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In all their time together, Aziraphale has grown used to the many and varied ways Crowley looks at him. Mercurial creature that he is, Crowley never runs out of emotions and his face displays them all so clearly. Sometimes, he looks at Aziraphale as though he’d very much like to strangle him. Or perhaps push him into the pond in St. James Park. Sometimes he smiles so genuinely that Aziraphale feels like the cleverest of all God’s creations. There have been dinners where Crowley did not touch a bite, chin in his open palm as he gazed across the table, watching Aziraphale finish his tiramisu. Crowley has a habit of circling him, his gaze dark and interested, and Aziraphale has never been able to make up his mind on whether he feels protected or like prey.
Never, in the whole history of their long acquaintance, has Crowley ever looked at Aziraphale the way he looks at him now. Swaying on his feet, Crowley stares at him with wide, wet eyes – as though Aziraphale had reached into his chest, pulled out his beating heart, and dropped it carelessly on the floor. And then decided to trod on it for good measure.
Helplessly, Aziraphale watches him slide his sunglasses back on. Hiding his face. Hiding from Aziraphale in a manner he hasn’t bothered with in quite some time. There hasn’t been a need to hide from Aziraphale – who knows him best and adores him for every whim, every snarl, every fond glance. To hide from him would be as foolish as if Crowley tried to hide from his own self. Seeing him put that barrier back up between them now is alarming. It feels final in a way that grips Aziraphale with terror.
His quiet, resigned parting words are no balm to his nerves. “Good luck.”
Crowley always walks away in the middle of their arguments – he gets overwhelmed and angry and needs time to cool off. But he always comes back. He did in 537 AD and 1652. And again in 1941. Twice during all that unfortunate business with the Antichrist four years ago. And just recently when he’d refused to help Aziraphale hide Gabriel. With such a well-established pattern of behavior, Aziraphale has no idea why his heart drops to his feet to see Crowley walk away now. He always comes back. So why does he feel so certain this time he won’t?
Panicked, Aziraphale whirls to follow his retreat. “Crowley, come back. Work with me.” His voice trembles and he hates it – hates that he cannot be braver; hates that he sounds like he’s begging. He hates that he is begging and will continue to beg if it means Crowley will not walk out on him again. “I need you.”
There it is. His darkest secret, spilled out on the floor between them. Laid bare for Crowley to hear at last. As an angel, Aziraphale should not need anything or anyone to sustain him other than the Almighty. He certainly shouldn’t need a demon. Definitely not this particular demon – the creator of original sin, the origin of the very first temptation. And oh, he is so very tempting. Aziraphale has been denying himself for thousands of years. Denying Crowley too. It’s almost a relief to acknowledge it. To admit out loud that his need for Crowley is greater than his need for books. Air. God Herself.
Crowley doesn’t look at him and in fact, doesn’t even appear to be listening. As if Aziraphale’s most closely guarded secret means nothing at all.
Pursing his quivering lips together, Aziraphale fights past the hurt. He struggles for composure, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”
At last, Crowley looks at him. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, Aziraphale cannot make out his eyes. After years of being allowed to see behind them, it’s maddening. “I understand,” he says, in a voice empty of emotion. “I understand a whole lot better than you do.”
His eyes burn but Aziraphale refuses to allow the tears to form. Not while Crowley is watching. He forces a grim, tight-lipped smile and stares at Crowley’s boots so he will not have to watch as he leaves. And he is leaving, Aziraphale knows. Crowley had listened to him beg; heard him confess a need as old as the world itself. It isn’t enough. “Well, then there’s nothing more to say.”
Crowley lifts a hand, his expression strangely blank. “Listen. Hear that?”
Hear? How can he hear anything over the thunderous roar of loss? It deafens him to all else. Crowley is leaving. Aziraphale will go to Heaven alone. He will face all his peers who hate him alone. He will lead alone. He will try to enact change alone. Alone, alone, alone.
“That’s the point,” Crowley tells him. “No nightingales.”
Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to release the bitter cry bubbling in his throat. How can he be so heartless to bring up that song – their song – now? When Aziraphale has laid himself bare, willingly giving up all the earthly delights he cherishes, just for a chance to be with Crowley in peace? When Crowley has taken all of it and thrown it back in his face, rejecting him without a thought?
“You idiot,” Crowley says, and the contempt in his voice brings tears to Aziraphale’s eyes despite his best efforts. “We could have been… us.”
And Aziraphale crumbles. Composure rapidly disintegrating, he turns swiftly from the sight of Crowley, unable to watch him leave. His breath hitches in his chest. His eyes water. He cannot breathe. There is a clenched fist inside his chest, squeezing his fragile corporation’s heart into dust. Just as he feels certain he will not survive it, he hears the sound of footsteps behind him.
Crowley grabs him by the collar of his coat and yanks him back to face him. Aziraphale does not get the chance to struggle or to try and hide his tears before Crowley hauls him forward and crushes their mouths together. Every single word of protest, every fear and insecurity, every notion that Crowley does not need him the way Aziraphale needs Crowley – all of it falls away the moment they’re connected. Like coins in a magic act, they vanish. Or perhaps, in Aziraphale’s case, they scatter across the floor in different directions – never to be seen again.
Aziraphale has longed for Crowley to hold him since the moment the stars were born. He has dreamed of kissing him since the moment he witnessed the first humans give it a try. He has spent centuries reading books of the most perfect kisses ever written and imagined them with Crowley. This isn’t like any of those.
It is unspeakably sad and angry. Desperate. It hurts. Crowley’s sunglasses dig painfully into his skin and Crowley’s teeth press harshly into his lip and Aziraphale treasures it anyway. Because it is Crowley, whom Aziraphale has loved since before Time began. That makes this kiss automatically better than any piece of literature Aziraphale has ever laid hands on. Georgette Heyer has nothing on the demon Crowley.
When Crowley finally releases him, Aziraphale staggers back a step. His knees tremble. The room feels as though it might be spinning. Gasping for breath and still on the verge of tears, he stares at Crowley in disbelief.
Crowley watches him silently through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, a war of hope and resignation playing out across his face in heart-wrenching detail. It is suddenly undeniably clear to Aziraphale that he cannot leave. No matter how angry he might be with Crowley for refusing to see sense or how bewildered he feels by Crowley’s refusal to return to Heaven, it changes nothing in the end. It has always been him and Crowley. Together. Since the very beginning, long before Aziraphale had been willing to admit it.
How could he possibly abandon Crowley for Heaven now, when he knows what Crowley tastes like? When he knows that Crowley needs him too. He hadn’t said it, of course, but he had shown him with one desperate, biting kiss. Crowley has never been very good at talking things through. Given his most recent method of communication, Aziraphale cannot find fault with him for it.
He struggles to find the words to say so. His breath still trembles and his lips burn, like Crowley had branded them with hellfire. Aziraphale swallows the lump in his throat. There is only one thing he wants. One thing he needs Crowley to know. One thing that will quell this new ache – this throbbing pulse that begins in his mouth and spreads throughout the rest of his body like the most blissful of illnesses.
“Crowley,” he whispers, voice wavering and tremulous. He reaches out a trembling hand to draw him back in. “Do it again. Please.”
Crowley breathes out harshly, his expression crumpling with relief. A ragged sob catches in his throat. And then he surges forward, takes Aziraphale’s face in his slender hands, and kisses him once more. Aziraphale’s knees nearly buckle. This kiss is better. Softer. So very soft and yet just as demanding as the first had been. It is still sad but it is not angry. It doesn’t hurt. Crowley uses less teeth this time and when Aziraphale parts his lips helplessly, Crowley slips his clever tongue into his mouth to taste him.
They part slowly, no less breathless.
Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s sunglasses, pausing before he removes them. “May I?”
Crowley nods wordlessly, frozen in place.
Without the barrier of dark glasses between them, Aziraphale finds he can breathe a little easier. And then their eyes lock. Crowley’s naked gaze is very nearly as painful as not seeing him at all. For a moment, they simply stare at one another in silence. Aziraphale cannot bring himself to look away, even when he surmises quietly, “You won’t come with me.”
Eyes wet and expression still wary, Crowley swallows and admits like it pains him to say it, “No.”
“Very well.” Aziraphale lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, marveling that Crowley lets him. “I won’t go without you.”
Crowley stares at him and the noise he makes in his throat sounds like a strangled sob. “Angel-”
It’s Aziraphale who initiates the kiss this time, swaying forward to press their mouths together. His hand latches onto Crowley’s tie for balance but it has the added bonus of bringing Crowley closer, of pressing their bodies together until not even a speck of dust could fit between them. Quite useful. Aziraphale makes a mental note to acquire more ties for Crowley.
They linger over this kiss like a bottle of particularly good wine, clinging to one another in reluctance to part. Crowley noses tenderly at his cheek, his lips leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touches them. It’s an all-consuming sort of heat, rendering it quite impossible to focus on anything else. Including keeping his legs locked beneath him.
Stroking his hair, Aziraphale attempts, “Darling?” His mouth twists into a faint smile when he hears the gut-punched sound Crowley makes at the endearment. “Could we sit? I think perhaps I might faint if we don’t.”
Grip tightening around his waist, Crowley murmurs, “Am I making you swoon, angel?” Aziraphale feels a rush of affection for his attempt at levity, though he fails terribly. He understands why Crowley prefers to wear his sunglasses during an argument. His eyes always give him away. So uncertain, his demon. Even after those lovely kisses.
Aziraphale touches his cheek. “You always do.”
With Crowley leading the way, they stumble to the sofa in the back room. Aziraphale sinks down onto the cushions first and Crowley follows but does not bother actually sitting. To Aziraphale’s scandalized delight, Crowley slithers right into his lap – bracketing Aziraphale’s thighs between his lanky legs. His hands settle on Aziraphale’s shoulders for balance and the slight weight of him leaves Aziraphale breathless. He’s cool to the touch, denim stretched taut across his slender thighs, his lips a temptation Aziraphale can no longer ignore.
They gaze at one another in tense, hungry silence. Aziraphale drinks in his familiar, beloved features greedily. Hair brighter than fire, strong nose, sharp cheekbones, the loveliest eyes in Aziraphale’s favorite shade of yellow. He had almost lost Crowley for good; he’s absolutely certain Crowley had been moments from walking out of the bookshop and never looking back. The very idea makes his eyes sting all over again. He needs Crowley. Needs him more than this human corporation needs air to breathe. Aziraphale feels like a human with an addiction, craving more. Always more.
Lump in his throat, he looks into Crowley’s eyes and pleads breathlessly, “Kiss me. Please kiss me, I-”
The gentle brush of Crowley’s mouth against his own stalls the rest of his plea in his throat. Lips lingering at the corner of his mouth, Crowley confesses hoarsely, “Never have to beg me for that, angel.”
Aziraphale shudders, tipping his face up for another kiss. And another. Another.
Between one gasping breath and the next, Crowley asks tremulously, “You really won’t go?”
Fingers clenched tight around a fistful of Crowley’s shirt, Aziraphale swears, “Not without you.”
Crowley draws away, meeting his gaze plainly. “I can’t go back, angel.”
He wants to ask why. He wants to push, to make Crowley explain himself. Aziraphale wants more than anything to take him apart and examine him, to understand his innermost thoughts and his moods the way an oceanographer studies the changing tides. Terrified of pushing too hard, he keeps his questions to himself. There will be time for that conversation later. With a curt nod, he replies, “Then neither can I.”
“What about the Metatron’s offer?” Crowley eyes him skeptically and Aziraphale wishes with a sudden, fervent intensity that he could take back every moment leading up to this one where he made it possible, natural even, for Crowley to doubt him. “You said you wanted to make a difference.”
“I still do,” he admits, careful to keep his grip on Crowley’s shirt firm and unyielding. No room for doubt. “But not without you.”
Crowley stares down at him, lips parted in surprise. Amber eyes wide and filled with such reverence Aziraphale feels small under its intensity. Unworthy. A human standing beneath the stars. He resolves to try earning such awe and devotion; he decides he will never stop trying.
“Then we’ll find another way,” Crowley tells him gently, leaning in to impart another precious kiss. Aziraphale wants to collect them like shells. He wants to display them on the mantel and find them in his pockets. He wants to store them away somewhere safe and take them out on quiet nights to admire their splendor. “Together.”
The next room over, the shop bell jingles.
Only one person would ignore the Very, Very Closed sign on the door.
Aziraphale stares up at Crowley with wide eyes and Crowley stares grimly back. “He’ll be expecting an answer.”
“And I have one to give him, even if it isn’t quite the answer he’d been hoping for.” Aziraphale sets his jaw and straightens his waistcoat, or at least makes a valiant attempt with Crowley still perched on his lap. He risks a glance, catching Crowley in the act of intently gazing at his fingers adjusting his bowtie. “Will you come with me?”
With what looks to be great effort, Crowley tears his eyes away from Aziraphale’s throat. He climbs to his feet and Aziraphale instantly feels the loss of him. Holding out a hand for him to take, Crowley says wryly, “Course I’m coming with you. Not leaving you alone with that twat again.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, even as he lets the demon pull him to his feet. “That’s the voice of God.”
“Aziraphale?”
He flinches at the sound of the Metatron’s voice, pasting on a bright smile he cannot see. Putting on the voice he uses for his customers, he calls out cheerily, “Be right with you!”
The Metatron makes an impatient noise and sighs. “By all means, take your time.”
Aziraphale twitches with irritation.
Crowley watches him, smirking, and repeats with relish, “Twat.”
Exasperated, Aziraphale bites back a smile and leans in to kiss the word out of his mouth. “Fiend.”
“Come on,” Crowley murmurs, lacing their fingers together and tugging him forward. “The sooner we get rid of that decrepit old relic in there, the sooner I can get back to kissing you until your lips go numb.”
Aziraphale flushes, feeling it spread from his cheeks, down his neck, and beneath the collar of his shirt. He feels wonderfully warm and short of breath. “Oh. Well, that’s-” He clears his throat and reaches up a shaking hand to straighten his bowtie. “Let’s get a wiggle on then.”
Crowley groans, even as he pulls Aziraphale from the room. “Not a wiggle on.”
Hand clasped tight in Crowley’s, Aziraphale smiles and hurries to keep up. He has a job offer to turn down, after all.