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it’s silly, really, that he didn’t notice it sooner. then again, he’s been seeing it for millenia. it’s not unusual enough to notice.
the way crowley circles aziraphale, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his long legs gracefully carrying his slinking form around and around and around the angel as he speaks, like he’s looking for something. examining something. committing something to memory.
aziraphale never wondered, before now, why crowley does it. the circling, the examining, the scanning. the thoughtful eyes, unblinking, behind dark glasses. the way his lips part, just slightly—not that aziraphale’s been looking at crowley’s lips, of course. that would be absurd. but the demon has been doing it since the beginning, since the first rainstorm. the pacing. the circling. the seeing-aziraphale-from-all-angles.
and maybe, aziraphale thinks, as he stands in his bookshop on the first day of the rest of their lives—crowley standing before him, and then to the side of him, and then to the back of him, and then to the other side of him, glass of wine in hand, speaking about this thing and that—maybe, there’s a reason, a deeper reason, an ineffably important reason why crowley takes every chance to commit the sight of aziraphale to memory.
“why do you do that?” the words tumble from him unbidden, unconscious, before he has a chance to stop his thoughts from escaping.
crowley pauses mid-slink. “do what?”
“that,” aziraphale says, and gestures. “the circling. you’re always walking round and round me. don’t you get dizzy, crowley?”
crowley’s face freezes in the picture of pensive thought. “it’s not important,” he says after a long, long moment. “just a thing.”
“a thing?” aziraphale smiles, slight, and takes a sip of his wine (a lovely rose from over fifty years ago).
“yeah,” crowley draws out the vowels, the word slithering from his lips like the serpent he is. “habit, i guess. y’know. a thing.”
“you do it every time we meet,” aziraphale presses. “like you’re... examining me.”
“not examining,” crowley says, and then his posture changes, just a little, just slightly, but aziraphale has known him for six thousand years and knows that it’s his defensive, don’t-touch-me-don’t-look-at-me posture. his don’t-ask-me-questions-i-don’t-know-how-to-answer posture.
“then what?” aziraphale asks, gentle, his tone saying, i-won’t-touch-you-i-won’t-hurt-you-i-just-want-to-know. saying please-tell-me-i-need-to-know.
crowley’s shoulders slump, and he leans against aziraphale’s desk. a few papers slide off of it, and aziraphale bites his lip. the moment is too thick for him to scold crowley for making a mess. “remembering,” crowley says. “i’m remembering, angel.”
“remembering what?”
“you.” there’s a sudden, vulnerable, raw look on crowley’s face, and aziraphale almost, almost, regrets asking. those feelings are so so so strong, he can feel them even without his angelic touch.
aziraphale steps closer, steps through the tension, steps through the hurt seeping from crowley, and he barely breathes, “why?”
“in case you leave.” crowley’s voice is small. so very very small and fragile and broken, like an abandoned child.
oh.
oh.
“oh, crowley,” aziraphale whispers, and he doesn’t even think, he just reaches out and cradles crowley’s face in his hands. instantly, crowley leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, and his hand comes up to wrap around aziraphale’s wrist, tentative and afraid.
“don’t leave, angel,” crowley breathes, begs, pleads. “i lost you once and—”
“i know,” aziraphale says, and kisses him.