Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Listen, angel, I need to tell you something," Crowley said, in a tone suggesting that an Emotionally Significant Admission was coming on.

"Oh?" Aziraphale began to turn toward him, then stopped. He had never grasped the basics of a poker face (let alone the game itself), so the less Crowley saw of him the better.

Gesturing with a half-full glass of wine, Crowley said, "There's this thing. An important thing, very important, and as soon as I remember what it is, I'm going to tell you."

Aziraphale settled with his hands clasped in his lap, still avoiding looking at Crowley. Instead, he stared at the clutter on his desk, making a mental note to deal with that later. "Take your time, my dear. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world."

"Right." Crowley slithered into a reclining position on the couch. His wine defied gravity to stay in its glass. "'S long as the world has time. I mean, how long d'you think before Heaven and Hell come slinking back up--down--for a second go at things?"

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together, spinning his signet ring between thumb and forefinger. He reached for his own wine, determined not to let on how nervous that prospect made him. "Can we not talk about that right now, please? We were having a lovely time. And besides, it's out of our control. What use is there in worrying over something we can't change?"

Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and stared at Aziraphale. "Now that sounds more like the kind of thing you'd expect me to say. I'm the optimist, remember? You're the pessimist."

"I am not a pessimist.” Aziraphale shot Crowley a disapproving glance, then, overwhelmed by the direct eye contact, looked back at his messy desk. "I'm a realist."

Crowley made an undignified sound of amusement. "Look at this glass." He held up his wine, which once again refused to spill. "Half full or half empty?"

"Both. Half of it is empty and half of it is full. That," Aziraphale said, with a great deal more gusto than the topic required, "is simply the truth of the matter."

"Huh," said Crowley. "Guess so."

There was a long silence. Then Aziraphale cleared his throat and, valiantly wielding the last shred of his courage, asked, "What were you going to tell me?"

Crowley said something vaguely word-like (his penchant for incomprehensible articulations had likely inspired the link between demonic activity and speaking in tongues, Aziraphale suspected) and reached for his sunglasses. "The thing about that... well, hgnk, uh... listen, angel..."

"Listening," said Aziraphale, and forced himself to face Crowley directly. It wouldn't do for him to think Aziraphale wasn't desperately hanging on his every word.

"There's this angel."

"I told you, I would prefer if we didn’t talk about--"

"There's this angel I'm in love with--"

"--Heaven and Hell, so if you could just refrain--"

"--and I don't know how to tell them--"

"--from discussing it--"

"--and it's killing me, because I don't know how they'll react--"

"--that would be most appreciated."

"--and I'm afraid they'll reject me, so I'm really in a pretty shit position here, if I'm being honest."

There was a long beat of dead silence where they both stared at each other with mounting levels of incomprehension.

"What?" said Aziraphale.

"What?" said Crowley.

"Oh, well, I thought you were going to say... wait, what do you mean, there's an angel you're in love with?"

Crowley shrugged in a distinctly jointless way, looking miserable. "Exactly what I said, that's what I meant. But hey, 's really no big deal. Y'know, angel, demon, not exactly happily-ever-after material, is it? Thought I owed it to you to tell you, though. After everything."

"Oh." For the first time since the world nearly ended, Aziraphale wished that Crowley was talking about Heaven and Hell. His heart, unnecessary as it was, felt like a hundred-tonne lump of lead. "Oh," he said again, and this time he was sure Crowley could read the misery on his face: a mirror of the demon's own.

But this was Crowley, his best friend, and he was obviously looking for Aziraphale's advice, so he forced himself to smile and nod as if it was no big deal at all. "Ah, well. This... this angel of yours. Do I know them?"

Crowley gave him a blank look. "Well, yeah," he said. "I’d hope so."

Aziraphale wracked his memories for anything even vaguely helpful. "Now don't take this the wrong way, but I can't imagine any of the Host falling in love with a demon."

From the look on Crowley's face, this was the wrong thing to say.

"I didn't mean--"

"Nah, 's alright. You're right. That's the problem. No angel in their right mind would love a demon, and that's... that's fine! Course it is. Wouldn't expect anything else."

Aziraphale felt a sudden vicious stab of something that was suspiciously like envy and wrath. It was aimed at whatever angel had captured Crowley's affection and, from the sound of it, not returned it. "Well that's not true. I know an angel who's in love with a demon, so it is possible."

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in disbelief. "Nah. No way. I can't see any of those smug holier-than-thou bastards falling for a demon."

They both winced at the phrasing. Aziraphale sighed.

"That's just the thing," he said. Looking down, he clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap. "You see, I'm the one."

"The one what?"

"The angel in love with a demon."

Crowley's look became impossibly more incredulous. "You. In love with a demon. No way in the nine layers of Hell. I know every demon who's ever gotten topside and there's not a single one who deserves you. Trust me."

"Trust a demon?" Aziraphale teased, then regretted it when Crowley's expression turned toward devastation. "I do trust you, Crowley, but I promise that it is possible for an angel to love a demon. We are beings of love, after all."

"You lot love all things, yeah, I get it. But not like this. This is... different. The selfish kind of love."

Aziraphale sighed. If it weren't for the wine making him especially loose-limbed and unsteady, he was pretty sure he would've already fled the shop. He was in dangerous territory now. One slip and he'd fall.

He winced again. Phrasing.

"Not that it matters," said Crowley. He gestured with his wine; it came dangerously close to spilling this time. His concentration must be slipping. "Because I have it on good authority that he's in love with someone else."

"He?"

Crowley scowled. His fingers twitched toward his sunglasses, but then he clenched his fist and took a long drink of wine instead. "Yeah. He."

"So," said Aziraphale cautiously. "What is he... what is he like?"

Crowley shot him a look of disbelief. "Well, he's not the brightest. No, wait, that's not right. He's brilliant. Cleverest person I ever knew. But he's also an oblivious idiot sometimes, and I'd have more luck shouting my confession into an empty grate."

Aziraphale took a sip of wine to cover the shake in his voice as he said, "Well, the demon I love is also... also not available. He's in love with someone else, too."

"He?"

"Yes. He."

"And your demon, what's he like?" Crowley sounded like he was trying to talk around broken glass. Aziraphale wondered just how many times he'd refilled his glass at this point. Probably in the low teens.

"Well... he's a lot of things," Aziraphale said evasively. The last thing he wanted to do was give the game away. "He's handsome and clever. And stylish, in his own way." He tried not to stare at Crowley's half-unbuttoned shirt, or his too-tight pants. He wasn't sure he succeeded. "And he's not a bad person, you see. He's actually quite nice."

That earned him an eyeroll. "I doubt it. 'Nice' is the kind of thing that gets a demon fired. Sent to the pits," he amended at Aziraphale's inquisitive look.

"Well, he is. He's kind and considerate and I love him so very much, sometimes I wonder... well. I wonder if it will destroy me."

"You mean you're afraid you'll Fall."

Aziraphale looked down and away. "I don't expect I would, but... I wouldn't want to put that kind of pressure on him. It wouldn't be fair to put him in that position, assuming he returned my... romantic inclinations. Which he doesn't, I'm quite sure now."

Crowley snorted. "Romantic inclinations. Yeah." He finished his wine and snapped his fingers to refill it. "Look at us." He gestured broadly around the room. "What a fucking mess."

"Yes, quite."

A third silence fell over the room--the longest and awkwardest yet.

Finally, Aziraphale got up the nerve to say, "Well, if you'd like help or advice--"

"I don't," snapped Crowley. Then he sighed, rubbing his free hand over his face. "Sorry. Just, y'know. Tired."

"I understand. If you'd like to go home for the night, we could sober up and--"

"Oh, bless it all." Crowley sat up. This time, a few drops of wine escaped the glass and splattered onto Crowley's tastefully unbuttoned shirt. "Listen to me, Aziraphale. It's you. I'm in love with you, you oblivious, infuriating, beautiful idiot."

Aziraphale stared at him. Whatever emotions he should have felt in response to that revelation refused to show up until, "Oh!" he said, breathless and stunned. "I--"

"Yeah. I know, you don't have to say anything, I just... I needed you to know. I'll get out of your hair now, don't worry, I don't need you to--"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, and caught him by the sleeve as he attempted to slink out of the study toward the door. "Crowley, I'm in love with you, too."

"No, you're not," Crowley said, in an offhand way that made Aziraphale wonder how many times he'd dismissed the concept in his own mind. Then, "Wait, you what? What do you--"

"I mean," said Aziraphale, still holding onto Crowley's sleeve, "that I'm in love with you."

Crowley once again attempted to introduce a new word to the English language and failed, likely because it was made entirely of consonants.

"Precisely my thoughts. Now..." Aziraphale stood up and took Crowley's free hand in both of his own and squeezed. He smiled, radiating every little bit of joy as it seeped up from hidden places inside him, twining together like vines up a trellis. "If you don't mind terribly, I would like to kiss you."

"Mind?!" said Crowley. "If I mind? I can't believe you would even a--"

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley kissed him back.

It wasn't electric, or spectacular, or any of the fancy adjectives human writers used in romance novels and poems. Instead, it was just... right. Like a summer sunrise or spring dew. Simple and soft and good.

It wasn't until he pulled away that Aziraphale realized Crowley had stopped time. Crowley's wine glass was frozen midair, a spray of scarlet droplets suspended over a particularly fancy hand-embroidered antique throw pillow.

Crowley swore under his breath. "Sorry, angel, let me just--"

"Let it go," Aziraphale said. "We can always miracle it off later."

"But you'll always know that--"

"Oh, who cares. The world didn't end, Crowley. We're not stranded out in space somewhere. I can buy a new pillow."

Crowley gave him a long, searching look. Then, with a slightly devious smile, he put both hands on Aziraphale's hips and leaned in for another kiss.

They stayed like that for what was either one minute or five hours; it was impossible to tell when one's emotional and physical consciousness was entirely focused on the occult (or ethereal) being kissing you.

Finally, Crowley pulled back, just enough to look Aziraphale directly in the eyes. "Before we get on with this," he said, "I have to ask you one thing."

"Yes, my dearest, anything at all."

"This demon you're in love with... do you love me more?"

Aziraphale stared at Crowley.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Crowley. It's only ever been you."

Crowley looked stunned, and then euphoric. "Well, in that case." And he kissed him again.

Time restarted. Behind them, the wine spilled on the couch.

Neither of them worried about it at all. The world hadn’t ended, they weren’t on some distant planet watching the Earth melt into a puddle of burning goo, and they could always buy a new pillow.