Celestial Idiots - Blog Posts

It’s a lovestory ♥️

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. Crowley has known that look since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he finds himself a little unmoored, when he finds himself a little directionless. It’s a look he wears when he begins to doubt himself.

He’s wearing it now, sitting across from Crowley, half-drunk on Chateau d’Yquem, paused midway through a ramble on books adapted into films. He blinks at Crowley once, twice; his brow furrows. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, sitting up. “S’wrong?”

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, quite wonderingly, “I think I’m an idiot.” 

Crowley can’t help it - he laughs, snorting through his nose. “You’re not,” he says. “You’re the cleverest–the cleverest clever to ever clever.”

“See, that, right there!” Aziraphale says, pointing at Crowley. “That’s it! That’s why I am idiot.”

Crowley laughs harder. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You!” Aziraphale half-shouts. “You’re in love with me!”

There’s a ringing silence in the bookshop as Crowley’s laugh cuts out. They stare at one another. 

“Fuck’s sake, angel,” Crowley says quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sober up.”

There’s a soft shimmer of a miracle being performed, and then they’re still both looking at each other in the silence. Aziraphale’s hands twist and curl together. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, cringing at himself. “I don’t know–I didn’t know.” 

Crowley heaves himself up off the sofa, gathering up his jacket. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he says amicably. “I’ll just, er, see myself out, I think, call it an early night.”

“Wait–” Aziraphale’s hand catches in his elbow, and Crowley can feel him stepping up close behind him, though he doesn’t turn to look. “Wait,” he repeats. His voice is soft, like unbearably tender. Crowley closes his eyes against it. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Crowley says, as calmly as he can. He can feel himself shaking under Aziraphale’s hand, just like one of his plants. “It wasn’t supposed to–it’s not a big deal, angel.”

“It is a big deal,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “Look at me.”

I’m sorry, Aziraphale will say. I didn’t know, he’ll say. It’d be better if you didn’t, he’ll say. Couldn’t you just - miracle it away?

Crowley looks, though. Aziraphale asked him to. Of course he looks. 

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. It’s a look Crowley’s known since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he offers a wing to shelter under in a storm. It’s a look he wears when he holds out a hand before the end of the world. It’s a look that looks a lot like love. 

“Leave it,” Crowley says. It’s a demand because he can’t bear for it to be plea. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just–I thought it was just me.” There’s a wobbly sort of grin spreading across his face. “I thought it was just me, reflecting back. I’m such an idiot.” 

Crowley stares at him. Doesn’t flinch away when Aziraphale touches his cheek. “You mean to say, you–?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “How could I not?” 

And it’s true. It’s true because Crowley would feel it, if it were a lie. It’s true because Crowley would see it, if it were a lie. 

It’s true because Aziraphale would never lie to him about love.

“Oh my God,” Crowley says, for the first time in six thousand years. “We’re both bloody idiots.”

It doesn’t matter, not right now. Right now, Aziraphale is kissing him, and Crowley has already spent too much time not kissing him back to worry about it any longer.