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1.
They’re at a small restaurant, tucked in a corner booth where they can talk without listening ears. Aziraphale is still slowly enjoying his dinner while Crowley watches. The lights are low, and soft music is playing - it’s exactly the kind of romantic scene Crowley has wished for, dreamed about, for millennia. All easy to enjoy now that he and his angel are free. Or should be.
Aziraphale has a glass of champagne, half-emptied, beside his plate; Crowley insisted he order it despite everything, not wanting to pass up a single instance of seeing his angel enjoy himself. Beside Crowley’s plate is a glass of iced water.
“How did you like the food?” Aziraphale asks delicately.
Crowley did eat this time; he usually doesn’t, but he’s trying to work some new habits into his life, now that he’s dispensing with old ones. He chose the first thing on the menu, which turned out to be salmon. It was nice enough. “Good.”
“Had you ever had salmon before?”
“Couple times.” Crowley runs his finger around the edge of his water glass, circling slowly, then faster until he hears it ring.
“It’s my favorite type of fish,” Aziraphale offers.
“Mmmm.”
And there’s silence. Crowley hates the silence more than anything - in six thousand years of being enemies, it’s never felt more like there’s something they’re both thinking and don’t have the courage to say. It’s never felt awkward like this. Maybe because Crowley actually thought, for a moment, after the end of the world and their first night spent together, that they were past all that - that he was finally capable of being open and honest and vulnerable in every way. That he’d never feel the need to swallow his words again.
But that was before. Before he fell asleep one evening and had a nightmare, remembered the cold faces of Gabriel and the other angels, the callousness of Heaven, that place he’d spent so long foolishly missing, and woke up to drive himself distractedly to a bar. Before Aziraphale discovered him there at two in the morning, sodden and incoherent, too delirious to miracle himself sober. Before he stared deep into Crowley’s bloodshot eyes with the sharp, penetrating look he got when he was serious, and said the words Crowley had dreaded for centuries - Crowley, I think you’re sick.
And now this. The water. The salmon. The stilted conversation. One glass of wine, just one, and everything would be easy; his words would flow again, he could talk about plants and stars and whales, he could grin and laugh and tell Aziraphale he loves him. But dry those words are harder to move.
“Water’s cold,” is what comes out when he tries.
Aziraphale smiles tightly at him. “Is that good?”
“Mhm. I like the ice.”
One glass of wine and the tension that buzzes through his chest, inexplicably hovering around his collarbone and up his neck below his ears, would be swept away. But Crowley has promised Aziraphale he’s going to try this.
Aziraphale is the one to break the tension at last. He takes his final, dainty bite of his own meal and sits back with a contented little hum. It’s clear he made the noise unconsciously, and that for a moment he’s gotten lost in his own delight - and it’s so sweet and silly and Aziraphale that it melts Crowley.
“Scrumptious?” Crowley offers with a grin.
Aziraphale smiles at him. “Scrumptious.”
And Crowley reaches out his hand and lays it on Aziraphale’s, and leans forward, and Aziraphale meets him halfway for a kiss. Crowley’s hand moves to the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale strokes his cheek with one thumb, loving, tender. Aziraphale’s lips taste sweet; sweet enough that Crowley forgets, for a moment, the rich, warm taste of red wine.
2.
A knock on the cottage door sends Aziraphale bustling out of the kitchen, where he and Crowley have been enthusiastically distracting each other from their efforts of decoration. Crowley follows a step behind, leaning against the kitchen’s doorframe to grin at the arriving guests. It’s Anathema and Newt, holding hands, and Anathema has a bag on her arm with something square and gift-wrapped poking out of it.
“Happy housewarming,” says Newt. “Congratulations.”
Aziraphale beams. “Thank you ever so much for coming! We haven’t seen enough of you since the end of the world.”
Anathema pulls the present out, handing it to Aziraphale. “Take this - it’s nothing fancy, we just thought it’d help you celebrate moving in. I hope you like it.”
The words, just thought it'd help you celebrate, make Crowley tense. The shape of the gift makes Crowley tenser. He realizes, while Aziraphale is still enthusiastically thanking them, while he’s halfway to unwrapping it, that no one has told them.
Of course, why would anyone? How would such a conversation even begin? Crowley has spent long enough in denial himself, claiming that demons don’t get sick, they don’t succumb to human things like addiction, and he can miracle alcohol out of his bloodstream whenever he wants anyway. He’s a nearly all-powerful being; why should a couple of humans think anything of bringing him wine?
Aziraphale tries hard not to let his emotions show when he registers what the gift is. He pastes on a bright smile that might fool the humans, though Crowley sees straight through it. “Ah - thank you!”
“‘Fraid it’s not terribly expensive,” says Newt.
“Oh, no, that’s just fine.” Beaming again, the angel takes the wine back to the kitchen. Crowley has to stop his eyes from following it as it disappears behind him.
Anathema and Newt are oblivious. The party continues, Adam and his friends showing up later, Sergeant Shadwell even making an appearance with Madame Tracy. Crowley makes himself forget about the gift and think about the company.
__
It’s that night, when Crowley can’t sleep, that the pushed-away thoughts return.
It’s been a few weeks now since the night Aziraphale found him at the bar. He’s been good, downing his ice water like medicine, finding little harmless ways to distract himself when the cravings hit. Aziraphale has suggested seeing a therapist, or going to a support group, but Crowley’s not exactly sure how honesty will pan out in those circumstances. Still, he’s considered it.
Times like these, he’s considered it.
The desire for alcohol has long been a near-constant in Crowley’s life, at least since Rome, and probably earlier. It’s usually a fairly innocuous thing; a little itch in the back of his brain at the idea of drinking, a little squeeze of pleasure at the thought of warmth bubbling in his chest and loosening every tense muscle in his back. Laying him down flat in bed, for a moment completely and utterly still. Relaxed. But he takes a drink or two and then a nap and the craving’s gone, easy enough. It’s rare that he feels really desperate to be drunk.
Tonight it’s just the thought of relaxing. He’s in bed with Aziraphale - with his angel, and the thought is so wonderful it ought to obscure everything else, ought to - and he feels, somehow, around his shoulders and deep in his brain, somewhere not even a miracle can scratch, like he’s trembling. A couple drinks and he could curl around Aziraphale and sink into untroubled sleep.
And it’s the proximity. The wine is just downstairs. Aziraphale was careful to keep alcohol out of his flat when Crowley was staying over, and since they’ve purchased this cottage he’s been careful to keep alcohol out of here, too. Sometimes Crowley curses himself for making his angel give up something he likes, but they eat out enough that Aziraphale isn’t missing much.
Crowley is, though. He’s been missing the stillness for weeks.
He’s not sure how long he lies awake - it’s long enough to hear Aziraphale’s breath grow even and deep beside him - before he gives up on sleeping, and rises. He’ll just go to the bathroom. Take another dose of water - the coldness helps. Clear his head and come back. He leaves the room as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Aziraphale.
Aziraphale’s taken up sleeping since the two of them began spending their nights together. Crowley likes it - likes waking up to Aziraphale bleary-eyed, voice slightly hoarse and soft, heavy and sleepy and uninhibited. Likes being the first thing Aziraphale sees in the morning. It should be, Crowley thinks as he shuts the bathroom door and crosses to the sink, turning on the tap to splash water on his face, it should be absolutely perfect, these nights and mornings spent with Aziraphale. It almost is. Which makes it all the worse when he finds himself wishing he was alone.
He spends a long time in the bathroom. Longer than he intended. It’s not out of tiredness that he doesn’t want to move - no, it’s the buzzing, which water only dulls for a moment, never drowns. It’s the futile hope that staying here another minute will make it die down. Or maybe just that he’ll muster the strength to ignore it.
Oh, it was harmless enough, his desire for alcohol, most of the time. Why does he have to give it up completely? Just because sometimes he can’t resist smothering himself in its surreal forgetfulness, just because he can’t bear to face emotions anymore without it, just because the desire’s never absent anymore, not for a single waking second - he’s a demon, can’t he take it? Shouldn’t he be stronger than this?
Crowley cups his hands under the tap and takes another gulp of water. He grimaces; it’s tasteless.
Is he really doomed to this wanting forever?
Surely he deserves a tiny reward, for all the restraint he’s shown these past few weeks. Just a little drink, just because Anathema and Newt brought the bottle, and it’d be a shame, wouldn’t it, to let that go to waste? Be a little rude, wouldn’t it?
He doesn’t quite know how he finds himself back out in the hall, drifting toward the stairs. He’s not quite aware of himself as he pads down toward the kitchen. All he feels with any clarity is the interminable, restless buzzing.
In fact, he doesn’t see anything clearly until he enters the kitchen to find the lights on, and someone standing by the sink.
He starts. “Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale’s head snaps up. He was facing away from Crowley, and when he looks back there’s a brief guilty expression in his eyes - as though he’s been caught doing something shameful. Slowly Crowley’s gaze drops to the half-empty bottle in his hands. He’s been pouring it down the drain.
“Ah,” says Crowley. It’s the only sound he can think of. “The - uh. The wine.”
Aziraphale’s tone is an apology. “I… thought it might be better if this wasn’t around.”
“Mmm.”
They stand there unmoving. Damn it all, the silence is back, seeping its way into this cottage that’s supposed to symbolize their freedom. This place that’s meant to show they’re safe now, they don’t have to fear being together anymore, and here’s this insidious silence ruining everything. Crowley knows Aziraphale knows what he’s doing down here. He knows his presence is a confession that if not for Aziraphale, he would have drunk that wine, probably downed the whole bottle once the first sip was in him. He knows he’s just proven himself unworthy of trust, and still Aziraphale has the grace to look ashamed of being caught not trusting him.
They’re not going to say any of that, though. Because words are impossible.
Finally Aziraphale’s mouth twitches in what can barely be called a smile, and he turns back to dump the rest of the wine. Crowley watches it slop from the bottle, unable to look away as it washes into the sink, thins, drains slowly away. Missed his chance.
“Well,” says Crowley at last, “back to bed, then?”
Aziraphale nods, setting the bottle down and moving forward to take Crowley’s hand. He gives Crowley a real smile, a wide, gentle one, and Crowley shuts his eyes and forces everything else from his brain. Aziraphale is here. Aziraphale loves him. Someone knows, that’s wonder enough to fill the universe.
If he could, he’d tell Aziraphale how much it means to him. How comforting his hand is in Crowley’s, when Crowley’s hands have spent so long empty. Instead he lets Aziraphale pull him to the stairs and is quiet.
3.
It’s only a few days later when the news comes. Inevitable, but no easier for that, and given the circumstances, decidedly less easy for coming when it does. Aziraphale has spent the day at his bookshop; Crowley waits by the door when he thinks the angel’s getting close to home, to surprise him with a kiss when he enters. He’s leaned against the wall when the door opens.
He doesn’t get his kiss before the wide-eyed terror in Aziraphale’s face registers.
“Angel,” says Crowley, stepping back as Aziraphale slams the door behind him, breathing hard, “what’s wrong?”
“We need to leave here, now,” he says tightly.
“What -”
“Gabriel’s on his way.”
Crowley’s stomach drops. No, no, not now - not already, surely? “Are you sure?”
“I recognized him in the shop. He was undercover in another corporation, and I talked to him, told him where I was living, before I realized…”
Crowley swears. “D’you think Beelzebub is around too?”
“I can’t say. You’d be better at recognizing them. But it’ll only take one being who knows the truth to kill us both, right?”
Crowley shudders. Right - Gabriel’s all that’s necessary, really. Gabriel with hellfire and holy water. Or maybe with some new Heavenly plan to kill them both. Or at least force them back to their sides, which might be worse, if it means he had to go back to Hell and never see Aziraphale again, after such a short time at this cottage, such a short time without danger.
“Come on.” Aziraphale pulls him out the door and toward the Bentley parked out front. “We’ll be less conspicuous if we don’t fly. We’re going to Anathema’s house - Gabriel doesn’t know about her, he might not think to look there.”
Crowley nods, throat closed off, incapable of speech. He darts to the Bentley and throws himself into the driver’s seat. For once Aziraphale doesn’t complain about his reckless speed as he pulls out into the street and tears off, mind bending toward Tadfield, telling the car to take them there.
Gabriel on his way. Have they been stupid to assume they’re out of the woods? Oh, is the six thousand years of fear about to begin all over again? Terrors sweep and swirl through his mind, one after another, jangling like a million broken keys, discordant like a thousand twisted guitar strings. He can’t be dragged back to Hell. He can’t let them hurt Aziraphale. He can’t…
They reach Tadfield with no obvious angelic pursuer on their tail. When Crowley hammers on the door of Anathema’s cottage, she answers promptly, and when she sees the two of them, fright written all over their faces, she ushers them inside without question.
“We’re on the run,” Aziraphale admits as they collapse into chairs at her table. “We’ve got an archangel after us.”
“And possibly the prince of Hell,” Crowley adds.
Anathema purses her lips. “Glad you thought to come to us.”
Crowley can’t make intelligible conversation; his brain is running through dozens of worst-case scenarios every second. His hands are clamped together in his lap, knuckles white; he doesn’t want to show Anathema he’s breaking down. He doesn’t want to show Aziraphale either, though he suspects he can’t hide it from the angel - and, though Aziraphale is considerably calmer than him on the outside, he can sense Aziraphale is panicking too.
It’s not until the glass lands in front of him that he sees it. Too wrapped up in his own thoughts. He hears a slight noise of protest from Aziraphale - ah, actually - but Anathema has larger things on her mind.
“Have a drink,” she says. “I’ll put up some warding enchantments.”
And she leaves, and Crowley and Aziraphale are alone.
The glass is in his hand faster than he can blink. He just looks at it, taking in the rich color, holding it up to the light that streams through the window from sunset outside. There’s more than a buzzing in him now - his hand shakes, pitching the drink around as if the liquid inside is caught in a storm. He’s shaking all over, he realizes. All over and within. That unreachable inner part of his brain is shuddering like a frostbitten animal.
“Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s voice tentatively from the other chair, “shall I take that for you?”
Crowley’s hand clenches around it. For a moment he wants to say no. He wants - oh, fervently he wants to down the whole thing in one gulp and let it crash over him. But Aziraphale rises and stands beside him, holding out his hand for the glass; he doesn’t speak again, the awkwardness is still here, but his outstretched arm will not be ignored.
Gritting his teeth, Crowley nods and hands the glass over. Aziraphale smiles encouragement, bending down to kiss his forehead, before moving away to get rid of the drink.
“Someone’s got to tell her,” says Crowley hoarsely, at last, because it’s all he can think of to say.
Aziraphale returns with water. “I’ll do it, don’t worry.”
“Mm.” Crowley takes the water and sips. He’s still trembling. “Thanks.”
Aziraphale sighs, and suddenly Crowley wants the angel’s arms around him so badly he thinks he’s going to explode. He looks up at Aziraphale, desperate, hoping the strength of his need is communicated through his sunglasses - hoping he won’t have to scrape for words that don’t flow anymore.
But Aziraphale is looking at the window.
“The warding spells ought to give us time,” he murmurs, “but Gabriel’s bound to notice them eventually. He’ll find out where we are. Once that happens, do we relocate again? Or do we hope the spells hold out until he gives up?”
Crowley makes a non-committal noise. Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He’s too lost in his thoughts.
4.
They stay in the cottage. Anathema uses all the magic at her disposal to determine Gabriel’s whereabouts, but all she can be certain of is that he’s not in the area yet. Aziraphale has had an entire conversation with Gabriel before even realizing it was him, so he, and by extension Crowley, aren’t even sure that much can be relied on.
At some point later on the first night Aziraphale must have told Anathema about Crowley, because Anathema never serves him alcohol again, never offers it. She doesn’t say anything about it, for which Crowley is grateful. But he finds it’s no easier to talk to her than it was to Aziraphale.
He can’t talk to anyone, as it turns out. Newt comes over most days, and they exchange a few words at best. Adam and his friends sometimes appear, and Crowley wants to ask them how they’ve been, ask Adam if he’s still got power over the universe and if he’s ever used it to play pranks on kids in school, but he doesn’t have the energy, somehow. He spends most of his time pacing various places in the house, wearing the floors thin.
They’re back in danger, and Aziraphale needs his protection. But he’s not at all sure how to give it, this time. He doesn’t know what he can do against Gabriel. His parched mind isn’t helping him plan - he keeps getting distracted by thirst, and the thought of facing off against an archangel in this state just makes everything seem more hopeless.
He finds himself chewing his nails. He finds his fingers bleeding in the morning from where he’s bitten them at night. Aziraphale is worried, of course, but he’s also doing his utmost to help Anathema guard the house against angelic intrusion, and Crowley finds he can’t be very helpful in that regard either.
He’s spending more and more time alone.
These are the times he craves drunkenness. Not a few drinks to hold him down to his bed for a while, but enough alcohol to flood him and tear him to pieces. Enough alcohol that everything goes dreamlike, that he can’t feel anything, because that’s the only way he can feel. And he’s ashamed, of course he is, to think this might be the last time he has left free with Aziraphale and all he wants is to drink it away, but he can’t help it.
He doesn’t tell Aziraphale any of this. He can’t find the words. He’s mostly communicating with the angel via grunts, these days, anyway.
It’s right after dinner one evening and Newt has just left. Aziraphale and Anathema are working together on something important, something Anathema is almost positive will tell them exactly where Gabriel is and what he’s doing. They’re there in the kitchen, heads close together, and neither of them is thinking of Crowley.
And Crowley spots his chance.
Stupid, of course, reckless, but Crowley feels like he’s about to shake apart and he can’t take it any longer. His forearms are scratched raw, his fingernails blunt and ragged; his lips are chapped and bitten, his head aches. If he were a human, it’d be easier - he’d have had to pause from his worrying at some point, had to eat and sleep and take care of himself. As it is there’s nothing to distract him. Nothing but what he wants, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. Nothing but what his whole essence feels like it’s sucking him toward.
He sneaks out the front door and slips into his car. Just one night. It can’t hurt; he’s done it before, plenty of times.
Take me to the nearest bar, he tells the Bentley.
It zooms away, practically out of his control. Crowley shuts his eyes and grips the steering wheel; his mouth is already watering. Already some of the tension is beginning, blessedly, to ease. What’ll he order? Just the strongest thing on the menu. No glasses, no ice; he’s had enough water to last him a billion years. He’ll down it straight from the bottle.
He reaches the bar. His trembling now is from anticipation. He gets out and snaps to shut the door; for a moment, the illusion of power is back over him, and he feels some of his old bravado creeping into his stance. Yes, here he is, the demon, the tempter. Not beholden to human rules. Not bound by human needs or weaknesses. Here he is in all his serpentine power and nothing is going to stop him from taking what he wants.
And then there’s a flash of blinding light, and someone is standing between him and the door. And he freezes.
“Crowley!” says Aziraphale.
Reality slams back over him and he reels backward, heart thumping painfully in his chest. What is Aziraphale doing here? “Angel, you can’t - you shouldn’t be out of the house! It’s not safe -”
“Not safe?” Aziraphale’s eyes flash. “You’re the one who picked this place!”
Crowley ducks his head and retreats toward his car. “You shouldn’t have followed me. I thought you and Anathema were -”
“I saw the Bentley missing and told her I had to go.” Aziraphale moves faster than Crowley can scramble back, until he has Crowley by the wrists. His grip is tight, almost tight enough to hurt, digging into Crowley’s skin.
“Shouldn’t have,” Crowley insists.
But Aziraphale’s eyes are brimming with tears. “What were you thinking? We’re hiding out from Gabriel and you run off to a bar? I know you’ve been struggling, Crowley, I know the stress is getting to you, but -”
“You don’t know.”
The anguish on Aziraphale’s face is more painful than his hands. “Crowley. I love you. You can’t treat the things I love so carelessly.”
“You don’t know,” he snaps, because, Someone help him, it’s all he can say. It’s all that’s in his sickeningly dry mouth. Just a weak echo of Aziraphale’s words, and all he can do is spit them out over and over, like that will exorcise the twisted thing within him. “You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t -”
Aziraphale’s fingers clench and the world around them warps. Crowley’s eyes widen as he feels himself jerked through space - and suddenly they’re in their bedroom in Anathema’s cottage, and Aziraphale is leaning over himself, panting with the effort of the miracle he’s performed.
Footsteps on the stairs. Before Crowley can speak, Anathema is in the doorway.
“He’s coming,” she says.
Nausea rolls over Crowley. Aziraphale’s response makes it worse - his terror-stricken expression, how his head turns from Anathema to Crowley and back again, briefly, as though conflicted, as though completely aware that Crowley is useless as help right now against an angel, as though worried what Crowley will do if he leaves him here alone -
“Aziraphale,” Anathema urges, “we don’t have much time. There’s a few more spells we can try, but we’ve got to leave the house, and we’ve got to hurry, or -”
“Yes.” Aziraphale gathers himself up, holds himself together. He doesn’t look at Crowley as he strides for the hallway. Crowley takes a faltering step forward; he’s worried for a moment that the simple action will cause his bones to collapse.
“Stay here, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a command, but it’s also a plea. “Just stay here. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He shuts the door behind, with a snap, and Crowley hears their footsteps running away.
5.
Crowley is alone.
The silence is deafening all around him. It screams at him, filling his mind, rocking him like an earthquake. Aziraphale is gone. Aziraphale is angry with him. He’s betrayed the angel, going to the bar, making him pursue, making him leave Anathema and delaying the spell that could have saved them, and now Aziraphale has to go and stop Gabriel and Crowley is here about to combust and there’s nothing he can do.
He wants to drink an ocean. He never wants to stop drinking. He can’t bear this, he can’t, it’s not possible.
He steps forward again.
I love you, Aziraphale said, like it was nothing. When’s the last time he’s told Aziraphale he loves him? When’s the last time he was able to do that simple act of service for the most important person in his life?
Why is he so broken? He steps forward again. Why does it all have to be so hard? He didn’t want to Fall. He didn’t want to wait six thousand years to be free of Hell. He didn’t want to chase an angel for all that time, aching for love he wasn’t at all sure he was even capable of receiving. He didn’t want to find his only shelter like this. Why, why, why -
He lays his hand on the door’s handle. It turns down. Not locked.
Crowley stares down at it. He figured Aziraphale would miracle every exit to this room impenetrable, to keep Crowley out of trouble, but no - Aziraphale has left this open for him. In a bitter moment he’s tempted to cynicism - so much for not being careless, angel didn’t even think to lock the doors - but just as quickly he knows that’s not the reason. He knows his angel would have thought about the door, even if the world was ending around them. He knows Aziraphale left it unlocked on purpose.
Because Aziraphale is still trusting him.
Crowley sinks to his knees, hand still on the door’s handle. He lets a tremor run through his whole body, then releases a short, gasping breath. It’s all he can manage to get out. He continues clutching the handle as though it’s a lifeline.
Aziraphale still believes he won’t really throw himself away, won’t really go back on the promise he made the night Aziraphale found him and told him he was sick. Aziraphale won’t imprison Crowley, because Aziraphale believes in him. Aziraphale has trusted in Crowley far longer than he’s trusted in himself.
The thought causes something to rise in his throat. Something large and hot and wet, something that, just for a moment, seems to touch the parched back of his brain. He sobs.
I love you, Aziraphale said, like it was a given. You can’t treat the things I love so carelessly.
He releases the door handle and buries his face in his hands, and he can’t remember the last time his eyes have burned like this before crying. When he’s drunk tears slip out as easily as breathing.
He collapses onto the floor, devoid of any ability to keep himself upright. Each sob is a painful thunderclap from his chest. Each one is grueling to cough up. But they come, slowly but surely they come, until Crowley’s hands and cheeks are damp and his throat is sore and he has no energy left to tremble.
__
Aziraphale finds him hours later. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed, but they open the minute he hears the door creak; he’s been waiting for the sound.
“My dear.” Aziraphale sounds exhausted.
Crowley can’t bring himself to shuffle into an upright position; he speaks from the floor. “Are we safe?”
Aziraphale kneels beside him. “Yes, dear; we’re safe. Gabriel’s been sent back to Heaven.”
The news is good, but he finds he can’t react to it properly. He’s too tired. Instead his eyes shut again and he lets out another sob.
“Oh, love.” Aziraphale is there; he gathers Crowley up in his arms and holds him to his chest. “You’ve been so brave.”
“Didn’t do anything,” he whimpers. Couldn’t protect you, he means, and the shame of that almost overwhelms him. He’s always been there to protect Aziraphale.
“But you did.” Aziraphale lays a kiss on the top of Crowley’s head. “You took care of yourself, and that means everything to me. I know it takes courage after everything you’ve been through.” He kisses Crowley again, on one cheek and then the other. “And I’m proud of you, my dear. I’m so proud.”
Crowley is silent. He melts into the embrace.
“I know this is hard,” Aziraphale murmurs against his hair. “I can’t quite understand how hard, since I’m not in your position - and I’m sorry if I’ve ever presumed to say I understand - but I can see it’s taking a toll on you. I’m sorry I haven’t paid you more attention these past few days.”
“Not your fault,” he whispers.
“I’ll try my best to keep helping you.” Aziraphale’s hold on him is tight and endlessly gentle. “I’ll do anything I can, anything you need. I know this isn’t going to go away in a year, or in ten years, or maybe ever - but I’m ready for that if you are. I’ll be here for you. We’ll get through this together, love.”
Crowley curls closer to Aziraphale, folding himself more tightly into his arms.
And that’s how they stay for a long time. Aziraphale does not get up. Crowley does not ask him to, because though his tears are flowing, he still has no words at all. And Aziraphale understands, as his angel always, always does.
+1.
“I always figured I’d be drunk when I did this,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale regards him with a fond smile. Biting his lip, Crowley pushes back his chair from the restaurant table - removing himself from the plate of spaghetti he’s just finished. From the large, iced glass, still a quarter full of lemonade.
“I don’t have any big speech,” he admits, and even these words come out haltingly. “I can’t begin to go through everything you mean to me. If I could, it wouldn’t be…” he struggles for a moment, then sighs. “Words are hard when I’m sober. Still.”
“Go on, dear,” says Aziraphale gently.
Crowley slips out of his chair and goes down on one knee. With trembling fingers he pulls a tiny box from his back pocket. “You deserve poetry, Aziraphale - you deserve something written by Shakespeare. You know. In one of the funny plays where everyone ends up married.” He winces. That sounded stupid. “You deserve… something genius. Something inspired.”
“I prefer this.”
Warmth floods through Crowley at the words, nearly choking him. He lowers his head. “Angel, I don’t deserve you.”
“Crowley.” The word is a soft admonishment. Crowley grimaces; right, he forgot again. He’s resolved to break the habit of talking that way.
“Sorry,” he says. “What I mean is - I never expected you. I still wake up every morning shocked that you chose me. That I could be so lucky.” He’s gathering a little steam now, and he’s going to ride it as far as it will take him. “You always stood out, right from the very beginning, when you gave away your sword, when you covered me with your wing. I always knew you were special. But it’s still incredible to think that you love me.”
Aziraphale’s smile is so soft that Crowley despairs of ever doing anything but staring at it.
“Uh,” he says. “I. I love you.”
And then hands are beneath his elbows, guiding him tenderly, so tenderly, upward as Aziraphale stands. Crowley is clutching the box so hard its edges dig into his palms. He’s utterly still as Aziraphale kisses him, long and slow, right there in the middle of the restaurant.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, and it’s only then that it occurs to Crowley that he hasn’t actually asked the question.
“Angel - angel, d’you want to -”
“Yes.”
Laughter bubbles to the surface. He can’t believe himself - he’s laughing, yes, laughing loud and hard and entirely unabashed. And he snaps into motion again. He opens the box to reveal the sparkling ring he’s procured, and slips it carefully onto Aziraphale’s finger. It slides on perfectly. Like it was made for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale alone. It was.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “it’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” Crowley agrees inarticulately, and their lips meet once more.
It’s a little easier every day, this new world. It’s harder than he’s ever imagined anything could be, but every day it’s easier. Every day it gets better. And the glory of glories, the miracle of miracles, the beautiful, inexplicable truth is, he’s not alone.