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Crowley always had a penchant for fashion. His style, in particular, more akin to an aged rockstar than anything considered vaguely fashionable in the modern world, serves his aesthetic very well, thanks very much.
Sure, he could have the Valentino suits, or Armani couture, or the ridiculous runway looks of Mcqueen or the long, dark coats that fly like a cape when the wind blows just so, or any number of eclectic styles and looks. What he found out, though, is that it’s not exactly about the clothes to him. It’s about their effect. And he wasn’t going for a snotty businessman look even if he could appreciate a well-tailored suit.
Humans really had a way with fabrics. And designs. And all sorts of little trinkets and accessories. Making something glorious out of absolutely nothing. Creating problems and creating solutions for their created problems. In the more logical side of his brain, the one where he remembers that he’s an occult being as old as the stars and definitely above the whims and insecurities that plague the poor sodden humans, he knows that he too is ridiculous. What with his low-cut V-necks, or his manifested snakeskin boots, or the jeans that just seemed to be getting tighter and tighter as the decades wore on (the tightest, thus far, being a particular 1986 summer), and especially, his glasses.
One thing he’ll always appreciate about the ill-fated Romans was their advent of the sunglasses (Crowley hated the Roman empire for a lot of reasons he couldn’t remember, he might have just been in a sour mood). For all that he could change every bit of his appearance at will (within reason, of course), his eyes were one aspect of his true demonic entity that just refused to cooperate.
In the garden, when he would shift from his serpentine to his earthly form with a mere thought, he never gave a rat’s tail about his eyes. That is, until he saw the white-haired angel, guardian of the Eastern gate, and a consuming urge to talk to him overtook the demon. Love hadn’t even been invented yet, he was fairly certain.
His hair had been longer then, flowing and tendril-like, a dark red that leaves little to question about just what he was. Face all sharp angles, cloth robes of black. In contrast to him was the angel, with his kind blue eyes and soft white curls.
Crowley exchanged no more than a few sentences with him, the first time he’s had a real conversation in as long as he could remember, with an angel no less, and all he wanted to do was revert to his snake form, crawl up the angel, stay nestled on his shoulders and in the presence of the grace that flowed so easily and surely through ethereal veins.
It was the first taste of heaven Crowley had since he fell, and without knowing just how much he missed the heavenly Host, the memories - not so much memories as abstract feelings, really - came back as the angel told him of his uncertainty on the garden wall.
It began to rain, and the angel, without question, shielded Crowley from it. Even in those days, Crowley was far too prideful to show how infatuated he was with the flustered angel.
It was only then, under Aziraphale’s white wing, that Crowley thought about changing his eyes, make them something less obvious, less immediately off-putting for the angel. And as he looked on the plains before them, he realized he could not.
Back in Golgotha and Mesopotamia, the locals would stare, but everyone sort of - knew. Knew that he was not to be trifled with, knew that there was something otherworldly and quite possibly dangerous about his golden-yellow eyes. Back in those days, if he was not in Aziraphale’s company - which he nearly always wasn’t, the angel was a slippery bastard who didn’t seem to want Crowley’s presence nearly as much as Crowley wanted his - he didn’t try to hide them as much. Still wished he could, somehow, but it also gave him a slight sense of power, being able to announce his hidden nature without any words at all, with barely a blink of his eyes.
He also didn’t know, in the early centuries of Earth’s conception, that he could control the size of his pupils. If he really, truly focused, he can make the yellow-golden part of his eyes just the iris, with white behind them.
He would look in clear lakes of blue, and see someone staring back with fearsome, Ophidian eyes. Eyes that scare and disconcert others, ugly eyes.
(He didn’t always perceive them as ugly or fearsome, didn't always give them nearly as much mind, but maybe an encounter once or twice with others - witches, faes, human beings, who told him how ugly his eyes were, how disgusting and cursed, how unworthy of being looked at - encounters that he would rather not remember nor confess to, in a few moments of uncharacter-like vulnerability when he deeply wanted someone else’s company, the angel certainly not an option, never an option. At the very least, he’d gotten someone else’s body warmth in exchange for the vitriol, and that was a fair trade to a demon, Crowley supposed.)
Which brings him back to the Roman empire, and those clever little lenses held up with a little frame, and that was that. Rarely would anyone see the demon without some sort of instrument covering his eyes after that, and that grew to be the way he liked it. If he wanted to be a little more threatening to someone, or create some local mayhem or chaos, or start rumors about the presence of dangerous demonic beings roaming around, ah, what the hell, he’d uncover his eyes to the chatty gossip, or a particularly annoying bartend, throw in some fangs too for good measure, why not?
That would all change whenever he and the angel would cross paths, however. It was never voiced, never something agreed upon, never a point of discussion, but Crowley simply hated to have his eyes seen by the angel. Barring one or two snide comments about his choice of eyewear, the angel never really delved into the matter - saw no reason to. More likely than not, he simply thought the demon liked the mysterious aura hidden eyes gave off, and they never really spoke about it, there was nothing to speak about.
(In the 1960s, after Aziraphale said a particularly sneering remark about some incredibly oversized frames Crowley was sporting, the pair was never seen again. Crowley never knew if the angel noticed.)
In the early 2000s, Crowley discovered the invention of coloured contacts. A glorious one, really. One that would surely make his life much easier. He instantly went to the nearest optometrist and bought a year’s worth of coloured contacts, browns, greys, greens. Blue. Like the angel’s blue, but maybe they won’t be quite as warm on him. Maybe they’d look more green. That was alright, he would do with green. He would do with anything other than these cursed yellow eyes.
He went back to his flat and tried for a good forty minutes to put the blasted things on his eyeballs, growing more and more irritated by the whole process, telling himself that he is being ridiculous, that there is no way that they’d look even remotely natural on him, that his yellow eyes would still peek through.
His eyes watered, became red-rimmed and even more dastardly-looking. He groaned and cursed this invention, this idea, these hideous demon eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he positioned a soft lens near his left eye, looked up, plopped it in.
He blinked a few times at the foreign object currently floating around in his eyeball, felt it moving a little.
Steeling himself for what could be the most ridiculous thing he’s attempted with a human invention in some time, he blinked open his eyes and looked into the mirror. The right eye, golden yellow and bright as ever, even in the dimness of his office, looked back at him. The left one, however, was brown. Or well, brown ish . The yellow of his natural eyes peeked through and mixed with the brown of the lens to create a hazel, honey-coloured shade. Crowley grinned at his reflection. They looked...natural. Good. To him, at least.
He braced himself to put the contact in the other eye, going by much faster now that he knew that wouldn’t look utterly ridiculous on him. For the first time since the invention of disco, Crowley was absolutely delighted at humans and their clever ways.
He called Aziraphale, got his answering machine, instantly felt foolish.
“Hey, Aziraphale...it’s been some time since we’ve discussed our,” He scrambled for a moment “arrangement, hasn’t it? Er...well, if you’re around, let’s meet at the old record shop on Salisbury’s, if you’re not-”
“Crowley! How are you, dear boy?” Aziraphale’s voice came through the receiver, and Crowley’s chest immediately clenched. There was a host of other noises, mostly of things hitting the floor, from the other line.
“Oh. Hello. I’m fine...listen, you wanna grab something to eat?” Crowley said, the palm that’s holding the phone getting all clammy.
“I’d love to, Crowley. How about Baccardi’s? I’ve been dying to try their vol-au-vent.”
“Sure, yeah, meet you there in thirty?” Crowley’s voice was getting more strained by the second, he had to hang up soon or he was going to sound high on helium in a minute.
“Sounds wonderful!” Came the cheery reply, and then the line went dead.
Crowley placed the receiver back in its cradle.
It’s a date, then, he thought to himself, with just a hint of sarcasm.
-
Crowley arrived early, twenty-two minutes early, to be exact. He was still wearing his glasses, mostly because he thought they went nicely with the rest of his outfit, but also because he wanted to surprise Aziraphale with his new eyes. Catch him off guard. Study his reaction. Would he be surprised? Happy? Appalled?
God, nothing but that. If he wanted an appalled reaction he would have just donned his natural, demonic eyes in all their demon-y glory. But that’s not what he wanted at all. He wanted, just for a while, just for this afternoon, maybe, to make Aziraphale forget that Crowley is a demon. Make him forget that they’re on opposite sides, that he could never trust Crowley because he has the eyes of a lowly, fiendish snake. Because of what he is.
That was the reason — although Crowley was loath to admit it to anyone, least of all himself — that he would always try to cover his eyes in Aziraphale’s presence.
Sometimes, not often, but enough that it stuck in Crowley’s brain - on nights when they would drink themselves stupid and Crowley would forget all the heaven and hell business, his glasses would somehow slip off his face during the night and he wouldn’t notice it until it was too late, until Aziraphale would look at him after telling a story or laughing at one of Crowley’s and his eyes would linger a little, on Crowley’s face, and the angel's face would fall, and he’d say in a gentle voice that maybe we should sober up, dear, and he wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes until he shoo’ed him out of the bookshop and into the night.
Crowley felt a chill thinking about those nights, few and far between, but such a mixture of happiness and utter misery that he didn’t know whether to classify them as good or bad memories in his head. Anything with Aziraphale was generally a good memory, though.
Nine minutes until the angel was supposed to get here. He ordered them both drinks already, and a breadbasket for the table, just for the angel. It would put him in a right old good mood from the start.
When Aziraphale finally showed up, a mixture of pristine and slovenly that only a snippy, eons-old librarian could muster, he smiled at Crowley and took the seat opposite him.
“Dear old boy! It’s been some time since we last had ourselves a lunch date, hasn’t it? I believe the last time was when you decided to dip your toe into mobile-network engineering.” Aziraphale said, making himself comfortable - or as comfortable as one could be when maintaining perfect posture all the damned time - and took a sip of his drink.
“Dip my toe! I practically invented the profession, angel.” Crowley said, mockingly indignant.
“Yes, yes, well, that must have been, what, two years ago, now?”
“Try ten, maybe.” It came out snider than intended.
“Well, at any rate, I’m glad we’re here now.” Whether the angel was beaming at him, or the bread basket and prosecco, Crowley wasn’t entirely sure.
The demon was only getting slightly anxious about when was the perfect moment to take off his sunglasses, maybe after their entrees get here, maybe during desert.
“You’re looking a bit distracted, dear,” Aziraphale said, idly scanning the menu.
“Hmm? No, I’m not.” Crowley said, his words coming out a little too defensive.
“Is anything the matter?” The angel said, this time looking directly at Crowley, then averting his gaze to the waitress and asking for a sampler and two entrees.
“Angel, you really do overthink things sometimes, I’m just excited to try the vol-au-vents.”
The angel scoffed. Crowley knew it was a bad lie, the only earthly food the demon liked was not food at all, but rather very old liquor in very sleek bottles.
“If you say so,” Aziraphale replied primly, watching with excitement as the waitress put their food on the table, unfolding his napkin with a flourish and placing it down on his lap.
Crowley steadied himself and took a quiet breath, one he didn’t need. He didn’t even know what he was so nervous about. This was just Aziraphale, someone he’d known as long as the Earth had been in existence, and he’s this goddamn nervous around him? He felt a twinge of pity for himself. Poor love-sick idiot.
Aziraphale moaned quietly around a mouthful of savoury pastry. “Isn’t it delightful, my dear?”
He asked, looking at Crowley for an answer.
“Absolutely, angel,” Crowley said, savouring the moment that Aziraphale was looking at him to reach to his temple and take the dark glasses off his face.
Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprise. “Crowley, your eyes! Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked around a mouthful, concern apparent in his voice.
“What? Yes, angel, I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be-”
“Then what on earth happened to your eyes?” He interrupted, putting his utensils down, brows furrowed in the way they got. He swallowed his bite down. “They’re...dark. I’ve never seen them like this before.”
Crowley felt his neck and cheeks warm, and he felt like the stupidest person in existence. This didn’t make Aziraphale any less disgusted by his serpentine eyes, it just made Crowley look like a fool.
“I-it’s stupid, really. This human invention. They’re called contacts, you pop ‘em on and your eyes take on a different colour.” Crowley explained in one go, words tumbling out of his mouth all fast and forced-casual.
“Oh.” A pause.
Crowley felt his shoulders tense.
“You don’t like it?” Crowley hated that he asked that, that he couldn’t help himself from asking the question, his voice coming out too soft. It reminded him of that time in the church nearly 40 years ago now, when he asked the angel if he didn’t like his name in a second of worry. His feet ached at the mere memory.
“No, no...I mean, I think they’re a nice colour on you. I just don’t understand why you would want to do it, isn’t it uncomfortable?” Aziraphale still had a worried edge to his voice, his mouth downturned as he took another bite out of his pastry.
Why did he do it? Wouldn’t that just be rich knowledge, the demon felt mortified at the notion of telling the angel the truth. A part of him wanted to, wanted to admit to everything in one go: Oh, I just wanted to make you forget six-thousand-years of being hereditary enemies and all, and maybe make you love me the way I love you, or maybe just to see you look into my eyes and not get all fuckin’ sad about what you saw there, like you always do. He felt nothing but pity for himself at this very moment. H wanted to see the scorn and derision rise up on the angel’s soft face, watch his mouth turn into a sneer or an expression of disgust, watch him laugh at Crowley. Or, as he knew would probably be more likely to happen, the angel would just look unbearably sad for the demon, for this wretched creature who thought he could win an angel’s heart with cheap tricks and maskings. As if an ethereal being, endlessly powerful and old as anything, would fall so easily for Crowley’s...wiles.
“You think they’re a nice colour on me?” Crowley was well aware of how stupid he sounded.
“Er, I mean, yes, dear, the light brown suits you rather well,” Aziraphale said, the smallest smile on his lips.
Crowley was torn between letting the happiness in his chest bloom and maybe, explode, or tell Aziraphale the truth.
“Hm, I- well, thanks, Aziraphale.”
“You still haven’t told me what’s gotten this idea in your head, though.”
“Well, you know me! Always trying to change it up and all that, grow bored quite easily, I do.” Crowley said in a rush, hoping to sound more casual than his darting eyes suggested.
“But,” Aziraphale started, expression still looking a tad confused, “you’ve never changed your eyes, not in all the years I’ve known you...I guess that’s why I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”
Crowley looked at him then. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t know.
“It’s not like...hair or clothes, angel. I can’t ever change my eyes.” Crowley said, his voice quiet.
Aziraphale looked visibly shocked at that. “You can’t?”
Crowley shook his head, playing with the paper wrapping that held his utensils, not looking at Aziraphale.
“I wasn’t aware. I thought you just liked having them all...snakey and yellow.” Aziraphale said, gesturing in Crowley’s direction. An air of tension had descended over the conversation, and he wasn’t sure who was at fault for it.
Crowley wanted to laugh, but he knew he wouldn’t manage to make it sound right.
“You did?” The demon asked.
“Well, yes, I never realized you wanted to change their colour.”
“It’s not just about the-the colour, angel. It’s just...they don’t look right. Scares people left and right, they do. What do you think I wear sunglasses all the bloody time for?” Crowley wasn’t irritated really, but it seemed like the better emotion to project.
“Oh, I don’t know - listen, I don't quite feel like dessert, maybe we should call it a night?” Aziraphale said, a bit sheepishly.
Crowley sat up straighter, surprised at the suggestion. He didn’t think the night was going that horribly. His defensiveness up and ruined the whole fucking dinner.
“What? No, angel, I-we, I mean we haven’t seen each other in so long, maybe we can have a nightcap at the bookshop?” Crowley hated himself for how weak his voice sounded, how hopeful to his own ears and no doubt, Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale glanced at him, his lips pursed. He fished out his money clip from his suit pocket, placed too much money down, and looked back to Crowley.
“Of course, dear boy.” He said, his tone softer. “Shall we?”
-
Crowley’s grip on the steering wheel of his Bentley was vice-like, his sunglasses were back on, afraid of what emotions his eyes might betray. Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat, holding the edge of the window for dear life as the demon winded through the busy SoHo streets.
When they got to the bookshop, in a fraction of the time it would have legally taken, Crowley hesitated before opening the door, risking a look in Aziraphale’s direction.
“I do have some Port I just got in a few weeks ago, you must try it,” Aziraphale said distractedly as he left the car, standing and waiting for Crowley before they both went into the comfortable warmth and parchment-paper smell of the bookshop. Aziraphale made a beeline for the back of the shop, where the soft couch and leather armchair was, and where he and Crowley had many nights similar to this one. He was humming softly to himself as he went to the cellar and looked for the crate of Constantino reds he had, while Crowley splayed out in the soft crease at the edge of the sofa, near the armchair where he knew Aziraphale would sit.
Crowley had a familiar feeling in his gut, the notion of this is it, this is the time I will tell him, sod the consequences, he has to know - the same feeling he’s had numerous times before, but never, ever acted upon. His supernatural heart beat quickly, hands as shaky as they’ve ever been. For some reason, something about this night felt different. He felt ready for Aziraphale’s rejection. He almost craved the swift dismissal of Aziraphale’s words that would surely result from Crowley’s ill-fated confession. The knife in his heart was already there, he’d placed it there himself, he just needed Aziraphale to deliver that final cruel twist.
But nevertheless, he had to confess. He touched a finger to his eyelid, tried to feel the little lens there. God, what a stupid bloody idea, what was he trying to do? Fool Aziraphale? Make him forget long enough to maybe see something other than pity and sadness and...disgust on his face?
Aziraphale would never forget who he is. What he is.
The angel came back with two glasses and two blood-red bottles of wine. He poured them both some, handed one to Crowley.
“You have your sunglasses back on,” Aziraphale observed, his tone pensive.
“Hm? Oh, er, yeah. Just felt a bit silly without them on, really.” Crowley took a large swig of his sweet wine, fixing his eyes on the glass and nothing else.
They drank for a few hours as the night stretched on, silent but for the occasional musing, Crowley's tension seemed to bleed out of him as the hours wore on, smiling unguarded at the comfortable angel and he, him. It felt easy, like old times.
Aziraphale looked more than a little tipsy, his posture going from perfect to considerably less so.
“Can I see them again? Your eyes?” The angel asked, looking from the empty wine bottle, nearly finished with the second, then at the demon.
Crowley instantly stilled, raising his eyes from the glass to Aziraphale.
“Er, yeah, sure.” He said, tone not nearly casual enough. He went to take the glasses off his face, but Aziraphale’s hand stopped him, Aziraphale’s warm palm covering the back of his. Crowley hoped that the hitch in his breath wasn’t audible.
“Uh, what are you doing?” Crowley asked, his voice coming out just louder than a whisper.
The angel didn’t say anything. He simply put the wineglass down from his other hand, reached back with gentle fingers to slide the sunglasses off Crowley’s face, and set them down. He brushed his thumb above Crowley’s cheekbone, look focused on the demon’s eyes.
“I remember the first time I saw them,” Aziraphale said wistfully, voice gentle, breath wine-scented. “I thought about them, about you, for a long time afterwards. They were as bright as my flaming sword, in those days.”
Crowley’s face felt very warm, and he didn’t know if it was because of the wine or Aziraphale’s words, Aziraphale’s fingers on his face just a moment ago, Aziraphale here - with him - right now.
“You never showed them anymore, after that day in Rome. I always wondered about that. I wondered if someone had told you you shouldn’t.” Aziraphale continued, his voice taking on an upset edge, like he was thinking of this hypothetical person who insulted Crowley.
Crowley couldn’t make words form and exit his mouth, that seemed like far too much to think about right now, with Aziraphale speaking so softly to him, about him .
Aziraphale pulled away, back into his lean on the arm of the chair, taking another swig of wine.
“Goodness, they’ve always been utterly glorious. Yellow-golden, even brighter in the sunlight, downright fiendish!” Aziraphale chuckled, not even looking at Crowley anymore, seemingly lost in his memories. “I’ve not got the slightest why you’d ever want to change them, dear boy.”
Fiendish. Apt word, really, Crowley thought. His brain was swirling worse than the port in his glass. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, tried again.
“Fiendish?” He asked, voice a whisper.
Aziraphale took another sip of his wine, then looked back at Crowley. His wistful, happy expression fell when he looked at Crowley’s face - hurt, sad, eyes wet.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that, my dear! You know that.” Aziraphale said quickly, unaware that his words would have any such effect on Crowley.
“Hm, yeah,” Crowley murmured, lost in his thoughts and avoiding Azirpahale’s eyes.
“I know that’s what they’ll always be, Aziraphale. You don’t have to apologize.” Crowley said, his eyes still downcast and trained on the wine glass in his hand.
Aziraphale balked at Crowley’s words, the surety in them and the sadness that threatened to break his voice. He surely didn’t believe that, did he? Aziraphale stared at the demon, the demon not looking back.
“Is that why...you wanted to change them?” Aziraphale asked, voice loud in the tense silence of the bookshop. Rain had started pattering outside the London streets.
Crowley shrugged, hiding his face in his shoulder, looking away from the angel. Aziraphale was never good at comforting the demon, on the rare and few times Crowley showed any signs of vulnerability. He wanted this time to be different.
He rose to his feet, feeling the world spin a little around him, and walked the short distance to where Crowley sat - his initial sprawl of the night gone, replaced by hunched shoulders, seemingly trying to appear as small as possible, to hide in the soft creases of the old couch. Aziraphale knelt before Crowley, resting one of his hands on the demon’s knees.
Crowley startled at the touch, at the closeness Aziraphale was showing. The angel was never one for physical displays of any nature.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, “Will you look at me, please?”
Crowley did, his newly hazel eyes were damp. Aziraphale drew a soft breath at how utterly dejected his friend looked. His suave, cool demon of a friend, who barely let anyone get him down...and all because of what Aziraphale said? The angel knew there had to be something else.
“What’s wrong, dear boy? Tell me.” Aziraphale asked, looking up at Crowley from where he sat on the floor, giving Crowley’s knee an encouraging squeeze.
Crowley finally faced the angel, truly looked at him for the first time all night. He let out an exhale, his shoulders appearing the slightest bit less tense for it.
“I thought,” Crowley began, voice no more than a mumble. “I thought you’d like ‘em.” He said, gesturing half-heartedly in the direction of his eyes. “I thought that...if you could see my eyes as normal, see me as normal then maybe, maybe you’d forget that I’m a demon, and you’re an angel, all that sodding heaven and hell business…” He trailed off, looking like he wanted to say more, “And that I’ll never be anything else, anything worthy of...of…” Crowley went quiet, his eyes wide as if surprised by his own honesty.
“Crowley-”
“No, angel, it’s alright.” He withdrew his knee away from Aziraphale’s hand, lifting his legs off the floor and against his chest, and wrapping his arms around them. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I hope you don’t think that I was trying to...to trick you. That’s not what I wanted, I just..wanted you to forget, for a little. A few hours, maybe.” Crowley said, letting out a wry chuckle.
Aziraphale was very still. He wanted desperately to reach out to the demon and then - well, he’d figure it out.
“Why, my dear boy? Why did you want to make me forget? Aziraphale genuinely did not understand, and if there was an explanation that made sense, he needed to hear Crowley say it.
Crowley looked at him as if he had just stabbed him with a blessed blade. A tear escaped from wide, serpentine eyes.
“Why do you want to make me say it?” His voice was strained.
“Because I don’t understand.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley shook his head, disbelieving of the angel, soft anger and betrayal on his face, on the turn of his mouth.
“Please,” The angel begged, his eyes just as wide, more full of fear than Crowley had ever seen him, and his heart shattered. The demon’s mouth softened, and he drew a shaky breath. The angel truly did not know, then.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, gathering his thoughts. “I wanted to make you forget because I wanted you to see me as someone else, someone better,” Crowley said, looking up at the old ceiling, “because I wanted to make you love me.”
A few seconds passed in silence, the rain louder than ever on the roof above them, Aziraphale shaking his head at the floor.
“Angel -?”
“You wanted to-to make me-?”
“Satan’s sake, angel, you don’t have to repeat it back at me.” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose.
All of a sudden, Aziraphale rose from where he folded on his knees, swiftly sitting up, facing the demon with a different expression on his face. He snapped his fingers and in a blink, there on the very tip of his index were two brown circles. He burnt them with a thought.
Crowley blinked at the sudden absence of the, quite frankly, rather uncomfortable lenses from his eyes. He looked, slack-jawed, at Aziraphale.
“Fuck was that for?” Crowley said, suddenly feeling bare. He thought about how the yellow-golden colour is probably taking up his entire eyes now, but didn’t bother to fix them. What difference would it make now?
Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He simply tugged Crowley forward by his lapels and kissed him. Gently, slowly, as Crowley was rigid as anything against his hands. But then, softer, deeper. The demon pulled him up by his shoulders so that they both sat on the couch, not breaking contact.
Aziraphale stopped, breath warm on Crowley’s lips.
“I love your eyes,” a kiss on the left eyelid, “I’ve always loved your eyes,” a kiss on the right, “I’ve loved them since I first saw them.” He drew back, looking at Crowley, yellow-golden irides completely overtaken by blown-out pupils, lips a pretty pink.
“Crowley, I’ve loved you since I first saw you.” One soft palm had made its way to the demon’s cheek, Aziraphale’s thumb brushing Crowley’s cheekbone. Aziraphale inhaled a soft breath. “I’ve loved you for so long,” He said, looking into the demon’s dumbstruck eyes.
“You love me,” Crowley repeated, voice quiet and strained.
“I do, dear boy,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley didn’t really understand. Was this the contacts’ doing? But they were gone now. Aziraphale could see his real eyes. He said he loved them, actually. Nothing was making any sense. His head felt afire, blush way past creeping and fully stamped to his neck and cheeks now. He felt hyper-aware of his lips and eyes, which Azirapahale had just kissed .
“I-angel, what are you saying?” He touched fingers gingerly to where Aziraphale’s lips had just been.
“Dear me, Crowley, isn’t it ever so obvious?” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s cheekbone again, but Crowley shoved him off with more vigor than intended.
“No! No, it really is not, nothing ‘bout this is obvious, I don’t know where this came from, or if it’s some sort of joke to you or-or a drunken escapade that you’ll be very happy to forget in a few hours’ time! ‘Oh, time we sober up, dear boy’ well I can’t, angel! I don’t know what the bloody hell it is you’re tellin’ me!” He had gotten up during his outburst and was now facing the seated angel, who was now the one sporting the look of confusion.
Aziraphale stood up to face him, swaying the tiniest bit on his feet.
He looked at Crowley’s face, free of his dark sunglasses and ridiculous contacts and any measure of self-restraint or attempt at it. He looked young as the Futura plant he’d given him the week before, a small shrub with newly-sprouted leaves. Crowley stood before him, this once-angel, unwilling to accept his love, yet wanting it - Aziraphale could see that much.
Crowley’s eyes, bright and hungry for Aziraphale’s response, retaliation, his bitter truth - you’re right, Crowley, this was a terrible mistake, I don’t know what overtook me, please leave now. Aziraphale stood there, watching him still, how filled with tension his shoulders seemed, how small and fragile, his hand worrying at the shirt hem at his side.
Aziraphale stepped towards the demon, closing the space between them, his hands held up in front of him, as if handling a skittish cat - I don’t want to hurt you.
“Why won’t you believe me, Crowley?”
A sharp intake of breath. “I don’t know.”
“I know I’ve pushed you away in the past, but I’ve always wanted this. Wanted you . You must know that,” The angel said.
Crowley looked about ready to cry.
“I don’t know that,” He said. “I’ve never known that, you’ve never told me,” He was slightly aware of sounding like a petulant child, but he didn’t find himself caring.
“Oh, Crowley,” He said, inching a little closer to the demon, but not daring to make a move.
“Angel,” Crowley said, voice a little gruff, “I don’t think I could stand it if you realize this is a mistake later on, I - I don’t think I’d survive it.”
Aziraphale understood a little better then, hearing the rough words from his demon’s mouth. He should have realized earlier, really, that Crowley never did anything by halves, and certainly didn’t love by halves, either.
“Crowley, this is the one thing I’m most sure of in my entire existence, this love I harbour for you. It’s been my one constant for, oh, some three thousand years…” Aziraphale trailed off, risking a shy smile in Crowley’s direction, seeing him soften a little.
“Please, will you let me show you? Will you believe me?”
At that, Crowley finally raised his gaze from the ground and looked at Aziraphale, giving him a small nod. He leaned forward and pressed soft, tentative lips to the angel’s. Aziraphale sighed against the kiss, breath coming out shaky.
“I always thought,” Crowley said, pulling back a little and resting his forehead on Aziraphale’s, letting Aziraphale hold his cheek and the back of his neck protectively, “That I’d be the one begging you to love me,” He was still not really looking at Aziraphale, eyes still filled with tears. Aziraphale held gentle fingers to the demon’s chin and angled his head so they were eye-to-eye. “That’s just how I always pictured it,” Crowley said with the smallest of smiles, looking at the angel now, a couple of tears streaming down his cheek.
“I didn’t beg , per se,” The angel said, desperately trying to make the demon laugh.
Crowley let out a chuckle, as surprised by it as Aziraphale.
“You so did,” Crowley said, small smile growing into a full-blown grin.
“Mhm, whatever you say, my dear,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, then kissing Crowley again, smiling, delighted, when Crowley kisses him back.