In the big scheme of things, 6,000 years is not a very long amount of time. In fact, if one were to line up all the years if the universe, one after another, and walk end to end, 6000 years would be less then the half-step out the door one does when they’ve forgotten their keys. Again.
Crowley is 6,756 years old. In his scheme of things, 6,000 years is a very long time. He has been in love with Aziraphale approximately 5,805 of those years, and he has been aware of that fact about 4,653 of those.
Angels are, functionally, immortal. 5,000 and something years might seem like a very long time to wait, and they certainly feel like it, but when one assumes one had forever to muddle things about, it’s slightly easier to compartmentalize. Tempt a priest here, set up a stealth date there, and in about 1,050 years your Angel might actually catch on.
Of course, there needs to be priests to tempt and Angels to trick into Sunday brunch for that to work.
In the end, at those final few moments, when Adam held everything in the palm of his hand and the ground shook out of a misguided respect for who was coming, Crowley realized that 6,000 years really was nothing much.
Aziraphale has the flaming sword - His flaming sword - poised at his side and yet the blasted thing was pointed down. He’s never had much use for weapons, his Angel hasn’t.
It doesn’t matter, in the end, because it turns out his words are enough.
“Do something!” He says, and maybe Crowley is the only one who can hear how his voice shakes, maybe Crowley is the only one who can hear 6,000 years stuck in every syllable, “Or I’ll never speak to you again!”
It’s not a promise. It's a warning, flashing neon green and grinning wicked in his face because he’s had 6,000 years, he thought he had 6,000 more, and yet here they are.
So he does the one thing he’s told himself he’ll never do, buried under some restaurant in Rome or that pub in Ireland that Patrick ran him out of not two hours later.
“Do something!” Aziraphale says, and he’s never heard an angel pray before.
So he leans forward, swaying against the wind and his inhibitions and hauls Aziraphale closer by his lapels and kisses him. Hard and fast and the memory of every cut-off grin he’s ever given since they stood on the eastern gate.
He kisses him, and it’s like time itself is frozen in shock, cheering him on.
Angels are not built for facial expressions. They are built for obedience and duty and the occasional message sent to humans who take great delight in misinterpreting everything they’re told. The most you can usually get out Gabriel is a single tilted eyebrow, and that’s only because Michael hates the fact that she can’t do it but he can.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, has always poured every bit of excess emotion into his face, let the world understand that he, at least, is enjoying every bit of humanity he can find. Sometimes there’s so much going on Crowley has a hard time untangling it all.
The only expression on his face now is wonder.
Followed immediately by shock, disbelief, wonder again, and then mild irritation.
That last bit is probably because Crowley is still holding him by his coat, and the flaming sword is toasting his trousers.
“No!” He stutters out, followed immediately by a rather confused addendum, “I mean, Yes!, but also, No!”
Crowley, for his part, is rather enjoying the way his angels nose is turning bright red, followed immediately by his cheeks and creeping up to his hair.
He wonders if Aziraphale’s hair will turn pink as well.
Now if only the ground would stop shaking so he could enjoy this moment properly.
Oh right. That.
“Dammit Crowley, I meant something useful! Do something useful!” He doesn’t think Aziraphale has used that many exclamation points in a sentence since the church back in ‘43. If only time had actually frozen, and let him enjoy flustering the angel a little longer.
Freeze time, he thought. Now there's an idea.
“Right then Angel, hang on.”