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London, 1887
What had begun as a drunken, rather maudlin impulse quickly developed into a habit of sorts. It was an awfully silly habit, and one that Aziraphale attempted to break, with little success. It was simply that he had an awful lot of feelings, which brimmed up sometimes, and absolutely nowhere to properly direct said feelings.
It had started after his early trips to gentlemen’s clubs, when he first discovered the gavotte. Those moments in the clubs consumed him, all his thoughts and worries sailing far away as he danced. While he danced, he couldn’t be lonely, nor could he fret about having done the wrong thing. There was simply dancing, and in dancing, his mistakes could simply be corrected on the next round.
After dancing, his face often hurt from smiling so broadly, and his feet ached from hopping and skipping about the club. But that was a wonderful pain, one that said all was well. It didn’t diminish his joy. Right after dancing, it felt as if nothing could diminish his joy.
And then, the first shadows fell as he returned home. Each time, he stood in the center of his very own bookshop, surrounded by all the books he so loved. And yet, even the most comfortable surroundings could not possibly make up for the one thing absent from his life.
That pain was not wonderful. He could mask it for a time, yes, but he could never banish it. As soon as the excitement of dancing died down, it returned.
He had found a few other hobbies that could mask the pain for a time, and often rushed from one to the other. In this instance, he had gone dancing at the gentleman’s club in the afternoon, and then rushed immediately to his stage magician class. He was getting awfully good at conjuring tricks, and hoped to perform onstage someday.
As usual, he had been in awfully high spirits after the class, practicing his coin tricks as he went. That, too, helped him to focus on anything other than the ache that had only worsened as time passed.
But when he returned to the bookshop, and his heart began to ache, he yielded to temptation. He sat down at his desk, took out a sheet of his most expensive foolscap, and reached for his pen.
This really was a silly exercise, and even though he was alone in the bookshop, his cheeks flushed as he poured out his heart onto the paper. He never reread these letters once he wrote them, far too self-conscious. He merely stored them away and tried his best to forget about them.
They would never be sent, either. He could never dream of sending them. No matter how much he might wish he could truly be this honest, it was far too dangerous, and not just for him. It would be quite ironic if he sabotaged his own protective actions now, those actions that had left him all alone.
And still, although they would never be sent, he wrote the letters.
When he filled one side of the paper, he flipped it over and continued on the other. It would be easy to write page after page, really, as decades alone had given him entirely too much to say. But he limited himself to the one sheet at a time. There was only so much indulgence an angel ought to permit himself, and this was already too much.
When he ran out of room, he signed the letter, sighed at himself, and briefly stroked the side of the paper, as if by doing so he could come into contact with its unaware recipient. For a moment, the ache in his chest worsened until he thought he might weep. Or, even more dangerous, that he might dash outside, hop into a cab, and tell the driver to take him to Mayfair.
But he would not do that any more than he would send the letters. Instead, he put this one in a chest with all the others, took a few deep breaths, and forced a smile.
“Well,” he announced to the empty bookshop in the brightest, most cheerful voice that he could manage. “Enough silliness for one day. Now, where did I put my book?”
---
London, 1941
Despite the lingering, burning ache in Crowley’s feet, he was in such high spirits that it was all he could do not to dance. Thankfully, surviving both in Hell and on Earth meant becoming really terrific at suppressing impulses and adopting a neutral expression. This was a really strong impulse, but so far, he’d managed to resist the urge to dance badly around the bookshop and embarrass himself in front of Aziraphale.
He’d wound up practically dancing—very badly—around the church, thanks to the consecrated ground. But that was all right. He’d definitely made up for any loss of coolness by rescuing Aziraphale and his books.
Today was still looking like it had the possibility for embarrassment, though, and Crowley made a face at the rifle that Aziraphale had just bought. “Are you really, really sure you’re sure about this?”
“Of course I am!” Aziraphale, still almost literally jumping for joy, patted the rifle lovingly, and then picked up the how-to pamphlet again. “What could I possibly have to worry about? I’m sure we’ll have the most exciting time.”
“Exciting,” Crowley said, still staring at the gun. “Yeah.”
“Besides, I really do have exactly the demon for the job.” Aziraphale beamed at him, the sort of expression that always made Crowley’s legs go weak. “I know you won’t let me down. You, um…never do.”
He looked away, awkward.
Crowley, just as awkward, grabbed a decanter and yanked the top off. He sniffed it, was rewarded with the smoky scent of excellent single malt scotch, and poured two drinks. “Well, we’ve got a bit before we need to leave. Cheers to a successful performance, eh?”
“Oh, yes. That’s a good idea. A drink for luck. Or to steady the nerves.” With a nervous chuckle, Aziraphale picked up his cup. He twisted slightly from side to side, giving Crowley a shy look, and then sidled closer to him. “Cheers?”
“Cheers,” Crowley agreed, clinking their cups together. His arm brushed against Aziraphale’s as they stood side by side, and he battled the twist of longing in his stomach.
He was being ridiculous. Absolutely shouldn’t get his hopes up. He and Aziraphale had reconciled, and were talking again. That was what mattered. Anything else was extra, and impossible anyway.
“Oh! Oh dear.” Aziraphale put his empty cup down and twisted his hands together, looking around the bookshop with something like panic. “Oh, Crowley, I’m not ready at all!”
Crowley had exactly no idea what was wrong, but this was much more his department than matters of the heart. “Stay calm,” he said in his coolest voice, like the leads in noir films. “Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it.”
“Oh…” Aziraphale gave him another smile, this one tender and hopeful. It completely knocked the wind out of Crowley in addition to making his legs weak. “Oh, I would appreciate it. I-I’m afraid I just didn’t think.”
“About what?”
“About what I’m going to wear to my magic act! I can hardly wear this. It’s not at all appropriate.”
Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s outfit, which he’d definitely purchased sometime last century. “You look great, angel.”
Aziraphale blushed. “That’s very kind of you—”
“Stop calling me kind.”
“—but it’s hardly the sort of outfit I ought to be wearing onstage!” Tutting, Aziraphale took off his coat and hung it up. He turned around, examining the shop. “Oh dear. I’m just not certain where I left it.”
Crowley suppressed a laugh. Some things never changed with Aziraphale, one thing being that it could be hard to get a straight answer out of him. “Where you left what, angel?”
“My magician outfit, of course!” Aziraphale sighed, twisting his hand together again. “Oh, this will all be a complete failure if I can’t find it. I-I have two, but there’s this lovely cape that I’d like to wear. It’s so pretty.”
“Right, okay.” This was an easy problem to solve, at least. “Tell me what it looks like, and I’ll help you find it.”
Once Crowley had the description, he started digging through rooms downstairs. Aziraphale had rushed upstairs, saying something about walk-in closets. The very concept of having enough clothes to need a walk-in closet vaguely horrified Crowley, and he was happy to stick to dusty books and chests.
It was a lot of dusty books and chests, though. Crowley had always been impressed by Aziraphale’s ability to accumulate stuff. It seemed like that hadn’t changed over the past seventy-nine years of not talking.
He dug through a bunch of the random piles around the main area of the shop, failed to find a teal magician’s cape, and ducked into one of the smaller rooms at the back. He was pretty familiar with these rooms, and their contents.
Or at least, he had been once. They’d accumulated even more stuff in the past few decades, and he swallowed back the ache of longing. Longing just wasn’t useful.
Still, as he sorted through Aziraphale’s belongings in search of that magician’s costume, he couldn’t help noticing other things. The novels that Aziraphale had added to his collection, of course, along with recent additions of newspapers or magazines. The random trinkets Aziraphale had apparently bought. The occasional cravat or watch chain.
And when Crowley opened one chest, folded sheets of foolscap spilled from the crowded container. Swearing, he scooped up one of the folded sheets, and glanced at it out of habit, as if this piece of fine paper might contain a magician’s cape.
He froze, staring at the words on the page. Aziraphale’s handwriting, there was no question of that. His handwriting, so clear and crisp, and yet so full of emotion.
As I feel the warmth of other hands on mine, the press of bodies close to me, I cannot help but wish you were here. My very soul sings, and I lose myself to the whirl of the dance floor, the rhythm of the music. It is an ecstasy more profound than anything else I have experienced, and yet still inferior and shallow compared to the sheer pleasure of your company.
Where are you right now? That is what I wonder in these moments, when I am on fire from the touch of strangers. Do you, as you go about your business, think of me? Do you imagine the touches we have shared, the tenderness of even the briefest contact? Do you wish to be with me, in the quiet stillness of the evening, sharing soft words as we have so often done?
And tonight, I performed in front of my fellow students, vanishing coins in front of their very eyes. The joy as I manipulated coins was ephemeral, and I found myself awfully sad once I was done. For what is the point of having an audience, if you are not there? How I long to see the brightness of your smile, to hear your beautifully clear laughter, to once again see you free and open and full of delight! There are no memories I cherish more than those of seeing you happy.
Crowley’s legs went weak, and this time he could not stay standing. He sat heavily on a chest, still holding the love letter. Because that was what it unmistakably was. It was a love letter.
Curiosity winning out over good sense, he scanned the rest. It was more of the same, lots of wistful, sensual longing. Unaddressed, granted, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think that it lacked a recipient. No, this letter had been written to someone, even if that someone had never received it.
Too curious for his own good, he glanced at the others, just the ones on top of the extensive pile. They were the same, so full of longing that his heart ached with the resonance. And yet, it shouldn’t. He couldn’t let it.
“Well,” he said softly to the room with its piles of dusty books and love letters. “I guess magic and dancing weren’t the only hobbies that Aziraphale picked up while we weren’t talking.”
It was an unfair thought, and he was almost ashamed of himself for it. As he’d said, he and Aziraphale hadn’t been talking. They didn’t owe each other anything. It wasn’t like they’d been in any sort of relationship. They’d just argued, and drifted apart.
And so what if Aziraphale had found solace in the arms of a lover? Better for him that way, to be with an angel or a human. Someone who wouldn’t put his life in danger.
“Makes sense. Can’t blame him for that.” Sighing, Crowley put the love letters back and closed the box. “At least he found comfort somewhere safer than my arms.”
And that was all there was to it. Better for him to keep any such wishes to himself. Even if he marched right out there and declared his love for Aziraphale right now, it wouldn’t go anywhere. Most likely, it would just make Aziraphale panic again, even worse than he’d panicked over the request for holy water.
Fraternizing, that’s what he’d call it again, and he’d be right. An angel and a demon. Not exactly the type who could be together. The Arrangement was dangerous enough, let alone extra entanglements. It just wasn’t safe to be any closer.
“Any luck?” Aziraphale called from outside, voice panicked.
“Nuh, not yet.” Crowley shoved his sunglasses out of the way and dried his eyes, then hopped up and dug in a wardrobe at the back of the room. He snorted, shaking his head. “Nyeh, never mind. Think I got it.”
He pulled out the absolutely ridiculous magician’s cape, and held it up as Aziraphale came inside. Aziraphale lit up and clapped his hands with delight. “Oh, Crowley! You’re really quite magical yourself, you know. I had no idea where it was!”
“I am not magical,” Crowley protested, handing over the ridiculous cape.
“Don’t be silly, of course you are!” Aziraphale put the cape on and shook his hand vigorously. “I’m awfully grateful to you, Crowley.”
Crowley swallowed hard, trying his best not to think about phrases like As I feel the warmth of other hands on mine, the press of bodies close to me, I cannot help but wish you were here. Whoever that note had been written to wasn’t here now. He was.
He was, and he had a job to do. He squared his shoulders, pushing the letters to a cluttered back corner of his mind, and focused on what needed to be done. “Right. Let’s go put on that show of yours, eh?”
“That show of ours,” Aziraphale corrected, almost shyly. “I can’t do it without you, you know.”
“Right. Okay.” Thankfully, the terrifying thought of appearing onstage and shooting a gun at Aziraphale was more than enough to chase away any thoughts of love letters, or of how dangerous it would be for the two of them to be even closer than they already were. “Let’s go ‘wow’ them all.”
---
London, 2024
When Aziraphale had left Earth over a year ago, he hadn’t expected to ever be back in his bookshop. In truth, he hadn’t been quite certain what he had expected. All he had known was that he was full of purpose, of what he had to do, no matter the cost.
The worries about whether he’d done the right thing had come later, much as they had after he rejected Crowley’s other requests so long ago. Only this time, he hadn’t been able to bury his pain in dancing and magic acts, nor could he funnel the remaining sorrow into unaddressed letters.
Heaven didn’t allow dancing, and the Supreme Archangel would certainly be laughed at for conjuring tricks. And as for letters…
Well. Heaven had such strict control over everything, even the Supreme Archangel, that any requisition of extra paper would have been questioned. And he certainly couldn’t risk writing to a demon, not even a known associate.
That demon was now sitting on the bookshop sofa, looking entirely at ease. Aziraphale wasn’t fooled. If Crowley looked entirely at ease, that generally meant his mind was whirling about something, and he’d merely adopted the neutral expression that had so often kept him safe.
Perhaps he was thinking about the last, disastrous conversation he and Aziraphale had exchanged in the bookshop. Aziraphale certainly was. And no matter how many conversations they’d had since then as they reconciled and fought to save the world, that other conversation, and the lack of nightingales, still hung over them.
“Well,” Aziraphale finally said, patting a bookshelf. “It’s, um… It’s nice to be back.”
Crowley tilted his head a little. He hadn’t taken off his sunglasses, but he was no doubt studying Aziraphale through the dark glass. “To be home?”
Tears stung Aziraphale’s eyes, and he swallowed hard. “To be home, yes. I-I really missed…”
He nearly began to cry, and instead looked at the books again. He did love his books an awful lot, and this bookshop. But his love for those paled in comparison to how much he adored the demon still giving him a quizzical look.
Perhaps questions of whether he had done the right thing were immaterial now. There were much, much more pressing questions facing him, like what to do now.
It was a terrifying thought. When they had reconciled after Crowley rescued him so dramatically in the church, Aziraphale had gladly seized on the distraction of magic to keep from thinking about feelings. Appearing onstage together had been, well. Magical.
And then he and Crowley had been caught together, and Crowley had nearly been dragged down to Hell as a traitor to be tortured for all eternity. After that, Aziraphale hadn’t allowed himself to so much as think of anything beyond the Arrangement. He couldn’t allow himself to put Crowley in further danger.
Now, he no longer had that excuse. They were in no danger from Heaven or Hell. It was simply him, and Crowley, and all of eternity stretching out ahead.
“You wanna drink?” Crowley asked gruffly when Aziraphale didn’t continue.
“Oh. Um. Yes. I-I think I would like a drink very much.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried to think. He had to express his feelings to Crowley some way, but how? He’d meant to do it after dancing together at the ball, but everything went quite wrong.
Perhaps dancing was still the way to go. Oh, not that he was going to propose that they dance right now. But he had expressed his thoughts before, once. It might be time to make use of them now.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and zipped away before Crowley could ask where he was going.
Aziraphale hadn’t been in this little room for quite some time. Perhaps not since Crowley had found his magician’s cape so many decades ago. That had been an awfully special night, and one that Aziraphale had often summoned to memory as he sat alone in Heaven. All of his memories of Crowley were especially cherished.
Almost breathless, he opened the chest, snatched a handful of letters at random, and slipped them inside his waistcoat. They were really all quite repetitive on the same themes, from what he recalled, and any of them ought to make his point. He’d never been terribly good at expressing his feelings out loud.
When he returned to the main area, Crowley had poured their scotch and was waiting for him on the sofa. He smiled as Aziraphale joined him. “So. Here we are.”
“Here we are,” Aziraphale echoed. “Um. I missed you. I always miss you when we’re apart.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Crowley hesitated, then slowly took his sunglasses off. He gazed at Aziraphale, golden eyes soft. “Look, angel—”
“Let me go first,” Aziraphale interrupted. Crowley gave him a look. “I know, I know. But I-I promise that this time I’m not about to make any Heaven-related proposals. I just wanted to say, well… I wrote to you.”
Crowley stared at him. “You wot.”
“I wrote to you.”
“No, you didn’t. Not unless someone was intercepting the mail.”
“I-I mean before. In the eighteen-hundreds. Um. I’m sorry, I’m not very good with words.” Aziraphale drew out the letters and placed them in Crowley’s hand. “I missed you so much, Crowley. Especially when I did something fun. It made me think of when you and I had been happy together, and I found myself— Why are you looking at me like that?”
Crowley continued staring at him, unblinking, for nearly a full minute. Then he stared down at the letters. Hands shaking, he unfolded one and glanced over it. Then he looked at Aziraphale again.
“You wrote these to me?” he asked in an extremely odd, tight tone.
“Um. Yes.” Rather bewildered at the tone, Aziraphale twisted his hands together. His heart beat faster. Things seemed to be going wrong again, and he wasn’t sure why. “I-I just missed you so much. I couldn’t address them to you, or send them to you. It was too dangerous.”
“It was all too dangerous.” For some inexplicable reason, Crowley let out a short, wry laugh. “I’m an idiot.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, I’m an idiot.” Crowley dropped the letters into his lap, then dropped his head into his hands. “I thought you wrote them to someone else.”
“You thought…” Aziraphale stared at him. “Who else would I have possibly written love letters to?”
“I dunno! I found them when I was looking for your… thingy. Cape thingy. For your magic act.” Trembling, Crowley raised his head. He didn’t look at Aziraphale, just picked the letters up and stared at them. “We hadn’t talked in almost eight bloody decades, angel. I thought you’d found someone you liked. Someone you could take comfort from, sometimes. Someone safer than me.”
He didn’t sound entirely heartbroken by the notion. Sad, certainly. But mostly, resigned.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said.
“Yeah.”
“But you helped me with my magic act anyway. And you rescued me after that, and everything was back to normal, and…”
“Exactly. It was back to normal.” Crowley smiled, just a little. “Look, Aziraphale. M’ not gonna lie and say that I’ve never wanted commitment. Or to be open about what we mean to each other.”
“I-I do believe you made that rather clear, yes.” And oh, how the memory made Aziraphale’s heart hurt.
“But I was happy to be with you, in any way. Just hanging out with you was always terrific. Even if you didn’t have someone else…” Crowley swallowed hard and shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you still did, later. Thought maybe it hadn’t ended well, since there didn’t seem to be anyone else now. Or that it was a human. Either way…”
Crowley’s lip wobbled. Tears welling, Aziraphale caught his hand and held it. He forced himself not to speak. To let Crowley say things at his own pace.
“Either way, it wasn’t safe for us,” Crowley finally continued. “Even being friends was dangerous. I couldn’t justify asking you for anything else. Couldn’t put you at risk, no matter how much… how much I loved you.”
Crowley’s voice cracked, and he let out a snarl as if annoyed with himself for it.
For a moment, Aziraphale could only stare at him, fumbling for words. But although he might not know what else to say, there was one thing he was certain of, something he did have to say. “I love you too, Crowley. I-I have for an awfully long time. Will you marry me?”
He froze. Oh dear. That was not what he had meant to say.
Crowley stared at him, jaw dropping. “Wh- Did you just… Did you just do a surprise proposal at me?”
“Um. I-I think I did.” Aziraphale gulped. “I’m afraid it was something of a surprise to both of us, really.”
For another moment, a moment that felt like an eternity, Crowley just stared at him. Then he burst into laughter. Not just a wry chuckle—full throated laughter, his head thrown back, eyes closed with mirth. Aziraphale watching him, enraptured. He had never loved anything quite so much as the sight of Crowley happy.
Finally, Crowley stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. He grinned at Aziraphale, cupping his cheek. “You idiot. Of course I’ll marry you.”
Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain which of them had leaned in first, but lean in they did. Their lips met in a long, lingering press. This wasn’t the sort of desperate, heartbroken kiss they’d shared last year. This kiss was slow, and sweet, and tender, and banished all worries.
When they drew apart at last, Aziraphale found himself almost dizzy with joy. He let his fingers trace the lines of Crowley’s face, caresses he’d so long wished to bestow. Crowley leaned into the touch, with an utterly uncomplicated smile on his face.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling a little silly but also quite daring. This was hardly more outrageous than springing a marriage proposal on them both. “Would you care to dance with me?”
“Just the two of us this time?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just the two of us. I promise.”
“Terrific. I’d love to dance with you, angel. And I know you love it.” Crowley picked up the love letters again, practically caressing them. “You sounded like you really enjoyed it. When you were writing about it here, I mean.”
“I did, yes.” But it had made him miss Crowley all the more, and he had never tried to find an alternative form of dance once the gavotte went out of style. “But I always wished you were wish me.”
“I’m with you now, and not going anywhere.” Crowley stood and stuck out his hand. “Mm?”
Aziraphale took his hand and rose. He gestured to his stack of records, and the one that he needed shot out and carefully settled itself in place.
The music began to play, and he smiled at Crowley again. “The nightingales are back,” he murmured, and then promptly lost control over his tears.
Crowley leaned in and kissed away the tears, then drew him into something that was perhaps nearer to a hug than a proper dance hold. “S’ okay. We’re okay now.”
Aziraphale relaxed into his embrace, closing his eyes. They swayed gently together in the bookshop, serenaded by their song. And as Aziraphale lost himself in comfort of Crowley’s arms, he was quite certain that nothing could ever diminish this joy.
---
Crowley ruffled his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair in slow, exploratory strokes. He’d often thought about doing this in the past. Aziraphale had basically never changed his hairstyle, and Crowley had always wanted to play with it.
He hadn’t dared in the past, of course. But now, while he and Aziraphale sprawled in bed cuddling, seemed like a good time.
They had made themselves dizzy dancing and drinking, and lying down had sounded like a good idea. The sofa wouldn’t accommodate them terrifically well, and so Aziraphale had suggested his big, comfortable bed upstairs, which he normally only used when he wanted to sit somewhere different to read.
Taking the stairs while drunk and dizzy had maybe not been the best idea, but they’d managed it by helping each other. And now they were sprawled in bed, jackets and shoes off, just enjoying the comfortable closeness.
It was incredible how comfortable it was. How natural it was, honestly, like he and Aziraphale had been cuddling off and on for millions of years. Completely natural, with no awkwardness at all.
Okay. Maybe a tiny bit of awkwardness.
“Angel,” Crowley murmured.
Aziraphale didn’t open his eyes. “Hmm?”
“My arm’s completely asleep.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale shifted just enough that Crowley could pull his arm free. “Bodies are somewhat inconvenient, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, just a bit.” After shaking his arm a few times in an attempt to restart circulation, Crowley twisted to lay sideways on the bed. He rested his head on Aziraphale’s soft belly and smiled up at him. “How’s this? Okay?”
“Oh, yes. Awfully nice.” With a pleased hum, Aziraphale slid his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Oh, that’s nice too. It felt lovely when you were playing with mine. Is it lovely for you?”
Lovely didn’t really seem like a strong enough word. It flooded Crowley with utter contentment, soothing all the aches of loneliness that had built up during their most recent time apart.
But that was past now. It was all past, all their problems sorted for the time being. Anything else was something they could handle while they enjoyed living on this Earth that they’d saved twice over.
“Guess we should get rings or something,” Crowley said, capturing Aziraphale’s free hand. “Wedding rings, I mean. Not the sort of rings you messed with at the magic shop.”
Aziraphale chuckled, still beaming. Gosh, he was beautiful when he was happy. “Well, admittedly, I am rather tempted to pick up my magic act again. Not professionally, you know. Just for fun.”
Groaning, Crowley covered his eyes with one hand. “Nnnnnh, okay. As long as it makes you happy.”
“Oh, it does.” Gently, Aziraphale massaged his scalp in little circles. That felt amazing too. “But nothing can possibly make me as happy as you do.”
Crowley groaned at that too, but less convincingly. He was just too pleased at having Aziraphale happy.
And that it was him that made Aziraphale so happy. Even when he’d thought the love letters were to someone else, he’d always known that Aziraphale cared about him, that they were special to each other.
Now, though, thinking of those words in relation to himself took his breath away. The sheer longing, the adoration, the desire to be together again…
“Can I read the other letters?” Crowley asked, looking up at Aziraphale again. “I mean, I know they weren’t exactly written to me. Probably more like writing in a diary.”
“Oh, no. It’s quite different to writing in a diary. I-I do that too, you know.” Aziraphale blushed. “Rather a lot of the diary entries are about you, actually.”
“Gosh.” It seemed like he should say something more about that, but he was so stunned by all of this that he really couldn’t think of anything other than… “I really, really love you. Wish I had some love letters to give you too. I’m not, er… much of a letter writer.”
“Oh goodness, you don’t need to reciprocate my sad, lonely love letters.” Aziraphale laughed, smoothing his hair. “It’s quite all right. I love you too, my dear, and of course you may read the others.”
“Terrific. Thanks, angel.”
“Of course. I really did write them to you, you know.” A few tears sparkled in Aziraphale’s eyes, but he was still smiling. “I just never imagined that we’d really be free to be together. And that we can even get married! I feel so very lucky.”
“Yeah. Me too.” A little teary himself, Crowley moved back into a more convenient position for kissing, and drew Aziraphale into a close, affectionate embrace.
Getting married would call for all sorts of logistics, probably. Crowley had no idea whether Aziraphale would want a big wedding, but he would want a marriage license for sure. And then there was still the question of rings and so on.
But that could all be dealt with later. And later, maybe Crowley really would try his hand at writing some love letters. Aziraphale had written an entire chest full of letters, just for him, and it would actually be terrific to reciprocate. And maybe Aziraphale would write some new ones for him.
Any future letters or notes wouldn’t be sad, wouldn’t be the result of lonely separation. These ones would be full of joy and open love. He and Aziraphale were firmly on their own side now, and no matter what they did from now on, they would be happy and together.