Every time Aziraphale wriggles happily in his seat, every time he speaks of something they can do together over the coming days, Crowley almost aches with devotion. It's such a relief to look at the future--the present--with eagerness and pleasure, after his months of numbed despair. Crowley spent a lot of time in Greece arguing with philosophers. Socrates had waxed eloquent on a particular type of pleasure that comes from a pain having been removed. At the time Crowley hadn't been convinced, but now, centuries later, he silently concedes the man had a point.

Even so, the relief, great as it is, pales next to the joy of seeing Aziraphale smile at any given moment, feeling the warmth of his skin and breath, feeling the love that all but radiates from him. He can feel himself uncurling like a leaf in the sun, the roots of him drinking in all that love like water.

Crowley's smile grows and softens. "I like the idea of it, you know. Making it together. Arguing about the colour of the bedclothes or where to put the rosebushes or how many cushions to have. I've never gotten to do that before."

They lived together before, yes, for decades in Aziraphale's palace by the lake. But it was Aziraphale's. Crowley was been granted space in it, had loved it and been loved there, but it wasn't the same as a home they both make together from the start. Crowley can't imagine wanting anything more.