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The London streets were eerily quiet in the aftermath of the air raid, save for the purr of the Bentley's engine and the occasional crunch of debris beneath her wheels. Crowley's hands were still trembling slightly on the steering wheel — not from fear of the bombs, but from what had nearly transpired in that church. His sunglasses couldn't quite hide the way his serpentine eyes kept darting to the passenger seat, where Aziraphale sat clutching his bag of rescued books.
"I still can't believe you came for me," Aziraphale said softly, breaking the silence. His fingers traced the edge of the leather bag, remembering the heat of holy ground burning through Crowley's feet. "The books, the timing, everything..."
"Yeah, well," Crowley muttered, taking a corner perhaps a touch too fast, "couldn't let that lot discorporate you. Paperwork would've been a nightmare."
A small smile played at the corners of Aziraphale's mouth. His hand itching to reach across the center console of The Bentley, to place his hand on top of Crowley’s like he so wished to in that moment.
The Bentley screeched to a halt outside the bookshop. Neither made a move to exit.
"No paperwork," Aziraphale mused, his voice taking on an almost giddy quality. “We're quite safe, aren't we?" he asked, meeting Crowley’s eyes as a grin overtook his features..
"Safe as houses," Crowley agreed, a rare genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Well, safer than houses at the moment, what with all the —"
He never finished the sentence. In one fluid motion that surprised them both, Aziraphale leaned across the gear shift and pressed his lips to Crowley's. It was brief, almost chaste, but it contained six thousand years of unspoken words.
When he pulled back, Crowley's sunglasses had slipped down his nose, revealing wide golden eyes filled with wonder and confusion.
"Angel," he breathed, "what was that for?"
Aziraphale's hand pressed against the photo in his pocket, his secret treasure, and smiled. "For being you, my dear. For always being there. For the books."
"The books," Crowley repeated faintly, still looking thoroughly stunned.
"Yes, the books." Aziraphale gathered his bag and opened the car door, pausing before he stepped out. "Would you like to come in for a nightcap? I believe I have that lovely Bordeaux you enjoyed in 1832."
Crowley's response was to cut the engine immediately, earning another smile from the angel.
As they walked toward the bookshop door, their hands brushed — just once, just briefly. But like the kiss, it held the weight of millennia, and the promise of more to come.