Work Text:
They stare at each other. There are no words spoken, and the silence of the bookshop is loud enough that Crowley can’t even hear the sounds from the street. No cars on the road, no idle chatter from patrons on the sidewalks. Just silence.
The Angel’s mouth opens, and Crowley is curious as to what may words may tumble forth, will it be another bout of forgiveness, perhaps something harsher. Crowley isn’t sure what can be worse than that, but the demon reckons it exists.
Aziraphale’s mouth closes, the angel’s body trembling and Crowley wants nothing more than to gather Aziraphale’s form, to wrap slender arms around Aziraphale and never let go.
Aziraphale seems to read the demon’s mind. Crowley can only watch as the angel starts forward at a run, tears brimming in the corners of the celestial blue eyes that captivated and ensnared every sense the demon held. And like a gentle rain that was Aziraphale, the demon was found as an awning. The two meeting, sheltering in place as Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around the demon’s back, chin jutting up and resting against Crowley’s shoulder.
The demon’s own arms holding the angel tight, Crowley’s nose buried into curly white hair as a hand snaked its way between the locks, desperate for tangible proof that this moment was real. That Aziraphale was real. That they were real. And Crowley knows that Aziraphale is crying, can feel it in the way the tears make contact with the miracled attire that the demon is wearing. Crowley does not find a reason to care. It’s further confirmation that this is real.
Crowley is unaware of how much time has passed since this all began, and finds that not a single thought was spared to check. And the same could be said for Aziraphale.
It’s quiet, here in their bookshop. And although there is no sound of outside chatter, Crowley does realize that there is one, singular sound that fills their combined space. It’s the sound of a nightingale singing. And the way Aziraphale relaxes against the demon, Crowley knows that the Angel has heard it, too.
And they would stay that way, the sun’s rays still flitting through the window, and the sounds of the nightingale's song filling the bookshop. There are silent promises made, ones that both of them will vow to uphold to.