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The truth of the matter was that Crowley had not kissed anyone before. He claimed expertise several times to many groups of individuals. He told the demons about his “escapades” because they hated humans and the idea of fraternization. It scared them that he was capable, and it made them leave him alone, calling him stupid names. He told his very few human friends over the millennia about his so-called romantic and sexual conquests because he wanted to relate. He had even tempted individuals he deemed worthy of torment. These were often political figures, and he’d wink at them and lure them in before planting the idea in their heads to be unfaithful and bolting. He was a demon, he knew how it all worked — he just never had the urge to participate with anyone himself.
Anyone that wasn’t his angel.
He was positively certain that Aziraphale had consorted with several humans in his time on Earth. He had a rather endearing appetite for human pleasures, as it was — food, wine (eventually), tea, books — It was only fair to assume he also indulged in romantic urges as well. His angel was so fond of humans. What better way to get to know them?
Crowley couldn’t bear it. The thought of it made his skin prickle cold, like the darkest pit of hell. Only once did Aziraphale mention anything about copulating with humans. They were both very drunk, sipping on a three hundred year old bottle of whiskey to celebrate something that was either rather important, or just an excuse to be near each other. Regardless, Aziraphale was quite far gone.
“What do you think?” He asked, picking up his original edition of Pride and Prejudice and thumbing through the pages with a curious expression.
“Hmm? Of?” Crowley took another sip.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, looking vaguely at the floor, “romance.”
“A useful temptation,” Crowley replied, swallowing his next sip slowly.
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s curiosity vanished. “That’s all?”
“I can’t say I think about it much. It’s a human proclivity, I suppose.”
“Right.” He went quiet for a moment, then gently said “I think it's quite something.”
It wasn’t often Aziraphale was sheepish like this. Crowley set down his glass, feeling the burn. “You read too many books, angel.”
Aziraphale blushed, “Don’t dismiss me, Crowley. I’m —”
Crowley’s wings tucked in on themselves, “I don’t know what you’re looking for. I haven't experienced it. I don’t know what it’s like.” He blinked, yellow eyes squinting. “Do you?”
“I’ve had romances with humans, yes. A few!” Aziraphale leaned back, aghast in his drunkenness. “It’s quite nice.”
Crowley clammed up, “nice.”
Aziraphale gave him a sideways smile, “quite.”
They didn’t talk about their romances again.
That’s why, when Crowley pulled Aziraphale by his ironed, soft collar and wrinkled it all with a kiss, he sunk into an agony far worse than his fall to Hell. At that moment, he was willing to admit it. He had not “sauntered vaguely downward”. He had fallen, wings tumbling over feet and burning with flame and shame as the presence of God left him and the air bubbling around his prickling flesh reeked with the smell of rot and singed skin. He had fallen for Aziraphale, just like that. Just as painful, and just as wretched.
Tears poured from his eyes. Aziraphale had lied about romance. It was not “nice”. It was suffering worse than Hell’s worst. He almost laughed at the irony.
“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said, shaken but relatively composed. This wasn’t his first kiss. No, Aziraphale had known tenderness. He had known warm, comforting flesh. Crowley was burning hot. His skin would burn beyond repair.
“Don’t bother,” Crowley spat, letting the anger fuel his march to the Bentley. The naive hope that Aziraphale would change his mind, coupled with the desire to punish himself further by watching his face when he finally abandoned him. Crowley would have to see it to believe, and see it he did. He watched as Aziraphale got in the elevator, and as he turned around they glanced at each other once more.
Crowley didn’t know where he was driving to. He was fueled with a feeling he had never felt so intensely in his life. Against his own desire, his fingers kept running themselves over his lips. He had seen Aziraphale do that, and he couldn’t stop. It had been a rough kiss. It was not sweet or adoring. It was just as desperate as he was — sloppy, inexperienced. He was overcome with the sudden urge to go home and assumed he was well and truly losing it. The worst part was that, even through the suffocating sadness, something in his chest buzzed with delight. He had kissed Aziraphale.
Crowley didn’t exactly notice when his breathing had picked up, but soon he was hyperventilating and the Bentley, which had been uncharacteristically cooperative, pulled him over in a parking spot in front of a bar.
He got out, legs wobbly and feeling terribly numb.
“You alright, lad?” A middle aged man asked, approaching him with gentle eyes. He had white hair — fluffy.
“You’ll get away from me if you know what’s good for you.” Crowley hissed, snake tongue sneaking out.
The man froze, eyes wide. Crowley watched in partial satisfaction as he scampered away. A rush went through him to feel the power. He was still a demon, and he was going to show it.
He sauntered into the bar, a new found confidence and goal racing in his mind. He ordered the stiffest drink he could think of, and then three more. Positively plastered, he gazed around the room for a target. There was a woman at the other end of that bar, traditionally pretty to human standards.
Was this the type Aziraphale had his romances with? He thought, but slapped himself out of it. He approached her, charming himself to look slightly more put together and not like his soul was rotting away.
“Hey,” he said loudly over the blaring music.
“Hi,” she looked him up and down. It was almost too easy. He had been built for corruption.
When he had her against the wall, the crowd oblivious to their behavior, he stared at her lips. She reached behind his head, planted her fingers and tugged as she pressed her lips against his.
She was eager as she fed her tongue into his mouth. He tried to reciprocate, moving his mouth against hers with the sloppiness of a teenager. Something acidic pooled in his throat, burning and scratching. With a gasp, he pulled away from her and bolted to the side alley, puking the contents of his stomach on the weeds sprouting between the brick and the concrete. He had never thrown up before. He didn’t know he was capable.
The acid in his brain finally matching the burning of his body, Crowley successfully hauled himself into the Bentley and drove to the only place he knew — the bookshop. He stood in front of the door, staring through the glass of his Angel’s store. He looked at the chairs. The floor.
When he opened the front door, he ran into the bubble barrier. He wasn’t welcome there anymore. The weight of that truth shattered whatever composure he had left.
He slammed his fists against the bubble and pounded with the strength of the sun. Crowley muttered to himself. He begged. The tears fell and he sank to his knees, looking into the place that meant everything to him. He felt sick from the kiss, filled with the shame of somehow betraying Aziraphale and not. Of not being chosen.
With one last shuttering gasp, Crowley pictured his angel and fell asleep in the doorframe.
There was a pain in his head when he woke up so thick and throbbing he was glad for the distraction.
“Crowley,” a gentle voice said from behind him, “oh dear. What have you done to yourself?”
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, “leave me alone, alright? I’ll bugger off when I can get myself to stand.”
A timid hand rested on his shoulder, “ Crowley .”
Crowley turned around, squinting. It was Aziraphale, looking as put together as ever barring the serious concern in his face.
“I’m so sorry. I was wrong. I don’t want to work in heaven, I—” Aziraphale placed his other hand on Crowley’s jaw. “Darling, I was a fool. I’ll never be able to make it up to you, and if you never want to see me again, I understand. But please,” his voice shook, tears falling down his heavenly cheeks, “allow me to at least correct this error.”
Aziraphale tipped his head down to a stunned Crowley and pressed their lips together with all the sweetness in the world. He fed his fingers through his demon’s hair and scratched, pulling him closer.
Crowley kissed him back, heart racing and soul reigniting. This was what it was supposed to feel like.
When Aziraphale pulled away, there was a nervous smile on his face, “I hope that made up for my absolute waste of our first one.”
“It was…” Crowley let out a laugh so full of relief that his wings preened, “nice.”
“Nice?” Aziraphale asked, looking concerned.
“Better than nice, angel. Better.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s smile widened, his face reddening, “right.”
“I’m not gonna get over this right away just because you’ve kissed me properly.”
“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said, offering his hand, “there’s plenty more where that came from.”
Crowley took his hands, wrapping his fingers as tight as he could. Aziraphale squeezed hard. They walked into the bookshop, standing in the foyer where their fight had occurred. Crowley turned, and kissed Aziraphale gently.
“You taste vaguely of bile, my dear,” Aziraphale mused, “are you quite alright?”
Crowley scoffed. “I’ll get myself a toothbrush.”