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It hadn't been comfortable, waiting for Crowley to arrive at the park. He was reasonably certain that if he'd survived, the demon had too - as long as Gabriel's backpfeifengesicht[1] didn't aggravate Crowley into breaking character. Aziraphale knew the demon wouldn't give such a high stakes game away for the momentary pleasure of knocking Gabriel down, but it wasn't a pleasant scene to imagine. And if he lost Crowley now...
He tried to comfort himself with the thought that if worse came to worst, at least the demon would go to his death knowing Aziraphale returned his love. But he had so much to make up for. He shuddered to think how much - how long Crowley might have been waiting for Aziraphale to catch on. How long Crowley had been casually calling him "angel." How long -
How long Crowley had been offering himself, always with just that edge of lightness that would allow him to laugh it off if Aziraphale didn't, as it were, go for it.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, remembering the back table of the dim dining room of an unremarkable inn in Poland three hundred years earlier. It was late enough and dim enough that Crowley had dispensed with his glasses, yellow eyes reflecting the candlelight as he regaled Aziraphale with his latest forays into court intrigue and etiquette.
"The more complicated you make it, angel, the more opportunities for someone to cock it all up. Havoc for months. Take hand kisses-"
There were, apparently, dozens of ways for a gentleman to kiss a lady's hand. First knuckle, second knuckle, whether or not the lips should even make contact - it all had the potential to send the wrong message, depending on their relative status, degree of acquaintance, possibly the phase of the moon. "And then if you really want to scandalize someone, this -" and suddenly Crowley had caught hold of his hand, pulling it toward himself with a sly grin, "- is a proposition." And before Aziraphale could react, Crowley had bent over his hand, turning it over in his grip, and had gently kissed the center of his palm.
Aziraphale remembered the look Crowley had given him as he straightened up - eyebrows raised, yellow eyes glinting as if to say only joking, of course. And Aziraphale had laughed, and made some faux-affronted joking reply, and they'd poured more wine, and the rest of the evening had passed in an unremarkably pleasant blur.
It was only now, calling up the memory for - what, the how-many-hundredth time? - that he saw, in his mind's eye, the footnote in the demon's expression. Only joking, of course -* *-unless you actually want to.
Aziraphale opened his eyes, staring unseeing at the park. How many times had he misread that expression?
He was spared attempting to count them by Crowley's arrival. Aziraphale let the thought give way to the more immediate concerns of switching bodies and letting Crowley tempt him to lunch.
The Ritz had been lovely, of course. After so much bloody ineffability and deception - not to mention the revelatory experience of a certain misdirected bus - it was comforting to slide into such an old routine. Crowley with his untouched cup of black coffee, Aziraphale enjoying the parade of courses for that day’s Lunch Surprise, which the chef was somehow always willing to prepare for one instead of two.[2] After the little frisson that shivered through him at the toast Crowley had proposed, Aziraphale had simply relaxed into their usual banter, letting it carry him along without much conscious thought.
So when Crowley had unfolded himself from the chair at the end of the meal, quirked an eyebrow at Aziraphale, and said, “Your place or mine?” in the same half-joking tone he always used, Aziraphale had blithely answered “Oh, mine I think, I’m quite curious to see what Adam has done to the wine cupboard,” before remembering that the question was a bit more loaded now than it had been the last time they’d dined at the Ritz. He resolutely kept himself from blushing as he rose, but he felt Crowley’s eyes on his back all the way to the Bentley.
Aziraphale stopped short three paces into the bookshop's back room. Muscle memory was prodding him to pull down a couple of glasses, select an interesting vintage, and settle in the chair across from Crowley as they'd done uncountably many times. He wanted to hold onto the comfortable familiarity that had returned over lunch, to let it sink into his bones and ground him. But -
He turned to find Crowley standing close behind him, stopped short in his turn, expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. No more time for dithering now, Aziraphale told himself sternly. You've had thousands of years to think. You're an angel. Have faith.
He reached up and carefully removed the blasted sunglasses, folding them in one hand as he let the other stroke down Crowley's temple. He raised his head to meet those golden-yellow eyes, let Crowley see his intentions as he held his gaze. Did the demon's breath hitch? Aziraphale was too busy trying to control his own lungs to be sure. Slowly, slowly, he let his hand come to rest at Crowley's jaw. Still holding Crowley's eyes, he closed the short distance between them and brought their mouths together.
The beginning of the kiss was a fragile, delicate thing, ready to shatter at the first move either of them made to separate. Neither of them did. Aziraphale let his eyes flutter closed as he leaned into Crowley's taller form, bringing both arms up to wind around the demon's neck. He felt Crowley's hands grasp his hips, pulling him closer still as the kiss deepened.
They stood wrapped around each other, for minutes that felt like forever.[3] Aziraphale felt the last vestiges of fear and doubt melt out of him as Crowley made no move to separate from him, even when the kiss finally broke. They stood in silence for a moment, foreheads together.
"... I've been wanting to do that for centuries," Aziraphale breathed, realizing as he said the words that it was true.
Crowley's arms tightened around him. "Me too," he muttered roughly into Aziraphale's hair. "Millennia." And the angel knew he'd said it not as a rebuke, but an admission.
Aziraphale took a deep breath. There were so many things he wanted now, and no words to speak them with, tight as his throat was. He couldn't wait for Crowley to ask first - Crowley had done nothing but ask for as long as he could remember.
Carefully, Aziraphale stepped back and caught one of Crowley's hands as they slid from his back. He turned it in his grip as he brought it to his lips, and gently kissed the center of the palm. Only when it was done did he turn his eyes to meet Crowley's. Gaze unwavering, Crowley brought their clasped hands to his own lips and returned the gesture.
"To the world,"Aziraphale whispered, feeling as though he would burst with it.
"To the world," Crowley's lips traced soundlessly into his palm.