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Every time they meet, Aziraphale drives him crazy, in the best possible way. It's been this way for thousands of years.
You see, Crowley has a soft spot for those classic rock love songs, straight out of the 70s and 80s. He blares songs in the Bentley with crooning lyrics about deep, obsessive love driving you mad, driving you crazy. Queen and Fleetwood Mac and The Cure, they all say the same thing. Crowley loves them because he gets it.
And he's not an idiot. He knows he's reckless. He knows he's too curious for his own good. That's the reason he fell. But until he met Aziraphale he thought he had at least a little sense left in him.
He was wrong.
In hindsight, he should've seen it coming. There was no way Crowley could've looked at the angel beside him in Eden, sheepishly trying to explain why he'd given his flaming sword away, and not have fallen straight into the deep end. Every moment since then has just made it worse. Lunches, dinners, little rendezvous...They've driven him mad. And every time they meet Crowley sinks a little deeper. He just can't help it.
It's ridiculous, but Crowley is head over heels for Aziraphale. Whipped. Smitten. Mad about him. He's so far gone that it's embarrassing. He tries to keep his cool, he does, but Aziraphale makes these little noises when he eats, and smiles with his eyes, and gives passive aggressive, thinly veiled insults to his customers, and Crowley can't help himself.
The truth of the matter is, he's madly in love with his best friend.
The Bentley knows, of course.
It curses him with Crazy Little Thing Called Love on a Sunday afternoon when Crowley pulls up outside the bookshop and Aziraphale waves at him from the window. Freddie Mercury sings she drives me crazy and Crowley, who very much relates to the sentiment, escapes the car's taunting by opening his door and stepping out of it. He pulls on his sunglasses and scowls down at the drivers seat. He can still hear the muffled noises of the song.
Again when he drops Aziraphale back at the bookshop after a spot of afternoon tea. Like a heartbeat, drives you mad, Stevie Nicks croons through the speakers, to which Crowley sighs and gives his car a petulant frown. Aziraphale, of course, pays no attention, not even when the beat picks up and The Bentley plays Everywhere instead. If he weren't a demonic being, Crowley might blush.
It isn't just the Bentley. One evening Aziraphale wipes cream from the corner of his mouth, and Crowley watches, and Aziraphale says, you've got a peculiar look on your face, dear, are you alright? It's a testament to Crowley's remaining shreds of dignity that he doesn't spit out his coffee. He is aware that his feelings are probably written on his face most of the time. He is not aware, however, that sometimes Aziraphale sees it.
Bloody angel, Crowley often thinks, not without affection. Only Aziraphale, sweet, naïve Aziraphale, would be clueless to Crowley's feelings. Even humans have picked up on it, much to Crowley's frustration. Sometimes he just wants to shake Aziraphale, call him an idiot, a fool, when in reality the only fool is himself.
Because falling in love was not on the agenda when he became a demon. Mischief? Sure. Demonic deeds? Eh, whenever he could be bothered. But love?
Absolutely not.
The best and worst of it is that Aziraphale is happy these days.
Crowley isn't sure if it's because he no longer has heaven looming over his shoulder, but Aziraphale is lighter than Crowley's ever seen him. He's quite content to go out with Crowley, sometimes without any real excuse, and he spends the rest of his time happily reading in his bookshop. And Crowley is glad that he's happy, really, but it comes with certain disadvantages.
Such as Aziraphale's hand on his arm, a warm touch, seeping through his jacket. Such as Aziraphale's sweet smiles when Crowley gives him something he wants. These details have always been there but never with such frequency. Crowley melts, every time, softens in Aziraphale's hands. It's dreadfully humiliating. In a good way.
One evening in a cafe in Soho, Aziraphale rests a hand on his thigh, and Crowley- Well, he stutters through what he was saying, floored by the intimacy of the touch. Again in the bookshop, the angel teaches him an old fashioned dance, and he places Crowley's hand on his waist. Crowley's stomach flutters (a weakness of his human vessel, he supposes) and the feeling stays with him for weeks afterwards. It's too much, it's not enough. Crowley is madder than ever before.
Perhaps if he just gave in to his feelings, Crowley thinks, but then Aziraphale told him a hundred years ago he wasn't ready. So he must be driven mad, must be constantly undone, until Aziraphale admits what he wants. Whatever that is.
It's fine. It really is. Crowley will wait.
He's waited 6000 years.
Then, one night, drunk on one of Aziraphale's expensive wines, Crowley just admits it. Slurred and soft, his amber eyes glinting in the darkness of the bookshop, he says,
"You drive me crazy, angel."
"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale offers. Crowley laughs. He throws back his head, leans back against the armchair, fuzzy and warm from the alcohol. No inhibitions. He has the urge to be reckless, that same urge that made him a demon in the first place.
"Completely mad." Crowley says. "Just- utterly insane."
Aziraphale blinks at him, clearly confused.
"What are you referring to? Have I... done something wrong?"
Crowley shakes his head.
"No, nothin', nada. Maybe we should- uh, sssober up."
"No, no, I want to hear it." Aziraphale leans forward in his armchair, with, damn him, a curious glint in his eye. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and he looks very inviting. But then again, Crowley thinks, he always does. "What do you mean?"
"I've been singing- sappy songs." Crowley slurs. "Ridiculous. Thought it was your kind who were meant to go in for that sort of thing."
"I'm afraid I'm lost, dear." Aziraphale admits. "Do explain."
"Forget it."
"Come now, Crowley, tell me." Aziraphale insists. Indignant, stubborn. "I thought we were- ah, what did you call us before- best friends?"
Crowley's cheeks darken. He is reminded of the Queen song. Can hear, you're my sunshine, playing in the back of his mind.
"Oh, yes, that was it, wasn't it? Your best friend, that's what called me." Aziraphale's lips twitch. "If I've upset you, I'd like to know. Friends tell each other things, don't they?"
"Well. Yes. Broadly." Crowley is secretly pleased, despite his protests. It's the first time Aziraphale has admitted they're friends outloud. "Depends, really."
"Tell me. What are you trying to say?"
"You really wanna know?"
"Well, that's why I'm asking."
"Uh, might be a little too- fast for you." Crowley says tentatively. He's no longer smiling, his mouth sets in a thin line. Aziraphale's face changes, and for a moment Crowley thinks he's going to back away and retreat. The angel twists his hands in his lap.
"Ah." He says. A moment of silence, and then, "I'd still like to hear it."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. He leans forward, a little confused and a little hopeful, mostly just softened by alcohol and love. He drains the rest of his wine, only to find it magically refilled.
"Not very angelic of you." Crowley points out. He expects a defensive retort from Aziraphale, but the angel just gives him a tentative smile. "Sure you don't wanna sober up?"
"I'd rather not." Aziraphale says quietly, which Crowley understands.
They look at each other for a moment, and Crowley shrugs. Thinks, to Hell with it, though maybe that isn't the right expression.
"I meant- Well, exactly what I said. You drive me crazy. 'S embarrassing. You've got the Bentley playing love songs, you know. 'N just last week I saw a bouquet of flowers in a shop window 'n I thought, hey, Aziraphale would like those. Considered getting them for you. Didn't, obviously." Crowley shakes his head. "I'm a demon, angel, I'm not supposed to-"
Crowley pulls a face. He doesn't look at Aziraphale, because it would take more courage than he feels he can bear.
"Been considering getting a haircut. Was wondering how you'd like it. And every time I try to nap, these days, I just can't think- I can't-" Crowley, frustrated, runs a hand through his hair. "Completely mad, angel. I'm completely mad for you."
When he finally looks up, Aziraphale is wide-eyed and pink in the cheeks.
"Oh, Crowley."
"Yeah, yeah." Crowley mutters, embarrassed. He twitches when Aziraphale reaches forward and takes his hands, surprised by the sudden warmth and softness.
"I didn't know you were a romantic, dear." Aziraphale smiles.
"'M not." Crowley insists, narrowing his eyebrows in warning, which only makes Aziraphale's smile widen.
"...You should've bought the flowers." Aziraphale says, his eyes softened. Perhaps the alcohol had given him a little bravery too. "I would've kept them by the window, so they faced the sun."
Crowley can't hide his face, and can't take back any of it, so he focuses resolutely on Aziraphale's loosened bow tie.
"And I think, perhaps, I'm a little mad, too." Aziraphale says. "I've always known you and I were a terrible idea. But you know how much I love to indulge."
Aziraphale shifts forward in his seat, and Crowley swallows.
"Truthfully, I'm just as smitten as you are." Aziraphale admits. "Oh, don't look so surprised. You're rather handsome, dear, and you can be quite the gentleman when you want to be."
"Gentleman?" Crowley asks, a little affronted.
"Don't think I haven't noticed."
"Hmph."
Aziraphale giggles and runs his thumbs over the back of Crowley's hands. Crowley feels safe, warm, comfortable, even with the nerves swirling inside of him.
"I would apologise for- how did you put it- 'driving you crazy,'" Aziraphale teases, "But I don't want to."
"Bastard."
"Sweetheart." Aziraphale says, and Crowley finally looks up. He feels pinned under Aziraphale's gaze. Completely and utterly mad. "I did want to. You must believe me when I say I've always wanted to."
"Wanted to what?" Crowley tries to ask, but his question is muffled when Aziraphale leans over and kisses him. His lips are warm, wet, and Crowley melts. When he opens his mouth to Aziraphale, he tastes wine. And something sweeter.
When Crowley opens his eyes and pulls away, Aziraphale's eyes are still closed. He lingers in the moment, savours it.
"I'm madly in love with you, angel, you know that?" Crowley says.
It sounds like a lyric from one of those cheesy classic rock songs. But Crowley can't find it in himself to be embarrassed. Not this time.