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It's desperate. It's inane. It's human.
Crowley holds Aziraphale by the soft lapels of his jacket and pulls him close. Aziraphale's eyes are wide, confused, the earthly color ungrounded and caught off guard.
He closes his eyes to avoid them, and leans in, trying to make the angel understand.
Us. We. A Pair of Nightingales.
They may have wings, but they are not birds.
They are not human.
Crowley is desperate and inane anyway. He needs Aziraphale to understand.
They didn't need Heaven or Hell. They didn't need Earth or their wings. They just needed...
Kissing Aziraphale burns.
Crowley remembers the stars. Remembers the explosions and collision of them on his wings. He remembers the floor of sacred ground scorching his feet. He remembers burning books. He remembers Hellfire in his face and shut your stupid mouth and die. He remembers blazing rage and crushing despair and Falling.
Kissing Aziraphale burns worse than any of that.
Kissing Aziraphale feels wrong.
Crowley's tongue sits useless in his mouth as he tries to press all the words he cannot say into Aziraphale's.
Humans kiss. Humans show affection like this. So why-
He's shaking and he knows- he knows it's not working. He's shaking and Aziraphale's hand touches his back, and he gives himself just one desperate last moment to cling onto that burning hope that maybe his angel could understand.
He pulls away, and sees Aziraphale crying.
He made an angel cry.
Demons and Angels can't-
...
Crowley and Aziraphale can't.
They are not human. There are no Nightingales. And Crowley's mouth burns.