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prophecy #412
The ground shook, and Crowley turned to Aziraphale, one of the Bentley's parts still clutched in his hand. "One kiss before we die?" he joked, weakly, wobbling around as the shaking intensified and Satan pulled himself further upwards.
Aziraphale shot him an exasperated look, readjusting his grip on his sword. "You can get the kiss when we survive," he hissed, taking one of Adam's hands in his own. "So, move!"
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prophecy # 264
When Crowley offered Aziraphale his place after Not-Armageddon, he wasn't expecting his offer to turn into a semi-permanent arrangement.
It wasn't the vases or glasses that got knocked over everywhere (For some reason, Aziraphale was clumsy around everything except his beloved books.) that annoyed him about his new roommate.
Never mind that said roommate was also technically his husband of 6000 years.
It was that in the morning, when he woke up with a too-warm body next to him, and a mouthful of feathers, that he thought he definitely didn't sign up for this when he first became a demon.
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prophecy # 403
The first time Aziraphale kisses Crowley, London is under attack. It's the Blitz after all, and his stupid demon has done one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for him.
Surprisingly, it's Crowley that pulls away first, gently touching the side of Aziraphale's face, his yellow eyes searching the angel's.
"I could ruin you." he says, softly. Aziraphale sees his statement for what it is. An escape route. Except the last thing he wants is to escape.
He juts his chin up, meeting the demon's eyes. "I know," he says. He steps closer. "I don't care."
And that's the end of that conversation, because when has Crowley ever been able to deny Aziraphale what he wants?
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prophecy # 361
Perhaps the cruelest form of torture that the Forces of Heaven devised for Aziraphale after the aversion of the apocalypse, was when the angels torturing him turned into Crowley.
The angels knew of Crowley's notoriously effective imagination. After all, they're angels. They also knew how much it would hurt Aziraphale.
"Thing is," Not-Crowley purred in Aziraphale's ear. "Last night, I tried to imagine myself without you," it smirked. "Thing is," he said, fingers brushing against Aziraphale's shoulder. "I could. And I felt so much better."
No response from the angel.
Not-Crowley pouted.
Aziraphale was too busy doing some imagining of his own. He imagined his bookshop, his wine, and most of all, he imagined that the real Crowley would never say such things to him.