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In hindsight, Crowley supposes he shouldn’t’ve ventured out in the middle of the night for a bag full of calippos. And really, he shouldn’t’ve ventured into a dark alley for a shortcut, but that’s- well, the calippos. Those are the important bits, really, not his own foolish stupidity. Much easier to blame his silly pash on his roommate than his own lapse of judgement.
It’s just that Aziraphale has been feeling a bit lost recently. Just doing a touch of soul-searching, dear friend, he’d said whilst silently moping on their small kitchen table. And Crowley knows him -- has known him since they were wee and Aziraphale hadn’t gotten the hang of his own talents yet -- and he knows that Aziraphale is the type to get stuck in his own head, thinking and thinking and thinking in complete isolation until his ruminations burst into a colourful mess of tears or rants or, in one especially entertaining event, a spectacular display of ruined wall plaster. He’s not one for violence, Aziraphale, but part of controlling his talents is controlling his emotions, a thing Crowley’s sure his friend hasn’t fully mastered yet.
And Crowley, well, he… he supposes he can admit this to himself. He’s quite in love with Aziraphale. Has been for quite a while now, he reckons, probably since forever. His fault -- if Aziraphale still hasn’t got the hang of controlling his feelings, Crowley has the inability to recognise and acknowledge his own, especially if they affect lifelong relationships drastically and may, possibly, drive a dear friend away.
Anyway.
He’d do anything to make Aziraphale happy again. And when his friend had, perhaps too dismissively, said he’d like a calippo earlier that night as they’d both watched an episode of Taskmaster, Crowley couldn’t possibly miss that chance. So while his friend was conveniently distracted by some clever banter, he’d snuck out from the loo window, intending to get out and in quick and easy, surprise his friend, and maybe, maybe, Aziraphale might be delighted enough he’d let Crowley wrestle him forcibly away from the weird funk he’s been in recently.
Which brings Crowley to the present, currently held up by some kids in bikes whose parents probably once thought it clever to gift them swiss army knives.
“C’mon, just hand them over, mate,” the boy who fancies himself the ringleader says, pimply face smirking. “You won’t want us to hurt you.”
“What, the calippos?” Crowley asks, wiggling his bag of freezies.
The ringleader frowns. “No- what-”
“Yeah the calippos,” the other kid -- short, insecure, with bangs covering half his face. Ringleader shoots him an annoyed look. “I-I mean, if you- if you won’t mind.”
“Want the calippos, want the wallet,” the masked kid at the back says quietly. The other boys nod, their grip on their little knives renewed. Ah, Crowley thinks, that one’s the real leader. Aziraphale’s told him enough about the power structures in some of the less savoury band of rivals he’d gone up against.
Still, because Crowley has zero self-preservation, he replies, “No to both, friends. Go home, it’s a school night.” He makes to swerve around the pimply kid, when the boy darts in front of him, a snarl on his face.
“You heard him, old man, give us your wallet,” he hisses, jabbing the knife just shy of Crowley’s face in warning.
“And the freezies!” Bangs chimes in.
“And the freezies,” Pimples amends, rolling his eyes.
Crowley sighs. “Look, my friend is in a bad mood and he wants his calippos,” Crowley says tiredly, “just let me through and maybe I won’t call the coppers on you. Deal?”
They both turn to their leader, who only shrugs. “No.”
Crowley groans. Ugh, more mess to deal with. “You really won’t want him to be angry.”
“What, your friend?” Pimple asks mockingly. “Gonna come out in his pants to scare us?”
“Something like that,” Crowley says distractedly. His mobile is vibrating and he’s pretty sure that’s Aziraphale ringing him up for taking too long to come back from the loo. Alex Horne must’ve said something clever on the telly -- Aziraphale knows Crowley loves Alex.
Pimple sticks his lower lip out. “Aw, baby can’t fight his own battles, eh?”
“No matter, get both now,” the leader says.
Pimple and Bangs lunge at him, but the great thing with having a friend like Aziraphale is that Crowley’s learned to dodge away from things quite quickly, verbally and physically. “Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts in his best teacher voice, “naughty boys don’t get treats.”
Pimple growls. “Fuck you-”
A great beam flashes above them and the alley turns bright with a light so white Crowley recognises it instantly. The boys cower even as Pimple remains staring at Crowley defiantly. Their leader backs away, Bangs stepping in close next to him. Their eyes are wide with awe and wonder and that familiar bit of fear Crowley’s sure his friend is secretly smug about.
He remembers seeing the Angel for the first time; they were ten and stupid. He’d wanted to impress Aziraphale and he remembers thinking jumping from the highest branch of a tree would be the best thing he’d ever do in his young life. Aziraphale had begged him not to, but with an arrogance that comes with being so young, Crowley’d leapt anyway, arms spread wide… only to fall hard against the dirt. He’d broken his leg and his arm and he’d never felt anything so painful.
And then the Angel appeared. Three wings had sprouted from either side of Aziraphale, too large and too feathery for his slight frame. Two smaller wings appeared where his ears were, and they wrapped around his eyes just as numerous slits on his wings, cheeks, and forehead opened into pale blue eyes. Bright halos manifested over his head and wrists and waist, and they swung round in a hypnotic rhythm. It had been frightening and amazing, and even through that haze of pain and fear, Crowley remembers feeling safe.
Aziraphale’s always kept him safe.
Crowley sighs heavily. Aziraphale, the impatient sod.
He turns around, scowl firm on his lips, when Pimple leaps at him, arm swinging in a wild arc, and there’s a sudden sharp sting on Crowley’s cheek. He cries out, crashing onto the ground in surprise. Blood stains his fingers when he touches his cheek, the red liquid gushing out in little rivulets.
God, he hopes it doesn’t scar -- he’s existed this long without a scar on his face.
Pimple screams suddenly, and when Crowley looks up, the boy’s thrown into some garbage bins.
“Angel!” Crowley cries out, scrambling to his feet, “Angel, stop!”
The Angel ignores him, lifting a gold adorned hand. Pimple and the other kids are lifted from the ground, their throats glowing a bright white. Slowly, the Angel closes his fist. “No!” Crowley yells. “Angel, stop this at once!”
The Angel freezes. His many eyes ripple into blinks, and they turn to Crowley one by one. They hurt you, he says, voice low and melodic.
“They’re kids,” Crowley says, hands held out beseechingly. “Just kids.”
You’re bleeding. A wing touches Crowley’s face delicately.
Crowley shoves it away, wiping at the blood on his face. “Yeah, well, face wounds. You know how they get -- lot bloodier than they really ought to be.”
They should be punished, the Angel continues.
“You bloody well terrified them, that should be enough, don’t you think?” Crowley says. The Angel tilts his head, considering. “C’mon, let’s just go home and watch the rest of Taskmaster. You’ve a thing for Greg Davies, don’t you?”
He can almost see his blush. No, the Angel denies, that liar, he’s witty, is all.
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Right, as if I didn’t know you’ve a thing for taller men.”
I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about. The Angel snaps his fingers, and the three struggling boys are suddenly limp in his hold. With another snap, they wink out, their bikes vanishing right after. I’ve sent them home, the Angel says at Crowley’s questioning look, safe and sound.
Crowley breathes out a sigh in relief. “Thank you.”
Slowly, the Angel descends across him, bare feet touching the ground delicately. He folds his wings primly against his back and the eyes across his cheeks and forehead close. His ear wings part, flashing wide from his head before settling back, as the Angel’s darker blue eyes open. Even in the darkness of the alleyway, with the Angel’s white lights dimming into something more bearable, they’re still so lovely.
“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, hands clasping over his lap.
Crowley can’t help the soppy grin on his face, even through his annoyance. “‘Lo, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale beams at him. “You were taking too long,” he says, “and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Crowley sighs. “Angel, we really need to talk about this.”
Aziraphale’s smile falls, and he shifts uncomfortably, a hand coming up to fiddle at a wing. “I was worried,” he says, voice small.
Crowley’s eyebrows knit. “I know, I know,” he says, “but you- I don’t always need saving you know.”
Aziraphale frowns. “No,” he agrees, “but why won’t you let me?”
“I’m not a job, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes as he picks the freezies up. They’re probably a bit melty now, but that’s nothing their huge icebox can’t fix.
“You never were,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a tenderness in his voice that startles Crowley, and when he looks up, his friend is looking at him as if he’s the most wonderful and important thing in the universe. Which is… a laugh, really, when Aziraphale has been saving the world and a few of the most important people on the planet for years now.
Crowley clears his throat. “Yeah well, sometimes- I’m not weak, you know.”
“I know.”
“So you don’t need to, I don’t know, beat up a couple of kids just coz they knifed me- ow!” Aziraphale’s cool hand cups his injured cheek, and he groans when his friend’s hand buzzes warmer. He leans into the touch, basking in the faint glow and the softness of Aziraphale’s palm.
When Aziraphale takes his hand back, it’s dry and unstained. “I know you’re strong,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Come off it!” Crowley pokes at his own cheek. Yup, healed perfectly with nary a scar.
“It’s true,” Aziraphale insists, “and I wish you’d allow me to help you more when you,” he swallows, “when you save me everyday.”
Crowley’s eyes widen, and his hand falls to his side uselessly. “I- I never tried to-”
“I’m sure you’re unaware of it,” Aziraphale says, chuckling warmly. “But I’ve- my job is difficult, as you know-”
“So many moral quandaries.”
Aziraphale nods. “I’ve made… so many decisions I’ve regretted, killed so many people to save so many more. I- they weigh down on me, Crowley, and sometimes I feel like I’m drowning under the weight of all of these- these,” he clutches at his heart, “these pressures and expectations. Sometimes I feel like I just want to lie down and let them all bury me into the ground.”
Crowley frowns sadly. “Sorry, Aziraphale I didn’t-”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “It’s not- I didn’t want you to know.” He smiles up at Crowley gently. “But then I’d come home and you’re there, and the best part of my day is when you look up and greet me and call me angel in the way you’ve always had, not in reverence or awe or in fear but just. Just like you call me always.
“And suddenly I can breathe again. Everyday, I think: I can fight for this, just so I can preserve that very moment for me- for us.”
Crowley gapes at him, gobsmacked. He must’ve- is his ear injured somehow? Maybe that kid managed to nick it or something, he must’ve heard wrong. Still, his heart beats faster.
Aziraphale smiles sadly when Crowley doesn’t reply. “I apologise I’m- I suppose that was selfish of me, wasn’t it? Please forget I-”
Crowley doesn’t know how, but his limbs manage to get themselves working again- he drops the calippos and closes the distance between them. He clutches at Aziraphale’s soft face, downy feathers tickling his fingers, and he leans down to kiss him firmly, heart so full he thinks it’s probably glowing as brightly as Aziraphale. It’s a bit awkward, the angle of it, his nose smarting a bit from where he’d bumped against Aziraphale’s, but he hasn’t kissed anyone as fiercely as this, with this amount of historic pining. Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as Aziraphale tilts his head into a better angle. Crowley most definitely does not take advantage of this to deepen their kiss.
They part gently. There’s a brilliant smile on Aziraphale’s face, his eyes bright and happy. Crowley can’t help passing a thumb across his wet lips. “I must be dreaming,” he whispers disbelievingly.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “So am I.”
“Aziraphale, you must know that I- i-it’s been awhile for me,” Crowley says earnestly, because he knows Aziraphale, “This, this isn’t because you saved me. A-and I- I don’t want to ask more from you.” Not when the whole world is already asking and taking so much from Aziraphale. “I’ve… I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now. Me, kissing you.”
If it’s at all possible, Aziraphale’s smile widens. “Is that so?”
Crowley swallows. “Since forever, it feels like.”
“Oh.”
Crowley frowns unsurely. “I- that’s not- I don’t mean that in a stalkery way, you know, I- you’re my best friend and I… I’ve always wanted. More, I mean.”
Aziraphale’s eyes dip down, blond lashes serving to make them more demure. “Oh well,” he says, “it would be silly for me to ever deny that I’ve wanted the same for awhile now, would I?”
Crowley beams, his heart beating fast and eager at his friend’s confession. “Yeah?”
Aziraphale tilts his head, lifting himself up on his tiptoes to kiss Crowley. His wings wrap around him, soft and sweet and gentle, and oh, Crowley loves him so much. He leans closer, his arms on Aziraphale’s shoulders as he kisses back.
He can feel Aziraphale’s smile on his lips.
