There is no argument that words have power. Words have created and destroyed from the beginning of time. They can inspire the weary of heart and save lives. Words can cause pain and deliver a death sentence.

Aziraphale knows this. Not only does he have all the experience in the world to back up his opinion, he also owns a bookshop with a great many books. He's read them all. So, he knows without a doubt that a few simple words could change his life. Three words, to be exact. Three little words, spoken aloud to a certain demon, would utterly change his life.

The apocalypse had been stopped. Heaven and Hell had been thwarted. An angel and a demon could finally be friends out in the open, and maybe more. It could have happened, a closer bond that is, perhaps even a very humanly physical and intimate relationship. It was what Aziraphale wanted more than anything.

These are the thoughts that surface and mock him every single day since pulling the wool over their previous, respective sides. It's what he's thinking about now, on his lumpy sofa, in his dusty bookshop, three blasted years later.

While he thinks about his cowardice, he uses his perfectly manicured yet trembling fingers to caress a long black feather delicately. It seems like it's all he thinks about, and as time consumes the days that pass by oh-so-quickly, so does Crowley consume his almost every waking thought. And those three little but profound words.

Aziraphale, Angel and Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Earth Principality – for Heaven's sake, well, he hates himself. He hates himself because there is not a single valid justification to prolong opening his mouth and just telling the owner of his heart how he feels. And, oh, he had relied on so many excuses over millennia.

One fear, in the early days, had been that the demon was trying to tempt him with the sole purpose of making him Fall. That was a good one to rely on for a very long time.

Second, there was that he feared for himself and for Crowley. Especially Crowley. Apparently, Hell doesn't send rude notes. The thought of Crowley's destruction really kept Aziraphale in check for a good while.

The third excuse was fickle at best. If Crowley did not reciprocate Aziraphale's feelings, everything would be ruined.

Deep down, Aziraphale knew that Crowley would not abandon him. He might sleep away a century, but Crowley would come back. He always comes back. And now that they only have each other, certainly, Crowley would make an effort to pretend those three short words had never been said. Somehow, Crowley would make it right, as long as Aziraphale could hold it together for the rest of eternity.

But Aziraphale knows that Crowley wants him, would open his arms wide and catch him. He knows that Crowley would bend over backwards, walk on consecrated ground, and even stop time itself just to please Aziraphale. To make him happy. And, true, that is a form of love. That is the only way he could show it, with gifts, company, and outings but not words. Never words. Crowley cares about him, obviously. Crowley respects him. But can Crowley feel love for him? Does Crowley have the capacity to love him as desperately as Aziraphale loves Crowley? Aziraphale has always been told that demons cannot love, not really. Was indulgence and regard enough for Aziraphale if that were true?

At this moment, Aziraphale would answer with a resounding ' yes '. He can't take it anymore. He can't hold it in for much longer. And he has planned and planned! He wants everything to be perfect. The words are always ready on his tongue, but they never come out! Surely, a magical moment would come, the perfect moment, and the words would flow out naturally. Or better still, it would be Crowley who would utter them first.

But it's been three years since the day, and Crowley has indeed spoken three words. Three little words that have entirely wrecked Aziraphale. His life has been upheaved because of those three words. Those terrifying, jagged, knife-like words that have brutally cut Aziraphale open and left him to bleed out on the dusty floor of his bookshop, alone.

'I met someone...'

Crowley's admission rings clear in Aziraphale's mind. A new wave of fresh tears gushes out of him - not that the weeping has stopped. No, the tears have not ceased since those blasted little bells above his door chimed Crowley's exit. It must have been half a day already at least. His nose tingles. His eyes burn. His sobs sound worse by the minute. He can barely get the mantra he's been wailing to come out anymore.

Words have power. Words can liberate. Words can kill.

'I met someone…'