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Armageddon did not come to pass, a week went by, and a demon and an angel had been drinking solidly for the past five hours.
Not much had changed, clearly.
“All’m sayin’,” Aziraphale explained from his armchair, attempting to sit primly, and failing utterly, “’s tha’ if Laurie hadn’t felt so enti…entiled, then Jo wouldn’a had to deal w’him so harsh-like!”
Crowley nodded heavily along, rather like a bobblehead. He waved his glass as he spoke, which was, thankfully, empty. “Married her sister instead,” he commented wearily, grateful for movie adaptations. “”Tha’s weird.”
“Is it?”
“Mmm. Humans’ve done worse, but…”
Aziraphale gave a thoughtful nod. “Least ‘s not a cousin, like Victor Frankenstein ‘n’ ‘Lisabeth. In the firs’ edition, anyway. Not that…rev…revi…re-do.”
“Was needed right at firs’,” Crowley added, thinking back on Adam and Eve and incest. Hell’d been quite a fan of that. “But there’re so many now!”
“Humans’re always fallin’ for each other, regardless…” Aziraphale trailed off, staring vaguely into the middle distance. “Did you ever?” he asked suddenly.
“Ever what?”
“Fall in love with a human?”
Crowley laughed. In his drunken state, it really was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “A human!” he managed between giggles. “As if there’s room for me to love them when you’re taking up so much space in here!” He thumped his chest over his non-beating heart for emphasis.
Aziraphale froze, eyes wide, and Crowley took three and a half seconds to process what he’d said.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” He was quite suddenly as sober as demonically possible and on his feet. He couldn’t look away from Aziraphale’s expression, which was still completely shocked and unmoving, eyes boring into Crowley’s skull. “Fuck,” he repeated. “I’m…” he shook his head and stalked out of the room without another word.
By the time he reached the front door he was running, and he all but tossed himself into the Bentley, which was moving into the road before he’d pulled the door closed. He pushed the accelerator until the pedal hit the floor and drove blindly through the city, barely aware of his surroundings and letting the Bentley do the work.
“Fuck. Shit shit shit shitshitshit,” he muttered over and over. He’d ruined it. He’s gone and fucked it up, after all this. He couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, keep his ugly, disgusting feelings in his chest, and now he’d gone and confessed to him. While drunk.
It would’ve been bad enough sober and purposeful. But drunk, accidental? Could he be more inelegant?
A confession like that didn’t even deserve the dignity of a response.
He didn’t go back to his flat. He didn’t think Aziraphale would want to see him after that, but on the off chance, he had no intention of being available. He didn’t want to see the angel’s downcast eyes as he tried to let him down easy, tried not to make the heartbreak so bad. Because that’s what he’d do. Aziraphale was kind and soft, and he did care about Crowley, at least in some sort of way. At least a little.
But it didn’t matter, because that would only make it hurt worse – to know that Aziraphale had garnered some scrap of affection, but it wouldn’t be enough for the chasm of the demon’s want.
When Crowley pulled the car over, he was somewhere in the country with no people around. No one would dare to be in the area, so he stopped and let his head fall hard against the steering wheel.
“Ow,” he murmured half-heartedly. He realized suddenly that his phone was ringing – the custom ringtone for Aziraphale, of course. Linger oooon your pale blue eyes. Why’d he ever thought that was a good idea?
He let it ring until it stopped. Then let it ring again. After the third time, he reached over and picked up the phone. He had thirty-two missed calls. How long had it been now? An hour, a day? Not long enough.
The phone rang again, and he answered.
“Oh! Oh, Crowley? Crowley, dear, are you there? Are you alright?”
Crowley opened his mouth to answer, then immediately closed it when he realized a lump in his throat was preventing all vocal forms of communication. He managed a grunt.
"I…Crowley, can you please come back? We need to talk about this.”
Crowley shook his head, rather pointlessly. He coughed to try and clear his throat. After a moment, he spit out, “No thanks.”
“Dear…”
“’M good. I’m just gonna drive. North America’s nice this time of year. I’ll come back in a century or two.” He made to hang up, but Aziraphale spoke again.
“Crowley, please just come back. I want to talk to you.”
“Nothing to say, an- Aziraphale.”
“Oh, Crowley! I would quite like to tell you that I’m in love with you in person, rather than over the telephone!”
Crowley blinked. Swallowed. Blinked again for good measure, then slapped himself across the face.
“What was that thud? Are you hurt? Where are you?”
He found words, miraculously, cheek stinging and red. “Angel, what the fuck did you mean by that?”
“Exactly! I want to talk about this, and it’d be much easier if you came back to the damn bookshop.”
Crowley felt that his heartbeat would’ve doubled in rate at the profanity if he had one. As it was, he was barely processing basic English and wouldn’t have noticed, regardless. “Right. Uh. Be there in…a bit. Not totally sure where I am, but…yeah. Uh.”
He could feel Aziraphale smiling. “Lovely, dear! I’ll be waiting!” And he hung up.
Crowley stared into his phone once the call ended as though it held all the answers to the universe, waiting so long that the screen went black again.
“What.” He considered slapping himself again, but if it hadn’t worked the first time, he doubted a second go would have much effect. “Right, then. Back to the bookshop.”
The Bentley didn’t bother waiting for Crowley to take control and turned around in a robust U-turn, barreling down the street at the same reckless speed as usual. Crowley raised an eyebrow at the dash but decided to let her do her thing.
“I would quite like to tell you that I’m in love with you in person,” Crowley repeated like a prayer. “Like to tell you I’m in love with you…tell you…in love with…what…”
His brain short-circuited and he stopped trying to make sense of it. He didn’t think a single clear thought until he arrived in front of the bookshop.
“This is a terrible idea,” he groaned, forcing his body to open the car door and step out. Walk up the front. For some reason, he knocked, which he never did. The door swung open immediately, and Aziraphale was there. Waiting, just as he’d promised.
“Ah, Crowley, do come in,” he said, beaming – which. Just. Everything about this was weird.
He went in.
“Come, we still have half a bottle of that Merlot, so we may as well carry on with it. Though I’d rather we not get drunk, as I would quite like to discuss this with you properly,” Aziraphale said, almost professor-like, as he led Crowley to the backroom by the hand.
By.
Hand.
Holding.
What.
They sat on the sofa next to each other, Crowley’s expression in a state of unrelenting petrification, eyebrows high and lips slightly parted as he watched Aziraphale grin at him shyly – shyly? – before speaking.
“Well, dear,” he began, “this is a rather awkward thing to bring up in exact words, but I shall do my best. Perhaps the circumstances are not perfectly ideal, but I’m content with that.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand with a fond look before continuing. “I’ve been in love with you for a very long time, my dear. Judging by your statement earlier, and actions hence, I feel it is safe to assume that you feel the same way, yes?” Here he looked at Crowley, expectant yet patient, and Crowley realized belatedly he was supposed to respond.
“Uh. Um. Yeah.” He shook his head, trying to kick his brain back into gear. His angel was confessing his love to him, good Lor…good someone, anyway. His memory echoed with something Aziraphale said many centuries back: “Buck up, Hamlet!” and he suddenly realized words weren’t his thing, so he shouldn’t bother.
He reached up and swiftly dispatched his sunglasses to wherever they felt like going and used his free hand to gently cradle Aziraphale’s cheek and lean forward.
He hesitated, a hair’s width between their lips. He couldn’t breach that final distance, his cowardly nerves unable to-
Oh. They were kissing now.
Aziraphale’s lips were plump, soft as air, slightly chapped but gentle in pressure and movement. The angel’s free hand had come up and was now pressed against the back of Crowley’s neck, angling the demon’s head until they slotted together, like puzzle pieces, built for one another. Crowley did not register when he ended up with both hands on Aziraphale’s cheeks, nor when the angel slid his now-free arm around Crowley’s waist to bring him closer.
Every point of contact was a branding iron; each inch of his infernal flesh that was graced by Aziraphale’s touch became a holy stretch of skin. If this was all he ever had, he would remember within a millimeter where his angel had seared him.
Likewise, his fingers, pillowed into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s cheeks, would always mark him, from then on, with the touch of the damned.
With that thought, he drew away quite suddenly, pulling his limbs to his chest as though burned.
Aziraphale fluttered his eyes open, his expression flushed and dreamy. Crowley was almost surprised he didn’t see the outline of where his hands had rested, marring the perfection that was his angel.
“Crowley, love,” Aziraphale breathed gently, his eyebrows drawing together, “are you alright?”
Crowley swallowed, trying not to get caught in the gentle, reverently concerned tone, the sea of blue-green eyes. “I don’t…I’m a demon, angel. I’ll burn you,” he choked out, fingers weaved tightly together in something that an outsider would’ve noted as reminiscent of prayer.
Aziraphale hadn’t removed their points of contact, but he did now. Crowley bit back the whine that wished to emerge at this, but he had no time to mourn as the angel adjusted to hold Crowley’s face as the demon had done before.
“Darling,” he murmured. “You’ve never hurt me in your entire life. You will not start doing so by loving me.”
If Crowley had needed to breathe, he may have experienced the sensation of having all the air sucked out of his lungs. As it was, it felt more like being socked in the jaw, stars dotting his vision. Tentatively, watching Aziraphale’s face for any sign of discomfort, he reached up and placed a hand atop the angel’s, over his face. Steadying said hand, he turned to kiss the palm, never breaking eye contact.
Aziraphale broke out into a grin so loving, Crowley might’ve discorporated on the spot if it wasn’t for the fact that he rather wanted to kiss him again at least once before his joy shattered him to pieces.
“Thank you,” he whispered. The torrent in his chest finally found a place to settle, and he felt his anxieties melt as Aziraphale pulled the demon forward into another branding kiss.
This branding was different. It did not scorch and burn. It whispered a promise.
Mine.
They decided not to finish the Merlot.