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It had only taken a few millennia, but Crowley was warming to the idea of a quiet night in.
Rain pattered on the windows, just enough to announce itself, a soothing little sound. Soothing too was the fire on the hearth, and he had a rather gorgeous single-malt in a glass that looked rather gorgeous in the firelight. The phonograph was playing quietly in the corner, the soft strains of – something string-y drifting about the room. And Aziraphale was next to him on the sofa, a thin volume of poems in his hand, now and then reading out a line or two that he fancied.
His hand would flutter excitedly over Crowley's sleeve as he leafed through his book, and he'd hum with pleasure at a particular turn of phrase. Crowley didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling as he hummed. He was always doing that, making those sorts of little sounds. Happy little murmurs and coos like a contented bird. A rumpled, lovely chickadee. Crowley wanted to put him in his pocket.
"Oh, I've always loved this one," Aziraphale sighed, wriggling with anticipation. He began to read, and Crowley rested his head on the back of the sofa and half-listened, fascinated to hear the music and Aziraphale's voice washing over him at once.
Not a sigh nor a tear my pain discloses
But they fall silently like dew on roses
He turned to watch Aziraphale as he read. Something seemed to have come over him; he read more slowly and his face grew serious.
And while I suffer thus to give him quiet
My faith rewards my love though he deny it
There wasn't a lot to unravel in that one, Crowley thought, but somehow it hit rather close to the bone.
To be more happy I dare not aspire
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
Aziraphale seemed to have the same thought. Once he'd finished, he lowered the book to his lap, blinked a couple of times, and said uncomfortably, "It does seem – a bit on the nose. Now that I revisit it."
"Angel."
"Yes?"
Without another word, Crowley reached over, gently took the book from Aziraphale's hand, and laid it aside. He turned to face him, propping one elbow on the back of the sofa.
"What are you thinking about?" Aziraphale ventured softly.
"What am I thinking about?" Crowley mused. Million ways he could answer that, and thousands of them would make every word of that poem true. He had to start somewhere. He took a breath. "I'm thinking about . . . things I thought about. While you were away."
Now Aziraphale turned, giving Crowley his full attention, closing the space between them a little more. He nodded encouragingly.
"Lot of the time – most of the time. Fifty times a day. I'd think of something I wanted to tell you. Something that would've made you laugh, or go all huffy like you do. Other times it was – erm . Auugh, look, it's stupid, you don't want to hear it."
"I do!"
Crowley opened his mouth to continue and promptly shut it again.
Aziraphale recovered first. "Tell me – what you were thinking of the other times."
He cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face. "I was thinking about – things like – your eyebrows. I told you it was stupid." But it was out there now.
"No! Only I hadn't any idea you were so – fond of them." He looked puzzled, but not displeased.
"Neither had I, is the thing. But there I was, moping about the flat one night, and it hit me: I never touched his eyebrows. Stopped me in my tracks." He was quiet for a long few moments. "Thought I probably missed my chance," he added, trying to make it sound shrugged-off and failing rather miserably.
Another few moments passed where the only sound was the crackling of the fire. When Crowley finally looked up, Aziraphale was gazing at him so softly and mistily that he had to look away again.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. Then a smile broke across his face. "You can touch them now, if you like. My eyebrows."
"Well – I. Yeah?"
He nodded. "Yes, please."
Crowley shifted a little, and Aziraphale bowed his head in Crowley's direction. "Six thousand years in the making," Crowley muttered, and ran a thumb reverently over Aziraphale's left eyebrow.
Aziraphale dimpled. Crowley shivered.
"Worth the wait?"
Crowley could only mutely nod, unable to look away from the angel's twinkling countenance. He swallowed. Say something, say something. "Was it good for you?" he blurted, and even to his own ears, it sounded more silly than it did saucy.
"Oh, yes, it was lovely!"
"Well, they are, ah, very – lovely. Eyebrows." Crowley cleared his throat. Touched him again. The soft skin at the corner of his eye – a miracle. He paused, his hand hovering near Aziraphale's face. Speech left him. Aziraphale held fast. He took Crowley's hand, very gently. Stroked Crowley's palm with his thumb.
"Can I touch your lips?" Crowley managed.
Aziraphale nodded, his eyes very wide.
He released Crowley's hand and then went still as a statue at the first touch of Crowley's fingertips.
Crowley went still as well. "Is it okay?"
He smiled against Crowley's fingers. "Very much."
Slowly, so slowly, Crowley eased his fingertips over Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale didn't stop smiling, exactly, but his smile softened, and Crowley could feel it. Could feel his breath. He placed his thumb against the tender skin and Aziraphale leaned into it ever so slightly, not quite kissing him.
"What do they feel like?" Aziraphale whispered.
"Petals," Crowley said at once, surprising them both.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale breathed, delighted. "I always suspected there was a poet in you."
Crowley made a little scoffing sound. Aziraphale was positively beaming, but Crowley was only half paying attention to that, more interested in the shape of his words, the warm softness of his breath.
"Say more words," he demanded, and if that was unpoetic, it was worth it for another smile.
"More words," Aziraphale murmured impishly. He turned his head a little, found Crowley's baby finger, and kissed it.
All this because of a confession about eyebrows, for fuck's sake. Maybe there was something to be said for confession after all.
"Can I touch your sweet cheeks?" Crowley suggested. Ask and you shall receive and all that.
"Mmmm…I'll allow it," Aziraphale teased, and then his eyes drifted closed as Crowley treated him to the tenderest of caresses.
"Can I call you Sweet Cheeks?"
"No, you may not ," he laughed, while turning a shade of pink so becoming that Crowley was seized with the deliciously unholy notion to pinch him. He retraced his precious eyebrow instead, then the other. Touched his face again – backs of his knuckles over Aziraphale's face. Thumb over his lips again. This time, they parted under his touch.
"Can I kiss you?"
"Oh, I was rather desperately hoping you would."
So he did. Several times.
Marvelous thing, kissing. Really a wonder. Sharing air. Hands slipping right to the spots where they fit best – under the front of a jacket, or into the grasp of another gentle, yearning hand. Magic.
Really ought to do it again, once or twice or a dozen more times. Just to make sure.
He wasn't sure how much time passed. By the time Crowley realized that the phonograph had gone silent, they'd lain back on the sofa cushions, Aziraphale's head on his shoulder.
Crowley blinked sleepily and reflected on the simple truths of being in a cozy room, listening to rain on the windows, sprawled on a plush comfortable sofa with a plush comfortable angel in his arms.
"Crowley?"
"Yep."
"D'you love me?"
He took a deep breath. Almost said it.
Hell's sake, Angel, how is that fair game and "Sweet Cheeks" isn't?
But he didn't.
You never say what you're really thinking.
The time for evasion, for clever quips, was long past – centuries past. No more room here for dew on roses or whatever it was.
"Since the beginning, Angel," he murmured. "Forever."
Aziraphale cooed and squeezed him. Crowley squeezed back, kissed him on the forehead.
They were snug in their cottage. There were yellow flowers in the window boxes and rain tapping on the roof. They were them. All was right with the world.