Chapter Text
Aziraphale could sense the eye roll from across the room.
Crowley was bent deep into the sofa, glass of wine almost empty, and he looked at Aziraphale with an eyebrow perched high and a smirk plastered across his lips. It was basically his constant expression when drunk or even tipsy, sunglasses half slunk down his nose.
"You keep saying you’re alright,” Crowley was saying sloppily, “but I sincerely doubt that.”
Aziraphale looked nervously up at Crowley, back to the book, over to his own glass of untouched wine, and repeated the rotation. It was the third time Crowley had asked if he was okay that evening, and he’d given the same answer each time. The demon wasn’t going to let up.
“I’ve been…thinking,” Aziraphale offered.
“Always dangerous.”
“Hardly,” Aziraphale replied primly. “I just, rather, I have…well. You see…”
Crowley shifted, amusement dancing across his face. “What is it, angel?”
Aziraphale took a deep breath and, closing his book, let the words out. “Um, well…can I sit by you?”
This was clearly not anywhere near what Crowley had expected to hear, as he froze and quickly pushed his sunglasses up properly. “Of course, it’s your couch. Damn comfy, too.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh lightly at that. “You do realize you’re the only one who uses it, yes?” he asked as he stood and, leaving the full glass, sat carefully on the opposite end of the couch.
“Then, why keep it? All for me, honey?” The sarcasm in his voice was there – and heavy, especially on the last word – but Crowley still seemed to immediately regret opening his mouth and he downed the remainder of his glass in one go before magically refilling it, taking another swig without hesitation.
“As a matter of fact.” Aziraphale cracked his book again, ignoring the expression that crossed Crowley’s face at the short comment. The fluttery tension in his stomach was not eased; in fact, it tightened.
It had been building. It had been building for an extremely long time, of course, but ever since the World Didn’t End, it had been building more rapidly.
It started simply, with tiny moments, tiny cracks in the wall they’d so carefully constructed and maintained. Moments like this, of sitting, not even talking, just existing near each other…these are the hardest, he thought.
There was a new awareness Aziraphale hadn’t had before that made every breath feel like a choice. In a way, it was. There was an undeniable girth of knowledge that encircled his wrists, his chest, and somehow tied the world together. They were on their own side, that much was clear. It could mean anything; there were no rules to what it had to be, no boundaries or barriers. It appeared unbidden: We can be anything at all.
The freedom was terrifying. Primarily because Aziraphale knew he would only last so long without a reason to deny what was happening, what had been happening. It had been happening for such a long time that to acknowledge it seemed almost too perilous, yet too apparent to ignore with each passing day, each passing minute. It was teetering dangerously on the edge of Aziraphale’s mind; a hopeful idea taking shape, yet unable to take the leap without the certainty of its wings.
Centuries went by, millennia, when even the decades and years and hours could change everything or nothing. It felt as though the universe was always changing, and Aziraphale was always a step behind it, a step behind the worldliness of the rapid surroundings. There was a comfort that certain people could find in the way time seemed perfectly content to go in one direction, at a jog or a sprint, a comfort Aziraphale didn’t understand.
They had changed since the Beginning, and so had everything, and yet, Crowley was still here, just as he had always been.
“Angel?”
Aziraphale looked up.
“You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes.”
“Have I?” He pulled himself out of the daze and, realizing he was clenching his fists and crinkling the edges of his beautiful first edition, he released his grip. Stretched his sore fingers slowly, methodically.
“Something on your mind?” Crowley ventured, clearly knowing the answer but not pushing too much. Ever patient, this demon.
Aziraphale nodded, slow and nearly noncommittal, but there.
Some sort of decision appeared in Crowley’s face and he put down his wine glass on the table. With an effort, he sobered up. He came out un-inebriated with a grunt and shaking his head.
“Never get used to it. Better than a hangover, though.”
Aziraphale nodded again, more of a reflex than a response, his gaze off in the middle distance.
“If you need to talk, I’m here,” Crowley offered, tentative with each careful word. He spoke like this often as of late, like he wanted to say more but didn’t dare to. Whatever the intent, a wave of guilt washed over Aziraphale and he tried not to notice Crowley propping his feet on the low table, leaning back into the couch’s pillows in thought-out, careful nonchalance. He was trying so hard to go slow.
“It’s really not a big deal.”
“Your acting is poor, angel.” Crowley laughed, betraying a nervous tremor. Aziraphale felt a pang, knowing that it was his fault Crowley was on-edge even if the demon wouldn’t admit it. “Even though you always were a fan of the theatrics.”
“As if you weren’t.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t see every play the original Globe ever put on. What was that, fifty years? Not a bad streak.”
“Forty-five,” Aziraphale corrected, relaxing slightly as they picked up this casual banter so easily. “And you forget that you had your hand in writing them.”
Crowley dismissed this with a wave of the hand, sinking low into the cushions. “Eh. No clue what you mean.”
“I’m sure the words ‘Shakespeare’ and ‘Sonnet Twenty-Nine’ mean nothing to you,” Aziraphale said without thinking.
“Hardly.” Crowley’s response was almost too quick, and his face flickered with something like shame. “Sonnets aren’t my jam. You know I like-“
“The funny ones, yes dear.” Aziraphale gave a tight smile, ignoring the creeping throb that was claiming his chest. The memory of the first time he’d encountered that particular piece rose before his mind, unbidden. It couldn’t have been more obvious had Crowley’s name been scribbled across it, and Aziraphale ached, remembering the words:
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate…
He wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind, and Crowley wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.
He felt that familiar stiffening in his chest then, that feeling he’d known for ages. The grip was strengthening. High in his throat, he was certain he’d choke. He couldn’t bear the way Crowley was looking at him, and the way he wasn’t. There was something there, lying between them, naked and cold. Truth, and his fingers held it close so none would see.
“I-I want…” Just one more word. It was a short one. Three letters.
“Is there some book you’re pining for?” Crowley said with a why-am-I-not-surprised air, appearing to have recovered from anything that had struck him with Aziraphale’s careless remark.
The thoughts were caught. Words wouldn’t do. For the first time, it truly felt like the entirety of human language, every alphabet since the Tower of Babel, had utterly and completely abandoned him, failed him, left him rotting.
Boiling over with fear, overshadowed with just enough hope, just enough willpower – he reached out and took Crowley’s hand, which was sprawled on the couch between them. It was a gentle grip, palm to palm. He was telling Crowley he could let go.
His heart was jostling in his throat, and Aziraphale barely dared to look up and see Crowley’s reaction.
Anything but disgust, anything but fear. Please.
Anything but anything.
But Crowley’s face was a shadow of an immense and foreign emotion, mouth agape slightly without disclosing quite enough to understand. It was a carefully orchestrated expression, one to keep the truth buried deep, a mask he was used to donning.
He hates it. Aziraphale was certain he hated it. But he couldn’t be sure, when Crowley’s thoughts hid in his eyes.
“I’m-I’m going to take off your sunglasses. Is that okay?” He hesitated, and when Crowley didn’t reply, he removed them slowly, careful not to touch his face.
Aziraphale had seen the first week of sunsets without much admiration. They’d been lovely, of course, but so was everything about this new world, and they simply didn’t stand out to him. The sky became a new color and faded into another new color. This happened throughout the day, really, and the subtle alterations of the atmosphere were of little interest when there was an entire world of life to learn.
After they met, it was different. Every time the sun went in a blaze of orange and yellow, sulfur-engulfed fury, Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s eyes.
Crowley’s eyes were burning.
Here, they were aflame, the pupils dilated and their amber hue taking on a tinge of yellow and red, as though one color was not enough. Aziraphale had seen many emotions in Crowley’s eyes before, but he didn’t know how to interpret this.
“I love your eyes,” Aziraphale murmured involuntarily, allowing the thought to escape him brashly, and Crowley flinched.
Aziraphale withdrew both hands immediately, dropping the sunglasses in his haste.
“I’m so sorry, dear.” His voice was overflowing, cracking, as he tore his gaze away from the searing eyes that painted his skin in afternoon tones. “I-I don’t know what came over me, just forget it. I shouldn’t have. Crowley, I apologize-“
But Crowley shifted quickly, and, in one smooth movement, he sat directly to Aziraphale’s left, long legs tucked under to the right. And he took Aziraphale’s hand, without a word, interlocking their fingers gently but firmly.
“If it’ll make you feel better, angel.” His face was turned determinedly away. Aziraphale felt light-headed, the pressure of Crowley’s side easing into his own.
The demon was trembling.
“Crowley…”
His demon turned his eyes slightly to Aziraphale’s almost out of habit, it seemed, and they met. His demon’s eyes were clear, and in that snatch of a second before he turned away again, Aziraphale relaxed and leaned his shoulder against Crowley’s.
“Angel.” The word came from deep inside Crowley’s throat, a rumble like a soft roll of thunder, a meek caress of the mountains in a storm. Uncontained by space, restrained from within – the precursor to something loud. “Is this okay?”
Aziraphale’s mind was entirely blank at this moment. Six thousand years had passed by, the two of them too afraid to touch each other even in the friendliest of manners. Aziraphale barely knew what Crowley’s skin felt like, really. But now he knew that Crowley’s hands were soft, with little callouses on the fingertips, and honestly, Aziraphale couldn’t get past processing that bit of information.
He didn’t dare move, hardly dared to breathe, as though Crowley might slither away at the least aggravation. He nodded, slightly, barely, enough.
He didn’t know how much time passed before Crowley’s head leaned against Aziraphale’s shoulder, those wispy red locks tickling the angel’s throat. Aziraphale almost spoke before realizing Crowley had fallen asleep. How, Heaven knows. Actually, scratch that. But with the way his own heart could not stop pounding, Aziraphale knew sleep was an illusion – not that it was a habit he tended to indulge in, anyhow.
Crowley had stopped trembling and seemed to relax and ease into the position, allowing himself in sleep to let Aziraphale’s body take the weight.
Aziraphale smiled and gently removed his hand from Crowley’s to draw his arm around the lanky demon. The freed hand, of its own volition, grasped at the empty space Aziraphale’s hand had previously occupied, as though it had already become used to the pressure. The angel happily offered his other hand as tribute and Crowley’s hand accepted the volunteer.
Aziraphale smiled and pressed his cheek into the crown of Crowley’s head, possessed suddenly with the urge to kiss it.
He knew he wouldn’t, though. He needed Crowley awake, present, and willing the first time they kissed, and every time after. Always.
He coughed quickly at that thought, feeling the heat up his throat. Every time after. His expectations were a bit much, but somewhere deep inside he hoped that Crowley would want to kiss him more than once.