Work Text:
i.
He often wonders—
About Aziraphale’s hands, calloused and warm, wrapped around a freshly made cup of tea. Holding his glasses in one hand and tapping it against the other, as he loses himself in his thoughts. Thumb stroking the bottom corner of the page as he readies to turn it. Thumb tapping his lips as he looks up and down the wine selection.
Crowley likes watching his fingers skirt around delicate china and cutlery, nabbing the last piece of dessert or finding their way against Crowley’s fingers, nudging him to try the food, one bite won’t hurt you, dear boy—
He dreamt of Aziraphale touching him, once. Crowley had formed the habit of falling asleep on Aziraphale’s couch when he’d had too much wine and did not have the energy to sober it away. He almost believed it to be real. A finger, sliding down his cheek. It lingered, for a moment, for a lifetime.
And then it was gone.
ii.
Years and eons before six thousand years ago, there was an angel. There was a whole congregation of angels. Crowley had been known by a different name, a name that was snatched from him when he Fell. He doesn’t remember much of his time Up There but he does remember a sensation of warmth and excitement and—
He tries not to think of how he associates these feelings with Aziraphale.
iii.
In the dead of night, they are sentimental. Sharing bottles upon bottles and trading stories from the past.
“Did I tell you about the time I was in—”
“And then when we jumped off—”
“—Cannot believe you convinced me that was a good idea—”
“It was delicious—!”
“The stars danced, and I remembered you.”
They fall into silence, eventually. Long but not uncomfortable. Crowley wants to fill it with so many words, all of them true, none of them enough. Instead, he plays with the wine in his glass, making it swirl a small vortex. Aziraphale tsks disapprovingly.
When he dares look up though, Aziraphale is looking at him—
Like that. Like, like—
Like the way Crowley is feeling. Suddenly, the silence sounds deafening.
iv.
He often wonders—
Sometimes, Aziraphale will look up at the sky. An emotion flits in his eyes. Crowley only recognizes it because he has seen it often enough— when a specifically rare book is delivered at the shop, when they encounter an antique shop selling knick-knacks from an era long left unlived, when they have dessert at his favorite restaurants. It’s longing, a wistful gaze filled with nostalgia.
Crowley scowls and battles with his own feelings. On one hand: what in seven hells does Aziraphale have to be nostalgic for? Why bother with Heaven when there was nothing to do there?
On the other hand: Aziraphale will always come back, as though he had not realized where his mind had gone. He will apologize, beam at Crowley. They will carry on their way, Aziraphale walking an inch closer to him.
“The weather is lovely, isn’t it?” He will say. Or: “I do hope the day lasts.”
On the other hand: Why does Crowley allow himself to be jealous over something that does not have a hold on Aziraphale?
v.
When he is feeling petty, he allows himself this thought:
Heaven can fucking suck it.
vi.
For as long as they’ve known each other, there are too many unspoken words between them. It frustrates Crowley, to a degree.
I’d birth galaxies for you, he’ll think as they argue over where to eat.
Can’t you see me yearning, as he strides into Aziraphale’s shop, oozing with his signature confidence. He relishes in the way customers’ heads would turn to stare at him, for a beat too long. He relishes in the fact that Aziraphale sees this and scrunches his nose, as though he'd smelled something bad.
Why have I not grown tired of this feeling? As they spiral into the philosophies of good and evil and the grey area in between, as they tend to do once they’ve hit their third bottle.
Aziraphale, please. Just one concrete affirmation. As he lounges on the couch, head pillowed by Aziraphale’s lap. He has his eyes closed, falling in and out of sleep. Aziraphale continues his reading but after a while, his hand will come back and gently stroke his hair, his forehead, finally lulling Crowley to slumber.
vii.
It’s a quiet afternoon. Aziraphale makes Crowley a cup of tea, places it by his elbow. He takes Crowley’s hand, thumb running across his knuckle. Crowley is frozen, unsure of what reaction is allowed from him.
“I hope you believe me,” he begins. “When I say I want to stay with you. In every way.” He takes Crowley’s hand, presses it between his own. He closes his eyes. What prayer is this, Crowley wants to ask.
“I’m asking for courage.” Aziraphale laughs. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” Crowley swallows.
“No. Not really.” And he pulls Aziraphale close until the space between them is nearly gone. With a shaking hand, he brings up a finger, tracing it down Aziraphale’s cheek.