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"Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale says, and the look on his face is a terrifying mixture of joy and guilt. “I love you too..."
"I'm hearing a 'but,'" Crowley says. He’d been sure, he’d been so sure.
"I was created to love all of God's creations equally, and God Herself above all things.” Aziraphale looks upward, not with his usual nervous reverence. “I suppose that last bit is still true or I would have fallen... it's not what I would choose, knowing what I do now, but it rather seems baked-in."
Crowley can’t quite look at that one head-on just yet. "You can love someone even when you don't want to?" he says.
"Oh, listen to yourself, the humans do it all the time. You know that."
"But..."
Aziraphale sets his book down with a sigh. "It ought to be obvious to anyone who's known me for more than five minutes that 'loving all creatures equally' went by the wayside some time ago.” Crowley smiles a little, and Aziraphale looks guilty again. “I do love them all still! I do! But I found rather early on, to my dismay, that I was developing preferences."
"Okay..." Crowley is at a loss for words. Aziraphale takes his hands, and that’s something, at least — he holds them firmly, as though he’s always had a right to do it.
"My very dearest friend. I prefer you over all God's creations, of course I do. But I am made for the loving-kindness of the Almighty, as She seeks to express it towards the world. It is… a great love, and a powerful one, but of a singular type, and unchangeable.” Aziraphale looks him in the eye, and Crowley can see the affection there, and something like shame. “All I have of it is yours, without question. But if you want me to be "in love," if it's romantic love you seek…” He shakes his head. “I fear I have none to give."
Crowley has... no idea how to feel. No, he has too many ideas. Aziraphale loves him! More than anybody except God, and he practically came out and said he would rather love Crowley more instead!
But then... it's not like he can eliminate six thousand years of pretending he's too cool for feelings all at once, but if he at least peeks inside the structure of denial he’s built around himself, what he sees is (damn him all over again) a hopeless romantic. Something about that single passionate devotion humans set so much stock in is… not a perfect match, but as close as he can come to explaining what he's felt for the angel all this time.
Demons aren't supposed to love at all. It figures he'd pick the one way that makes everyone's lives complicated and dramatic.
As all of this is going through his head, Aziraphale, still holding his hands, draws him in closer. Crowley doesn't actually notice until the angel's lips are a few inches from his, and then he freezes, unable to think or pull back.
Aziraphale's kiss is slow and exploratory, incredibly gentle, but Crowley can feel the desire in it: old, very old, and ravenous. If anyone's desire could ever feel nonthreatening to him, it ought to be the angel's, but the way Aziraphale’s tongue slides against his own sets a queasy hollowness in his gut.
He must make a noise, or flinch, because Aziraphale pulls back quite suddenly. "Was that... not all right?" he asks anxiously.
"I don't..." Crowley shakes his head. "Never really... Aziraphale, I've been in love with you for six thousand years. But I never wanted you, like that. It just isn't in me." He hangs his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Not you or anyone else.”
"But as a demon, surely --"
"You’d be surprised,” Crowley says, a little bitterly. “When the humans sin at least they get to enjoy it. That’s not… for us.”
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says sadly. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” He laughs, humorless. “It would happen this way, wouldn’t it? Each wanting most what the other can’t give.”
"Yeah, it's like that story about the idiots with the hair and the watch, except maybe even stupider."
"'Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise,'" Aziraphale quotes, musing. "'Everywhere they are the wise ones. They are the magi.'"
"Angel." Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale from behind. This way he can't see Aziraphale's sad face and Aziraphale can't see whatever godawful expressions he's going to go through in his attempt at sincerity. "We are... so much. To each other. We can say it now. We can know it now. You love me."
"I always have, my dear, but it isn’t —"
"Tssst. If it doesn't... fit the way we thought, either of us... we have time to see how it does fit. How we fit."
"We do," Aziraphale says, and there's hope in his voice. He turns around. "My very dear Crowley. May I hold you?"
Crowley stomps down on a dozen sneering, dismissive, grudging assents he could give. Not now. Maybe not ever again, if he really wants a future with Aziraphale.
"Yeah, angel," he says, and whatever his face is doing makes Aziraphale smile. "I'd like that."