Chapter Text
Aziraphale was feeling better, after having talked to God. He usually did, if he had convinced himself that it wasn’t useless, that She was listening. He rested his cup of tea on the railing of the balcony and let the cool night air dry the last of his tears away.
A voice startled him. “Evening, angel.”
Aziraphale looked down from the balcony to find his favorite sight in the world. “Crowley!” he exclaimed, with delight, before remembering to sound less delighted. At least he avoided saying Speak of the devil. “What are you still doing here?”
“Got bored,” Crowley said with a shrug. Even though Aziraphale had just seen him, he had to make himself take Crowley in with a few different looks, so that he didn’t stare. Crowley was really at his most handsome like this, standing among the shadows in dark clothes, bright hair down around his shoulders, that sly smile on his face. Temptation Incarnate.
“Found some good scotch,” Crowley called up. “Thought I might share. Came back, saw the balcony. Look at you! Just like in the play.”
Aziraphale gave him a skeptical look. “You hated the play.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t do it right. Bet you we could do better.” He put a hand to his chest and said, in a beautifully resonant voice, “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”
Aziraphale tried to quell the sudden thrill that went through him. If Romeo had looked anything like this standing below the balcony, Juliet could be excused for marrying him the next day. “I'm hardly Juliet, dear,” he protested.
Crowley grinned rakishly at him. “O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.”
“Haven’t done that recently,” Aziraphale cut in, somewhat desperately, trying to keep his head. “Bestride the clouds. And usually mortals don’t see me when I do.”
Crowley gave him an exasperated frown. “That is not your line, bright angel.”
Aziraphale clutched the cup tighter to quell the shaking in his hands. “Dear, I—”
“Go on, then. Can’t tell me you don’t have it memorized with how much you loved it.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth and the words came out, all on their own. “O Romeo, Romeo!” he said, leaning down toward his— his friend. “Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love…”
The lines died there. They burned too harshly in Aziraphale’s throat. “Well,” Aziraphale said, trying to smile. “Unhappy lovers, aren’t they?”
Oddly enough, Crowley’s voice wavered a little as well. “Are they?”
“I made you sit through it twice, surely you remember the ending? They both die.”
Crowley shrugged. “Mortals do that.”
“Yes, but—” That was as far as that sentence got, because Crowley rolled his shoulders a little and let his wings erupt, black and glossy and half-hidden in the dark. Aziraphale could do nothing but watch them carry Crowley up to the balcony, where he swung his legs over the railing and sat facing Aziraphale, spreading his wings out for balance.
Crowley smiled at him, looking just a little bit smug. “With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt.” Crowley snapped his fingers and a red rose appeared in his hand. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Course that’s out of order, and it’s your line anyway.”
Aziraphale stared at the rose, and then back at the demon. Crowley was so close. So close, and so beautiful, soft wings and sharp features revealed now in the light coming from the room behind them. Crowley hadn’t seemed a creature of Hell to Aziraphale for millennia. He was something else entirely. The kind of treasure people spent their lives chasing. The stuff God made dreams out of.
“So Romeo would,” the angel said softly, hesitantly but not nearly hesitantly enough, “were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee…”
Crowley finished it for him, softly. “Take all myself.”
“You are,” Aziraphale breathed. It was an instruction. It couldn’t be a question. “Crowley, you are acting.”
Aziraphale hadn’t touched Crowley during the play. Or before the play, or after it. Aziraphale hadn’t touched Crowley in the last 306 years, since they’d accidentally brushed hands in a crowded street.
Crowley didn’t answer, and Aziraphale kissed his beautiful mouth. Right there on the balcony. Without thinking about it, just feeling it, soaking up the warmth of Crowley’s cheek against his own, the softness of his lips, the little surprised breath Crowley took of air Aziraphale had given him. Aziraphale kissed him until he couldn’t anymore, which was a point that came far too soon.
Aziraphale pulled back suddenly, and the world came rushing back in. “Oh dear, oh I’m— I’m so sorry—”
Crowley didn’t move back. He sat there, as steady as anything. “Aziraphale. I’m not acting.”
“You—”
“I heard you. Praying.” Crowley said this with a nervous frown. “I overheard'st, ere you were ware, thy true love's passion.”
Aziraphale felt as if he were drenched in a sudden cold rain. “Oh! Crowley, that was private!” He took a few steps back, to the door of his room. “Look, I know you were trying to be kind—”
“That’s not what this is.” Crowley’s voice was breaking now, the pain of it audible. “You asked for a way to let me know I was loved, and now I know. And I love you so much, I can’t—” He reached out and grasped Aziraphale’s arm before he could get any farther away. They were touching again, and Aziraphale felt like he might be flying. Bestride the clouds.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Crowley went on, “but She’s given us Her blessing.” He trailed his hand down Aziraphale’s arm to fold their hands together. Aziraphale just stared at their entwined fingers.
“She loves you,” Crowley said, in a voice that sounded lighter than Aziraphale had ever heard it. “Look at this. I couldn't have set this up better if I tried. The moonlight, the balcony, the lines from the play. It's exactly what you would want in a love confession, you soft, romantic idiot."
“I—”
Crowley's hand began to shake. He was losing his nerve. "If I can believe it, Aziraphale—"
Aziraphale's fingers tightened on Crowley's, and the demon looked up with hope in his eyes.
“You love me,” Aziraphale breathed.
“I've always loved you. Never felt anything else for you, it’s like I can’t.” He gave Aziraphale a hint of a rakish smile, still a little nervous. “Angel— O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”
“What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?” Aziraphale asked, in a voice that came as easy as anything. As easy as falling in love.
“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”
“I gave thee mine before thou didst request it.” Aziraphale leaned close. "But I will tell you again. I love you, Crowley. With everything that I have. And I always will."
This time, Crowley kissed him. There on the balcony, with a rose in one hand and an angel in the other. Shadows below them, God above them, and where they stood in between, there was light.