“Aziraphale,” Crowley says urgently.
“Mm?” Aziraphale says coming over to where Crowley had been contentedly tapping away at his ancient bookshop computer all afternoon (“mine are all too new to have minesweeper, angel, and besides what else am I going to do all afternoon here? Read a book?”)
“Aziraphale, did you…” Crowley says and trails off like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Did you want it to be a date?” he finishes quietly.
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“Angel,” Crowley says, “you do know that whatever you search for on this thing sticks around unless you clear the history.” There’s an edge of desperation in his voice. “Why would you leave something like this just…lying around. Do you want to discorporate me?”
Aziraphale peers closer to the screen and instantly he feels his traitorous human face flush when he sees, reflected back at him, various searches, usually entered in the wee hours of the morning while maudlin and drunk after a certain demonic presence had manifested for dinner and then sauntered away.
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, “those are my private Googles..googlings?”
“Nothing on the internet is private, angel,” Crowley sighs deeply, and puts his head in his hands.
“What time?” Aziraphale asks, abruptly, with sudden courage he didnt know he had.
“What do you mean what time?”
“You asked if I wanted it to be a date…what time did you mean? Paris, or Rome, or that business with spies during the blitz…” Aziraphale trails off.
Crowley is gaping at him, more like a fish than a snake. Abruptly he closes his mouth, starts turning off the computer. “You know what, forget I asked,” he says. “In fact, let’s just forget all of this–” Crowley’s hands are trembling ever so minutely and Aziraphale, in a rush of barely contained tenderness, steps up between him and the computer, covers Crowley’s hands with his own.
“Every time,” Aziraphale says. “I wanted it to be a date, every time.”
“Oh,” Crowley breathes out, dazed.
Crowley makes a noise like “Ngk” and his outline wavers for a bit as if he’s considering turning into a snake, but thinks better of it. “It’s…its alright,” he finally manages. “Er, more than alright actually. Here…let me just,” he worms one hand away from Aziraphale’s and extracts the sleekest of phones from the tight pockets of his jeans. “Best if I just show you,” he murmurs, and presses the phone, already open to the search history, into Aziraphale’s palm. Aziraphale scrolls and scrolls something warm blossoming in his chest.
“My dear,” he says eventually, “you never needed to tell me. I’ve always known.”
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