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Slivers of light were worming their way through Crowley’s heavy eyelids, prying them gently open for a new day of his post-Armaggedon-that-wasn’t life. The rest of his life. Life which he happened to want to spend in the company of a particular angel, that was now making coffee in two mugs, one painted with a halo and the other with devil horns (how very predictable - and cheesy - of them). If they had “I love my devil” and “I love my angel” written on them and had been a gift from Crowley, then neither of them mentioned it, perfectly content with drinking their very sugary and very milky beverages from them.
Aziraphale came into the living room with a small smile that made things twitch in Crowley’s chest uncomfortably, and he sat on the opposite end of the absolutely horrendous tartan-covered couch (seriously, why did he ever show that damned - blessed - oh, whatever fabric to him? It was obviously one of his worse ideas). The angel stared at him for a moment, a look filled with emotions Crowley couldn’t name for fear of making them disappear, but then resumed stirring the frankly baffling amounts of sugar he poured into his coffee.
“If it weren’t for this whole celestial-beings business, you’d have to take insulin daily by now, you know?” Crowley said, his throat closing up on the last syllables (it was, most certainly, the fault of the hangover, and not of the look Aziraphale gave him)
“And you, my dear, would have to keep your car out of fires. As it is, i think we are both better off enjoying human privileges from the perspective of, ah, outsiders.”, Aziraphale replied, eyeing his cup of coffee carefully and inspecting all of its little swirls. It was because the beverage was absolutely fascinating, and not because he didn’t want to look into the other’s eyes (what an absurd notion! they’ve known each other far too long for that kind of silly nonsense).
“I-I think we need to talk”
Tentative, looking for assurance.
“Mm, what about?”
Crowley was hoping his panic wasn’t too obvious. I mean really, how hard could it be to conceal his feelings to one particularly trusting angel? He’d done it for millennia already, and he wasn’t going to ruin this - whatever this meant - by revealing his stupid, insignificant emotions.
“Last night. Do you remember anything?”
He did. Well, he didn’t remember the specifics and suspected he didn’t want to but he knew with absolute certainty that he had ingested quite a lot of alcohol. He could miracle his hangover away, but having a certain angel make his coffee was well-worth the headaches. That angel was now looking at him expectantly, shining much too bright for Crowley’s (sunglass-less) eyes.
“No.”
Something in the lines of Aziraphale’s face shifted just for a moment and then it was gone, replaced by his usual benevolent smile.
“Ah, I see.” he swallowed audibly, an action which he usually reserved for particularly good chocolate eclairs, in the hope that the baker might have some more (miraculously, they always did) “You… confessed to me.”
Well, he really didn’t want to know.
Panic overtook Crowley’s senses. Every single fibre of his being knew precisely what he confessed about. Alcohol be damned (he supposed it was already anyway). He joked.
“And then what?”, he said “ You gave me one of those horrible crackers? Proud of them, by the way.”
“No, although I do believe that by that point you had enough wine for a whole church.” Aziraphale looked at him almost tenderly, and the twitching in Crowley’s chest returned with a vengeance. “Crowley… you told me you loved me.”
Silence fell over them, like an old blanket that you can’t quite stretch enough to wrap yourself in anymore. They had avoided this for far too long already.
“It’s true.”
Two simple words relieving 6000 years of anguish. Two immortal beings finally seeing each other, really, deeply, uncovering their very souls. Two cups of cofee left alone, never to be returned to and two apartments becoming one home.