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Crowley has kissed Aziraphale, and everything is worse now.
It’s not how he expected it to go. Frankly, he never expected it to go, would mostly think about it (if he were ever to admit it) falling asleep for a good, long while. But leave it to a pair of women in love to slap him upside the head and tell him what he needed to hear.
Here’s how Crowley wanted this to happen:
Aziraphale would come in. He would be beaming from his commendation from that fucking cursed man the Metatron. Whatever. The Metatron says that Aziraphale is free to do whatever he wants, forever. Forever and ever, isn’t that just the greatest?
So, Aziraphale rushes in. Cheeks pink from the excitement. Maybe it goes the same way, but this time Aziraphale, much in the same fashion when he told Crowley about the rubber duck, laughs and tells Crowley that he told the Metatron to shove it so far up his ass that he saw the stars that Crowley helped create.
Crowley grins. He says exactly what he wants to say, without any interruption or fear or anything. “We can be an us,” he says, quietly, behind a smile, “that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
And then they like, kiss or whatever. It’s where the fantasy falls apart, really, because it didn’t go like that. No amount of imagination that Crowley has can fill in the blanks there, because it didn’t fucking go that way.
And yeah, maybe Crowley panicked. Maybe it wasn’t the best kiss in the world, no. It was too hard, too sudden—Aziraphale doesn’t kiss back. Did he? Not until the end, Crowley will commit his warm hand on his back to memory, the soft acceptance of the situation, the gentle lean into the rather forced embrace. Even when he broke away, he was crying. Crowley will try to commit the good to memory (which is rich, coming from him).
But he goes. Fuck, of course he goes. Puts on his brave face and gets in that elevator like being the fucking Crown Prince of Heaven is what he wants. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, doesn’t Aziraphale get that? Crowley supposes that this is what he gets for being hopeful. For hoping that Aziraphale could see in Beelzebub and Gabriel what Crowley sees in them. They only took like, what, five fucking years to get to that point?
Crowley is jealous. He’s pissed. He’s anxious and angry and sad and the scream escapes him before he even registers that it’s his own voice he’s hearing. He tears off his glasses and chucks them somewhere in the back, probably landing, with his luck, square on the floor. Slaps the wheel a few times, swearing at anybody who will hear his stupid fucking cry. The Bentley pulls over for him—she really is too nice for her own good, and even in his stupor, he pets the dashboard in apology before thunking his head against the wheel. It gives a stilted little honk. In another world, it would make Crowley laugh.
After a few moments, he sighs. “Fuck this,” Crowley mutters, and continues on his way. He’s going to take a page out of his own book for coping with things he didn’t like—screw the 19th century—and he is going to sleep.
Shax hadn’t really done anything to his flat, which was unsurprising. He doubted that she actually ever came back here instead of just retreating to hell every time she was done harassing Crowley. With a small snap before he even steps inside, his plants are back in their respective places, and he slows to a stop in front of the statue. Evil triumphing. What a joke.
Before long, he has discarded himself of unnecessary clothing and thrown himself flat on his back in his bed. He yearns for the stars. This would be a prime opportunity to look up at them, but of course he’s one of the most light-polluted cities in the world (probably). The sun is also still up, but that’s neither here nor there. Never stopped him before.
“It makes sense,” Crowley says to nobody. Maybe he just needs to get it out of him. “He wouldn’t ditch heaven for me. I dunno why I ever thought he would.”
Eventually, he sleeps. It is not restful, it never is, but especially not this time. He doesn’t dream, either, because this is just passing the time. That’s all he needs to do. When he decides he wants to wake up, he will, and he will deal with whatever Heaven has Aziraphale doing. An angrier part of him thinks that maybe he won’t; maybe he’ll just fuck off to the stars and spend the rest of his long, long life checking up on them. Sure as hell isn’t going back to…well, hell. And what’s in London for him now anyway? A bookshop that he’ll never be able to set foot in? An angel who isn’t his? A home that he no longer recognizes?
There is a banging on his door, and Crowley is conscious again. He scrambles for his phone off the bedside table—there is a thin layer of dust covering the screen, he always hated that this space got so damn dusty. It’s been about a month, maybe a month and a half. There are some notifications that he doesn’t care for. “Not my best,” he mutters as he slides out of the bed and grabs his glasses on the way down.
The banging starts up again as Crowley trudges towards the door. “Alright! Alright, for S…someone’s sake.” He snaps his fingers, the door flies open, and Crowley stops, just shy of the doorway.
Aziraphale is standing there. His hands are twisted nervously at his front, he jumps ever so slightly when the door swings open, and it is raining so hard that he is drenched from head to toe. Crowley’s mouth is agape, and he knows he should look away to check to see if Aziraphale was followed, but he can’t. He can’t look away. He won’t.
“I—” Aziraphale starts. Water drips off his trembling bottom lip. “I messed up.”
The comment is there. It’s right on the tip of his tongue, That was fast, or, Surely you could’ve miracled yourself an umbrella, but he can’t find his voice. His mouth is still hanging open stupidly.
“I was foolish to believe that—” Aziraphale breathes shakily, casts a look up into the sky, “I wanted to believe that I could change things. We could change things, together. But not up there.”
Aziraphale presses his lips together to hold back tears. Crowley hates it. He never wants to see Aziraphale upset ever again. The angel points at the ground. “Here. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. We got more done on Earth than the angels could ever dream of up…there.”
Crowley should invite him inside. He should dispel the rain and dry Aziraphale off and maybe hang up his jacket, for good measure. Unshed tears are burning his eyes. Finally, he croaks out, “We?”
“You were right.”
Crowley cracks a small smile. “Please don’t do the dance.”
A sobbing laugh erupts from Aziraphale that makes Crowley grin, and because apparently today is full of surprises, Aziraphale steps closer and wraps his arms around Crowley in a hug. Aziraphale is absolutely soaking wet, and Crowley’s tank top and pants are drenched almost instantly. It takes a second for Crowley to register that he’s not hugging back, getting his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and, before he can really think twice about it, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s very damp forehead.
“There are some things in motion,” Aziraphale says when he pulls back—not far, not out of arm’s reach. One of his warm hands is still on Crowley’s waist.
“Not right now,” Crowley groans, dropping his hands off of Aziraphale and trying (and failing) to dry his hands on his shirt. He does half a spin away from Aziraphale, sighs down at the ground, and then turns back. “You have to go back.”
Aziraphale looks guilty. His vest is new. “I do.”
“Can you stay for a drink?”
“Just one.”
Crowley sighs in relief and waves Aziraphale inside. As soon as he steps into the threshold, both he and Crowley are dry. Aziraphale shivers, dusts himself off, and follows Crowley into the kitchen. They’ve almost never drank here. This place never quite felt like a home, more just a place that Crowley could put his body when he needed to be away from Aziraphale.
From a cabinet that previously had nothing, Crowley produces a Chateauneuf de Pas and pours, with a heavy hand, two glasses. They don’t say much, just drink in almost-tense silence for a bit, before Aziraphale breaks it. “How is the bookshop?”
Crowley makes a noise. “Nngh, haven’t been.”
Aziraphale looks surprised. “Really? How come?”
“Been busy.”
“Oh yeah? Doing what?”
Crowley makes another noise and waves his hand aimlessly. “Mm, y’know.” He drains the rest of his wine and pours himself another glass. Just because Aziraphale can only have one.
Aziraphale glances around. “Were you trying to nineteenth century it?”
“No,” Crowley lies. He’s a demon, he does that.
Aziraphale just looks sad. He takes the last sip of his drink and stands up. “I should be leaving.”
Crowley stands up after him, his chair making an awful scraping noise in his haste. “I’m sorry too.”
The angel looks at him quizzically. “What for?”
Crowley swallows. He may have been asleep, but he hadn’t stopped thinking. “For uh, laying one on you, so to speak.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale mutters. “You don’t need to apologize for that.”
They walk to the door silently. Crowley’s ribs ache. He pulls the door open for Aziraphale and stares out at the rain. “Send Michael my regards, hm?”
Aziraphale chuckles, but there’s no joy in it. “You know I’m not going to do that.”
“Figured I’d try.”
Aziraphale walks out the door, letting himself get wet by the rain once again. He doesn’t go far, makes a hand gesture that Crowley knows is the one that will whip him right back to heaven, but he stops. He turns back to Crowley, who is still leaning on the door, watching him.
“Do you think we can be an us again?” he asks.
Something thick forms in Crowley’s throat. “That depends. What side are you going to choose when the time comes again?”
Aziraphale pauses. For too long, to the point where Crowley’s legs twitch with the need to move them. But he has a point he’s trying to make, so he has to look serious. Aziraphale glances upwards, makes a hand gesture above his head, and starts approaching Crowley.
“What—what was that,” Crowley rushes out in the seconds before Aziraphale is in front of him.
“Extreme sanctions,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley has half a mind to tell him that that’s really not what extreme sanctions means, especially not the kind that Heaven and Hell have been warning people about since the dawn of time.
Instead, Aziraphale is grabbing Crowley’s face in his hands and pulling him down to kiss him. It’s much nicer this time—soft, gentle, as if Aziraphale is testing the waters. Crowley’s eyes go wide before he closes them and gets one of his hands on Aziraphale’s waist, the other still propping open the door. It’s not awkward, although it’s pretty apparent that neither of them have done this before, but that makes it all the better.
When Aziraphale pulls back, he is still holding onto Crowley’s face. His thumb is resting over the snake by his sideburns, and it makes Crowley burn bright inside. “Another drink, angel?” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale giggles. Swear to someone, giggles. Crowley wants to hear that noise for the rest of his godforsaken life.
“You just put it away, I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s all still here.”
Aziraphale wets his bottom lip and casts a glance over Crowley’s shoulder. “They probably won’t notice I’m gone. What’s a few more minutes?”
Crowley grins. Aziraphale pulls away and passes Crowley to walk into the kitchen, leaving Crowley there, still holding the door, watching him walk away (smug bastard). The demon looks out onto the world and watches the rain give way to a nice, tepid afternoon. Huh, he thinks, letting the door close. He always knew he was right about rain.