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Crowley can’t help but not look away, staring at Aziraphale as he trips over his French while talking to Justine. The woman responds almost angrily at Aziraphale in English and yet, he still continues with the horrid French. And there’s just something about the way that Aziraphale turns back towards him, a large, blinding smile on his lips and laughter etched into his face. And Crowley can only shake his head, it’s so small, but stars above he loves how Aziraphale looks like this. The sun shining on his face and the blue of his eyes glimmering as he looks down.
It’s breathtaking. And Crowley wants to stand, to close the distance between them. To slot his lips hungrily against Aziraphale’s and pray to someone that the angel can French kiss better than he speaks.
But instead he follows him once more, and questions why his French is so terrible when they speak every language in the world.
And it isn’t until the next morning, that when he kisses Aziraphale with so much desperation bleeding through him, that he gets an answer to his question.
Aziraphale kissed him back for just a moment, and it was like watching the stars being born again. The same sense of wonder and joy. Euphoria over taking every aspect, every atom and molecule that composed his corporeal and ethereal forms. Made his wings want to burst forth, to unfurl and wrap around Aziraphale and keep the angel with him always.
And Crowley should know better by now that asking questions can never bring forth a favorable outcome. And Aziraphale’s words cut him deep, and it’s like he’s falling into sulfur all over again. And this time, he fears he won’t ever recover. Not in a way that would make him feel whole ever again.