Crowley had never been particularly good at gift-giving. It wasn't that he didn't care—quite the opposite, really. But the idea of finding something that perfectly encapsulated his feelings for Aziraphale? A nightmare. And if there was one thing he, a demon, was loath to admit, it was that he wanted—desperately—to get it right.

So, naturally, he procrastinated.

With only a day left before their anniversary (Aziraphale insisted they had one, even if Crowley wasn't entirely sure which date they were celebrating), he found himself pacing his flat, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim lighting.

"What do you get for the angel who has everything?" he muttered.

Books? Too obvious. Wine? Too impersonal. A rare first edition of some obscure novel? Tempting, but Crowley had done that before. He wanted something special. Something that would make Aziraphale do that soft, delighted gasp, the one that made Crowley feel like his heart had been exiled from his ribcage.

Then it hit him.

Aziraphale was always saying Crowley had a beautiful voice. He adored music, loved when Crowley hummed absentmindedly, and melted whenever the demon (usually grumbling and red-faced) sang for him.

So Crowley got to work.

By the time their anniversary dinner rolled around, Aziraphale was beaming, utterly oblivious to Crowley's nerves. They sat in the bookshop, candles flickering, glasses of wine untouched for now. Aziraphale's hand was warm where it rested on Crowley's, and for a moment, Crowley almost chickened out.

But then Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes full of unspoken affection, and Crowley sighed.

"All right, angel," he muttered, "you better appreciate this."

He snapped his fingers. The record player in the corner crackled to life. And then, his own voice—clear, rich, and full of a warmth he rarely let himself show—filled the shop.

A love song. One he'd written himself. For him.

Aziraphale's hands flew to his mouth. His eyes glistened.

"Oh, Crowley," he breathed.

Crowley cleared his throat, fidgeting. "It's nothing. Just a—"

But before he could finish, Aziraphale surged forward, arms wrapping around him, holding him as if he were something precious.

"It's perfect," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley let out a shaky breath and melted into the embrace. "Yeah, well," he murmured, pressing his face into the angel's curls, "so are you."