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They were cuddling, sitting on the sofa in Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop. Crowley’s head was tipped back, resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, whose arms were wrapped around the demon. Their fingers were tangled, and Crowley felt safe, he finally got what he had wanted for most of eternity.
The angel’s ancient TV was babbling in the background, while the bickered softly about this and that, inconsequential topics like they had always done. But now, the desire to be close, to kiss between arguments or rather kiss away the arguments entirely, was fulfilled.
Aziraphale was a good kisser, Crowley had noticed with a more surprise than he should likely feel. He was an expert at being soft yet demanding, gentle yet forceful with his kisses, just like he was with everything else.
“What are you thinking about, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley melted a tiny bit more into him at the pet name. Even though the angel had used it before their most recent revelation about their romantic interest in each other, it hit Crowley differently now.
“Nothing in particular,” he replied. “What do you say the A and Z stand for?” he quickly added, because he knew Aziraphale would not let him rest until he had the truth out of Crowley.
“The A is Andrew sometimes… sometimes Arnold-“
Crowley snorted.
“Arnold?” he drawled, and Aziraphale blushed.
“I had to make up a name on the spot and it just happened,” Aziraphale whined. Crowley quickly leaned up to kiss him, trying to hide his smile.
“And the Z?” he insisted, when he pulled back. Aziraphale wanted to coax him back into a kiss, but he evaded it.
“It can’t be that bad,” he said.
“What if I told you it was just Zira?”
Crowley stared at him.
“Are you being serious?”
Aziraphale’s receding blush was coming back at full force and Crowley couldn’t stop a grin this time.
“I might not be so good about coming up with names, Anthony,” the angel said and averted his eyes.
Crowley lifted a hand to cup the side of Aziraphale’s face.
“Come on, I like Zira,” he said. “Better than Arnold in any case.”
He kissed Aziraphale gently, but this time, it was the angel who broke the kiss.
“Your turn,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What does the J stand for? Anthony J-“ he looked at Crowley expectantly.
Cold fear ran through Crowley; if Aziraphale asked this, he wouldn’t stop before Crowley had completely revealed himself. His throat was closed up, but he managed a grin and forced out the first word he could come up with.
“Janthony.”
Aziraphale looked baffled for a moment before he raised his eyebrows.
“No,” he decided and reached for Crowley’s hand. The demon recoiled from the touch and sat up straight, leaving Aziraphale confused and looking hurt, but Crowley dug his nails into the skin of his palms and clenched his teeth. He needed to keep it together.
“What is it?” Aziraphale asked.
“Jesus,” Crowley breathed.
“Come again?”
“It’s Jesus,” Crowley nearly shouted, then fell completely silent again. He barely breathed. Memories came flooding back, feelings he had suppressed for a good century, before now.
“Why on earth would you call yourself Jesus?”
“You don’t want to know,” Crowley huffed.
“But I do,” Aziraphale insisted.
Crowley knew he was going to break sooner or later, he felt his heart racing, his mind felt numb and oversensitive at the same time. But Aziraphale deserved to know. He deserved everything; so he forced the words past his lips.
“Reminds me of who I am.” His voice was shaking and Aziraphale seemed to understand, that perhaps he shouldn’t have asked; his expression was apologetic and sympathetic.
“I… I knew him.” Crowley’s hands were cramped into fists, holding on to anything resembling calmness. “He knew me. He knew.”
He looked across the room; his eyes fell onto a part of Aziraphale’s collection of bibles.
The irony.
“I loved him,” Crowley confessed, lost in memories of hot, frantic hands; of lips, as desperate as his own, and a feeling of finally feeling wanted; it had been intoxicating then. Now, it was simply destructive.
“I loved him, loved… but the entire world was against us and we… I left. I just left,” he paused, wiping a stray tear from his eyes. “Left. Before it became too much. Before… everything.”
Crowley remembered their parting, the steady stance Jesus had taken, the lingering touches, mark to those, who didn’t want to part at all.
Crowley barely recalled the weeks after that, drowned in alcohol and tears, but he remembered the moment their eyes had last met, a promise of eternity shining from Jesus’ eyes, concealing the heartbreak beneath.
Crowley remembered their happiness, remembered the relief he felt when Jesus accepted him for all he was, when he loved Crowley as a man, as a woman, and as everything in between and beyond; he remembered the feeling of unconditional acceptance.
He remembered being able to speak freely, without fear of being judged, and the love he had come to experience.
He remembered nights under clear, bright skies, where Crowley showed Jesus all he had created, remembered soft touches, harsh touches, demanding touches, and forgiving touches.
He remembered salvation and he remembered losing more and more of his connection to hell.
He remembered the fights and the making up; big hands, bright eyes, strong arms.
He remembered it all, suddenly in vivid detail, cutting at him, coming down, like a hailstorm of knives, forged from a pain of millennial age.
Dimly, he was aware, that he was crying, knew that Aziraphale was still there, confused and hurt, but it didn’t compare to how Crowley felt.
Then, there were arms around him, not strong like he remembered, hands gentler, and words softer. And somehow, the heartbreak and the longing after a lost love were soothed by Aziraphale. Crowley cried into his shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric, but Aziraphale didn’t speak up once.
“I feel it,” Aziraphale whispered, sounding close to tears himself. “I sense your pain,” he breathed out, voice unsteady. “Is this what heartbreak feels like?”
Crowley couldn’t form words, but he pulled back, tears staining his cheeks, throat closed up from unspoken emotions.
He nodded.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The angel pressed a soft kiss against Crowley’s temple and pulled him close again.
“I didn’t know,” he repeated.
They sat together in silence, the TV still stubbornly babbling on.
“He…” Crowley cleared his throat. “He showed me so much about myself.”
“You wanted to honour that,” Aziraphale said softly. He understood.
Crowley’s silence was confirmation enough.
“Oh, darling,” the angel sighed.
His arms around Crowley felt like salvation, his gentle words, stained with sorrow and love, gave Crowley something to hang on to, until he managed to pull himself from the hole of despair he had fallen into.