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Crowley had a boat.
It was a small boat, called Bentley, that he used to make the connection between Gilmoore and the mainland, from 7 am to his last departure at 6:30 pm. He took a break from 11 am to 3 pm, when nobody needed to cross anymore. Every five minutes crossing could carry around 15 passengers, mostly regulars from the island, going to work or to school on the mainland. He carried the crossing every day except Sundays, as long as the sea allowed him to. In the last five years, he had only missed it three times. One time he had the flu, the second time for his dad’s funeral, and the third because the weather was so dire it would have been dangerous to leave the harbour.
Crowley knew almost everyone that step foot on his boat, except during Summer, when he carried more tourists than locals, his skiff as full on the way to the island than on the way back. There was a man, who had been doing the crossing every day for the past three years, pushing his bike on the deck at 8:15 in the morning, and then back on the very last crossing at 6:30. He always sat with his back to the water, a book on his lap, and barely looked up at all during the five minutes it took to switch shores. Sometimes, his blond hair was perfectly combed, but usually it curled in unruly fashion, ruffled by the wind. Crowley liked to think the man had ended up too caught up in his book during breakfast to actually take the time to tame it. He imagined him rushing through his routine, cursing at himself while he pedalled on the way to the docks, hoping he wouldn’t miss the boat. As if Crowley would leave without him. He was quite enamoured with the man. He’d never talked to him further than hello’s and goodbye’s, but there was something in this stranger’s smile that just made him melt inside. Something in the blue eyes sparkling behind his round glasses that made him squirm.
And was he even such a stranger after all?
For the last three years, they had seen each other almost every day. Every morning the blond man smiled at Crowley while validating his ticket, and then again when wishing him a pleasant day. Crowley knew his wardrobe by heart and was able to spot the new scarf he was wearing in Winter, or the different pattern of his bowtie when he occasionally changed it. What he longed to know, was the man’s name. Along with his number, and what type of flowers he liked best.
The problem was, despite every friend he’d ever had (there were two of them) always telling him he was a catch, Crowley was incredibly shy. He kept his feelings very much to himself, walls up, crossbows at the ready, locking his heart into a fortress he didn’t think he’d ever allow anybody to conquer any more. The consequences of years spent with an abusive partner who ended up cheating on him and leaving him crippled with dept and depression. Now that he was back on his feet, he wasn’t exactly ready to let another man rip his chest open and stomp on his heart.
So Crowley worked, sailing his boat from one shore to the other, tirelessly, every day. He smiled to the stranger, taking his ticket, wishing him a good day, and then spent his own daydreaming about him. And then he welcomed him on board again in the evening, bringing him home, and he wished him good night, and he went home alone.
It could have stayed this way for three more years.
It probably would have, if not for that chilly November evening when the stranger didn’t show up. Crowley dithered, glancing at his watch. His boat was full of passengers waiting to be brought back to the Island, and the blond man was nowhere to be seen. The sailor knew he was supposed to be there, he had seen him and his bike in the morning, and he was never late. Crowley waited for a while. This was the last crossing. The only other way to rejoin the island was a bus three miles away, that took over an hour to reach Gilmoore. Crowley had built his business on that fact.
“Excuse me, is there a problem?”
The question brought the sailor back to the real world. It was 6:37 already.
“No,” he answered, pushing the level starting the boat's engine. “It's all fine.”
He hopped outside of his cabin to detach the ropes linking him to the slipway and then came back, gently stirring his skiff around and away. The crossing went as usual, uneventful, and he attached the ropes back on the other side of the sound.
“Thank you, good night, see ya,” he said over and over as he stood on the quay to help his passengers out. He collected a few tips, mostly from off-season tourists, shoving them into his pocket, and went back inside. He didn't live on the island himself, as the price of anchorage here was insanely high, and still had to bring back Bentley to the harbour and clean up the desk. He started the engine, ready to cross one last time, but instead of following the shore to his usual spot, he went straight back to the other side and stowed Bentley to the slipway.
The docks were empty already, the last workers had gone home, and it was dark. On a bench, his bike at his feet, the stranger was seated, his head ducked. He lifted it as Crowley approached. He truly had the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen.
“Oh. I thought I'd missed you,” he said.
“Err- you did.” The sailor vaguely waved his hand towards Bentley. “I was about to go back to the harbour.”
“Oh.” The man nodded, looking down again, his hands crossed on his lap. “Alright.”
Crowley squirmed on the spot, his hands inside his pockets, looking at the sky briefly before he managed to gather enough courage.
“Hop in,” he said.
“Pardon?” Blue eyes came back up behind the gold frame of the stranger's glasses.
“I'm not gonna let you sleep here,” Crowley muttered. “Hop in, I'll give you a lift.”
“Oh- oh would you? I don't mean to impose if you- your day is over.”
Despite his protest, the man stood up and grabbed his bike's handle to pull it up, looking at him hopefully.
“‘S alright,” Crowley answered, hunching his shoulders up near his ears. “What happened?”
He walked back to the boat, the sound of the man's bike clicking behind him.
“What do you mean?”
“You're never late.”
“Oh, well I, ah-” The man trailed off as Crowley helped him put his bike on the deck. “Thank you. I got held up. I take care of my mum after work and she, hm, she needed me a bit longer today.”
“I'm sorry. Nothing too bad, I hope?”
The blond shook his head with a tight smile and went to sit in his usual spot, his hands clasped together on his lap, while Crowley untied the ropes. While he did, the sailor took deep breathes in. He could do this. He was alone with a cute stranger he was smitten with, and he could flirt. He knew how to do it, he used to be quite good at it, actually.
“Sure you wanna sit in the cold?” he asked as he passed him by on his way to the cabin.
The man looked up, staring at him with wide blue eyes behind his glasses, his mouth staying open for a few seconds, white steam leaving his lips in plumes. “I don't want to intrude.”
Crowley chuckled. “You're not. Come here, it’s warmer behind the glass.”
The blond slowly stood up, and followed him inside the cabin. As he did, he reached inside his pocket and took out a ticket.
“Oh, don't even think about it,” Crowley waved him off. “I'm off hours.”
“But I can't possibly cross without-”
“I'm off hours I tell you,” the sailor insisted. “Do you want Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs up my arse?”
The man laughed, snorting a little, and put his ticket back into his pocket. “I think it's His Majesty, now,” he said.
“Oh right. I'm er- I'm Crowley, by the way.”
He knew his name was on the side of the boat, but after five whole minutes of this going on, he didn't have a clue of what the stranger's name was or how to ask it. And his hand was only slightly shaking on the lever of the boat after all. Much to his relief, the man's face lit up with a bright smile.
“I'm Aziraphale,” he replied, offering his hand. Crowley took it and squeezed briefly. It was warm and soft in his callous palm. “Nice meeting you.”
“Strange thing to say after three years,” the sailor said in a chuckle.
“Three years?”
Crowley felt a blush on his cheeks. “Y-yeah. That's how long you've been taking my boat, innit?”
He suddenly felt like he shouldn't know that. At least not that precisely. Fuck, Aziraphale was gonna think he was a weirdo.
Thankfully, the man only nodded. “Has it been that long?” he asked with a sigh.
“I think so, yeah.”
Crowley pulled the lever and stirred, gently turning the boat around.
“Hm,” the man said, his eyes getting lost through the window. “Time flies.”
The sailor stayed quiet as he manoeuvred the boat away from the dock, but dared an interrogative glance towards his passenger. Aziraphale gave him a sad smile.
“I came to live here because we had to put my mother in a nursing home. I moved into her house in Gilmoore,” he explained. “Alzheimer,” he added before the sailor could ask.
“Oh… I'm sorry.”
Slowly, Crowley drove the boat through the black sea, leaving the lights of the mainland behind.
“Where did you live?” he asked eventually. “Before you came to Gilmoore?”
“London. I owned a bookshop there.”
“Oh.” Crowley couldn't stop himself from chuckling. “Life here must be boring as fuck.”
Aziraphale laughed in turn and conceded a little nod. “Sometimes. But it's mostly lonely.”
Crowley nodded thoughtfully, wincing at the painful pang the similitude of his feelings sent to his heart. “Ah, yeah. No need to be from London for that, I'm afraid.”
“Have you always done this?”
“The ferry? I started five years ago. I worked on the mainland before that, I was an insurance broker.”
“Oh? That's erm-”
Crowley snorted. “Boring as hell, I know.” They laughed together softly. “What do you, ah-”
“I'm a primary school teacher now,” Aziraphale replied, making out his question without him having to finish it.
They went silently for the next minute or so, Crowley gnawing the inside of his mouth, looking for something to say that would keep their tentative conversation going. Thankfully, Aziraphale seemed to have some kind of realisation as they reached halfway of the crossing.
“Oh!’
“Wh-what?”
“You said you had to take the boat back to the harbour, didn't you? Did you come back to the docks just for me, Crowley?”
The sailor felt his entire face heat up in a way he was sure his skin was now matching the dark shade of his hair. His throat made a weird rumbling sound as he looked for an answer that wouldn’t be creepy.
“Errrr- shhh- I- erm- I mean, I- I couldn’t leave you alone, could I?”
Jesus, the whole matter was creepy, no matter how he put it. He knew the man’s whereabouts, his schedule, and prior to that evening they had not exchanged a word! To his surprise, Aziraphale smiled widely, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses.
“That’s very nice of you.”
The compliment crawled under Crowley’s skin, making him squirm a little. Nice was never was he aimed for, not anymore. Nice was what made him the butt of the joke last time. He managed to smile nonetheless.
“Don’t mention it,” he murmured.
“Oh, I will,” the man protested. “Allow me to buy you a drink. As a thank you.”
Crowley almost forgot he was driving 5 tons of steel above traitorous waters. It seemed his eyes were glued to Aziraphale’s face. The man’s lips were stretched in a hopeful little smile, his upturn nose turned pink by the cold of the evening, his fair eyebrows high on his forehead.
“T-tonight?” he asked.
Aziraphale raised his shoulders in a shrug that never left his ears. “If you can afford to stay, of course.”
If he spent one more second with his mouth open, Crowley feared his jaw might get stuck. Thankfully, he managed to chuckle and nodded, rubbing his palm at the back of his head. “Sure. Yeah, I guess I can leave Bentley at the slipway for a couple of hours.”
“Wonderful!”
The sailor managed to focus on the rest of their crossing, successfully stowing his boat to Gilmoore’s docks before he helped Aziraphale take his bike off. He ran by the harbour’s master’s office to inform them he was leaving his skiff there for a while, earning only a disinterested shrug, and then came back to Aziraphale, who was patiently waiting for him under a lamp post.
The only pub in Gilmoore worth their trouble according to Aziraphale was a place called The Reef. The man had strong opinions about the local restaurants, but seemed to like the place enough, which was a bit strange, as he didn’t strike Crowley as the pub type. The reason only struck him once they stepped foot inside. Behind the counter which was operated by two middle-aged female-presenting persons, a bright rainbow flag was on display. Several other references to the Queer community were scattered everywhere, from pictures taken at pride, framed news articles, stickers plastered on every available surface. They played classic rock music at a volume that allowed patrons to chat without having to yell at each other, and wasn’t noticing that another proof that Crowley had firmly settled in his forties?
“Hello Mister Fell!” one of the bartenders greeted his- what was he? Friend? Date? Companion? “And who’s that?”
The sailor blushed a little under the unwanted attention, and waved awkwardly. “Hi. I’m Crowley.”
“Aren’t you the ferry guy?” the second woman chimed in, uncorking a bottle of wine. “See, I told you he’d say yes if you asked, Mister Fell!”
It was difficult to say who turned redder between the two, but Aziraphale’s complexion was now closer to a sun-kissed tomato in the middle of summer. Crowley gaped at him, and quickly cackled, letting out a fit of laughter he didn’t know he still had in him.
“Have you been meaning to ask me out all along?”
“This was not a set up, I assure you,” Aziraphale answered quickly, throwing a death glare at the bartenders.
“I sure hope it wasn’t, ‘cause it’d be pretty stupid.”
Crowley stared at the man, grinning, as he looked down at his hands clasped together. “I, ah, I have been trying to gather the nerves to talk to you for quite some time, yes, actually,” he said.
Letting his grin soften into more of a tamed lopsided smile, the sailor placed his elbow on the counter. “Well, here I am,” he said. “What’re you having?”
It became far easier after that for Crowley to relax into their conversation. Aziraphale had been hoping to talk to him, to invite him for a drink, he was interested already. The thought helped push his shyness to the side, even if there was still the trouble of letting himself open up. They sat across from each other, at a little room table. Crowley ordered a beer, while Aziraphale decided to try his luck with a glass of wine.
“How did you end up with a boat?” the man asked after a moment spent chitchatting.
“I just, erm, y’know- needed change,” Crowley answered, internally chastising himself for his lack of eloquence. But talking about that meant talking about Luke, and well, he wasn’t ready for it yet. “Insurance broker was never my dream job,” he tried again, shrugging. “My pops used to take me sailing when I was little and the ferry connection just went free after Shadwell retired, so I bought his boat and I- I filled the gap.”
“I'm sure everybody here was thankful for that.”
“Yeah, it's not easy going to the mainland if you don't want to take your car. And it's better me than some big company, I guess.”
Aziraphale nodded widely. “I agree. Locals should handle local businesses.”
“Are you from around here? You said you were living in your mum's house?”
“No, I'm afraid I am not. Londoner, born and raised,” he said with an apologetic chuckle. “My parents inherited the place from a great grand-uncle or some such. They restored it and made it their retirement home. Sadly my father passed away barely three years after they moved here, but my mum wouldn't let this place go. She said, apart from the time when me and my sister were little, these were the happiest three years of her life. So she stayed, and at first it was fine, London isn't too far by train, so we would visit quite frequently. And then she got sick four years ago.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Must have been tough, leaving your bookshop and everything there.”
“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale took a sip of wine and then offered a stiff smile. “Although I won't lie, it felt like a way out. I co-owned the shop with my husband and we- we were going through a divorce. Coming here felt like a new start at the time.”
“Not anymore?”
“Like I said, it's lonely sometimes.”
Crowley nodded. He could certainly rely with that.
“The people around here are lovely enough,” Aziraphale continued, “but it's difficult to form relationship at our age, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” the sailor conceded, crossing his arms on the table.
“Do you have any family?”
He shook his head. “Never knew my mum. And my pops died two years ago, so it's just me now.”
Not to mention Luke had cut him from every childhood friend, soured every relationship and pulled him away from anyone who could have supported him or taken his side.
“You must be lonely too,” Aziraphale murmured.
Crowley shrugged. So what if every fibre of his body longed for companionship? For someone who'd understand him, someone who'd be gentle. The walls were up.
“Don't have much time to think ‘bout that,” he muttered.
The blond's smile didn’t falter. “Fair enough,” he said softly.
Their conversation wasn’t the most flowy thing. It was tentative question after tentative question. Aziraphale answered with ease, smiling brightly as he did, but Crowley wasn’t as comfortable. Well, he was comfortable, in the sense that he really liked being here with the man, but talking came at a cost. Especially talking about himself. He was trying to remember when was the last time he’d had a conversation with someone that had lasted more than five minutes. Ages.
Aziraphale was nice. He talked with passion about what he enjoyed — books, literature, music — without giving the impression of talking alone. Not that Crowley would mind, it was pleasant to listen to him. But the teacher always managed to bring him into the conversation, carving him a little spot that Crowley hesitantly took.
Their drink led to dinner. Just fish and chips at the pub, but a way to make the evening linger. Then, Aziraphale walked back to the docks with him.
“I, ah, I had a lovely time,” he said before they parted. “I'd love to see you again.”
Something big and warm took in Crowley's chest. He smiled, tilting his head to the side.
“Well, you'll see me tomorrow morning, if you don't miss the boat.”
Unfortunately, his attempt at a joke seemed to fly over the other man's head. Aziraphale uttered a little “Oh,” and looked down, his hands gripping the handle of his bike harder. Crowley fought the impulse to facepalm himself into the ground.
“I mean, since you take the boat anyway!” he added hastily. “But I- I had a great time too. I- shit. Can I ask for your number?”
Aziraphale looked back up, his face lighting up again with a beaming smile. He nodded and stretched out a hand.
“Absolutely! Let me see your mobile.”
Crowley took out his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and entrusted it to Aziraphale, grabbing the handle of his bike as he entered his number in the calling app and called himself.
“Here you go,” he said brightly, giving the device back.
“Great. I erm- I'll text you.”
Their smiles lingered, Crowley backing up slowly towards his boat.
“G'night,” he said with a chuckle at last.
“Mind how you go.”
The next day, at 8:15, Crowley manoeuvred his boat at Gilmoore's slipway with an unusual anticipation making his heart beat faster. He had spent the rest of his evening wondering if he should text Aziraphale right away, ultimately opting not to. He didn't want to seem obsessed.
As he was tying the ropes to the bollards, he spotted Aziraphale's blond curls in the queue waiting for him and had to bite down a smile.
“Hello,” the man said softly.
“Hi,” Crowley answered, taking his ticket to validate it. Aziraphale's fingers brushed his when he took it back. “How are you?”
“Fine,” the blond barely had time to answer before the rest of the queue pushed him to his usual spot.
Crowley spent the entire crossing blushing. He was trying very hard to focus, but he could feel the man's eyes on him. Aziraphale had put his book on his lap — Jesus Christ, was he reading Azimov? — but had not opened it. Instead of reading, he spent his five minutes on the boat gazing at Crowley.
“Have a nice day,” he said, stepping out of the boat.
“Y'too,” Crowley mumbled, crimson red.
He spent his day gathering his courage. Texting felt a bit stupid when they saw each other twice a day, and he wanted Aziraphale to know he was interested. He was worried he had not conveyed this enough during their dinner. All he needed was to get Aziraphale in a place he would feel comfortable enough to not overthink.
That evening, when came the time to leave the ferry in Gilmoore, Aziraphale lingered, stepping out of the boat last. Crowley took that as an encouraging sign and inhaled sharply.
He rushed to help the man take his bike off the boat.
“Oh, thank you,” the blond said, smiling widely. “How was your day?”
“Fine, erm- listen, they- they’re forecasting a clear sky t’morrow, and I wanted to- to erm- take the boat out a bit further than the crossing. She doesn’t get much at sea in the end. I could erm- would you want to come along?”
He’d spoken at full throttle and was now feeling a little breathless. Aziraphale’s smile blossomed, his eyes gently travelling on Crowley’s face.
“I would love that!” he answered, the corner of his eyes wrinkling with the push of his smile.
“You would?”
Damn he wished he didn’t sound so desperate. Still, Aziraphale nodded widely.
“Right, great,” Crowley uttered, chuckling. “Bundle up, alright? It’s gonna be real chilly.”
“I will. Crowley?”
“Hm?”
“I’m looking forward to it. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Ngkyeah. Sure. S-see ya tomorrow.”
Crowley stood by his boat, pacing. The sky was clear, the November sun warming up the his skin slightly, the breeze making it burn with a cold bite.
He was early, blame the nerves. He’d chosen more fitting clothes than his usual, reminiscent of his days working in an office. Tight trousers and fancy suits were the only things he actually missed about his former job, but they were hardly practical when one had to handle heavy wet ropes twenty times a day. But he wanted, he needed Aziraphale to like him. To find him worth his trouble. And that started with looks, one thing Crowley knew he could control.
Aziraphale appeared, cycling down from Gilmoore village. He was wearing his usual winter coat, a tartan scarf flying behind him and fluffy cream earmuffs, and his face was reddened by the cold.
“Hi!” he greeted Crowley, climbing off. “Do you want me to leave it on the docks or can it go on the boat?”
“Nah, just give it here,” Crowley answered, taking the bike by its frame and carrying it to the deck to secure it. “Hello,” he then said, a little breathless, as he came back on the docks.
“Hi,” Aziraphale said again, the red on his cheeks intensifying.
Crowley wondered if he had checked him out while he wasn't looking. Gentlemanly, he offered his hand to help the blond step on the boat.
“Perfect day for sailing,” he said.
“Can I help?”
“Hm, sure! I'll pass you the ropes and you can tuck them under that bench, is that alright? Careful, they're heavy.”
Aziraphale huffed under the weight of the wet ropes, but didn't complain while carrying his side of the work. Crowley hopped back on board and went to the cabin to start the engin and manoeuvre away from the slipway. Aziraphale came to stand next him.
“How does is work?” he asked.
“Want me to show you the ropes? It's not that difficult, really, you got a rear lever here, and this one is for speed. I can let you try once we're a bit further from the coast.”
“Really?”
Aziraphale beamed at him, and it turned a bit difficult for Crowley to focus on the waters before him. The man's smile was stellar. It was like looking at the milky way on a clear Summer night. Like witnessing northern lights. Precious, deeply moving, and unforgettable.
“I erm-” he started once they had skirted around the lighthouse. “I'm real glad you said yes.”
“I'm happy I did.”
“It's easier for me to mrrrr- what I mean is you must have thought I was a bit of a bore the other day.”
“I didn't.”
“‘S okay.”
“Crowley, I assure you, I didn't.” The sailor detached his gaze from the sea to look at his companion. “I found it very easy to talk to you, and I didn't expect to hear your entire life story on a first date.”
“D-date?” Crowley uttered, feeling his ears burning.
Aziraphale's own blush spread from his cheeks to beyond the thick scarf around his neck. He looked down coyly.
“If you want it to be,” he murmured.
The sailor blinked dumbly, words failing him for a couple of seconds. “I- yeah! Sure!” he eventually stammered. “That makes this our second date then.”
Aziraphale swayed from left to right, his hands clasped together in front of him. “I suppose so.”
Crowley chuckled. He felt silly and giddy, and so freaking good about it. Maybe. Maybe he could let, if not the walls down, at least a window open.
He guided the boat around the island, in waters in knew were clear of any reefs or dangerous rocks before he offered his place to Aziraphale.
“Put your hand here,” he said, keeping his own left hand on the tiller. “And pull, gently.”
Gently wasn't an instruction Aziraphale needed. He pulled so little the boat barely purred.
“Pull,” Crowley instructed again, fighting a chuckle.
“I am!”
The sailor snorted. “Pull!” he said again.
Aziraphale was giggling, hiding his mouth behind his free hand. He managed to pull, barely moving the boat at all, and Crowley started to suspect he was doing it on purpose. More than happy to play this game, he placed his hand on top of Aziraphale's hand on the lever and pulled properly, bringing the vessel to a steady pace. With his left hand on the tiller, and his right on the lever, Aziraphale’s back was just a breath away from his front. If he'd leant just a little, he would have felt the tickle of his curls against his nose. Burying his face in the pretty nest was extremely tempting.
He guided the boat North of the island, taking back full control as they approached the spine of pointy rocks sticking out of the sea. There, he stopped the engine, and pressed a button down to anchor the Bentley.
“Ever seen puffins?” he asked.
“Never. Are there puffins here?”
“Should be.”
Crowley grabbed a pair of binoculars and walked to the edge of the boat facing the islands. This was a known spot for bird nesting, even during winter.
“There!” he said, pointing at the water.
“Oh my- they look tiny!”
“Yeah.”
Aziraphale knelt on the bench at the rear of the boat, looking through the binoculars, his mouth opened in wonder. Despite the beautiful ballet of birds circling their nests, Crowley couldn't take his eyes away from him. He couldn't believe that two days ago he was pining from afar, defeated, and now they were on their second date already.
“You're not too cold?” he asked.
“I'm fine,” Aziraphale replied, before he turned his soft face towards Crowley. “You on the other hand, look like you’re about to lose your ears.”
The sailor grunted. His eyes were prickling with tears from the freezing wind behind his sunglasses, and he kept his hands buried inside his tiny pockets.
“Yeah. I’ve never been real good at dressing for the weather,” he admitted, making Aziraphale chuckle.
The man reached up, taking off his earmuffs, and placed them on Crowley’s head. The redhead only barely flinched, and Aziraphale’s fingers lingered on the sides of his head, gently stroking his jaw as he whispered, “Here you go.”
The tip of his fingers stayed at the apex of Crowley’s jaw line and after a mere second of hesitation, the man pushed himself closer to press the softest, shortest kiss Crowley had ever received on his lips. He stayed speechless, stunned.
“Was that alright?” Aziraphale asked.
“Ngkyeah,” he eloquently answered.
“I’m sorry if this seems fast, it’s just, I- I’ve spent every day for the last three years hoping I’d be able to do that.”
“Every day? And I thought you were too caught up in your books to even notice me.”
“I admit I have more than once caught myself reading the same paragraph over and over again.”
Crowley chuckled. He extracted his hands from his pockets and reached for Aziraphale’s, linking his fingers to his, and swayed forward. He stopped himself right before he could kiss him, caught back by an impossible force he always struggled to tame.
“I’m not, errr- hm. I’m not an easy man to, uh, to l-love,” he said, wincing at his last word. Aziraphale didn’t love him. He barely knew him.
Something sad passed on the blond man’s face.
“Can you let me be the judge of that?” he asked.
Crowley forced himself to nod.
“Can I kiss you again?”
“Yes. P-please, yes.”
His eyelids fluttered shut as Aziraphale’s lips joined his, lingering this time, the soft press opening slightly, just for breathe to mingle. Only when they parted did Crowley realise he had gripped the man’s arms, keeping him close even when their kiss stopped.
“I’m very happy I missed my boat.”
At that, Crowley snorted, shoulders shaking with his fit of laughter.
“Me too,” he admitted, reunited their lips again.