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When they finally leave the Ritz the sun is setting, the sky a brilliant pink and a deep gold that reminds Aziraphale of Crowley’s eyes, hidden away now beneath his dark glasses.
“Would you care to join me for a drink, at the bookshop?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley waves down a taxi that is suddenly slamming it’s doors and speeding towards them, leaving in its wake very confused would-be passengers.
Aziraphale doesn’t notice, twisting his hands in front of him and facing Crowley. “But, I expect you’re anxious to get back to your Bentley,” Aziraphale says, deflating slightly.
“Temptation accomplished,” Crowley smiles, opening the back seat of the taxi and gesturing for Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s face splits into a wide grin, his eyes wrinkling at the edges like they do when he’s practically preening at him. It lights something in Crowley or perhaps melts away at something bit by bit.
A lot of alcohol later, Crowley is sprawled across the sofa in the back of Aziraphale’s newly minted shop. After stretching seductively and asking Aziraphale to draw him like one of his french crepes an argument ensues about whether it was too soon to make such references as that “movie brings back very upsetting memories of the real incident”.
“You weren’t even there Aziraphale,” Crowley says.
“I almost was,” Aziraphale admonishes, put out.
Half a bottle of whiskey later and Crowley is wearing only one shoe. His other foot is bare and currently smacking Aziraphale in the face where he sits leaning against the front of the couch below him.
“See, scars!” Crowley shouts, indignant. “For you, angel,” he croons.
“Consecrated ground is a real bitch,” Aziraphale says, catching Crowley’s foot and looking at it properly.
Crowley snorts with a laugh, “see? Bastard.”
Aziraphale’s smug expression softens into something fond.
“Do you want me to try and heal them?” Aziraphale asks, looking at him and then back down to the sole of his foot, the skin there a noticeable shade different in patches.
“Don’t you dare,” Crowley says, before flushing hard enough he feels like he’s stepped in Hell Fire again. But thank Satan Arizaphale simultaneously runs a finger tip across the sensitive skin there and Crowley reflexively kicks out of his grip, smacking him once again in the face.
“Ticklish, angel!” He says.
Aziraphale knows they should sober up by the time Crowley’s laying upside down on the couch and regarding him with a look.
“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.
“Gabriel is a dick,” he mutters.
It is certainly not what Aziraphale expects and it punches a laugh out of him. “I am inclined to agree.”
“He tried to destroy you,” Crowley slurs, face twisted into a look of disgust.
“Yes,” Aziraphale nods uncertainly, “as Beelzebub did you.”
“N--no,” Crowley shakes his head forlornly until the room spins, he waves a hand, “not then. Well not just then. Before.”
“Before what, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, face scrunching as he starts to lose track of the conversation, too focused on the way Crowey’s face is hovering next to his, upside down. “You know it’s a good thing you don’t have blood to rush to your head, Crowley, or I dare say you’d have passed out by now.”
“I mean like...this whole time,” Crowley tries to explain, rolling over in a flailing tangle of limbs as he tries to right himself. Aziraphale catches a foot, a knee, pushes at a shoulder until Crowley’s practically slithering onto the floor next to him in a bony heap..
He’s still only wearing one shoe.
“What the devil are you talking about, Crowley?” Aziraphale sighs, brows knitting together in confusion, “I am very drunk.”
“Just shut your mouth, and die already,” Crowley quotes.
“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale starts to get to his feet but finds the task a lot more difficult than he’d expected.
“No, you idiot,” Crowley huffs with another laugh, grabbing at Aziraphale’s sleeve and tugging him back down.
“S’what Gabriel said to me--you--us--” Crowley runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, and it makes him look the picture of debauchery. “Final words were a literal blessed farewell and he--” Crowley’s lips press into a thin line. His eyes, heavy lidded only a moment ago are suddenly cold and angry.
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s tone is one that Crowley can’t quite place, but he certainly doesn’t like it.
“Dick,” Crowley reiterates, because he doesn’t really have words to express how he feels, mostly because he seems to simply feel too much of everything when it comes to Aziraphale.
Crowley’s been a demon a lot longer than he’s been on Earth, and he might have thought he truly felt things back then, before they met. Before the garden the only angels that Crowley had ever met had been the kind he saw lined up ready and waiting for Aziraphale to burn in Hell Fire.
Crowley glances around the room, eyes roving over teetering piles of books and the messy sprawl of papers: the perfect kindling. For a moment Crowley is trapped in a memory of ash and debris, feels the ghost of flames licking against his skin.
“Tried to light him on fire, though,” Crowley tells him, coming back to himself and to Aziraphale, who’s staring at him now with that expression on his face that makes Crowley’s own face heat and his mouth twitch into a grin he can’t temper.
“Fuckin’ perfect, angel,” Crowley tells him with a soft, sincere sigh, head tilted back and looking up at Aziraphale with eyes gone soft and fond. “Don’t deserve you,” he mumbles, practically inaudible.
“I don’t know about that, my dear,” Aziraphale huffs a self-deprecating laugh and tries to avoid Crowley’s gaze. He fails, immediately, finds himself instead held captive by the deeply tender expression he sees there.
“You’re beautiful,” Crowley tells him, and Aziraphale scoffs with a flush.
“Not polite to tease,” he admonishes, looking away embarrassed.
“I wasn’t!” Crowley shouts, indignant. “Nnnever lied to you, Aziraphale, ever--”
“What about that time in 15--”
“--ever. You’re the most stupidly wonderful thing in the universe.”
“I hope you see the irony here,” Aziraphale laughs, but it’s so very different than before. His cheeks are red but he looks pleased. Crowley’s eyes widen a fraction and a look of guilt crosses his face,
“I didn’t think--I won’t--I’ll stop,” Crowley tries, but Aziraphale shushes him.
“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale parrots back, his grip tight around Crowley’s wrists. “You don’t exactly tease the people you dislike, Crowley, you mostly just...” Aziraphale trails off.
“Try to light them on Hell Fire?” He supplies.
“Or destroy them with Holy Water,” Aziraphale adds. “At any rate, I don’t know the last time I drank heavily and held hands with Gabriel.”
“What?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale smiles at him, raising a hand that Crowley is surprised to find is clasped around his own. “When did that happen?”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs.
“Oh, angel,” Crowley smirks, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand and bumping their foreheads together with a slightly harder than intended clunk.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes.
“Very poor eyesight, snakes,” Crowley tells him, waving his other hand dismissively. “Should I kissss it better?” He asks, grin a little wicked. Aziraphale swallows heavily, glancing down to Crowley’s lips and nods almost imperceptibly.
Crowley doesn’t miss it though and his eyes slip closed as he leans forward, and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s brow. Crowley pulls back just enough to rest his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, shoving one of his feet underneath Aziraphale’s leg to tangle them together, Crowley’s attempt at coiling around Aziraphale in his human form.
He briefly contemplates shifting just to try it.
After they’ve both sobered up, wine bottles refilled for another afternoon, Crowley stands and helps Aziraphale to his feet.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale starts. Crowley doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t drop Aziraphale’s hand, instead steps closer. “I love you.”
Crowley doesn’t need to swallow exactly but he finds himself choking a bit on it anyway. “Yeah? Cool,” he nods, “I mean, yeah, me too. I love you, too, Aziraphale.”
“Anthony J. Crowley, all bark no bite,” Aziraphale teases.
“Shut up!” Crowley bites back. “Or I will bite you.”
“Is that a threat? Because it sounds like a promise,” Aziraphale says, just to watch him squirm, he’s sure. It works.
“I am definitely enjoying emancipated Aziraphale,” Crowley is grinning now.
“Me too, I daresay,” Aziraphale admits. “And, in that spirit, Crowley, I should like us to move in together.”
“I--” Crowley feels his face heat and he nods his head, “yes.”
“Oh, good!” Aziraphale nods, flushing, looking more pleased than Crowley’s ever seen him. He knows the feeling.
Crowley tugs Aziraphale in and holds him close, Aziraphale tenses for just a fraction of a second before wrapping his arms around Crowley and going lax in his grip.
"Aziraphale?" Crowley whispers.
"Yes, my dear?"
"My foot is cold."