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“Someone you can really trust.” the shopkeeper says, and Aziraphale doesn’t need to think twice before his gaze turns to Crowley, already preparing to do any kind of begging necessary. “Otherwise, it’s lethal.” he continues, but the words fall on deaf ears as he grins wide, eyes twinkling as he looks at him properly.
“Oh,” he says, not bothering to hide the excitement and affection from his voice, “I’ve got the perfect man for the job.” he says, grinning wider as Crowley turns to him then away, his face blank. “At least,” he continues, Crowley’s gaze snapping back towards him and an eyebrow raising above the rim of his glasses. “I think I have…” he trails off, eyelids already lowering as he holds up a finger, no longer paying attention to the human, “excuse me, for one minute.” he says, not even bothering to wait for the man to respond before his arms are wrapping around Crowley’s shoulder and ushering him to the other side of the room.
“You’ll do the shooting, I’ll catch the bullet.” he says, excitement back in his voice at the mere thought of being able to preform with Crowley on stage. “I’ll do all the hard bits.” he says, throwing in a wink along with the vague innuendo, just in case Crowley didn’t catch it. “I’m sure as a demon you must have fired off a lot of guns, yeah?” he asks, hoping he’s doing his best to convince the demon of his proposition.
Crowley never realized how fast one could go through the stages of grief in one moment. His thoughts traveling faster than the speed of light as he grimaces. There could be no possible way that Aziraphale would even ask him that, he’s almost angry at the very thought that just because he was a demon he must have fired off guns. Or the fact that he obviously trusted him enough to even ask him such a question. The thought alone of even shooting a gun anywhere near his dear, sweet Aziraphale was almost enough to make him want to throw up. But, he supposed, if anyone would be firing shots at his angel, Crowley much rather be the one aiming the pistol than a random human.
“I’ll do it.” he grits out, gaze going soft as Aziraphale’s face brightens. His shoulders relaxing as Aziraphale relays his excitement to him. “But if anything goes wrong,” He continues, his anxiety still very much running rampant in his blood stream like a hungry hell hound, “can we agree that we break your one miracle limit?” he asks. He hopes Azirapahle doesn’t sense the desperation in his voice, the very real fear that plagues his mind of even the thought of losing the angel. So he adds on, “Neither of us wants the paperwork, do we?” He fully intends to break the promise, to perform miracles of his own so that the bullet never leaves the gun, never gets the chance to even think about it harming Aziraphale in any way.
He holds out his hand, intent to keep the angel to his word, to hope that his angel doesn’t see pass the lies he tells him; only ever for his angel. That he’d let him save him if anything went wrong. Instead, Aziraphale grabs him by his shoulders again, bringing his own body close and kissing him. It takes him less than half a second to realize what’s happening. His hands finding his hips with ease, pulling him impossibly closer to him, as if trying to fuse their very beings into one. Aziraphales hands travel north, one removing his hat while the other threads through scarlet locks, it’s enough that Crowley can’t help but moan into the kiss, desperate to drown in the waves of love and lust that are now rolling off Aziraphale’s corporeal form like stormy seas.
Reluctantly, they part, breaths heavy even though they need not breathe to live. “Thank you.” Azirapahle says, his eyes still half lidded, their breaths mingling. He wants to pull him back in, but he refrains.
“Yeah, of course.” Crowley says, his hands still on Aziraphale’s hips. He doesn’t feel like letting go, he never does.