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They crossed the threshold hand in hand, stepping in sync into the cottage — their cottage, theirs and theirs alone.
Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand. Kissed it. "Welcome home, angel."
Aziraphale leaned over, pressing his own lips to Crowley’s cheek. “Do you know, I don’t believe anyone’s ever said that to me before.”
“‘Welcome home?’"
“Yes." The angel’s eyes were moister than usual. “I like it."
“I’ll say it whenever you want. Welcome home."
“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale smiled. “It's yours, too. Welcome home, Crowley.”
And... oh. Aziraphale was right. That did hit differently.
It was nice, being welcomed; nicer, being home.