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There is no reason for them not to sit side-by-side on the bus anymore. Crowley realizes this about half way into his seat. Or, more accurately, Aziraphale realizes it several seconds before him, and Crowley only really does when he's halfway to falling into his seat because his and Aziraphale’s hands are still clasped. Still, it’s not a bad situation to be in– curled up together on the seat, holding hands, tired but caught in a brief moment of peace.
(And while Aziraphale is only lightly tipsy from the bottle of wine they’d been sharing, Crowley is already verging on drunk, still working off the effects of two bottles’ worth of drowning his sorrows.)
The ride to Crowley’s flat passes all too quickly (though no one else on it will remember anything out of the ordinary), and he only remembers belatedly, halfway through opening the door, the mess he made here earlier.
Ligur’s remains, however, seem to have taken care of themselves– either that, or the Holy water simply obliterated what was left when Crowley had last seen them. Another demon coming to collect them seemed far too sentimental for Hell.
So he just holds the door open for Aziraphale and then steps into the chilly room.
Aziraphale’s eyes are frozen in what he will later recognize as horror, but Crowley initially brushes past him until he sees it too: the tartan thermos given him forty years ago, unscrewed and placed on the desk.
“What did you–”
“Nothing,” he says hastily. “I used. For– defense. It’s gone now, see, it’s empty–” He reaches for the flask, but Aziraphale dives in front of him as if in front of a bullet.
“Let me,” he interrupts, reaching for the thermos, while Crowley simply looks confused at his excessive concern. “Please,” he adds.
He resigns himself to letting the angel deal with it, scanning the thermos for any trace of Holy water left, then the whole room, before he’s satisfied that it’s safe. He does it with almost compulsive determination, like he is trying desperately to control one thing.
“Angel,” he chides. “It’s okay.”
“I know,” he says hoarsely. But his eyes don’t stop roaming the room. “You… you killed another demon? With Holy water?”
“‘Spose I did.”
“There’ll be Hell to pay for that one.”
“More like heaven to pay,” he remarks drily. “But I ‘spose that’s a problem for tomorrow.”
“Crowley–” Agnes’ last prophecy still burns a hole in his pocket; surely there is something in it for them to use, something–
But that’s not what he’s saying, is it?
If we only have tonight, then please, for the love of all that is unholy, let us just have tonight.
“We can just… lie down,” he offers quietly. His glasses are down now, resting on the ornate marble table that does not fit the minimalism of the rest of the space. But he can see Aziraphale unobscured, see his hands almost shaking, still struggling to admit what Crowley had first felt six thousand years ago.
“I… I suppose… that would be nice,” Aziraphale manages.
(There is no way for Crowley to say what he means, nothing even comes close: I thought you died, and I didn’t care if I did. I nearly lost you, and now I’m about to if we can’t figure this out, but Lord, I don’t want to spend another minute not being near you.
He can’t exactly say that.)
Aziraphale removes his jacket carefully and folds it over the back of Crowley’s chair, like it has always belonged there.
(Of all the dozens of times Crowley has been to the bookshop, he can recall maybe two times Aziraphale has ever entered his flat. And the angel never really looks at home in it, not really.)
His bedroom is nearly as sparing, his one concession being the abundance of soft, warm blankets– he’s a snake, he gets cold– piled high on the bed.
Aziraphale looks at him as if to say, We’re sharing it?, and Crowley looks back in reply: Really, after everything, you’re asking that?
What Crowley says is, teasingly, “What’s one more temptation?”
Aziraphale does not like how that sounds like good-bye.
It takes them a moment to get comfortable; Crowley ends at Aziraphale's back with his long arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. The gesture encloses Aziraphale, but is just as much a form of comfort for Crowley.
(And the angel is quiet, Crowley can feel his mind working desperately at something while he only tries to enjoy the one thing he's always wanted.
It's selfish and short-sighted, but at this moment, he can't be bothered to care.)
Finally, Aziraphale seems to feel this too, and his muscles relax in Crowley’s grip.
And then, suddenly, motivated by something that can be from neither heaven nor hell, Crowley asks the question that has been on his lips for millenia:
“Can I kiss you?”
And Aziraphale gives the answer he's not sure he ever before would have been prepared to give, though it is only a nod.
(Now, Crowley has had six thousand years to think about kissing Aziraphale. Very few of these years have considered the lips.
He'd been around for Eve’s rather controversial discovery of kissing, and hadn't really known what to make of it. For one thing, up ‘till then, he’d thought lips were only for eating and speaking, for one thing. It had all seemed a bit out-of-the blue to him.
Watching a few rather grueling performances of Romeo and Juliet with Aziraphale at the Globe– he really did prefer the funny ones– all the sloppy balcony kisses had him rather decided that kisses on the lips must be overrated.
The point, however, was that there were many other places to consider kissing:
The forehead that’s too often reserved for something more fraternal.
The place between his eyebrows that might furrow in surprise.
The tip of his small nose.
The delicate curve of his Cupid’s bow, just shy of the lips, but surely it would be perfect.
The cheeks, the jawbone, the neck… the possibilities were really endless, and six thousand years of considering them had really only cemented this belief.)
But now, pressed back-to-chest in Crowley’s bed, he considers where best to kiss him, and his lips settle softly on a place on the back of his neck, just below the collar of his shirt, pressing gently once, twice, three times.
It’s not what Aziraphale is expecting, and he shivers slightly before settling back into the bed, warmed by the odd little gesture of affection. And he would say something back, but… Crowley is already asleep.
The morning is spent detailing his plan to Crowley, convincing him it will work (either way, my dear, we can’t run away forever), and then considering… one more thing.
(If one were to do the math, one would find that of the six thousand years Crowley has spent thinking about kissing Aziraphale, Aziraphale has spent approximately one seventy-fifth of that time thinking about kissing Crowley. This may seem cold, but, in all fairness to Aziraphale, he spent the other seventy-four seventy-fifths trying to convince himself he didn’t want to kiss Crowley, which was a formidable challenge.
The point being, having significantly less of both time and Imagination, Aziraphale’s thoughts had little strayed from Crowley’s lips.
Which is what he is currently fixated on.)
Which is why, when Crowley gets up to ‘get some coffee’, Aziraphale asks with significantly more conviction than Crowley had managed last night, “Can I kiss you?”
Momentarily stunned, he manages to rasp, “Yes–”
What happens next is, objectively speaking, a disaster.
Aziraphale fails to account for how much taller Crowley is at first, only to account for it too much about halfway in; meanwhile Crowley, despite being forewarned, is still too far stunned to account for anything, and so what happens is:
Aziraphale grabs the lapels of Crowley’s coat but tugs on them a little too roughly, and while Crowley is trying to move his neck, his sunglasses slide off his face, bouncing off Aziraphale's forehead and then to the floor.
It’s too pathetic for either of them to laugh, even.
“Try that again, then?” Crowley manages, still squinting at the sudden pouring of light into his pupils.
The second attempt goes much better.
(Crowley had assumed kisses on the lips would be vastly overrated.
Aziraphale’s lips are distinctly not overrated.)
The book shop is dark all but for a single flickering light inside and the delicate illumination of the Bentley’s headlights.
A walk through London, dinner at the Ritz… it had all rather been like something out of a dream. Like a miracle.
Now, still sitting in the dark car, the music on the radio slowly dying out, Crowley desperately racks his brains for excuses to extend the night.
“Come in for a nightcap?” Aziraphale offers, and suddenly Crowley remembers: they don’t need excuses anymore. They’re on their own side.
Crowley has seen the bookshop intact since it burned, but he has not seen the bookshop with Aziraphale in it, and he’s not fully convinced all order has been restored to the world until he sees his angel browsing the shelves, checking to make sure every last book is still in its place, noticing which ones are new.
The light he’d noticed from outside turns out to be a single, flickering candle. He doesn’t like this– recalling a lit candle rolling around on the floor in the midst of the conflagration, and how easily the dust volumes could be destroyed.
(There is a trick humans do where they pass their finger through the flame of a candle without it burning them– if they do it just right. They can rather impress some other humans with it.
Crowley could walk through a forest fire and barely singe the cuffs of his jeans. But all the same, he studies his fingers surrounded by the weak flame of the candle.)
He pinches the wick harshly, snuffing the candle out.
His eye now leads him to a record player that he’d somehow never noticed before– had Aziraphale always had this? Probably; he had to listen to his music somewhere and he can’t imagine anything remotely modern. A record player is honestly impressive.
A number of slightly dusty records in their sleeves sit beside it. Most are unlabeled; he selects one with a particularly careworn sleeve, hoping this means it is a favorite of Aziraphale’s.
(The angel is still examining the shop like seeing an old friend for the first time in many, many years.)
The needle finds the groove on the record, and the first few notes filter through the shop. A smile curls across Crowley’s lips– Elvis, he hadn’t expected that.
Aziraphale looks over at Crowley, framed by lamplight and the music, and Crowley extends a hand to him:
“Angel. Dance with me.”
Aziraphale toys with his hands rather nervously: “Angels… we, we aren’t really supposed to… dance.”
“So?” Since when have we done what we’re supposed to do?
“I– I don’t really know–”
“I’ll lead,” Crowley says softly. Then, with a little more conviction, “Angel.”
Aziraphale gives in, accepting Crowley’s gentle embrace– one hand in his, the other, on his shoulder blade, and his cheek just resting on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s palm falls firmly on Aziraphale’s back as he starts to sway to the music.
Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin
If I can’t help
Falling in love with you?
They are silhouetted in the window, just visible from on the street. Anyone seeing them from the street might think one of many things:
Two old friends comforting each other.
Two lovers holding each other as if it is the end of the world.
The perfect joy of two newlyweds.
The peaceful affection of an old married couple.
(No one sees them from the street, but if they did it, it wouldn’t really matter what they thought.
They are, after all, all of these things.)