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Crowley abruptly lets Aziraphale’s coat go, and their lips are ripped apart. He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching, pleading, for any change.
“I-” Aziraphale starts and swallows, holding back sobs. He flounders for a moment, trying to compose himself, trying to process what has happened. Where everything has gone so terribly wrong.
In one reality, he manages this. He lets the broiling flames inside him cool to dull embers. Ashy and empty on the surface, but filled with coals hot enough to burn, to scorch, to hurt.
In one reality, they do. His face hardens as much as it can, and his words become weapons. “I forgive you,” He says, spewing the horribly hot substance out through a cold looking face. His voice is cutting, his words burning, and oh do they burn. They cut and burn, a kindness weaponized over thousands of years. He wields the words like the flaming sword he had given up so long ago, only for him to receive once more in a time of desperate need. Once again, he becomes the guardian he was made to be, standing defensively at the Eastern Gate of his heart.
But in this reality, they don’t have a chance. In this reality, Aziraphale breaks away from the kiss, desperate for some precious distance, some defense. And he looks at Crowley, heart torn in two. He looks at Crowley with his crestfallen but stubbornly hopeful expression. He looks, not into Crowley’s eyes, but into his glasses. His own measly armor, seen only from the defensive distance between them.
He looks and he feels. He feels that spark of anger, of indignation. That anger at Crowley, for breaking his heart and still desperately hoping to get something from it. He feels the spark, but in this reality, it is drowned out by a sea of other feelings. It is drowned by sympathy. By guilt. By the sheer soul-crushing sadness he feels when he sees those pitiful feelings broadcasted across Crowley’s face.
He opens his mouth, to do something, to say something that will quell the tsunami of feelings within him.
But in this reality, he can’t.
Instead, a broken sob escapes past his swollen lips. He looks down to the floor of his bookshop. Of his home. And he lets hot tears escape from his eyes. His hands come to cover his face, the heels of his palms grinding into his traitorous eyes. He hears Crowley swallow as his fingers cling into his hair and he takes a shuddering breath in.
In front of him, Aziraphale can practically hear Crowley’s heart being crushed even more at his pathetic display. Aziraphale lets his breath out through his mouth. He takes another deep breath for good measure as he lets his hands slowly fall from his head and take up a perch hugging his midsection.
“I…” Aziraphale tries once more, his voice coming out a near-silent whisper. He didn’t dare look up as he quietly continued, “I love you.”
It hadn’t been how Aziraphale had wanted to say it. He hadn’t made a plan, at least not in the part of his mind he was aware of, but he knew this wasn’t it. Just as he knew that Crowley hadn’t wanted to… kiss… him like that.
It seems all their plans were going awry today.
“Why do I feel like there’s going to be a ‘But’?” Crowley rasps out, breaking his silence at last.
Aziraphale finally looks back up at him, and sees his mask has fallen just a bit. His expression is a little softer, a little less guarded after Aziraphale’s own show of vulnerability. Something in Aziraphale’s chest twinges at the question, his soul feeling the effects of centuries of “buts,” still clearly straining their bond.
“I just,” Aziraphale starts, and by the tightening of Crowley’s jaw he realizes it wasn’t the right thing to say, but he continues regardless, “I just wanted to make you happy again. I wanted to give it back, what they took from you.” Aziraphale spits the last part, staring into Crowley’s eyes, pleading for him to understand.
And finally, in this reality, he really does.
“Angel…” Crowley’s mouth quirks up a bit at the side, but his brows furrow above his dark glasses. “I don’t want it back. I never have, not really. I just want you.” Crowley’s voice lifts a bit at the end, less somber than its been since Aziraphale returned to the bookshop.
“Really?” Aziraphale asks, his face scrunching up in confusion. He doesn’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want to be holy. To receive her love. How his own love could possibly compare, let alone beat it.
Crowley lets out a tired sigh. “Aziraphale I’ve been an angel. I’ve lived in Heaven, spending my time carrying out Her blasted Ineffable Plan before time even existed! And you’re right, I was happy. As long as I followed all the unspoken rules and regulations set by the almighty Herself. That love, that love with limits, it won’t ever compare to what we made for ourselves here. This life… it's messy, and sometimes it's dangerous, but it's ours.” Crowley takes a step forward, a hopeful grin gracing his lips as he pries Aziraphale’s hands from where they’d relaxed at his front.
Aziraphale’s face softens from its confused expression. He still doesn’t understand, not really. But he trusts Crowley.
“And I won’t give up this freedom,” Crowley continues, his expression hardening into something firm. Aziraphale feels his heart drop into his stomach. His tentative smile that had been sprouting across his lips quickly falls.
“No,” Aziraphale says seriously, giving Crowley’s hands a reassuring squeeze, “I won’t try to make you again.”
Aziraphale looks into the black void that Crowley’s eyes hide behind. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he says with a remorseful smile.
“I’m sorry too, Angel,” Crowley mumbles as he tugs Aziraphale into his arms, gently tucking him into his embrace, a head full of blonde curls under his chin.
“I forgive you,” Aziraphale says gently, voice wet with tears. These words aren’t hot coals. They are a warm fireplace, to heat up a cold, soaked heart. They come not from anger, but from a different, more gentle passion.
In this reality, for the first time in millennia, they come from a place of love.
His arms are pinned uncomfortably between him and Crowley, stuck in the position they had been in while holding onto his hands. Aziraphale doesn’t care. He’s just glad to be close to Crowley, to his love.
“I forgive you too,” comes a sound from above him.
Aziraphale tucks a relieved smile into a familiar black blazer. His eyes create a damp spot on the fabric, but he can't really bring himself to be embarrassed. The arms around him tighten, and he feels a cheek rub against the top of his head. This too, is suspiciously wet. His heart fills again with a flood of guilt, sympathy, and love.
He still doesn’t really understand why Crowley wouldn’t accept. He likely won’t for a long time, if ever. But it doesn’t really matter. He loves Crowley, and Heaven won’t make him happy. By some Ineffable Miracle, it's Aziraphale that does. And Aziraphale loves Crowley. He doesn’t need to understand.
He just needs him to be happy.
And in this reality, he understands enough to give him that, at least.