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Crowley has never seen any real downsides to his friendship with Aziraphale.
Why would he? Aziraphale is home, where he goes to let his hair down and relax, his safe space, and has been since quite literally The Beginning.
They have the kind of friendship that means they can talk for hours and hours about nothing in particular or sit in a room quietly while doing their own thing, which is a new hobby they’ve taken up since the Apocawhoops. Crowley would come over, flop on the couch, and start Twitter fights while Aziraphale re-shelves or reads, and then, many hours later, the silence would be broken by Aziraphale asking if he wanted to go to dinner.
Although he’d probably never admit it to his face*, Aziraphale is Crowley’s absolute favourite living being in… well everywhere. Not a soul in Heaven, Hell, or otherwise could come close to one particularly fussy Principality.
*(He has. Several times, in fact, but he’d been frankly completely hammered, and when he and Aziraphale woke up the next day, he couldn’t remember and Aziraphale thought better than to remind him and run the risk of Crowley disappearing for a few centuries out of embarrassment.)
Sure, there was also a possibility of Hell discovering their friendship and killing Crowley in what would’ve been the most creative slaughtering of all time, but after the Nonpocalypse, there’s really no reason to worry.
Well.
Maybe one.
The thing is, ever since around 700 BC, Crowley’s had this problem.
It first appeared as little fluttery feelings in his stomach when he saw Aziraphale (feelings he’d first assumed were because of food poisoning), and it sort of… spiralled.
He began really missing the angel whenever he wasn’t around, even if it’d only been a few years since they’d seen each other, seeking him out whenever he felt that angelic presence tingle in back of his brain, alerting him to a nearby enemy.
But really, what’s a little yearning between friends?
Slowly but surely, the feelings began to worsen. They spread throughout his body like vines creeping along stone walls, and he started feeling it in his heart when Aziraphale smiled at him, in his toes when he laughed, in his gut when Aziraphale would say something absurdly dumb and righteous.
It took him a ridiculously long time to figure out what exactly was going on, but by then, it was too late.
Crowley was already in love with Aziraphale.
After coming to this realisation in 47 BC, Crowley spent around 2 days drinking an entire liquor store and then some, ruminating on his pathetic existence and trying to figure out a way to make this thing go away.
He tried; he really did. He tried keeping his distance (which failed after only two years), tried miracling it away (not possible), even tried listing every infuriating aspect of Aziraphale’s (Boy did that backfire. Everything that he thought irked him now struck him as endearing of all things. Crowley felt even more in love than before, much to his disbelief.), but it would not budge. It, in fact, did the exact opposite, burrowing itself in between his body’s human heart and his demonic essence, irritatingly warm and comfortable.
It wasn’t going anywhere, which meant Crowley had to learn to live with it. It’s not like he could ever have acted on it.
Aziraphale liked him, sure, he’d even go as far as to say he loved him, but he absolutely wasn’t in love with him. Aziraphale loved him in the same way he loved a person on the street or a particularly good cocoa; completely angelically and in a slightly detached manner.
So, he accepted it. Let the feeling live there, let the joy wash over him when he saw a head of blond curls pop up in a crowd, and just enjoyed Aziraphale’s company anyway.
And sure, sometimes, late at night, he missed Aziraphale with such a fierceness he wanted to crawl out of his skin, but such is life.
Which brings us to now.
Now, Crowley is sitting sideways on Aziraphale’s hideous sofa, glass of wine in one hand with his knees tucked underneath his body and his head against the backrest, watching Aziraphale gesture wildly as he talks.
They’re discussing some people they both knew back in the 1600s that were apparently involved in some kind of torrid love affair the whole time, completely unknown to Crowley but familiar to Aziraphale, who’d spent the night so far catching his friend up on the not-quite-latest gossip.
“Wait, wait, wait, back up a little. Did Alice know about them before she accepted Henry’s proposal?” Crowley slurs out.
“No! And I have reason to believe she never did, the poor girl.” Aziraphale responds. Crowley makes a disapproving sound, and Aziraphale nods emphatically like he’s said something profound before continuing with the story.
They’d passed pleasantly drunk a while back and are now rapidly approaching a blood alcohol level that would kill any human. Luckily for them, they’re not humans. They’re occult (or ethereal) beings, and therefore can drink as much as they like, and with that thought in mind, Crowley refills his glass.
“… and so, Edward discovers the necklace and the note, and darling, when I say he was furious--”
Crowley listens to the story, and watches Aziraphale’s eyes, and his mouth, and the way his eyebrows wiggle when he’s saying something he finds particularly interesting, and then there It is, breaking down the walls Crowley constructed around it and banging pots and pans to make Itself known.
It almost chokes him a little, fills his lungs and his airways and replaces the oxygen with a warm, gooey feeling.
Aziraphale, Crowley thinks as he watches him giggle at a snide comment, is unequivocally the most important thing in his life.
He’s so bright, pure, angelic, but in the nice way humans mean, a protector, a being made of love down to the atoms, not the cold warrior Heaven expects him to be. Aziraphale is sunshine, a warm blanket, easy smiles given even to those who don’t deserve it.
Crowley loves every bit of him, loves him always, even when Aziraphale is standoffish, or insulting, or too picky, or just downright bitchy, Crowley loves him.
How can he not? Aziraphale is everything.
When Crowley went to Heaven, he marvelled at just how different it was. Heaven was never really his favourite place to be, but even way back when, there were some good parts. Now, though, now it’s miserable, just as miserable as Hell, only cleaner, and Crowley knew from the moment he stepped onto shiny white floors he would never let Aziraphale be taken back there again.
It took all of his willpower to not breathe that hellfire a little bit further, not to let the Archangels burn for what they’d said – what they’d done -- to Aziraphale.
A little part of him always thought Aziraphale was exaggerating when he spoke about Heaven. Of course, some of it was true; everyone Down There and Up There knows that Gabriel is, for lack of a better term, a gigantic dick, but he didn’t think it was as bad as Aziraphale said.
He was very wrong.
In fact, thinking about it now, Aziraphale had probably downplayed it a great deal over the years. The way the Archangels spoke to him, the eagerness in Gabriel’s eyes to see him burn, if Aziraphale had gone through that, he would’ve come back and told Crowley something along the lines of, oh they were very cross with me, but these things can’t be helped, my dear. I did, after all, break the rules, it’s only right I got reprimanded.
The very idea that Aziraphale had to endure that, alone, for so long fills Crowley with rage.
How could anyone look at Aziraphale, soft, kind, strong, lovely, wonderful Aziraphale and not love him? How could anyone wish to tear him down, to make him feel worthless?
He thinks about the Archangels, with their empty smiles and cruel words, and decides that Aziraphale needs to know right this minute how important he is.
“…and then, in his will, Edward leaves nothing to Katherine—”
“I love you.”
Aziraphale stops.
Crowley panics.
“Just thought it was about time I let you know, you know, after everything that’s been going on, nearly dying and all that, just kinda thought, might as well.” He gulps down some wine, carefully avoiding looking at Aziraphale for too long, instead focusing on that very interesting stain on the rug that looks a little like Madagascar. “I kind of already lost pretty much all I could – I mean I got it all back but still, that kind of experience makes you think. Sso—” He clears his throat, pushing back his hiss. “So, yeah. I love you. And I don’t need you to say anything back. I know you don’t-- I just. Yeah.”
Staring into the depths of his wine glass as if he’ll see an escape route in the murky depths of a 1998 shiraz, Crowley can see Aziraphale moving around in his peripheral vision, but he still jolts a little when warm hands gently loosen the grip Crowley’s fingers have on the wine glass. The clink of glass against wood when it’s placed against the coffee table sounds like a gunshot in the heavy silence of the bookshop.
Crowley’s not breathing, not blinking, just sitting there, completely still except for the trembling in his limbs. A hand comes up to his face, and the light touch of fingertips under his chin make the air that was held captive in his lungs come rushing out in a breath. He allows himself to be guided, face tilting up to meet Aziraphale’s gaze through tinted glass.
Tender.
Tender is the only word Crowley thinks really fits the look on his face. *
*(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Crowley realises that his Demon Card has officially been revoked. Yeah, sure, prevent Armageddon, break every rule ever, but genuinely using the word tender to describe anything other than steak… that’s got to be the last straw.)
“May I?” Aziraphale murmurs, fingertips resting on the arm of the sunglasses but not daring to pull.
Crowley takes a sharp breath. Of course, Aziraphale’s seen his eyes before, but this is different. This is Crowley opening himself up and letting Aziraphale look inside, this is, for the first time in their entire lives, them laying out everything between them. His glasses are his protection, his suit of armour in an era where it’s no longer acceptable to wear chainmail daily, and he would honestly rather have a meal of Eucharist bread soaked in Holy Water than spend even two minutes without them in public.
But Aziraphale asked. He asked, which means he knows, knows exactly what this means. Crowley knows that if he said no, Aziraphale would only nod and continue as if nothing happened, which is why it’s so easy for him to nod, to let Aziraphale gently pull them off and fold them carefully and place them on the side table below them, with the delicacy and reverence with which one would handle a sacred object.
The hand returns to his face, this time resting against his cheek, Aziraphale’s thumb running across his cheekbones. Crowley resists the urge to turn and press a kiss to the soft, soft palm cradling his face.
“Darling…” Aziraphale murmurs, looking into Crowley’s eyes with so much love that Crowley thinks he’s going to explode with it.
He hums in response, brain filled with more static than actual thought.
Aziraphale leans forward, so close that their noses brush, and pauses, eyes darting between Crowley’s mouth and his eyes as if he’s asking permission.
Which, frankly, is ridiculous. As far as Crowley is concerned, Aziraphale can have anything his heart desires.
And so, he closes the distance, and their lips gently press together in a kiss that one may think would be anti-climactic after so many years of loving in silence, one more suited to twelve-year-old children at their middle school dance, but to Crowley, the simple touch, the knowledge that this is Aziraphale…
It’s something else, that’s for sure.
Crowley makes a slightly strangled sound, and moves closer, so close he’d practically sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, and deepens the kiss desperately. Aziraphale smiles, which Crowley only knows because he can feel it, feels the gentle curve of pink that he’s admired for so long. He knows exactly what smile that is, exactly the way it brightens Aziraphale’s face, but now he knows what it feels like against his own mouth.