The kiss and the words wash warm breath over the back of Aziraphale’s neck; the clasp of Crowley’s arms and the press of his thin body against Aziraphale’s back are solid and real. They keep him grounded while the wave of grief and rage and hurt breaks over him, and when its tide goes out, Crowley remains.

(Bruised and scarred and thinner than he ought to be, his soul starved for kindness and healing, but he remains. Some spark of the joy that has lit Aziraphale’s world for millennia still flickers in him. And for a little eternity they can be here together on earth; Aziraphale’s softness can be a shelter for Crowley.)

Aziraphale exhales slowly. His eyes flutter shut; his hands rise to curl around Crowley’s forearms.

“I love you,” he breathes—you’re welcome, I forgive you, I’m glad you’re here.