It wasn’t something big, in the end. Six thousand years of slow reckoning, of dancing closer then pulling back, of trying to keep his feet against the inevitable tide, and yet it was something so inconsequential that finally tipped him over the line.
Crowley placed the mug of cocoa next to Aziraphale’s open book, leaning across him, then hopped up to lounge on the edge of his desk.
“Planning on moving anytime this century then, angel?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other.
Aziraphale looked at the mug, steam rising, then up at Crowley. The demon’s eyes were bare, as they often were these days when it was just to two of them, and his lips were curled in a fond smirk. His hair was a little ruffled, and he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He looked smaller, somehow, with his outer layers stripped away, simpler. Content.
He was beautiful.
Aziraphale stood up in a rush, chair squeaking on the worn floorboards as it slid backwards. The demon looked suddenly apprehensive, straightening from his slouch and uncrossing his legs.
“Thank you.” Aziraphale stepped closer. His knees brushed against Crowley’s.
“It’s just… it’s just cocoa, angel,” Crowley whispered. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the desk.
Aziraphale didn’t answer. His eyes flicked down the line of Crowley’s throat as the demon swallowed, lingering on his shoulders, the taut line of his torso, his hips.
Crowley made a noise, a hastily choked off inhale, and Aziraphale’s gaze snapped back up to meet his eyes. They were wide and unblinking, the faintest hint of colour smudging his cheeks.
Aziraphale swayed closer.
Crowley licked his lips.
Aziraphale kissed him. He surged forward, sliding one hand into Crowley’s hair and the other behind his back. Crowley let out a strangled sort of moan, mouth falling open in surprise.
Aziraphale pulled back, heart thudding in his ears.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, I should have asked, are you sure you—”
Crowley seized a double handful of his lapels, and yanked him forward. He pressed forwards, biting at Aziraphale’s lip, and it was the angel’s turn to groan.
“Am I ssure?” Crowley hissed, pressing scalding kisses under Aziraphale’s jaw. “Six thousand years and you ask if I’m sure?”
“Oh, well, I—ah—I wanted…”
And he did.