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There are times when Crowley feels like there's too much underneath his skin. Something slithering just there, just out of reach, just where he can't see it. Every time he looks for the feeling it scurries someplace else, and he loses it. It happens at the worst of times.
It happens when he's alone, and he's had too much to drink, which is - quite a lot, for a demon. Quite a lot, quite too much. Just like him, isn't it?
He gets lost in it, in trying to scratch the feeling away. It never really works, no matter what he tries. His head buzzes; not with alcohol, no, Hell. He wishes it did.
No, with unwanted thoughts and things and feelings that are entirely too human. Entirely too fragile, they are.
His hands tremble.
(Too much time on Earth, it's bad for you. It's bad for you Crowley, you goddamn idiot, you're turning soft.)
They shake even as he clenches them into fists, around fabric, around ginger red hair.
It happens when he's alone, again, but not on his own. When he's in crowds, and there's too many people touching him, watching him, and God can they see my eyes can they see my skin can they see that I don't deserve that I don't belong that I-
Well. It's rather fucking inconvenient, is what it is. That's what he means to say. It's annoying, and it's stupid, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.
He's more than six thousand years old. He's seen it all, for fuck's sake. He's created this very same bloody Universe he stands on! And yet. And yet he doesn't know how to deal with clammy hands and a beating heart. A little pathetic, considering.
And since God likes to take the piss out of his existence, as if it wasn't miserable enough, he does have one thing that makes the feeling stop. He can't control it, no. He may not know how to cope with it, but Aziraphale sure does.
With soft hands and soft words and his soft fucking - presence.
It's unbearable, really. It's ridiculous. One second, the world is about to fold into itself right over Crowley's head, the very same stars that he's made are about to fall from the sky and rain right over him, and the next. The next, a touch, a word, a gentle look is enough to pull him out of it. To make his heart beat into a staccato that rhymes so well with the sound of Aziraphale's voice. Absolutely ridiculous, he says.
Crowley doesn't even think he realises it, and why would he? He doesn't know, his angel. He doesn't know what Crowley would do for him, he's never told him. He doesn't know that this - stupid demon, foolish demon, he holds his own heart in his hands, time and time again. Over and over and over, for Aziraphale to see. For him to accept, maybe, one day.
(Or maybe not. Probably - not. It's not like Crowley would ever be brave enough to tell him Here, this is for you. It's for you, it's always been. It'll always be. Take it from me, treat it better than I ever could. Bite into it, kill it, throw it away, do with it whatever you please - as long as you don't give it back, never back.)
And it's nothing new. God, it's nothing new, he knows it. It still feels like it is, the thumping behind his sternum and the jitters in his fingers are surprising every time. The electrical shock of touching Aziraphale, the rare times it happens.
The way he looks at Crowley, open and soft and impossibly sweet. The way he looks at the world, at the humans, at everything that surrounds him.
Six thousand years. It's a damn long time. But it never seems enough, not for Aziraphale's wonder. Not for his love, for his stupid perfectly golden heart. It's not enough for Crowley's own to get used to it either, apparently.
(It will never be, he knows. They could be standing at the edge of the Earth, watch it burn down and cease to exist, - and the only way Crowley would see the flames is their reflection in Aziraphale's eyes.
Eugh.
He's getting sappy. Humanity will do that to you.)
In any case, this brings him to the problem at hand. The horrible scratchy feeling underneath his skin, in the white part of his fingernails.
He sits, restless. He can see Aziraphale from where he is, chatting with some girl - Maggie, maybe. Is that her name? He remembers the angel going on and on about her and her record store; he had tried to listen. He really had. But Aziraphale was so animated while speaking about it, and his ring was glinting in the sun, and his mouth looked soft and pink, and Crowley hadn't actually heard much. Shame.
The two are smiling while speaking, similar in mannerism.
How bizarre. They've spent so long on this tiny little world, the humans have rubbed off on them.
«Crowley, dear!»
Aziraphale's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and Crowley lifts his head, dark glasses pushed flush against the bridge of his nose. He watches his angel approach, giddy and smiling.
It sends a pang of something in his chest, like lightning. It runs all the way to his hands and feet, makes his insides buzz and his bones rattle before they settle back in their place inside his skin.
He hums, and Aziraphale takes it as his sign to sit down close to him, in front of his meticulously organized desk.
(It only looks meticulous to him. Crowley has tried countless times to understand how this enigma of an angel organizes his things, his books. He has failed just as many times.)
«Maggie and Nina are having a party, and they've invited us! Isn't that marvelous? Oh we should dress up, shouldn't we? I have just the idea!» he goes on rambling, getting lost in talks of fabrics and buttons and polished shoes.
Crowley hums again, just to show that he's listening (he's not. How could he, when Aziraphale looks like this?)
There's a faint ray of late sunshine that filters through the window, falling on the angel. It frames his head, making his fair hair and fair skin glow. His eyes shine in excitement, in a way that Crowley hopes to be able to see forever. Ridiculously gentle.
(He would do anything to keep their shine. Would destroy every last star, every last angel, every last demon. He would walk all over the Earth, all over the Universe, to find the one thing that makes them shine like this. (And wouldn't it be sweet, to be that very same thing? Wouldn't it? Foolish demon.)
He opens his mouth to say something, about a jacket or a pair of glasses, or maybe to refuse the invite. (Just for show, he could never stomach Aziraphale's disappointed face.)
What comes out is something entirely different:
«I love you.»
Time stops, just then. Not like it did when the world was about to end, but almost. That's surely what it feels like.
«I mean - angel. Fuck. That's not -»
Aziraphale has paused his rambling, and isn't looking at Crowley. He's staring at the floor, hands folded neatly in his lap. They're trembling. His eyes are wide open.
Crowley tries speaking again, choking on sounds that refuse to claw their way up his throat, out his mouth. He's incredibly glad his glasses are on, right now. He's not sure what expression he's making. He's not sure he wants to find out.
He sighs. Fucking Hell.
«Angel, we've - listen. Er. This is really not how I'd envisioned this going. No point in pretending I didn't mean it though, is there now? Well.» Crowley rubs at his forehead, tangles his fingers together until they go white with pressure.
«We've known each other for a very long time, you can't -» he breathes. He doesn't really need to, but he does it anyway. Makes him feel human. «you can't tell me you hadn't seen this coming. There's no - no reason to hide it, at this point. No reason to act like we haven't.»
It hurts to speak, his words get tangled up and stuck to the roof of his mouth and they're not coming out quite like he'd wanted them to. Blasted humans and their words. And their monologues and their feelings and their everything.
«I know how you feel about your precious rules and - and your roles, you don't need to say anything. I know.» Crowley stands up on shaky knees. It's the last thing he wants to do.
It feels like he's been hollowed out, there's nothing inside of him still. He's dumped it all in Aziraphale's lap without even meaning to, with a few wrong words and a trembling chin.
«But know that this has been - a long damned time coming. Hasn't it? Six thousand years, give or take.» he shrugs, pretends his words don't feel like daggers in his palms. Pretends Aziraphale's silence doesn't feel like having his wings burned black again. «Love is such - it's a truly silly thing, but humans like it so much, don't they? You'd know, with all your books and your stories. Better than me, probably. Definitely.»
A pause. A breath.
«I know you said I go too fast for you, so I'll wait. For you. As long as you need, angel. As long as you want.» (He's waited all this time, what's a little more? Say that. Say that and act like it doesn't hurt.) «As long as - well. We have eternity, unless, er, She decides otherwise, right?.»
He points up, to the ceiling, to the sky, all the way up and over the clouds. Hopes God isn't actually listening in. How embarrassing that would be.
Crowley looks at the door, tries to muster up the courage to start walking. The soles of his feet burn with pins and needles, like stepping foot inside a church. Ironic.
Just as he turns around, a gentle touch makes him stop.
Aziraphale's hand has found its way around his wrist, firm but kind. (Just like he is. Like you'll never deserve.)
«Crowley, I -» another soft hand wraps around his other wrist, tugs him forward. He stumbles over his feet, clumsy and unsure.
His angel looks like he doesn't know what to say. His eyes won't meet Crowley's, not even behind the glasses, tinted and hidden.
«It wouldn't be proper, for an angel and a demon - we wouldn't -»
«Do you care? Angel, look at me.»
Crowley takes off the sunglasses, forgets them somewhere on the floor. Without them, he can see the moment where their eyes meet with so much clarity it's almost blinding. The look in Aziraphale's is something he understands, something he recognizes.
He rejoins their hands, holds them tight, pressed between their chests.
«We're on our own side, we've always been. Heaven and Hell hate us already, you know that, we both do. They'll never - they don't get it, they won't understand. They don't even - fucking - want to.» He holds the angel's gaze, watches as his eyes wet with tears. «We only have each other, it's always been like this. We have to stop pretending it's any other way, angel, I - you have to know, from the moment I saw you, I -»
Words fail him, like they always have. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, throws his arms around Aziraphale's trembling shoulders. He holds him close, close, close enough that their hearts are almost touching, beating at the same time.
«Please, Aziraphale.» Anything louder than a whisper is too loud, the words aren't for anyone else to hear. «Please, we don't need them. We never have.»
A set of familiar arms wrap around his waist, so tight it knocks the breath out of his lungs. (It's one of the best things he's ever felt, nothing else will ever feel like this. Nothing else, ever. Crowley knows it like he knows the name of every planet in the galaxy. And he's named each and every single one of them.)
«My dear,» Crowley pulls away just enough to see Aziraphale's eyes, feels like he could never survive without staring deep into them. «oh, there's no need to cry, Crowley. Don't look so meek now, you know I'll start crying too.»
A soft hand reaches up to rub the underside of his eyes, but he can see Aziraphale's tears are about to spill as well. There's a small smile on his lips. It's not something Crowley has seen before, it's new.
He can live with new, if it lights his angel's face like this does.
Aziraphale's expression falters for just a second, like he's unsure which emotion he should settle on. Crowley understands. His mind is filled with a whirlwind of thoughts, confused and screaming at each other and you fool, you absolute idiot. Leave before he realizes the mistake he's making. You can't possibly think he'd ever love you back, not in a thousand years, not in a million.
«Crowley, my dear, I can't promise you that it'll be easy, that I'll be easy, but…» Crowley's breath stops when Aziraphale does, can only exist as long as his angel keeps speaking. «I believe it's time we stopped dancing around each other. Quite.» A smile, a blessing. «You're right, darling. As always.»
The hand on his face feels like a promise, like a brand. Not ownership, no, not like being an Archangel felt. It's more - knowing that Aziraphale understands, that he knows more than anyone ever did. More than anyone ever could.
Crowley's always felt loved under his angel's gaze, but nothing compares to this, Heaven forgive him. The wrinkles around Aziraphale's eyes look so lovely, he gets the impulse to kiss them. He never quite understood why humans hate showing their age, hate the concept of growing old. Wrinkles and scars and spots are things divine beings only get if so they wish, but it only proves - well, humanity.
So he learns forward, places his lips on the corner of Aziraphale's eye. He feels it crinkle underneath his lips, knows how beautiful the shape of it must look right now. Knows how it follows into the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips.
«My angel, my dear angel.» he murmurs, and knows Aziraphale hears him. The words taste like honey on his lips, and he hopes they stick to his angel's skin.
This, this feels like holding the Universe in the palms of his hands again, young and bright. Beautiful in a way he could never describe, born from the love he spent so much time pouring out of himself. Fragile and gentle and tender.
Six thousand years truly isn't that long. Not for a demon. Not for an angel.
Not if it brought them here. Where Crowley gets the chance to look at the way Aziraphale's happiness reflects the sunshine, sweet and pure.
(He'll realize, eventually. He knows what you are, he knows, he's gonna run away from you, he's gonna hate you, he will he will he will -
For once in his life, his thoughts aren't loud enough. There's something far too gentle in his lungs, far too delicate. Everything else fades in the background, static.)
Aziraphale's skin is soft. He's warm in Crowley's hands, he's real and he's solid. He looks like a dream, but under his calluses and scales his angel is there, just because he wants to be.
Because he chose Crowley, he chooses him everyday. He chooses him over Heaven's safety, Heaven's protection. And Crowley does just the same - has been doing it for a long, long time. Will never stop doing it, choosing him, as long as he's still alive. As long as he walks the Earth.
And he intends for that to be a very long time. Even if he has to make sure of it himself, even if it means going against Her. No matter. No matter, not at all. Not if his angel is by his side.