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“I love you, angel,” Crowley whispered, clutching Aziraphale’s hands to his chest. “I always have. You are my everything. My light in the dark, my sunshine, my lighthouse. I love you.”
Aziraphale could feel the demon’s heart pounding through the sheer fabric of his shirt, the heat of his skin, the endless depth of those warm, amber eyes. Oh, he loved seeing those eyes from so close, so open. “Do you really?” he breathed back. “Do you mean it?”
“With everything in me,” Crowley said on a sigh, a small smile on his lips. “I could write sonnets to your hands, love songs to your eyes…” He leaned closer, his breath on the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Hymns to your heart.”
Aziraphale wanted to say something, wanted to deny the blasphemy. But he didn’t really want to, and suddenly, he forgot the idea entirely. His own heart was rocketing, and the world was white, a blankness. He could see nothing but black clothes and red hair, and a demonic, freckled face. “I love you, too,” he said, soft, reaching out a hand to run it through those impossibly red curls.
Crowley gave him a raffish grin, his own hands cupping Aziraphale’s face. “Are you mine?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.
“Always.”
Crowley leaned forward and caught his lips with his own, a firm and insistent pressure, warm and wet and unforgiving in the kindest, sweetest way. Aziraphale pulled Crowley closer, and the kiss deepened. Aziraphale had never felt safer than in the arms of his adversary, and he never wanted to wake up.
Oh. This was a dream, then.
Aziraphale opened his eyes, gritty and weary with sleep. His face was squished against his arms, folded over his desk. He blinked a few times in the semi-darkness, a wick on its last breath beside him in a pool of sticky wax. He was in his brand-new bookshop, the first night after opening day in 1800.
Aziraphale sat up slowly, disoriented and confused. He wasn’t one to sleep much, though he was compelled to try it now and again. Humans seemed to enjoy it so, and he did like trying human things. But he never quite got the hang of it, and only indulged when his mind was too world-weary to remain conscious any longer. It could be a little frightening, and the dreams could be odd, but it was a relief sometimes.
The…the dreams.
Aziraphale’s face flooded with colour at the memory of Crowley’s chest under his fingertips, Crowley’s hands on his face, Crowley’s breath over his ear, Crowley’s lips on his…
Oh. Oh, Lord.
Aziraphale was sorely tempted to mutter a curse word, but refrained.
What in Hell was that about? What was he doing, dreaming about…about being wooed by his adversary? Oh, goodness gracious. What was wrong with him? He – he wasn’t interested in Crowley in such a – a lascivious manner! Granted, the dream hadn’t been lascivious, only romantic, and tender, and loving, but – but!
He was an angel! He had no business wanting such things.
And he didn’t want them, of course. Who would? Horrendous stuff, romance. It sounded like a pain. Always yearning and wanting and pining. And sure, there were the happy endings, but…!
He spotted a book laying open on his desk before him, Twelfth Night. Ah, yes, of course! He had been reading a romantic play, which caused his subconscious to invent these ridiculous scenarios. It was a comedy, Crowley’s preferred genre, which was obviously why he had appeared in this dream. Crowley, confessing his love for him? What poppycock! Demons didn’t love! Nevermind that Crowley was nothing like anything Aziraphale had been told about demons.
And, of course, Aziraphale would never have said…that…back, even if the wily serpent did. Which he wouldn’t, and Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to, obviously. They were enemies. And Aziraphale was an angel. And good angels would never carry on a romantic fling, certainly not with one of the Fallen. Why, the very idea!
Oh, this was a most intolerable train of thought. Aziraphale’s day was ruined. He set the matter from his mind with a huff, determined to never ever ever ever think about this complete nonsense again.
~x-X-x~
“I need to tell you something,” Crowley murmured out of the corner of his lips, leaning languidly on his cane without a care in the world.
“Then say it,” Aziraphale replied, tossing the last bits of seed from his hat to the birds.
“I wrote it down. Ducks have ears.” He passed Aziraphale a small note, and the ducks quacked at their feet, listening intently with their human-like ears.
Aziraphale unfolded the paper. It held three little words: I love you.
“You-“
“Shh.” Crowley stopped him. “We can’t know who’s listening.”
Aziraphale’s pulse thundered in his ears. Crowley couldn’t possibly mean it, could he? After all these millennia, after the Arrangement, after Aziraphale never feeling sure if his feelings were returned – could it be true?
“You don’t mean this,” Aziraphale stammered, clutching the paper with a trembling hand. “You can’t.”
Crowley turned to him. His sunglasses had disappeared, and Aziraphale could see how his eyes glimmered with tears and stars. “I do mean it.”
“Crowley…”
The street around them was suddenly empty of people, empty of waterfowl. The sun was setting, and it was shaped a bit like a duck. Crowley reached for him and swiftly kissed his cheek, feather-light, before walking away.
Aziraphale watched him go and couldn’t help the small smile that broke out. He pressed his fingers to his cheek and knew in his heart that Crowley meant it.
He could not wait to see him again.
Aziraphale grunted. He might never see Crowley again.
He wasn’t even conscious of having awoken when he had the thought. All he knew was that he hadn’t seen Crowley since that…altercation a decade past, and he desperately missed him.
The angel opened his eyes to see his ceiling, and everything caught up to him at once.
He had wanted to try sleeping again the night before. He was thinking about Crowley, going back over that fight, revisiting every word and phrase and facial expression. Aziraphale ought to be happy to have the demon out of his life, once and for all. Relieved to finally be free of that diabolic influence and the constant fear of being found out. But he wasn’t, not a bit. He had discovered in the time since (and possibly a very, very long time ago, but who was counting) that he much preferred his adversary where he could keep an eye on him, thank you.
Then that dream.
Aziraphale didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t. There, look at that. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about Crowley kissing him, caring about him, l-loving him. Things Aziraphale had no need – or desire – for, at all.
He just wanted to talk to Crowley, and that was the truth. He wished he’d done something a little bit different.
Oh, but really, he was just being a silly. They’d gone much longer stretches without talking, and no doubt the demon would saunter his way back in without so much as a how-do-you-do whenever it suited the foul beast. Oh, it was so embarrassing for Aziraphale to be fantasizing and mooning like this. Which wasn’t what he was doing. The very nerve of his brain to present that word to him at this time! It was an insult. Crowley would laugh if he knew.
Aziraphale sat up and scrambled out of the bed, moodily changing out of his nightgown and back to his usual outfit, each piece of clothing like armour to his insides, metaphorically speaking. He didn’t care what Crowley was doing, or where he was, and he certainly didn’t need the demon here, and Aziraphale certainly didn’t think that his dream was really a much more pleasant development than the events of real life! Shouting at each other in St. James was definitely a better thing to do than kissing there. Who would ever think otherwise?
Good God, help him. Aziraphale needed some tea.
~x-X-x~
“Angel,” Crowley said, and oh, Aziraphale loved when he called him that. “Angel, I missed you so desperately, I thought I might just break in half without you.”
Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure where they were. It looked a bit like Rome, but that was clearly the Eiffel Tower, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Crowley was here, in all his glory, long red hair in a loose braid that Aziraphale itched to take apart. Stylishly modern clothing. He was also wearing bright green shoes, to which the angel paid no mind, or possibly didn’t notice.
“I missed you, too,” Aziraphale admitted. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I thought of you constantly.”
“I thought you forgot me.”
“Never. I could never forget you.”
Aziraphale looked at him with wide, imploring, desperate eyes. He felt small in his skin. “What do you mean?”
“You carry my heart with you,” Crowley murmured, expression serious as he stepped closer. “You’ve had it with you all along.”
Involuntarily, a hand fluttered to Aziraphale’s chest, as though he may feel Crowley there. “Do you love me?”
Crowley smiled. “I do.” He pulled him into a hug. Aziraphale returned it in kind. It was so warm, and the world was only this, could only be this – bodies were so sensitive and delicate, it seemed, but every sensation was alight with a gentle love. Hands on his back and neck, a back and neck under his hands, Crowley’s chin propped on Aziraphale’s shoulder as the two breathed. Aziraphale was overwhelmed by the musky smell of a blazing hearth. Maybe it was Hellfire, but Aziraphale didn’t fear it.
How could he fear anything, when he was being held by the demon he so loved?
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said-
“Angel!”
Aziraphale jolted awake, taking in a sudden, deep breath with the realization that he hadn’t in possibly hours. His back ached from the slouch in his armchair, his cocoa had gone cold, and his book was barely dangling from his fingers.
Before Aziraphale could process anything more, Crowley appeared in the entry to the backroom, looking absurd in black jeans, a tight black vest, and a leather jacket bulky over his slim frame. His hair was slicked up, oversized sunglasses high on his nose. 50s menswear suited the demon impeccably. He looked outrageously handso – outrageous.
“Hey, angel,” the demon greeted with a lopsided grin. “Did you forget about The Importance of blah blah blah?”
Aziraphale shook himself. That’s right. He and Crowley had been planning to go to the theatre that evening (one of dear Oscar’s old works), as they’d been reconciling their association, and he’d decided to sit and read for the couple of hours until then. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, blinking away the last of the fuzziness in his mind. “I thought we would meet there.”
“Y’ didn’t show up by intermission, so I figured you probably got lost in some book.” Crowley nodded to Aziraphale’s hands, and the angel looked down, not even remembering what he was holding. “Guess I was right.”
“Erm. Yes.” Aziraphale’s face heated as he thought about the dream he’d had after apparently falling asleep in his chair. “Got – got caught up in my book was all.”
“Well, since I’m here, wanna open a bottle of red instead?” Crowley suggested, already making for Aziraphale’s cellar (which didn’t so much as exist under the shop as simply…exist). Aziraphale didn’t get the chance to reply before the demon disappeared around a corner, and he sighed in relief and frustration.
His dream swarmed for his attention like…something that swarmed. Bees, or something. Somehow, this might’ve been the worst one yet. Well, he knew exactly why. It was because of what had happened back in 1941, when he’d realized Crowley…well…
Crowley loved him.
Demons didn’t love, and weren’t supposed to love, but this one, as usual, was the exception to the rule. Aziraphale didn’t understand any of it, but it was undeniable once he saw it, and he hadn’t been able to not see it ever since. However hard he tried. Which was very hard (and if he gave up in short order, it was only because he was very accustomed to the frustrating stubbornness of this particular demonic entity).
He grimaced. Clearly, that realization was making his mind come up with…absurd concepts again. Hugging – there was nothing at all demonic or tempting about that. It was a perfectly innocent thing. But why would Aziraphale ever hug Crowley? No, no, the very thought was unbearable. They didn’t touch much, only abiding by human social mores when they deemed it appropriate. Which wasn’t often, in Heaven’s books. Touching was just a human thing, like eating or sleeping, but not one Aziraphale cared about because he was a good angel who aligned with Heaven’s intentions. If She’d intended angels to want or need touch, surely angel would be more, erm, touchy-feely…?
Besides, the nature of Crowley’s love held no romantic intention, that Aziraphale could see. He was just projecting his – his books! Yes, he was projecting all these human things from novels onto the demon, and it wasn’t fair at all to him to do so. Not that it mattered if he was fair to a demon. A demon who loved him. Oh, dear.
Aziraphale didn’t feel any particular way about Crowley loving him. Love was an angelic thing, obviously, so that made it Good…but might it be dangerous? What if someone found out?
Oh, it didn’t matter too terribly, Aziraphale told himself. It wasn’t like he loved Crowley, after all, so Heaven wouldn’t be upset with him. They might even be pleased. Drawing a demon toward the light, toward angelic things. And, as Hell was unlikely to recognize what love looked like, then the demon wasn’t bound to get in any trouble for it. Especially as it had taken Aziraphale himself so long to realize, and he was an angel, an expert on things like love. If anyone knew love, it was him.
“Hey, angel,” Crowley called suddenly as he waltzed back into the room and draped himself on the sofa artfully, waving a bottle in the air. “How do you feel about some cabernet sauvignon?”
Aziraphale sniffed. “What kind of question is that?” he asked as he got up to collect two glasses.
Yes, he knew what love looked like. It wasn’t this. It couldn’t be.
~x-X-x~
Colours. Endless colours, swirling. Aziraphale reached out to grasp a string of red, unravelling the tapestry with one tug, a hand clutched around endless twine. The world was yellow sunshine, a melting iced lolly, the golden twirl of a chandelier and the finest dining. Night sky, almost purple, almost blue, almost green, a silently soothing shadow, darkness. No sense of pressing judgement or eyes that always looked but never saw.
The colours coalesced, blending into one being, faceless. Hands gripping his sleeves, the calloused pads of fingertips pressing together, the fleetingest touch.
He did not so much say or hear the words as feel them, a deep clanging gong as impossible as it was indisputable.
And then, it was clear. Solid. Crowley’s face held by his own hands, and he looked at Aziraphale like humans used to, when he revealed his angelic self in his marginal glory, enough to awe and not to blind.
“Angel,” he said, echoing in shades of green and turquoise, and it smelled of a coal-burning stove and basil. They kissed, not Crowley kissing Aziraphale, or Aziraphale kissing Crowley, but meeting in centre, equal hearts, equal love, something mutual and eternal in the settling peace. It was simple. It was a Roman basium. A pledging kiss to a cross. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine.
Morning.
Aziraphale rarely woke up in the morning. This was because he rarely fell asleep at all, and when he did, he didn’t tend to take note of the Earth’s relation to the nearest star and simply laid wherever he felt like, whenever he felt like.
He didn’t exactly sleep that night, instead hovering along the edge of it, not unconscious yet not entirely aware. A bit like a cat, according to what he’d read about them. Perhaps that explained the abstract nature of this night’s dreams.
Aziraphale was getting distinctly sick of them. There was nothing enjoyable about them all, especially when he woke up. Not – not because it was over, mind you, but because dreams were always terrible to look back on, as he’d heard it. Yes, terrible, terrible dreams. Begone!
Aziraphale got up and quickly dressed, eager to leave the soft, slow concoctions of his brain behind and on the bed. After a comforting cup of tea, he turned the sign on the door to read OPEN and waited for the customers to come in. For once, he wanted them to. Anything to distract himself from the beauty that was that wretched demon.
Ah, bugger. He couldn’t seem to control his subconscious, nor his conscious mind, these days. Why, just the other day – yesterday, that is – Crowley had come by and ranted excitedly about his plans with the M25, and all the diabolical rubbish he was getting up to with it, and Aziraphale had felt, of all things, a desire to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair! His hands itched with want. Crowley hadn’t had his hair past his shoulders since Revolutionary France, and Aziraphale secretly wished he’d grow it out some more.
Not that he cared or had any opinions on the length of his enemy’s protein filament. However soft it looked…
Drat!
The bell above the door rang and Aziraphale jolted, forcing a smile when a young woman with an orange handbag and an afro walked in. Yes. Customers. Focus.
His mind immediately wandered.
Okay, so, perhaps, from a certain light, Aziraphale could see that they were not enemies precisely. They hadn’t been for…well, they had the Arrangement since the 13th century, of course, which would make them something like…informal comrades, perhaps, a bit. He didn’t know what the right word was, and enemy was the one he’d used for so long, he wasn’t sure he felt up to the task of replacing it, even with all the world’s vocabulary at his disposal.
Besides, he didn’t need anyone catching on that there was anything untoward between them. Which there wasn’t. Well, there was on Crowley’s end. But Aziraphale was having dreams about confessing his love for and kissing his hereditary enemy for a different, unrelated reason.
Probably.
“How much is this one?” the customer asked, reminding Aziraphale that the world existed. In her hands was his fifth favourite copy of Heidi by Johanna Spyri. Not a first edition. The woman was holding it delicately, in a way that suggested she would care for it, and he supposed he could let it go. He stated his price and the woman paid eagerly, face lighting up with excitement.
Really, he thought as he smiled and watched her go with her treasure, there was no reason for him to overthink these dreams. He’d done some reading on dreams since the last one and discovered that they really could be such tosh. Dreams about falling in space and riding trains with King Henry VIII and frogs invading the schools. They didn’t really carry any meaning, and those that insisted they did were the same ones who believed in things like zodiac signs. He had heard, once, that the Earth was a Libra, and he could only shake his head at the implications.
Anyway. The point was that these dreams didn’t indicate anything on Aziraphale’s part at all. It didn’t mean a twit that he’d now had four intimate dreams in a row about Crowley. It was merely an indication that, probably, Aziraphale was spending too much time with the demon. He should distance himself for a bit.
Though…they did have dinner plans that weekend, and Aziraphale had been ever so looking forward to them.
Erm, perhaps he’d distance himself afterward. If he remembered.
~x-X-x~
The sky was a pale pink, and the clouds looked like white candy floss. The black blanket under him floated over nothing.
“Do you think it’ll be like this forever?” Aziraphale asked in an echo, though no one was there.
“Nah,” came the answer, and Crowley was there to answer the angel’s call, as he always was. “Wouldn’t be any fun if nothing changed.”
“I don’t like change,” Aziraphale countered, looking back up to that pink, pink sky. Birds flew backward across it. “It frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like how things are now. I don’t see why it can’t just remain this way.”
Crowley gave a soft hum and placed his hand over Aziraphale’s, as naturally as an all-too-human breath. “Sometimes the change is better. Improves things.”
“Sometimes it’s worse.”
“That’s true. But you’ll never know if you stay where you are, now. And sometimes change will come, anyway, and you just have to accept it. Fighting it won’t make you happy.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes, though his eyelids were a burst of pink, too. “Will you still be there, if things change?”
“If you’ll let me.”
“Of course, I will.”
“Then open your eyes.”
Aziraphale did, and Crowley was still there, holding his hand. His face was open, honest, relaxed, and he smiled. “Are you going to let me love you, angel?” he asked.
There was a hesitation, a moment, a blip of reality, the knowledge that they could never have this…and then…Aziraphale let it go. Here, he could be honest. He could face the change that scared him. But how illogical to fear something that had already happened, so, so long ago? What was the point in denying the obvious? He already knew what had changed.
“I think,” Aziraphale said slowly, “I’m going to let myself love you. Because I do.”
Aziraphale awoke in tears.
Well.
Well, that was…
Oh, bullocks.
He didn’t know what to say to that.
The world was going to end in less than a week, in only a few days. He had no time to waste on these contemplations, let alone this accidental nap. He couldn’t allow himself to become distracted by these farcical imaginings.
Change. Nothing had changed. Not about him, not about Crowley. There was nothing to fear or to face. Nevermind the questions, the doubts, the worries, as the Apocalypse drew ever nearer. None of that mattered. No matter what, he would remain firm in his convictions. He would not change. He could not. He wasn’t allowed to. What might happen if he did? What was he scared of? Everything. It could all go so wrong, he could lose everything – he had to lose something.
Why does it have to be Crowley?
Maybe the dreams did have meaning. But there was nothing to be done with them, now. He had his duties. He was an angel, and the world was coming to an end, as was his own.
Time to get to work.
~x-X-x~
"I love you”
love
“I love you”
love
“I love you.”
“Hey, angel. Angel, wake up.”
There was a jostling at his shoulder, a warm hand, a low voice. Aziraphale’s face screwed up in displeasure, yearning to return to the world of his mind, the sensation of utter softness and contentment, but it was slipping so fast. Falling away, and by the time he opened his eyes, he no longer remembered what he’d been dreaming about. Only the memory of something sweet and kind.
He was horizontal, laying on his side, with a blanket drawn over him and cushions below. Crowley was crouched beside him, a hand on his shoulder and expression unreadable.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured, working to sit up. “Oh, dear. What did I…?”
“Think we fell asleep drinking last night,” Crowley said. “Celebrating and all. Forgot to sober up.” He grinned. “Glad we don’t get hangovers, huh?”
“Quite.” Aziraphale ran a hand over his face and blinked rapidly to wake himself up. “Celebrating. The world is…still here, isn’t it?” His tone was not questioning, but wondering, in awe.
Crowley stood with a grunt. “Yup. All the humans and their weirdness intact. Oh, speaking of, s’ why I woke you up!” He turned his wide, curious eyes on the angel. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”
Aziraphale froze, a hand in the air where he’d been reaching to sort out his curls. “I what?” he squeaked, before immediately flushing red. He wasn’t certain what he had just been dreaming about, but he was certainly aware of the…pattern…in his dreaming habits. “W-What did I say?”
“Just some rubbish, really,” Crowley replied, clearly amused by Aziraphale discomfort. “Just repeating the word ‘love’ over and over. ‘Love you,’ once, like some bloody romantic dandy. Nonsense pulled from one of your books, I’ll bet.”
It surely wasn’t healthy for a corporation’s face to blush so intensely. It was a very unhelpful function and did nothing to improve his ability to reply to this. “H-How odd,” he said in as steady a voice as he could manage, which turned out to be as steady as the raging sea. “Yes. Pure twaddle, I’m sure.”
Crowley’s endless motions suddenly halted as he stared at Aziraphale, eyes narrowing. His sunglasses had come off sometime in the prior evening, and Aziraphale felt slightly disoriented by that. Crowley never had his sunglasses on in his dreams, either. “Do you…remember what you were dreaming about?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh.”
“You were there,” Aziraphale blurted.
“I was?”
“You usually are.”
“I am?”
Aziraphale sincerely hated his mouth for saying words. “Yes.”
Crowley looked at him, unblinking, like a snake, poised to analyse something confusing. Perhaps identifying it as a threat, or as prey. Aziraphale felt firmly the latter. “So…you dream about me. Regularly.”
“…Indeed.”
“And these are all dreams of a…romantic sorta type? For declarations of love and rubbish?”
“Well,” Aziraphale tried. And then stopped. This was the part where he was supposed to lie and cover up his tracks, but he had just sworn to himself, a bit over 24 hours prior, that he wasn’t going to lie to Crowley anymore. Not after the bandstand.
His silence was clearly answer enough, because Crowley continued to stare at him, jaw slack and eyes widening beyond what a human face should be capable of. He looked absurd and adorable-
No, no, no-
Oh, good grief.
He thought about over two centuries of dreams, and over a week of denial, and over two centuries of lies and denial, and over six millennia of lies and denial, and he thought of a dream about change. He thought about love, and the overwhelming truth that was their eternity together, however long that might be, and whatever shape that took. They were…committed, now. They were on their own side. They had to be there for each other and had to be honest.
And…and dammit all, Aziraphale wanted to run his fingers through his demon’s hair! Was that so much to ask?!
Aziraphale gathered himself best he could, then failed to maintain himself when gathered. “They might possibly be interpreted as such, under a certain persuasion,” he managed after an incriminating pause, sitting as primly as possible when sleep-mussed and blushing like a schoolboy.
Crowley continued to stare. Slowly, much to Aziraphale’s horror, a wide, genuine grin spread across his face. “You love me,” he said. Not a question. A statement.
“Well, I – I’m sure I couldn’t say…”
“So, what happens in these dreams?”
“Erm, usually you…tell me you love me,” Aziraphale admitted, feeling utterly humiliated in the face of Crowley’s debilitating glee. He clenched his eyes shut. “Then you kiss me?”
“Is that a question?”
He opened his eyes again. “Maybe? Sometimes it’s a hug. Well, one time. Twice. It’s hard to say. Is it still a hug if you’re also kissing me at the same time?”
Crowley, unrestrainedly beaming, flopped onto the sofa beside Aziraphale, legs crossed and one arm flung along the back of the sofa. “Shall we give it a go, then?”
Aziraphale frowned at him. “You’re supposed to tell me you love me, first.”
“Love you, angel. Can I kiss you?”
“…I suppose.”
Crowley leaned forward, then paused, looking thoughtful. “Wait, shouldn’t you say it back, first? Like you said in your sleep? Gotta do this right.”
“What do you mean?”
Crowley winked. “Trying to make your dreams come true, angel.”
Aziraphale tried to have a problem with that. He tried to deny it. He really, really did (he didn’t). All that came out was a sort of half-choked croak.
“Come on, don’t leave me hanging,” the insufferable creature moaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’ve been dreaming about this moment for – actually, you didn’t say.”
“Two centuries.”
“Two centuries! Wait, really?”
Aziraphale nodded.
“Gosh. Best hurry up and say it, then.”
Aziraphale blushed harder, focusing intently on Crowley’s freckles. “I-I’ve only just realized, or – or accepted, that I love you back, so forgive me if I’m a bit slow on the uptake.”
“Wait, you only just-“ Crowley made exactly the sound one might expect of someone in such circumstances. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and shifted to press their legs together. “Right, well, you’re the most ridiculous creature on this planet,” he stated matter-of-factly, belied by an endless pit of fondness. “And that’s saying something, considering some of the humans we’ve known.”
“Oh, dear. Not more ridiculous than Diogenes?”
“Mmm.” Crowley grunted. “Definitely. Though he was a piece of work.”
They paused, staring at each other. His eyes really were so gorgeous, and the angel was sorely tempted to miracle all sunglasses out of existence forever.
Crowley lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, will you just kiss me then, you snake?” Aziraphale snapped impatiently.
Crowley grinned like he couldn’t help it. “Bossy.”
He kissed Aziraphale before he could complain.
Neither of them actually knew a fig about how to kiss, as it turned out. Crowley’s fangs got in the way and his cropped hair wasn’t nearly as soft as Aziraphale imagined, full of gels and products. Aziraphale nearly bit Crowley’s tongue clean off and this wasn’t supposed to be so wet, was it?
Ah, well.
It was still better than in his dreams. Because it was real. And Aziraphale figured they had plenty of time to practice.
When they pulled back, they simply paused, huffing for air and possibly contemplating how terribly that went, or how enjoyable it was, or both in Aziraphale’s case. Aziraphale gave a pointed but light tug to Crowley’s locks. “Grow your hair out, will you?” he said.
Crowley laughed, startled, eyes dancing with pure glee. “Why?”
“Your hair is always long in my dreams, you know. And you said you wanted to make them come true.”
“I did say that.” Crowley tried to look annoyed and failed entirely. He kissed Aziraphale’s nose. “Sure, I’ll grow it out.”
“Thank you, dear.”