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Moonlight filters through the trees, tonight.
It casts a soft glow around them. And there they stand, in the thick of it, facing each other; their eyes locked and the world fading away around them. Where were they? Outside the bookshop? St. James’s Park? No matter, really - because it didn’t matter, did it? Time itself was holding its breath for them.
Aziraphale. Standing in front of Crowley like the luminous beacon he was. An embodiment of all things Crowley loved in life. His gentle, compassionate demeanor infused with a longing that somehow transcended the bounds of his celestial role - something that was always present, perhaps, throughout the years, in his eyes in those quiet moments when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking. Or in the pure, radiant warmth of his smile, only now it was amplified, all of it; reflected in his body, the fluttering trembling of him, the affable apprehension.
Slowly – hesitantly – Crowley reaches out.
Aziraphale leans into the touch. Crowley is grateful for it. The angel breathes in, and doesn’t seem to breathe out, when Crowley’s fingers brush against his cheek.
And here, right here, Crowley is frozen. The last time he was in this position, it… didn’t go so well. So he stays, here, running his thumb down the corporeal face of the angel, his angel, or at least so he hopes, taking in the details of his face, as if he doesn’t have every line, every curve and every hue already memorized…
Here. Here is fine. Here is perfect, in fact, if here is where Aziraphale wants to be. Crowley could stay here for an eternity.
Except - oh, now, they’re drawing closer, and it isn’t Crowley who’s making that happen. A strange feeling hits him, like bricks in his esophagus. Only not unpleasant. Well, not entirely unpleasant. Not when Aziraphale’s eyes are flickering to Crowley’s lips with such… what is that? Admiration?
Crowley feels his own eyes widen. Oh. Oh.
When their mouths finally meet, it’s as if the universe is sighing in contentment. As if it’s saying, finally. It’s tender, this meeting of theirs, unhurried, a delicate dance befitting two beings who have been so entwined in each other for so long that it hurts to be apart. Like two rivers converging, a confluence, never to be reversed.
Not hard or desperate or frustrated, this time. This time, they move in eager curiosity, but it’s not too rushed, and not too slow, either. It’s a symphony of their temperaments expressed through the press and release of their lips, Aziraphale’s soft murmurs vibrating against Crowley, into Crowley, and Crowley crooking his neck to the side, ever so slightly, angling to give and receive better access to the angel, his hand still on Aziraphale’s face. He curls his fingers into the soft strands of white-blonde hair.
And Aziraphale - oh, Crowley is only now noticing what Aziraphale is doing - his arms are wrapped around Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer, pulling him tight. As if afraid to let go.
And Crowley wants to say something, something profound and comforting, but he’s too absorbed in this, in running his hands over Aziraphale, and Aziraphale doing the same - every touch, every brush of their lips laden with millennia of yearning and unspoken truths, a kiss that spoke of their shared history, their countless moments spent together on Earth, of their journey through time and existence. A kiss that transcended their human forms, a union defying boundaries, a demon and an angel who could face anything and everything, so long as they were together.
When they eventually pull back, Aziraphale’s grip doesn’t loosen. He rests his forehead against Crowley’s. Their breaths are ragged, but their hearts are pounding in sync.
“Was that…” Aziraphale starts, only now opening his eyes. Blue, and green. Like a body of water. “Sorry, was that - good for you?”
Crowley chokes out a laugh. “What kind of a question is that?”
“I mean, to say - this is how humans do it, right?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows bunch up at the center. He’s nervous. “I’ve never - that is to say, before, when we–”
“I know,” Crowley interrupts, though not out of any rudeness or discomfort, but because he had already anticipated the look of relief on Aziraphale’s face in doing so. “Me too.”
Aziraphale’s mouth quirks. “Really?”
He nods.
“Back for good then, are you, angel?” Crowley tries for casual.
“Oh, I,” and Aziraphale tucks his fingers into Crowley’s hair, settling on the back of his neck, “I made the biggest mistake of my life when I left you, Crowley,” he admits in a whisper, “And I’ll be damned if I ever make that mistake again.”
“Damned?” Crowley raises a brow. He can hear how the gentle tears in his eyes are affecting his own voice. “Careful there.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Aziraphale sniffs with a tiny smile, and he lets Crowley sweep the wetness on his face away with his thumb. His posture relaxes, and he leans in again, this time to kiss Crowley’s nose.
“Wha’s that for?” Crowley chuckles.
Aziraphale says nothing, only giggles, and then moves to kiss Crowley’s cheek. Then, different spots around his face, still, until Crowley’s eyes have fluttered closed, utterly surrounded by the feel and scent of Aziraphale, and just when Crowley can’t take it anymore, Aziraphale’s mouth is on his again, the angel sighing into him, Crowley already growing dependent on this sensation, and then he feels a bit of the angel’s tongue, there, and it’s curious, and Crowley knows what this is, or thinks he does, at least, and he sanctions his tongue to dart forward in response, catching Aziraphale’s in a sort of cadenced promenade, and it sets off a spark in him, this time deeper in his belly, almost below it.
It’s raining, now.
When did that start? It soaks through their hair, their skin, their clothes. It’s cold, but it’s no matter, not when Aziraphale’s hands are warm on his back, just like the first time, but so much better now, firm, assured, wanting, and—
Crowley wakes.
To cold grey, black, and glass. The silence is resounding. Only the distant flickers of green ground him back into reality.
He sits up in his bed, and after a few minutes of staring into the darkness, he holds his face in his hands.
Oh, angel, he can’t help but think. Why did you have to leave?