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It was three weeks after the lack-of-apocalypse, and Crowley was dangerously close to hurling one of his houseplants through his window out of sheer, unbearable frustration.
“—and then he asked if I knew of anywhere he could get it cheaper!” Aziraphale continued, perched comfortably on the plush leather sofa that hadn’t existed in Crowley’s flat a month ago. “Can you imagine the nerve, Crowley?”
“Uhuh,” Crowley mumbled non-committedly. “Nerve.”
“As if we were haggling over the price of eggs, and not discussing the sale of a priceless first edition!” Aziraphale gestured crossly with his teacup, and Crowley idly miracled away the liquid that sloshed out before it could fall.
“Eggs,” he agreed.
Three weeks ago he’d been utterly convinced that everything would change. Sitting across from Aziraphale at the Ritz, and watching the angel’s giddy smile and lose posture and the way his eyes lit up as he spoke, Crowley had been sure—completely sure—that they were finally going to take the leap. That they were ready to acknowledge the thing they’d been delicately side-stepping for six thousand bloody years.
And then nothing. Had. Changed.
“Anyway, I was quite certain that he wasn’t the sort to appreciate a book properly at all, and I’d had that one for ever so long.”
Crowley slumped a little deeper into his side of the couch, adjusting his glasses and grinding his teeth. If he could just say something—but no. He shied away from the thought. A memory rose unbidden; you go too fast for me, Crowley.
“So I said—” Aziraphale stopped, frowning at him. “…say, are you alright?”
Crowley shook himself, dredging up a smile. “M’fine. What did you say to him?”
The angel put his teacup back on its saucer, squinting at him. Crowley resisted the urge to squirm. “Crowley…”
Crowley lurched up, and leant forward to pick up his own tea from where it’d been sitting neglected on the coffee table. “Mmm?” he hummed, concentrating on the cup until steam rose from it again.
“You’re… you’re not fine,” Aziraphale murmured, voice soft, “are you?”
The demon stopped mid-sip, throwing a startled glance at Aziraphale.
“You can tell me, you know.” The angel leant forward, placing a hand on the couch beside Crowley’s knee. Crowley stared at it. “It’s all… well everything’s different, now, you know?”
“Is it?” Crowley asked. Don’t say it, don’t say it.
Aziraphale blinked. “Why… why of course?”
Don’t… “What about us?”
Too late.
“…us?” The angel’s brow was pinched with confusion.
Crowley snapped.
“Us!” he yelled, getting to his feet. “You! And me! Six thousand years! And I was—but you gave it away—and I thought—but you didn’t—” He was vaguely aware that he wasn’t making a whit of sense, but the words were tumbling out and he couldn’t stop them.
“—and then you did, and I know I go too fast for you, angel, I know I do, but after everything that’s happened I can’t go back to pretending I don’t love—”
He snapped his teeth closed with a hiss.
Aziraphale’s jaw was hanging open. They stared at each other, Crowley’s shoulder’s heaving as he fought to hold himself still.
Some expression flickered over the angel’s face, too quick to parse, and Crowley took a half step backwards.
“My dear fellow—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley pointed a finger at him.
“Don’t!” he snapped. He couldn’t take pity right now.
Aziraphale stood up, catching Crowley’s jacket in his hands before the demon could back away. “Crowley.”
He froze, still as a statue as the angel pulled gently, keeping him in place as he took a step closer.
“My dear, I thought that you… I hadn’t realised—” Aziraphale huffed out a frustrated breath. “I thought you knew.”
Crowley’s heart was pounding in his ears. “…knew?”
Aziraphale smiled. He was very close now, body near flush with Crowley’s.
“What did you think we’d been doing, the last few weeks?” the angel asked, tipping his head to indicate the flat around them.
Crowley looked. Besides the new sofa there were several cosy armchairs, black leather but not nearly as modern as the rest of his décor, and a couple of dark-stained bookshelves groaning under the weight of countless books. There was a grandfather clock over by the door to his office, and a comfortably worn rug on the floor. The cups on the coffee table were white china, the handles fashioned to resemble wings.
“You… you’ve been moving in with me,” he said, dumbfounded.
Aziraphale nodded. “I have.”
“But… why?” The hope ballooning in his chest was worse than the frustration; he felt like he might shake apart at the seams.
Aziraphale let go of his clothes, bringing his hands up to slide them under Crowley’s jaw instead.
“Because, my darling,” the angel whispered, “I can’t go back to pretending I don’t love you either.”
And he finally, finally, closed the gap to pull Crowley in for a kiss.