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They are driving back to the bookshop after attending a somewhat unusual performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream which Crowley had thoroughly enjoyed and Aziraphale had mildly disapproved of, or at least had claimed to. It hadn't stopped him laughing freely at all the appropriate moments (and several less appropriate ones, for which he blames Crowley's wry, murmured commentary) or indeed gleefully applauding as the actors took their fumbling bows at the end, but since this contradiction provides at least twenty minutes of good natured bickering before they each lapse into thoughtful silence on the way home, neither of them is complaining.
Rather unusually, they are stuck in traffic. Under ordinary circumstances (certain incidents on the M25 notwithstanding, as they could hardly have been termed ordinary by any stretch of the imagination), nothing as dull as city congestion would dare impede the Bentley's progress, but right now Crowley is distracted. He often has been, of late.
Whenever he has a moment of uninterrupted thought, his mind has returned to the same worn topics, the same age-old fears. He has tried not to indulge them, but there is only so long that this can be considered optimistic, rather than simply downright foolish.
He taps his thumbs against the steering wheel.
'I've been thinking,' he begins eventually, without turning around.
'Hmm?' Aziraphale responds absently, eyes flicking from the window to Crowley's face without urgency.
Crowley flexes his hands as though they itch.
'They're not going to stay away forever,' he says, voice tight with something Aziraphale can't quite name.
'Who aren't?'
'You know,' Crowley glances significantly Up, then Down.
'No,' Aziraphale muses soberly after a moment when it almost seems he might object. 'I suppose you're right.'
'Hmm.' It is Crowley's turn to be noncommittal. He still hasn't turned around.
'Well?' Aziraphale prompts. 'I know that look. What did you have in mind?'
'I was just… thinking.' Why is this so hard ? So much harder than it had been last time. (Because this time he knows. He knows exactly what Aziraphale's response will be. He knows precisely the expression that will take over his features, the hurt that will flicker in his eyes, the anger in his voice. He knows, and he will ask anyway, because he has to.)
'Yes?' Aziraphale is getting impatient now, by still Crowley hesitates for just a moment longer.
'It might be useful to revisit the idea of… Insurance.' He clenches his jaw briefly, eyes flickering quickly towards Aziraphale and away again.
'Insure - no , Crowley, absolutely not! How can you even - no!' Aziraphale has twisted completely in his seat now, and his stricken expression is exactly as Crowley had anticipated. As it turns out, being prepared does not make the rejection any easier.
'Look,' Crowley deliberately does not explode back, though it takes considerable effort. He turns sharply in his seat, one hand still on the wheel more as an anchor point than to maintain any control over the car, which in any case hasn't moved in almost five minutes. 'The last batch saved my life. You know it did. Do either of us want to contemplate what would have happened if you hadn't given it to me in the end? Even you agreed eventually. Can we just skip the century of dithering this time and get straight to the point?'
'I can't ,' Aziraphale pleads. 'Please don't ask this of me again, Crowley. I can't.'
'You can . You did . And it saved my life .'
'Nevertheless -'
' Nevertheless ?' Crowley splutters. He is raising his voice now, against all of his plans. 'I just told you that if I hadn't had the holy water last time I would in all probability no longer exist, and your response is… Nevertheless ?'
'We'll find something else. Anything else. Don't make me do this again, my dear. Please. '
Crowley either doesn't hear or ignores the desperation in Aziraphale's voice. As the traffic in front of them begins to inch forward he slams the Bentley into gear and lurches ahead with it.
'I'll find some without you,' he warns, fuming. His anger is a thin film over paralysing fear, but it is powerful all the same.
'Then I suppose I should find some hellfire?' Aziraphale snaps suddenly.
Crowley very nearly crashes the car.
' No .' He says. There is no question, hardly an inflection. The word lands like stone, like lead, cold and absolute.
'Why not?' Aziraphale pushes, and this isn't fair . 'Why should I be denied the same protection that you're asking for?'
'Hellfire would - it would destroy you, you idiot!'
'And holy water would destroy you!' The traffic has stopped again, and they both sway in place as Crowley slams the brakes on with unnecessary force.
'Water is a damn sight easier to store than fire , angel. I'm not doing it. And you won't get it any other way, it's not like many humans have weapons against your lot exactly prioritised, so forget it .' Aziraphale ignores the jibe, or slip, about his lot , resists the urge point out that he is no longer officially associated with them, and that having their own side had been Crowley's idea in the first place anyway. There are more important points to be made.
'You're asking me to trust you - demanding that I trust you - while utterly refusing to extend the same courtesy to me!'
'It's not about trust!' Crowley's driving is even worse than usual, which is quite something given that they have not made it above ten miles an hour since some time before they started talking.
'Then what is it about?' Aziraphale is scowling. He looks like he might, at any moment, slam open the door and storm away. It looks like he might leave. Something in Crowley snaps.
' I thought you burned once already! I was you burning!' Crowley's voice shakes and cracks in the last shouted word, and when he next speaks it is much more quietly. 'Don't make me do that again. Please.'
'Can't you see how hypocritical you're being?'
'I'm not being hypocritical. It's just different, ' Crowley insists.
'How is it different?'
'It just is. '
'It doesn't seem very different from where I'm standing. Sitting. Whatever.' Aziraphale waves a hand impatiently, flicking away the word choice with irritation.
'Well, it is.'
'You're being childish,' Aziraphale crosses his arms. He does not seem to realise the irony of the action.
' You're being childish.'
'How is it different?' Aziraphale presses again.
'It just… is!'
'How?'
'It doesn't matter.'
'Yes, it does. How is it different?'
'Angel, look -'
'How?'
'Please just -'
' How ?'
'Because I love you!'
Silence. Ringing, pounding silence. Aziraphale's arms uncross almost of their own accord. Crowley's jaw is clenched and his face is flushed, but he does not try to take back his words. He closes his eyes as his head thuds back into the seat behind him. He looks tired.
'Because I love you, angel, alright?' he continues, voice strained and still just louder than he would ordinarily speak. 'I'm not going to deliver some fucking - some… It's not happening. I can't. So don't ask.'
Aziraphale stares for a long moment. Crowley has opened his eyes again, still hidden behind his dark glasses, but he is not looking at Aziraphale. He is staring with absolute determination at the road. At the cars. At anything, anything else. His throat is tight; his eyes are hot. He daren't look around.
'I'm still waiting to hear how your situation is any different to mine,' says Aziraphale quietly. His words are directed more towards his hands than towards Crowley, but he can hardly miss the snatched intake of breath from the demon, or fail to notice the sudden change in the quality of the silence between them. The air in the car is no longer charged and hot, but brittle, like spun glass, like some sharp and delicate thing to be approached only with the most extreme caution.
'What…' It is more of a croak than a word. Crowley swallows. 'What do you mean?'
'Will you look at me?'
Crowley shakes his head, once, sharply, but does not reply. Aziraphale waits. Slowly, so slowly, eyes tipped down so as not to meet Aziraphale's expression directly, Crowley turns. The traffic is moving again. Crowley ignores it, and ignores too the sound of horns from the cars behind them, if he notices either change at all.
'I love you too,' Aziraphale admits, practically whispering; even now, even - relatively speaking - as free as they have ever been, some habits are hard to break. 'Of course I do. And I will help you. I will protect you and this earth in any way I can, but I can't do what you're asking me. Please. Don't you understand? It's not that I won't. I can't .' He looks down again. 'If something were to happen, some accident, and it was because of me… I don't think I could survive that. Not as… As me , anyway.'
'Say that again.'
Aziraphale does not ask which part.
'I love you, Crowley.' It becomes easier with repetition. The words have been straining to escape him for so long, he isn't sure how much further he can go before being unable to stop; how much more he can say before a trickle becomes a flood, and centuries of buried words come tumbling out. He controls them, with effort. 'I love you. Please. Don't leave me here alone. Don't make me risk that. Please.'
'You love me,' Crowley repeats, monotone. Aziraphale would be worried he had gone too far, but for Crowley's visibly shaking hands.
'I love you,' he repeats, terrified it won't be enough; terrified that Crowley will ask again anyway. It is a good thing that they are sitting down; Aziraphale doesn't think his legs could support him standing right now. His insides feel turned to jelly; there is a roaring in his ears, and he cannot decide if it is a good thing or not.
'You love me,' says Crowley once more. It is not a question, and this time he does not give Aziraphale a chance to reply. 'And I love you.'
'Yes,' Aziraphale smiles, and once he starts it is difficult to stop. 'Yes,' he repeats simply, quietly. Still he feels weak with emotion; feels lightheaded, feels as though his very heart is trembling.
'Right.' Suddenly they are moving again; Crowley has looked away, to the road. 'This calls for alcohol. '
Aziraphale would be offended by the sudden shift in Crowley's attention, but for the dopey, helpless grin now plastered across the demon's face. He fears his own expression is hardly more dignified.
Without looking around, Crowley reaches out and takes hold of Aziraphale's hand. His grip is so tight it is almost painful, but a welcome sort of pain. Aziraphale returns the pressure eagerly, and for once does not comment on the speed with which Crowley manages to get them home.