An izakaya bar! Crowley looks over in surprise, openly interested in this.
"Might be fun," he allows, "haven't done that in ages. Do you remember that little place in Soho you liked? Used to go there for lunch sometimes."
He wonders, distantly, if it's weird to miss sushi bars when he so rarely even ate. It was more the feeling of them, he supposes. They'll have to check it out. He begins digging for his keys as they walk further, thinking about sushi bars still and what else he misses. His car. Bad television. Definitely good music, phonograph is on the nose there. Films with too many explosions.
"Tempt you to a nightcap?" he offers, glancing sideways at Aziraphale again.
It still feels strange in a lot of ways to watch Crowley do mundane little things like rummage around in his pockets for his keys. It's one of those things that feels terribly human and he quite can't decide exactly how he feels about it. In a particular light, he finds it to be charming, but mostly it just reminds him that keys used to only be strictly for appearances.
And alcohol used to be as temporary as he desired. Not that it has stopped him from enjoying it any.
"I believe I could be persuaded," he says as if he were on the fence and not more than welcoming to the idea. It's always lovely to end off the night with something strong, preferably in Crowley's company as well. He thinks that it'll be rather fun to do it at the bar as well once they actually go.
Different atmosphere and all that.
"I've hardly forgotten any of the places we used to frequent, you know," he says, slightly belated as his thoughts round back to the topic. "Do you remember that little corner cafe we used to visit? With the overstuffed pastries?"
Aziraphale thinks about it often, particularly when he's working part-time in the bakery. The bakery here was good, but nothing like back on Earth.
"OOh, yeah. What about the French one, though? With that lady who never smiled at anyone but you!"
An achievement, that. Crowley slows down as they reach the door, glances over at Aziraphale briefly before slipping his key into the lock.
"I don't forget either," he adds, then pushes his way inside. It's a little cool, but it'll warm up once they've been back in a while. The summer heat has already begun to fade. He drops his keys onto a hook, shrugs off his jacket. "What're we having?" he prompts. As a nightcap, that is. They've already had some wine with their food, but surely one drink can't hurt? Something smooth, to ease the remains of their night. To settle them after their meal.
Aziraphale smiles at the thought of the little French bakery just a few blocks away from his shop. It was such a nice place, had a tremendously comforting air about it despite the gruffness of its owner. He had liked taking the walk over there, but he liked it even better when Crowley showed up in his entrance with a fresh bag of something thoughtfully sweet so he didn't have to.
"No one else has taste as good as I do," he explains as he follows behind Crowley into their home. He shuts and locks the door behind the two of them before pulling his own coat off to hang by the door.
That part is also novel to him, their coats hanging up by the door. It's one of those little things that really do give it such a homey feeling. He wonders if he can maintain the habit once they eventually make their way out of here.
"Brandy," he answers, making a quick one-handed gesture to encourage Crowley to take a seat on the couch. Aziraphale walks by him to fetch the afforement alcohol and two tumblers from the kitchen.
Crowley throws himself down with exaggerated drama, stretching out and then sighing as he relaxes into the couch.
"Could do with a brandy," he admits, tilting his head back to study the ceiling. "Could do with a wine cellar, really. Remember that fusion restaurant? Near the Albert Hall. Japanese-French fusion food -- amazing what people come up with really, humans are so creative. Anyway, had a huge wine cellar. Did all those wine tasting nights. That's what you need -- drinks cabinet, step one. Step two, wine cellar."
Well, step 2 cellar perhaps. Step 3 make it a wine cellar. That's all fine detail. The important part is, a cellar full of alcohol sounds deeply appealing.
Does he remember? Of course he remembers! Not only had it been a remarkable combination of cuisine styles, of which he hasn't had the pleasure of encountering again since, but it had also been such a wonderful evening. It had been one of those times where they had simply been out for the pleasure of each other's company.
"I could hardly forget!" Aziraphale remarks from the other room as he pours the both of them a rather generous glass of brandy.
"Perhaps step two might be a wine rack before we move onto an entire cellar," he continues thoughtfully as he walks back into the living room. That would be the proper progression of things, wouldn't it? Fill up the cabinet, then move onto a rack, and then onto a cellar. Although, he did suppose that they needed to be mindful of how much they actually drank now.
Crowley takes the glass, then immediately switches it to his other hand and reaches to grab Aziraphale's. It's not a particularly secure hold, just enough to keep his attention focused. To stop him moving away.
"Angel?" he prompts softly, and draws him forward a little. He leans to press his cheek to the back of Aziraphale's hand, a gentle encouragement of some intimacy. Wine rack discussions aside, this was meant to be a date. He's hoping he's been hitting all the marks here, but the problem was they'd done a lot of things over the years that fell pretty well within the remit of 'date'. He's not quite sure what he's meant to do differently in this official one. "Pass the test?"
There is a brief moment of silence as Aziraphale's eyebrow knit together, not quite grasping the point of the question at first. He hadn't been aware that there should be any sort of test in the first place, but then understanding strikes him all at once. He lets out a soft "oh" as he glances down at Crowley, so gently and so sweetly leaning against him.
"Yes," he answers. He discards his glass onto the coffee table, getting it away and out of hands before moving to sit down on the couch beside Crowley.
Aziraphale lifts a hand to Crowley's face, pressing his palm against a cheek to cradle him gently.
Crowley sets aside his own glass as Aziraphale moves closer, wide eyes studying him as he's touched. The touching is nice. He would say, on the whole, big fan of the touching so far. Ten out of ten on touching -- apart from the way it makes his stomach squirm nervously. Why does it do that? Design flaw, probably. There's so may peculiar quirks in human bodies, he wishes he still had proper control over his.
"Uh," he manages finally. "Yeah. Just. Thought it might be... you know."
Nice. He wets his lips nervously, hand creeping out to rest against Aziraphale's side. Fingers close lightly into fabric, fastening themselves there. Is this where they kiss? That's normally what happens, he thinks, but he feels awkward all of a sudden. As if he isn't sure what to do, where to put his hands, how to proceed. Somehow, when it's Aziraphale, all his confidence just seems to melt away into nothing.
There is something really rather charming about the expression present on Crowley's face right now. He looks so out of sorts, but still interested despite whatever thoughts might be populating in his head. Aziraphale thinks about kissing him, thinks about closing the little distance between them, and he nearly does.
Nearly, nearly, nearly.
The only thing that stops him is the fact that he doesn't want the order of events to play out like this. He needs Crowley to pick up where they left off last time before he can act. He has been waiting all of this time and now he needs Crowley to follow through. He needs to be asked. He needs to be asked so that he can say 'yes' and take the next move forward.
Gingerly, he strokes his thumb along the sharp line of Crowley's cheekbone.
"I believe . . . there's a question I have been waiting for you to ask me," he reminds him.
"A question?" Crowley manages, although it comes out a little weak. He can't quite focus past the feel of Aziraphale's thumb on his cheek, past how close Aziraphale is sitting to him. Does he normally sit this close? He can't quite seem to remember, what with all this touching business. "Ummm," he manages, and tries to make himself as still as possible. The urge to press his face into Aziraphale's hand is overpowering. His eyes have gotten lighter, Crowley notices. "What question?" he prompts more softly, with a distant sort of tone that implies his attention might be drifting.
It is drifting. It has drifted, entirely, from anything else at all that isn't Aziraphale's face. His eyes. The feel of his hands. Crowley wonders, distantly, if this is how animals caught in headlights feel. Startled, unable to move even though they suspect they should. Aware that if they don't do something any minute there might be pain involved.
Where is Crowley's mind drifting off to? What is it that seems to encompass his thoughts so thoroughly? He is starting to feel a little further away with each passing moment and some of the warmth fades out of Aziraphale's expression to be overwritten by the beginnings of real concern. This isn't how this was supposed to go.
A more recent, primal part of him also feels that Crowley looks a bit too much like prey, which is not a descriptor he has ever applied to him in all of their years of knowing one another. Yet, he sees it now and it fuels the current urge to close the distance so strongly that alarm swells in his chest.
Aziraphale pulls back, pressing his hand against the back of the couch instead. An undoubtedly safer move to take.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks. He very well may be. What sort of face was he making? Was this too much contact too quickly? Had he already started to bugger it up?
He tries to smile.
"Or is it not the appropriate time? To discuss courtship?" he continues, hoping that some clarity might help put Crowley at ease. Or at the very least make it more obvious that he was not looking at Crowley with some sort of ill intent.
"Courtship?" Crowley echoes, and then rapidly backs up through the conversation. Wait -- "Uncomfortable? Oh, no, no, fine, I'm not -- uncomfortable, nothing like that, no, I'm -- fine. Completely fine, I'm. Are we courting? Is that what I'm meant to be asking? Because I'd like to be. Courting. Felt like we were before, but it was never officially, then there was the business with the kid and then this place but... Seems like as good a time as any? Nobody checking up on his here, anyway, so I thought..."
He trails off, awkward, and scrunches his nose hesitantly. Too much? Maybe he should have said less, stuck to the point more. Nerves, he thinks, always get the better of him. Talks too much when he's nervous. Still, if he's done the gift bit and the meal bit then... points for effort, surely?
The difference between this moment and the first time that Crowley brought it up, hovering awkwardly over him in the bathroom as he attempted to patch Aziraphale up, is so stark that it makes Aziraphale want to laugh. He almost does, but he lets out a hard breath through his nose instead. He can only hope that Crowley is far too distracted by his own thoughts to notice. He knows better than to laugh, knows that it would surely only put Crowley into a bigger fit of nerves than he already is.
It's simply that the demon had been so forceful and clear that night and yet now he's in a state of being completely graceless and babbling. Did he feel less sure about what he wants now? Or had he truly not been expecting the topic to come back up?
Or did this somehow feel more real?
"Yes," Aziraphale answers, acknowledging only one of his questions. Slowly and carefully, he reaches across the couch to bridge the distance between them once more and places his hand over the top of Crowley's.
"I couldn't answer you the previous night you mentioned it, but I would like to answer you now," he continues to say, lightly curling his fingers around Crowley's palm in a manner that he hope isn't overwhelming or forceful.
"Please ask me."
After all, Crowley had to properly ask the question for Aziraphale to properly answer him. Now is as good of a time as any to ask, he thinks. The evening spent together had been nice, dinner had been nice, and this moment between them is still plenty nice. There is hardly anything else he might need.
Crowley's blurry memory of the night this came up doesn't really include him asking anything that directly. It mostly involves an argument over if they counted as together or not, followed by another argument over if now was the right time for this sort of thing.
He swallows awkwardly, fingers knitting with Aziraphale's for some sort of reassurance.
"Err," he manages, "well. Do you want us to be... together?"
That's how he said it before, right? Isn't it? He thinks? He feels as if he's forgotten how words work. For a creature who's used them for thousands of years across multiple languages he really should be better at this, but for some reason whenever it's important they utterly fail him. Another design flaw, that.
It isn't quite what he had been hoping for or really what he had been expecting—not when he thought he had been more than forthright when he requested for Crowley to ask him again, but properly. He thought he might be a little more prepared, might have more to say, or at the very least wouldn't look so nervous. He had already told him how he would answer, hadn't he?
His fingers curl around Crowley's slender ones, offering him a light but solid squeeze.
"Yes, my darling," he answers him the way that they both had known he would.
With that said, he gives Crowley's hand a gentle tug to urge him a little closer.
Crowley isn't really sure what he'd been afraid would happen -- he supposed even if he said the wrong thing Aziraphale wouldn't leave him entirely, it just might be... more awkward. Still, better not to have get into it at all. He leans toward Aziraphale easily at his urging, feeling as if he's whole corporeal form is vibrating with nerves. They've touched a lot, but never really... intimately. The thought is exciting, but there's also a lot of potential for this to be a bit of a mess. He'd know, he's caused lots of romantic messes during his time. At the last minute he speeds up, a surge of confidence, and squarely bumps both their foreheads together.
The curse he lets out as he leans back is particularly crass, and was very popular in the 90s.
The sound of his own heart beat feels so impossibly loud, loud enough that it feels like the only thing that he can hear at all, as Crowley starts to slowly lean forward to meet him. There's an excitement in that, thrumming just underneath his skin—in the idea that after so many years that he might finally get to kiss him. Finally, finally, finally. In the (mostly) right moment, at the (mostly) right time, and he is already so close. Close enough to kiss, close enough to hold.
Then, all at once, Crowley surges well past the definition of 'close' and right into 'too close', knocking their skulls together. It makes an audible sound, followed by Aziraphale's animalistic yelp of pain as he recoils backwards.
"Good lord, Crowley," he hisses out in a distinctly feline way.
Some part of him thinks, deliriously, that he should have held Crowley's face instead. He could have guided him forward or at least helped control the speed before they knocked heads together like a set of clackers. His eyes close, eyebrows knitting together, as he presses his fingers to the spot on his face that currently throbs.
Crowley reaches to touch his own head, hissing as he reels back and rubs at it.
"Alright, alright, might need a little more practice."
At the... leaning in part, and probably everything else that comes after it. He grumbles softly, leans toward Aziraphale and slumps down so they're pressed closer together.
"Humans make it all look easy."
Though, he supposes, they do tend to start young -- Crowley probably should have gotten more practice under his belt too. It's just that... well, even if he had things tend to fall apart a little with the two of them anyway. He can't quite pinpoint why, but it does.
It's such an incredible thing for him to say and Aziraphale finds himself a little baffled to hear it. Exactly what part needed practice? They hadn't even gotten to the part where their lips touched. Aziraphale would have thought that this part would be easy and they'd fit together like two joining pieces of a puzzle. He huffs and resolutely decides that next time, he will hold Crowley's face.
"I suppose there is no shortage of time in which we could try again," Aziraphale answers after a brief bout of silence, adjusting his arm so that Crowley could comfortably fit underneath. There would be plenty more dinners and other opportunities in which they could attempt to kiss one another. Maybe over breakfast after he'd made coffee for the both of them?
Idly, Aziraphale thinks about the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he had kissed anyone at all. He is positive, however, that no one had ever knocked him in the forehead before.
"Nnngh," Crowley comments, and tucks himself in under Aziraphale's arm. "Don't really cover the dangerous parts in media, do they?"
The high-risk high-reward nature of kissing, that is, with all the painful head knocking. He slinks again after a moment, twisting so he can look at Aziraphale from where he's tucked under his arm. It's the sort of languid twist someone who is used to a more mobile shape might make, someone whose muscles are used to slithering on occasion. His brow is furrowing slightly in thought. Crowley's brain is often a riot of chaotic noise, but right now there's a lot of additional overhead processing going on. It's largely around Aziraphale, and kissing, and potential future kissing.
"But you do want to... try again, yeah?"
Just to be clear. That is the situation they're looking at, yes?
There shouldn't be any dangerous parts. The whole thing should just be simple, natural, and easy. There shouldn't be any danger or peril to it! He has half a mind to just outright say so, but it occurs to him in that moment, just before he is about to say something about it, that there is some degree of hazard to it. Not to kissing as a whole, mind, but to kissing him.
He has a mouth full of sharp teeth that he has already introduced to Crowley's flesh once before—although when they were a little less developed, but still quite sharp. Yet, Crowley is looking perplexed and thoughtful over whether or not Aziraphale wants to try again.
Aziraphale lets out a soft noise.
"I—Well, yes," he says, his voice firm. That part isn't anything he is unsure about. Of course he wanted to kiss Crowley again. He would even do so right now in this very moment. "Truly, I believe the greater question is: are you sure you wish to kiss me?"
"I could bite you again. The teeth have gotten worse because everything has been getting worse."
"Yeah," Crowley says, with barely a few seconds of thought. Aziraphale may well bite him, but he'd rather have this and be injured in the process than never have it at all. The thought of that is... too much. The concept of not being with Aziraphale is too much. He can't process it, can't imagine it, can't imagine existing that way. Perhaps they could... stay together in some limited fashion, but for how long? What if this place accelerates to the point that Aziraphale becomes a creature he cannot be with? What if they lose the chance?
The idea is intolerable.
Crowley squirms to sit up better, pressing close in to Aziraphale's side and hovering barely an inch from his face.
"Yeah," he repeats more softly, then leans in that last inch to nudge their lips together.
There is a very real risk to Crowley's person, to this now oh so feeble vessel, but that doesn't seem to be enough to give Crowley any pause. That doesn't seem to be enough to change the way he is looking at him, soft and affectionate, or prevent him from wiggling his way ever closer as if there were truly no other place he would rather be.
Yeah, he says if it were never any problem at all.
He possibly has a permanent scar in the shape of Aziraphale's bite, might possibly earn himself yet another, and—!
Immediately, Aziraphale loses his train of thought as Crowley closes the distance between them to press their lips together. Whatever he was thinking about hardly feels as important as kissing Crowley. The only thing that matters to him now is wrapping his arms around the demon's waist, carefully trying to pull him closer.
A low rumble begins in his throat, a soft purr that betrays how delighted he is in this moment.
The kiss is a little clumsy, but at least Crowley isn't violently knocking their heads together anymore.
Aziraphale's arms loop around him, and admittedly the plan from here on was not... defined. Should he pull away? He doesn't want to, he thinks. Press into it, then? He can feel Aziraphale's purr vibrating through him and that's...
Nice. It's nice. A subtle tension thrums through his body, straining between the desire to press forward for more and... something else. Some roiling indecision.
He draws back, one hand resting against Aziraphale's chest, and tries to read the mood with somewhat blurry focus. Fingers curl unconsciously to fasten into Aziraphale's shirt.
"Better?" he manages, a little less confidently than he'd like. He feels it is worth checking in, just in case he is getting this whole thing horrendously wrong. There's always a chance.
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no subject
"Might be fun," he allows, "haven't done that in ages. Do you remember that little place in Soho you liked? Used to go there for lunch sometimes."
He wonders, distantly, if it's weird to miss sushi bars when he so rarely even ate. It was more the feeling of them, he supposes. They'll have to check it out. He begins digging for his keys as they walk further, thinking about sushi bars still and what else he misses. His car. Bad television. Definitely good music, phonograph is on the nose there. Films with too many explosions.
"Tempt you to a nightcap?" he offers, glancing sideways at Aziraphale again.
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And alcohol used to be as temporary as he desired. Not that it has stopped him from enjoying it any.
"I believe I could be persuaded," he says as if he were on the fence and not more than welcoming to the idea. It's always lovely to end off the night with something strong, preferably in Crowley's company as well. He thinks that it'll be rather fun to do it at the bar as well once they actually go.
Different atmosphere and all that.
"I've hardly forgotten any of the places we used to frequent, you know," he says, slightly belated as his thoughts round back to the topic. "Do you remember that little corner cafe we used to visit? With the overstuffed pastries?"
Aziraphale thinks about it often, particularly when he's working part-time in the bakery. The bakery here was good, but nothing like back on Earth.
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An achievement, that. Crowley slows down as they reach the door, glances over at Aziraphale briefly before slipping his key into the lock.
"I don't forget either," he adds, then pushes his way inside. It's a little cool, but it'll warm up once they've been back in a while. The summer heat has already begun to fade. He drops his keys onto a hook, shrugs off his jacket. "What're we having?" he prompts. As a nightcap, that is. They've already had some wine with their food, but surely one drink can't hurt? Something smooth, to ease the remains of their night. To settle them after their meal.
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"No one else has taste as good as I do," he explains as he follows behind Crowley into their home. He shuts and locks the door behind the two of them before pulling his own coat off to hang by the door.
That part is also novel to him, their coats hanging up by the door. It's one of those little things that really do give it such a homey feeling. He wonders if he can maintain the habit once they eventually make their way out of here.
"Brandy," he answers, making a quick one-handed gesture to encourage Crowley to take a seat on the couch. Aziraphale walks by him to fetch the afforement alcohol and two tumblers from the kitchen.
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"Could do with a brandy," he admits, tilting his head back to study the ceiling. "Could do with a wine cellar, really. Remember that fusion restaurant? Near the Albert Hall. Japanese-French fusion food -- amazing what people come up with really, humans are so creative. Anyway, had a huge wine cellar. Did all those wine tasting nights. That's what you need -- drinks cabinet, step one. Step two, wine cellar."
Well, step 2 cellar perhaps. Step 3 make it a wine cellar. That's all fine detail. The important part is, a cellar full of alcohol sounds deeply appealing.
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"I could hardly forget!" Aziraphale remarks from the other room as he pours the both of them a rather generous glass of brandy.
"Perhaps step two might be a wine rack before we move onto an entire cellar," he continues thoughtfully as he walks back into the living room. That would be the proper progression of things, wouldn't it? Fill up the cabinet, then move onto a rack, and then onto a cellar. Although, he did suppose that they needed to be mindful of how much they actually drank now.
Despite that, he extends a glass out to Crowley.
"Here."
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"Angel?" he prompts softly, and draws him forward a little. He leans to press his cheek to the back of Aziraphale's hand, a gentle encouragement of some intimacy. Wine rack discussions aside, this was meant to be a date. He's hoping he's been hitting all the marks here, but the problem was they'd done a lot of things over the years that fell pretty well within the remit of 'date'. He's not quite sure what he's meant to do differently in this official one. "Pass the test?"
This was for him, after all. Is it good enough?
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There is a brief moment of silence as Aziraphale's eyebrow knit together, not quite grasping the point of the question at first. He hadn't been aware that there should be any sort of test in the first place, but then understanding strikes him all at once. He lets out a soft "oh" as he glances down at Crowley, so gently and so sweetly leaning against him.
"Yes," he answers. He discards his glass onto the coffee table, getting it away and out of hands before moving to sit down on the couch beside Crowley.
Aziraphale lifts a hand to Crowley's face, pressing his palm against a cheek to cradle him gently.
"Thank you for the lovely evening."
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"Uh," he manages finally. "Yeah. Just. Thought it might be... you know."
Nice. He wets his lips nervously, hand creeping out to rest against Aziraphale's side. Fingers close lightly into fabric, fastening themselves there. Is this where they kiss? That's normally what happens, he thinks, but he feels awkward all of a sudden. As if he isn't sure what to do, where to put his hands, how to proceed. Somehow, when it's Aziraphale, all his confidence just seems to melt away into nothing.
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Nearly, nearly, nearly.
The only thing that stops him is the fact that he doesn't want the order of events to play out like this. He needs Crowley to pick up where they left off last time before he can act. He has been waiting all of this time and now he needs Crowley to follow through. He needs to be asked. He needs to be asked so that he can say 'yes' and take the next move forward.
Gingerly, he strokes his thumb along the sharp line of Crowley's cheekbone.
"I believe . . . there's a question I have been waiting for you to ask me," he reminds him.
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It is drifting. It has drifted, entirely, from anything else at all that isn't Aziraphale's face. His eyes. The feel of his hands. Crowley wonders, distantly, if this is how animals caught in headlights feel. Startled, unable to move even though they suspect they should. Aware that if they don't do something any minute there might be pain involved.
He probably should be focusing.
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A more recent, primal part of him also feels that Crowley looks a bit too much like prey, which is not a descriptor he has ever applied to him in all of their years of knowing one another. Yet, he sees it now and it fuels the current urge to close the distance so strongly that alarm swells in his chest.
Aziraphale pulls back, pressing his hand against the back of the couch instead. An undoubtedly safer move to take.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks. He very well may be. What sort of face was he making? Was this too much contact too quickly? Had he already started to bugger it up?
He tries to smile.
"Or is it not the appropriate time? To discuss courtship?" he continues, hoping that some clarity might help put Crowley at ease. Or at the very least make it more obvious that he was not looking at Crowley with some sort of ill intent.
He thinks that is the most important part.
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"Courtship?" Crowley echoes, and then rapidly backs up through the conversation. Wait -- "Uncomfortable? Oh, no, no, fine, I'm not -- uncomfortable, nothing like that, no, I'm -- fine. Completely fine, I'm. Are we courting? Is that what I'm meant to be asking? Because I'd like to be. Courting. Felt like we were before, but it was never officially, then there was the business with the kid and then this place but... Seems like as good a time as any? Nobody checking up on his here, anyway, so I thought..."
He trails off, awkward, and scrunches his nose hesitantly. Too much? Maybe he should have said less, stuck to the point more. Nerves, he thinks, always get the better of him. Talks too much when he's nervous. Still, if he's done the gift bit and the meal bit then... points for effort, surely?
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It's simply that the demon had been so forceful and clear that night and yet now he's in a state of being completely graceless and babbling. Did he feel less sure about what he wants now? Or had he truly not been expecting the topic to come back up?
Or did this somehow feel more real?
"Yes," Aziraphale answers, acknowledging only one of his questions. Slowly and carefully, he reaches across the couch to bridge the distance between them once more and places his hand over the top of Crowley's.
"I couldn't answer you the previous night you mentioned it, but I would like to answer you now," he continues to say, lightly curling his fingers around Crowley's palm in a manner that he hope isn't overwhelming or forceful.
"Please ask me."
After all, Crowley had to properly ask the question for Aziraphale to properly answer him. Now is as good of a time as any to ask, he thinks. The evening spent together had been nice, dinner had been nice, and this moment between them is still plenty nice. There is hardly anything else he might need.
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Crowley's blurry memory of the night this came up doesn't really include him asking anything that directly. It mostly involves an argument over if they counted as together or not, followed by another argument over if now was the right time for this sort of thing.
He swallows awkwardly, fingers knitting with Aziraphale's for some sort of reassurance.
"Err," he manages, "well. Do you want us to be... together?"
That's how he said it before, right? Isn't it? He thinks? He feels as if he's forgotten how words work. For a creature who's used them for thousands of years across multiple languages he really should be better at this, but for some reason whenever it's important they utterly fail him. Another design flaw, that.
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It isn't quite what he had been hoping for or really what he had been expecting—not when he thought he had been more than forthright when he requested for Crowley to ask him again, but properly. He thought he might be a little more prepared, might have more to say, or at the very least wouldn't look so nervous. He had already told him how he would answer, hadn't he?
His fingers curl around Crowley's slender ones, offering him a light but solid squeeze.
"Yes, my darling," he answers him the way that they both had known he would.
With that said, he gives Crowley's hand a gentle tug to urge him a little closer.
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Crowley isn't really sure what he'd been afraid would happen -- he supposed even if he said the wrong thing Aziraphale wouldn't leave him entirely, it just might be... more awkward. Still, better not to have get into it at all. He leans toward Aziraphale easily at his urging, feeling as if he's whole corporeal form is vibrating with nerves. They've touched a lot, but never really... intimately. The thought is exciting, but there's also a lot of potential for this to be a bit of a mess. He'd know, he's caused lots of romantic messes during his time. At the last minute he speeds up, a surge of confidence, and squarely bumps both their foreheads together.
The curse he lets out as he leans back is particularly crass, and was very popular in the 90s.
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Then, all at once, Crowley surges well past the definition of 'close' and right into 'too close', knocking their skulls together. It makes an audible sound, followed by Aziraphale's animalistic yelp of pain as he recoils backwards.
"Good lord, Crowley," he hisses out in a distinctly feline way.
Some part of him thinks, deliriously, that he should have held Crowley's face instead. He could have guided him forward or at least helped control the speed before they knocked heads together like a set of clackers. His eyes close, eyebrows knitting together, as he presses his fingers to the spot on his face that currently throbs.
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Crowley reaches to touch his own head, hissing as he reels back and rubs at it.
"Alright, alright, might need a little more practice."
At the... leaning in part, and probably everything else that comes after it. He grumbles softly, leans toward Aziraphale and slumps down so they're pressed closer together.
"Humans make it all look easy."
Though, he supposes, they do tend to start young -- Crowley probably should have gotten more practice under his belt too. It's just that... well, even if he had things tend to fall apart a little with the two of them anyway. He can't quite pinpoint why, but it does.
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It's such an incredible thing for him to say and Aziraphale finds himself a little baffled to hear it. Exactly what part needed practice? They hadn't even gotten to the part where their lips touched. Aziraphale would have thought that this part would be easy and they'd fit together like two joining pieces of a puzzle. He huffs and resolutely decides that next time, he will hold Crowley's face.
"I suppose there is no shortage of time in which we could try again," Aziraphale answers after a brief bout of silence, adjusting his arm so that Crowley could comfortably fit underneath. There would be plenty more dinners and other opportunities in which they could attempt to kiss one another. Maybe over breakfast after he'd made coffee for the both of them?
Idly, Aziraphale thinks about the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he had kissed anyone at all. He is positive, however, that no one had ever knocked him in the forehead before.
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The high-risk high-reward nature of kissing, that is, with all the painful head knocking. He slinks again after a moment, twisting so he can look at Aziraphale from where he's tucked under his arm. It's the sort of languid twist someone who is used to a more mobile shape might make, someone whose muscles are used to slithering on occasion. His brow is furrowing slightly in thought. Crowley's brain is often a riot of chaotic noise, but right now there's a lot of additional overhead processing going on. It's largely around Aziraphale, and kissing, and potential future kissing.
"But you do want to... try again, yeah?"
Just to be clear. That is the situation they're looking at, yes?
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He has a mouth full of sharp teeth that he has already introduced to Crowley's flesh once before—although when they were a little less developed, but still quite sharp. Yet, Crowley is looking perplexed and thoughtful over whether or not Aziraphale wants to try again.
Aziraphale lets out a soft noise.
"I—Well, yes," he says, his voice firm. That part isn't anything he is unsure about. Of course he wanted to kiss Crowley again. He would even do so right now in this very moment. "Truly, I believe the greater question is: are you sure you wish to kiss me?"
"I could bite you again. The teeth have gotten worse because everything has been getting worse."
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Well.
"Yeah," Crowley says, with barely a few seconds of thought. Aziraphale may well bite him, but he'd rather have this and be injured in the process than never have it at all. The thought of that is... too much. The concept of not being with Aziraphale is too much. He can't process it, can't imagine it, can't imagine existing that way. Perhaps they could... stay together in some limited fashion, but for how long? What if this place accelerates to the point that Aziraphale becomes a creature he cannot be with? What if they lose the chance?
The idea is intolerable.
Crowley squirms to sit up better, pressing close in to Aziraphale's side and hovering barely an inch from his face.
"Yeah," he repeats more softly, then leans in that last inch to nudge their lips together.
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Yeah, he says if it were never any problem at all.
He possibly has a permanent scar in the shape of Aziraphale's bite, might possibly earn himself yet another, and—!
Immediately, Aziraphale loses his train of thought as Crowley closes the distance between them to press their lips together. Whatever he was thinking about hardly feels as important as kissing Crowley. The only thing that matters to him now is wrapping his arms around the demon's waist, carefully trying to pull him closer.
A low rumble begins in his throat, a soft purr that betrays how delighted he is in this moment.
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Aziraphale's arms loop around him, and admittedly the plan from here on was not... defined. Should he pull away? He doesn't want to, he thinks. Press into it, then? He can feel Aziraphale's purr vibrating through him and that's...
Nice. It's nice. A subtle tension thrums through his body, straining between the desire to press forward for more and... something else. Some roiling indecision.
He draws back, one hand resting against Aziraphale's chest, and tries to read the mood with somewhat blurry focus. Fingers curl unconsciously to fasten into Aziraphale's shirt.
"Better?" he manages, a little less confidently than he'd like. He feels it is worth checking in, just in case he is getting this whole thing horrendously wrong. There's always a chance.
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