I'm Ronnie (and I am in Love) I'm 30, a lawyer and married to the geek of my dreams! This was once a multifandom blog.. now I mostly post about Good Omens. -xoxo-
I canât believe we actually got a kiss. I still canât believe it. I keep looking at gifs and thinking âthat actually happenedâ. My queer ships never kiss (Geraskier, for exampleâŠIâm sure Nandermo will eventually) Then OFMD did it but that was first season and now Good Omens gives us a kiss in season 2 that I never thought weâd get.
I keep looking back at the all the fanart kisses that I loved but thought âweâd never see thatâ and thinking âwe could see that! And that! And that!â
Anyway, it may not have ended well but at least we got the kiss and now I just keep thinking about it.
because we need all the softness in our lives, could I ask for slow dancing + ineffable husbands? đ„ș
I think we all deserve this, yes
---
Crowleyâand he would sooner jump head-first into a pool of holy water and then drink it than admit this aloudâis happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. He's topped out the happiness scales and is inventing new shades of happiness as he twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and pretends not to be watching Aziraphale across the table as said angel watches London go by through the rain-streaked bookshop window.
They're okay. They're both okay. The world, too, is okay. They've still got it. They've still got each other. All is right in creation and eternity stretches out in front of them, absolutely bursting with potential. It's the first dayâsince it is actually three in the morning nowâof the rest of their lives.
So they ought to start, Crowley thinks, as he means to go on.
"Angel," he says, something inside him curling up warmly at the way Aziraphale's attention falls on him all at once.
"Mm?"
"You," he says, tapping on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "Owe me something."
"I owe you a great deal," Aziraphale says quietly, looking away.
That won't do. That won't do at all.
Crowley gestures vaguely at the record player, and the first strains of something soft and slow crackle in the air.
He stands, giving himself a moment for the room to stop swaying, and then offers his hand.
Aziraphale looks at it like he's never seen it before.
"Apology dance," Crowley says. "Version two."
Aziraphale continues to stare at his hand, an adorable little line forming between his brows.
"Come on," Crowley beckons with his extended hand. "Do you know how often I've offered to dance with anyone? At all? Once. Just now. You'd be missing out on a genuine historical event if you don't take me up on it."
Aziraphale takes another moment. He's gotten cautious. It'll wear off, Crowley thinksâhopesâsometime between ten seconds and a millennium from now. Give or take.
But that's all right. They've got time. And now he's not wondering anymore. He knows. He's just got to wait.
"C'mere," he tries, promising himself he'll drop it if Aziraphale doesn't take the bait this time.
But he does. Wonderfully, gloriously, he does. His hand slips into Crowley's like it was made just for the purpose. Crowley's fairly sure it was. Not even God could tell him otherwise.
Crowley does not slow dance. Generally speaking, short of emergencies or spectacular drunkenness, he does not dance, full stop.
But it's very easy to draw Aziraphale close. Rest a hand on his waist. Sway aimlessly with him in small, easy steps around the cramped quarters of the bookshop.
"There we go," Crowley speaks up once he's sure they're really doing this. "Think I like this one better."
And then, because he really wants to and he's still feeling very brave and at least a little drunk, he leans close to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, and smiles. This is also, he thinks, where his head belongs. In the grand scheme of the universe.
"A-apology... accepted, then?" Aziraphale asks.
"Yeah," Crowley says. "Think so."
"G-good. Good. Crowley, I'm soâ"
"Shh," Crowley murmurs, twirling Aziraphale away slowly and then pulling him back in. "Forgiven. Forgotten."
Aziraphale makes a noise of disbelief.
That won't do, either.
Slowly, ever so slowly, with all his attention laser-focused on Aziraphale to see if he flinches or pulls away or stiffens at all, Crowley raises a hand to his cheek, and strokes his thumb along the ridge of it.
"Would you forgive me again if I kissed you, angel?"
Aziraphale's breath hitches. The lights flicker. The record skips.
"Since when do you ask permission?" he asks, voice trembling again.
Crowley laughs, low and crackling along with the record player. "I'm not," he says, leaning in close, until there's barely the space for an angel to dance on the head of a pin between them. "I'm begging forgiveness."
And then he closes the distance, soft, tentative, gentle. Six thousand years, give or take, in the making. It feels like every second of it. It feels like every second was worth it, when Aziraphale opens up under him, andâsurprise of surprisesâdarts his tongue out in the world's least practiced attempt at kissing back.
Not, honestly, that Crowley has any more experience. He's just not trying to rush headlong into the complicated stuff.
He pulls back laughing again, giddy with it, and gives Aziraphale another, more enthusiastic twirl under his arm.
"Well?" he asks. He knows the answer. It's written all over Aziraphale's face.
His angel clears his throat. "Well. We may need some practice to get that right."
Crowley breaks into a grin that immediately makes his face hurt. "Just as well we've got forever, then."
Crowley froze, every atom of his body coming to a complete standstill. Aziraphale had appeared out of nowhere, just like that, and he felt like a fly in a spider's web, like he had just run against a glass door that he could not have seen. Oh, this was cruel. He did not turn around.
"Don't even use doors anymore?" He tried to keep his voice level, cold, unaffected. He failed considerably, but the message got across anyways.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, immediately flinching at the words. The first time they were seeing each other again, after-- after that, and his first words were I'm sorry and he was apologizing for not using a door? Aziraphale felt like swearing, but could not. "I thought you wouldn't open if I-- well. I thought this was easier. Like a bandaid."
"Well, you were right. I wouldn't have." Steel was creeping into Crowley's voice, steel around his heart. With a forcing of limbs, he spun around, his gaze piercing through the armor of his sunglasses. Facing him.
"I need your help" Aziraphale said.
"What," Crowley said. He had possibly never put as much meaning into a single word. The glass door turned into a Great Wall. Aziraphale understood. But he was willing to climb.
The angel (oh, a true angel now, wasn't he--not his angel) fumbled, talking with his hands before his mouth even opened. Talking with his eyes, too, but they got lost in translation. Repelled by a black mirror.
"I know this is untoward. I know it's-- But Crowley, I don't have a lot of time."
"Nothing lasts forever, yeah," Crowley spat, hating himself the second the words left his lips. Unnecessary cruelty. Demonic, huh? Worse yet, Aziraphale accepted the verbal lashing. Don't forgive me, Crowley thought.
Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all.
"Why are you here?"
Aziraphale glanced upwards. Then he looked intently at Crowley. I don't have much time. Right. He couldn't speak freely, Crowley realized. Of course he couldn't. This was exactly what he had been afraid of, what he had known would happen. His angel in chains. (Yet here he was. Here he was.)
"They don't know I'm here," Aziraphale mumbled, gesticulating weakly between them and Up. "I guess I can divert their attention now, for a bit. Comes with the new powers"--he shrugged helplessly--"but not for long. Crowley, do you know about-- about the-- what they're--"
"Armageddon 2.0? Sure."
There was an undecipherable look in Aziraphale's eyes. "Why didn't you-- well. It's not just. I mean it kind of is--it's. More than that. Crowley, I need you to do something for me."
"No."
"This is important." (This isn't about us.)
"I don't care." (There is no us anymore.)
"You do! You always have."
"Oh not this again," Crowley hissed. "You were an angel once. You can be forgiven. Shut up."
"That's not what I meant."
With two long, angry strides, Crowley closed the space between them. Menace, anger, hurt-- "Then what did you mean?" He spat the words. Like a weapon. (Then why was it a question?)
Aziraphale's face crumbled. He stood his ground nonetheless, not backing away. The angel's anger was less spiky, but it rose to meet Crowley's. It made his next words hit like bricks. "I mean that you love. I mean that you, Crowley, are the best person I know. I mean that I love you."
The words dropped like a lead balloon.
There was utter silence between them.
Why were they so close?
Why were his sunglasses so dark? Aziraphale saw only his own reflection. He couldn't bear that, and dropped his gaze. Oh, worse. There was his mouth, mere inches away.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley's lips, really really looked, and there was nothing more, now that he knew about the feeling of Crowley's lips and of his heart, there was nothing more he wanted to do than to kiss him. But he couldn't, he couldn't. Not like this. He needed the next time (he had to believe in a next time, in a time with Crowley, again)--the next time they kissed he needed it to be good and happy and an affirmation. He couldn't bear it otherwise. He would break entirely. He was sure of it.
But still, still-- Crowley was so close. He could smell nothing but him. Think of nothing but him. That weakness again, that soft spot inside him he had never known how to hold down. And with it, Want reared its greedy head. Aziraphal leaned in ever so slightly, felt their noses touch-- and then used all his strength to move away, to pull back. It was not the right time. Not yet.
He looked past Crowley, who might have as well turned to a pillar of salt. Crowley, whose face was a mask he couldn't let slip. The air flickered between them.
There were tears in his eyes when he finally forced his gaze towards Crowley's face, a silent plead to not misunderstand. Please, please. But he couldn't expect that of him. He was pulling away again. But not because he wanted to. No, there was nothing he wanted more than to pull closer. There was nothing more he wanted than to talk to him, to truly talk, to explain and apologize and make amends, but he was bound by Duty and Rules and Watching Eyes more than he ever had been.
This was his rebellion: he lifted a hand, the ghost of a touch, fingertips against cheekbone. The memory of holding on. Of never wanting to let go. Crowley flinched without moving, a shiver of his lips. Aziraphale let his hand drop, briefly, to Crowley's chest, holding it over his human heart. It was beating just like his.
This was his successful magic trick, when it counted: he drew away, leaving a crack in Crowley's steel-clad heart, and a note in his chest pocket.
"I'm sorry. I need to go."
"Of course you do."
"Oh, Crowley. I--" But he did not finish the sentence, knew there was no proper way how. So he said, quietly, softly, "Trust me, please."
And he did. Crowley hated it, hated it so much, but he did, he did trust him despite it all. But it did not erase the hurt. The festering wound. Now what was he supposed to do with that?
With one last pointed look, Aziraphale vanished.
Crowley was alone.
His defenses lay shattered at his feet, and he slowly gathered them back up. He did not mend the cracks. (That's where the light had gotten in.) He cleared his throat. Tried to banish from his mind the look in Aziraphale's eyes, the memory of his lips and of his tears.
And failed considerably.
I love you.
(Touched his cheek, and then his chest, and faltered.)
- He's not my bit on the side. He's far too pure of heart to be anybody's bit on the side. He's just an angel I know.
- If you say so. But then again, other people's love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own.
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