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They were on a little holiday in Rome.
Aziraphale had said he loved him just the other night.
Crowley had confessed his love as well.
The night was one vague memory of warmness, fluffiness, tenderness, love with lust, lust with love…
As much as the demon loved to watch him sleeping close to him, he had awoken Aziraphale for the enormous breakfast the B&B was famous for.
Crowley was still high on the scent of his angel, who barely wanted to leave his arms, when he was standing next to the espresso machine, getting himself 6 shots of the black liquid.
An elderly lady let her her eyes travel between him and a handsome white-curled man at the far end of the dining room, that contained an enormous breakfast buffet table this and every other morning.
She looked up at the tall dark man next to her.
“He loves me,” that man said proudly.
“I can tell, sweetie.”
“He’s an angel.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“No, I mean, he really is an angel. The real thing.”
“Of course, sweetie.”
“And he loves me.”
“And you love him.”
“Ngk,” saying the angel loved him was one thing. Confessing his love for that angel to a complete stranger was next level.
“What? You can’t fool me at my age! You do.”
“Ngk.”
“Common sweetie, just say it. I know you want to.”
“Ngk.”
“Don’t be shy now.”
“I LOVE MY ANGEL!”
All eyes on Crowley and somewhere from the far end of the room came a small voice: “Love you too my dear.”
“Sweetie, I don’t believe they’ve heard you in Paris.”