Not even three days in, and Aziraphale’s already come up with bloody pet names.
Apparently, Aziraphale calls him darling now. Calls him sweetheart and gorgeous and handsome.
It makes Crowley itch, makes the skin on his face burn like he’s allergic to it.
“Your face isn’t burning, Crowley, don’t be absurd,” Aziraphale tuts and flips the page of his book. “It’s called blushing.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Crowley snipes. “I don’t like you calling me all those…soppy lovesick names.” The burning is back, and it’s reached his neck.
“Why ever not, beloved?” Aziraphale asks, glancing up with raised eyebrows, and bloody HELL there it is again! “You call me angel all the time. I can’t see why I’m not allowed to do the same, dearheart.”
Crowley points, opens his mouth to argue, “That’s! I’m! You, hgk! Sss’not the same, angel!”
“No need to shout, sweetheart.”
“HNG!” Crowley says, indignant and scarlet-faced. His ears are aflame. He can feel the entirety of his head boiling, about to explode. “ANGEL.”
Aziraphale looks down on his book as if he’s made his decision to ignore Crowley’s rambling but then he purses his lips and raises up his book just so to cover his mouth and Crowley catches the Smuggest Grin Ever To Grace God’s Earth right on Aziraphale’s face.
“Oh, you bastard,” Crowley accuses.
Aziraphale doesn’t miss a beat. “Watch your language, dearest.”
“Stop it,” Crowley hisses, standing up threateningly.
“Stop what, lovely?” Aziraphale closes his book, staring at Crowley in challenge, and oh, it is ON. Crowley strides forward with the redness sitting high on his cheeks, intent to set things straight, but Aziraphale doesn’t let up. “Handsome, darling boy, starlight?”
“Petal, dewdrop, honey, my prince–”
Crowley yanks fistfuls of his jacket, looks Aziraphale right in his frustratingly blue eyes, and proceeds to kiss the ever living daylights out of him, biting on his lower lip just for good measure–
–and then swallows back a whimper when Aziraphale bites back, and then cups Crowley’s face with a gentle hand, holding him in place so Crowley can’t get away, wouldn’t get away, wouldn’t even think of it, as Aziraphale kisses him with such fervent adoration, slotting their mouths like they were made for this purpose of worshiping each other and nothing else. They kiss for hours. Eternities even, it feels like. Crowley is burning and Crowley is drowning and Crowley cannot imagine ever stopping.
Nonetheless, he breaks free first, placing a shaky hand over the one Aziraphale has on his jaw. His lips are tingling, his chest tight–Crowley is almost sure he’s at Death’s door. “Angel,” he says and Hell, has he ever sounded so shattered before? “Aziraphale, you’ll kill me with all this.”
Aziraphale’s face softens. His thumb strokes tenderly over the sharp edges of a cheekbone. “Oh, Crowley,” he whispers with a smile both apologetic and grateful. “My soul, my light, my all. You can’t die from this much love, I don’t think. Not when you have loved me all these years with so much patience. Not when you’ve loved me with such unwavering intensity.”
Crowley’s eyes are burning now, too. His mouth trembles when Aziraphale brushes away a stray tear.
“My love, this is just me, making up for lost time.” Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s other hand, places a reverent kiss on his open palm, and smiles so devotedly up at him. “For all the times you have loved me, and I had not done the same. So let me.”
