Chapter Text
They tended to sit side by side now. However, Crowley still found himself always having to hope for it, glancing at the single, cozy armchair on the opposite side of him that Aziraphale could easily occupy instead of taking up the space beside him. "I shouldn’t get used to this," Crowley thought. Surely, Aziraphale will remember that the armchair is far more comfortable and abandon (abandon?) him in the couch that would then feel too-big-and-too-empty without Aziraphale next to him.
Crowley had chosen the film they were currently watching — that is, that Aziraphale was currently watching, as Crowley had been unable to pay any attention to it for more than five minutes at a time without his thoughts wandering to the way that his forearm was pressed against the angel’s next to him. Was this okay? Aziraphale hadn’t moved away, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He so wanted to lay his head upon his (his) angel’s shoulder, to feel his warmth under and next to him, as their bodies remained pressed to one another at their forearms— and at their knees now, Crowley observed, holding back the urge to clear his throat, despite not having anything to say.
Another long drought from his wine glass would surely help and—no, nope, it didn’t—it only made him feel a little bit more relaxed, a little bit more than ready pull his legs up onto the couch, folding them against him and curling into the softness beside him. He was going to regret this, wasn’t he? He was about to say, or do, or say and do something stupid, wasn’t he?
“Is this okay?” he muttered, because he couldn’t bring himself to actually say it out loud, not properly, what with all the alcohol and feelings rendering his voice small and almost disgustingly hopeful (he really hoped the latter didn’t come through), as he let his head drop onto the shoulder beside him.
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, in the form of a small, contented sigh (blink and you’ll miss it), even shifting to lean to the side of the couch, so as to allow Crowley to lean into him a bit more and—oh. He was wearing the ring Crowley gave him, a couple of years ago. He didn’t always wear it, but he did so now. Took a bit of a risk with it, Crowley thought, in hindsight—two golden wings folded into each other, suggestive of the shape of a heart, suggestive of, well. Never mind that. He had spotted it in the window display of a little jewellery store that he walked past on the way to the Italian restaurant that he was to meet with Aziraphale at for lunch (“Their wine selection is tip-top!,” the angel had exclaimed, and Crowley couldn’t say no).
It was so easy to let himself believe that moments like this one could, perhaps, be something more than strictly platonic; could, perhaps, suggest a love different than the type of love that the Almighty affords all of Her angels to have for all living beings—even a demon. It would take nothing to move his hand closer to Aziraphale’s, to inch his fingers closer and closer until they rested above the angel’s own, which he dared to entwine as he chanced a glance to his side to find that maybe, if he was fortunate, Aziraphale would already be looking at him, would be looking at his lips if he was very fortunate, and it would take nothing to inch his head closer and closer...
...Just as it would take nothing to risk losing the most precious thing he had. Crowley would not, could not, take that risk. He had already learned what the consequences of asking a question could be. And he would not suffer himself to Fall thrice.