Crowley’s clammy, ice-cold skin.
“You’re alright,” Aziraphale whispered, “I’m here.”
They seemed to mold together in that moment; Crowley burying his face into the angel’s chest, wrapping his arms around his waist with fervor. He was shaking, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the other man’s nightshirt like it was his lifeline. The principality merely hummed, carefully draping his arms around the demon, fingers gently tracing down the length of his spine. Crowley shivered, but ultimately relaxed into the other man’s touch.
After a few minutes, Crowley’s breathing evened out and he loosened the death grip he had on Aziraphale as he pulled away. The angel’s heart panged, wanting to keep the contact, but thought it wise to let him have space.
“Sorry about that,” the demon’s voice was raw and watery, filled with an age-old pain that didn’t seem to shake easily, “happens every once in a while.”
He mumbled the last part, eyes drifting to his lap — Aziraphale sensed it wasn’t as uncommon as Crowley made it out to be. 6000 years, he thought, 6000 years and how many nights spent like this?
“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale paused, itching to have some sort of contact, “It’s quite alright if you don’t, I just, ah, thought it might help.”
“Nah, just some stupid nightmare,” he said, wiping his eyes, “suppose it’s what I get for having an imagination. Or sleeping, for that matter. I guess it beats —”
“Crowley.”
“— having nothing up there like Hastur —”
“Crowley,” the angel said firmly, pausing to let Crowley’s disjointed ramble come to a complete stop before continuing gently, “I fear I haven’t been there for you as you’ve been for me, over the ages. Egypt, Camlann, Persia, St. Albans, Paris, London — Too many to count, really.”
Aziraphale swallowed, acutely aware of Crowley’s eyes on him, “What I’m trying to say is...I would quite like to return the favor."
Our side, we’re on our side.
"Let me help you, Crowley."
They were both silent in that moment; Crowley’s eyes burning holes into Aziraphale’s own, wings deathly still. The world outside seemed muted, dull but ever present, only noticeable because neither of them were making a sound. If nothing else, it reminded them that Earth would carry on despite monumental, century-long yearning was about to be reborn into something that everyone and no-one had seen or experienced. Love had a tendency to run the attenuated edge of definition, to confuse or clarify, to freeze or melt, to burn white-hot or to succumb into the backdrop of the most mundane of things.
He felt the air shift, this insurmountable amount of feeling was finally tipping over — in the form of Crowley's lips on his.
The kiss was fierce, bruising in its intensity, as if the demon wanted to fuse their very essences together, searing in a way Aziraphale had never dreamed to feel. Their teeth clacked together, Crowley’s fangs catching his bottom lip in a frenzy to pour the seemingly limitless amount of feeling into this one action. The angel could taste the salt of tears and the sweet, bitter tang of wine between them, mixing together as Crowley’s tongue brushed against his.
It was raw; Crowley was baring his very soul to Aziraphale, speaking through this charged kiss that threatened to reduce them down to nothing but their cores, wholly consumed by the other. 6000 years, Aziraphale thought briefly, and this is how it starts. Or ends? It didn’t matter.
He could’ve lost himself quite easily, giving in after what seemed like eons, if it wasn’t for the fact that Crowley was shaking.
Aziraphale pulled back immediately, holding Crowley close as the demon tried to wrench away, whispering frantically, “‘m sorry, shit, ‘m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“Don’t,” he hated the wild, primal fear in Crowley’s eyes, “please don’t apologize, dear, not for this.”
“I shouldn’t‘ve just... jumped you like that.”
“It’s been a long time coming,” Aziraphale said softly, brushing his thumb across the Crowley’s cheek in an action so tender the demon felt like he might discorporate.
Now is better than never (or later? Aziraphale was certain this would happen sometime, after all, they only had each other in this post-Armageddon Earth).
It truly has been a long time coming, the angel thought, emboldened by his own words, so why not go all-in?
“I love you.”
It was spontaneous, sure, but what wasn’t with these two? Everything about them involved risk, this just happened to be the peak. The breaking point, quietly bubbling for centuries ending in Aziraphale’s dusty flat above the shop in a rare moment of shared vulnerability.
“I...jnk...you?” Crowley, mind you, had several things still Processing™ in that moment, namely age-old trauma and one killer headache (oh, and don’t forget his enemy-turned-friend-of-sorts professing his love in the middle of it all) — so forgive him for being a little slow on the uptake.
Aziraphale gave a breathy laugh, “Yes, dear. Quite. Don’t think I was very subtle about it.”
“‘S different to hear you say it, though,” Crowley muttered, blush high on his cheeks, “and for the record, I do too. Love you, that is.”
The next kiss was softer, slower, and chaste (by comparison), focused entirely on exploration. A balm, soothing the sharp nips and catches of their teeth, reassuring that yes, we’re here. Together.
“Y’know, out of all the ways I imagined this going, this wasn't one of ‘em.”
“I’d have to agree,” Aziraphale smiled against the demon’s lips, “but when does it ever go exactly how we imagined?”
“You have a point,” without all the tension, Crowley’s body went lax, eyes drooping, “rather anticlimactic if I’m honest. Care to join me, angel?”
Aziraphale gave him a look as if to say We will talk about this in the morning, and Crowley merely snorted, curling an arm (and wing) around the angel.
There wouldn’t be any talking for the next few days if Crowley had anything to say about it. There were a lot better things to do.
Namely eachother.