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There really are no two ways about it. Though Aziraphale's feelings have been prevalent for much longer than Madame Tracy's, their emotions are rather comparable to one another. This being said, Aziraphale has to admit that it's nice, not to be wholly alone in the world, carrying such a weighty burden. It's nice to have somebody to turn to about this - even if that person is a phony psychic with beyond questionable powers and steep prices, by anybody's standards.
Even so, after a lengthy chat, the pair of them decided that it'd be best for everybody involved (Crowley and Shadwell included, if not especially) if their little crushes went unmentioned, at least for now. At least, that was, until they formulated a better plan, one to help their clueless counterparts realise just how strongly they felt about them. Until then, they were to remain silent.
Silent, however, except when in the company of one another, and only when they're in the company of one another.
"Tea, dear?" Tracy offered him, gesturing to her floral tea set. Aziraphale was prepared to nod rather eagerly, only then he remembered his vow to himself.
"Better not," he declined her kind offer as gently as he could, then felt the need to explain himself when he saw the sad-cross-confused look cross her face. "Trying to lose weight, you know, for the Big Day."
This 'Big Day', as they had dubbed it, eluded to when they would both finally reach out and tell their respective lovers the truth about their feelings, and take whatever response came to them. The thought both terrified and excited Aziraphale, who knew he wasn't ready just by the way his stomach dropped whenever he thought of it.
"Don't be silly," Tracy told him, sounding stern even though her tone had considerate undertones. She readied a second cup for him, even despite his objections, and told him, "If he's going to love you, it'll be for you. I'll have none of this 'perfect body' nonsense."
"Right," he resigned, realising he'd get nowhere with his argument and deciding instead to save his breath, "Yes, well, of course."
She nodded and smiled, seeming pleased with her win, and finished making the tea. She knew exactly how many sugars he took and how much milk he liked to have, simply on the basis that they'd done this a lot as of late. As the date drew nearer, they grew more anxious, and so consequently ended up spending a significant amount of time together.
Once done, she steadied both cups on the matching floral tray and brought it over to him, leaving a trail of steam behind her in doing so. She placed it on her table, setting it before him, and then turned back to retrieve her biscuit tin, which she promptly laid on the table too, and only then did she let herself sit down.
"Right," she started, clapping once, not too loudly but loud enough to capture Aziraphale's full attention, "Down to business, then."
"Down to business," Aziraphale repeated, agreeing, "Well, I believe that, before we outright say the words and therefore risk outright rejection, we should try certain, more discreet methods of..."
He trailed off, but she seemed to catch the gist of what he was trying to say. Rather abruptly, she finished his sentence for him. "Seduction?"
"Yes, quite," he said, then swiftly moved on, "I've had a look around online and such, and throughout my time on earth I've come to understand a few ways to do so. I think we should give it a good go and, should it all fail, then we'll go with our initial plan. Do you agree?"
"Mhm," she hummed, signalling that she did indeed, then asked, "What've you got in mind, then?"
"Well," he fumbled in his pockets, eventually retrieving the slip of paper he had been searching for,"Let's see here... number one on the list is-"
NICE AND SIMPLE WAYS TO MAKE CROWLEY (AND SHADWELL) FALL HOPELESSLY, IRREVOCABLY IN LOVE WITH YOU (AND MADAME TRACY):
1. Fulfill their unmet need.
"Fulfill their unmet need?" Madame Tracy repeated, then took a moment before raising her eyebrows in a suggestive manner, "Oh, good, something I understand. I was afraid you'd say something bonkers and-"
"Oh, just wait for the rest," Aziraphale said ominously, but soon returned to the matter at hand at current, "Whatever could Crowley need me to do that he doesn't already ask me to?"
"Well, I don't mean to presume anything, considering I've only known you two for a matter of weeks, but..." her words faded for a little while, but then came back, slowly increasing in volume as she continued to speak, "as a demon, I can only assume your confidence isn't fantastic. Perhaps he needs a little... encouragement? Inflate his ego a bit! Give it a go, anyway."
"Ah! Yes, I think that just might work," he smiled at her, sipped his tea, and then asked, "Do you need any... advice for Shadwell?"
"No, dear, I think I've got that one sorted on my own," she said with a wink, and then gratefully added, "Thank you, though. Awfully sweet of you."
"That's alright," he assured her, "It's what I'm here for; that's part of the job description, isn't it? Helpful is an angel's number one trait."
"I should assume so," she said with a smile, and then they both simultaneously drifted off into their own little worlds, imagining just how they were going to meet their partner's so-called unfulfilled needs.
**
That Friday evening, just a day and a half after his meeting with Tracy, Aziraphale met Crowley in St James' Park for what should have been a quick chat. In that time, however, Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to put his plan into action, so their short meeting slowly turned into a stroll about the park, then dinner and going back to Crowley's flat.
As soon as they walked through the door, Crowley all but jumped through and scrambled about, attempting to clean every inch of the place all at once. Aziraphale might have laughed, if not for the truly distressed expression painted on the demon's face. Instead, he decided to be consoling.
"Oh, Crowley, really," he spoke slowly, gently, trying to be a calming influence, "You needn't tidy for me. I think your flat looks rather lovely as it is."
"No, angel, it's a tip in here. You don't have to be nice about it," Crowley said as he continued to frantically pick up strewn papers and such, "I'd have done it earlier, only I didn't know you were going to come round, so I-"
"Then it's my fault!" Aziraphale interjected rather energetically, then encouraged, "Really, dear, sit down. You're going to make yourself ill like that, and we can't have your pretty face getting all snotty and blotchy, can we?"
Well. That wasn't intentional. Actually, perhaps it was, a bit. He did, after all, need to get a compliment out sometime, and so the idea had always been in the back of his mind. Only, he hadn't quite anticipated that he'd call the demon pretty then and there, as he stood in the doorway. It seemed Crowley had been anticipating it least of all, because he suddenly stopped.
"Oh. Well. Right," he spoke in single words, always pausing for an extended period of time between each one. He stood, looking over at the angel who did his very best to seem unfazed - perhaps even charming in some entities' eyes. "Yeah, sure. I guess I could just... sit. For a bit, at least."
He languidly strolled over to the couch, and even when he arrived there he paused for a moment to look at Aziraphale, almost like he was awaiting permission to sit. Once he finally did, Aziraphale made to join him, though ensured he kept his space, just in case he had made the demon feel uncomfortable.
"Do you want anything to drink?" Crowley offered him, but he held up a hand and politely declined.
"No, thank you," he said, and once more felt obligated to explain himself. "I'm trying to lose some weight. Gabriel's not often right about things, but one thing he was right about was that I'm piling on far too much weight. It's simply unacceptable, at least for an angel. What sort of warrior of the Lord looks like this?"
He had been joking, at least primarily, but the look that suddenly crossed Crowley's face was nothing short of aghast. He looked as though he couldn't believe the cruel words Aziraphale had just spouted about himself, and the angel suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to turn back time, or at the very least inhale the gruesome words to eleviate Crowley's plight.
"Don't say that, angel," he said, voice suddenly dropped and sincere, "Don't you ever say that about yourself. You don't have to be a 'warrior of the Lord', not anymore. Being yourself is good enough for me, and it should be good enough for you, too. Who cares what the Almighty thinks?"
Aziraphale ignored the voice that told him to say 'well, everybody should, strictly speaking, else we'd all be fallen and headed straight for hell', thinking that would only sour what had turned out to be a rather unexpectedly sweet situation. He instead smiled a reserved, coy smile at Crowley and bowed his head.
"That's easy for you to say, isn't it?" He felt it coming before he heard himself say it. He knew he was going to compliment Crowley again, tell him again how beautiful he was, even if he didn't know exactly how he'd do it. "You and your lovely, long, lithe limbs. Not to mention you've got a toned middle. Have you seen my stomach?"
The question was entirely rhetorical, but still an entranced Crowley blinked at him and answered, "No."
Aziraphale considered reconciling their prior conversation, whatever that was, but found himself rendered incapable of doing so. Rather, he continued to look on at Crowley until the demon seemed to remember himself, and then suddenly stood and made for his kitchen.
Moments later, following a silence only induced by Aziraphale being the only being in the room, Crowley re-emerged with his hands full, carrying two glasses of wine. Once more, Aziraphale's company had insisted that he drink and disregard his weight and everything that had ever been said about it - good and bad - and just enjoy himself.
Though he could already tell he'd be disappointed in himself for failing his diet once more later on, he couldn't bring himself to refuse the wine, either. After all, it was Crowley who had given him it, and so it'd only taint his overall mission if he did such a thing. So, with heavy heart, he resigned and let himself give in to his temptations, whatever those may be.
**
"How did it go?"
Tracy asked him this difficult question as soon as he stepped foot in her flat. He physically winced, not quite knowing how to answer it, and took a moment to shrug off his coat before he even considered doing so. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn't lie to her, no matter how much he wanted to, so when he turned back to face her, he could only offer:
"It could have been better."
Immediately, her face dropped, looking pitiful. "Oh, dear, come and sit down. What happened? Did he not like the compliments? Or did you feel you didn't do them right?"
"Oh, no, I'm sure I did them right," Aziraphale told her, though still obeying her command and making to sit down in his usual place at her table. He rested his face in his hands, ignoring the urge to sigh dramatically. "He's just not in love with me yet."
She made an 'aw' noise that make him feel incredibly childish, then ran her painted fingers through his hair once in a comforting motion. He felt like a child, though he could hardly claim he disliked the sensation. "All in due time, sweetie."
"One step at a time," Aziraphale said, though he sounded deflated, and he didn't even bother denying Tracy when hot tea in a pretty little cup landed before him. "How did it go with Shadwell?"
"Oh! Well," she said, then stopped only to put the kettle back and take her seat beside Aziraphale, "I decided to go small, this time. I knew he needed his flat cleaning, even if he's too proud to admit it. So, I offered and, eventually, he let me give it a nice tidy."
"Lovely!" Aziraphale seemed to pick up sincerely when he saw that at least one of their plans was working; that meant his might work, too, in time. "Did he seem grateful?"
"Well, you know him," she sounded dreamy, like she wasn't fully in the room with Aziraphale anymore. The angel didn't mind, however, as a loving, glazed look came over her eyes. "Ever the soldier, no emotions and all that. I could tell, though. He invited me for dinner this Sunday."
"Oh, wonderful!" Aziraphale proclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly, then counted his days, "That's tomorrow, then, is it? Oh, how lovely. I do hope you have a good time."
"Thank you," she said, then came back to herself and addressed him, "What's next on the list, anyway? We'd better get a move on, hey?"
She nudged him and, though he recognised the gesture as friendly, it did make the task of retrieving his list just a little harder.
"Yes, let's see here..." he unfolded the paper, then read aloud, "Number two on the list-"
2. Slip pet names tastefully into every conversation.
Tracy gave him a look, then stated, "Dear, I think he's already using that one to try and woo you."
"Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale gave her his best 'that's absurd' look and put the list back into his pocket.
"Oh, I don't know. Just... well, he does call you 'angel' rather a lot," she said, still giving him a pointed look, though acting like she was doing nothing at all.
"I think you've got that the wrong way," he insisted, though he couldn't help but feel how the thought wriggled into his brain and dug a nice little hole for itself in there. He'd have to deal with that later, undoubtedly. "He only calls me angel because, well, that's what I am, you see? No romantic intention whatsoever."
"Hmm," she hummed, sounding pensive as she did so, "Well, you know him better than I do, I suppose. Only you could possibly know what his true intentions are, isn't that right?"
"Yes," Aziraphale concurred, though his mind now told him it disagreed with his words, "That's quite right."
**
The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley, it felt as though they hadn't met in a hundred years. He felt like he was gasping for air, like a fish out of water, and only the sight of the demon could quench him. It was Tuesday morning - Crowley had proposed they wait until the afternoon, but alas, Aziraphale was a desperate man, and rather persistent when he wanted to be.
They took some time to catch up, though neither had been up to anything particularly exciting. Why then, Aziraphale wondered, had they not met up sooner? He'd seen Tracy on the Saturday, then Tracy had seen Shadwell for at least part of the Sunday and spent the rest of the day preparing to do so, leaving Aziraphale completely and utterly free.
Ah well, he decided, we're here now and that's all that matters.
Crowley seemed rather glad to see him, too, even if he didn't admit it. He seemed to be looking at Aziraphale more, paying him more attention (which was nice, except for when he was driving; only then would Aziraphale have preferred to be the second most important thing in his mind).
Eventually, they stopped at their usual haunt. The park, though never empty, looked rather vacant today, which Aziraphale supposed was a good thing, in case his plan majorly backfired.
"Do you want an ice cream, darling?" Was the first time he tried it, and it seemed to Aziraphale that Crowley thought it was merely a slip of the tongue. He managed to pass it off as such, anyway, as he nonchalantly responded.
"No, I'm alright, thanks," he declined, but still waited to see if Aziraphale was going to get one. Apparently the angel looked torn, because when he began to walk away, heading for their bench, Crowley groaned. "You're not still on that diet, are you, angel? I'm telling you, you don't need to lose weight, so get the damned ice cream, for heaven's sake."
Aziraphale knew Crowley didn't intend to sound so upset with him, and this was just an unfortunate consequence of coming from hell. Still, he shook his head and made once more to move, to find them a spot to sit where his plan could continue, undeterred.
Crowley, it seemed, had other ideas. When Aziraphale walked away, he began mumbling to himself and he approached the ice cream stall. It took him less than a minute to receive a bright red ice lolly - Aziraphale's favourite - and pay for it - actually pay for it, with money any everything. Then, he was beside the angel and thrusting the treat into his hands.
"There you go," was all he said, then he set off walking once more.
Aziraphale lagged behind, just a bit. He almost forgot himself and his dastardly plan, only returning and hurrying after Crowley when he feared the demon was getting too far away. He took one lick of the lolly before he spoke, knowing his face was flushed and his heart was touched.
"Thank you, dear," he said, slipping in the pet name for good luck, "That was very kind of you."
"Shut it," Crowley sounded less and less convincing each and every time he denied that he was, in fact, a good being at his core. Aziraphale could even swear there was a light blush spreading across his cheek, though he couldn't be sure. Perhaps that wasn't what he was embarrassed about, after all...
They took their seat at their usual bench, finding it free. They each silently watched the ducks for a moment, and only when Crowley spoke up was when the peaceful quiet was broken. Aziraphale, though he did enjoy watching the birds, could not find it within himself to complain, and he paid Crowley full attention.
"I saw that mad American woman and her boyfriend in town yesterday," Crowley noted, and Aziraphale felt this was his attempt to start conversation, so he tried his best not to discourage the demon.
"Oh?" He asked, genuinely intrigued, and continued to lick the lolly as he went on, "Anathema and Newton? What were they up to?"
"I dunno, really," Crowley shrugged, then leaned back in his hair and continued, "He looked nervous, though. Kept fiddling about in his pocket. I didn't see them for long, though; just popped in for a quick bite to eat."
This casual confession brought a smile to Aziraphale's face. "You're eating? Even though you don't need to, even though it gives you no sustenance, you're actually eating?"
"Mhm," Crowley hummed, though he was looking at Aziraphale through his dark glasses with eyes that could kill. "Just heard of a good restaurant, is all. Thai food; never had it. Have you? Maybe we could go sometime. Think you'd like it."
A warm flourish sprouted in Aziraphale's chest and his grin grew even wider. "Oh, you are a softie sometimes, love."
To be perfectly honest, he hadn't quite anticipated saying that one, either. It wasn't a conscious thing, but rather more like he was letting down walls he had previously put up to prevent him from saying such silly, endearing things. Now, though, he wondered just why he had stopped himself from doing so, especially when it elicited such a wonderful reaction from Crowley.
The demon's face flushed bright red, as red as Aziraphale's lolly, and, though he didn't actually do it, the angel could sense he wanted to bury his face in his hands and will the world to either disappear or swallow him whole. He looked frightfully enamoured, which surprised Aziraphale, but when he finally trusted himself enough to speak, he played it off cool.
"'m not a softie. Never been a softie," he said, then followed it impossibly quickly with, "Anyway. What've you been up to?"
Now it was Aziraphale's turn to flush a hot pink colour, because he hadn't actually though Crowley would ask him that. He hadn't formulated a lie yet, wasn't sure he was comfortable lying though he knew he could hardly tell the truth to Crowley - that he had been conspiring with Madame Tracy. Instead, he favoured his lolly and mumbled a quick, dismissive phrase, joining Crowley in willing the world to implode.
"Not much," he said, "Not much at all."
**
By the time Aziraphale sees Tracy again, he's afraid he might actually explode. He's been cooped alone with his feelings for the last six thousand years, give or take, and right about now he feels like, if he doesn't do something drastic, he might end up just outright telling Crowley in the least coherent way possible.
He's trying to be polite and curteous as always, but as he listens to Tracy talking about how well her dinner with Shadwell went and how unexpectedly receptive he was being to her pet names, all he can think about - all his itchy fingers can even fathom - is how he wants to kick it up a notch or two.
She seems to gather this in a short amount of time, and soon she's urging him to read what's up next. It's basically a one-sided conversation, which Aziraphale would normally be alright with or at the very least try to rectify, but now, in this dire time, he just wants to move on.
"Three's a little boring, so's four, and five. Six, seven..." he scans down the page, and finally settles, feeling comfortable with the choice he's made but has yet to vocalise. "Ah! Here, number thirteen-"
13. Introduce casual kisses into your everyday routine to encourage physical displays of affection.
"Wonderful," Aziraphale remarks to his own suggestion, and Tracy shrugs and chuckles.
"Brilliant," she agrees. "Bold and brilliant."
**
The first time he tries it, Crowley's just come to pick him up. He's not exactly certain where they're going, but he trusts Crowley to make it interesting, even if the location itself is a complete and utter dud.
Crowley enters the bookshop, catching Aziraphale not at all by surprise regardless of what his reaction implies, and the angel is swift. He stands, straightens his meticulously ironed outfit, and makes his way over to the demon, who seems blissfully unaware of what is to come.
"The car's just outside, parked on the yellows as usual," Crowley says, then gestures behind him, out the door, as though that's where Aziraphale's mind is right now. "We'd better get a move on, because-"
It's then that he stops speaking, because it's then that Aziraphale walks up to him and kisses him square on the mouth. The angel feels giddy, doesn't feel quite like himself, but knows confidence is key right now so he tries not to let his nerves show.
It pays off. Crowley's rendered speechless when he finally pulls back, even though he didn't really kiss Aziraphale back anyway. He makes a few strangled noises that the angel judges are attempts at words, and then he's giving up entirely and retreating back to his car.
Aziraphale isn't sure at first whether or not he wants him to follow, so he doesn't. Only when Crowley looks over to him and doesn't immediately speed off in the Bentley does he suspect he's meant to be behind him, but even so he doesn't take a step closer through fear of frightening the demon off forever.
"Coming, angel?" Crowley calls to him, alerting him to the fact that they are in fact still talking, not avoiding each other until they eventually decide it's best to pretend the event never happened. For this, Aziraphale is eternally grateful.
**
The second time he does it, they're out again, at that Thai restaurant Crowley had been so eager to take him to. This time, it's less of a planned reaction, and once again it just feels like he's letting go of his inhibitions and letting himself do what he's stopped himself doing before.
They've just been seated at a quaint booth at the back of the restaurant and handed menus, and Aziraphale's taking a moment to look at Crowley when he knows the demon is distracted. He admires his well-structured face, the purposeful teasing of his auburn hair to keep it standing upright. Aziraphale finds himself smiling as he looks at Crowley, and he's near enough unable to stop himself from doing what he does next.
Before he's thought the action out, he's leaning across the table and pecking an unsuspecting Crowley on the cheek. It takes the demon a moment, but soon enough he's blushing violently and looking incredulously over at Aziraphale.
"What was..." Crowley goes to ask, but changes his mind at the last moment. He shakes his head, "Why?"
"I felt like it," Aziraphale says, shrugging, going back to sit in his seat. He's rather impressed with himself and how he manages to act like nothing at all out of the ordinary happened. "Do you fancy some chin hum, dear?"
**
That night, they get rather extraordinarily drunk back at Crowley's flat, and decide when it comes time for Aziraphale to leave that they aren't quite ready for the party to be over just yet. Instead, Crowley invites Aziraphale to stay the night, and soon after they both collapse in sync into Crowley's bed.
It's platonic, at first. It's a pair of drunk, idiotic, supernatural beings being far too intoxicated to think straight, falling onto the nearest, most comfortable piece of furniture in the flat. Then, in time, it changes. There's a deliberate, very purposeful shift from 'this is a friendly interaction' to 'hang on, wait just one minute, what's happening now?'.
Aziraphale notices it immediately. Crowley's got his arms around his waist, tightly holding his middle. For a second, he almost feels taut, like the diet he's tried and failed miserably to be on has actually worked. He relaxes and comes back to himself, and finds his hands have buried themselves in Crowley's flame-coloured hair without telling him.
He thinks there's something to all of this. Beyond the fact that they're both drunk, in wine-minds and not thinking completely straight, this position feels... comfortable. There's almost definitely a lasting impact of the apocalypse on the two of them, because now they seem terrified to lose one another. Neither of them vocalises it, but both of them know it, and so they take this drunken moment to hold the other tight and relish in their brief guaranteed safety; it doesn't last.
For a second, it's just him that's conscious of what's happening. Then, all of a sudden, Crowley's looking up at him, and the world stops spinning. It feels like they're both sober even though that couldn't be further from the truth. Crowley's brow furrows momentarily, looking as though he doesn't understand, can't comprehend what's happening, and then suddenly he's shifting up the bed and coming closer - closer, so close - to Aziraphale's face.
It takes a decade for his lips to touch the angel's, and when they do it's feather-light. If an outsider were to oberve this action, they might incorrectly conclude that it's platonic, when in reality it's anything but. Crowley's ghostly kiss means the world to Aziraphale, because it shows he's meeting him half way. He's ready, and he's willing to take the leap alongside him.
When he pulls back, he takes some time to scan Aziraphale's face and register his expression. He looks somewhat frightened, but makes no move to pull away. He merely watches on, and when he deems that his angel is, indeed, alright with what just happened, he finally speaks and breaks the silence.
"Stop me if I go too far," is all he says, and Aziraphale highly doubts that could ever happen, ever.
It's then that Crowley moves suddenly. He peels his hands off of Aziraphale, seeming reluctantly to do so, and rises to his knees on the bed. Then, in one swift motion, he's throwing his leg over the angel's lap and straddling him. Meanwhile, Aziraphale can only look up at him, wondering is this a dream? because this is just all too perfect.
Could it be that all Crowley needed was a slight push in the right direction, to have Aziraphale show him that it's alright to touch him, to kiss him, to do anything he so wanted to him? Right now that seems the most likely scenario, because the newfound confidence Crowley's showing is undeniable and raw.
Hands placed palm-down on Aziraphale's chest, Crowley leans forward, running his fingers up as he does so. Once he reaches Aziraphale's face, he goes back down, though this time he only comes to a stop when he reaches the top of the angel's pants. He quirks an eyebrow and Aziraphale nods.
That night, from what he remembers, was a joyous one. To be crystal clear, though, all he can properly recall is the high, pleasured whining of Crowley and not very much else at all. When he wakes, Crowley isn't beside him, and upon further inspection he finds the demon has vacated the flat.
Never one to miss a hint, Aziraphale is quick to dress and leave also, mind flooding with thoughts of the previous night, and what it all means.
**
He's alone for the next few days. Oh so isolated, he has far too much time to think and overthink what happened, and yet it seems like no time at all. The next thing he knows, after stumbling out of Crowley's flat that is, is that he's stood, once again, in Tracy's flat, feeling strangely more deflated than ever.
"Oh, come on in, love," she ushers him inside, shutting the door behind him, patting him on the shoulder in an attempt to be comforting, though Aziraphale feels totally out of reach now. "I'll make you some tea, and you tell me what's the matter."
"I don't want tea," he tells her, and just when it looks like she's going to refuse to accept his refusal, he repeats himself, firmer this time, "I really don't want any."
"Well..." she pauses for a moment, deliberating, then nods, "Alright."
Aziraphale sighs, his chest somehow feeling heavier after he does so, and reluctantly takes his usual seat at the table. He doesn't feel much like talking, nor tea, nor anything. He merely wants to curl up and die, because he's only gone and made things a hundred times more confusing.
As soon as Tracy takes a seat opposite him, however, he knows he's not going to do this. She gives him a doughy look, with soft eyes and pursed lips. He feels rather like a child, and finds himself wishing to be treated by her as he had been treated by Gabriel for years now: with an iron fist, and a no-sentiment policy.
"What's the matter, love?" She asks, voice so soft it makes him want to cry. "Come on, you know you can tell me anything, don't you? No need to be big and strong all the time. Did something happen? Did the handsome demon take poorly to your kisses?"
Aziraphale doesn't know whether to nod or shake his head, because on the one hand it's so far from the truth that he couldn't even consider saying Crowley took badly to his advances - in fact, if anything, he took almost too well, which was precisely the issue. On the other hand, the night he had shared with the demon - however romantic it had been in the moment - seemed to have established the complete wrong stage for their relationship.
"We slept together," he breathes, and it's almost comical how quickly Tracy's dark eyebrows shoot up into her bright orange hair at hearing this confession.
"Oh, congratulations!" She immediately proclaims, but upon registering the act that he's about as far from smiling as he can be, she quickly follows it up with, "But that's a bad thing?"
"Yes!" He's all too eager to agree, because he thinks she's finally beginning to understand, to grasp what's upsetting him so, "Precisely! That's my point, you see: if he believes we're to engage in a purely physical relationship, then there's no hope for us to have anything more than that. He'll never love me if he only ever sees me in his bed."
It's around about this point that Aziraphale begins rambling, words that make sense individually coming together to form sentences that decidedly do not. It's also then that he begins to splutter, and it takes him a few seconds to realise he's started crying. Not wailing, weeping, screaming cries that make his words mash into one great mess of noise, but one where tears fall silently from his eyes and trail down his cheeks, leaving little, barely-there lines in their wake.
"Oh, deary me," Tracy says, and before he knows it she's stood up and moved to stand beside him. She wraps an arm around his shoulder and places her free hand on the shoulder closest to her, essentially bundling him up with her floaty sleeves that act as blankets. Her jewellery is a little uncomfortable, but it hardly matters as he leans into her, sniffling and vulnerable.
Seconds later, there's a great crash. Before they can even look over to the door to see what it was, there's clearly somebody else in the room, a more violent and less maternal presence there with them. A booming voice begins to speak.
"Aye, I should have known!" Shadwell calls, making both Aziraphale and Tracy look over at him in sync, "The southern pansy! Really, woman, I thought you of all people'd at least pick someone better than that. Alas, I'll have to report back to-"
"Oh, really, Shadwell," Tracy interrupts him, voice condescending and not unlike that of a mother protecting her child, or scolding them. "Would you give the man some space? He's had a rather rough few days, and he needs some time to think it over."
"I should think he does!" Shadwell says suggestively, almost like he knows something, though Aziraphale figures this can't be the case as he's the only one who could have told him, and he's made the conscious decision to trust nobody but Tracy with this intimate, delicate knowledge. He pauses, casting his eyes over the pair, and then retreats. "I'll see you later."
"That you will, Mr Shadwell," Tracy says, batting her eyelashes, but soon drops the act and yells after him, "Only if you close the door, that is!"
Quickly, a hand shoots into the room, grasps the doorknob and all but slams the door shut, leaving the angel rather concerned for its hinges. Tracy looks pleased with herself but soon returns her attentions to the fragile angel in her arms. She tuts and rests her head against his, letting him wallow for a moment longer, before she's uttering a suggestion - an olive branch to reconcile his shattered feelings.
"Maybe he didn't think of it like that," she says, and he sniffles as he tries to listen hard to what she's saying, "Maybe he thinks that was just a physical expression of his feelings for you, and maybe if you see him again he'll put it into words."
"I should hardly think so," Aziraphale says, exhaling through his nose like something in this terrible situation is even in the slightest funny, but then continues solemnly, "I shouldn't like to see him again, at least not any time soon."
"Oh," she stops to look at him, and then scrunches her nose, "Was it not good?"
"No!" He immediately responds, then shakes his head, confused by even his own words, "I mean, yes. It was good - brilliant, in fact, better than I could have imagined. Only, I don't know what I would do if he... well, you know. If that became all we did, and we lost the very foundation of our relationship."
"I see," she looks pensive for a moment, then makes another suggestion, sounding even perkier than she did the last time, "Well, maybe you can arrange to meet in public. He won't try anything dodgy then, surely? And you can talk it out, tell him how you feel if you like. Or you can just chat about whatever it is you normally speak about. Sounds like a plan?"
Aziraphale has to think it over for a while, but eventualy he begins to nod, slowly but surely. He sniffles only once more before he finally agrees, sealing his fate, repeating, "Sounds like a plan."
**
Just the day after, Aziraphale is in the park with Crowley. The demon had picked him up as usual, and the car ride had seemed to be as average as any other. Only, inside of Aziraphale's fearful head, there was a distinct, distasteful, distached feeling that seeped all the way down into the pit of his stomach. Neither of them were particularly chatty that day.
Eventually, though, after what seemed like an eternity, they parked up and headed on inside. Once they reached their bench and sat down, it was immediately obvious that there were lingering, unspoken words and questions and confessions in the air that needed to be broached. Aziraphale had assumed that they were mostly if not entirely his own, but Crowley - always one for surprises - took the liberty of going first.
"When were you going to tell me?"
It's at this precise, pin-prick-marked moment that Aziraphale's stomach drops, does several flips and then begins to try to digest itself. He fights the urge to flee or curl into a ball and hide until Crowley leaves, likely through sheer confusion. He instead furrows his brow and quickly turns to look over at the demon, who he finds already staring at him, plain as day.
"What do you mean?" He asks, trying to keep things as simple as possible, despite his inner turmoil and current melting where he sits - hardly a sophisticated action, for a fantastic, ancient and wonderful being. Not that he likes to flatter himself, mind.
Crowley pauses for a moment, seemingly waiting for something to click in Aziraphale's mind. When it evidently doesn't, he inhales sharply and prompts, "Madame Tracy. Honestly, I don't know how I didn't see it sooner."
"See what sooner?" Aziraphale's pitch of voice peaks, and he's speaking so highly it's as though he's been accused of something treasonous again, which he might as well have been for all the good Crowley's suggestion is doing now. "What do you think's been happening, Crowley?"
"You know," he flails, sort of gesturing, though it's too wild to be considered anything other than mad and uncoordinated, "All the flirting, going over to her house all the time, talking about love and that. I shouldn't have - well, you know. I didn't want to make things bad for you and her, I just got so jealous and I thought you wanted to-"
"Crowley," Aziraphale interjects when he feels as though the demon's head will spin off with the speed of his words, "I'm not courting Madame Tracy."
"Oh," Crowley says, sounding deflated, though Aziraphale decides quickly this is better - at the very least, safer - than the alternative, "You aren't?"
"No," Aziraphale could almost laugh, feels something delightful tickling his throat, though it's dancing close to fear and the looming threat of demise, "I'm not courting her; I'm courting you. She was helping me move it along, and that she did - rather quickly, I might add."
This elicits a breathy chuckle from the demon, whose face cracks into the most delighted smile Aziraphale's ever seen. "Yeah, I guess she did. How's it that a human fixed up our relationship quicker than we've managed to do in six thousand years, anyway?"
Aziraphale knows he's becoming borderline hysterical at the smallest of triggers now, but it's unstoppable. He feels giddy and, like a snowball rolling, accumulating, growing larger and larger by the second, his fear is ignited. He can't be stopped by anything, he'd been being eaten alive by the terror of Crowley downgrading their relationship, dismissing what happened, and then now...
Then nothing. Crowley says nothing for the longest time, only looks at him, and he proudly looks back. He thinks it's classifiable as 'admiring', because there's that loving sheen that admirers get when they look, usually anonymously from across the room. Except, he realises, they aren't across the room. They're right here, together, right beside one another, and then - very suddenly - the demon speaks up.
"Right," he says rather simply, nodding once to punctuate the word, "Well, okay, then. What would you have me say, angel? I'll say anything you want to hear."
Aziraphale's breath stalls in his throat, almost but not quite choking him. His bowtie suddenly feels very tight, like it's wrong where it hangs on his neck. He breaks into a cold sweat, if that's even something angels can do, and then he speaks, very slowly and purposefully.
"I want you to tell me the truth," he requests, and then clarifies upon receiving a slightly confused, furrowed-brow look from Crowley, "I want you to tell me if you love me or not."
There's barely a second of hesitation on Crowley's face, even despite the signs he's nervous, before he loudly, unashamedly claims, "I love you."
Aziraphale coughs, splutters, chokes and dies on the spot. "You do?"
"Of course I do," Crowley says, seeming to be gaining confidence by the millisecond, "Of course I love you. Have done since Eden, actually, which sounds a tad dramatic, but it's true. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? The truth?"
Aziraphale nods. It's about all he can do, because he's been rendered speechless by Crowley's frank admission. It's nice to hear, admittedly; Crowley's obviously come to terms with it, accepted it as a fact, so much so that he's at the point where he's unafraid to announce it to the whole of the world (or, at the very least, part of St James' Park).
Another moment passes in which neither of them speak. Then, Crowley clears his throat and asks, "What about you?"
Aziraphale holds his eye, interlocking their gaze just as he suddenly has the overwhelming wish to interlock their fingers (which he's allowed to do now, any time he wants!), and smiles broadly. He's certain Crowley's dripped the glistening drops of sunlight into him with his words, because his smile is now so beaming and unapologetic that there's simply no other explanation. As he had done so very many years ago, Crowley's hung the stars, this time in Aziraphale's eyes.
"Yes, Crowley," he addresses him, "I think I'm afraid I rather do. I love you, too."
Crowley matches his smile, and somehow even manages to do the impossible and best him. His own grin is so wide, so filled with starlight, that Aziraphale is willing to sacrifice his title just to see him smile like this forever. He laughs, tone low and the sound muffled yet gleeful, and Aziraphale's redundant heart skips a beat as he suddenly realises he's allowed to do anything he wants now.
There's no list to adhere to, not anymore. He'll be glad to shred that foul piece of paper, too, for all the dread and destruction it caused and cost him. Though, he has to remind himself, it's not all really so bad, because it did get him here in a roundabout way, on this bench, beside the demon who loves him, and he can now admit that he loves him, too. All blasphemy aside, he thinks this really just might be heaven on earth.
"Wait," Aziraphale breaks into his own thoughts, defying every voice that insists he'll ruin the moment if he speaks now, "You were the one talking to Shadwell? He's your informant?"
He doesn't mean to sound quite so horrified by this as he does, but that's how it comes out, somehow. Crowley only looks at him, grinning cheekily, and responds, "And you consulted Madame Tracy? What were you trying to do, dominate me?"
Aziraphale ponders for less than a whole second before he responds, voice losing all seriousness, "It worked, didn't it?"
This sends Crowley spiralling into a fit of laughter, and he's somehow quick yet gentle in his movement as he reaches to brush Aziraphale's cheek, where he then lays his hand and stares the angel in the eyes. He draws a little closer, completely and utterly unthreatening, just as he's always been to the angel, and as he'll always be.
"That it did, angel," he says as he closes in, preparing to kiss his angel into oblivion, "That it did."