"I love you."
Crowley stops dead in his tracks, his hand wrapped around the door knob with white, trembling knuckles, and closes his eyes.
There were nights, many nights, way more than there ever should have been, during which he traced the constellations in the night sky and imagined what it would be like to hear those words from his mouth. Whether he would say them softly, wrapping each one in gentleness, reverence, or hurried, afraid of who else might hear, terrified that this will be the last words ever spoken between them. If he was particularly drunk and particularly lonely, chasing after the feeling of Aziraphale's brushing over his wrist as they walked by each other in the comfortable mess of the bookshop, he imagined them as a slow drag of breath right next to his hear, a whisper not even God would be able to hear; a promise of worship.
In all of the fantasies, and that is what they were, nothing more than shameful imaginations Aziraphale could never know about, he said it back. Whispered it, screamed it, forced it out between sobs or kisses or panting breaths.
When Crowley opens his eyes again, uncried tears are clinging to his lashes.
Outside, the first splatters of rain are painting the sidewalk black and people hurry by, trying to escape the storm as the sky breaks in two. Within seconds, the steady drum of water against the window is louder than the noise of the traffic, louder than his heart's attempts to beat out of his ribcage and bare itself to him.
He cannot look at him.
It is his first thought and the only one that matters now, he cannot look at him or he will shatter like hot glass dropped in the snow, flying apart into thousands of tiny shards. Crowley tries to rip the image of violet eyes and his perfect fucking cupids bow out of his mind without success (he knows what it tastes like now, remembers tracing it with the tip of his tongue and opening his mouth with a hunger he has never felt before).
Swallowing his own, he listens to the familiar rhythm of Aziraphale's breath, undisturbed and distinctly human in a way that makes them too human to be real, his mouth opening and closing around unshaped replies.
The sidewalk is empty save for a handful of people diving for cover in the pub across the street, and for one precious, fragile moment, the world narrows down to an angel and a demon who watched the first storm rain down on Eden, a white wing held steadily above his head to keep him dry.
Crowley never asked why, and over the centuries, the question got lost in all the others piling up every time they met. He knows why, though, without needing to hear it from him, and it is not because Aziraphale already loved him back then or saw a pitiful creature in need of protection. The answer is so much simpler - he was being thoughtlessly kind because that is who he is.
He is being thoughtlessly kind now, too.
The tension drains from his knuckles and he presses his palm to the cold metal, settling back into a body that now recalls the taste of those three words in the air and yearns for nothing more than to taste them straight from his mouth.
Crowley pushes the door open and steps onto the sidewalk, his clothes clinging to his sharp angles as the rain drenches him completely within seconds, and then he walks home without a single look or word back.
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FMA fic I'm never going to write:
Hoenheim's lifespan and continued existence is entirely tied to the hundreds of thousands to possibly millions of dead his soul eats off of, slowly leeching life from the dead kingdom of Xerxes.
...It stands to reason, then, when begetting life, that spiritual artefacts make themselves known in the begotten sons of the dead. There are only four that can claim true heritage of Xerxes— the immortal, the synthesized man, and the heirs to the memories of a long-gone people.
Or. Well. Gone in body, certainly. But that's hardly stopped anyone from wanting to step up and parent.
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