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They could’ve talked. They should have talked.
Each time one of them opened his mouth, nothing came out.
Aziraphale tried. He really did.
Picked up his phone, a trusty device that wasn't even connected to anything, then put the receiver back down. Picked up pen and paper only for his resolve to spill on the page like ink down the drain.
There were so many things he wanted to say.
I'm sorry
and
Why didn't you
and simply
Crowley.
It was a whisper of a word, really. A feather floating in the air, suspended by mundane laws of physics and spite and sentences unsaid, sonnets uncomposed, melodies unplayed. It seemed like only a name but Aziraphale wanted to feel it on his tongue, wrap his lips around the shape of it and taste the scent of Eden rain.
It'd been ages since he last said it.
They didn't see each other often. None of them was sure anymore of how this dance played out. The easy melody they knew by heart, turned foreign. An adaptation turned into an adaptation turned into a distant echo.
They've... reconciled. Kind of. Made sure a Second Coming didn't happen, made sure they would be left alone, for good this time. They were on speaking terms. They were on unspoken terms, too.
Crowley still dropped by, occasionally. Lingered somewhere between the philosophy and history section of the bookshop. Handed Aziraphale a box of chocolates or a hastily packed croissant. Didn't say much, just 'For you' or 'Was on sale'.
Aziraphale offered a cup of tea or a glass of wine. The demon made excuses.
It's how it went for weeks, the joy of stopping the Second Coming muted, what should have been elation just quiet footsteps on a carpeted floor.
The angel wasn't as brave. He never visited Crowley at the flat he newly regained, never called, never wrote. His hands seemed to have a mind of their own, always freezing when he needed them to act out wishes hidden at the bottom of his heart.
It felt like living with a ghost.
Wherever he looked, something reminded him of Crowley. Each item carried a touch or a sound or a sensation. The book the demon once handed to him as their fingers brushed, the glass he took a covert sip out of after Crowley was done using it. He was never alone, always hoping a mirage into existence, a silhouette hiding just behind him.
He tried to find his voice, tried to turn words into action but instead, he kept waiting, an angel caught in the headlights, a dirtied shell forced to follow the whims of brutal ocean waves.
He carried on as he previously did, back when he was a retired agent of Heaven, enjoying the peace of his bookshop. He hunted down valuable first editions. He closed his eyes while savoring pastries, stopped in parks to smell daisies in full bloom.
That evening, he was pressing books to his chest, hurried steps carrying him forward in the direction of a collector colleague.
His head was so full of thoughts of the demon that for a second he was sure he had imagined him.
Distracted as he was, he didn't sense his presence and only realized it once face to face with him, on a collision course with unfaced music.
He looked good in his dark coat. In one hand he held a paper bag with a logo of a bakery on it, in the other, a cup. A tilted cup. Tilted, in fact, in the direction of Aziraphale's books.
Oh, dear.
It took a few more, very long seconds, before he realized that the contents of the cup never stained paper. He looked up and noticed a slight wince on Crowley's face, a strain Aziraphale was familiar with, had seen at least once when the demon stopped the time in Tadfield.
Oh.
Oh, he should probably get his books out of the way.
"Thank you," he murmured once his collection was safe from the coffee undoubtedly sitting in the cup.
Crowley's features relaxed slightly.
The slight breeze Aziraphale didn't previously notice stopping, carried on. Distant echoes of conversations around them sounded like they were coming from ten rooms away.
He could hear his heartbeat, fast and stubborn and unnecessary but a comfort, a mundane luxury he liked to allow himself.
In fact, he couldn't even remember a specific moment in time, a conscious decision he made to have a functioning heart. He couldn't pinpoint the second he decided his lungs should require air, the day he allowed it to happen, letting himself go native, feel at home in this corporation.
He couldn't tell when precisely warmth filled his very being when in the presence of Crowley.
Couldn't remember when he allowed this newfound coldness bloom, too, a fragrant flower withering away when it should have been swaying gently among green grass.
Could they salvage this? Could they clear the rubble, sweep away the dust before it settled?
He felt very tired, all of a sudden. Cold and lonely and lost, in need of a tether, in need of a lighthouse to direct him through this storm, bright and intense like his very favorite color.
The demon was still standing there in front of him, just a few centimeters away, frozen in place like a statue so detailed and masterfully shaped that it looked alive, breathing. This was the first time he'd seen Crowley so static.
Was he as lost as Aziraphale? Was his heart also beating so loudly, were his hands also cold to the touch and empty?
Did he even need to warm them up, would he be open to trusting in the two of them again, ready to get close to a fire that might save him or burn him?
He cared, though. Oh, he still cared, he stopped the time, not to save the world but to save his books. Story repeating itself, the steps to an old dance never quite forgotten.
What if it wasn't only Aziraphale, who kept on torturing himself with the untold and unsaid? What if he insisted on coming back not only out of habit, but out of real want? What if all this time, he'd been throwing Aziraphale a rope, hoping the angel would eventually grab it and allow himself to get to safety?
"Angel," Crowley said. It came out unsure, crooked. Like the word had been sitting in his throat for a while now, growing and trying to bloom, never quite getting the right conditions for it.
It'd been so long since Aziraphale had last been called that by the object of his very existence.
It changed something in him, tugged on a part he wasn't sure was there anymore. Silence overflowed and suddenly the words stumbled out, messy and unshaped, real and raw.
"I can't do this anymore, Crowley. We wasted six thousand years and then– Then these past months of not talking have been–"
"–Hell?" the demon suggested, his sarcastic smirk not as sharp as in the past, flattened by weariness.
And yet, it made Aziraphale laugh. Not his usual soft chuckle, not his nervous giggle he let out sometimes in the presence of other angels.
Real laughter, inelegant and unpolished.
Something about it made Crowley relax slightly. His shoulders dropped down, hands lowered just like, maybe, his defenses.
"Do you–"
"Maybe we should–"
They interrupted each other but for some reason, it made Aziraphale laugh once more. He'd missed this, how easy it felt. How effortlessly they could share their moments together, floating on the surface instead of fighting the current.
Crowley tensed once again, though it was different, this time. It wasn't closing himself off, locking the feelings away, ignoring the need to unpack after a long and difficult trip. He seemed to look for words, trying to carefully mold them into a key that would slide in effortlessly and reveal all the messy feelings inside.
"Maybe I should have– Should have realized you wouldn't just want to turn me into an angel again."
Aziraphale sighed softly, feeling an invisible thorn shift painfully in his soul.
"Oh, my dear, of course I wouldn't."
Before he knew it, he found himself standing even closer, books sent back to the bookshop with a gesture, hands right in front of Crowley's, posed nervously, giving the demon a chance to back away.
He didn't.
Carefully, slowly, Aziraphale squeezed, with as much care as he would use to handle the rarest of manuscripts. Perhaps even more cautiously. He was holding his own beating heart, after all, his own breath, his very existence.
Crowley had never looked as vulnerable as then, sharp edges softened and blurred, a Polaroid picture in development. It was up to the angel to make sure the resulting effect would be vibrant, something precious to remember this moment by.
"I adore you just as you are, darling. I should have communicated better."
Crowley inhaled sharply, long fingers wrapping around Aziraphale's, squeezing back. Not gently but desperately. Not like saving oneself from drowning but rather finally feeling the ground under your feet, making sure it's real.
"I should have trusted you," he admitted. "It wasn't– Guess it wasn't the best time for a confession."
Aziraphale snorted, amusement wrapped in softness and affection.
"Perhaps. Is now a better time?"
Crowley raised his eyebrows.
"Better time for what? A confession?"
Understanding followed puzzlement as Crowley opened his mouth, looking at Aziraphale in wonder.
"I love you," the angel whispered, unable to hold himself back any longer. It felt good to let go. It felt like a cool breeze on rosy, chilly cheeks, making you feel alive. "I should have told you sooner. Should have known sooner, in that church during the war perhaps. Or in Paris. Rome."
He couldn't bring himself to look at Crowley, a Molotov cocktail of fear and hope and longing boiling in his heart.
He gazed up anyway.
The demon let go with one hand, slowly pushed his glasses up. Yellow filled Aziraphale's vision, sunlight blooming and growing, warming him up after neverending winter.
"I– Fuck, angel, I'm not as good with... words."
Aziraphale chuckled.
"It's alright, love. You've told me. You've been telling me for many years."
"Can I– Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?"
"Only if you'll stay for a bit longer this time."
"I'll stay as long as you want" Crowley promised, a tentative smile finally taking hold of his lips.
They kept looking at each other, enjoying the clear air, basking in relief.
"I do love you. I can't put it into a flowery sentence like you did but– You should know. Someone, angel, I missed you. Missed calling you angel."
Something bloomed in Aziraphale's soul. Hope, a snowdrop defeating a frozen barrier. Affection, dusted after so many years, about to be polished.
They had time. They had all the time in world.