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"Are you absolutely certain it's the 1689 edition?" Aziraphale asked, wrapping the phone cord around his finger before unspooling it again, a nervous habit that didn’t work nearly as well with the mobile device Crowley kept trying to get him to use. "The 1701 edition, well, it has quite a few shortcomings."
The bell above the front door chimed, but Aziraphale barely noticed it, consumed with excitement at the confirmation he was receiving from the person on the other end of the line. "Oh, Sebastian! That's marvelous!" he exclaimed, wiggling his shoulders in excitement. "I could just kiss you."
Suddenly, a sharp hiss drew his attention, and he looked up to see Crowley standing frozen in the doorway, his sunglasses reflecting the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
"Metaphorically," Aziraphale quickly corrected himself, "of course." He made a few notes before hanging up, and turned to Crowley with a brilliant smile.
"That was, um, my friend at the Bookshop on the Heath," Aziraphale explained. Crowley hadn’t taken off his dark glasses yet, which meant he was uncomfortable with something—possibly the mention of anything involving kissing. Since Aziraphale's return from Heaven, they had worked together, albeit reluctantly, and had saved the world once again. However, it had taken months for things to return to the nearly normal, relatively peaceful existence they’d had before The Kiss.
The Kiss that Crowley did not seem at all interested in discussing.
"Yes, it all ssssounded very friendly," Crowley said, folding his arms across his chest. One eyebrow quirked up over his glasses.
Aziraphale refused to let himself be put on the defensive. If Crowley wanted to accuse him of something, he could do so with words. Snarky hisses and crankiness had never intimidated him. In fact, he found it all quite endearing.
"Sebastian tells me he has obtained a copy of the 1689 printing of A True and Complete Account of Celestial Correspondences . You know, by Brother Augustine of Canterbury?"
Crowley was still wearing his glasses, but Aziraphale could see his eyes roll all the same.
"Well, why didn't you just say so? Obviously, that's of the utmost importance, Brother Florentine's book."
"Augustine."
"With the Bestial Consequences."
"Celestial… oh, you're just winding me up, aren't you?"
"It's possible," said Crowley, finally removing his glasses and tucking them into the V of his shirt.
"You, uh, leaving now?"
"No time like the present!" Aziraphale chirped. He reached for his coat, only to have Crowley swipe it off the coat rack and hold it out for him, one brow arched as if daring him to make anything of it. "Thank you, my dear," he said, glancing up at Crowley through his lashes with a smile.
"Ngk," Crowley replied. "How are you getting there?"
"I thought I'd take the Tube," he said, but Crowley shook his head with a frown.
"C'mon," he said. "I'll drive."
Aziraphale smiled to himself. It felt nice that Crowley was offering to chauffeur him around, reminiscent of their old times together. They were gradually returning to what passed for normal for them. However, Aziraphale didn’t want normal anymore. He was tired of maintaining a careful distance, avoiding physical contact, and pretending they were just friends. He wanted something more, but he had no idea how to initiate that conversation without pushing Crowley away.
During the twenty-minute drive to Blackheath (it would have been ten, if Crowley had driven his usual speed, but he was in no hurry for once; he would take every stolen second he could with the angel), Aziraphale wittered on about the book he was seeking, and the bookshop, and Sebastian, and suggestions for where they could have lunch after. (He wanted to have lunch! With Crowley!)
They'd started spending more time together, after the averted Second Coming, but Crowley couldn't get The Kiss out of his mind. It had been a desperate gesture. Something he'd been thinking about for centuries, but it had gone nothing like he'd imagined, nothing like he'd dreamed more times than he cared to count.
Aziraphale had been so dismayed, so angry, and then he'd fucked off to Heaven anyway. All for a good cause, of course, Crowley had known the angel had something up his sleeve—too clever by half, he was. Still. Now The Kiss sat between them, heavy and lumpy, like… like… what was heavy and lumpy? Mud? Would have to be a lot of mud, to be heavy…
" —ley? You missed the turn." Aziraphale's voice pulled him back to his senses.
The turquoise of the shop's facade stood in stark contrast to the weathered brick of the buildings surrounding it. Crowley hung back behind Aziraphale once they entered, leaning against one of the shelves as a man rounded the counter and approached Aziraphale, arms extended. "My dear Mr. Fell! At last, we meet in person!" And, bloody hell, now the man was hugging Aziraphale, just right there in public, in front of Crowley, like he had the right.
"Mr. Fairweather, what a delight!" Aziraphale responded, his voice bright with evident pleasure, and he was returning the hug, like that was just a thing Aziraphale did with humans all the time. Sebastian was going on with copious "dears" and "darlings" and exclaiming over Aziraphale's brilliance as Crowley grew increasingly more irritated.
Finally, he cocked his hip and “accidentally” knocked over a display of handmade bookmarks, scattering them across the floor. Oops. Both men turned towards him, but he only had eyes for one of them.
"Sebastian, this is Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. He knelt beside Crowley and started helping him pick up the fallen items. Actually, the angel was doing all the work while Crowley pretended to help. "I swear, you're just like a cat," Aziraphale whispered. "You go without attention for thirty seconds, and you have to cause chaos." Although his words were scolding, his tone was affectionate, their shoulders brushing against each other, and Crowley suddenly felt much better.
"'M a demon," he murmured, picking up the last bookmark (look! He was helpful!) and thrilling at the touch of Aziraphale's fingers skimming over his as he handed it off. "Havoc is in the job description." Sebastian was still staring at him with barely concealed alarm. Good.
They stood together, and Crowley noticed that Aziraphale stayed by his side, their shoulders still touching. It was ridiculous how happy this made him, so of course, he deepened his scowl, shoving his sunglasses up his nose.
"Here's your book," Sebastian said, offering it like a rose. "I do hope it's to your liking."
Apparently it was, if Aziraphale's shoulder wiggles and gushing enthusiasm were any indication. They did a tedious dance over the price while Crowley continued holding up the wall.
The transaction concluded, and of course, Aziraphale needed to peruse the rest of the shop. Crowley trailed behind him, nodding along as Aziraphale excitedly talked about his acquisition, praised the biography section of the shop (look, Crowley, a book about Byron, do you remember that dinner we had with him?) and squeezed Crowley's elbow (his elbow!) to lead him to the science section, where he pointed out various astronomy books, ultimately purchasing one for Crowley. It was full of exquisite pictures and maps, and Crowley was overwhelmed with affection for this beautiful, kind, and passionate angel.
Aziraphale suggested their favorite dim sum restaurant for lunch, and Crowley obligingly drove in that direction.
They were chattering away—well, Aziraphale was chattering; Crowley was doing that thing where he listened properly and asked exactly the right questions at exactly the right moments—when the Bentley began to sputter.
Crowley's brows furrowed, and he muttered, "What the… ?" just as the car stuttered, lurched forward once, twice, and died completely—a cloud of ominous dark smoke billowing from under the bonnet. Crowley was still for a moment, clutching the steering wheel, his mouth slightly ajar.
"Engine trouble?" Aziraphale asked, although it was fairly obvious.
The question pulled Crowley from his confusion. "Engine tr— no it's not fucking engine trouble !" he spat furiously. "She never breaks down! Ever!" He shoved open the door and climbed out, marching to the front of the car and standing with his hands on his hips.
"Explain yourself," he demanded.
Aziraphale joined him, hands behind his back and trying not to laugh at Crowley's charming scowl.
"What does she have to say?" Aziraphale asked.
"She's saying absolutely nothing," Crowley growled, lifting the bonnet and peering into the engine compartment. "Which is frankly ruder than—"
A burst of music and cheering cut him off. They both turned to see a riot of rainbow flags, glittering costumes, and pure joy flowing down Piccadilly like a river of celebration.
"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, his eyes lighting up. "How wonderful! It's Pride!"
The parade was magnificent, chaotic, and utterly unstoppable. Within moments, they were surrounded—marchers flowing around the stalled Bentley like water parting against a stone, some calling out cheerful greetings, others stopping to ask if they needed help. A group of drag queens in towering feathered headdresses paused to coo over the vintage car.
One of them introduced themself as a mechanic specializing in classic cars, and asked if they could take a look. Crowley stepped aside and gave them a “be my guest” wave. Dressed in a sparkly silver minidress, fishnet leggings, and black leather boots with three-inch heels, they carefully removed their headdress, handing it to a friend before leaning over to inspect the Bentley's innards.
Aziraphale used a surreptitious miracle to prevent any engine grease or dust from staining their outfit. Crowley glanced over, lips curled in amusement. "What?" Aziraphale said under his breath. "That's a beautiful dress. I'd hate for them to ruin it."
The mechanic stood, scratching their head. "That's odd," they said. "There doesn't seem to be anything amiss with her engine. It's perfectly sound. In excellent condition for her age, too. You've done a superb job of keeping her up."
"Yes, you have, Crowley," Aziraphale said with a grin. "You're so amazing with cars."
"Now is most definitely not the time, angel," Crowley growled.
"You two are so cute," the mechanic gushed, as their friends nodded in agreement.
"That sexy professor vibe you've got going is… mmm… chef's kiss," said one of them, pressing their fingers to their lips and blowing a kiss to Aziraphale.
"The hot professor and the naughty, bad-boy student," said another, with an appreciative glance at Crowley, who was still frowning in his leather and dark glasses, arms folded over his chest. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow warm, partly in embarrassment, but mostly with delight—the parade-goers were just so affectionate and accepting. Aziraphale could feel the love emanating from them in waves.
The mechanic apologized for not being able to help, and the group sauntered off to rejoin the parade.
"Well," Aziraphale said, watching the mechanic's feathers disappear into the crowd, "I suppose we're rather committed to staying put for a while."
Before Crowley could reply, another group of revellers approached, offering a bottle of wine, which turned out to be somewhat decent. Aziraphale accepted it thankfully and was met with a few more compliments about his vintage apparel, several people cheerfully announcing that a bow tie kink had now been unlocked.
"What does that mean? A kink unlocked?" Aziraphale asked, settling against the side of the car so he could sip wine and watch the parade roll by. Crowley sighed and joined him, gesturing with “gimme” hands until Aziraphale passed the bottle over.
"It means they think your bow tie is hot," he grumbled. "Hot as in sexy, not as in—"
"I know what hot means in that context, thank you," Aziraphale huffed. "I've never heard it applied to bow ties, though."
Aziraphale was mystified, although happily so. Usually, it was Crowley on the receiving end of lustful once-overs, understandably. Aziraphale liked his aesthetic; it was just formal enough to be comfortable, but nobody had ever described it as hot or sexy.
He stole a glance at Crowley, wondering what the demon thought of all this attention. Perhaps after a bit more wine, he'd work up the courage to ask.
Crowley leaned against the Bentley's side, watching Aziraphale hold court like some sort of benevolent academic queen. A steady stream of parade-goers had been stopping by for the past hour, drawn in, Crowley suspected, by whatever indefinable thing it was that made Aziraphale so irresistible. The way he listened to people as if they were the most fascinating creatures on Earth. The way his face lit up when someone asked a question. The way he made everyone feel welcome and seen.
It was doing things to Crowley's heart. Inconvenient things.
A group of teenagers had plopped themselves down onto the sidewalk and were raptly listening to Aziraphale's impromptu history lesson. "The first Pride march in London was in 1972, just three years after Stonewall," he said. "Only about two thousand people, but they were so brave—"
"Tell them about the badges," called out a woman in a rainbow tutu who'd been listening for the past few minutes.
"Yes!" Aziraphale's eyes sparkled. "They wore paper badges that said 'Gay is Good' and 'Gay is Proud.' Can you imagine the courage that took? In 1972?"
One of the teens had produced face paint and was now carefully applying rainbow stripes to Aziraphale's cheeks. The angel sat perfectly still for it as he described the Gay Liberation Front and how they published their own newspaper and how the first Pride march had been called the Christopher Street Liberation Day March, all while sporting increasingly colourful facial decorations.
"Much better use of rainbows," Crowley muttered, thinking of the Flood.
"Most assuredly," Aziraphale agreed, his smile luminous. "How does it look?" He gestured at his face.
"You look..." Adorable. Stunning. Like everything good in the world. "...very festive."
The wine bottle—which had been mysteriously refilling itself every time someone took a sip—made its way back to Aziraphale. He took a generous gulp and joined Crowley, sitting on the Bentley's running board.
"You two are relationship goals," sighed one of the teenagers. "How long have you been together?"
Aziraphale went pink under his rainbow stripes but didn't correct them. He just took another sip of wine and said, "We've known each other for a long time." He turned to Crowley, handing over the bottle. This time, when their fingers brushed, he lingered for a moment, looking into Crowley's eyes through his dark glasses.
"Ngk," said Crowley, drawing peals of laughter from Aziraphale.
"You can tell you're completely gone for each other," said Rainbow Tutu Woman. "The way you look at him," she added, pointing at Crowley, "and the way he keeps finding excuses to touch you." She gestured at Aziraphale, whose hand had somehow migrated to rest on Crowley's knee.
Crowley looked down. Sure enough, there was a gentle hand on his black jeans, thumb absently stroking back and forth across the denim. When had that happened?
"Do I?" Aziraphale asked, following his gaze. Crowley expected him to pull back, to remove his hand as if he'd been burned. But instead, he squeezed Crowley's knee. (his knee!) "Well, would you look at that?"
Their eyes met again, and everything else faded into the background. Aziraphale shifted closer, and for one wild, wine-soaked moment, Crowley thought he might actually—
But then a new group of marchers swept past, and the moment slipped away. Though Aziraphale's hand, Crowley noticed, stayed exactly where it was.
The wine, the music, and the joyous festivities, along with the radiant beauty of the sunset, were stirring something in Aziraphale, most definitely. But it was the constant flow of love that was igniting him from the inside, making him feel bubbly and giddy.
And touchy. Good Lord, he hadn't touched Crowley so much in, well, ever . He couldn't seem to stop—a hand on his knee, shoulders brushing together, swatting him gently on the arm and leaning into him when he made one of those wickedly funny comments.
Crowley didn't seem to mind. In fact, he rather seemed to be encouraging it, shifting closer on the running board until they were pressed together, hip to hip. He'd removed his dark glasses as the sun set, and his bright serpent's eyes were alight with laughter.
"What was so bloody important about that book, anyway?" he asked, and oh, his fingers were tracing patterns over the back of Aziraphale's hand, which still rested on his knee. Very distracting, that was.
"It, uh, purportedly contains a record of one of my more… um, let's say, memorable miracles," Aziraphale replied, watching Crowley's fingers with great interest. "I needed to, mmm, fact-check it, I suppose."
" This I've got to hear," said Crowley, chuckling. "Tell me everything."
"Well, you see, 1666 was a very... chaotic year. What with the Great Fire, and all." Aziraphale wanted to wring his hands, which always helped allay his nerves, but there was no world in which he was going to remove his hand from Crowley's caresses. "Sometimes when one is helping with emergency relief efforts, there can be... mix-ups. In the water supply. Perfectly innocent mix-ups."
Crowley gasped and then burst into laughter, his hand clasping Aziraphale's tightly. "That was you ? Angel, you turned an entire tributary into wine! Half of London was burning while everyone was piss-drunk in the streets!"
"I was there, Crowley," Aziraphale reminded him, but he wasn't bothered at all by Crowley's mirth, not when their fingers were now laced together, properly holding hands while they both chuckled. "I'm just hoping Brother Augustine wasn't too specific about the, uh, completely accidental phenomenon."
"Angel," Crowley said admiringly. "I should have known that was you."
"You should have seen the wedding ceremonies," Aziraphale continued, emboldened by Crowley's reaction. "Three couples from feuding families got married in the middle of Cheapside because they were too drunk to remember they weren't supposed to declare their undying love in public. It was actually rather sweet."
"Sweet," Crowley repeated, his thumb still brushing across Aziraphale's knuckles. "People declaring their love because they're too pissed to be scared."
Something shifted in the air between them. The lightness faded, replaced by something a bit heavier, more charged. Around them, the parade continued its joyful chaos, but it felt suddenly distant.
"It still takes courage, though, doesn't it?" Aziraphale said quietly, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. "Wine or no wine. To reach for someone like that."
Crowley's hand stilled on his. When Aziraphale looked up, those golden eyes were watching him with an intensity that made his breath catch.
"Yeah," Crowley said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It does."
"All of these people," Aziraphale said, his voice low, matching Crowley's. "They've had to be so brave, so strong, to… to have the love they're meant to."
Crowley inhaled sharply, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale's.
"I—I want to be brave like that." Aziraphale dug deep within himself and found a level of boldness he hadn't realized he could summon. "Like these beautiful people. The ones who have marched and fought for the right to love who they want, for the right to be who they are. I want to be brave like you were, when you kissed me."
"Angel." Crowley's voice was rough with emotion. "That was desperation, not bravery. You—going off to Heaven, facing all of that alone… that's courage."
"I wasn't alone, Crowley," Aziraphale said fiercely. "I knew you would be here, waiting for me, that you—that you would help me, no matter what. I never wanted you to be an angel, I didn't—I swear I—"
"Shhh, Aziraphale." Crowley wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "I know that. I've always known."
Aziraphale sat up and turned to face Crowley. "I'm going to kiss you now," he announced, his heart fluttering, but not with nervousness. With excitement. With joy.
Crowley's lips turned up at the corners. He arched one eyebrow. He waited, their fingers still intertwined.
"Are—are you alright with that?"
Crowley huffed a fond chuckle. "My courageous, magnificent angel," he sighed. "Yes, please. Please kiss me."
With the hand that wasn't holding Crowley's, Aziraphale reached out, cupping Crowley's jaw, thumb lightly stroking his cheek. He looked into those gorgeous golden eyes, which were looking back at him with sheer joy. Aziraphale leaned in, Crowley met him in the middle, and their lips brushed together. They lingered, sharing breath, tentatively exploring what it was like to kiss each other this way, not in despair, not as a goodbye, but as a hopeful beginning.
They moved closer, Crowley sliding one arm around Aziraphale's waist, the other tangling in his hair, clutching lightly as their lips moved together, still slow, still soft.
They pulled back slightly, looked at each other. Crowley was smiling at him so fondly that Aziraphale thought he would cry.
"That should have been our first kiss," Crowley said, his smile beginning to fade, and that simply wouldn’t do.
"No," Aziraphale replied firmly. "Crowley, no. I wouldn’t change a single thing about us or our story. Everything that has happened has brought us to this moment, surrounded by all these people who have stopped hiding and are boldly marching to proclaim they are exactly who they were meant to be."
Crowley's smile returned, tentatively at first, then growing in confidence. "So, you're saying that was a pretty good second kiss."
"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, his fingers tracing over Crowley's brow, his cheeks, his lips, as if mapping every part of his face by touch. "I wonder what our third will be like?"
Crowley captured Aziraphale's hand, pressed it to his lips. "We may need a bit more privacy for that," he said, glancing meaningfully at their audience of delighted parade-goers. "Unless you fancy giving them a proper show."
He pulled Aziraphale to his feet, both of them laughing, and opened the passenger door of the Bentley. He helped Aziraphale inside and seemed reluctant to release his hand long enough to move to the driver's seat.
Once settled, Crowley gently pulled Aziraphale closer across the bench seat until they were pressed together, thigh to thigh. The parade music was muffled now, the windows creating a cocoon around them.
"Come here," Crowley murmured, his voice low and gravelly with want.
Aziraphale didn't need to be asked twice. He turned toward Crowley, one hand finding the back of his neck, fingers threading through the silky hair at his nape. When their lips met this time, there was nothing tentative about it.
Crowley's mouth was hot and demanding, and Aziraphale responded with equal hunger. Crowley's hands roamed—one cupping Aziraphale's face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone, the other sliding around his waist to press against the small of his back, drawing him impossibly closer.
Aziraphale made a muffled sound of pleasure against Crowley's lips, and the demon's tongue traced the seam of Aziraphale's lips until the angel opened for him with a gasp. The taste of wine and something uniquely Crowley made Aziraphale's head spin.
"Angel," Crowley breathed against his mouth, and then he was kissing along Aziraphale's jaw, finding a sensitive spot just below his ear that made the angel shiver and grasp at Crowley's shoulders.
"Oh," Aziraphale gasped, tilting his head to give Crowley better access. "My dear..."
"Aziraphale," Crowley growled against his throat as he pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet. "You have to know, right? How I—how I feel?"
"You love me," Aziraphale replied simply. The words felt perfectly right, and he knew exactly what to say next. "And I love you, Crowley. You're my best friend, and I'm in love with you. I never want to be without you, ever again."
Crowley seemed to lose his breath in a huff, his expression one of astonishment, his lips parted in disbelief. Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt, realising he had hidden those feelings for so long, even from himself. But now, it would be different. From now on, Crowley would know exactly how Aziraphale felt about him.
"Crowley," he whispered, looking into those captivating yellow eyes, which were still widened in wonder. "I would like to… well. Humans. They show their love for each other in… in different ways. Kissing is part of that, but I—I want to show you more. I want to… I need you to know… how much I love you."
Crowley could hardly catch his breath. From deep, passionate kisses to declarations of love to… to whatever Aziraphale was proposing to happen next… he was overwhelmed with all of the Feelings. He'd closed off his heart long ago, for centuries, knowing that, as a demon, his love for an angel would never be tolerated by either Heaven or Hell, and would never, ever be reciprocated.
And yet, here they were, and Aziraphale was suggesting… well. Wait. What was he suggesting? And why hadn't Crowley said anything yet? Your angel just bared his soul, and all you can do is gape at him like an idiot? Say something!
"Ngk, fffggk," Crowley said, mentally berating himself for his inarticulate mumbling at such an important moment. However, Aziraphale, rather than appearing irritated, was giggling. His laughter was not unkind; he wasn't mocking Crowley but was genuinely amused by his wordless, consonant-filled utterances.
"Crowley," he chuckled fondly. "You don't have to say—"
"No," Crowley interrupted, shaking his head firmly. "No, angel. I need to say this. I love you. I adore you. You know that. I know you know. You told me. But I—I have to say it: I love you, Aziraphale."
"I do know. But hearing it… well, it's wonderful," Aziraphale breathed, and there it was—that smile, brilliant enough to rival the sun.
"Well then," the angel continued, his cheeks flushed and eyes shining, "perhaps we should head home? To the bookshop? Where we can… continue this conversation properly?"
"Yeah," Crowley managed. "Yeah, angel. Let's go home."
"Bentley, darling," Aziraphale said, addressing the car with the same affectionate tone he reserved for his books, "would you mind terribly taking us home? We would be ever so grateful."
The engine roared to life instantly, as if there had never been an issue. They both stared at the dashboard for a moment before bursting into laughter.
"I knew it. She likes you better than me," Crowley said, shaking his head in amazement.
"Nonsense," Aziraphale replied, settling back against Crowley's side as the car began to navigate through the thinning crowd with supernatural ease. "She just knows we're both happy."
Crowley's arm tightened around him. "That we are, angel."
"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, tilting his face up.
"Mmm?"
"The Bentley's got this handled, hasn't she? Getting us home?"
"Yeah," Crowley whispered, understanding immediately. His free hand cupped Aziraphale's face. "She's got it covered."
Their lips met again. Outside, the sounds of Pride continued, but inside their sanctuary, it was just the two of them, trading soft kisses and words of adoration that had gone too long unspoken. The Bentley, who seemed quite pleased with herself, drove steadily through the London streets, taking them home to the future they'd both dreamed of for six thousand years.