Once upon a time¹, Aziraphale was very, very good at compartmentalization. If he didn't want to confront or think about something, he simply wouldn't. It takes a deft angelic mind to spend thousands of years in love with the same person without ever quite realizing it, after all. (Not to mention thousands of years serving Heaven without feeling much genuine loyalty to it -- but that's quite enough of that for now.)

The floodgates have now, fortunately or unfortunately, opened. He's in love with Crowley. He's been in love with Crowley. He's loved him every time they furtively met on the bus or in the park; he's loved him every time Crowley slithered into the Ritz and claimed the reservation for two he'd made ahead of time; he's loved him stupidly, obliviously, and, in fact, disastrously.

None of that prepares him for what a profound relief it is to see the Crowley he wanted to see, sauntering into the library with a bottle in his hand and his hair neatly tied into that ridiculous, handsome little half-bun. "There you are," says Aziraphale, rather startled by the depths of his own feeling, and he's wasted quite enough time over the years, so he takes a handful of Crowley's lapel and tugs him into a kiss posthaste.

¹Three days ago.

Even from only that one (admittedly quite thorough) kiss, Aziraphale is lightly flushed again, smiling at Crowley with the delight of it. He laughs. "Quite wily of you, my dear, to come up with a scenario in which I'm forced to agree that something is better than good French cuisine. And yet you've pulled it off."

Aziraphale attempts to roll his eyes, and essentially succeeds, but any withering effect is undercut entirely by the lingering smile in question. Of course he takes Crowley's arm, happily tucking his hand into the crook of his elbow. "Yes, let's. Lest you become a human child again if we dawdle any more."

Aziraphale freezes in the doorway, still hanging onto Crowley's arm. An angel can go very still, unnervingly so, when he wants to. He doesn't even breathe for a long moment.

"Crowley--" Overcome, Aziraphale has to turn and press his face into the curve where Crowley's shoulder meets his neck. With his eyes shut, he can pretend they're really there. It could be any of hundreds of afternoons -- only it's not, because they're here, and neither Heaven nor Hell can see them, and Aziraphale now has the privilege of kissing Crowley's cheek instead of merely gazing at his face and feeling an inexorable, quickly-dismissed yearning. "Darling," he says, as warm as walking inside his bookshop from a chilly winter's day, "thank you. Haven't I always said you were soft-hearted?"

"As evil as they come," says Aziraphale in consoling tones. "I'm quaking in my boots. I'll have to break bread with you to soothe the savage beast." He pats Crowley's arm fondly, largely to make up for the fact that he then releases it in order to approach the table. Before he sits, though, he pulls Crowley's chair¹ out for him and waits, giving him an expectant little two can play at this game look.

¹There's no question whose seat is whose. This has been set in stone for years.

Oh, this wily serpent. Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him, cursing the fact that this particular form, as comfortable and well-worn as it is, turns pink around the cheeks so much more easily than Crowley's.

"Well, chivalry isn't dead after all," he says, and he drops a pointed¹ kiss to Crowley's temple before he takes his own seat.

¹? What point are you ostensibly making?

"Crowley," says Aziraphale firmly, "this is wonderful." He catches Crowley's hand and folds it into his own. "I do miss dining out. And I miss dining out with you." He grips Crowley's hand for a moment, then smiles as he releases it -- which is in pursuit only of picking up that copy of the menu and perusing it with interest. In some ways, this is better than the real thing. Crowley never could have taken off his glasses at the real Ritz. "Beef tartare, don't you think?"

Aziraphale gives him a quick, surprised glance, then returns to the menu, as if Crowley is a skittish animal who'll run away if he gets too excited. "Just one, then," he agrees. He plucks his glass and takes a considering sip of sake, then takes the excuse to smile at Crowley. "Well-chosen, dear. Now where on Earth is our waiter? The service here has declined shamefully."

Aziraphale does, basically, a classic double-take. He laughs, helplessly, because of course he knows exactly what Crowley is doing¹. He sets down the menu and reaches for Crowley's hand again, lacing their fingers together. "Oh, yes. As you can see, my gentleman caller here has taken care of beverages, but we'll start with the beef tartare. Then we'll take the lamb, followed by the cheese selection."

¹Is the footnote where we put the realization about why he doesn't like it when other people hit on Crowley? Hm.

"Oh, he's terrible," Aziraphale agrees, cheerily. "I suspect him of spitting in my food." This may or may not be a serious accusation. Probably not. Maybe. He has another little sip of sake regardless.

Aziraphale's face softens. He sets down his sake cup to turn and fit his other hand around Crowley's as well. "I meant to apologize. For... missing it so utterly, when it should have been obvious."

A month and a half really is a very short time to them -- but it had felt like one of the longest months (and a half) of Aziraphale's existence, and he hadn't even known what was happening for the bulk of it. He hesitates in turn. "Well, you really were acting... very odd. I couldn't place the reason, but it was impossible not to notice. And... we're quite used to observing humans, but I've never had them observe us like this. Laertes said something to me at that dance."

He pauses again. Not to try and recall what Laertes said; he couldn't forget if he tried. Only to screw his courage to the sticking place, if you will. "He told me that you look at me like a flower bending throughout the day to keep its gaze upon the sun."

That makes it Aziraphale's turn to blink, though he does so several times in fairly rapid succession. He looks down at their joined hands and runs his thumb along the hills and valleys of Crowley's knuckles. "I've gotten too good at hiding things from myself," he admits. "I thought if I got drunk enough, it would knock something loose. It did, but then I couldn't stand the thought of kissing you for the first time without a clear head. So..."