𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

There's some guilt that comes along with facing how long Crowley had desired something more out of their friendship. Aziraphale had dared to acknowledge it back in the late 60s, with much struggle and much pain, much fear and worry, and it had all been an entirely unpleasant experience. For both, he realizes know, quite obviously, but there was nothing he could have done then. He thinks. He thought.

But if he could go back - if he could go back to so many different times, he would have done things differently. He would have been kinder. He would have been braver. But, perhaps, different paths would not have brought them here.

He wishes, he hopes, this was worth it in the end.

But he doesn't share that in detail - the guilt is there whether he wants it to be or not, and Crowley deserves that acknowledgement too, in the very least. After everything.

But the affection he craves, the love Aziraphale's been keeping deep down, it's there, and it's all over him.

A couple more kisses and he blindly tries to work his belt open. It's not exactly a common shape, snake head and all, so he has to fuss with it for a moment, but when he does get it open, he can't resist brushing his hand up towards Crowley's stomach again, feeling the skin, feeling how he responds.