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Crowley doesn’t pay much attention when a nondescript man enters the bookshop. It happens all the time, and usually his demonic presence (when made slightly more threatening) scares “customers” off before they can properly have a look at any of Aziraphale’s precious books. In the corner of his eye, he can see the man approach Aziraphale, who’s sitting at his antique wooden desk. It’s probably from the 18th century, from the look of it. Crowley wouldn’t know, as he was asleep.
This is strange, however. Usually humans avoid interacting with employees at shops as much as possible, from what Crowley has observed over the many days of lying on the book shop’s couch since The-Armageddon-That-Wasn’t. He can hardly bring himself to spend time at his own flat anymore, not when the supervision of Heaven and Hell have ceased on him and Aziraphale. No more suspicion, no more flimsy ruses that he was busy “thwarting the Angel’s divine plans”. How can he pass up the opportunity to spend time with Aziraphale when it’s just him and his Angel? Sure, his plants must be neglected, but they know better than to wilt. Crowley has seen to that.
Crowley perks up from his splayed-out position on the couch as he hears a slightly raised voice coming from across the room. It’s not Aziraphale’s. Sighing, he pulls himself up to investigate, and sees a rather angry-looking man seemingly scolding the Angel.
“Are we serious?” Crowley mutters to himself as he slinks across the room. Of course Aziraphale would be too kind and let this idiot belittle him. Stupid nice Angelic behavior. Aziraphale’s fortunate that Crowley lo- likes him, as a friend. A pal. A great chum. Always coming to his Angel’s rescue, just his luck.
Crowley looms over Aziraphale, glaring at the angry customer who’s quickly turning beet-red as he begins to yell at Aziraphale in earnest. Something or another about being a fake book seller, as far as Crowley is concerned, which is not far at all. Aziraphale is just staring at the customer with a blank smile on his face, sitting serenely in his cushy desk chair. He looks as though he is about to throw the fancy pen he is holding at the man, though only Crowley can tell from six thousand years of experience reading the Angel’s face. Crowley wonders why Aziraphale hasn’t miracled him away yet.
“Is this man giving you trouble, Angel?” Crowley asks Aziraphale, leaning in slightly towards him and putting his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder in a protective gesture that he would not like to read into, thank you very much.
Aziraphale turns and looks up at Crowley’s face. “No, I’m quite alright Crowley. Thank you, though, dear.”
Crowley nearly lets out a sharp retort that would have probably been something along the lines of “Then WHY is he still here?”, but the customer stops him with an irate yell.
“And of course you had to be a disgusting homosexual. Why is it so hard to find straight, reliable, honest bookshop owners now days? I swear every other man I run into is a dirty pansy.”
Crowley gapes at Aziraphale, who turns a vaguely shocked face up towards Crowley. Did he just..?, Crowley thinks, until he is rudely interrupted again by the man, who is now pointing a finger at Aziraphale’s face.
“Don’t you dare think that I will ever come back here again, Mr. Fell. And that goes for you too…” the man wrinkles his nose in what is either confusion or disgust, “Mr. Crowley Fell. That goes for you too.” And with that, the man turns and strides righteously out of the bookshop.
Aziraphale and Crowley sit and stand, respectively, in stunned silence for a moment, processing the interaction that had just occurred moments previously until Crowley bursts out laughing.
“Crowley Fell. Crowley Fell! Yeah, he definitely fucking fell,” Crowley wheezes. “Hurt a damn lot it did, too. D’ya get it Angel? You must get it. That’s hilarious, that’s what it is. Absolutely hilarious.”
“You know, Crowley, he thought we were married.” Aziraphale says with a pensive look on his face.
“Yes? Oh, yes- yes he did. Yep.” Crowley bites his lip. Crap, how did he not notice that sooner? Though he supposes the idea isn’t so bad. It’s quite similar to what he and the Angel have now, Crowley thinks, before he abruptly stops his train of thought before it can go any further towards those tricky, hopeful places.
“It’s probably because you called me Angel.” Aziraphale says to Crowley, who responds, “Because you are one, Angel.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale turns is body towards Crowley. “But ‘Angel’ is also a term of endearment for humans.”
Crowley should know, as he invented the term many centuries ago. Of course it would be the utmost complement for a human to be compared to Aziraphale, wondrous divine being that he is.
“Why didn’t you just miracle him away?” Crowley asks Aziraphale suddenly. The exposed look on Aziraphale’s face at the question is too interesting to pass by. “Aziraphale?” He questions again.
“I suppose, Crowley, I quite like it when you come to my rescue.” Aziraphale murmurs, looking slightly bashful. Crowley leans in towards Aziraphale even closer, hunching over to see the Angel’s face until he quickly pulls a chair over to sit on.
“Really?” Crowley questions, heart beating rather quickly for a demon whose heart does technically not need to beat. “So what happened in France, during the Reign of Terror-”
“-Was on purpose, yes.” Aziraphale finishes, now quite embarrassed. “I know it’s silly that I risked discorporation, but I sensed your presence, there in France.”
“I’d always come save you, Angel.” Crowley hesitates for a moment, and then takes off his glasses. He remembers the feeling of Aziraphale in danger. How Crowley immediately rushed to his side to find him, ready for the guillotine on that near-fateful day, and how he had saved him. There had never been any other option for Crowley. “Always.”
Aziraphale’s hands find Crowley's as yellow eyes meet blue. Suddenly, this moment feels a lot more charged than it was moments before.
“Thank you, dearest,” Aziraphale leans in.
“Anything for my Angel,” Crowley says softly. It feels inevitable as he gets closer and closer to Aziraphale. Is this how six thousand years of friendship- of pining, in Crowley’s case, will culminate?
Yes, Crowley thinks as his lips meet Aziraphale’s, this is what he has been waiting for. His Angel makes a small, startled noise and Crowley quickly pulls back cause shit, fuck, did he read the entire interaction wrong? until Aziraphale takes Crowley’s shoulders and pulls him back into the kiss.
Crowley miracles them to the couch while continuing to kiss Aziraphale, nipping at his bottom lip until they part and cautiously, carefully, dipping his tongue into Aziraphle's mouth to taste him. Crowley is encouraged when a broken noise rises up from Aziraphale’s throat, his shaking hands coming up to frame the Angel’s face and deepen their embrace. He’s waited so long.
Crowley can’t say for sure how long they remain like that, kissing each other with the warmth of reciprocated adoration washing over them. All he can say is that an Angel and a Demon, even in human form, are not limited by needing oxygen, so the kiss goes on for quite a long time indeed.
When they do finally break from their kiss, they're grinning, both a smile of relief and joy.
“I love you,” Aziraphale says to Crowley, voice full of happiness, face showing nothing but pure devotion.
“I love you too, Aziraphale. My angel, I’ve always loved you.”
And when his serpentine eyes meet his beloved’s starred pupils, Crowley realizes that maybe marriage isn’t as far off in their relationship as he had originally thought.