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They're sitting next to each other on Crowley's bed, in Crowley's apartment, and eternity stretches out between them. Six thousand years have led up to this; to a single night. The silence between them feels longer than any of that. Six thousand years of fraternizing. Tomorrow, they'll get their reward for it from Heaven and Hell. And it won't just be a dismissal letter with some flowers, or even a kick in the shin. Suddenly, eternity is all of tonight. Suddenly they aren't occult or ethereal beings anymore, they're only Mortals. Almost human.
"It's just - I've never -" Aziraphale starts.
He can't find the words or maybe he just doesn't dare to speak them out loud. Not even after all these years.
"Can we -"
Aziraphale's voice fades out as the words get stuck in his throat.
"Anything," Crowley answers, even though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to. "Anything."
And as Aziraphale reaches out to cup Crowley's cheek in his hand, Crowley can almost hear his heartbeat. He leans into the touch and his hand comes up to grasp Aziraphale's wrist. It's like there's a huge river with a strong current as a barrier between them at all times. But tonight the water is mild and calm and it only takes a minor miracle to cross it. That's how Crowley suddenly finds Aziraphale's face inches from his. And he's looking at him intently, still asking for permission. Crowley opens his mouth in a soft gasp that Aziraphale seems to take as an answer because he dives in and presses his lips to Crowley's. For a moment, Crowley freezes, then he melts into the touch and pulls Aziraphale closer.
And he gives, and he gives, because that's what he always does. And Aziraphale pulls him open and tugs out all the things inside of him that could be mistaken for love. Desperation, longing, kindness, hope. Usually, Crowley keeps them in a box in a safe with seven locks in a room of bulletproof glass. Not just usually. Aziraphale just has all the keys.
Crowley pushes and it's two opposite forces crashing into each other. It's dangerous, it's doomed, but they have nothing to loose now except for each other's touch. And even if that blows up in their faces, Crowley thinks it was worth it for the chance to drive his hand through Aziraphale's hair. This is all he'll ever get, he knows. This is a death bed. And if – by some miracle – they survive, all he'll have is the memory of this night. So he makes it count. Aziraphale wants to kiss someone, and he happens to be close by. Tonight, Aziraphale is holding a stranger, a blank face, because he wants connection so strongly that he'll take the company of anyone, even that of a demon.
Crowley, though, is looking for a piece of Aziraphale, finds a scrap of love and holds on to it. He clutches Aziraphale's hand with desperation. He presses into him with longing. He caresses the side of Aziraphale's face softly, kindly. And somewhere deep inside of him, he can feel hope growing a flower. You get right back where you came from, he'd yell at it if he could form any coherent thought right now.
He makes a guttural sound that roughly translates to please, love me tonight. He lets out a soft whimper, meaning love me now, even if you can't love me in the morning.
Aziraphale wraps his arms around him tightly, almost forcefully, but the hands on his back are soft. They sink into the pillows, still holding on to each other. Aziraphale makes a noise in a language Crowley can't understand. Crowley answers with a noise that could be mistaken for weeping, that says love me tonight, even if you can't love me by daylight.
Tonight is all there is, Crowley knows, even though he wants to make himself a home in Aziraphale's embrace. He's only a nightly visitor. Maybe the house will burn down in Hellfire tomorrow – but he's not thinking about that – or it won't, but he won't be welcome any longer nonetheless – but he's not thinking about that either.
They hold each other all through the night. Then, they set their plan in motion. They switch bodies and hold hands for a moment. When they let go, Crowley thinks that this might have been the last time he ever touched Aziraphale and his hand twitches in Aziraphale's direction, but he holds it back.
Crowley knows he might not make it out alive. And he hopes they will be kind to Aziraphale in Hell. He hopes they will be kind to Aziraphale once he's gone. (Crowley has always made a habit out of believing that the unlikely or even the impossible can come true.)
Astonishingly, or maybe not so much, the thing he fears most is that he'll have to leave Aziraphale on his own. That he won't be able to keep an eye on him anymore. Because without him, Aziraphale will be getting in all sorts of trouble.
Because no one has heard of a Risen Demon before. A Fallen Angel, though. Now that's not a hot commodity. So when the angels see an angel into hellfire and living – maybe they'll come to the wrong, or rather right, conclusion. (Crowley hopes they'll be kind.)
Before they part, another one of those silences stretches between them. Everything between them is just too much to put into words. Crowley studies not his own face that Aziraphale is wearing, but the expression on it. In all of Heaven, you won't find such kind eyes.
"Hey angel," he says then. "Good knowing you."
And Aziraphale gives him a smile tinged with sadness.
"You too."
As he leaves, the first rays of sun crawl over Earth. The spell is broken. The night is over. Love is sold out.
_________
Crowley makes it out of Heaven, but his heart won't stop beating rapidly until he sees Aziraphale in the park. They dine at the Ritz. They talk about Heaven and Hell. They toast to the world. Crowley ponders bringing it up. Aziraphale probably doesn't want him to. It will remain a memory, cherished by one of them, repressed by the other.
“Want to come over to my place?” Crowley asks. It's another one of these things that Aziraphale probably doesn't want him to do. He braces for the gentle rejection.
“Oh, I think I'd better get back to the book shop. Make sure everything is in order.”
Crowley swallows the disappointment.
“Of course.”
“But, dear,” Aziraphale turns to him. “You could come over for a glass of wine.”
“Sure.”
He gives, and he gives. But he takes, too. He gives all of himself away and survives on what Aziraphale has left for him.
They make it to the bookshop and Aziraphale pops out two glasses and a bottle of wine. The more he drinks, the more Crowley forgets about the heartbreak. He thinks fondly of it instead. But then, Aziraphale starts.
“You know,” he says. “About last night.”
Crowley goes cold all over.
“Don't do this,” he whispers and means, don't drag it out in the open. Don't drag it into the light of day. Don't ruin this for me, angel. Don't take the magic of that night away.
“It- it can't happen again, of course,” Aziraphale says, flustered.
“Of course,” Crowley repeats numbly. The words hurt in his mouth. The reason why he's still surprised, even though he knew it was coming, is the blasted hope that festers in him because of Aziraphale. He's going to fast. Always has been. He wonders if there is anything to hope for. If Aziraphale will ever catch up. Suddenly, he needs to know. If it's a pipe dream. If he's always been in over his head, without any chance at all.
Aziraphale wants to brush it off, change the subject and never talk about that night again, probably, but this is one thing that Crowley can't give. Not tonight, anyway. (He almost lost him.)
"Aziraphale,” he says, swallows, tries again. “Aziraphale, do you think you could love me?”
Aziraphale's head snaps up and he gapes at him.
“Just, someday,” Crowley adds quickly. “I need to know if it's possible at all.”
Aziraphale keeps staring at him. Crowley wants to take the words back and his eyes start burning.
“Because I won't keep fighting for you if it's not in the cards,” he adds. Even though, of course it's not in the cards.
Aziraphale lets out a soft “oh” and confirms all of Crowley's worst fears. Not fear, really. Just what he deep down always knew. That he's a demon. That he's unloveable. His face closes up and he leans back in his seat. It'll be fine. They'll just keep doing what they've done for six thousand years. He'll cram all of the feelings back in the box, somehow. Tonight though, he can't. It's all in his eyes, the longing, the desperation. The love, too, if he was ever able to admit it to himself. Aziraphale just keeps looking at him, with a gaze that would have looked shocked or surprised on anyone else, but on Aziraphale just looked like amazement and wonder. 's fine, Crowley wants to say, but can't. It's not your fault. It's not your fault I'm – me.
"Oh. Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says, then, and Crowley looks down. It will be the nicest rejection possible, Crowley is sure, and his chest tightens.
“Possible for me to love you?” Aziraphale says and puffs his cheeks. “Quite.”
Crowley looks back up at him, irritated. He raises an eyebrow in question.
“The probability of me loving you, quite high actually. Somewhere around 80% certainly. A high 95% maybe. A hundred percent, to be precise."
Crowley can't do anything but stare. The wine glass shakes in his hand.
"Wha- what?"
"The probability of me loving you, I'm afraid, is 100%,” Aziraphale murmurs and blushes. “Because - uhm... I already love you."
Crowley startles and pushes back in his seat.
"You do?" he asks incredulously.
"Quite a lot, actually."
Aziraphale can't seem to look at him. Crowley leans forward again, wanting Aziraphale's attention. It doesn't seem real, somehow. And there's still too much distance between them.
"Could you... say that again?" he manages to get out. He tries to find Aziraphale's gaze, and finally, the angel looks up at him. He looks almost apologetic, and his eyes are kind, always kind. Crowley stands up quickly and feels a bit dizzy for a moment. Then he stumbles forward and plants himself on the couch next to Aziraphale, close next to him. He has wings, he realizes now. He can just fly over the river between them.
"Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says earnestly and turns to him fully. “I love you.”
Crowley can't help but look at him with open, vulnerable eyes. He's already lost the sunglasses. And it soars in him, the hope.
“I love you,” Aziraphale says, but something is off. His voice quivers. His lips are a thin line, and he sounds sad. He's not supposed to be sad. “I love you,” he says again.
"Me?"
"You."
Crowley keeps holding Aziraphale's gaze and his face is close to the other's. He puts a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and inhales sharply.
"Even though I'm a demon?" he asks. Even though I'm unloveable?, he means.
"Quite possibly because you are a demon. Because you're you, anyway."
It seems incomprehensible.
"But I'm - me."
"I'm well aware."
"But I - I go too fast for you."
"I think, for a long time, I went to slow for you. But I've realized that we might not actually have eternity for me to figure it out."
Aziraphale's voice is shaking and then tears start flowing over his cheeks, though his face doesn't scrunch up at all. Crowley doesn't know what's going on, only that he's doing something wrong and that he needs to fix it.
"We have however long you need, angel."
Crowley can wait another six thousand years, surely.
"But I don't need any more time. I just need -” he lets out a shaky breath, “you. For as long as we have. Which could be forever. But it could just be today. Or all of five minutes."
Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley's shoulder, too.
"Are you sure?" Crowley asks. He needs to make sure. He can't mess this up. Not this.
"Of course."
"Are you sure you know what you're in for? Because I'm not -” Crowley swallows, “and I won't be. And I can't- and I haven't -"
"I know, I know."
"But I will, I'll - Because I'm so - and I've always -"
The feelings are all tumbling out now. Maybe tonight he'll finally label them.
"I know. I know,” Aziraphale says and cries some more.
"So you're going to love me, then? Really? Me?"
Crowley is afraid that Aziraphale has forgotten who he is. That he has a version of Crowley in his head that is kinder, nicer, better than who he really is.
"Yes. I love you,” Aziraphale takes Crowley's face in both of his hands, “I love you. And I'll say it as often as you need me to."
It sends shivers down Crowley's spine. He closes his eyes. Swallows again.
"What if I don't -”
It's hard to say, the words so bitter on his tongue.
“ - deserve – love?" Crowley finishes. Aziraphale's eyes turn impossibly sadder.
"Dear, we're going to need to have a long discussion about the implications of this question - but also,” Aziraphale leans a bit closer, “- I'd love you anyway. You know that, don't you? I've always - loved you anyway.”
He laughs in a rough, sharp way that Crowley has never heard before.
“No matter what,” Aziraphale continues. “Even when - I tought I didn't deserve to love you - I loved you anyway. Of course I did."
"You don't know what you're talking about, angel."
Loving him anyway? It sounds much too beautiful to be true.
"Maybe not. But that's just because you've always deserved to be loved."
"Don't say that. Don't even go there. Angel..."
Crowley does not deserve to be loved. God had decided that a long time ago. Hadn't She?
"I'm sorry it took me so long,” Aziraphale whispers and now they're both crying. “I'm sorry I made you believe you were all – all alone in this. I'm sorry I caused you so much pain – I -”
“No, angel. There's nothing to be sorry for. Suffering is what I was made for – what I Fell for, anyway.”
He can see how his words hurt Aziraphale in the way he flinches back. He wishes he would stop doing that – always saying the wrong thing.
“Will you stop saying things like that? Are you? Suffering? Right now?”
Crowley's head is buzzing. It's not just the alcohol. It's something new. Aziraphale, saying he loves him...
“It's strange,” he muses. “I'd forgotten what it felt like. For so long all there was, was... the burning pits of Hell, at worst. Dreary existence at best. No, that's not right.”
Existence wasn't dreary with Aziraphale.
“Hopeless longing at best,” he corrects. “I was wondering if there was anything other than that at all, if all along I'd just imagined it – but it's real.”
He's feeling it right now, he's almost certain of it. Or he would be, if Aziraphale stopped crying.
“What is? Crowley -”
“Happiness. I think I can still be happy.”
Aziraphale gasps and tugs Crowley into an embrace. Crowley clings on immediately. Maybe he can keep it, this time. The happiness.
“It's not Heaven -” Aziraphale starts, because he can't help but think Heaven is a dreadful place, compared to this.
“It's so much better than that -” Crowley agrees.
“Heaven is just Hell with better interior design, but you are -”
“- worth it. You are so worth it. If I had to get discorporated - die tomorrow, for one more night with you, I would.”
“You don't have to, thought.”
“But I would. I – you know.”
“I know.”
Crowley takes a deep breath and conjures a little bravery.
“I love you,” he says and draws back to look at Aziraphale. To see his eyes.
“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales, a smile around his lips, “it is nice to hear you say it.”
“I love you, angel.”
And they keep whispering it to each other, like it's a secret, but the beauty of it is that it's not any more. It is a bit of a miracle, really, but the river between them is gone. And they love each other tonight, and they will love each other tomorrow, and however many tomorrows there are to come. It's love, Crowley knows. And he won't keep it locked up any longer. (He doesn't have to.)