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anyway sure sure we laugh but they really did spend six thousand years in love and terrified about it and i think in the post-armageddon world like. the absence of terror is the terrifying thing. having spent so long looking over each shoulder and slipping past each other in the dark, trying to find each other now in the light–how unsettling that must be.

how devastatingly difficult that must be. 

to reach for his hand and have to remind each other that it’s okay. to lead each other through the first stumbling paces of a slow dance and have to take a breather to swallow back the panic. it’s okay, they tell each other, again and again, trembling fingers on pale faces. it’s okay.

but even immortal beings change and grow and learn, and there is hope here, in this repetition, in this reassurance. it’s okay, it’s okay. crowley initiates a hand-hold one late april night, slipping his hand over aziraphale’s on the table, and aziraphale does not take his hand away. it’s okay, it’s okay. aziraphale sits next to crowley on the sofa one mid-june morning, handing him a cup of coffee, and crowley leans in against him. it’s okay, it’s okay. in september they kiss, all gasping breath and brushing lips, but neither of them draws away.

i love you, aziraphale says, in december. he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because crowley needs gentle things still, sometimes. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged optimism, crowley deserves gentle things sometimes.

crowley is quiet for a long time, swirling the wine in his glass. then he sets the glass aside, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at aziraphale with wet eyes. do you ever miss heaven? he asks.

aziraphale shakes his head. no.

do you regret what happened? crowley presses. do you ever think about going back?

no, aziraphale answers.

if i—if i didn’t love you back, he says, choking on the words a little, would you go back to them?

aziraphale sets his glass aside too, and gets to his knees in front of crowley, taking his hands, pressing his lips to the knuckles. no, he says. if you had your choice, heaven or hell, where would you be, crowley?

with you, crowley says instantly.

so why is it so very hard to believe the same of me? that i would choose you? aziraphale cups one hand to crowley’s cheek. i am not giving up anything by loving you, dear boy. i am finding what i have wanted to find for a very long time.

and if they come for us again? he asks. he’s pressing his cheek hard into aziraphale’s hand though, and aziraphale leans in to press their foreheads together.

then we face them side-by-side. i love you. aziraphale is so close now he can feel the shudder in crowley’s breath when he says it. i love you. i am not afraid.

it’s crowley who closes the distance, who presses in, his mouth hot and desperate and seeking. it’s crowley who slides his arms around aziraphale’s neck, pulling him closer. it’s crowley who makes the noise deep in his throat, the noise it makes when something breaks free: longing, maybe, and hope, and something like belief—faith, not in a higher authority or an ineffable plan, but just in this, here, in them, in crowley&aziraphale, aziraphale-and-crowley, in their heartbeats crashing together and their hands pressed palm to palm.

aziraphale holds him, kisses him back and holds him, stroking soothing paths down his ribs and up his spine. it’s okay, he whispers, taking each biting kiss and turning into a tenderness between them. it’s okay, it’s okay.

crowley kisses him one more time, and it’s slow, this time, and soft, as if he’s finally found the calm in the center of him. as if aziraphale has soothed the shaking out of his limbs and steadied the ground inside his mind. he presses his cheek to aziraphale’s cheek and just listens to him for a moment: the rhythm of his breath, the shift of his clothing. the whisper of his eyes opening and closing, lashes against lashes. the drum of his heart.

i love you, crowley says.

he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because aziraphale needs gentle things, sometimes, even if he doesn’t say so. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged faith, aziraphale deserves gentle things sometimes.

he says, i love you, and he knows it’s going to be okay.

it’s okay, it’s okay. it’s okay.

i love you. it’s okay.

is it possible to fall in love with tiny wisps of hair on the back of a neck? or would it make more sense to say that she’s in love with the owner of the neck with the tiny wisps of hair swaying ever so slowly as the evening breeze waltzes through the open windows of her apartment. 

kara can’t seem to take her eyes off of them.

it’s as if they’re coaxing her to touch them — calling out to her in a tiny voice that says come here, come closer, touch us with your gentle fingers — and kara does, kara really wants to, but alex is here and sitting next to her is kelly. sam is on the other side of lena, engaged in a lively conversation with the only couple in the room, and kara is just… staring, facing lena, one arm propped on the back of the couch, elbow bent so her fist is resting against the side of her head, and chin resting on her bicep.

it can’t be the alien alcoholic beverage that sam brought along with her nor is it the fact that she’s just recently recovered from another solar flare. it just doesn’t make sense. it wouldn’t explain the one time she caught herself looking at the back of lena’s neck during their first game night with her; not the one where she’s standing behind lena, saying things about wanting to rebuild their trust, momentarily distracted by those tiny wisps of hair before lena inevitably turned to her with a curious frown. 

none of those moments had involved alcohol or… or solar flare. 

it just… is. it’s just because of lena and her slender neck, her soft-looking skin, those tiny—

“what?”

in her distracted state, kara misses the moment when lena finally feels the weight of her stare and turns to her with a small smile, bordering confused — her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink under kara’s gaze. 

she’s so close.

kara meets her eyes and… she doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t make a single sound. merely shrugs her shoulders, eyes searching lena’s green ones, dropping briefly on her red lips, slightly parted and wet from the red wine, then back up at her green eyes. 

“what’s wrong?” lena asks again, tilting her body towards her this time, but only just enough that it doesn’t rouse other guests. it brings her even closer to kara, effectively stealing the air from her lungs.

kara shakes her head again, incapable of words now that lena’s facing her; tiny, wispy, little hairs now gone but replaced by the mesmerizing sight her eyes. she sighs longingly, stretching her arm so her hand lands near lena’s neck, fingers brushing ever so lightly on those tiny, little strands of hair. lena shudders, a natural reaction, especially in that particular area, but it affects kara in a way that makes her want to do it again and again, and again, and again—

alex, kelly, and sam be damned.

she just wants to touch her there forever, caress her slowly and lull her to sleep. she wants to see those eyelashes fluttering shut, wants to be the reason why lena is comfortable and sleepy and—

kara’s heart aches.

“darling?”

kara breathes out, slowly but steady, and before she chickens out, she moves forward and presses her lips so, so lightly against lena’s. it’s the softest kiss she’s ever had and ever given someone; the bravest kiss she’s ever pursued, uncaring of the sudden silence in her living room, of the shuffling of feet and the crumpling of paper bags to be disposed of. kara barely hears alex’s goodbye before she pulls away, pressing her forehead against lena’s with a nervous sigh.

“was that okay?” kara asks, heart beating loud and fast against her ribs as she brushes her thumb across lena’s neck, urging — begging — her to open those beautiful eyes of hers. “lena?”

lena lets out a watery laugh, finally meeting kara’s gaze with so much love in those pools of green. 

“more than okay, my love.” 

—

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