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"You did do it beautifully," Aziraphale says, earnestly, "all that pining."
Crowley has his hands over his face. "Stop it."
He feels the sofa dip beside him as Aziraphale sits next to him, closer than he usually would, so he can feel the warm and solidity of Aziraphale right there. They've never even sat here together before, in the dark and regimented lines of Crowley's flat, and it's impossible. It was impossible. Now it's... unfamiliar and wonderful and it makes Crowley want to bite something, because he doesn't know what else to do with the upswell of feeling, all of it good, all of it so much more than a demon should be expected to --
"You're doing it again!"
Crowley lowers his hands to glare at the angel. "Doing what."
"'I'm a demon, I'm not worthy of love, woe is me,' you know, that sort of thing."
"I have never in my life said the words 'woe is me' in that order. Until now."
"Of course, dear," Aziraphale says, and pats his arm.
"And it was justified!" he says, waving his hands. "You are an angel, and I am a demon, and that right there is a pretty insuperable problem to overcome on a fundamental level! You said it yourself, we're hereditary enemies -- though I'm not sure what we inherited that from, since we're the first generation of angels and demons. I guess it's inherited in that we don't actually have a personal gru -- "
"Crowley..."
" -- And anyway, the point is that I had plenty to worry about. I'm a demon: am I even supposed to be able to love at all? You're an angel: are you supposed to be able to fall in love with an individual, and even if you are, could it possibly be a demon? And then if we just get down to the human level, there's the fact that I don't even like sex. Who doesn't like sex?"
"Me," Aziraphale says, mildly. "For one. And you for another. My dear, I told you, you do misery beautifully -- really, sometimes I think you should have been painted as one of those ecstatic saints -- but it's really quite unnecessary. I'm here, and I love you, and we're compatible in all things except that I can't quite understand your preference for some wine vintages over certain other -- "
Crowley winces. "Let's not get into that again."
"The point is," Aziraphale says, "that I love you with all my heart, and you really don't need to be miserable any more."
"Well," Crowley says, into a small silence in which he's sure he can hear his plants being profoundly embarrassed at witnessing this whole scene, "I'll see what I can do."
Aziraphale beams at him, all light and joy in a place where that suddenly seems to belong.