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Thousands of years, and when it finally all went sideways, it was completely by accident. Crowley hadn't even been thinking. That was the worst of it, for it to all end because he wasn't even thinking.
He stood in front of the bookshop, and he filled his lungs once more with the smell of paper and cloth and ethereal wings. Waited for the door to shut on him one final time.
He'd privately thought the bright green ice lolly to be the kind of color not found in nature, not found anywhere except maybe a movie poster for one of those radiation monsters. Big on those in the 50s, humans had been. Lots of unhealthy green. But Aziraphale had wanted to try it, so Crowley had dutifully purchased it for him.
The color looked even worse a few minutes later, when some arsehole came up behind them on the pavement, slamming between them and sending half-melted sugar water all over a spluttering angel.
"Oh, do look where you're going, you absolute boor of a —" Aziraphale looked down, saw the green soaking into shirt and vest and eternal bow tie, and his mouth formed a dismayed circle. "Oh, dear. I don't suppose you think this will come out?"
"Not sure. What's the half-life of an ice cream, I wonder?"
The angel brushed at the mess, making little fussing noises, and Crowley kept his smile to his eyes, safe behind the dark glasses. The next few moments were all but pre-ordained. Aziraphale would look up at him, pouting, his eyes soft and imploring. Asking Crowley to fix it. And Crowley would, just a quick demonic miracle, turning a pout into a satisfied upward quirk of angelic lips. He'd learned that trick a long time ago, and intended to keep perfecting it as long as the world continued to give him opportunities.
Then they would finish the walk back to Aziraphale's shop — they were almost to it already, a half-block farther and they'd've been safe inside — where they would talk and drink until it was time for Crowley to drive back to his flat alone.
The golden head raised itself, and yes, there was that look. Hopeful, but also a little demanding. Did Aziraphale recognize how old a dance this was? Was he conscious of what he was doing, what he had always done, what Crowley half-hoped he would never stop doing? Or was it all unknowing?
"Come on, then," Crowley sighed, letting his own mouth crook ironically so it wouldn't do something more betraying. He snapped his fingers in a flourish, leaving his hand floating palm-up at shoulder height, as if to say well, there you go, you ridiculous thing.
The green splotches drifted into nothingness, along with the discarded remains on the pavement (best not get the angel in a huff about littering). And there it was, no less glorious than the first or hundredth time he'd seen it: that satisfied little grin. It lingered in the mouth, in the pudgy cheeks, but mostly in Aziraphale's beautiful, smiling eyes. They looked up at him, almost shy, but also with a hint of I knew you would. You always do in the end.
And that was when all of Crowley's senses had left him.
The two of them were just standing there, facing each other, not twenty paces from the door into Aziraphale's shop. And with absolutely no conscious thought, Crowley's hand drifted to the angel's face.
His thumb settled against Aziraphale's chin, not quite touching the bottom lip. His forefinger tucked itself against the soft swell of flesh beneath the angel's jaw. "Honestly, angel," he murmured. "I really do spoil you."
Thought came flooding back, then. Crowley's eyes widened in horror behind his glasses as Aziraphale's did the same. He felt his body temperature crash down by about five degrees, then rocket up in a sudden fever.
No. No no somebody, anybody, no —
Aziraphale stepped back, snapped back, recoiled from him, eyes still wide, mouth trembling. Crowley's hand floated in the air between them for a moment, now holding nothing. A lover's caress in empty air. Then the angel fled down the street, and Crowley's arm fell heavy to his side.
Not like this. He could've had what they'd had forever, if he'd just kept pretending that it was all he wanted. But there had been nothing friendly in that touch, and he'd heard it all in his own voice, it had been there, laid out in a way impossible to ever take back —
"Aziraphale! Wait!" He vaulted down the pavement, heedless of stares as he slammed to a stop outside the shop door. It hung open, now, presumably behind the retreating angel.
An oversight. Any second now, it would slam in his face.
Crowley stood just outside the doorway, and he forced himself to breathe deep, pulling everything he could into his lungs. Paper and glue, cloth and leather bindings. Dust. Something that was a little like lavender, and a little like sunbeams, but mostly like a plump beautiful angel with horrible fashion sense.
Crowley clawed it into his memory and waited for the door to shut.
It didn't.
Instead, there was a sound from inside, a quiet throat-clearing, and then Aziraphale shuffled around a bookcase and back into view. He held his ancient jacket twisted up in both hands. He did not look anywhere near Crowley's direction as he very slowly hung it up on the coat rack.
"Angel?" Voice cracking on the second syllable.
"Well." Aziraphale pulled the other jacket down, the one he wore around the shop, and stared somewhere up near the ceiling as he shrugged it on. "Crowley. I think you, ah... I think you'd better..."
The angel paused, his eyes closing.
This was it, then.
"You'd better come inside."
Crowley heard the words, but they didn't seem entirely connected to each other. The last word should have been "leave". And Aziraphale should not, now, have been opening his eyes again, still wide and starey. Should not have been raising a hand out toward him. Holding it toward him. Palm out, pale and inkstained and warm when Crowley took it.
Those blue eyes should not have crinkled with a quivering smile when Crowley stepped closer.
"There's a dear."
The door should not have shut with both of them on the same side of it.
"I think we may need to talk," Aziraphale said, and when Crowley tried to pull away the angel squeezed harder, not letting go of his hand. More — he took Crowley's hand in both of his own. Pulled it up to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the jangling knuckles. Looked at Crowley over their clasped hands with eyes that shone brighter than any little demon's miracle Crowley had ever managed before.
"There may have been... some assumptions made."
Crowley made a few approximations of words before settling on "Yeah?"
"On both our parts."
The grip on Crowley's hand loosened, and he turned his palm over to rest against the angel's rounded jawline. "I, uh. I guess maybe there have been?"
"And I think —" the angel's eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned into Crowley's touch, his hands resting against Crowley's chest and when did those get there and how could Crowley get it to never stop — "I think I would like to talk about them now. And correct them as needed."
Crowley smoothed his thumb against Aziraphale's chin again.
"Crowley?"
"Yes. Good. Correct them." His free hand was curling itself around Aziraphale's waist now, skating over all that softness to tremble against the small of his back. "Whatever you want. Anything."
Crowley groaned when he saw it, the beginning of that expression, and — yes, there it was. Aziraphale opened his eyes, pouting at him, begging him to do whatever the angel might be about to request. One plump hand came up to lightly tap the side of Crowley's glasses.
He snapped his fingers against the angel's back. Gave in instantly, sent the things who-knew-where, the bottom of the ocean, maybe. All the better to see, with no dark glass between them now, Aziraphale smile in that same combination of smug gratitude. Of course you did. I knew you would for me.
"I was right, see," Crowley murmured, roughly, the words getting caught up on something in his chest. "I am absolutely spoiling you, angel."
"Well. I hardly see a problem with that," Aziraphale replied, and Crowley found himself guiding them together with the hand still cradling the soft chin. "Do you?"
"Nope."
Aziraphale's lips brushed up against Crowley's with a sigh.
"Good," the angel replied, eventually.
Optional epilogue:
"You ran from me!" Crowley is sprawled on the couch, bare-faced, grinning with an ease that comes not from a bottle of very old wine but from something else. "Still can't believe it. I barely say boo to you and you run off like a scared bunny."
Aziraphale tries to huff, but it doesn't really come out right. "I don't know why you delight in my discomfiture. It was very surprising!"
"Ahhh," Crowley scoffs, but he curls his arms a little tighter around the angel lying against his chest, burying his sharp face in the cloud of hair.
Aziraphale gently takes one of Crowley's hands, smoothing over the long fingers with his own. He sets it back down against his own belly, and is rewarded with a brief squeeze before the hand relaxes again.
"Anyway, it's been days since that happened," Aziraphale adds. "Surely there's something else you can mock me for."
"Mmmyeah, probably. But it's still funny."
"Hmph."
Crowley wriggles around, ignoring Aziraphale's indignant little noises of protest, until they are face-to-face, and he scrunches his features into an exaggerated moue, mouth pulled down, golden eyes as pouting as he can make them. "Aww. Angel. Would it make you feel better if we went to feed the ducks? Let's go feed the ducks. You like ducks."
Aziraphale is probably trying for dignity, but the grin hovering around his mouth and eyes is getting in his way. "I hardly think ducks are going to make a difference here."
"Ice cream?"
"No!" Crowley grins at the outburst, and Aziraphale blushes slightly, picking at something invisible on his sleeve. "Not after the last time, thank you."
"Well, I think the last time turned out okay. All things considered."
"...I suppose it did."
Aziraphale places a kiss on the corner of Crowley's mouth, to which Crowley responds by rolling his eyes and grumbling something about undemonlike activities. In doing so, he misses the angel's expression at first, but he catches on soon enough: a little flicker of oh-would-you, a dash of of-course-you-will.
"I would like to feed the ducks, though, I think."
"Of course, angel." Crowley leaps up from the couch and pulls Aziraphale to his feet. "Whatever you want."