Work Text:
Nosy bugger, he is.
It had been the perfect setup. Champagne and happiness still bubbling, a coat left unattended, a letter with Crowley’s name on it. Old paper and fragile wax held together purely by the belief they would never be unfolded again.
So, he had reached out, plucked it, and now stood on the other side of knowledge.
Crowley stands there, his heart beating so hard his vision jerks with each thump. He presses the knuckles of his free hand against his lips just to stop them from trembling, just so he can bite on the soft inside of his lip, feel the sting and know he isn’t hallucinating the words on the page.
His angel, his lovely angel who got flustered at the hike of a skirt and a cheeky innuendo, wrote plainly and straightforwardly of Crowley’s lips stretched around his – oh, God.
Crowley knows how to deal with a sidelong glance, a sacrilegious “thank you”. He knows how to curb the hungry thing in his chest that wants to get hurt on Aziraphale’s kindness. Crowley breathes out shakily, swaying on his feet. Nothing could fortify him against desire laid out this bluntly. The thing in his chest, fed on scraps and hope for millennia, would not back down after the sight of a feast readily offered. He vaguely remembers one should feed the starving slowly, bit by bit. He tastes apple on the back of his teeth; there will be none of that.
He folds the letter, buys himself time. Nervous gestures, running his hand over his mouth, can’t look at Aziraphale, or he won’t be able to speak at all. He needs to know. There’s a question burning on his snake tongue, curling under his breastbone, needy, needy and hopeful and he needs to know.
He steps towards him, words of ownership and devotion in his hand, in his heart. With every bit of his dogged optimism, he asks and asks again:
“Is this true?”
A nod. Crowley wonders how Eve felt, setting foot outside the Garden for the first time. His heels sink into sand, a softer type of falling.