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“Aziraphale?” He prompted as he fiddled with the seal of the bottle, tugging at the stubborn cork. His sharp fangs came down to worry at his bottom lip. “Your idea?”
“I’ll get to it in a minute.” Aziraphale looked practically disheveled, and beautiful, and despite everything that happened, he looked perfectly, utterly, calm. “I was hoping to talk about us.”
The cork gave, and Crowley hit himself in the face.
Crowley’s venom is a truth serum, one he has used on himself for centuries, dosing himself in private to admit to his own carefully buried feelings— but accidents happen, and Crowley bites himself the night after the Apocalypse.
There are a thousand and one ways to say I love you, and consent is a part of every single one.