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With a sigh Crowley closed his suitcase. This was it. A last look around the bedroom confirmed it. All his stuff was packed.

Funny how easy it was to take down something that took so long to build.

Crowley did not want this! He did not want to leave, did not want this to end. Yes, it was hard sometimes. Yes, sometimes Aziraphale got on his nerves and Crowley was sure this was mutual. But still this was the best thing he had ever had. More than he had ever dreamt of and probably far more than he deserved.

Aziraphale had not stayed in the bedroom to watch Crowley gather his stuff. Why would he? Not that Crowley had not wished he would. Stay. Be around. And give Crowley something. Anything. The tiniest sign that he did not want this either.

But no. No Aziraphale. No sign.

Apparently it was too late. Since he could not very well sit on the bed forever, Crowley got to his feet. Wistful, he took in the room one last time before grabbing his suitcase.

He halted. What was this?

From underneath the tartan patterned pillow on Aziraphale’s bedside a small piece of dark cloth peeked out. Crowley stretched his arm to grab it. With surprise he found the black object to be one of his shirts.

The frown of confusion on his lips curled into a smile.

There it was! His sign.

“Aziraphale?” he called.

Aziraphale stuck head through the door.

“Yes?” he asked in a tone Crowley knew very well.

It was the tone Aziraphale used whenever he tried to sound calm, but in fact was fighting his emotions.

Crowley smirked at Aziraphale and held out the shirt.

“What’s this, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“This, my dear, is a shirt, a black one to be precise,” he said. “This colour and the size also suggest it is yours.”

“Hmm,” Crowley said. “But why is it underneath your pillow?”

The haughty expression faded from Aziraphale’s face, making room for shock and embarrassment.

“I… I have no idea, of course,” he said. “Why am I responsible for the whereabouts of your attire?”

Crowley stepped closer.

“Oh come on, angel,” he whispered. “You’re usually a better liar.”

“I’m not…”

“You used to do this after we had gotten together,” Crowley remembered. “Snatch a shirt of mine whenever I was away overnight. Said it smelled like me. So… You’re still doing this?”

With a smug smile held the evidence under Aziraphale’s nose, daring him to deny the obvious. But his complacency vanished when Aziraphale’s mask fell, his face suddenly an image of pain.

“Fine!” Aziraphale threw his hands in the air. “Yes, I do! I miss you,” his voice broke. “I still love you. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without you! Are you happy now?”

“More than you know,” Crowley growled.

Before Aziraphale had a chance to stop him, Crowley grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

By no means was Crowley being tender, the vigor speaking of his desperation. But soon he felt Aziraphale surrender, his soft body pressing against Crowley’s lean one, his arms returning the tight embrace.

Lips and tongues moved, familiar but passionate, fingers entangled in blond and red hair, rough but loving. Soft sighs and little moans filled the bedroom until Crowley pulled away.

“I know the shirt is probably less annoying than I,” he said. “But will you let me sleep next to you again?”

Aziraphale wiped away some stray tears and nodded, laughing.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, please.”