#pouring one out for all these hypothetical people acting like his only personality trait is being obsessed with akane and clingy

[primeministerofantarctica]

sure i wish mcff had a bigger fandom (or. anyone at all really ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯) but i can just imagine how many people would mischaracterize takada so :T

[cloudysonder]

Bad Demon (Ineffable Husbands)

Summary: Crowley, in a fit of drunkenness, confesses his feelings for Aziraphale. It doesn’t go down very well. In fact, it goes about as badly as it could’ve gone, and before Aziraphale could even try to process his (already given) response, Crowley is gone; vanished into thin air. So, in a very Aziraphale-like manner, Aziraphale does nothing for a while. And then he panics.

Crowley, purely by definition, was a very bad demon.

Despite how he acted, it was what he truly believed. (As he should, for it was a fact.)

He didn’t ooze the seven deadly sins as he was supposed to, at all times. He wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of death, nor the concept of unjustified violence or horrible misfortune. In fact, he thought these were very stupid concepts; people should get what they bring upon themselves, he thought. There was no need for something to happen to them for no apparent reason.

Well, at least his “evil” habit of questioning authority never changed. (Which made sense, he supposed, to this fucked-up system, which was only Almighty in the way that it was almightily confusing, as the same system threw him down into a vat of sulfur for said habit.)

He spent his angel days making the stars and the sky, falling in love with every one of his creations. He believed in Her with all of his heart, yes, but he asked questions, thinking he also wanted to understand Her with all of his mind.

But that was bad, he was told, and off he went, spiraling into a vat of sulfur, white wings burning until they were black. 

He was a bad angel; years and years of not being one had taught him to accept that. Being a bad angel should’ve meant that he would be a good demon.

They were two sides of one coin, and somehow, Crowley had managed to land on the edge.

Crowley, purely by definition, was a very bad demon.

Except around Aziraphale.

Dishonesty was one of the most sought-after traits in a demon. Lying was fun for Crowley, a good 87.83% of the time, but it was mostly for temptations and “curses” that could usually be considered mild inconveniences at best. Lies that truly hurt somebody, now those were things he didn’t like messing with.

Words were the sharpest sword sometimes, and again, he wasn’t really a fan of stabbing, or slicing, or even just very politely and gently mauling. In front of Aziraphale however, he told lies that slashed like a jagged rusty knife into dry skin and stung like salt and cayenne rubbed into wounds. 

*

“I’m an angel, and you’re a demon, Crawl-- Crowley. We’re not even supposed to be seeing each other, much less, you know, fraternizing.” Aziraphale had whispered the last word, as if genuinely ashamed. “The Arrangement. That’s it, alright? I can’t do anything more.”

“I’m fine with that,” Crowley replied, and the lie dug itself deep into his heart. “Like I’d want to spend time around a holy angel, anyway.”

*

Around Aziraphale, Crowley also tended to indulge in a trick he had learned from the humans: lying to himself. 

Or, more accurately, pretending.

Sometimes, when Aziraphale called him “dear” or “my dear”, he liked to imagine a world where he actually meant it. He liked seeing the people who worked at the Ritz look at them with fondness, liked hearing them whisper about how they were such a good couple, and for a few beautiful moments, he would live in a world where it was true. For a few moments, he pretended that they lived in a simple world, where Zira wasn’t an angel and he wasn’t a demon, and they were a couple.

(It most certainly wasn’t hard, since, by most Earthly standards, they already acted like a married couple.)

He had once told the angel that the two of them weren’t on Heaven’s side or Hell’s side, but their side.

Zira responded that there was no their side and tacked on an “I don’t even like you!” for good measure. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, this small exchange of words had completely decimated Crowley’s sleeping habits (from once a day to a few times a year), as Crowley would often nightmare, and even when he dreamed, again, of a hypothetical world where they were together, the words would echo through his head.

It wasn’t very pleasant.

But sitting with his angel at the Ritz, lying to himself (even for a few glorious minutes) was very pleasant. Probably the most angelic a demon could feel.

Well, that is, before the server brought a small pride flag with their wine, offering them a meek smile and a gentle compliment.

“Hello, sirs.” They placed the wine and wine glasses on the table. “Thank you for being such loyal regulars. I think it’s adorable how you two come for a date here every week. Happy pride month!”

The server stuck the flag in the vase of flowers that stood between the two.

Crowley reveled in the moment (no, his cheeks were not red, and no, he was not avoiding eye contact with Aziraphale; he was just really interested in the label on the wine bottle is all).

“Oh.” Crowley heard a small sound from the angel across from him. “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, we’re not, uh we’re not together--”

Crowley froze, rudely being pulled out of his “lying to himself” act, and immediately poured himself a full glass of wine.

“Oh?” The server had a poorly hidden look of “no way” on their face but politely smiled anyway.

Crowley downed the wine like a shot, his eyes focused on both nothing and everything except Aziraphale.

“We’ll keep the flag, though. It’s very nice.” Aziraphale added, and if Crowley were paying even the slightest bit of attention to the angel, he would’ve noticed that Aziraphale’s face was flushed and his lips were stiff, as he was trying to stop himself from rambling (as he often did when nervous).

Crowley, however, was instead busy doing something very unmistakably human:

Drowning his sorrows in alcohol.

The demon was done with about 3/4 of the wine bottle before the server even left their field of vision.

“You. Yeah, you. Get me another one of these-- yeah, a white’s good. Have any bigger wine glasses?”

The server glanced at the angel and then him, and nodded sympathetically.

“Right away, sir.”

“What is wrong with you today, dear?” Aziraphale’s eyes crumpled at the edges in genuine worry. It made Crowley taste a cocktail of guilt and bitterness, knowing that Aziraphale truly did care for him, but not nearly the way Crowley cared for him. “You’re just... breathing in this alcohol, like a, like a... what were they called? You know, those lovely clean sucking things that they made last century...”

Crowley flushed. Just Aziraphale saying the word “sucking” was too much for him. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Crowley soon decided that if he was able to think coherently, then he hadn’t drunk enough alcohol. He filled another glass just as Aziraphale gasped and exclaimed,

“Vacuums!” Zira took a moment to appreciate his own genius, involuntarily puffing out his chest. “A vacuum! That’s what it is! You’re acting an awful lot like a vacuum, dear. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied, more out of habit than actual thought. Hm. His vision was fine, and his words weren’t slurred yet, and more importantly, he could still think. Crowley didn’t appreciate that one bit.

He snapped his fingers, and a small demonic miracle danced around his wine, turning it to something considerably less wine-like, but almost infinitely more likely to turn Crowley into a happier, drunker demon.

In other words, vodka. (Particularly a more demonic sort, with 730.67% alcohol.)

He downed the glass, and promptly fell over, knocked out.

“Crowley?”

He barely registered his angel calling him, voice brimming with concern.

Crowley came to after being hit with the familiar scent of old books and cocoa, and, upon further investigation, realized it was because he was draped over Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel struggled to drag him home.

Crowley breathed in Aziraphale’s scent before (slightly) uprighting himself. His arm was still wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, but he was partially walking on his own now.

He heard Zira sigh in relief next to him.

“What happened, my dear?”

God, his eyes were so blue.

“You don’t normally... drink like this.”

Sober Crowley would’ve made an excuse well-suited to his personality; something along the lines of “I felt like it” or “it’s national ‘Get Shit-Faced’ day, angel”.

Drunk Crowley, however, couldn’t even process the question.

“Sssssatan, your eyesss are sso blue.” Crowley flicked his tongue out (it had miraculously shifted back to its natural serpentine form sometime between when he drank his not-wine to when he was draped on his angel’s back) to take in more of Aziraphale’s scent. “....’eally niccce.”

Aziraphale chuckled (adorably).

“What was that, Crowley?”

“Really niccce.”

“What is?”

Crowley made eye contact with Aziraphale, and the demon’s yellow snake-slit eyes crinkled at the edges in fondness.

“...Ineffable.” Crowley hiccupped out, tapping on his chest. “Can’t... understand... why.”

“Huh.” Aziraphale didn’t understand at all what Crowley had said, but felt that it was important for whatever reason, shelving it with his old books in his memory library.

“Sssshakessspeare wasss a dick,” Crowley eloquently added, and the conversation moved on, not giving the angel a single second to process whatever Crowley had just said.

It was when they stepped into the bookshop that Crowley’s despair over the 14th century had miraculously lifted, and the demon’s demeanor shifted to one of relief.

“I’m home!” Crowley laughed between hiccups. He had always imagined saying that when he walked into Zira’s bookshop, and the lack of filter between his mouth and head had long since been removed by alcohol.

“Home? We’re at the bookshop, dear.” Aziraphale absentmindedly replied. Crowley had left his side and was beelining towards his usual spot on the sofa: the whole sofa.

“Yeah.” Crowley was sprawled across the couch, tongue flicking out occasionally to gather as much of the bookshop’s smell as he could. “Home issss where you are, angel.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, his head slightly tilted as his serpentine pupils dilated on a yellow background; a tick he had picked up from the humans. His eyes were half-lidded, decidedly not from the drunkenness that resulted from alcohol but the often even stupider drunkenness that resulted from being smitten.

Crowley had looked at Aziraphale many times this way. Just, never when Aziraphale looked back. Drunk Crowley didn’t seem to give very much of a shit for Sober Crowley’s embarrassment.

“I love you.”

Crowley stared straight into Aziraphale’s too-blue eyes.

“So much, angel.” Crowley tacked on. “Since the Beginning. So, ssso much, Aziraphale.”

He watched as a series of emotions flew across Zira’s face. (If it was to be said, it might’ve been that trait of Aziraphale’s that caused Crowley to trust him so easily in the first place. After all, how could an angel who let everything show on his face betray him?)

First, Aziraphale looked touched. Then, embarrassed. Embarrassment morphed to shame as if he had realized something very important.

“No.”

Aziraphale refused to meet the demon’s eyes. Crowley started to sober almost immediately, albeit unconsciously. It was as if someone had poked a small hole in a water balloon and now the alcohol was draining out of him, like water from a leaky faucet.

Drip.

Drip.

“What?” A million shades of hurt flashed through Crowley.

“It’s wrong, dea-- Crowley! You’re a demon, you know, a creature from Hell that’s supposed to be terrorizing all of humanity, and I’m an angel, the exact opposite.”

I was once too, Crowley wanted to say.

“I’m meant to love everything equally, and you’re not meant to love at all; there’s no possible way whatever this is could, could, could be.”

Aziraphale was rambling. Everything out of his mouth meant little to nothing to him, but every word stabbed Crowley in a different weak point he didn’t know he had.

“Romance is, it isn’t, it’s not--” He was stuttering now. “It’s not us.”

Crowley somehow got his mouth to work again, but all he could manage was a broken,

“What are we, then?”

I don’t know.

“Nothing.”

Crowley shattered.

The room had gone silent.

Where is my home, then?

Nowhere.

Nothing, nowhere, nobody.

That’s what Crowley had always been. Not an angel. Not a demon. Belonging nowhere. He had thought and dreamed and hoped of a love that would make him something, but in the end, he stayed the same.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

If only he could stop. He wished he could, he really did, wished he could slow down, wished he could relax enough to find something.

If only he could just disappear.

When Aziraphale blinked, Crowley had vanished, leaving behind nothing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley was currently in a Place.

A Place, because he had no idea where he was.

Not on Earth, because Earth was a place he could get drunk and forget. Now, every drop of alcohol that entered his bloodstream exited twice as quickly, after any, any thought involving Aziraphale passed through. Which was always, since he was the reason Crowley was drinking in the first place. He couldn’t be on Earth, because Aziraphale would always be with him on Earth.

A Place.

Not on Hell, because he had been to Hell, many, many times, and this was so much worse.

A Place.

Heaven?

Well, if he could go to heaven, this whole blessed thing wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

It was because he was a demon, wasn’t it? 

It was, Crowley told himself. But he could have been better. 

He buried his face in his arms, folded on top of himself in the couch he never sat on in his apartment. 

If Crowley was better, maybe he could’ve convinced Aziraphale to stay. Maybe Aziraphale could’ve chosen him over the world, chosen their side. 

Crowley did ask. Once.

The world or him and Alpha Centauri, and Aziraphale, his lovely selfless good angel, had chosen the world without even blinking. 

Even if it meant throwing him away.

“I really should’ve seen this coming.” Crowley chuckled, miserable, and the sound bounced off the walls. “What was I expecting?”

In front of him, a few of his plants had the nerve to droop, and Crowley couldn’t muster anything in him to threaten them. He felt very much like drooping himself. Crowley gently held the leaf of the houseplant that drooped, feeling it tremble for a second under his touch.

He knew it was a coping mechanism. But it helped. It helped him deal with things, accept things enough to...

To do what?

Heeding orders was never a desire of his.

Everything he did was for Aziraphale. To see his face, to smell his coat, to tease him, to love him, Crowley lived. 

He breathed into the terrified leaf of the dracaena. 

He was to the plant as Hell was to him. 

Hell had power over him, was what he had thought. He feared Hell for what they could do to him.

But now?

The fear had vanished.

The worst had happened. He lived for Aziraphale, not Hell, he realized, and fear of the past only existed in the minds of fools.

He mumbled a quiet “’m sorry” into the leaf of his dracaena, and it stopped trembling in his hands. Crowley had only ever cried once before, unsurprisingly over the same angel, over the same problem: leaving him.

He was sobbing now; he clenched the leaf of his houseplant in his hands and cried, knowing that Aziraphale would never mourn like this over him.

Crowley might’ve imagined it, but he swore that he felt another leaf of the dracaena patting his back, comforting him.

****Something that passed through the mind of Crowley around his 30th attempt to drink****

Aziraphale had once told him something along the lines of “one could only be truly good if one had the capacity to be truly evil”, and Crowley could do neither.

*

When he felt shitty, Crowley would’ve normally crashed Aziraphale’s bookshop, lounging on the angel’s couch in the backroom while listening to him rambling about Dante or Dickens, but that wasn’t very much an option now.

Crowley was nothing to the angel, after all, even though friends still wouldn’t have been enough for Crowley.

*

Aziraphale had screwed up. Badly. 

He sat where Crowley had been just a few minutes ago, looking at Aziraphale as if the stars were in his eyes. 

Crowley, a demon: Snake eyes unhidden, snake tongue flicking out once in a while, languishing on his couch.

He had felt so much pride in having Crowley be comfortable around him. Felt fondness for the demon that would barge in and collapse on his couch without warning, who listened to his rambles about books and music for hours without complaint.

He kept seeing Crowley’s hurt expression when he had said that he was just a demon.

That much was true, yes. But not just a demon. Crowley was anything but just. He was beyond that, and Aziraphale had always known that.

He was sure that when Crowley was an angel that hadn’t changed. It was for being more than just an angel that he probably got thrown off the side. 

This was Crowley: a demon that had drove him more places than he could count, the demon that told him that “Another One Bites The Dust” was by Tchaikovsky, the demon that had walked into a church for him, the demon that had saved books from a burning church for him, the demon that loved him.

“What are we, then?” 

His voice was shaking, broken.

“Nothing.”

 Aziraphale saw Crowley’s heart drop. 

Crowley was gone now; probably never coming back. His only ally in the world, the only constant that had stayed, and protected him, and cared. 

“Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh?”

He had nudged Aziraphale goodnaturedly and smiled.

Aziraphale put his head in his hands. 

Softly, silently, he cursed.

*

Meanwhile, Heaven and Hell, as both of which had learned their lesson from the last time they left Aziraphale and Crowley completely unmonitored, watched them for about three weeks.

Well, “watched” wasn’t quite the right word. They didn’t “see” very much of anything. Or hear, for that matter. 

(Which was a relief, as Crowley very well would’ve rather stepped into a vat of holy water than have Hastur know that he’d confessed his love for an angel while drunk.)

Hell felt a small bit of Aziraphale’s grace lift up from Crowley’s clothes and furniture.

Heaven felt a tad of Crowley’s demonic presence lift up from Aziraphale’s bookshop (Crowley had intentionally left a bit so no one would walk into the bookshop to buy books for a very long time) and coat(s).

As such, Heaven and Hell were optimistic that both had returned to their proper roles as a demon, terrorizer of humanity, and an angel, bringer of miracles. Thus, they sent representatives to congratulate them. Not because they were truly proud of them, of course, but rather because of a mix of emotions, most of which were elements of fear and hatred of the other side.

For Crowley, Hastur.

For Aziraphale, Gabriel.

*

Gabriel walked into Aziraphale’s bookshop in an extremely Gabriel-like way, that is to say, with perfect posture, hands folded in front of him, a bright smile painted on his face.

“Aziraphale!” He called.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale looked up from the book he was trying, but failing to read, for his mind had been a bit preoccupied with a certain demon’s absence.

“I just wanted to say congratulations!” He slapped Aziraphale on the back. 

“For...?” 

“For dissociating yourself from that demon, of course! What was his name... Crawly?” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected, stern.

“Right! Up There is very happy with you, you know.” Gabriel leaned forward to say the last sentence, as if it was a well-kept secret.

A small part of Aziraphale, one that he now hated, felt a glimmer of pride. 

Said glimmer of pride was stamped out when Gabriel ruffled Zira’s hair and gave him another slap on the back.

The angel felt nauseous. Gabriel’s smile, his mannerisms, the way he looked like he was proud of him... it all felt so fake. 

Gabriel bounced on his feet, refusing to sit down, as if he was ready to leave any second.

Aziraphale thought of a certain demon, who would drape himself over his couch immediately, settling in as if it were his second home.

Gabriel called him terrific, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that he would much rather be told “not bad, angel” with a poorly concealed smile.

The glimmer of pride, if it had ever been there at all, quickly turned into guilt.

He had traded Crowley for this?

*

Hastur sauntered into the bar with a slight limp. 

Surprisingly, the bar wasn’t crowded at all, almost as if someone had put a sort of demonic miracle on it. Hastur grumbled approvingly, spotting Crowley as the lone figure at the counter, sipping whiskey directly from the bottle.

(He still couldn’t actually get drunk, of course, but drinking felt better than lying on his bed doing nothing.)

Hastur grabbed his shoulder.

“Crowley.” 

Crowley looked at him.

“Hastur.” Crowley sighed. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Finally gotten free of your angel, eh?” Hastur did something that wasn’t smiling nor smirking, but communicated approval anyhow. 

“Not mine,” Crowley mumbled into the bottle.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Crowley took a swig of whiskey. “You could put it that way. And?”

“Hell approves.” Hastur shrugged. “Everyone does. Angels are stupid asses. Hypocrites, the lot of them.”

“Sure,” Crowley replied.

“Yours in particular though,” Hastur added. “Satan, he was idiotic. Bookshop full of books that he doesn’t want to sell. He might as well be one of ours. Stupid name too, something long, Ezra something--”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley grit out.

“Yeah, him. What a preach. Lecturing about evil and good, as if he knows everything. What does he know? He just stuffs his face all day long like a human. No wonder he’s such a lard-ass--”

Crowley decked him, and Hastur flew across the room.

...

Hastur’s back slammed against a brick wall with a dull satisfying thud, and Crowley’s hands hung at his sides, as if they were sagging with the weight of what he had just done.

To put it simply, Crowley had two things on earth: Aziraphale and Hell, which had already put him into a number of quite strange situations, given that they were almost polar opposites of each other. 

After Aziraphale rejected him, Crowley only had Hell, and logically, should’ve been demon-ing with all his might: knocking over kid’s ice cream cones, slightly nudging the letters on someone’s birthday cake so that they would be just asymmetrical, you know, evil stuff. He should’ve been training a band of mariachi maggots to sing for Hastur, Duke of WhateverTheFuckCrowleyDidn’tReallyCare, not striking him in the face.

But Satan was it satisfying.

The pompous Duke of Hell who had the nerve to insult his angel was lying on the ground before him, a large bruise blooming on his cheek. Anger still pumped through Crowley’s veins as he leered down at Hastur, feeling very much like he’d like to punch him again.

Gripping him by his collar, Crowley lifted Hastur in the air and threw him into the wall again. Just for good measure. He took a deep breath.

After being near Aziraphale for so long, he had forgotten just how woefully inadequate other demons’ company was in comparison. 

On the bright side, Crowley thought to himself as he walked towards the exit. After what happened today, he wouldn’t very much have to worry about “other demons’ company” anymore.

A demonic miracle later, Hastur appeared in front of Crowley again, smug smirk on his face and amusement flickering in and out of his eyes.

To fully understand Hastur’s reaction, one had to understand two very important points.

1: When it was implied before that Hell left Crowley for the most part alone  because of a mix of fear and respect from his holy water spectacle, it would be more accurate to say that it was because of a begrudging respect from fear. Hell respected the art of fear very much, and Crowley had instilled it into every demon who watched him bathe in holy water.

Fear, however, only worked when the one who fears thinks the one who is feared has no weaknesses.

2: Hastur wasn’t stupid.

“This is hilarious.” A maggot crawled out of Hastur’s smile. 

“What is?” 

“You fell in love.” Hastur leaned forward to Crowley’s ear. “With an angel.”

If it must be reiterated, Hastur was not quite the idiot Crowley had always played him to be. He may have seemed so, but that was simply because Crowley was a bit more clever than he played himself to be.

More importantly, Hastur had been demon-ing for far longer than Crowley had.

**A Common Misconception (known by Hastur but unknown to Crowley)**

Demons did not indulge in the seven sins; they simply convinced humans to do so. In fact, it was (or should’ve been) impossible for them to do so in the first place, as each sin was rooted in love, and demons could not love.

(Demons could sense the sins just as angels could sense love, and it was Crowley’s bit of wrath that gave him away.)

Crowley stiffened. He fought the (unnecessary) urge to breathe, as panic rose up his throat. Fear was about three hells of a poison, and Crowley was deeply cursing the fact that he didn’t have it in his serpentine fangs.

“You know Picasso?” Hastur looked directly at Crowley.

Crowley didn’t reply.

“One of ours, of course. I got to torture him for a few Hell millennia, and he told me something.” Hastur continued. “He said, ‘Every time I change wives I should burn the last one. That way I'd be rid of them. They wouldn't be around to complicate my existence. You kill the woman and you wipe out the past she represents.’”

“Wait,” Crowley interjected, sounding desperate.

“Now, Aziraphale, was it? Not a woman, but it’s the same either way, really.”  Hastur shrugged. 

“Look, aren’t you being a tad overdramatic? Aziraphale-- he’s, it’s not anything, really, you know. In fact, he told me that myself-- look, I’m sorry for striking you, but we’re mates, aren’t we? Demons of Hell, the lot of us, there’s no need to--”

“Ciao.” Hastur dipped his head a bit, and he was gone.

Shit.

....

Aziraphale got rid of Gabriel by sheer willpower, fake smiles, and a gentle bit of steadily nudging his “brother” to the exit. 

Upon closing the door behind him, the angel savored the sense of relief and tried to ignore the loneliness that swelled beside it.

The empty couch, the crushing silence.

Overwhelming.

However, the small, but already far too long, interaction with Gabriel had led him to a decision. A decision, he realized, in which he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

Aziraphale was, generally, a very reckless person. Sometimes, it could be called bravery. Other times, it could be called stupidity.

He was aware of this, and this awareness led him to ultimately decide that this was too important of an action to rush in with.

He had waited six thousand years. What was a few hours more?

Armed with a pen and a couple hundred flashcards, Aziraphale dived into work.

*A List of Things Aziraphale Realized While Writing Out a Series of Memories and Thoughts*

1.) He was an idiot.

2.) Crowley had confessed to him in his own way many times before (burning church, French Revolution, dinner at the Ritz for no reason), and Aziraphale had never noticed (refer to #1).

3.) He loved Crowley. (Well, he actually came up with that one sometime over the three weeks they’d been apart.)

4.) He really didn’t give a flying fuck (Yes, he had wrote that. Yes, he thought that Crowley would be very proud of him.) about Heaven or Hell, so long as he had the Earth and Crowley.

The moment he had firmly decided on the final point, Aziraphale heard the door slam open.

It was followed by a desperate-sounding, “Angel!”, and Aziraphale immediately turned around, making eye contact with a terrified looking Crowley.

He didn’t even have time to take in the demon’s eye bags and sunken face before Crowley beelined towards him.

Cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands, Crowley rubbed his thumbs over the angel’s cheekbones, as if trying to convince himself that he was there. 

“Alright?” Crowley asked softly.

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, bewildered.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked again, firmer. 

“Yes, of course, what are you talking about--” 

Crowley hugged Aziraphale, crushing the angel’s body against his own (not unlike a snake, in fact). Confused, Aziraphale managed a small, 

“Crowley...?” 

 The demon in question stiffened as if remembering something important. He immediately pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets, and looking very much like he wanted to jump into a lake of holy water.

“Right. Sorry. Um.” He coughed into his sleeve. “Panicked, a bit. Couldn’t do any demonic miracles. Just a prank, probably, then. Just thought about... some stupid... thing--”

Said “stupid thing” may or may not have been the burning of the bookshop followed by the worst hours of his life.

“--so I just came over without thinking. Sorry. I’ll just-- I’ll just go.” He turned to face the door.

“No!” Aziraphale latched onto his hand. “Wait, just wait right there. I’ll be right back.”

Aziraphale hurried to his desk, gathering his index cards, notes, and sticky notes, among all of the other 5,724 things on there. 

It was the warmest he’d felt in a while. He’d missed the demon, so much more desperately than he thought he would have, and a single word, a single action from him was all it took to make the world feel alright again.

He’d missed being called “angel”. 

Aziraphale flustered at the realization and stumbled, index cards managing to spread across the floor in a matter of seconds.

“What’s all this?” Crowley gestured to Aziraphale’s paper model of the Pacific Ocean on the ground. 

“Oh, just give me a second, I’ll have it all sorted out in a minute.” Aziraphale was bent down on the ground, gathering all the cards into a small horde. “Gosh, where’s the last one?”

“Just use a miracle, angel,” Crowley said, exasperated. 

For a second, things were normal again.

Crowley bent down to pick an index card up.

He glanced at it and flushed an alarming shade of red. Pushing his sunglasses up, Crowley covered his face with his right hand, the other holding the index card between his middle and pointer finger.

“Ah,” Crowley heard Aziraphale from the ground. “You, you picked up the last one.”

“...is it true?” Crowley murmured quietly, as if he was scared of the answer. 

Aziraphale stood up, dragged Crowley up by the arm, and removed his hand from his face. 

He stared directly into Crowley’s eyes and smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks.

“I reckon it’s the truest thing I’ve ever written.” 

Crowley smiled back.

“Lunch at the Ritz?”

“I thought you’d never ask, dear.”

And he meant the “dear” this time, Crowley thought blissfully.

*

“A reservation for two, under Anthony J. Crowley.” 

The server beamed at them.

“Flowers?” The server offered.

“As many as possible, please.” Aziraphale replied.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley sighed.

*

“About goddamn time,” Hastur muttered from a table behind them.

“Were you the one who got them together?” A server asked from beside him. He startled, before relaxing.

“Drastic times called for drastic measures.” Hastur shrugged. 

“Please let me give you some wine on the house.”

“Could you say I stole it? For my reputation.” 

The server paused.

“Sure, sire.”

AN:

Thanks for reading! For earlier updates and other such things, my stories are on AO3 under the name CloudySonder!