As painfully oblivious as Aziraphale can be at times, there's no mistaking the way Crowley holds him in return, and the sound he gives in response is caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Not a chance," he whispers fiercely, even as he reaches up and gently cards a hand through Crowley's hair. It's so soft, just as he imagined. "We've both done just as Cole Porter instructed, like birds and bees and educated fleas. You're stuck with me and that's all there is to it."

Twitter Girl is typing furiously over by the bar. The one person who bet on a mutual pining scenario is generously buying a round of drinks with his winnings.

Aziraphale turns his head and presses a kiss to Crowley's hairline. The sake in his system is no match for the love coursing through him, pouring off of him in waves. "Do you want to go?" he asks softly. "Sing something else? There's so much I want to tell you, but I can do it in a song, too."