[senator-organa]

we need more history kisses

[whitepeopletwitter]

[askazicro]

[alisonzai]

[foxbowl]

we (sebastian) stan our new Shang-Chi

[hilarioushumorfromouterspace]

[waldos-art]

It’s okay, rest your eyes.

[mcufam]

[lovelytonys]

oh, hey, miles, watcha watchin there, buddy? what could get you to laugh so hard, huh?

oh ok

[frenchibi]

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

It’s only been a week, so of course it’s still new and strange, but honestly, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll ever be over it.

He twists the ring on his finger, just something to do with his hands that have always been fidgety, ever since the beginning. Just another small habit formed.

(This ring’s smooth, different than the one he used to wear on his pinkie finger. Foreign, still, but right.)

Not much has changed, even though everything has, and it doesn’t make sense. He feels the same, but also like he’ll never be the same again. He can’t believe this is his new reality.

It’s the small things, more than anything.

The walking hand in hand – they’ve done it before. It’s happened. But now, when they go somewhere, Crowley will hold out his hand even before they open the door (their door). They step outside together, stroll through their front garden. Crowley waves lazily at the neighbour to their right, out mowing her lawn. She’s a kind old lady, a twinkle in the way she smiles. Doesn’t bat an eye, at anything at all. Took a liking to them.

Aziraphale smiles at her greeting, but he’s distracted by fingers brushing his ring, the soft clink of metal against identical metal. How can he ever be used to this?

Crowley orders for him, at their favourite place. He makes reservations in their name, brightly says, “my husband and I, we’d like a table,” like he doesn’t know Aziraphale’s heart is clawing its way out his throat; husband, husband, just like that-

It’s not something he wants to get used to. Six thousand years, and he wants his heart to never calm down at these words, these actions. He wants to always remember how they got here. He wants it to always matter.

It’s something he wants to get used to though, too. To feel he deserves this. That this is right and Crowley wants him, will still want him when six more millennia have passed. That novelty isn’t what makes them stick, it’s just the novelty of sticking that’s affecting him, is all. The novelty of how easy it is to love Crowley, and to be loved by him.

Crowley’s hand on his knee under the table, his whole body angled towards him, that subconscious-happy smile on his lips. Raised eyebrows at the mutual staring. A bashful sort of smile on the angel’s part, and a reassuring squeeze of his fingers in response.

God, I love you, I love you, he thinks. Oh, you’re all that matters.

On a bench out by the sea, Crowley’s arm is sprawled carelessly behind Aziraphale’s back, fingers toying with his collar as they watch the waves and chat. Aziraphale loses his train of thought four times, sputters, fumbles, and all Crowley does is smile, in infinite patience. It’s so easy to be patient when they’re no longer on a ticking clock.

They get up to leave and Crowley pulls him in by the waist, arm lazily slung around him like he’s done this every day since the beginning of time. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to walk like this, their hips keep knocking together but he’d rather die than pull away. Back on the road, he links their arms instead, taking care to move in just as close, I’m not drawing back, I’m right here, right here-

They perch on their sofa together, later, shoes kicked off and socked feet pulled close for warmth. Aziraphale reads, with the warm weight of Crowley tucked into his side. Like he’s always been there, really. (Hasn’t he? Hasn’t he?) This, more than anything, feels right.

Crowley’s fingers trace patterns on his thigh, innocent and idle, and Aziraphale forgets to breathe, earning a confused sort of hum as his body remembers and catches him off guard.

“…alright, angel?” Crowley asks, fingers never slowing, just there, warm and soft.

“Mmh. Just… husbands,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t hide the wonder, nor does he want to.

A squeeze, then, to the thigh, and the fondest of smiles. Crowley shifts, takes his hand instead, fiddles with his fingers.

“Keep touchin’ you,” he confides, “to convince myself it’s real.”

Aziraphale nods, threads their fingers. “Please don’t stop.”

Crowley wears the pinkie ring now, on his other ring finger. Something of his. A promise, made before their vows, the first promise. Marry me, angel. He’s never slipped it off.

The angel’s fingers brush it, familiar and warm. In good hands. The best hands, they hold everything with such care. He’ll gladly give himself to them, following after.

~~~

Thanks for reading; consider reblogging! Ao3 link in replies, this is part of my Good Omens drabble collection - requests are open!