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For an angel, Aziraphale was surprisingly skilled with a tent set.
Crowley leaned against one of the many trees circling their campsite to watch. Then, remembering that a tree is extremely different than a door frame to an in-cottage library, he recoiled from it.
It was too late. The wretched thing had already smeared a tacky, orange substance onto his jacket.
"Terrible invention, tree sap," he grumbled.
The sound Aziraphale made last week at the first bite of maple syrup drenched waffles was beside the point. He glared at the stain until it fled.
Camping, in general, was terrible. After the origination of dimly lit pubs and certain old bookshops, Crowley had declared himself to be an inside person. Aziraphale had, too. You can't find passion fruit pavlovas and Oscar Wilde first editions in the wilderness.
And yet.
"Be a dear and gather some firewood for us, would you?" Aziraphale asked, pushing the final pole through the tent's overarching sleeve.
There had already been the question of miracling the campsite together. Actually, it was less of a question and more of a statement on how nonsensical it was to do otherwise. It was fruitless. Across an entire year of what one might even call free will, Aziraphale had been more and more insistent on doing things the human way. They were getting into the spirit of things, he said. It was fun, he said.
It wasn't.
Much to Crowley's chagrin, one particular human thing Aziraphale had latched onto was a birthday. Aziraphale had decided his birthday was September 7th. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous, but he also looked infuriatingly adorable in a stupid paper birthday hat, so, fine. Aziraphale had a birthday now.
There was cake with laughably few candles, presents (which Crowley admittedly enjoyed giving as much as Aziraphale enjoyed receiving), and balloons.
That was three days ago. Aziraphale was apparently the type to have a birth week.
On the third day of Aziraphale's birth week, he suggested a camping trip. He'd read it in a book, The Tent Dwellers. The fixation began about halfway through the story. By the end, they owned a tent and camping chairs and a double sleeping bag, and it was difficult to say no to a steamroller that's already flattened your legs. And stolen your heart.
Again, beside the point.
The point was, they were now in Nova Scotia's Kejimkujik National Park, having a "traditional camping adventure." Tent in the woods, sap on your jacket, dirt on your everything, the whole ordeal. And according to the birthday angel, "traditional" also meant no miracles.
As much as Crowley tried to argue that miracles were in fact very traditional for the two of them, Aziraphale had been very firm on the matter. Crowley whined (very demonically) in protest, Aziraphale pouted back, and—
Crowley stalked off to gather firewood.
He lasted all of three minutes. How did humans keep their attention on such horribly tedious tasks? Instant gratification was far more… y'know, instant.
The three minutes he managed were enough to collect half a handful of kindling and three long-ish sticks. That was fine, probably.
He sauntered back to the campsite, hips and shoulders swaying as he went; the dirt coating his hands made a very suave entrance all the more essential. Aziraphale didn't notice. He was crouched at the front of their tent, raptly arranging the bedding inside to his liking.
(It took about six months—and a shameful amount of woeful, lingering goodnight, angel's by the door frame as Crowley slipped into the bedroom alone—but one night Aziraphale climbed under the covers, book in hand, and never looked back.)
Crowley stopped short beside him. Waiting for Aziraphale to turn around was never a very successful endeavour, so he cleared his throat and held up his haul.
"Sticks."
Aziraphale lifted his head and smiled. "Wonderful. The fire pit is just behind you and the matches are, um…" He rose up on soiled knees. A manicured hand dug around in the front pocket of his trousers for a moment before withdrawing a small box. "Here."
Crowley took it from him with a smirk. "You've got a bit…" He gestured to the two brown smudges covering Aziraphale's beige clad knees.
Aziraphale's lips tilted downwards in time with his head. He tutted at the sight, his hands flopping at his sides in exasperation. "Oh, it just gets everywhere,” he whined. The subsequent assault was delivered with devastatingly blue eyes. "Would you?” They looked like the blessed sky. Violence, is what it was.
"Not very human of me, miracling away your mess," Crowley noted. "Sure you don't want me to go over to the lake and wet a rag? 's only a two kilometre walk."
Aziraphale huffed. "You know quite well that a wet rag would only do to spread it, Crowley. I hardly thought you'd oppose an exception to the rules. I like these trousers." He pouted—another weapon in the holy arsenal.
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Let me remind you that camping was your idea. Camping is not trouser preserving."
"But you could be," Aziraphale replied with an incredibly persuasive smile. It was all soft and hesitant and—
Crowley sighed. "Yes, all right." The stain vanished with a snap.
Aziraphale's smile widened to something dazzlingly bright. The sun should be ashamed to still be shining. At least it was setting. Serves it right. "Thank you, darling."
Crowley's heart did a back flip. He still wasn't used to that one. "Yep."
Aziraphale happily smoothed over the clean spot on his trousers. He gently squeezed Crowley's calf, and turned to continue fluffing up their double sleeping bag—the one he insisted on calling a “couple's sleeping bag.” Crowley wasn't used to that, either. He did like it, though. They were a couple now, an us, darling, my angel, was he supposed to be doing something right now?
He was. Something.
Crowley tore his gaze away and swivelled his head dumbly around the campsite. Tent, chairs, fire pit—fire. Right, he was holding things. Fire things.
A few steps brought him towards the charred metal circle, and the sticks mocked him with a near-silent clatter as they hit the pile of pale ash in the centre. It was admittedly a pretty pathetic haul. He glanced over his shoulder at a very distracted Aziraphale, back at the sticks, and the fire miraculously erupted into a blaze.
"I heard that."
Crowley strode over to a fabric folding chair and collapsed into it. "You didn't."
"I most certainly did." Aziraphale turned himself around and put his hands on his hips. The forest floor dragged soiled fingers across his knees as he moved, the gravelly crunch beneath him practically a vengeful cackle. Crowley tried not to join in. "Did you honestly think I would believe you started that fire with 10 measly sticks and a match?"
"There's dirt on your trousers again." Aziraphale frowned down at it, and Crowley waved it away before he could complain. "Can we agree that a few miracles might be helpful?"
"Helpful, perhaps, but not required." Aziraphale said as he stood up and brushed off dirt that Crowley absolutely did not leave on him. The responding eye roll would've given most people vertigo just to witness. "Now, hand me that backpack, please."
Fortunately, the one miracle that was allowed was the transportation. Crowley would do almost anything Aziraphale asked of him; backpacking was not one of those things. Not with the backpacks Aziraphale had packed, at least.
Crowley hooked his fingers through the handle of the metre-high, stuffed-full monstrosity propped up against his chair, and lifted it as he stood. He walked over and dropped it in front of Aziraphale unceremoniously.
Aziraphale was too excited by its contents to mind. Beneath the main zipper was a Dutch oven, a grate, and a cool bag full of… some sort of food, imaginably. That wasn't really Crowley's department. Aziraphale pulled them out with careful, reverent hands and hurried over to the fire.
"There's a bottle of red in the side pocket," he said over his shoulder, which was exactly Crowley's department. "Cups are in the second zipper."
By the time the wine and the blue plastic cups with bloody handles on them were retrieved, Aziraphale was already engrossed in his cooking. It wasn't really a novel by now, not with the size of their kitchen, but it was still a marvel to witness. Aziraphale was like a chemist when he cooked. Everything had to be precisely chopped, and measured very meticulously with a plethora of measuring spoons—these ones were plastic and blue, matching the cups.
Crowley sat down by the fire and dinner was compounded under his watchful gaze. He sipped wine and marvelled.
Aziraphale had pre-cut peppers, onions, and lamb for kabobs, so all it took was a sizzling of carefully measured oil and seasonings, and a skewering.
A chunk of red pepper, a book, a hand—whatever Aziraphale held became a treasure. It was a miracle of its own. Crowley's watchful gaze was quickly becoming a watchful stare.
The fire spat at Aziraphale as he laid the assembled kabobs in the basin of the Dutch oven. Smoke exhaled heavily in the wake of sparks. Aziraphale fanned it away from his face, visibly disgruntled, and replaced the cast iron lid before retreating to the backrest of the chair with a huff.
Crowley couldn't help but smirk. "Having a nice time?"
"I think the lamb will be positively scrumptious," Aziraphale replied, smoothing down his waistcoat and tugging the ends straight. "I added a spice I found at that market down the way from us, Silk Road." Just the mention rounded out his cheeks again. "Sumac. It's delightfully lemony." A wiggle of his shoulders proved how delightful he expected it to be.
And it was, presumably. Aziraphale savoured the kabobs just as much as he savoured everything else he graced with his lips: a chocolate truffle, a Mary Oliver poem read aloud, Crowley.
Being graced with Aziraphale's lips was something he probably wouldn't ever get used to.
(Their second kiss was gentle. Soft. The way sunlight warms a flower in a greenhouse—pink and blooming, open and exposed, but safe from the elements.)
If Crowley was blushing, it was from the fire. But he wasn't blushing.
The point was, Aziraphale very obviously savoured every one of his kebabs. Well, except for the last one, but Crowley had a suspicion that his fleeting enjoyment wasn't due to the food. The smoke was after him like a wolf. Or maybe a squid, actually, one of those massive predatory ones with ravenous, grey tentacles. A Kraken.
On second thought, the wolf was a better analogy.
Either way, it was targeting him. Aziraphale was giving a valiant attempt at the illusion of composure, but Crowley hadn't spent millennia gazing at him to be fooled. The pinch of his lips, the wringing of his hands, and the occasional restless straightening of his posture easily gave him away.
The insects weren't helping either. Crowley might've been spared the smoke's wrath as it swallowed up Aziraphale, but the bugs were pestering them both. Tiny things, buzzing in his ears and biting his hands. The audacity. The idiocy, really. He was a demon, probably tasted bad.
Angel blood likely tasted better, and for once, being sweet was not working in Aziraphale's favour. He was starting to crack. The swatting was becoming less subconscious annoyance and more avenging angel by the minute.
This was, after all, a terrible idea.
Crowley might've been smug about it if he wasn't also being eaten alive. "You hate this," Crowley said matter-of-factly. He raised his eyebrows and took another sip of wine. Well, there was always spare smugness lying around.
"I don't," Aziraphale replied, burying the evidence in his own drink.
"I've known you far long enough to tell when you hate something, angel."
"I don't hate anything."
"You do," Crowley drawled. "Don't give me that. You're telling me you didn't hate what Petronius did to your pears in Rome? The hairstyle your barber suggested in 1650 that I told you not to get? That… soufflé thing I tried to make you last week?"
"I did not hate your soufflé, Crowley!" That, of all things, seemed to set him off. He lowered his cup to his knee with wide eyes. "They're very difficult! I told you, the flavour was there, it was only that the eggs—"
"—and you said yourself when I first showed you the recipe that soufflé is more texture than flavour," Crowley interrupted. Aziraphale pinched his lips together, something both irritated and soft in his expression. "Same with camping. 's more… grit 'n dirt on your trousers than, I don't know…" He waved a hand around noncommittally. "Flavour."
Aziraphale sighed. "I will admit that the book may have… romanticised it a bit.” He stared down at the offending texture that had also impinged on his shoes, and the glow of the fire highlighted his cheekbones and the top of his hair in a soft, enchanting orange.
Never once needing a book to romaticise things, Crowley was transfixed. Aziraphale lit up like a star in the dark. He was gorgeous. It wasn't anything new, but it was more than enough to distract Crowley from any residual smugness. The usual frustratingly adorable tartan bow tie; rosy lips, rosier in the firelight; and the roll of soft fat under his chin, rounding out as disappointment brought his head to his chest. Gorgeous.
Well, except for the disappointed part, but Crowley was well-versed in remedies for that. "Finish your cup. I've got a plan."
Aziraphale tilted his head back up, confusion pooling in the creases on his forehead. "A plan? Crowley, if your plan involves miracles, I've already made myself quite clear."
The tent, the backpacks, and the cooking supplies disappeared with a thought.
"Crowley!"
"That rule was not exactly conducive to the situation at hand, angel." Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley raised a finger to quiet him. "Do you want to enjoy this or not?"
"Of course I do. I just don't think it's entirely necessary for you to go about—"
"Just— let me take you somewhere better, all right? Trust me." Crowley stood up from his camping chair and folded it back to the cottage.
Aziraphale glanced around the empty campsite with an expression satisfyingly close to relief before looking back at Crowley. "I trust you."
Crowley's eyes followed the path of Aziraphale's gaze. The forest was deep. They really were in the middle of nowhere. Rows and rows of trees surrounded them, lined up past perception like an endless, towering army. Crowley squinted up at the dark sky. The leaves were smothering that, too.
It was more than enough privacy.
He rolled his shoulders back, and large, inky black wings unfolded from them. The relief. It was insufferably limiting to keep them stowed away all the time, cramped his scapula like anything. He gave the length of them a shake, trying to loosen the muscles.
Aziraphale looked on with wide eyes. "Crowley!" he whispered. He rose to his feet, darting his eyes around the dense circle of trees. "Someone could see you!"
"Nnyehh unlikely, though, isn't it?" Crowley said with a shrug, scanning the forest one final time. "No one's around. We're safe."
A mantra of their own. We're safe now. No one's watching us anymore. We're safe.
Crowley reached out his hand.
Aziraphale stepped forwards and took it, lacing their fingers together at his side. He smiled weakly. "Yes. I suppose you're right." Crowley's wings were spread high and wide around his narrow frame, and Aziraphale shifted his gaze to take in the sight, eyebrows raising slightly as his expression softened. "You do look magnificent, my dear." Gentle fingertips caressed the feathers just above Crowley's shoulder, sending a tingle down his spine.
The night air suddenly felt a lot warmer.
Crowley cleared his throat. "Right. Your turn, then."
A sceptical eyebrow climbed up Aziraphale's forehead. "Care to elaborate on this plan of yours?"
"Nope," Crowley said, swinging his head to the side and back with a grin. "That would ruin the birthday surprise."
Any apprehension remaining in Aziraphale's expression melted away with a little wiggle. Excitement shone from his cheeks. "Well, all right."
Crowley really was helpless to indulge him. Always had been, especially when it elicited that kind of reaction. No one could really blame him. Not anymore, anyway. They'd both made sure of that.
With a relieved exhale, white plumage unfurled from Aziraphale's back, stretching high into the air before relaxing out to the sides. His empty hand found Crowley's, and he squeezed them both with a smile.
"I suppose you'll lead the way?"
"Suppose I will," Crowley agreed. The fire went out, and the last chair vanished. "Ready?"
Aziraphale nodded.
Hand in hand, they shot straight up through the trees. As they breached the canopy, the leaves remembered their place, shaking in the aftermath of each powerful gust beneath their wings as the slivered moon beckoned them closer.
The full vastness of the forest came into view. Their hands parted as they turned parallel to the landscape below. Narrow streams glinted like veins of silver, like the precious thing Earth tended to be, and even with the height, the trees, too, maintained a majesty, streaking by with dignity in their smallness. Nature reflected humanity in that way.
After waiting to catch Aziraphale's eye (and consequently, an unbearably heart-warming smile), Crowley gestured in the direction of their destination. Following a confirming nod, he let the wind carry him above Aziraphale's back; Earth just looked better with him at the centre of it. All the soft edges and beige and Aziraphale.
His wings suited him even more than the beige: rounded and full, effortless in their strength. Very Aziraphale. And flying over him, shielding the angel still from everything above the endless stretch of sky, was very Crowley.
After a few quiet, blissful minutes, the edge of the lake came into view.
Crowley swooped down in an arc and flipped onto his back, putting Aziraphale's bow tie at the middle of his view, rippling in the wind below the white fluff of his hair. Hopeful arms extended up towards him, one eyebrow arching like a question mark. Aziraphale grinned, an answer. He reached down, and their hands found each other again.
With a synchronised, angled flap of wings, Aziraphale dropped down to take Crowley's place as Crowley circled upwards to take Aziraphale's, and they began to spin.
This particular manoeuvre had taken a fair bit of practise, but they had shared enough time together before the Fall to perfect it. Sure, it had been well over 6000 years since then, but muscle memory was a clever thing.
The world turned over and over on itself as they hurdled forwards to the lake, sky to earth and earth to sky, faster and faster until Aziraphale was laughing and Crowley was grinning right back at him.
It was a dance. They circled around each other as they always had, but this time, that nagging feeling of inevitably being forced apart was only that—a feeling. The very physics of the world would keep them close, as it always had, as long as neither of them dared to let go. They didn't. Wouldn't. Crowley held onto Aziraphale tightly, and Aziraphale held onto him just the same.1
Apparently, momentum was incredibly and somewhat nauseatingly poetic.
Regardless, Crowley would've done this particular dance forever. But it didn't take long to reach the centre of the lake. He spread his wings outwards, pushing against the wind to slow the spiral, and with one forceful flap they were upright again. After a snap of his fingers in the direction of the lake, he lowered them onto the surface of the water. Both sets of wings folded away as they landed.2
Aziraphale straightened his tie and combed his fingers through pale, wind-tangled hair. "That," he said, a bright grin still clinging to his lips, "was very, very fun. Though I am a bit dizzy."
Crowley matched his smile, dizzy for more reasons than one.
"And I see you put a miracle on the lake," Aziraphale remarked, looking down to where the surface met the soles of their shoes.
The water was completely dark, save for the faint streak of moonlight cutting across it, and his camel-coloured oxfords stood out the way Aziraphale always had.
"Yep," Crowley replied, feeling especially proud of the idea. The water looked impressively glassy. "Impossible to sink into. Should wear off by tomorrow." He stomped on it to be sure, and it held strong. Stronger than expected, actually, there was barely a ripple. "Nnnwell, probably."
Aziraphale frowned. "What about the local fauna that need to sink into it for the purpose of fishing? The eagles? Minks? Ducks? Crowley, if I have to be an accessory to the tragic demise of yet another duck—"
"Oh, they'll be fine. 's only a day or so. They'll… temporarily take up ice skating. Water skating," Crowley amended, gesturing vaguely to what was most likely still water. "Either way, lots of other lakes and rivers around to fish from."
Aziraphale sighed. "Fair enough."
Crowley settled into a seated position on the surface and patted the space beside him. "Come on."
Aziraphale obliged.
The sky spread out far and wide above them, illimitable in its vastness and… cloudy. Bloody cloudy. Of course, right, why wouldn't it be cloudy? Why the Heaven not? Stupid clouds, couldn't even be arsed to get out of the way. He had a plan.
Aziraphale liked his plans. Most of them, at least. A proposition for lunch at The Ritz always earned him an excited shimmy. Tickets to Glyndebourne. The Louvre. But it didn't take much, even a surprise picnic in the back garden was a wonder in Aziraphale's eyes. Last time he'd even teared up over it, all pink cheeks and watery smiles.
But the point was the clouds.
A deep inhale filled his lungs, and every one of the fluffy bastards scrambled away on his intentional, slightly steaming exhale. Better.
Still not enough, though. The clouds had fucked off, but distant campfires and light-lined trails were still polluting the view to something murky and muted. It looked significantly less impressive than any one of Crowley's design plans. There were probably only 50, 60 stars visible. They could do better than that. Crowley had done better than—
"The lake does paint quite a picture, doesn't it? I do wonder, though, if—"
"Give me a minute," Crowley growled. He clenched his eyes shut, determined.
Right, okay. Humans had flashlights for these sorts of things, they'd survive a bit of darkness. They'd survived a whole plague of it in Egypt, after all. Well, most of them.
All at once, every outdoor light in the entirety of Nova Scotia went out. Campfires dampened, billboards shut down with no hope of rebooting, and the pop of thousands of streetlight bulbs shattering echoed in the distance. Excellent. Should only be about a minute now.
"Really," Aziraphale scolded. "What the hell did you do? Please, Crowley, just this once can we serve an omelette without breaking it?"
Crowley opened his eyes and turned to look at Aziraphale, tension sliding off his back as a chuckle escaped his lips. "Wot?"
Aziraphale looked significantly less amused. "You heard me. The birthday omelette needn't be broken before… Well, eating it. Or rather, celebrating it," he said, fluttering a hand in front of his chest.3
Crowley cracked a grin. Something about the ridiculous way Aziraphale navigated language had always evoked an incredibly strong urge to kiss him on the mouth. "I’m not sure you're saying what you think you're saying." Aziraphale pursed his lips, entirely unhelpful for the strong urge situation. He'd deal with it later (because he could). Plan first. "Don't worry, no birthday omelettes have been broken. Look up."
Aziraphale did. "Oh, Crowley," he whispered.
It was probably quite a sight; Crowley knew the universe’s splendor well. And now that all the unnecessary light had been taught some damn respect, the summer sky above Nova Scotia was restored to its rightful beauty—innumerable stars shining brightly against the black, and likely a vein of smoky blue-grey in the center. Maybe a bit of green or pink, too.
But Crowley wasn’t looking. His eyes were still on Aziraphale.
It was everything he’d been hoping for—the pearly starlight on his skin, the joy making apples of his cheeks, the boundless wonder in his eyes. It was everything.
"It's beautiful," Aziraphale breathed. Keeping his gaze locked on the night sky, his hand found Crowley's where it rested on his thigh.
Relenting to a small smile, Crowley laced their fingers together. "Thought you'd like it," he said softly.
The full force of the same wondrous expression was then directed at Crowley. Fuck. The loving expression. Crowley had been learning to recognise it more and more over the past year, catching fleeting glimpses beneath the tight, worn-in mask of self-restraint that bordered on self-flagellation. The mask had been loosening significantly lately, and here was the proof. A great big glimpse of love. It smacked him like a wave.
Breathing, was it… was it really necessary? It didn't feel possible even if it was, not with Aziraphale looking at him like that, drowning him with an endless tide of love.
A quiet sigh left Aziraphale's nose, and his smile softened even further, because of course it did. He tilted his head to the stars again, thank Someone, and his eyes went wide as the light greeted them, taking in as much as he could.
Crowley willed his lungs to function again. He managed, barely. Aziraphale was still sitting there looking inconsiderately handsome, staring up at the sky in that cherishing sort of way he stared at everything else he loved about Earth.
Aziraphale should've been created to marvel. That, if nothing else, was proof that God made mistakes. None of that flaming sword business, this was what Aziraphale was suited for. He was very good at it. Aziraphale gasped at the 'exquisite curvature' of carved marble, relished the prose of closeted Victorian novelists with impassioned facial expressions, and smiled up at the stars like they were shining just for him. Tonight, they sort of were.
But then Aziraphale's smile faltered. A little knot formed in the middle of his brows as he averted his attention back to Crowley. "It hadn't occurred to me until just now, but we've never actually gone stargazing together, have we?"
Crowley hummed in acknowledgement and forced his gaze upwards. There it all was. Innumerable stars, shining almost oppressively brightly. Almost. He'd seen them brighter. Emotional devastation and soul-mangling agony aside, his million lightyear plummet downwards offered a stunning view. Pointedly.
"Rather surprising that we've managed that after all these years, don't you think? Especially since you contributed to the creation of a considerable number of them."
Crowley kept looking at the stars. Probably owed it to them. "Don't really like looking at stars anymore."
The words left him like barbed wire leaves cuts on your knees, and the silence that followed stretched between them as long as the fence. Aziraphale squeezed his hand through it.
Crowley gave his eyes a break, turning to Aziraphale for respite. "Know what I do like looking at?"
"Ah, yes," Aziraphale replied with a serious nod. "The way the sunlight shines on your car in the mornings." He traced the trajectory of an imaginary sunbeam in the air before dropping his hands and nodding definitively for a second and third time.
An eyebrow crept up towards Crowley's hairline. "Not— not exactly what I—"
"Just after sunrise. All that yellow and orange reflected on the vinyl," he continued, looking ridiculously theatrical as his fingers rose again to dance in a semi-circle with a breathy little sound effect.
Crowley rolled his eyes, amused despite himself. "I don't have vinyl on my car, Aziraphale."
The only excuse he received was a smile, irritatingly smug and fond in equal measure.
Crowley's eyes met the stars again. There was pink and green amongst the blue-grey after all. The brightness seemed a little less glaring and a little more glittering now. A little. "Changed my mind." He turned towards Aziraphale, who raised his brows inquisitively. "I don't like looking at anything, actually."
Aziraphale let out a huff of laughter. "Oh, please. Go on, tell me what you were going to say." He sounded like he already knew.
"Nope," Crowley replied, shaking his head. "You ruined the moment with your baseless accusations and slander."
Aziraphale chuckled, a low sound from his belly, and wrapped a strong arm around Crowley's side to pull him closer.
Crowley melted into him, grumbling. His head found Aziraphale's shoulder and pressed into his neck. "You, obviously," he muttered. "Was going to say you."
A soft kiss landed on his crimson curls. "I love you," Aziraphale said, without a drop of uncertainty in his voice.
(The first time Aziraphale said I love you he was scared. The world was ending again, and there was soot on his wings and soot in the air and fire everywhere else, and he was scared, but he said it, and that was brave. Crowley said it back in an instant.
The second time Aziraphale said I love you was at the Rijksmuseum. Nearly 150 years in operation and somehow neither of them had ever gone. As soon as he saw a picture of their research library4, Crowley bought two tickets for the week after they moved to South Downs to celebrate the occasion. The occasion was worth far more celebration than a trip to an art museum, but it was a start.
After several hours of watching him marvel at paint textures and wax poetic about 18th century pigments, Crowley miracled him a tartan seat cushion for the impertinently hard chairs in the library, and Aziraphale just… said it. Right there in front of everyone. Crowley took a few seconds to say it back. Just to revel in it.)
"Want to know my one regret? With us?"
"Your one regret?" Aziraphale asked, his tone implying a nonplussed statement more than a question.
"Yeah," Crowley said simply. "Been thinking about it recently. I've only got one."
"Do you really? I must have hundreds. Every time I should've told you how much I cared for you and didn't, for starters." There was a veil of casualness over his voice, but the edges were fraying.
Crowley's thumb traced circles over the back of Aziraphale's hand where it had gone tense in his own. "I don't hold it against you, angel," he said softly. "Nothing we could've done." Crowley had thought about that recently, too. Yes, thousands of years had gone by with affection trapped behind gritted teeth, but there was nothing to regret. Not really. Those years had been taken from them, not willing withheld by their own hands. "We made it here eventually, didn't we?"
Aziraphale shifted a bit where he sat before settling a hand over Crowley's hair, stroking down to the nape of his neck. "I suppose we did."
Crowley closed his eyes to the touch. "We've got all the time in the universe now."
"Well, I do like the sound of that," Aziraphale replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Go on, then. What is this single regret of yours?"
Crowley took a deep breath. "Right, um. First time we met, the whole universe started up, remember? Absolutely gorgeous view, utterly unmatched.” He forced more air through the tightness in his chest and held it for a moment. “I didn't even look at you. Not once." And then, softer, "We'll never see that again, and I missed all the wonder on your face."
Because that was the point. As much as Crowley had gotten used to pretending that it wasn't, that was the point of everything. The point of camping, syrup-drenched waffles for dessert, dining at The Ritz, tickets to Gyndebourne and the Louvre, and picnics in the back garden. The point was watching Aziraphale marvel at it all. And he'd missed it, the idiotic, naive angel that he was, he’d missed Aziraphale marvelling at the creation of the bloody universe. This shoddy speck of galaxy above them now didn't even come close.
"You would've found me looking at you, I’m afraid," Aziraphale said quietly. "At the wonder on yours."
Crowley frowned. "You wot?" He extricated himself from the crook of Aziraphale's neck and sat up to look at him properly.
Aziraphale's eyes were latched onto their joined hands, his expression fond and… maybe a little embarrassed, for some reason. "You were the brightest thing I had ever seen, Crowley, of course I was looking at you."
"Oh." There was probably something intelligent he should say, something very smooth and romantic, but every word in every language had left his brain except oh. Idiot, still an idiot.
"But I took the scenic route to get there, of course," Aziraphale continued, looking up at him with a cheeky little smile.
"The scenic route?" Crowley said, finding his words as well as the muscles at the left corner of his lips. "And here I thought you were telling me I was the scene."
Aziraphale's smile spread into a grin. "Best not to get cocky, darling."
A short cackle burst out of Crowley's chest before he had time to stop it. "Have I ever told you how much of a bastard you are?"
That increasingly smug grin was enough of an answer. "And yet you're still going to kiss me."
"Oh, am I?" Crowley laughed. "Now who's cocky?"
"Well, it does seem to work on you," Aziraphale replied, still grinning.
Crowley rolled his eyes, trying his best to be annoyed. "Happy birthday, angel."
Their lips met. Crowley was, after all, helpless to indulge him.
1. When two individuals hold hands and spin, centripetal force is the thing that keeps them on their circular path, continually drawing them in towards the centre. Centrifugal force is the illusion of being pulled away at the same time. They aren’t. They're safe. Back to the story.
2. While Heaven nor Hell took any note of this, one particular late-night hiker did. A dark, blurry picture of Mothman and his mysterious albino counterpart soaring above a dense part of the woods was shared on a blog the very next day. The post received minimal attention. Back to the story.
3. The expression "you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs" is of French origin, and was therefore lost on Aziraphale when he first heard it in 1793. Back to the story.
