That certain night the night we met, There was magic abroad in the air…
Crowley squirmed, taking in all that magical weave that enclosed around their table, lifted his glass and swallowed once again, sweet, prickling champagne, glistening on his tounge.
Oh yes, indeed. There was.
And there was Aziraphale.
Crowley felt so soft.
The gentle touch of the singer‘s voice flickered underneath his skin and tingled down his bones, bubbling ever so sweetly in his stomach. It reverberated in his chest, causing him to suppress his lungs.
It wasn’t actually very apparent at first.
There wasn’t a rushing thump of his heart, nor a knowing tremble of his fingertips. Not even a sudden jolt squeezing in his guts.
It was just a gentle heartbeat, squirming softly underneath his ribs, tickling ever so faintly in the pit of his stomach, barely able to be noticed.
And Crowley didn’t notice.
Well, that was before it grew.
Slowly it increased, intensified quiet and secretly deep inside his inner being, staying hidden beneath his noisy snarl like his fiery eyes behind his sunglasses.
At the beginning it only occured, when Aziraphale’s delighted glance lingered just slightly longer on his, causing his heart to flutter softly in his chest like a jittery bird in his cage.
But oh, it was just too easy to ignore. Crowley, at times, wasn’t even aware of it, he just went along, without paying attention.
But soon there was more. It came up, when the dipped corners of the angel‘s mouth lifted his cheeks, causing his glistening eyes to smile just as wide as his pearly teeth, or when Aziraphale closed his lids in pure bliss to savour whatever he felt needed savouring.
And eventually only the sight of the angel - the sweet and soft angel Aziraphale – was just enough for these feelings to emerge from the bottom of Crowley‘s heart.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
An amused loving smile plucked at his cheeks, for there was actually an angel dining right in front of him. He leaned back, looking at Aziraphale and drinking again from his glass.
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square…
The evening was warm and tender.
They‘ve been at the Ritz for hours, talking, laughing and also just remaining silent, remembering and feeling.
Oh, there was so much to feel.
A soft breeze tickled Crowley’s neck, as he took off his sunglasses and looked up in the sky.
I may be right I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear...
„Let’s run away together, angel.“, Crowley whispered softly and chuckled. „…won’t we?“
Aziraphale giggled as well and crossed his arms behind his back.
„That would be absolutely lovely, I suppose.“
That when you turned and smiled at me,
Aziraphale's eyes were glistening with joy, the small wrinkles at the corners of his lids deepening, when his peachy cheeks squeezed them together. Crowley returned it.
„Shall we?“, he asked and turned in the direction of the bookshop.
Aziraphale agreed with a slight bob of his head and started walking.
A nightingale sang in Berkeley square.
It had rained during their dinner at the Ritz. Small, shimmery puddles reflecting thousands of stars, infinity beneath their shoes. Their steps crunching on shingles and grinding on the wet tarmac was everything heard, as they silently turned left into air street.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
„Ye‘ know, what they say, angel?“
Aziraphale hummed inquiringly without actually looking at him as they stopped walking, whilst crossing regents street.
„What?“, He asked. Crowley didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the countless, sparkling stars above them in the dark night‘s sky.
„What? Oh, eeh…nothing. They say nothing, I forgot what they say.“
Aziraphale inhaled sharply.
„Crowley! Don’t you ever again try to lie to me that blatantly!“
It was such a romantic affair.
„I won’t tell you!“, he snorted and turned to the angel, his heart pounding violently in his ribcage, as he stepped closer to him, watching Aziraphale‘s eyes widen, as he eventually stopped just inches away from his pointy nose.
„I might won’t tell you, but…“, He smelt the angel‘s cologne, the stale wood of the bookshop in his coat. His wryly breath of sweet cake and sparkling wine dancing moist over the sensitive tissue of his lips. Crowley paused his lungs, heart throbbing.
And as we kissed and said goodnight…
He leaned in,
passing Aziraphale’s face.
Screaming internally, just couldn’t do it once again.
Eventually he stopped with his lips so close to the angel‘s ear, that his hair tickled the tip of his nose, as he held on to his shoulders, like he would hold on to dear life, his heart wildly protesting, squeezing in pain as he opened his trembling lips and whispered thinly.
„I’ve loved the stars to fondly to be fearful of the night.“
…a nightingale sang in Berkeley square…
…I know, 'cause I was there…
…that night in Berkeley Square.