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"I don't see why you wanted to meet here." Aziraphale fussily resettled the fit of his jumper. It was a hideous v-necked checked cashmere cardigan straight out of the nineteen fifties, and it looked unfairly cuddly, especially where it hugged the curve of his tummy. Crowley, who was an evil demon and therefore not cuddly at all, thank you very much, resolutely ignored it. "Hallowe'en is so terribly American, in any case."
"Scottish."
"What?" Aziraphale was distracted by beaming kindly at a small child in a vampire outfit, as was his angelic duty. The child burst into tears.
"Hallowe'en is Scottish, not American." Crowley slid his glasses down his nose, winked an amber eye at the kid, and flickered a suddenly pointed tongue at him.
The child's tears dried like magic. "Excellent," it crowed.
"If you think this is what traditional All Hallow's Eve celebrations in Scotland are like, you are sadly mistaken."
"Well, how am I supposed to know? You're the one who banned me from Edinburgh."
Bickering gently, they took their place in the line to the Haunted House. It was delightfully tacky. Cotton wool which looked nothing like spider webs was draped around, a sad plaster zombie taken from a village fair ghost train emitted tinny growling noises as paint flaked from its plaster, green lights flashed on and off. Crowley busied himself for a while magicking candy into children's pockets. It wasn't like he particularly believed in sugar highs, but if the parents believed in them and that expectation was added to the over-excitement of the Haunted House, there should be some promising meltdowns and vomiting in the parents' future. At worst, he had made sure the food colourings in the sweets were particularly inedible.
He slid a hand into Aziraphale's gloved one, ostensibly to stop him from running into small children. Aziraphale had never got the hang of making humans find themselves out of his way. "It's spooky. I like spooky. Goes with the territory."
"Dear boy, if this is the spookiest thing you've ever seen, then the horrors of Hell are grossly overestimated. Although—" Aziraphale spared a glance for a small girl who was drooling bright green sugar down her face, courtesy of Crowley, "it does have it's own kind of torture."
"Never mind. We can compare notes on the devil's spawn quite safely here. No one will ever notice us."
A man in a sheet jumped out and yelled "Boo!" at them, then started to laugh.
"Dad, it's nice that you've taken your son out for Hallowe'en, but isn't he a little old to need his hand held?"
Aziraphale flushed, which was surprising in itself. Aziraphale frequently found humans irritating, but he didn't let them obviously get to him. Crowley had an unexpected rush of protective feeling. He raised an eyebrow above his glasses. "Are you implying he's my sugar daddy?" he purred.
"Well—um—"
"I assure you, he never remembers his wallet, so I'm the one who pays for his meals. Fortunately, he's a cheap date."
"What?" hissed Aziraphale, as Crowley pulled him away and, defiantly, slid an arm under his coat, wrapping it around the thick waist. That cardigan was cuddly.
"Not having him think you're paying to be with me," Crowley muttered. "You're a Principality."
"No, I mean about me being a cheap date."
"You are, angel. Can order the cheapest wine off the menu and you just do a little miracle, after all, dear boy, it's quite like water into wine, almost traditional..." Crowley mimicked. "Look, I'll take you to the Savoy Grill next time, all right?"
"I mean you called me your date."
"Well, he thought we were together, right?" Why was his face burning like that? "Did you expect me to go oh, no, he wouldn't be seen discorporated with someone like me?"
"Anthony," Aziraphale said, very quietly. The name, unfamiliar on his lips, sent weird feelings up and down Crowley's spine. Spooky, he told himself. "I would be very proud."
"R-really?"
"Of course, I wouldn't want to be seen with you in front of Gabriel or someone. All kinds of awkward questions. But if we could leave all that aside, I wouldn't—I would like—love—" Stammering wasn't like Aziraphale. The stammering uncertainty numbed Crowley. There had been times—but they had both been drunk, and neither was responsible for what they said when they were drunk, and it wasn't as if what they said hadn't been deniable—
Crowley was abruptly sick of denial.
"You know a good thing about haunted houses?" he said lightly. "The reason they are popular for dates? They give a good excuse for clinging together."
Possibly to no human was that particular corner dark enough to conceal two figures, one of whom was quite substantial in build, but after all they were no humans, and Crowley saw no reason anyone should see the first time he wrapped both his arms around an angel. He half expected he would be Saved when their lips touched, Aziraphale's mouth was so terribly sweet, which would have been awkward. But there was just firm, warm pressure against his mouth, so he parted his lips and deepened the kiss, and when it broke he was still him, still Crowley, and wrapped up in a sense of affection and desire so warm that it should have scalded him.
As if Aziraphale would ever hurt him.
"My word," said Aziraphale. "Does this mean you feel the same?"
Tactful, not saying the undemonic word. Kind. "Yeah. For a while now. Least five hundred years."
Aziraphale's eyes twinkled, bless him. "I can see why you are in favour with Hell. You are a fast mover."
"Seduction's a long game."
"So is love."
They kissed again, as kids squealed and had tantrums around them, and Crowley thought dizzily that he had to save the world now, and also that he needed to install some bookshelves in the flat.