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"To the world."
It was funny, really, Aziraphale thought, that they took all the weight they carried from the last few days - well, years - and attempted to melt it away with glasses of swanky champagne and three simple words. And yet funnier still was that it seemed to be working. While the evening drifted on and the background chatter began to die down as people milled out, he felt the atmosphere around their table for two lighten; it happened slowly and gently, as if it didn't want him to notice, but it eased its way past the somewhat tense state it was in to something altogether more calm, reminiscent, even. He found that without the usual crushing thought in the back of his mind, the ticking in his head that told him they were running out of time, they were far more at leisure to discuss whatever it was that took their fancy.
And Aziraphale absolutely delighted in knowing what exactly took Crowley's fancy. A few glasses in, the demon had named a multitude of places he thought they could go to together, from a small bar on the outskirts of a town Aziraphale had never even heard of (which apparently had booze so good even he would forgive the questionable cuisine) to a Velvet Underground Tribute Act (just to prove once and for all that it is not bebop, you utter madman!).
"I still owe you a picnic, too, don't I angel?" he drawled, the corner of his mouth curled slightly upwards as he absent-mindedly waved the waiter over for the bill. As was the case regularly, it was far too dark for anyone to see Crowley's flaming amber eyes behind his shades - even so, Aziraphale could have sworn he saw one of them wink at him. He felt his cheeks grow a little warmer and pinker.
He was never quite sure how to feel when Crowley called him that. Angel. The first few times, he told himself it was nothing more than a simple factual statement - there was no feasible explanation for it being anything more than that. Perhaps Crowley was just showing off that he knew what an angel was. It seemed like something he might do.
Only, one time, millennia ago (Aziraphale might pretend he didn't remember exactly when, but that would be a lie - he knew with absolute certainty that it was over a bowl of dates and peanuts in a hut near the Yangtze River, when the sun was approximately five-eighths of the way to the horizon) Crowley had said it in a Tone, with a Look, and a Sigh - all of which made him wonder, in spite of himself, whether possibly there was more to it than purely identification. He did have a name for that very purpose, after all. It all felt rather deliberate.
He had only let himself explore the possibility for a fleeting moment before his Better Judgement came careening back into the conversation. He really hated that guy sometimes. Especially when he had to listen to him witter on about how the Fallen had lost the ability to feel that way at all. Right now, however, whether it be from extensively and thoroughly sampling the Ritz's beverage menu, or the sheer excitement of the events preceding it, there was very little Judgement of any kind in Aziraphale's mind. Which was just as well, because there were a lot of things he had left to say that he was quite certain would not have passed the usual "will these words have potentially explosive or devastating consequences?" test.
For someone who had so many things to say, he had been awfully quiet since Crowley mentioned the picnic. He had, in fact, said no less than a singular, rather distracted "mmm" and had instead defaulted to gazing blankly at him while twiddling his thumbs. Crowley chose to gaze back at him, a faint smile playing on his lips, rather bemused by what he assumed was just an angel who needed a nap after a day of parading around Hell asking for towels and rubber ducks. He cleared his throat a couple of times to no avail.
"Hey, uh, Az?"
That seemed to work.
If "angel" sent Aziraphale down a spiral of desperate thought, what on Earth was he supposed to do with "Az"? It seemed, he thought, while trying to maintain a casual air about himself, that there must be a correlation of some sort between the length of the name Crowley called him and the intensity with which he felt his heart hammering against his chest. Perhaps it was a demon thing. There were a lot of things, over the millennia, that Aziraphale had put down to being 'demon things'.
"Right, yes. Of course, we'd best be off," he laughed nervously as he tried to tug on his coat and stand up at the same time, the scrape of his chair on the floor making him wince slightly. Crowley had no idea why he was rushing so much or what had gotten him so flustered, simply sighing and shaking his head, though his expression was gentle.
"Careful, if you rip that coat I know I'll never hear the end of it," he muttered, reaching out to pull it over his shoulders and fold the tartan collar, before winding his way between other the tables towards the door.
It was a good thing that Aziraphale, strictly speaking, had no need for oxygen. He wasn't sure he breathed one single time the whole walk to the car.
"I said, did you see all these new books?" Crowley shouted from the back end of the shop.
"Yes, they are rather lovely. Very kind of young Adam," he replied, making his way over and falling into the armchair. Crowley was still standing, pacing a little around where he sat.
Please, don't go.
"Will you be... I mean, not that I... you're welcome to stay. If you like. Only fair after yesterday, my dear."
Crowley twitched slightly, and if Aziraphale didn't know any better, he would reckon that the look on his face was more or less exactly what he'd see if he looked in a mirror after being called "angel". Fortunately - or perhaps unfortunately, he wasn't sure yet - right now, he didn't know any better.
"Crowley?"
"Mm?"
"I'm sorry."
Aziraphale frowned at himself a little. That wasn't what he was expecting to say, but that was the sentence that sprung out of him when he looked up at Crowley, who opened his mouth then shut it again.
"...for saying we're not friends."
Crowley took off his glasses and placed them on the shelf, rubbing the bridge of his nose and rather pointedly not looking at Aziraphale.
"'S'alright-"
"No, it's not," Aziraphale continued, surprising himself again, "I'm afraid in the midst of all this I have been rather, well, unpleasant to you. I do hope you know I'm not upset with you."
Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale was very glad to be able to see his eyes. He didn't want to be guessing what they looked like right now.
"Yeah, well, alright, apology accepted, or whatever nonsense it is you say."
"And also... thank you. Not sure where we'd be if you hadn't stopped time for a moment at the airbase. Pity, I'll have to keep talking to you now," he tried a joke, one he thought was like something the demon would say, to see if that would fix the lump in his throat. It did not.
Crowley still wasn't quite sure what made him say what he said next. Maybe it was the fact that they didn't bother sobering up properly. Maybe he'd just had enough waiting for a few lifetimes.
"Anything for you."
And Aziraphale felt something blossom in his chest.
It was so very familiar and brilliantly revolutionary all at once.
It had been in every glance Crowley gave him that went on too long to justify, in every fleeting brush of his fingers against Aziraphale's own, in every meal offered and bottle opened and car ride shared and theatre tickets begrudgingly purchased. It was in everything they had ever done on this Earth.
It was the way Aziraphale noticed when Crowley's newly long hair would tickle at the back of his neck, and make him squirm and fidget far more than usual. The way he wordlessly, carefully, delicately - as if he thought Crowley might crumble at his touch - combed through it with his soft fingers and loosely braided it at the side of his head, lightly brushing his hand over his shoulder as he left.
It was the way Crowley trusted him enough that when he felt too overwhelmed to maintain human form, he would coil himself around the angel's shoulders and lazily flick his tongue into his wine, rolling his eyes at Aziraphale's choice of music.
It was the way his heart swelled so much he feared he might discorporate on the spot when the demon laughed - not that sly chuckle he gave when they were in public, but his proper laugh, reserved only for Aziraphale in the quiet hours of the evening, sprawled on the bookshop sofa, head thrown back and eyes glinting golden.
It was the way that same heart of his ached beyond belief when he looked into Crowley's broken, desperate eyes over the rim of his glasses only days before, watching him shaking, for once making no attempt to hide his teary face, more lost than he had ever seen him. I lost my best friend. It was the way he had felt the most overwhelming urge to gather him up into his arms and whisk him away to Alpha Centauri, Armageddon be damned.
For Heaven's sake, it was the way he loved him. The way he had loved him for aeons longer than he had ever even considered it an option to love him. Longer than he had ever been willing to admit to himself, because after all they had been through, he still couldn't shake that nagging feeling that told him Crowley... couldn't do that. Couldn't love him back, even when he said things like that, even when he looked at him like he was right now, as if the blasted sun shone out of his, pardon his French, arse.
Shit. His vision blurred slightly. He thought that now might be the time to try and move the conversation towards other things, but clearly his eyes had other ideas, as he felt his cheeks grow slowly damper. He tilted his head down and tried to sniff quietly. He didn't think it worked. Surely enough, he soon heard a whispered "oh, bloody Hell" and suddenly, his hands were pressed between two cool, bony ones. He dared look up from his lap and saw Crowley, kneeling on the carpet next to his chair, eyes wide and concerned, if a little wary.
"What is it, angel?" he asked, as delicately as he could. Aziraphale only cried harder at that, and he could sense Crowley starting to panic. Had he worked out what was going on? The fear, Aziraphale's greatest fear, far worse than anything Heaven or Hell could threaten him with, started to creep into his chest. The fear of losing him. Sure, Aziraphale had always been the one to hold off, to say no, to tell Crowley he went too fast; every time he did, he was mostly just after an excuse. He tried to force space between them, for the fear that if they got any closer, he'd find out that they wanted different things. He had made his peace with not knowing, because it allowed him to hold onto his tiny remaining shred of hope.
A shred which, in spite of everything, couldn't stop itself from growing when Crowley inched his hand towards Aziraphale's face, and the pad of his thumb came to rest just beside his nose. His fingers, which were surprisingly soft, wiped the tears from his cheek with more tenderness and care than he had ever dreamed of (that's not to say that Aziraphale had spent any amount of time dreaming about this. He had, of course, but that was a separate matter).
"Look, I... I get it. I don't want to rush you. If you want me to leave you for a little while, I understand, I ca-"
"Please, don't go."
He said that out loud, this time.
Crowley took his hand again and squeezed it gently but firmly, looking into Aziraphale's clouded eyes like he could see galaxies in them. He had made galaxies, once. He'd make one now, if he could, just to see him smile.
Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to pretend this never happened, but he felt he might burst if he held it in any longer. Crowley was being so open, so soft, in a way that he never had before, gently rubbing circles over his thumb. His being vulnerable was making it much harder for Aziraphale to keep his feelings locked away in a little box, even though he had thousands of years of practise. What was that saying? Rip the plaster off quickly, and if it bleeds then miracle yourself somewhere very, very far away for a very, very long time? Well, it was something like that, anyway.
"Crowley, I think that... I love you. Not just in the angel way, that is. Well, yes, in the angel way, as with all of God's creatures, but also as an extension of that, I mean. I think I'm rather in love with you. Quite certain of it, actually."
Nothing happened. He thought that this must be the inner core of Niceness embedded within Crowley, horrified and resentful but not wanting to hurt Aziraphale's feelings. Perhaps he should try to make this easier for him.
"I'll keep my eyes shut. You can leave, you don't need to say anything. I won't bother you unless you need me for something. Just know that I'm sorry. And I'll miss you, dreadfully," he held back a sob, "but, this is my fault. So, that's that, I suppose."
He held his breath.
He heard a sigh. A deep, exhausted sigh. The fingers that had been laced between his own untangled themselves. The floorboards creaked a little as leather shoes rubbed against them. The shred of hope had been grated into tiny pieces and tossed into a raging hellfire. A strained sob gripped his throat and tugged at every cell in his body.
He felt the chair sag downwards on his left. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, all of the tentative movement gone. Something cold nuzzled through Aziraphale's tangled curls and pressed against his skin. He breathed out shakily and opened one eye, at which point he realised it was Crowley's nose buried in his hair. The demon pressed the tiniest, gentlest kiss to the tip of his ear.
"I seem to have severely underestimated how bloody stupid you are, angel."
Aziraphale turned his head, both eyes open now, and found his own nose three centimetres or so away from Crowley's - not for the first time, and he was starting to think maybe, just maybe, not for the last time either.
"I thought you knew, Aziraphale."
"Kn...knew what?"
"That I love you. Definitely not in an angel way. Obviously."
Aziraphale held perfectly still, which Crowley took as an invitation to continue.
"Of course I do. Long as I can remember. Pretty hard not to think an awful lot of someone who gave away an entire flaming sword," he smiled fondly, "but I know you weren't there yet. I've just been waiting for you to be ready. And I can keep waiting, if that's what you need but-"
"Why didn't you say something, my dear boy?" Aziraphale managed to croak.
Crowley looked at him like he had lost his mind. That was a possibility, actually, Aziraphale thought.
"You can sense love, angel!"
Oh, dear God, yes he could.
He could feel his own, now, focusing on it, and he could feel Crowley's. They were subtly different flavours, but they were as strong as each other, blending together in his mind. His brow furrowed as he thought back, and further back, and realised they had always been there, almost from the very start. Which is why he didn't think anything of it.
"That's love? I suppose I thought that was just... you."
"Well, I think it is, in a way," he replied. Aziraphale could hardly believe he was so sappy under all the swagger.
"Oh God, that means- are you telling me we've wasted all this time, all those days I pushed you away? Oh, Crowley, I'm so sor-"
"Nuh-uh, no need for that," he interrupted. Aziraphale felt his entire body tingling. He was being so gentle.
"We can make up for it now, yeah? And besides, I'd stop time again for you," he grinned.
Crowley hesitated, then inched his face slightly closer to Aziraphale. He paused, asking for permission, and the angel nodded slightly. Their lips pressed together, only for a moment, and they melted into the touch, as if they were fusing into one.
Aziraphale thought Crowley had switched to snake form for a moment, given the amount he was wriggling. He looked down and, no, he was still man-shaped, but had curled himself up, legs swung over his knees, back arched against the side of the chair. Arms wound around his torso and Crowley settled in the crook of his neck, breathing puffs of air against his skin. Aziraphale threw his own arms around him, holding Crowley tightly like he thought he was about to spring up and leave. But after several hours of thinking and digesting, absent-mindedly stroking his neck and back, both of them half-asleep, he knew he wasn't going anywhere. Neither of them were.
They stayed like that for a long time.
"I love you."
It was funny, really, Aziraphale thought, that they took all the weight they carried from the last six millennia and attempted to melt it away with a comfy armchair and three simple words. And yet funnier still was that it was definitely working.