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Crowley was never entirely sure what this was between them. The caress of hands, their knees bumping when sharing a seat like the night back from Tadfield.
Where the world almost ended, but didn’t. Tranquility falling around them and true sincerity bubbling from Crowley’s very skin like a festering wound sprayed with holy water.
For once, he didn’t know what to make of it. But for once, Aziraphale did. Placing his hand on top of his, Crowley’s metaphysical heart hammering in his chest as his fabricated blood streams filled with stardust coursed through his body. Almost burning hotter than hellfire, but leaving him strangely chilled.
And Aziraphale looked over at him, blue eyes wide and almost uncertain. Glancing down and almost studying the way his hand covered Crowley’s. He began to splutter, to begin moving his hand away from Crowley’s. But before they could part, Crowley’s other hand came out, resting on top of his. Aziraphale looked up, confusion burning in his eyes to the point Crowley feared he may begin to cry.
And Crowley nodded his head, leaning into Aziraphale’s space as the other man all but melted into his touch. They were content for now. Their own version of whatever they wanted to be laid out before them. No apocalypse, no problem.
No rules, nothing to break, in their own creation of heaven.