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When Crowley kisses Aziraphale for the first time, it’s because it is impossible not to do so. His willpower simply runs out. He’s held this kiss inside his mouth for six thousand years and a fair bit of change and had been willing to hold it there for quite a while longer--but, suddenly, it’s now or never. And the thought of never kissing Aziraphale, even under these circumstances, cannot be borne. With his mouth crushed harshly against Aziraphale’s, he realizes that he hadn’t felt this desperate even when the world was literally ending. A part of him must have always felt that things would turn out alright in the end, so there was no need to press this particular subject. There would always be more time. Not now, though. The world at large may not be ending, but Crowley’s world is crashing down around him, and all he can do is hold onto the angel and take everything he’s wanted to give for so long.
It isn’t a nice kiss. And it's nothing like what their first kiss was supposed to be. But it's not supposed to be nice. It's supposed to be punishing, to show Aziraphale everything he is giving up with this bloody stupid Heaven stunt. Their mouths don’t move together in tandem like they were made to fit together, and their hands don’t caress one another’s faces like discovering a precious treasure. No one’s fingers card through anybody’s hair, and there are no little sighs of pleasure and relief. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s hands scrabbling uncertainly against his back, pulling him closer for one blessed moment, but the angel’s lips are stiff, and Aziraphale’s appalled little squeak is the only sound either of them makes. But Aziraphale isn’t pulling away, for all that. Crowley allows himself exactly one moment of hope--but then he tastes tears in the kiss, and that’s not acceptable. That’s more than he can bear.
He lets Aziraphale go, and the angel backs away from him, devastation writ large on every line of his expression. Crowley can’t remember ever seeing so much pain on the angel’s face. He’d never thought that’d he’d be the one to put it there, but turnabout is fair play. If Crowley’s world has to end, it’s only fair that Aziraphale’s should too. They exchange a few more hurtful words, but to Crowley it’s so much white noise, amplified by the deafening silence of the nightingales. He’s out the door before he can let anything change his mind. He’ll wait outside to see Aziraphale off, but he holds out no hope that the angel will run into his arms at the last moment. It’s too late. He waited too long.
Later, on the drive out of Soho towards the Mayfair flat that will never really be home, Crowley realizes he never said the three words that might have made Aziraphale stay.
--
When Aziraphale kisses Crowley for the first time, it’s because doing so is the only thing that makes sense. His reasons not to have finally run out.
They’re lying in the grass under a tree in St. James Park, in a spot conveniently avoided by the other park-goers, humans who will never know the lengths these two immortal beings have gone to to save their world again, and for good this time . Sunlight filters through the leaves overhead and runs soft fingers along Crowley’s shut eyelids as Aziraphale looks on with quiet, accustomed yearning--and then he realizes. He doesn’t need to yearn anymore. After everything that happened with the aborted Second Coming, he’s finally free, full stop. They both are. No longer simply angel or demon but a secret third thing, something entirely new, both of them, together . And that means so many possibilities have opened up before them.
“Crowley,” he murmurs, heedless of getting grass stains on his jacket as he turns onto one side to look at his companion.
Crowley’s head turns automatically towards Aziraphale, though his eyes stay closed. “Mmn?” he asks sleepily. The poor dear must be exhausted--it took a lot of miracles to thwart the Metatron's schemes and get them both home safe--but this is too important to wait.
“Crowley,” he says a little more insistently.
This gets Crowley to open his eyes. “Angel,” he says in acknowledgement. Although Aziraphale is no longer strictly an angel, he’s not about to correct his friend. They both know the endearment for what it is. And that’s the point, isn’t it?
“Crowley, my dear, I’m. I just need to say, I really am so sor--”
Crowley’s eyes drift shut again, dismissive but not unkind. “If you’re about to apologize again, I don’t want to hear it. You already did the little dance.” I already forgave you, Crowley doesn’t say. Aziraphale could argue that point if he wanted, could go on and on about how he’ll never be done making it up to Crowley for choosing Heaven over him on that awful day. But that's not what he has in mind.
Instead, he says, “That's not what I was thinking of. This, I think, warrants its own apology.” His hand finds Crowley’s arm, just above the bend of the elbow, and this gets the demon (such that he is now) to open his eyes again. "That is to say," Aziraphale continues, "may I kiss you? Properly, this time. There wasn't time, before."
Sans the sunglasses, it isn't difficult to read the expression that passes over the demon's face. There's hope, yes, but suspicion, too. But mostly guardedness, like he's bracing himself for pain. His beautiful, expressive eyes turn skyward, protecting themselves from Aziraphale's scrutiny.
"...Nah. Not if it's an apology. It has to be--" Crowley's voice catches unexpectedly, but he soldiers on. "It has to be because you want it, too. Otherwise, I'd rather you didn't."
And Aziraphale realizes, despite everything they've been through, everything they've sacrificed and built in order to be together, finally together, there's something very important they've neglected to say. Yes, of course, they know, but if there's anything the proprietor of A. Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books knows, it's the power of words.
"You're right, of course," says Aziraphale, but his hand is still on Crowley's arm, pulling the demon towards him. Crowley acquiesces, turning onto his side to watch Aziraphale's face. Still guarded, but listening. "But that isn't what I mean at all. See, the thing is... The point I'm trying to make is--"
"The dolphins?" White teeth flash in Crowley's smile. It's an offering, a chance to get distracted and turn away from the terrifying topic Aziraphale is attempting to breach. There he is, Aziraphale thinks, trying to rescue me again. But he won't be taking the out.
"No, dear. It's simply this: I love you. Have done for… Well, quite a long time, and I'm sorry I've done such a bloody rubbish job of showing it. But those lovely things you said in the bookshop, there at the end, and the things you couldn't say, I want those things too. Forever." The hand on Crowley's arm slides up the demon's neck to cup his jaw. "That's why I want to kiss you. Alright?"
Crowley stares blankly at Aziraphale for all of six seconds, then blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."
They're close enough that no pulling or tugging is necessary. It's easy enough to simply scoot forward a bare inch or two, leaning his head back, and Crowley meets him halfway, just like he's always done. The kiss is closed-mouthed and a little dry at first, but infinitely sweet. All the fury and despair that drove their first kiss has been replaced by tenderness and, if not uncertainty, then just a little self-consciousness. Neither of them had gone in for the whole kissing thing before that day in the bookshop, and it's clearly something that's going to take a little getting used to. But that thought makes Aziraphale smile into the kiss because they will have ample time and opportunity to get used to it. Aziraphale will learn the contours of Crowley's mouth by touch alone, will discover what makes the demon sigh and gasp and, good heavens, perhaps even moan . And when Aziraphale smiles, Crowley takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue against Aziraphale's teeth and lower lip and oh, it's impossible not to open up to him. It's still a little awkward--Aziraphale isn't one hundred percent sure what to do with his tongue as it slides against Crowley's, and he opens his mouth rather a bit too wide to be decent, but it must be getting his point across nevertheless because, soon, their bodies are pressed together, their arms are wrapped up around one another's, their fingers are carding through each other's hair, and little noises are escaping both of them.
When Crowley pulls away, Aziraphale retreats maybe half an inch, just so he can look his friend in the eye.
"Angel," Crowley croaks. His eyes are full yellow, pupils blown. "Angel, you know it's me too, right? I love you, I mean. Too. That's what--all of this has been about. Forever. Me, loving you."
"And me loving you," Aziraphale assures him. "Forever. And longer, if you'll have me."
The demon rolls his eyes, seemingly beseeching the Almighty for strength, but his expression is soft. "If I'll have you. Yeah, I dunno, I might have to think on that. Daft bastard."
Aziraphale smiles, then leans forward and kisses Crowley's mouth again, because he can. It lasts several minutes and ends with Crowley on his back, their chests pressed together as Aziraphale looks down at him, radiating affection.
"Let's go away somewhere," Aziraphale says before he quite knows he's going to say it.
Crowley snorts, clearly disbelieving. "But you've only just got back. What about the bookshop?"
The angel hums, reaching out to brush away a twig that's gotten stuck in Crowley's hair. "You know, I rather think Muriel has been doing a fine job taking care of it, and it'll always be our bookshop, but we don't have to…live there. We could live…someplace else. Someplace that isn't technically yours or technically mine but really ours."
Crowley's hands twitch where they rest at Aziraphale's waist. "In London?"
"Well, that'd hardly be going away somewhere. What do you think? Would that…make you happy?"
"I really don't give a damn as long as it's with you." The answer falls out of Crowley's mouth seemingly without permission. Crowley's cheeks are dusted with the lightest pink. But something must spur him on because he continues, "It…might be nice to have a little place, a cottage or something…in the country? Somewhere we can get away from it all. Not so far we couldn't get back to London easy enough. And not so little you couldn't have a library, of course," he hastens to assure Aziraphale.
"And of course you'd need your garden, I should think," Aziraphale agrees, nodding in encouragement. He folds his arms on Crowley's chest, resting his cheek there and letting his eyes slide shut. The sun is starting to set around them, and he can feel the shadows lengthen to keep this tête-à-tête perfectly private for a while longer. "And an apple tree."
Strong arms wrap tightly around his waist. "Where, do you think? Somewhere along the coast?"
"Mmm. Sussex, maybe?"
"The South Downs." The answer is quick and readied, like it's something Crowley has considered before. Aziraphale opens his eyes again, but Crowley isn't looking at him. Aziraphale smiles softly and watches the last fingers of sunlight play in the demon's hair.
"Yes, I rather think that's the ticket. We can start house-hunting as soon as you like, my dear."
"Aziraphale, I--" Crowley's arms are suddenly stiff around Aziraphale's back, stiff like they were when they pulled the angel into that unfortunate first kiss. His face is tense, and when their eyes meet, Aziraphale is ashamed to see doubt in those eyes. "Are you sure, angel? Only, moving in together, it'd be a rather big step, and we've only just started kissing one another, and I don't think I could cope if you decided I was moving too fast again--"
It will take work, Aziraphale realizes, to convince Crowley of his devotion. Not of his love, maybe, but of his intentions. It's all well and good to have thwarted the Metatron's plot to edit the Book of Life to his own liking, convinced the Child to stay right up in Heaven where They belong, and saved the world all over again, but it won't mean anything if Crowley doesn't trust that Aziraphale has finally chosen him.
For now, all he can do is cut Crowley off with a kiss. This kiss sees the lengthening shadows of sunset turn into the violet hour of twilight until Crowley finally pulls back, on top now, his hands pinning Aziraphale's wrists up by his ears in the grass.
"You have to mean it," the demon growls, apparently not finished with the subject. "I'm serious. None of this saying things to appease me business. No doing things you don't really want just because you think it'll make me happy." He pushes off Aziraphale then, rolling onto his back again to lie beside the angel and look into the sky. Aziraphale looks, too. Their fingers mingle together by their sides. They can't seem to stop touching. And Aziraphale realizes, when Crowley says he has to mean it, he doesn't just mean buying a cottage together. He means being together.
"You can't see the stars anymore, living here," says Aziraphale, thoughtfully. "When the Metatron offered to let me make you an angel again, that's what I was thinking of."
Crowley scoffs. "London’s light pollution?"
"No, just. How happy you were, the first time we met. The first time, when you were making the stars."
"Making the nebulae that would make the stars."
"Yes, of course. And I thought, if I could give that back to you, that happiness… Well, I thought it would be something."
"Mmn," says Crowley, clearly trying very hard not to get his hackles up.
"But that was misguided, as we've discussed."
"At length."
"Yes. That's not what you wanted, and I'm-- Ashamed, that I didn't know your heart better. That I was so blinded by the fear of losing you--"
"Hey," Crowley breaks in. "I said, you already did the little dance. We don't have to talk about this. Don't flagellate yourself." His hand squeezes Aziraphale's in the grass.
Aziraphale continues as though not interrupted. "I thought I had finally found a way to keep you with me and keep you safe. That's all I've wanted for a very long time, was for us to be together, and for you to be safe. There are so many ways you could have been destroyed over the years, and taken from me. I thought I had found a way."
"I hadn't told you what Heaven had planned to do to Gabriel. You didn't know how dangerous it was. They manipulated you, angel--"
"And I let them manipulate me, because they were telling me everything I wanted to hear. That I could have it all: safety, divinity, and…you." When he turns to look at the demon in the growing darkness, Crowley's eyes glow like twin moons watching him. He takes a shuddering breath, holding onto Crowley's hand like an anchor. "I should have known that two out of three was more than enough. But I understand now. So, after everything, please believe me. Yes. I mean it."
A long silence stretches between them. Crowley opens his mouth once or twice, then looks back up towards the sky to hide a funny little smile. "Damn. You must really like me or something."
"Crowley."
The kiss that follows takes them from twilight into full darkness. In the absence of stars, Aziraphale sees the glow of streetlights behind his eyelids. They're getting better at this kissing thing every time they try it. It's beginning to awaken desires that Aziraphale has never felt the liberty to examine before. He's excited to get to examine them very thoroughly alongside Crowley.
When they finally pull apart, they're both smiling like fools.
"Come on," says Crowley. "We'd better be getting home."
--
The first time they kiss at their cottage in the South Downs, it's for no particular reason at all. They're taking a break from unloading boxes from their hired truck--the human way, because Aziraphale insists--under the shade of their apple tree. Crowley is talking about his plans for the garden and eventual greenhouse, gesticulating enthusiastically, and catches Aziraphale smiling at him. He glares back, but his eyes are shining.
"And just what are you looking at, angel?"
Aziraphale doesn't answer, just puts his hand on the back of Crowley's neck and pulls gently. Crowley huffs out a little laugh as their mouths meet, and Aziraphale winds his free arm around the demon's waist to pull him closer. It's a nice kiss; by now they've shared rather more than seven, and they're getting pretty good at it. There's no rush to it, no urgency. They have the truck for the whole weekend, and they can always use a miracle or two to speed things along if needs be later. They have plenty of time to luxuriate in this kiss, enjoying the feeling of one another's touch and the sounds of the world around them. Insects buzz about in the uncultivated garden, the occasional car putters down the lane at the end of their drive, and birdsong dances lightly on the wind from the branches overhead.
Aziraphale recognizes the song first, but Crowley isn't far behind. They look up in unison to see not one but two nightingales, a mated pair by the looks of it, snuggled up in a branch together, singing to one another. It's not the full-throated song of dawn or dusk, and this isn't Berkeley Square, and it's been weeks since the last time they dined at the Ritz--but the nightingales are singing all the same.
Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale laughs, and they press their foreheads together in a moment of such radiant joy and love that if any human were about, they would have to shade their eyes. And then, without needing to exchange a word, the two beings, no longer simply an angel or a demon but absolutely themselves, walk back inside to continue making themselves at home.