Work Text:
41 AD
Really, Aziraphale thinks, as he tilts the oyster shell up to his lips, this is all rather sensual.
Eating, of course, is a rather sensory experience for an angel anyway. When you have spent a millenia without a body, and then suddenly you are sent to Earth with one, and you are graced with a sense of taste and touch and smell... It can all be rather overwhelming. But by now, Aziraphale has stopped being embarrassed by the little noises he makes in his throat when he tastes something particularly lovely. He has grown less ashamed of the shiver of pleasure that grazes over his spine when he eats. Food is just too wonderful not to enjoy - now that Aziraphale has accepted that he cannot abstain from it, he must enjoy it as much as possible, without a hint of guilt.
Still, oysters, well, they are almost obscene.
First, there's the touch of the shell to his lips, then the parting of his mouth, and then the tilting of his neck, and the slide of the oyster into his mouth and down his throat... Aziraphale closes his eyes, and hums at the taste and sensation. Patronious really does do remarkable things to oysters.
All of this, of course, is new to Crowley, who is sitting across from him at the table. Judging by the slight upturn of his mouth, he's considerably less grumpy than he was an hour ago, but Aziraphale can't properly see his expression behind his sunglasses.
"See?" Aziraphale says. "You really should try one."
"Are you not being rather gluttonous, angel?" Crowley asks, as if it were not him who tempted Aziraphale into eating in the first place. The demon runs his finger along the rim of his goblet, his head tilted slightly as he waits for Aziraphale's reaction.
"Well!" Aziraphale says, affronted, though he has no real defence to this. He picks up another oyster, and smiles warmly at Crowley. "Are you not being rather generous, paying for all of this?"
"Certainly not. Money isn't an issue for either of us, as you know." Crowley points out. "We each have our wages from our respective bosses, but also, we can just... miracle more."
"That's not the point." Aziraphale says, "It was very nice of you, you know."
As Crowley grumbles to himself, Aziraphale's smile widens.
"Do try an oyster." He says pleasantly, feeling rather fond of Crowley, "It's like I said, they're remarkable."
"Are you trying to tempt me?" Crowley asks, with a devilish sort of grin that should make Aziraphale feel anxious.
In actuality, Aziraphale is very relaxed, far more than he should be considering the demonic company he is keeping. At the sight of Crowley’s wicked smile, his cheeks warm. The wine and the food and the good conversation are just too lovely - Heaven and his duties feel very far away.
"Oh, just let me show you." Aziraphale says. He leans slightly across the table, and holds the oyster up to Crowley's lips.
Crowley, who is almost never silent nor still, becomes exactly that. At the touch of the oyster shell to his mouth, the demon parts his lips, and suddenly Aziraphale is hypnotised. His eyes linger on Crowley’s lips as he tips the oyster shell up into them, and he shivers as Crowley tilts back his head and swallows. Sensual indeed, Aziraphale thinks. He feels a sensation in his vessel unlike anything he has felt before - a wave of heat, sparking and burning like fire as it travels from his stomach to the space between his legs.
"Ah." Aziraphale murmurs to himself. Though Crowley has by now swallowed the oyster, Aziraphale has not leaned back, and he is still far too close to Crowley than he ought to be. Crowley, of course, has noticed this, and is watching him wordlessly, his wet lips still parted.
Of course, it briefly crosses Aziraphale's mind that Crowley, demon that he is, planned this. Perhaps Crowley set out to tempt him. Indeed, he does look rather dashing, and he appears to be wearing some sort of incense. He must’ve cast some sort of demonic spell, Aziraphale decides. The aroma is sweet, almost feminine, and it is making him feel slightly dizzy...
"Not bad." Crowley hums. He still isn't leaning away from Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could not move back to his seat even if he tried.
"Sorry?" Aziraphale says, faintly, his gaze lingering on Crowley's mouth.
Crowley tilts his head, and Aziraphale takes a breath. The issue is that once you have seen someone as beautiful, it is impossible to unsee it, and Crowley is as darling as he was when he was an angel. Oh, yes, he is harder, and sharper, and Aziraphale cannot see any of Crowley’s old innocence in his face no matter how hard he looks. But even without his ringlets and his sweet naivety, he’s still so very beautiful.
Take, for example, his eyes. From this angle, Aziraphale can see a hint of them behind his sunglasses, and they are bright and pretty and sharp as a blade. There is no mistaking that they are demonic eyes - slit and serpentine - but still they capture Aziraphale completely. And as Crowley meets his gaze over the rim of his glasses, his eyes widen, flickering over Aziraphale’s face in surprise.
The restaurant was bustling and noisy, but now all of a sudden, it is not. Everything is still, and silent, as if time has been frozen. Aziraphale feels his heart skip, knowing that Crowley has caused it, and he wonders why Crowley could possibly need the entire world to stop-
For a moment neither of them move, and then Crowley is shifting closer, closer, and Aziraphale - not in his right mind, of course, affected by the scent of the incense on Crowley's skin and the maddening pounding of his heart - is leaning forward too. Crowley is close enough that Aziraphale feels the warmth of his breath on his cheek and he can see the pretty lines and curves of Crowley's face and…
Aziraphale snaps out of it. He throws himself back into his chair quickly, flushed and flustered. His eyes dart anxiously around the room, fixing on anything except for Crowley's face.
At once, there is noise and motion. Time resumes as if it never stopped, and the only proof that anything unusual really happened at all is how heavily Aziraphale is breathing, and the way Crowley drinks his entire mug of ale in one gulp.
“Right. Er, yes. Um.” Crowley says, rising quickly to his feet. The words get stuck in his throat, all hoarse and cracked. “I’d, ngk, I’d better be off.”
“Oh, yes, yes, me too.” Aziraphale says, all in a rush. “So many good deeds to do, of course, and I suppose you will have all sorts of, ah, temptations…”
Temptations indeed, Aziraphale thinks. He glances up at Crowley and then down at his own hands, which are clenched tightly in his lap. He hasn’t technically done anything wrong, but right now he feels like a very bad angel.
Aziraphale knows he cannot keep sitting here in a flustered daze much longer. But when he stands up in a rush, clumsy and bustling, he trips over his robes. Crowley steadies him before he can fall. It’s almost instinctive, the way his arm snakes around Aziraphale’s waist, and for a moment Aziraphale just sighs and leans him to him. Crowley is warm and close and it feels so wonderful to be near to someone, for once, to not be alone on a night like this-
Crowley startles. He clears his throat and steps away, while Aziraphale practises angelic self restraint.
“Goodnight.” Crowley says. His expression is unreadable as he turns away.
Aziraphale watches him go, aware even now that this evening will never be mentioned again. It will be as if nothing happened, and they will become, once more, an angel and a demon, dutifully playing their given roles.
1793
Paris is one of Aziraphale’s favourite places on Earth. The food and the romance and the beauty of the city, it is just magical. Aziraphale thinks popping across the channel just for a bite to eat here was entirely worth it, even if he did only narrowly avoid a rather messy discorporation.
And of course, there is the added benefit of good company. Crowley, his gracious hero, is in rather good spirits as he leans back against his chair and speaks to the waiter.
“Wine it is.” The waiter says to Crowley.
“The most expensive wine you have.” Aziraphale adds. “I’m buying, after all.”
“And for you?” The waiter says, turning to Aziraphale.
“Oh, the angel is having crepes.” Crowley says. “Honey will suffice, I believe.”
Aziraphale smiles warmly.
“Indeed.” He murmurs. He watches the waiter leave, and then turns to Crowley. “You’re a natural at this. I believe this is one of the first proper restaurants in France. Individualised service, can you believe it? Humans are very clever.”
“How exciting.” Crowley drawls, and perhaps it is meant to be sarcastic, but his smile softens it.
“I’d say so.” Aziraphale says. “But anyway, I digress. I’m quite sure you’d understand why I came all the way to Paris if you tried one of my crepes. It was completely worth it, I assure you.”
“I’m not sure how you would have explained your beheading to Heaven, though.” Crowley muses. “I’m not convinced wanting a sweet treat is a good enough excuse.”
“Well, Heaven need not know.” Aziraphale says. “I was rescued, after all.”
Crowley hisses, and sends him a sharp warning glance. Aziraphale is immune to this, of course, and just smiles.
“You cannot deny it.” Aziraphale says. “It was a very gallant display.”
“Gallant.” Crowley scoffs. “I’m not a horse.”
“Charming, then.” Aziraphale says warmly, “You know, Crowley, sometimes you can be so-“
Aziraphale is interrupted by a plate of crepes being placed in front of him. He claps, delighted, and tucks right in. They are so warm, and sweet, and the honey melts on his tongue, eliciting low moans from his throat.
Crowley, as always, just sits across from him and drinks his wine. The quiet between them is comfortable and warm as Aziraphale eats, and not for the first time, Aziraphale thinks that Crowley’s company is far more preferable to eating alone.
After a few bites, Aziraphale looks up to find Crowley is already gazing at him. Aziraphale blinks, surprised. He’s unable to read Crowley’s expression behind his sunglasses. How pesky they are, always hiding Crowley’s eyes.
Then, gently, Crowley’s hand is reaching towards him. A pause, and then Crowley’s thumb is ever so gently brushing over the side of his mouth. Aziraphale cannot move, cannot breathe. He feels a spark of electricity where Crowley has touched him.
For a moment Crowley lingers like this, his touch so very light, and Aziraphale shivers. Then Crowley’s thumb edges ever so slightly towards his bottom lip, delicate and warm, and Aziraphale’s lips part involuntarily. He has the sudden image of Crowley’s finger slipping inside of his mouth and it is sinful and wonderful and if only-
Crowley touches Aziraphale’s bottom lip lightly with his thumb, and Aziraphale inhales sharply. A gentle tug, Crowley’s thumb parting his lips… And then at once, Crowley startles, and pulls his hand away as if burned.
“You had a bit of honey…” Crowley trails off and looks away.
“I, ah-” Aziraphale swallows, shifting slightly in his seat, “Thank you.”
Crowley nods and looks away. Aziraphale’s gaze traces Crowley’s face, and he catches the tension in Crowley’s jaw, the narrowing of his eyebrows. But there is no way for Aziraphale to soften him, nothing he can say to ease any of this tension between them. Just like in Rome it is impossible to address, because to address it would make it real, and so Aziraphale turns back to his crepes.
“Angel.” Crowley says quietly.
Aziraphale glances up at him. Crowley opens his mouth as if to speak, and then hesitates, and falls silent.
“I do love Paris.” Aziraphale blurts out nervously, “Don’t you?”
Crowley lets out a laugh, all breathy and surprised..
“Sure.” He agrees. “If you ignore the mass beheadings.”
And so things fall back into place, and any touch or stolen glance is ignored, simply fading into a dream. The evening passes as any other would, except for one thing. Aziraphale’s thumb keeps darting to his own bottom lip, chasing the warmth that Crowley’s touch left behind.
1941
Conversations on shades of grey fade quickly into lighter topics, and before long the evening is warm and jolly. Crowley, who had been rather tense through the whole magic-show ordeal, has relaxed. At the very least, he has taken off his hat.
Aziraphale may have undone a few top buttons on his shirt, but of course if Heaven asked, he most certainly had not. It is simply too warm in the bookshop with the wine and the laughter and the candlelight. Nothing else to be done.
Here we are, Aziraphale thinks, as Crowley talks with his hands, an angel and a demon, so perfectly content in each other’s company.
But sure enough the sun is rising, and Aziraphale feels the sweet curve of Crowley’s lips and the warmth in the air is too much of a danger. Crowley has taken off his sunglasses and his eyes are bright and warm and-
Well, Aziraphale thinks, they only narrowly escaped discovery today, and perhaps they should be more cautious.
And yet he can’t help but wonder, what if Crowley stayed? How long would it take for him to leave again, and how long would Aziraphale wait before he came back?
"I think," Aziraphale says, quietly, his heart clenching in refusal, "We ought to call it a night."
Crowley glances to the window, where sunlight has begun to peek through. He raises an eyebrow.
"Up comes the sun." Crowley says, slurring sweetly around his words. He crashes to his feet, stumbling against the table before steadying himself. He gives Aziraphale a grin as if to say, oh dear, look at me, but makes no attempt to sober himself up.
"Be careful, Crowley." Aziraphale admonishes, but he is just as clumsy when he rises from his seat. He manages to stay standing, and is proud of it. "Come. I'll see you to the door."
"How gentlemanly." Crowley drawls, and smiles. He puts on his hat and tips it in Aziraphale's direction. Aziraphale rather adores this version of Crowley, silly and drunken and far less guarded.
Aziraphale smiles fondly back at the demon, and Crowley's eyes soften. For a moment they are so gentle that Aziraphale has to catch his breath. Every now and then, Crowley is so capable of genuine sweetness that it startles Aziraphale.
"Well," Aziraphale slurs as they slowly wander to the bookshop door. Crowley sticks to the wall, holding himself up with a palm against it. "'Ve had a wonderful day."
"Not half bad." Crowley grumbles. "'part from the zombies, and your near-death experience-"
"I was perfectly safe." Aziraphale says, his chest warming again.
"You really-" Crowley is interrupted by a hiccup. He's in the doorway now, leaning his head back against it. His sunglasses are dangling from his fingers, and his eyes are turned up at the bookshop ceiling. "You really believe that?"
"Oh. Oh, without a doubt." Aziraphale says. Crowley glances at him, and though Aziraphale's hand is on the doorknob leading into the streets of Soho, he makes no move to turn it and open the door. Maybe he could keep Crowley here a little longer. "I trust you completely."
Crowley says nothing. He seems so surprised by this that all he can do is make a noise in his throat. Aziraphale refuses to meet his eyes, and for once, he wishes Crowley was wearing those pesky sunglasses. Those words would never have slipped from Aziraphale’s lips if he was sober - an angel could not, in any universe, trust a demon. They were, by nature, untrustworthy.
But not Crowley. Never Crowley. He cannot help but say it with sincerity, because it's true. Crowley hasn't once let him down. There is no universe where Crowley would betray him.
What are friends for, after all?
So many admissions today, Aziraphale thinks. He really should open the bookshop door, before any more slip through, such as, that hat frames your face so beautifully, or, you really do look rather dashing in that suit, or, when you saved my bag of books my heart swelled to twice it's size and I really did think I might discoporate on the spot-
And so on and so forth. It does cross Aziraphale's mind that being inebriated is actually the perfect excuse to spill his heart like this, but even drunk he knows no version of events would result in a happy ending for them, and so he swallows and vows not to say anymore.
Suddenly Aziraphale feels nauseous. He ducks his head, and closes his eyes as it washes over him.
"Anyway." Aziraphale says, quickly, all in a rush. "Goodnight, Crowley."
He dares to meet Crowley's eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale holds his gaze, and sees Crowley's eyes are wide and vulnerable and scared and Aziraphale thinks, not for the first time, that deep down Crowley must have so much feeling hidden beneath his hard exterior. Because Aziraphale can see it now in his eyes, all of that repressed emotion. And as Crowley allows him that glimpse of vulnerability, Aziraphale realises that Crowley is telling him something:
I trust you too.
As he realises this, Aziraphale's heart cracks, just a little. He holds this knowledge close to his chest like a precious gem. How delicate the moment is, because Crowley would never say it aloud, would never admit to trusting anyone, but here he is, and here Aziraphale is, and there is nothing in the world that matters more to the angel in that moment than keeping Crowley's trust safe.
Crowley looks away. He puts on his sunglasses, and clenches his jaw, his body language closed to Aziraphale now. Aziraphale chases his gaze and thinks come back, but any further admission from either of them may destroy the delicate friendship they've developed over the centuries, and so he says nothing else.
"G'night." Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale cracks open the door.
Crowley is slipping through past him, he's leaving, and Aziraphale cannot bear it. In a split-second of drunken bravery he stops Crowley with a gentle hand on his arm, and Crowley turns to him. The two of them are close in the doorway, the cool air outside slipping through the open door and enveloping them.
Crowley is frozen, looking at him, and Aziraphale thinks I wish- and stops himself completely, pushes everything down until it is a dark pit in his stomach.
"Angel, I better-" Crowley starts to say, turning back to the door, but Aziraphale cannot let him go.
Without thinking, he leans forward and presses a warm kiss to Crowley's cheek. He lingers there, for a second, and delights in all of it, the sudden sharp inhale of Crowley's breath, the roughness of his skin under Aziraphale's mouth. He smells of wine and perfume and Aziraphale breathes him in. Goodness, he thinks. How close he is to sin, and how close he is, too, to true happiness. If Crowley turned his head just a fraction-
And then Aziraphale leans back, and gazes down at the floor. He feels the morning light envelop him in its warm glow, slipping through the doorway to greet him, and it almost feels like a blessing.
"That's, ah, that's for-" Aziraphale hesitates. He could say the rescue, or the books, or the magic show, or the lovely evening, he could say for the last 6000 years or simply the last hour, but none of it encompasses the truth of it. "Everything."
Crowley chokes on something.
"Right." He says, at last, in a ragged, serpentine hiss. He runs a hand over his face. "Right, yeah- Fuck, right, okay."
"Do mind how you go." Aziraphale murmurs. He holds the door open a little wider, and he can feel Crowley staring at him but he cannot find the courage to meet his gaze. "Goodnight, Crowley."
Crowley shakes his head and grumbles something under his breath. and then he's leaving, striding out of the bookshop quickly. When he reaches the Bentley, he looks back, and Aziraphale imagines a reality in which he doesn't leave, and he comes back.
But in this reality they are destined to stay on opposite sides.
It doesn't matter what either of them want. Want does not come into it. They are bound to their rules - there is no other alternative. All they can do is flirt on the edge of a different life, where there are not so many walls between them, but Aziraphale has started to wonder if dancing with these forbidden fantasies is only causing them more pain.
The Bentley speeds away, and Aziraphale closes the bookshop door. For a moment, the silence is oppressive, and Aziraphale's fingers ghost over his lips. No more, he tells himself, as if it will make any difference at all.
2014
Really, those years looking after Warlock are some of Aziraphale's favourites.
He finds much joy in gardening, though he takes a far gentler approach than Crowley. The fresh air and nature brighten Aziraphale, and when he is working he finds he cannot fret so much about Armageddon. Plus, no one really bothers him in the garden. He must admit, often he only actually works for an hour or two, then miracles the rest of the garden and settles beneath a tree with a good book for the rest of the morning.
Plus, there is the added benefit of spending time with Crowley, who is mightily fierce as Nanny Ashtoreth but also, in Aziraphale's opinion, very entertaining. The two of them often amuse themselves coming up with the most outrageous ways they can influence Warlock, and it becomes a sort of competition. Really, it's great fun, and every now and then they pass each other and Crowley gives him an exaggerated wink and Aziraphale has to try very hard not to laugh.
Every evening, Crowley drives him home, and this is perhaps Aziraphale's favourite part of the whole thing. They trade stories of Warlock's development, laugh about his antics and share worries about the coming future. They have never spent so much time together in quick succession, but it is so very natural. Aziraphale, truthfully, could get used to it.
One night in winter, it is dark and has begun to snow, but the Bentley is warm and toasty. Aziraphale is really rather comfortable in the passenger seat as he watches Crowley drive. Crowley has already changed out of her work clothes, but she's still very feminine, her hair curling sweetly around her face and her lips still tinged red. Her sunglasses sit on the dashboard, so Aziraphale can see the sweet curl of her eyelashes, and the amber glimmer of her eyes.
"Angel," Crowley says, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, "What happens if we fail?"
Aziraphale softens.
"I wouldn't worry." He says gently, "We cannot fail. Our combined influence will-"
"That’s just a theory." Crowley interrupts. "If Warlock comes into his power, and destroys the world-"
"He won't."
"But if he does," Crowley cuts in again, "What do we do?"
We. As if they could face the end of the world together. As if they wouldn't be on opposite sides of a war.
"Well," Aziraphale says uncertainly, "I'm sure we'd find another way to prevent Armageddon."
"But if we don't." Crowley says. She pulls the steering wheel hard as they speed around a corner. "Say Warlock brings about the end of the world, and Armageddon begins, what do we do?"
"Crowley." Aziraphale says. "If Armageddon does occur, there will be a battle. Oh, there shouldn't be, of course, and there won't be, but if I must- If it is God's will, then- Then I suppose I must fight."
"Fight?" Crowley says, sharply, "For Heaven?"
"Well, yes." Aziraphale says, "And you, for Hell."
"Oh, I'm not fighting any war." Crowley says, "Not again."
"But, my dear- You cannot disobey. They'd destroy you."
Crowley shrugs.
"I'm not following anyone into battle, angel." Crowley says. "And neither should you. Say this all ends- We should run away somewhere. Escape it."
"Out of the question." Aziraphale says. His voice is hard, but it is only because pain and fear are blooming in his chest.
"But-"
"No." Aziraphale says. "You ought to not say such things."
Crowley hisses.
"Right." She says. "Fine. I see how it is."
"Crowley, don't be like that." Aziraphale pleads. "Look, I don't want to fight anymore than you do, but it won't come to that. I'm certain of it."
"But if it does, you'll be out there with your flaming sword? Smiting?"
"Well- hopefully I don't have to do any smiting."
"Oh, no, sorry, I forgot, your platoon will be doing the smiting for you!"
"Crowley." Aziraphale says, desperately, "I don't think we should say anything more on this subject."
"Sure." Crowley hisses. "Sounds good to me."
Silence falls, but it is dark and heavy, and Aziraphale longs desperately to break it. They have worked so well together for the past few years, and it hurts to fall back into the same arguments and heartaches. When Crowley pulls up in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale does not open the passenger seat door. Instead, he turns to Crowley and smiles.
"Thank you." He says, warmly, intent on fixing things, "For driving me home."
Crowley grunts, and says nothing. Aziraphale sighs.
"Don't be stubborn, Crowley." He says. He hesitates, and then he lays a gentle hand over Crowley's where it sits on the gearstick. Crowley startles, and looks up at him, her eyes softening now with uncertainty. "We musn't argue. We have to work together."
Aziraphale squeezes Crowley's hand, and Crowley looks away.
"No matter." Aziraphale says gently. "You are always forgiven."
Crowley glances back at him sharply. The words seem to affect her greatly, and Aziraphale wonders if she ever wishes God would forgive her. Then Aziraphale thinks, surely God has forgiven Crowley, for Crowley is all things good and kind and wonderful. If only God would tell Crowley so. If only God would restore her as an angel, how she ought to be.
In the dark and the quiet, Crowley sighs.
"The end of the world," She sighs, "I- It's-"
"It doesn't bear thinking about." Aziraphale agrees. "So don't. It will all turn out okay."
"You truly believe that?"
"Of course I do." Aziraphale says. He is painfully aware that he hasn't let go of Crowley's hand, but he cannot bear to let go. "It always does."
Crowley softens, a little. She tilts her head and looks down at their hands. Aziraphale cannot help himself - he runs his thumb along the back of Crowley's hand, warm and soothing, but the comfort seems to have the opposite effect and Crowley pulls quickly out of his grip. Aziraphale’s hand hovers over the gearstick, empty and cold.
“You know the past few years-“ Crowley says, all in a rush, then pauses. Aziraphale takes a breath, feels his heart jump. “The two of us…”
Crowley trails off and Aziraphale gazes at her. The Bentley feels so very small and quiet and they are so close, like this, marooned on this small island together. Music starts to drift from the Bentley speakers, soft and gentle. Aziraphale makes out a few lyrics.
When I think of all the things we’ve done, oh darling it’s only just begun-
Crowley turns off the radio quickly, her eyes narrowing at it as if to say how dare you?
"When our work with Warlock is done." Crowley says. "Then what?"
"How do you mean?" Aziraphale asks. "Warlock turns of age, the world doesn't end, and we go back to the way things were."
"The way things were." Crowley mutters. "Yes, I see."
"What other option is there?"
Crowley raises her eyebrows.
"Million dollar question." She says.
"We've talked about this before. You go along with Hell as far as you can, and I with Heaven-"
"Don't you ever wonder if there's another way to live?" Crowley asks.
Crowley hesitates, thrumming her fingertips on the steering wheel. She won't look at Aziraphale, but even without seeing her eyes Aziraphale knows she is vulnerable again, vulnerable and scared, and Aziraphale does not want to hurt her but he also does not want Crowley to have any sort of unfair expectation of him. This is their reality, however much it may hurt. They must live within these restraints to stay safe.
"Crowley, you know that's not possible."
"I didn't say it was." Crowley says quietly. "I just asked if you wonder."
Wonder?
Of course he fucking wonders.
In fact, Aziraphale doesn't just wonder. He dreams. Scripture states that there is only one universe, one world, but if there wasn't- if there were endless universes, and he and Crowley existed in them- If Crowley hadn't fallen, or if Aziraphale had- if they were both humans, and met in the normal sort of way-
If, if, if.
Aziraphale does not answer.
"That's enough." He decides, and cracks open the passenger seat door. "This isn't helpful."
Crowley scoffs, and Aziraphale feels a pang of hurt.
"Stop it, Crowley, I don't know why you insist on-" Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "I can't deal with you when you're like this."
"Like what?" Crowley says, and her tongue curls like a snake's over her words. "When I'm honest? Couldn't bear that, could you?"
If only Crowley could see inside of him. If she felt it, this pain, this fear, she may not cut him so quickly. Honesty is not an option. It would destroy them both, and more than that, it wouldn't change anything anyway.
"Enough. You're being ridiculous. I'm leaving." Aziraphale bites.
He climbs out of the Bentley, but Crowley follows, slinking around the car after him like the serpent that she is. In the dark they are two shadows, dancing in the streetlight. Aziraphale starts to move away from the Bentley, towards the bookshop, but Crowley is in front of him, blocking his path.
There is nowhere to go but backwards. Aziraphale's back hits the Bentley, and here Crowley is, in his space, furious and sincere and wonderful, really. She is so beautifully lit by the headlights of the Bentley, and she is always most startling when her eyes are blazing with passion. Aziraphale cannot look away from her.
"You know I'm right." Crowley says. "We need a backup plan. If this all goes wrong- We need another way out."
"If this all goes wrong, there is no more we, Crowley!" Aziraphale says, almost in a shout. His loud voice echoes in the dark night, over and over, a painful song.
Aziraphale takes a breath, and realises he has gone too far - Crowley is already shutting down, her eyes cold and dark and empty. Perhaps that's for the best. Perhaps... Perhaps they were getting too close. What were they doing, spending so much time together, close together in the Bentley every morning and evening, scheming about Warlock every hour of the day? It’s too much. It’s delusional.
"And there isn't another way out." Aziraphale adds, for good measure. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Ngk." Crowley ducks her head. Aziraphale can feel her pain, can almost hear the cracking of her heart in the dark night. "No, no, I can't say that it is."
"Let us just- forget about tonight." Aziraphale says. "All of it. We will be strictly professional. This is simply a mutually beneficial exchange, after, all, nothing else."
"Oh, is it?" Crowley growls, with renewed vigor. She pushes even closer to him, and Aziraphale shivers, though he is certainly not afraid. "A mutually beneficial exchange! Right."
"Well, what else would you call it!" Aziraphale bites.
"You really don't want me to answer that, angel." Crowley hisses. In her anger she steps impossibly closer to him, staring furiously into his eyes, and Aziraphale practically melts against the car. This is certainly not the time to be swooning, but he cannot help it. She is magnetic, truly, she is-
Aziraphale's lips part. He gazes at Crowley, and she must sense, somehow, that the tension between them now is not entirely unwelcome, because the tips of her ears are turning red.
Really, Aziraphale thinks, it's dark, and there's no one around, and if Crowley closed the gap between them, well, no one would have to know-
Indeed, Crowley seems to be shifting closer, her eyes shadowed and dangerous, and if she kissed him right now Aziraphale wouldn't have the strength to resist. In fact, he fears he would fold under her touch, and give in completely.
Aziraphale looks up to the sky, and sends a quick apology to God. Hopefully, She isn't watching, and if She is-
God help him. Literally.
"Strictly professional." Crowley breathes. She is far too close. Her breath is ghosting Aziraphale's lips, warm and sweet and- Aziraphale wonders how her lipstick would feel against his mouth, and if it would linger afterwards, an imprint of Crowley on his skin.
Aziraphale closes his eyes, lets the swirl of butterflies overcome him, and-
And Crowley scoffs.
"Sure." She drawls. She steps out of his space, and Aziraphale cannot breathe. She yanks open the Bentley door, and Aziraphale watches her, idly, in a sort of lovesick daze that he knows he should not be wrapped up in. But he is, goodness he is, and this is not the first time.
Every time they dare to cross the distance between them, they grow closer and closer to tearing everything apart.
No more, Aziraphale vows again, and means it this time.
"We can't keep doing this, Crowley." Aziraphale says. "It's not safe."
"Doing what?" Crowley bites back. "Well? Aren't you going to say it?"
"I, ah-" Aziraphale presses his lips together. He feels on the verge of tears. For goodness sake, why can't it be easier?
If it were, it would not hurt so much, but then- it also wouldn't feel so wonderful. This heart pounding in his chest- this warm heat in his stomach- the stirring of affection and desire inside of him- They ache but they are sweet, they are welcome. Aziraphale is an angel, an expert on everything good, and he feels that whatever it is between them is forbidden, certainly, and even wrong...
But it is so far from bad.
It is goodness. Light. A warmth that he cannot shake himself free of, because it is lovely. It is. It simply cannot be indulged, that's all, and Crowley should know that. Is it not enough to just leave it be?
"I thought so." Crowley shakes her head. "Night, angel.”
"Wait, I-" Aziraphale gasps.
When Crowley turns, her face is softer, more hopeful, as if she is waiting for Aziraphale to say that he was wrong, that he can run away with her if this all goes wrong. But he can't, and he won't, and it is not an option.
No more, Aziraphale reminds himself.
"Goodnight." Aziraphale says, softly. "And, ah, Crowley? I think it's best I take the bus tomorrow.".
Crowley shakes her head. She climbs into the Bentley, and slams the door so hard behind her that Aziraphale startles.
It isn't the same after that, though they pretend that nothing has changed. Eventually Warlock no longer needs a nanny, and they become tutors, but even then there is no mischief, no scheming. Strictly professional, after all. Every bus ride to Winfield House is impossibly lonely, but Aziraphale knows it's for the best.
But if he stares out of the window and daydreams of forbidden things, well, no one is to know. At least his thoughts are his own.
2019-2023
Following the apocalypse, there are so very many near-misses. These are their golden years, the beginning of their precious, peaceful, fragile existence, and it is no wonder the physical distance between them disappears completely.
Aziraphale invites Crowley to the bookshop to tell him about something wonderfully good that he's done, and Crowley is in his space, leaning over his armchair as Aziraphale talks, or hovering by him while Aziraphale restocks the shelves.
Aziraphale calls Crowley to ask him to pretty please give him a ride to a nearby auction, and Crowley is ever so gentlemanly, opening the car door for him. He guides Aziraphale into the Bentley with a hand on his arm, though Aziraphale needs no assistance.
Crowley finds some believable excuse to take him to dinner, and their knees touch beneath the table, brushing ever so often. Crowley does not mention it but Aziraphale notices the way he shifts in his seat, his sharp face open and warm in the candlelight.
The easiest thing is not to talk about it. This new life is delicate, after all, and often Aziraphale thinks it is also temporary. Eventually, Heaven or Hell will knock on their doors, so in the meantime they must protect this peace as much as they can. There is no use in risking what they already have.
But every now and then… Aziraphale wants more.
Take, for example, this wonderful afternoon. Crowley is standing by the lake, throwing frozen peas at the ducks. The summer sun is hitting his face just right, lighting him up, and Aziraphale is looking at him and he is thinking that he cannot imagine a being more beautiful, more wondrous, more completely and utterly captivating.
“Odd to be at the park and not be trying to avert impending doom.” Crowley muses. He amuses himself by trying to throw a frozen pea into a duck’s open beak.
“Yes, rather.” Aziraphale murmurs. He’s really quite distracted. It would be so easy to take Crowley’s hand in his own. No one would even notice it.
“Can’t help but feel uneasy.” Crowley admits. But then a duck catches the frozen pea in his beak, and chases Crowley’s gloom away. “Aha! Knew I’d get one.”
“Mhm.” Aziraphale hums, admiring the crimson glow of Crowley’s hair, the curl of it around his ear. Crowley glances at him.
“You alright?”
“Oh, yes, just…“ Aziraphale trails off. Admiring the view is not really an appropriate thing to say, so he changes course. “Just enjoying the afternoon.”
“Right.” Crowley says. “Spit it out. Why did you actually bring me here?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You want something.” Crowley says. “I’m certain of it.”
“Well!” Aziraphale says. “And here I was, thinking we were simply sharing a pleasant walk in the park!”
Crowley rolls his eyes.
“What do you want?” He says.
“If you must know.” Aziraphale says. “There is a market just out of town this weekend, and I’ve heard there will be some antiques...“
“There it is!” Crowley says, satisfied. “Need a lift?”
“Oh. Oh, yes please.” Aziraphale smiles, pleased.
“Am I now your personal taxi service?” Crowley drawls. “I thought you liked public transport.”
“I do.” Aziraphale says, but he prefers Crowley’s company much more. “But then, however would I carry anything home?”
“Not like you’re an angel or anything.” Crowley grumbles. “Could just miracle it home.”
“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says. He steps closer to Crowley, “You’re very kind.”
In the afternoon light, Aziraphale admires the slope of Crowley’s nose, the turn of his mouth. It would feel so very natural to brush the backs of their hands together, to move into Crowley’s space.
“Not kind.” Crowley is grumbling to the ducks. Aziraphale smiles, warmed by the being beside him. “Never kind.”
“If you say so.” Aziraphale sing songs. He feels a spot of wetness at the end of his nose and blinks. “Oh dear. Another shower. Feels as if there’s been rather many this year.”
Crowley looks up. One drop of rain, and then another, and then suddenly it is pouring. They are soaked in an instant, dripping, and Aziraphale cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of it. Sometimes on Earth there are moments where he just feels so alive, and being caught in a summer shower is one of them.
A shadow falls over Aziraphale’s head, and when he looks up he finds he’s being sheltered by a black umbrella. He smiles at Crowley, and tucks closer to him beneath the umbrella.
“Why, thank you.” Aziraphale says, warmly.
They listen to the pitter-patter of the rain for a moment. Aziraphale finds that he is perfectly content here, sheltered by Crowley’s umbrella the same way he was sheltered by his wing in the very beginning. How quickly the time goes, and how little things change.
Aziraphale realises he is suddenly miraculously dry, dry and toasty warm, and he glances at Crowley in surprise. His smile blooms, bringing colour to his cheeks, and Crowley turns to look at him.
“Shall we get on, angel?” Crowley asks, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. He takes off his sunglasses to wipe them clean. “We’ll catch our deaths out here. Well- not literally.”
“You really are-“ Aziraphale hesitates. He reaches up, and brushes some of the dripping wet hair away from Crowley’s forehead, his fingers lingering on Crowley’s hairline. Sweet as pie, would be the best phrasing for it. “Rather lovely.”
Crowley is dry now, too, with Aziraphale’s touch miracling the cold and the damp away. Crowley would usually protest the compliment, but he says nothing at all. In fact, if it were not for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, he would appear as a statue, silent and still. Aziraphale is glad to see his eyes. He can see the stars in them, twinkling and bright and infinite.
One of the perks of being celestial is that Aziraphale’s mind is infinitely large. He has the capacity to hold millions of years in his mind at once, all of those wonderful, awful memories; he can flick through every one at will, and recall them in vivid detail. Still, there is something so striking about this memory in particular that Aziraphale vows to remember. Not as an angel would, but as a human would. It’s the desperate longing to ensure this moment is not lost, and the unshakeable belief that it is so wondrously special that it will stay alive even after his mortal death.
In the shadow of the umbrella, Crowley moves ever so slowly. This thumb and finger rise to touch Aziraphale’s chin, and tilt it upwards. Aziraphale swallows and thinks, is this it? Is he finally- and if the rain had not stopped, Aziraphale thought it might’ve been the moment Crowley kissed him.
But the rain stops, the rapid noise of it falling almost instantly into silence, and both of them startle back into reality. Crowley’s hand drops and Aziraphale steps away but for the first there is some mutual understanding in it. It’s the delicate realisation of not yet, not now, but someday, because in this precious existence they’ve made for themselves, anything feels possible. If they can break through the walls between them, and find some way of shedding these centuries-old roles they’ve always played, then maybe…
Crowley gives him a little smile, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back. The future feels, somehow, inevitable, and Aziraphale cannot wait.
2026
With all of this considered - every close call and near miss - Aziraphale almost isn’t surprised when Crowley kisses him. It’s far more surprising that it took him so long.
Oh, yes, the kiss itself isn’t what surprises Aziraphale. The real shock of it is the manner in which it occurs. Aziraphale daydreamed of so many possibilities, but in all of them, a kiss was a wondrous affair. Perhaps bittersweet, but not painful, and this is what makes him spit out “I forgive you”, because it really bloody hurts. How unfair it seems for Crowley to step over this line in a moment like this, when they are both angry and Aziraphale is leaving and-
Still, still it is more divine than Aziraphale could have possibly imagined. He spends what feels like an eternity in Heaven as Supreme Archangel replaying every second of it. His mind lingers on heat of Crowley’s mouth, the warmth of Crowley’s back under his palm, the ache in his neck from Crowley pulling him so close… How wondrous a thing to be so physically close.
Perhaps it was the wrong time but it was inevitable, anyway, and they were hurtling towards it for a long time. And it’s not about kissing, not really, although Aziraphale is rather preoccupied with it. It’s about the feeling behind it, and that’s what matters: the desperate need to close the distance between them. For a millennia it has been push and pull, growing closer and pulling away, but in one moment Crowley erased all of that. Plausible deniability is not possible, not anymore, not when Aziraphale now knows in great detail how Crowley’s lips feel against his own.
So it is no surprise that when they reunite in the bookshop after Aziraphale finds Crowley in an alleyway, all of this feeling comes spilling out of Aziraphale. Yes, at first, of course he tries to be angry about it all. If Crowley were less sad, perhaps Aziraphale could be less forgiving, but he cannot summon any harshness when Crowley seems so despaired.
And thus as soon as the words do you want an apology from me? fall from Aziraphale’s mouth, he knows there is no real argument to be had.
In response, Crowley says nothing, just tilts his head and looks away. Aziraphale wants to cry. He is always swallowing his tears, and for once, he just wants to weep, to sob for all of it, all of these wasted years being so angry, and all of these centuries where Crowley has been so very kind and has not been rewarded for it. If God had not forsaken him, perhaps Crowley would not be so bitter and hurt. If he had never Fallen, perhaps all of this time Crowley could’ve been happy, and there would be no need for any walls between them at all.
“I was trying to do the right thing.” Aziraphale pleads. He can feel Crowley is softening, even though he still won’t look at him. “I’m always just trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing.” Crowley murmurs. He runs a hand over his face. “Isn’t it exhausting?”
“Yes.” Aziraphale admits, and he can’t deny that being honest, for once, makes him feel relieved. “So if you want an apology- if that’s what you really want- I’ll say sorry. I’ll do the ridiculous little dance. Anything, Crowley.”
“Is there a point?” Crowley asks. “Would you even mean it?”
“Would you?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley looks at him, then.
“Me?” He asks. A bite of anger, then. “Me? Why would I apologise?”
Aziraphale gives Crowley a tired look, as if to say, you already know, and Crowley seems to deflate. They both know that it was the wrong time tor Crowley to kiss him, and there’s no use pretending otherwise. Crowley looks down at the ground again, and Aziraphale thinks that cannot bear any of this pain any longer.
“All of these years.” Aziraphale says, in almost a whisper. “And that’s how you decided to do it.”
Crowley startles as if he’s been hit. He looks up, sharp and quick.
“I-“ Crowley makes a noise in his throat.
“Of all the times, Crowley, why-“ A sob catches in Aziraphale’s throat. He looks away, too, steels himself against it.
“I thought it would make you stay.”
“It didn’t.”
“Why not?” Crowley says. “We could have run away together.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale breathes. “In another life-“
“In this life.” Crowley bites, hard and true. “In this reality, in this universe.”
“It isn’t that easy.”
“It could be.” Crowley says. “You and me.”
“My dear.” Aziraphale says gently. “I love you for your hope, but there was no way around it. I could never have left Earth and left all of these people to suffer. And deep down I know neither could you.”
Crowley swallows, and takes off his sunglasses. His gaze flickers over Aziraphale’s face. It would be so easy for him to break both of their hearts again, and again, for them to stay on this hamster wheel for eternity and never step off. But finally, finally, something softens in Crowley’s eyes. They sparkle, bright and wet.
“Isn’t there any hope for us?” Crowley asks.
“I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale murmurs.
Aziraphale dares to take a step across the bookshop towards Crowley. Crowley presses himself against the column he’s leaning on, his eyes widening. Like a scared cat, skittish and cautious, he holds eye contact for as long as he can without blinking.
“When all of this is over, and we’ve saved the world.” Crowley says. “Everything will go back to the way it was. There’s no point. There’s no point in anything. It’s all just… meaningless.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale says gently. The despair in Crowley’s eyes makes him ache. “There is a happy ending, somewhere, after all of this.”
“For heaven?” Crowley asks, tense and still like he’s waiting for a blow.
“For us.” Aziraphale says quietly, and steps closer again, until he can see the glimmer of tears in Crowley’s eyes.
“Really.” Crowley says. It’s not a question. Aziraphale can tell by the dullness of his voice that he does not believe it.
“Really.” Aziraphale says, gently. “There will be some way for us to, ah, to be together in the end. On Earth, not away from it. We’ll find it, I’m sure of it.”
Crowley shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to believe it, clenches his jaw as if biting down on something hard.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale says. He steps into Crowley’s space, feels the tension in the room spark and crackle. “There is no need for us to fight.”
For a moment they just look at each other, and somehow the anger and the pain is forgotten. Aziraphale thinks, I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. He is an angel, a being of infinite love, and yet this love is too much to handle, too big even for a celestial body.
The sounds of London outside suddenly cease. Even the air settles and becomes still. Crowley must have stopped time, because for a moment it feels as if they are suspended in space, just the two of them in the entire universe.
“My dear.” Aziraphale murmurs. He holds out his hand, and cups Crowley’s cheek in his palm. “I- ah, I’ve missed you.”
There’s a second in which Aziraphale fears Crowley is about to pull away from him. But then Crowley melts. He leans his face into Aziraphale’s palm, and closes his eyes, and a sweet sigh falls from Aziraphale’s lips.
“You too.” Crowley grumbles, under his breath. He spits the words out like an insult, and Aziraphale smiles fondly.
“How long I’ve waited.” He says, softly, almost a whisper. He steps closer, feels Crowley tremble under his palm. “Just for this.”
This is the tilting of Aziraphale’s head, the tickle of Crowley’s ragged, curly hair against his cheek, the slight brushing of their noises, the breath Aziraphale breathes against Crowley’s lips. This is Crowley’s quick intake of break, and the way he melts even further to the column beneath his back, almost holding himself up against it. This is the brush of Aziraphale’s thumb across Crowley’s cheek.
And this, this is finally the gentle press of Aziraphale’s lips against Crowley’s.
In the beginning, when the universe was born, everything was bright and beautiful and miraculous. It was a moment like this - everything fell so perfectly and completely into place. In the face of such beauty, it seemed impossible that anything could ever go wrong.
Because by crossing the distance between them, every problem and argument suddenly seems so small, and every open wound does not hurt quite so much. Aziraphale cannot help but smile against Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley for a moment is so surprised by the entire moment that all he can do is make a choked noise in his throat.
A gentle peck, that’s all that Aziraphale intends. He pulls back slowly, intent on not startling Crowley any further, but at the absence of Aziraphale’s touch Crowley seems to spring into action. He puts his hands on Aziraphale’s waist, pulls him in again, and this time when they kiss it is closer and deeper and true, the sort of kiss that says I am trying to give you my heart with more than words. For once, they are on the same page. They are breathing in time, and Aziraphale swears their hearts are beating as one too.
Time does not move. Everything is still. How lovely it is to be alone in the universe, and how much Aziraphale wishes it could stay that way.
Aziraphale feels a wetness on his cheeks and realises Crowley is crying.
“Darling.” Aziraphale says, pulling back. He brushes Crowley’s tears away with his thumbs, gentle on Crowley’s cheeks. “Don’t cry.”
He places his palm gently on Crowley’s chest and for the first time in their entire existence, he dares to open a psychic link between them. At first, Aziraphale wonders if it will even work; after all, this sort of telepathy exists between angels only as means of sharing information in secret. It is a weapon, really, or a form of espionage. He is sure demons, once being angels, have a similar sort of connection, but Aziraphale isn't sure whether it will work between an angel and a demon.
But it does. Goodness, it does. Almost immediately Aziraphale senses Crowley's soul underneath his palm. He reaches towards it, that warm, amber glow, and he thinks that if there was any time to confess truly how he feels, it would be now.
Love doesn't feel a strong enough word, Aziraphale speaks, mind to mind, heart to heart, soul to soul. But I hope it's enough.
For a moment, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley will even reply. It is one thing to be vulnerable on Earth, in his human vessel, and another thing to share his heart when there is no metaphysical barrier between them.
It's enough, angel, Crowley murmurs back, and though he does not say I love you, Aziraphale suddenly feels Crowley's love encompass him. All at once, it is everywhere, covering him like a warm blanket. Aziraphale has never felt such love, not on Earth or in Heaven, not even from God.
Oh, Crowley, Aziraphale says. He sends his own love to Crowley, lets it touch Crowley's soul, and he wishes with all of his being that it could heal every wound and crack in Crowley's heart.
Why do we do fight? Aziraphale says. Why have we pushed all of this love away?
I don't want to hurt anymore, Crowley whispers in return, and then he offers Aziraphale glimpses of himself. Crowley's memories flash before Aziraphales's eyes. There are images of war and his fall, moments of despair and heartbreak, and flashes of the lonely years that Crowley spent on Earth while Aziraphale worked as Supreme Archangel in Heaven.
In return, Aziraphale offers Crowley his own vulnerability. He shows Crowley all of the times he almost threw away his duty, and lets Crowley feel all of the pain and the fear, all of the guilt and the secret desire and the stolen glances and the longing to just let go, for once.
Suddenly they are sharing everything, all of it, every inch of themselves right down to their bones. They are revealing a millenia of unspoken thoughts and feelings all at once. They are opening up, unfurling themselves, and there are no secrets between them no stone left unturned. How intimate to know someone in their entirety - Aziraphale loses himself in learning Crowley inside out. He is staggered by the realisation that they should have just been honest, from the very beginning.
How you see me, Crowley says, and Aziraphale can tell he is stricken. You are so wrong.
I am not, Aziraphale says, you are good, you are holy, you are true.
I am forsaken, Crowley insists.
You are everything, Crowley, Aziraphale says, And you are mine.
That is the truest thought of all. You are mine. Crowley has always been his, Aziraphale knows that now.
And you are mine. Crowley says, in return, and for a moment their souls embrace and they bask in the glow of warmth that comes from it.
Home, Aziraphale thinks, gladly, home now.
Gently, he lifts his palm from Crowley's chest, and they settle back into their Earthly vessels. They look at each other, and time moves again, and everything suddenly comes into sharp clarity. Aziraphale's mind and heart feel completely clear, and he has never seen Crowley's eyes look so warm and bright.
"Right." Crowley says, with a renewed vigor, as if he has been waiting to be awakened this entire time. "Let's save the world, angel."
Aziraphale smiles back at him. I love you, he thinks, and he knows that Crowley hears it.
And finally, the rest of their lives
The kissing was never the point, but it's all they seem to do after that.
When the Second Coming fails, and God gives them Her blessing, Crowley kisses Aziraphale like he's never going to stop. He keeps his hand pressed against Aziraphale's back, as if he's holding him up, and Aziraphale longs for him to never let go.
When Whickber Street have said goodbye to Aziraphale and Crowley, and the bookshop has been emptied, Aziraphale kisses Crowley gently on the cheek, and it is bittersweet. An eternity of happiness awaits them and yet there is something solemn in saying goodbye to the life they've always known.
When they're driving to the South Downs, Crowley keeps leaning over to kiss him, meaning he runs over a dozen red lights and swerves more than once into oncoming traffic. Aziraphale scolds him, of course, of course, but he cannot help but kiss him back.
When they open the cottage door for the first time, Crowley presses him to the wall in the hallway, and kisses Aziraphale until he loses his breath, until he thinks his legs will collapse from under him. Crowley smiles at him in the shadowed hallway and Aziraphale feels electrified, wonders how he will possibly survive the rest of eternity if this is what it's going to be like.
And when they share their first night together, embracing beneath tartan sheets, Crowley kisses him hot and wet and messy. Aziraphale becomes addicted to the warmth of it, the taste, and finds the exact ways to make Crowley moan and hiss. He delights in trying to kiss every inch of Crowley, to press his lips wherever he can. He does not know how he ever abstained from this, for the sensation of his mouth wrapping around Crowley's cock quickly becomes addictive.
Really, there is no day in which they aren't kissing, even if it's just Crowley pressing his lips to Aziraphale's hairline while Aziraphale is immersed in a book. Every evening Aziraphale ensures he kisses him goodnight, and when they wake he ensures he kisses him good morning, for he is nothing if not a sentimental angel. And Crowley, for all his grumbling, finds this sweet, and fights a smile even as he protests.
So for the rest of their lives there is always kissing, but there is more than that. There is touch, Crowley's arm resting of his stomach as they sleep, Aziraphale's fingers untangling his hair in the morning. There is service, Crowley making him a cup of tea in the afternoon and bringing him sweet treats from the market, Aziraphale tending to his plants when he is busy and wrapping him in a blanket when he falls asleep on the sofa. There is love, spilling from them constantly, no longer restrained or hidden or ignored. There is love in their cottage and love in their garden and love in their Bentley and love in their eyes and love in their bookshelves and-
There is love. There is always love. There has always been love, and there will always be love, and that is all that matters.
So yes, Aziraphale thinks, there is all of that, but on the other hand, there is also still kissing. Lovely, wonderful kissing. He, in fact, very much likes the kissing, and intends for it to never stop.