They leave the Ritz on the first day of the rest of their lives. It’s early twilight, they don’t have the Bentley, the walk is slow and leisurely as they make their way back to Soho, back to the bookshop that is still there, that isn’t burnt, that isn’t gone just like they aren’t gone.
Along the way their shoulders bump, their fingers brush against each other. Keeps happening, unintentionally they’ll say, though who they’re convincing is a mystery. At some point, and neither knows who did, one of them will curl a finger around the other’s as their hands brush past each other.
Aziraphale watches Crowley from the periphery, looking for any signs of unease of uncertainty, finds him staring ahead blankly. He looks away. Crowley watches Aziraphale from the periphery, eyes hidden by the cages on his Valentino’s. He sees a flush rise in the angel’s cheeks. A dust of pink on his cheeks, the tips of his ears. A small smile on his face. Crowley’s heart aches and he knows. He knows Aziraphale has caught up with him, but he won’t press, won’t go faster. This is enough. This is good.
Their fingers entwine completely.
They make it to the bookshop, Aziraphale invites him in. He declines, not wanting to overstay this newfound welcome. Not wanting to take more than he is allowed. Aziraphale keeps their fingers entwined as he climbs the two small steps. He turns, and leans in. The kiss is a surprise. It’s just a chaste press of lips, but it lingers. It’s a long and drawn out thing. It holds six millennia of things unsaid.
After what feels like decades, Aziraphale pulls back. Crowley can still feel Aziraphale’s breath against his lips as the angel pulls back slowly. Crowley doesn’t open his eyes. He’s rooted to the spot, dumbstruck. In a complete state of wonder as he feels Aziraphale’s love wash over him. He opens his eyes slowly, sees Aziraphale smiling at him. Sees his entire world fall into place.
He leans in and kisses Aziraphale again.
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