Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh, bother.”

Aziraphale opened his apartment door to see the hallway crammed with boxes: someone’s belongings were chaotically piled in uneven stacks. Slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder, he sighed. He’d have to walk up the stairs; one of the elevators had been taken over by burly moving men, which meant that the other one was overrun and would take forever. He was running late as it was.

Vincent used to tease him about his tendency to dawdle in the mornings, and the memory of it stung for a moment before it slackened its hold. He was getting better at letting waves of memories surge up in his gut, better at letting them ebb and flow without toppling him over, but grief still blindsided him sometimes. It’s not a linear process, the therapist had said, and the only way out is through. It might be time for a refresher session; he hadn’t been in months.

The elevator dinged just as he was locking his apartment door, and Aziraphale instinctively looked in that direction.

The cello case emerged out of the elevator, inch by inch, like a whale breaking the surface of the ocean. Drat, there go my quiet Sunday mornings, Aziraphale thought as his stomach dropped down to his argyle socks. And then the instrument’s owner stepped out of the elevator and Aziraphale’s thought process stuttered to a halt.

He was beautiful. That was Aziraphale’s first coherent thought. Tall and spare and lean and graceful, with legs that seemed to go on forever, wearing low-slung jeans that clung to his body with something like worship. Young – maybe early thirties. Dressed head to toe in black, red hair falling into his eyes, he cradled the cello to his hip as if it were a precious part of him, one long-fingered hand gripping it by the neck. Aziraphale didn’t have the presence of mind not to stare.

“There’s the damn key,” he said, whoever he was, and setting the cello carefully down, unlocked the door to the apartment beside Aziraphale’s.

The apartment had been on the market for a while but hadn’t sold, so Aziraphale supposed the owners must have decided to rent it out. He cleared his throat. “It seems we’re to be neighbours. Hello.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout the mess. I’ve got the only key and I was running late.”

“It’s no trouble at all.”

“I don’t actually have that many things. S’worse when it’s all sprawled in the hallway. Looks messy.” He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open with his hip, revealing the empty apartment beyond.

It was smaller than Aziraphale’s but the layout was similar, only flipped the other way around. Along the left wall, a kitchenette facing a modest-sized living room; straight ahead, a set of sliding glass doors with a small balcony beyond; on the right, the bedroom and bathroom. Aziraphale’s unit had a living room big enough for a baby grand, and an extra den, which used to be Vincent’s office. It still housed cabinets full of sheet music which Aziraphale supposed he should donate but couldn’t bring himself to do quite yet. It had been five years, which didn’t feel like very long.

“Do you play?” Aziraphale asked, and promptly felt stupid. The man carried the cello as naturally as if it were a part of his own body. Chances were he did indeed play.

“Yeah. But don’t worry, never late at night.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“You won’t hear me if you’re out during the day. And most of my gigs are in the evening, so I’ll stay out of your way.”

“It’s no bother, really, I don’t mind. I’m quite partial to musicians.” Aziraphale smiled. “Erm... welcome to the building.”

“Thanks.”

At which point the handsome stranger lovingly picked up his cello and sauntered into his new apartment. Aziraphale turned around and made his way through the belongings scattered on the hallway floor. Now that he thought about it, there really weren’t that many: just a handful of boxes, a bed, a couch and some chairs. His new neighbour seemed to like sleek black furniture. That, and plants.

*******

The handsome cellist had been true to his word: Aziraphale didn’t hear a peep from next door for at least a week. When Aziraphale got home later that day, after a mind-numbing shift at the university library’s reference desk, there was no sign of his new neighbour, and the mess of belongings had been cleared from the hallway. For a moment he found that he missed the sight of them, the strange vulnerability of a person’s private life laid bare to the gaze of strangers. It was odd how a whole life could be distilled down to just a few boxes, some papers, a handful of clothes.

The following morning a new label appeared in the downstairs vestibule next to the intercom buttons: “Crawly,” the printed letters said – an unusual name, Aziraphale thought, a bit reptilian or reminiscent of Halloween. When he walked by it again in the late afternoon, the label had been changed: “Crawly” scratched out and “A.J. Crowley” written over it in pen. Which had rather a nice ring to it. The handwriting was atrocious, if legible, but there was something endearing about that too. Vincent’s handwriting had been bad; the notes he’d scribbled on his organ scores had been nearly unintelligible to anyone other than Aziraphale. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t donated the bulk of his papers yet.

Over a dinner of take-out Thai food, Aziraphale wondered what the “A.J.” stood for. He pictured Mr. Crowley correcting the spelling of his name, long fingers gripping the pen, hip cocked, lip curled in impatience at the management’s ineptitude. It was a pleasing image; he found himself lingering on it. Surprising, that – he hadn’t felt the urge much in recent years, or at least not with regard to a specific individual. He’d thought he was past that. Apparently not.

The next day, Gabriel, his boss, intercepted him the moment he arrived at work and said that the Dean of Libraries was showing a potential bigwig donor around, and Aziraphale was expected to meet him. “Time to be a team player, Az. Enough hiding in the stacks,” he said with his trademark intrusive familiarity, and slapped Aziraphale on the back. It took effort not to flinch.

The donor wore an expensive suit and was apparently cold since he was wrapped in his scarf up to the tip of his nose. He was also drenched in a musky cologne whose overpowering smell put Aziraphale in mind of a visit to a petting zoo. Gabriel fawned over him, smiling with a lot of teeth; the donation at stake must have been a tidy sum. Aziraphale’s eyes watered from the scent. He could barely focus on the conversation and was glad when the Dean of Libraries finally ushered the man away.

Craving fresh air, he grabbed a sandwich and a container of soup from a family-owned place in the basement of a nearby office building and ate on a bench overlooking the McGill campus. The weather was excellent for early October, the trees not yet bare, their leaves a riot of colour. Students lounged on the grass, talking and laughing in small groups.

He spent the rest of his workday cataloguing documents recently donated to the library’s archive. Most came from families clearing out the homes of deceased relatives, and their content depended on people’s lifestyle and social class. Today’s deceased had clearly been a Westmount society debutante in the mid-1950s: there were dance cards, programmes for balls and formal dinners, thank-you notes penned in beautiful cursive – all in English. (She must have been part of Montreal’s Anglophone elite.) The card stock was well preserved and still held the allure of those long-ago candlelit evenings.

This was Aziraphale’s favourite part of the job: how everyday objects could magically transport you to another time and place, giving you a glimpse of another person’s life – their hopes, joys, loves and sorrows. It sure beat the reference desk. The afternoon passed quickly; he didn’t think about his new neighbour even once.

But when he entered the vestibule of his apartment building at the end of the day, there Mr. Crowley was. The elevator door opened and out he stepped with his cello. He wasn’t wearing jeans this time but a crisp white shirt, black tuxedo and bow tie – clearly on his way to play somewhere. His hair was styled to drape artfully over his forehead without quite falling into his eyes; for a moment Aziraphale was transported into the past, watching Vincent get ready for an organ recital. Something squeezed around his heart.

“Well, don’t we look dashing tonight,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“On your way to a concert?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting!”

A quirk of an eyebrow. “I suppose.”

Apparently, Mr. Crowley wasn’t a keen conversationalist. That, or he didn’t appreciate the attentions of fussy, middle-aged busybodies. And, really, who could blame him. “I don’t think we were ever properly introduced. I’m Aziraphale Fell. You know — the apartment next to yours.”

“Anthony Crowley.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Anthony. What a lovely name.”

“Actually, I prefer Crowley. Just Crowley.”

“Very original.”

“Just... more like me.”

“Oh yes, I could see that.” Crowley radiated charisma despite his reticence; Aziraphale felt the urge to be near him for a little while longer. “I do hope you’re enjoying your new apartment,” he said.

“S’alright. Sorry... d’you mind, it’s just that I’m running late.”

“Oh, of course. Ever so sorry. Break a leg!”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes and gave a surprised half-smile, as if he were pleased that Aziraphale knew enough not to wish him “good luck.” For an instant, he looked unguarded and open, less suave but somehow happier. Then he picked up his cello, turned and strode through the building’s front vestibule out onto the street. The late afternoon sun caressed all the graceful lines of him – the long-fingered hands holding his instrument, the curve of his throat, the sway of his hips as he walked. He really was astonishingly attractive, Aziraphale thought. And young. So very young.

*******

Aziraphale generally didn’t go in for unrequited pining – he never had, not even when he was younger. It tended to get old pretty fast, and he was too much of a hedonist not to focus on pleasures he was free to enjoy rather than longing for ones that were out of his reach. When he and Vincent met, at a noon-hour organ recital back in Vancouver, the sparks had flown right away – in both directions. They’d ended up in bed that very afternoon, and Aziraphale never left. Their whole relationship made love seem easy, even when – later on – life had made things hard. That was just the way it was between two people, he supposed, either things clicked or they didn’t. When they didn’t, getting something going was an awful lot of work, and he wasn’t sure he was up to it at his age, to be honest.

He had every intention of handling his attraction to Crowley in a reasonable manner: indulge in a little discreet appreciation of his neighbour’s shapely form if he ever ran into him, and then promptly put him out of his mind in favour of something more concrete – a glass of wine, perhaps, and a perusal of his porn collection. What he hadn’t bargained on was his bedroom and Crowley’s sharing a wall. A rather thin wall, as it turned out.

On Friday night Aziraphale was up quite late and, seized by a sudden craving for ice cream, had popped out to the corner store. Returning to his apartment, he’d stepped out of the elevator to see two figures leaning up against his neighbour’s door, decadently kissing: Crowley and another man. Crowley was pinned to the door, head thrown back as his companion nuzzled at his neck, hands groping Crowley’s leather-clad arse.

Aziraphale tightened his grasp on the ice cream and hurried by. He’d have passed by unnoticed if he hadn’t dropped his keys; being flustered made him clumsy. Crowley opened his eyes and glanced at Aziraphale, his companion never ceasing his attentions to Crowley’s neck (there was licking and sucking involved now). “G’night,” Crowley grunted, and Aziraphale squeaked out a reply and hurried inside. The ice cream in his hands had begun to melt. Really, it was a wonder it hadn’t burst into flame.

Faintly, Aziraphale could hear Crowley’s door open and shut again, and voices inside the apartment next door. Then there was silence, but the reprieve was brief, and soon it became obvious that Crowley and his friend had moved to the bedroom. There were shuffling sounds, laughter, and then the noise of something being dropped on the floor. Aziraphale followed the sound, sat on his bed, and listened.

He shouldn’t; he knew he shouldn’t. But oh God, someone next door was moaning, and he had an inkling it was Crowley. Then there came the sound of the headboard rhythmically thumping against the wall, and there was no misinterpreting that. Aziraphale could picture him, Crowley, could imagine those long legs sprawled on the bed, slender hips held in a bruising grip, red hair falling into his eyes as he was rocked by thrust after thrust. With every thump, thump, thump of the headboard, the picture in his mind became clearer. He was hard in his boxers, so hard it almost hurt.

He curled his hands into fists. It was one thing to be attracted to Crowley; that was understandable, there was dignity in that. But jerking off while listening to him get fucked on the other side of the wall seemed a bridge too far. Even if Aziraphale was so turned on that he had goosebumps; even if he’d leaked all over his shorts – he shouldn’t give into an impulse so sordid, he wouldn’t. He had more self-respect than that.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The tempo was increasing. The moans were rising both in pitch and volume, turning from unintelligible sounds into actual words. “Oh... S’good, yeah...” A familiar voice. Crowley.

Jesus, it really was Crowley taking it up the arse just a few feet away. Aziraphale had his pants unzipped and his hand on his cock in just a few seconds.

“More... Just like that... Oh!”

Aziraphale had pressed himself up against the wall, trying to get closer to that voice. His hand was working furiously on his erection, no finesse whatsoever – none was needed tonight. All he needed was that voice in his ear and the mental picture behind his closed eyelids: Crowley getting fucked into the mattress and loving every second of it, a look of bliss on his face. God, if it were him, Aziraphale, doing it to Crowley – he’d give it to him good, so good Crowley would be begging for more until he clenched around Aziraphale’s cock and came so hard that--

“Ah, ah, ah!” Crowley’s voice. The final crescendo, clearly.

Aziraphale shuddered and spasmed and came like a freight train, spattering the front of his shirt. He slid down the wall and slumped on the ground, aftershocks ringing through him like church bells. Shame be damned, it was the most intense orgasm he’d had in ages.

It was the ‘after’ that he dreaded, as he had for the past five years. The high of a climax would dissipate and deposit him into the reality that was his empty apartment, with no one to crack a joke with or even just lean against and breathe with, in tandem. Things always felt emptier somehow, after. Like coming home to an echoing house you’d forgotten was unoccupied. It wasn’t a surprise and yet somehow it always was; the stupid animal of his body still expected Vincent to be there.

On the other side of the wall all was silent for now. Aziraphale rose on trembling legs and made his way to the bathroom, where he slipped out of his soiled clothes and stepped into the shower. Gradually, the hot water washed away the evidence of his transgression and cleared his mind. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed himself dry, rubbing a little harder than necessary – to anchor himself in the present. If he didn’t want to become a creepy middle-aged man who listened at keyholes, he would need to ensure this sort of thing didn’t happen again.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning dawned clear and cool, the city still drowsy after a night of drunken revelry and blaring car horns. The streets were quiet save for the hum of the street sweeping machines cleaning up last night’s debris and vomit. Aziraphale’s apartment building was close enough to the strip of university bars for that to be a concern.

Never one to sleep in, Aziraphale padded into the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. He was just pouring the water when he heard something new from next door: the sound of a cello being tuned. A week ago, he’d have been annoyed to be disturbed, but after last night that was no longer the primary emotion he felt when he thought of Crowley being noisy. Honestly, he was mostly surprised that Crowley would be up this early after last night’s vigorous activities. Aziraphale had him pegged as more of a night owl – certainly not an early bird, especially not with a hangover.

The tuning chords died away and, after a moment, Aziraphale heard the beginning notes of the Prelude to Bach’s Suite No. 1. He recognized the piece right away – it was one of the staples of the cello repertoire. But he had only ever heard it played in a concert hall, impressive and grand, or on a recording over his sound system while he attempted to cook something gourmet in his kitchen – background music that was little more than home décor. This was different.

There was something raw about it, something private, certainly something imperfect – the acoustics, for one; the wall muffled the sound. Strangely, that seemed to enhance the appeal. The music suited the early morning – orderly yet flowing, conveying a sense of unfurling beginnings but also timeless constancy. All the other times Aziraphale had heard it played, he’d paid attention to how the piece sounded. This time, he thought about how it made him feel.

See how you like this one, Vincent used to say, his fingers on the piano keys, sheet music open in front of him. Good old Messiaen, wish I had an organ at home to let you hear it. Come on Sunday for the service, I’ll play it after. On the cathedral organ it always sounded gorgeous, impeccably played and big, like the whole sky opening up in a celestial concert. But Aziraphale’s favourite bits were the ones he heard at home – plonk, plonk, plonk on the piano. See how you like this one, come sit by me.

Curiosity carried him across his living room and out onto the balcony; if he stood on the far-left side and craned his head, he could just make out the inside of Crowley’s living room. And there Crowley was, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but pyjama pants, bare chested and barefoot, cello cradled between his knees as his fingers danced over the strings.

There were smudges of last night’s eyeliner under his eyes and evident love bites along his collarbone, but he didn’t look debauched. His eyes were closed, and his face wore an expression of tenderness that seemed at odds with his spiky image. He looked wholesome and vulnerable, and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. Surreptitiously, Aziraphale gazed through the balcony window.

Crowley was thin. Was he eating enough? To all appearances, he lived alone, with no one to take care of him. Was he subsisting on ramen noodles and cereal, as he likely had as a student? Were there any vegetables in his fridge? Aziraphale felt ridiculous to fuss this way, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on Crowley; his hip bones were visible above his waistband, for God’s sake – and, as appealing as Aziraphale found that aesthetic, he found himself interested in Crowley’s wellbeing as well.

Damn, he’d passed through the lust phase and was well into affection already. Maybe he was just lonely and missed the days when he could look after an absentminded musician who needed his care.

Bach’s prelude came to an end, and Crowley stopped playing. The peaceful look on his face fell away and was replaced by his customary cynical wariness. Aziraphale retreated to his apartment lest he be spotted and have to explain himself. It was well past eight; he’d better get a move on if he didn’t want to be late for rehearsal.

*******

Every Saturday morning, Aziraphale attended choir practice at a nearby Anglican church. Although not a professional musician by any stretch, he did have a nice voice and enough of a choral background to enable him to hold his own in a decent amateur choir. He’d been a member of the Mount Royal Ensemble since the days when Vincent was its director. As far as amateur choirs went, it was a good one: the singers all had day jobs but practiced at home and had enough of a grasp on sight reading that rehearsals weren’t an exercise in frustration.

Back then, Vincent had chosen their repertoire. Curious and enthusiastic like a kid at Christmas, he’d given his singers the kind of variety that now seemed like a gift: from Taverner to Tavener, sixteenth century polyphony to Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms. Bach Motets one year, Rachmaninoff the next. Shadwell had taken over now – and the man was just fine; more than competent, really – but he tended to glom onto old chestnuts and perennial crowd favourites. Bums in seats. The church rental wouldn’t pay for itself.

This season it was the Fauré Requiem – an old warhorse – but Aziraphale didn’t mind. It was beautiful and he enjoyed singing it. Wasn’t difficult, which made for a generally pleasant and stress-free autumn.

At five minutes to nine, he hurried up the church steps and took a seat in the tenor section. The church was chilly – big space, inadequately heated – but old and lovely. The stained-glass windows were Aziraphale’s favourite part, although one small pane had recently been damaged and temporarily replaced with plywood. Downtown churches were vulnerable to that sort of thing these days. It came with the territory.

“How are you, dearie?” Tracy stage whispered from the alto section. “Good week?”

“Average.”

“That’s better than the week I had, let me tell you. Catch up at break. I brought banana bread.”

Aziraphale perked up. Tracy was a long-time choir friend who happened to work at the same university library, on the admin side. They didn’t see much of each other during the week but knew all the same people, which usually meant that by Saturday they had plenty of gossip to share. That Tracy was a deft hand at baking was a bonus.

Shadwell cleared his throat and motioned to the accompanist, who played a chord on the piano. The warmup began. Aziraphale sat up straighter and felt the stress of the week drain from him like water from a bathtub. For the next three hours, he’d think about the music and little else. It was like meditation – a good remedy for overthinking.

By break time, he felt lighthearted and calm. The seats beside Tracy had been vacated by altos making a beeline for the bathroom. He sat down. “I was promised banana bread?”

“Here. Brought a piece especially for you, glutton that you are. Although, I have to say, this week I need a sugar hit too.”

“That bad? Work or, you know—” He wiggled his eyebrows. “The boudoir...”

“Oh, hush, just work. Nothing new on the love life front.” She threw a yearning glance at Shadwell who, as usual, pretended not to notice. “No, definitely work. The whole admin office is in an uproar. But you met him, right?”

“Who?”

“Our distinguished donor, is who. Shook his hand, didn’t you? What did you think?”

Ah yes, that man. Aziraphale’s eyes had watered so much from his awful cologne that he’d barely seen the man’s face. Throw in the scarf pulled up to the man’s eyes, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup. He grimaced. “Well...”

“See, that was my impression too. But they keep falling all over him. Very wealthy, apparently. And the archive needs the money.”

“That it does.” There was no denying that. “Who is he though? He didn’t say, I didn’t pry, and they never tell me anything. It’s only ever: Aziraphale, go here, Aziraphale, do that...”

“Bitter?”

“Not really.” He was serious too; being around all those books and papers made up for having to be around Gabriel, his boss. “I like my job too much. It’s quiet most of the time, just the way I like it.”

Tracy made a face. “I... wouldn’t get too attached to the peace and quiet, you know. There’s about to be some news.”

“What?” Aziraphale felt knocked off-kilter as if the old church had suddenly shifted on its cracked foundation. “What do you mean?”

“He’ll be making a donation, all right, but also giving some papers to the archive. Family documents. And because of who he is – well, who his family is – it’ll be in the headlines. I expect we’ll have local TV crews, the whole bit. And you’re the go-to archive man, so...”

“Ah, fuck.”

“Aziraphale!”

“Sorry.” Aziraphale felt sheepish but, honestly, television crews? Who did they think he was, a media star? “All that bother for one man?”

“Well, you know, the family. THE family. You know, the mafia. A long tradition of organized crime. Now trying to get on the right side of the law, apparently... All helped along by a gazillion-dollar donation to our humble library and archive.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “But— how is the university on board with that? Surely that’s not something an academic institution would wish to be associated with? No amount of money would be worth--”

“Oh, my dear Aziraphale.” Tracy gave him an aren’t-you-precious look. “It’s a LOT of money, apparently. The business school is getting some too, but there’s something about giving it to the archive that’s supposed to capture hearts and minds. I overheard the Dean talking. Human interest angle and all. Anyway, you’ll be the one finding out why exactly.”

“Come again?”

“The documents that’ll be donated will be in your hands. They’ll tell us what they are at the press conference, but you’ll be the one doing the cataloguing, describing, digitizing, and – I imagine – reading.” Tracy smiled. “And you can dish all the dirt at rehearsal. I’m dying to know what all the fuss is about.”

Aziraphale grew quiet. Documents he knew. Documents he could handle. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. What could they possibly contain that had the power to redeem a crime family’s reputation? Secret humanitarian work? Wartime spy missions for the Allied side? Funding hospitals for the poor during the Depression? Whatever it was, it had to be good.

*******

A love story. A simple love story – that’s what it was. The anticipated documents turned out to be a large bundle of letters written by Luigi, interned at a Canadian enemy alien camp during the Second World War, to Beatrice, his fiancée. Luigi was the current “alleged” crime boss’s grandfather. The word “alleged” was cropping up all over the place in press releases and newspaper articles, almost as if it was no longer polite to claim with any level of certainty that Luigi’s family had been involved in shady business dealings, let alone coercion and violence. Insinuating was bad enough.

And the crazy thing was, the public ate it up. Luigi’s letters were – Aziraphale had to admit – touching. He had a way with words and clearly missed Beatrice a great deal. The letters were poetic and sensual, suffused with longing. They were the sort of thing that inspired Hollywood screenplays which then went on to win awards at film festivals. Aziraphale would not have been surprised in the least if Gabriel had told him to prepare for a visit from some self-important movie exec. Although he dearly hoped that would never happen.

The Malatesta family (even Aziraphale, long oblivious, now knew their name) had found Luigi’s letters while clearing out some closets in the old family home. They evidently harboured hopes that the love story would score them points with the public and had shared some excerpts with the media. There had been interviews with the daughter, who seemed to be the family spokesperson. The Malatestas had some legitimate businesses which they were trying to expand, and one of the younger grandsons was thinking of running for office. They had, of course, “allegedly” done some bad things in the past but were hoping to turn over a new leaf.

Even Aziraphale – naïve Aziraphale – wasn’t buying it. But the morning talk shows were full of hosts gushing about Luigi and Beatrice’s relationship, likening them to Romeo and Juliet, separated by nefarious third parties. And the national news ran the story too, framing it through the lens of the wrongs done to the Italian-Canadian men interned in the early 1940s as enemy aliens. Luigi and Beatrice had gone on to marry and have four children, whose descendants were now claiming to be pillars of the Montreal community. The “alleged” mob hits and drug deals were mentioned only in passing.

Aziraphale sighed and closed his office door, then settled down to read. He didn’t like all the hullabaloo surrounding the letters, but he’d be lying if he claimed not to be moved by the actual words on the yellowed pages. They were exactly the sort of thing that he loved about his job: a privileged glimpse into a stranger’s rich inner life. The passages that had made the news were romantic and sweet, and it made sense why the family had chosen to share them – it was obvious they’d have mass appeal. But the deeper Aziraphale got into the letter stack, the more affecting the words became.

“I never thought I could miss someone this much,” Luigi wrote. “You are the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs, I can’t breathe without you.” That was in the winter of 1941. By the summer of 1942, Luigi was writing about Beatrice’s eyes, her hands, and about how much he missed touching her sun-browned skin. “I never knew true desire until I met you,” he wrote, managing to sound passionate without bordering on lewd. Aziraphale found his stomach clenching in sympathy; he was no stranger to wishing away someone’s absence.

With the reference desk in the middle of term paper season, Aziraphale’s archive time was limited, so he’d only read and digitized one or two letters a day. Today’s letter did not disappoint, although it wasn’t a happy one. “I know that being together is impossible for us,” Luigi wrote. “But it’s what I want most in the world. I would give anything to hold you next to me, night after night, in our own bed.”

It was fortunate that things had worked out for Luigi and Beatrice in the end, or else the letters would be heartbreaking. Aziraphale took a picture of the text with his phone and sent it to Tracy. She’d been pestering him about it for weeks.

Packing up his things, he left the library for the day and hurried down Sherbrooke Street. The November wind was frigid and there were flurries swirling in the air. Not as much of a pleasant walk as in summer, even if the architecture was still beautiful. He’d have ducked into some of the shops along the way but tonight was the dress rehearsal for the Mount Royal Ensemble concert – the one where they finally got to sing through the whole Requiem with orchestra instead of just piano accompaniment – and he had to make good time. He was looking down as he turned a corner, not paying attention to what was in front of him, which is how he managed to run straight into someone.

“Oh!” The impact of his body colliding with another was jarring. Leather jacket, hard angles, some sort of smoky scent. He looked up – good Lord, it was Crowley. Aziraphale gathered himself together and stepped back. “Goodness me, I’m sorry!”

“S’alright.”

“Is the cello okay?”

“Bentley’s fine. Got her out of the way in time. I could see you barreling straight for me.”

“Bentley?”

“That’s her name.” Crowley was smirking.

Was he amused or put out? Amused, Aziraphale thought. “Please forgive me, my mind was elsewhere. And I’m rushing off to rehearsal, don’t want to be late...”

Crowley raised both eyebrows. “Did you say rehearsal? Me too.”

“Really? What a lovely coincidence. I’m just that way—” he pointed in the direction of the church.

“So am I. Walk together?”

Aziraphale could feel his expression melt into a delighted smile. “I’d like that very much.”

They walked on, dodging the odd pedestrian and passing brightly lit window displays. Aziraphale had felt chilled to the bone before; now he barely noticed the cold. He hadn’t seen Crowley much in the past few weeks, though he had heard him through the wall a few times. Playing the cello mostly – scales and some pieces he’d presumably been getting ready to perform. And then there were the Friday nights, which provided another soundtrack altogether.

“I’ve heard you playing through the wall,” Aziraphale said. “It’s beautiful. You’re very good.”

“Thanks. Is it too loud? I mean, are the walls really thin? I hardly ever hear you, so I assumed--” Crowley wrinkled his forehead.

“No, not at all. Not loud. I must have had the window open, that’s all.”

It was probably better not to let on just how thin the walls really were. It might steer the conversation toward a mention of the other noises Aziraphale had overheard from Crowley’s apartment. And he’d overheard plenty. It seemed Crowley was in the habit of going out on Friday nights and bringing company back to his bedroom. And, despite his solemn vow not to become the sort of man who listens at keyholes, Aziraphale had listened. Keenly. Every time. He’d heard every one of Crowley’s gasps and moans, every crescendo into orgasm. The men Crowley brought home varied, but the outcome was usually the same.

“I should really live somewhere more private.” Crowley grimaced. “But the location is unbeatable, and they were reasonable on the rent.”

“I take it being a cellist doesn’t pay?”

“Not when you’re just starting out.”

“And later?”

“Not that well either unless you’re lucky. And good.”

“You seem quite good to me.”

Crowley smirked and his swagger intensified. “Not to brag, but I am. Still, you have to be lucky to have a successful career. S’harder to arrange.”

“Do you play with an orchestra?”

“A small chamber ensemble. And I freelance – like most. Play with bigger orchestras when they’re doing large-scale productions sometimes. Managed to make a living at it since graduating a few years ago. Still hopin’ for my big break.”

“And tonight?”

“The ensemble I play with is doing the Fauré Requiem with a local choir.”

Aziraphale nearly stumbled. “You’re joking! That’s my choir. Dress rehearsal tonight. It’s where I’m headed.”

“Well fancy that.” Crowley’s full attention was suddenly on Aziraphale. He had an unusually expressive face when he let drop his suave façade. It was like opening a window onto a private room: a turn of the key, a push against the door, and a whole hidden world opened up, rich in its splendour. “Didn’t know you sang.”

“Oh, not professionally. Nothing like that.” Aziraphale shook his head, self-conscious. “It’s just for fun.”

“Nothing wrong with being an amateur. Amateurs do it for love.”

A playful inflection on the last few syllables. Was that innuendo? Aziraphale felt himself tripping over his words. “I do hope you’re not disappointed with our humble efforts. You’re probably used to better.”

“Variety is the spice of life. I’m always up for new things.”

Definitely innuendo. Aziraphale’s face burned.

“Here we are.” Crowley slouched up the church steps. “I’ll see you after? We’ll be headed in the same direction. Back home, yeah?”

“Oh yes. Very good. Very practical.”

The rehearsal was enjoyable in the way most dress rehearsals are: there was pleasure in seeing the work of several months finally come together, without the added pressure of an actual audience. But for Aziraphale the real joy of the evening lay in watching the cello section, seeing Crowley finally in his element.

He was built for it, Aziraphale could see. His long fingers were made to caress the strings and bring forth beautiful sound; his knees cradled his instrument tenderly, like a lover; his bowing arm was so fluid and graceful it was like watching the play of light on water. His whole body was alive with the music, his face reflecting every shade of emotion in the score. Crowley was beautiful even when he didn’t play. When he played, he was exquisite.

Afterwards, as Aziraphale lingered and waited for the orchestra to pack up, he wondered if he could find the words to tell Crowley all this, if it was appropriate to even try. “You’re a vision when you play,” wasn’t exactly casual conversation between acquaintances.

What he eventually said was, “You look like you really enjoy playing.” They were walking back to their respective apartments, at a brisk pace. The wind had picked up; it was freezing.

“I do,” said Crowley.

“You seem... different when you perform.”

“Than what?”

“Than your usual, everyday—you know, demeanour.”

“I don’t think when I play. I just play. Dunno what I look like.”

“You look like you belong there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Crowley smiled. “S’good, I guess. Otherwise they might kick me out.”

“Oh no! I mean—” Aziraphale felt his hands flutter in protest. “Oh. Oh, you’re teasing.”

“Course I am.”

“Right. Funny.” He smiled awkwardly. He wasn’t always the best at picking up on humour, especially not on Crowley’s type of humour, which – it seemed – aimed to provoke and throw off balance. Vincent had been witty and liked the occasional pun. This was different. “Anyway, you do look right at home when you play.”

“Thanks. You’ve got a nice tenor voice yourself. Angelic-like. Sing choirs of angels, sing in exultation... I could picture you there.”

“Really?” Aziraphale felt himself flush with delight. “Oh, but if you could hear me that means I wasn’t blending with the other voices, and that’s not good is it?”

“You were blending fine. I just have a keen ear. And yeah, like I said, nice voice.”

“Well... Thank you.” Aziraphale smoothed his hands over his waistcoat. They had reached the entryway to their apartment building. The icy wind had temporarily numbed Aziraphale’s tendency to overthink things and made him impatient; all of a sudden he felt uncharacteristically bold. Casual as could be, he asked, “Would you like to come to mine for a drink? I could make you a hot toddy to warm up after all this weather.”

For a moment, Crowley looked intrigued. He hesitated; you could actually see him thinking about it. Then he said, “Maybe next time. I’ve already made plans tonight.”

“Big night?”

“Not really. Just... Friday. I tend to have plans on Fridays.”

That’s right, it was Friday night. Crowley was letting him down easy because he was going out. Nothing personal, not like he was searching for an excuse not to take Aziraphale up on his offer. For a moment there, he’d looked as if he were actually considering it. Might be worth asking again in a few days.

Good God, it was Friday night.

The implication of that fact sunk in as the elevator dinged and the doors opened on their floor. Friday night meant that Crowley was going out to find someone to sleep with and that in a few hours his moans would be audible through their shared wall. Crowley could have had Aziraphale without the trouble of going out to pick someone up, could have just said, “Yes, a hot toddy sounds good” and sat back while Aziraphale dropped to his knees and gave him a blow job he’d remember for years. But Crowley preferred the clubs, and dressing in tight black leather pants, and partners who had firm bodies and were young enough never to have been widowed.

It was silly to be disappointed, really. Crowley was out of his league. He’d known this all along; he’d just forgotten for a moment.

Aziraphale squared his shoulders and smiled warmly. “Good night, then, Crowley. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks. See you around, yeah?”

Aziraphale entered his apartment, closed the door behind him, and went straight for the whiskey.

*******

If he’d been more sober, Aziraphale would have observed that the events of this particular Friday night unfolded a bit differently for Crowley. Looking back on it later, he would note the ways in which Crowley diverged from his usual fuck-night modus operandi. How he came home earlier – around midnight rather than his habitual two in the morning. How there seemed to be no snogging up against the door with the man Crowley brought home, whom Crowley ushered into his apartment discreetly and without fuss. And most of all, how quiet Crowley was in bed despite the thumping of the headboard against the wall. Only a few moans and grunts, and very little of the filthy talk he always seemed to give himself over to in the heat of the moment.

All this would have been obvious to Aziraphale if he’d been pressed up against his bedroom wall, listening, like he usually was. But this Friday night Aziraphale was sitting at his kitchen counter, tipsy and trying very hard not to hear what Crowley was up to. He still heard some of it. But it wouldn’t be until later that he understood what it all meant.

About a half-hour after midnight, Aziraphale stumbled out to take the trash to the garbage disposal – just down the corridor. Rounding the corner on his way back, he saw Crowley’s door inch open and his companion slip out quietly, looking left and right to ensure privacy. And there was one difference from the usual which Aziraphale noticed right away: the man was older than Crowley’s normal type – older and more successful. He wore a well tailored suit and, as he walked toward the elevator, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the red soles of his shoes – shoes which he knew to be expensive. The man looked like he was slumming, like the shabby hallway might contaminate him somehow. Like he couldn’t wait to be gone and was terrified of being caught.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale took a long nap the next afternoon to try to shake his hangover and fatigue. The concert was that very night, and he did his best to be in decent shape for it, regretting the previous evening’s overindulgence. He ate a greasy meal at a nearby diner (run by the same family since the 1940s, best burgers in town, a real gem if a bit shabby) and dressed carefully in his performance tux. He didn’t look for Crowley as he made his way to the church for 6 pm, tried not to let his eyes wander over the gathering crowd to seek out the telltale flash of red hair.

The choir had an earlier call time than the orchestra and spent a good hour in an adjoining church hall, warming up and going over last-minute details. By the time they filed out into the sanctuary and onto the altar steps and risers, the audience was seated and the orchestra was ready and waiting. And there was Crowley, in the strings section, composed and beautiful as ever. The concertmaster stood and played an A, the orchestra tuned, and then the conductor raised his baton and the concert began.

The music was moving, and the performance of it, rather good; the singers were more than ready. But before the first movement had even ended, Aziraphale found himself distracted by someone sitting in the front row of the audience. Not because the man was making a nuisance of himself or being rude – quite the contrary. It’s just that the man looked familiar. Disconcertingly so. And he was staring at Crowley.

When the soprano soloist stepped forward to sing the Pie Jesu, Aziraphale used the opportunity to take his eyes off the score and examine the man in earnest. He was middle aged but in good shape. His dark hair had a fair bit of silver in it, but it made him look distinguished rather than old – or maybe it was just the aura of money he had about him. His suit was clearly tailor made, and the watch on his wrist looked to be expensive – as far as Aziraphale could tell such things (he didn’t have much experience of them). But it wasn’t until the man crossed his ankle over his knee, showing a flash of red leather sole, that Aziraphale finally placed him: Crowley’s date from last night.

What was he doing here? Had Crowley invited him? That seemed a bit out of character for Crowley, who preferred his Friday night encounters anonymous and short-lived. Or did he? Aziraphale had to admit that he really didn’t know Crowley well enough to be familiar with his relationship patterns. Maybe this was perfectly normal for him, and the series of young men in club clothes he’d had over to his apartment was the anomaly. Maybe he enjoyed both. Or maybe the elegantly dressed man with salt and pepper hair had shown up uninvited.

As the Libera Me movement began and the strings section took up its mournfully ominous intro, Aziraphale focused instead on Crowley. Like the other cellists, he was plucking the strings with a determined pizzicato, his eyes trained on the conductor. Unlike them, he seemed transported to another dimension, carried away with the mood of the music. The baritone soloist pleaded with God for a reprieve from eternal death on the final day of judgment, describing the apocalypse in graphic, calamitous detail. Crowley seemed to be in the midst of it, his eyes seeing the rivers of fire, the emotion on his face reflecting every nuance of the story. If Aziraphale hadn’t had goosebumps before, he certainly did now.

As the chorus readied itself to come in on cue, Aziraphale glanced once more at the elegant man in the front row. There was no emotion on his face aside from perhaps lust. His eyes were trained on Crowley the whole time, the rest of the orchestra and choir completely forgotten. There was a smile on his face which to Aziraphale looked more like a possessive smirk.

*******

After the concert, in the church hall, a jubilant Shadwell patted his singers on the back as Tracy handed out celebratory brownies. Aziraphale had always sought comfort in food whenever he was feeling anxious or uncertain; tonight he found himself with a brownie in each hand. As the singers were filing out of the sanctuary in neat rows after their performance, Aziraphale had looked over and seen the stranger with his arm around Crowley’s shoulder, leaning in close and whispering in his ear. Crowley hadn’t even had a chance to put his cello in its case. Clearly the man was wasting no time.

“Good, huh?”

“Your baked goods are always delicious, my dear.”

Tracy smiled graciously. “I meant the concert. Thought we did well.”

“So we did. Shadwell can’t stop smiling.”

“You don’t seem pleased.”

Aziraphale brushed chocolate crumbs from his mouth. “Forgive me, I’m just preoccupied. We were splendid, really, and the altos were very strong, I thought. The Fauré is so beautiful – the whole concert was a triumph. I don’t mean to be a stick in the mud.”

“Are you alright?” Tracy’s expression grew pensive. “I saw your young man playing in the orchestra – a sight for sore eyes, that one. You ought to be celebrating, not moping back here. He’s probably waiting.”

Aziraphale looked for words to say; didn’t find any.

“Oh, sweetheart. I thought it was alright to mention it. I think it’s a good thing.” A reassuring smile. “The captain wouldn’t mind. It’s time.”

“It’s not that.” Well, it was, a bit. Concerts still had the power to shake him up, especially ones in churches. Too many memories. “He’s not my young man. And he has company already.”

“But the two of you seemed so cozy yesterday. And you looked delighted. I thought—”

“Just acquaintances, really.”

“Oh, I see.” That Tracy did see was apparent from the expression on her face. She gathered Aziraphale into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, darling. Well, I say he doesn’t know what he’s missing. You know I think you’re lovely. Any man would be lucky to get you.”

“You’re too kind. Anyway, I’m not kidding myself – he’s far too young for me. I’m older, my time has passed.”

“Older maybe, but your time—” Tracy took a step back and put both hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Aziraphale, have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re a catch.”

“Stop it.”

“No, I mean it.” There was something in Tracy’s eyes that said she meant business. “You’re my friend and I’ve heard you put yourself down far too much, and you really have no cause to. You’re handsome – I mean, look at those twinkling eyes, that striking blond hair, that smile – you’re gorgeous. And you’re tall and you have a great ass.”

“What?” Aziraphale coughed, choking on a bit of brownie.

“Well, you do.” Tracy grabbed Aziraphale by the waist and nudged. “Turn around, give us a spin. There.” She looked him up and down as he did an obedient slow pirouette. “You’re a heartbreaker is what you are. If you were so inclined, I might try to get you myself, but I know I’ve no hope.” She winked. “Broad shoulders, strong thighs, and a real presence... What you are is a man, not a boy, and you look like a man. You’d think your boyish musician friend would be drawn to that, opposites attracting and all.”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling grateful for Tracy’s friendship. She was gossipy and fun, and sometimes she came across as shallow, but every now and again her eyes would shine and she’d show a depth of kindness and compassion that floored him. “Tracy, we both know you can’t make someone fancy you no matter how much you might want it,” he said with a knowing glance over at Shadwell.

“Don’t I know it.”

“He’s an idiot and he’s blind,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, they can’t all be Luigi...” Tracy laughed. “Got anything new for me there?”

“I sent you a picture of the last letter. It’s all I have for now. Work’s been crazy, no time.”

“Well, don’t hold out on me when you come to the next good bit. It’s like a soap opera but better – because it’s real! Who knew I’d be into history; I never liked it back in school.”

“You probably just had a bad teacher.”

Most choir members had their coats on by now and were headed toward the exit. Shadwell had invited them back to his house for a little after-party. The hall behind the church had begun to empty. “I’d best be going,” Tracy said. “You coming?”

“Don’t feel much like it. I might skip it tonight,” Aziraphale said. “You?”

Tracy looked anxious for a moment, and a little sad. “They don’t compare to the parties you and the captain used to host, no question. But, you know... Of course I’m going. Where else would I be?”

“Out somewhere meeting a man who might actually appreciate you?”

“Ah, but I’d rather be near Shadwell even if he ignores me half the time.” She shrugged. “Now who’s the idiot.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to gather her up into an embrace. “Don’t let him walk all over you. You’re a treasure,” he whispered.

“You and me both, sweetheart. You and me both.”

*******

There was no point in going home if Crowley was about to have company; Aziraphale didn’t relish the prospect of overhearing him have sex with the man in the expensive shoes. Then again, he couldn’t really face a party at Shadwell’s either. There would be tasteless cheese, stale crackers, and cheap wine – Shadwell was no gourmet. Aziraphale had better cheese at home. Besides, Tracy no doubt hoped that the party crowd would gradually disperse and she’d get Shadwell all to herself, maybe finally get him to pay her some attention. Aziraphale would only get in the way.

Seeking refuge in work, he made his way back to the university library.

His office was dark, as was the whole floor, but when he flipped on his desk lamp it cast a cozy glow. Aziraphale sat down and opened the box containing Luigi’s letters. He had read as far as December 1942 – it was coming on Christmas, the Italian internees missed home, and the food packages sent by their wives and mothers only exacerbated their homesickness. Luigi’s mood was dark.

“My love, sometimes I wonder if you will forget me,” he wrote. “It’s been years since I kissed you. I think about it all the time. All we have to stare at out here are the camp barracks and the endless trees, so I close my eyes and picture your face. Do you think about me? Will you write me? Please write.”

Aziraphale gazed at the yellowed paper and thought wistfully that he, Tracy, and Luigi had a lot in common. Nearly a century had passed but the ache around the heart was the same. He set the page aside and picked up the next letter.

It was January 1943, and Luigi had gone from feeling homesick and lonely to feeling amorous. This one was clearly a love letter, and a lusty one at that. “I remember your hands on my body,” Luigi wrote. “Strands of your hair tickling my stomach as you moved down, knelt between my knees and took me into your mouth.” Aziraphale sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. Beatrice must have been quite a girl to inspire letters full of such sensuality. Or maybe it was just because Luigi was so cut off from the world, unloved, with only the memory of this passionate affair to sustain him?

“I was half-dead,” Luigi wrote. “You made me come alive. My skin sang when you touched me. I never knew it could be like that.” And then, “Burn this letter after you read it, so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Only, engrave it first on your heart. Know that I am yours.”

So there were “wrong hands” into which Luigi feared the letter would fall. Aziraphale wondered whose they might be. Beatrice’s father’s perhaps? He didn’t think a conservative Italian father would be thrilled to find out what his daughter had been up to. Why couldn’t love ever be simple? Why must there always be bloody obstacles of one kind or another? He sighed and sorted the letters back into their neat stack.

*******

It occurred to Aziraphale at some point that the Malatesta family might not have actually read all the letters from cover to cover before donating them to the archive. The letters’ content was getting progressively more blue, and while “sensual” was a romantic label that got the morning talk shows making Romeo and Juliet comparisons, “pornographic” was a description the family might not want bandied about in the press. After all, the daughter who had done all the media interviews seemed keen to convey an impression of respectability.

But Aziraphale didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the letters these days since he was preoccupied with other things. Namely, Crowley and his new paramour. The man in the expensive shoes was turning out to be trouble. Crowley would never admit it, but the thin wall between their apartments didn’t lie.

Crowley had had the man over to his home many times in the weeks since the Fauré concert, and not just on Friday nights. From the frequency of the visits, one would think the two were in some sort of relationship if the visits themselves had not been conducted with such pointed secrecy. They always took place late at night, and the man always left before morning. He and Crowley were careful not to be seen together outside of the four walls of the apartment – aside from Crowley’s concerts – and they went to ridiculous lengths to make sure of it.

Once, when a mutual neighbour opened his door to head to the elevator, surprising the man in the red-soled shoes in front of Crowley’s door, the man pretended to be looking for another apartment number until the neighbour had gone. (Aziraphale knew all this because he listened through his door and looked through the peephole.)

Crowley had once liked going out to the clubs on Friday nights – to pick up men, obviously, but also to drink and dance. If he hadn’t enjoyed the drinking and dancing part, he presumably would have stayed home and simply used Grindr. (Aziraphale didn’t have an account but he knew enough; he wasn’t Amish.) Now, however, Crowley didn’t go out anymore – at all. His visits from random men in club clothes ceased altogether, and even on the Friday nights when the man in the red-soled shoes stayed away, Crowley simply remained at home.

It would have been one thing if Crowley had seemed content. After all, it wasn’t any of Aziraphale’s business who Crowley settled down with, or how. Whatever kind of arrangement Crowley signed up for, for whatever reason – none of it had anything to do with Aziraphale. What Crowley did to ensure his own happiness was up to Crowley alone.

But Crowley wasn’t happy.

This became more obvious to Aziraphale with each passing day. Crowley had dark shadows under his eyes, and they weren’t eyeliner smudges – he clearly hadn’t been sleeping. Where once he’d swaggered when he walked, swaying his hips as if he dared the world to look at him (and yet didn’t give a hoot whether or not the world did), now he moved with less assurance, as if he were trying to take up less space. For a man with such long limbs, this was an impossible task, and Crowley looked awkward in his efforts. It was painful to watch.

He'd lost weight too. The tight black jeans he’d worn when he first moved into the building now hung even lower on his hips, and he had to wear a belt to keep them from slipping off. His hips jutted out more sharply, and when he took off his black leather jacket, Aziraphale could count the ribs under his T-shirt.

He also didn’t play anymore, or at least not for pleasure. Oh, he practiced his cello with industrious frequency, running through scales and studies, and apparently working on memorizing some sort of concerto. But the impromptu morning concerts ceased – the ones he’d played in his pyjamas, for the sheer joy of it, with no one as audience except for the morning silence (and Aziraphale next door). Much of the joy seemed to have leached out of Crowley’s cello playing, which was heartbreaking to witness.

Every time the man in the expensive shoes dropped in to see Crowley, Aziraphale pricked up his ears for any signs of trouble. There weren’t any obvious ones, not really, but something about these visits still made Aziraphale uneasy. Once or twice he heard voices raised as if in argument, but the sounds were coming from Crowley’s kitchen, which made them harder to make out. Crowley’s bedroom activities were more audible, but they weren’t loud.

And that was the thing: Aziraphale had gotten used to Crowley being vocal in bed: moans, shouts, filthy talk – he did it all. (It’s what made Aziraphale’s clandestine wanks so good; the soundtrack was irresistible.) But Crowley didn’t seem to indulge in that anymore. It was almost as if he were keeping himself in check, trying to be on his best behaviour. It wasn’t wrong exactly, but it wasn’t quite right. Something about it seemed off.

Chapter Text

Christmas was less than a month away, and in the choral world that always coincided with preparations for Handel’s Messiah. Aziraphale’s chorus usually joined forces with the St. Beryl’s Cathedral singers for this concert, as per tradition; Vincent used to be the cathedral’s music director. Messiah was a choral staple, familiar to many singers, which meant that rehearsals were few. They also tended to be fun, laid-back affairs, filled with laughter and jokes – and, of course, Tracy’s baked treats.

On this particular Friday night, she’d brought a tray of Nanaimo bars, which disappeared in a matter of minutes. Aziraphale managed to snag one as he slipped into the rehearsal room shortly before the warmup began. Mouth full, he waved to Tracy, who was seated in the row in front of his, just a few chairs away.

“Delishss...” He gave Tracy a thumbs up, chewing with relish.

She laughed. “Shut up, silly, you’ll choke. We’ll talk at break. You can tell me more about Luigi. Also about that young friend of yours and what he’s up to. I saw the poster – making a name for himself, I see. Good for him.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Poster?”

“Out in front of the cathedral – the concert. He’s the featured soloist. You know, in February.”

The flavour of chocolate and custard still lingered on Aziraphale’s tongue, but he couldn’t taste the sweetness anymore. “With a small ensemble?” he asked.

“No, one of the big orchestras. Very impressive!”

“Soloist, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Why is it you’re always telling me things I should already know?”

“Because I’ve got my finger on the pulse of this city, and you’ve got your nose in a book.”

At the front of the room Shadwell cleared his throat and gave Aziraphale and Tracy a pointed stare. “It’s three minutes past the hour and some singers think they have better things to do than work on Mr. Handel’s music,” he said. “I would remind you that bringing second rate desserts to rehearsal does not give one special license to waste my time.”

“Second rate!” a shocked voice spoke up from the bass section – a young man with dark hair and glasses. “I saw you eat two!” he said to Shadwell, indignant, and then promptly lowered his eyes to the floor and seemed to shrink in on himself, as if he wasn’t used to drawing so much attention in a room full of people.

“Who is that?” Aziraphale leaned over and whispered to Tracy.

“New member. University student. I think his name is Newton,” Tracy answered. She made a movement with her fingers as if zipping her lips. “Best be quiet. Shadwell’s in a mood.”

“The Lord preserve us...”

They began, as every year, with the first chorus, For Unto Us A Child is Born. The introductory bars on the piano conveyed a simmering excitement – a wondrous thing was about to happen: the birth of the God-child into an ordinary human family. Aziraphale was somewhat lapsed in his faith, but when he sang Messiah at Christmas the story never failed to move him. And then there was the anticipation of singing this gorgeous oratorio, which he only got to do once a year. Over time, excitement about the message had been replaced by excitement about the music for Aziraphale. But the tingle he got at the base of his spine when he heard those first few bars never went away.

He’d looked forward to singing this for weeks, so he tried to settle into the music now, but what Tracy had said nagged at him. Crowley was to be a soloist with a major orchestra – it was likely his big break. This was wonderful news, of course. But it seemed to have happened so suddenly. Did it have anything to do with the strange way Crowley had been behaving lately? Had he lost weight because he was under so much pressure?

After losing his place in the score for the third time, Aziraphale resigned himself to being unable to focus and slipped out of the room. He walked through the empty church, glancing at its beautiful ceiling in passing, and headed to look at the posters on the bulletin board near the front steps. And there was the announcement: the Montreal Symphonia’s spring season was to include Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor, featuring the talented young cellist Anthony J. Crowley. On a sumptuous red background was a picture of the orchestra and an inset of Crowley’s headshot, looking professional and confident.

The Montreal Symphonia was one of the city’s premiere orchestras; it featured top tier soloists and world class guess conductors. Any way you looked at this, it was a huge deal. In terms of prestige, exposure, even money – it meant that Crowley was well on his way to making it in his profession. So why hadn’t he said anything beforehand? When he had talked of cobbling together enough gigs to pay his gas bill and get his performance tux dry cleaned, why hadn’t he mentioned something so obviously exciting – and life changing – as this?

Orchestras usually did their concert programming years ahead of time. Nothing short of death or natural disaster would result in a last-minute addition to their carefully curated season. Which meant that Crowley would have been aware of this incredible opportunity back when they had talked – and yet he’d acted as if it wasn’t on his immediate horizon. It didn’t make sense.

Aziraphale hung his head and turned back toward the rehearsal room. The choir had probably moved on to practicing And He Shall Purify by now. Focusing on the breath control needed to support all those crazy runs should keep Aziraphale’s mind off Crowley. The last thing he needed was to think about him.

*******

Apparently, fate had a perverse sense of humour; rather than keeping them apart, it threw them together at the earliest opportunity. On his way home that night, Aziraphale ran into Crowley in the elevator. Crowley was carrying two bags full of groceries, including – predictably – a box of cereal and packages of ramen.

Aziraphale brandished a benevolent smile. “Congratulations! I saw your poster. What a wonderful opportunity for you.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said. He did not beam with joy.

“So I take it that’s what you’ve been practicing so diligently lately, the Elgar.”

“Yeah.”

“And the Montreal Symphonia! That’s amazing. The big break you were hoping for, it seems.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t mention anything before.” Aziraphale hesitated. “I mean, it’s not obligatory, it’s just that it’s such exciting news and—”

“I didn’t know.”

Aziraphale stopped moving, mouth agape. “You didn’t...”

“Didn’t mention it because I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know how I would react?” Aziraphale asked carefully. “Didn’t want to intimidate me, you mean? With my little amateur music hobby and you on your way to renown—”

“I didn’t know about the concert. That’s been a recent development.”

“But it’s only two months away.”

“Yeah.”

“Crowley, even my choir plans concerts a year ahead of time. And we’re nobody. This is the Montreal Symphonia. They probably plan, what... two, three years ahead?” He paused, looked up into Crowley’s face. Things still didn’t make any sense. “Do you mean you only have two months to prepare?”

“Yeah.”

“God, it’s no wonder you look as if you haven’t slept. Oh— sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

Crowley gave a quiet laugh. “It is a lot, yeah. But I’ll be ready. I won’t let myself squander an opportunity like this.”

It occurred to Aziraphale then that Crowley did not look excited. Instead, he looked resigned and determined, as if a huge weight had been placed on his shoulders and he was resolved to carry it safely to its destination. Aziraphale had never faced the prospect of being in the spotlight in front of thousands of people – if he ever were, he was certain he’d crumble under the pressure. He supposed it was only natural for Crowley to feel apprehensive. The poor boy was working himself to death, aiming for perfection.

“Listen,” Aziraphale said, touching Crowley’s arm. “I know this may sound like a bit of a non sequitur, but... let me make dinner for you. You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks. And no, cereal doesn’t count.”

Crowley had hefted the grocery bags in his hands as if to show Aziraphale, and now set them back on the ground. He looked uncertain. “D’you mean now?”

“Why not? I have some fresh salmon in the fridge, I could make a nice glaze, rice, some salad... It wouldn’t take long. You need to take better care of yourself. You’ve grown so thin.”

Crowley wrapped both his arms around his middle, giving himself a self-conscious hug. “Yeah, I know. M’not looking my best. I’ve been told.”

“Oh no! I didn’t mean that. You look wonderful, as always. But you need to eat something nourishing if you’re to have the strength to play well. That’s all I’m saying. Unless, of course, you have plans or, you know... company.”

For a moment, their eyes locked. Then Crowley looked down. “My friend is coming over, but not until later tonight,” he said. “I need to be home by then. He likes me waiting at home.”

There was something off about that statement, but Aziraphale didn’t pry. “You have plenty of time to eat and go home,” he said. “Midnight is a long way away.”

When the elevator door dinged open on their floor, they headed for Aziraphale’s apartment.

*******

If Aziraphale had known he’d be having Crowley over for dinner, he might have tidied up more. As things stood, Crowley got an unvarnished look at his apartment in its natural state: lived-in and cozy, if a bit cluttered. There were books on every available surface, it seemed, along with the odd mug half-filled with tea, long gone cold. There was a wool throw bunched up on the sofa where Aziraphale had sat up the night before, reading. He cleared off some space for Crowley to sit.

“Make yourself at home. And apologies for the mess. I don’t often entertain these days.”

“Neither do I. I mean, you know—” Crowley made an awkward gesture with his hands. “Dinner parties and stuff.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale was behind the small kitchen island, preparing the food as he talked. Crowley had perched on one end of the sofa, sitting sideways so he could see Aziraphale. He wasn’t sprawling; he was hugging his knees, making himself as small as possible. Not for the first time in recent weeks, Aziraphale thought that Crowley simply didn’t seem himself.

“So...” Crowley began. “How did you know I’d need to be home by midnight?”

“I’ve been reading Cinderella lately? Seemed a fair guess.”

“I’m hardly that... And anyway, these size tens wouldn’t fit in a glass slipper.” Crowley curled his toes. “Seriously, though. I guess you’ve noticed I have a new man friend.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ve heard him come and go, yes. He keeps late hours. Not just on weekends either.”

“It works with his schedule.”

“Does it work with yours?”

“You need to understand...” Crowley’s face seemed shadowed. “He’s successful enough so that he can keep any hours he likes. And he’s very private.”

“Hence the cloak and dagger.”

“Well, yeah. He really values his privacy,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale had been chopping lettuce; he stopped. Carefully, he said, “Crowley, I know I’m next door and all, but your business is your own. I don’t pry and I won’t gossip. I would never tell you how to live your life. I don’t have that right. We’re... neighbours.”

“I think of us as friends sometimes.”

This was said so quietly that Aziraphale almost didn’t catch it. He felt affection bloom under his breastbone. “I’m glad,” he said. “So do I.”

“So here we are, talking. I’m telling you things. Friends do that.”

“Absolutely, they do.” Aziraphale said. He worked with purpose in the kitchen but quieted his movements so as not to spook Crowley. If you want a skittish creature to come nearer, pretend you don’t see it. Better yet, pretend you’re not actually there.

After a minute, Crowley said, “He’s a lover of the arts, you know. Likes to see me play.”

“Common interests can draw a couple together.”

“That’s true. Plus— he’s different than the people I usually—” A beat. Crowley swallowed. “You know. Date.”

“Not a bad thing, necessarily.”

“Right? I mean, I was getting a bit tired of the club scene. The bump and grind, the booze, the drugs. Feeling rotten the next day. M’getting too old for it.”

“He sounds like a breath of fresh air.”

“In a way.” Crowley looked down at his hands. His fingers were picking nervously at Aziraphale’s blanket. “Did you know, he’s also a patron of the arts, not just a fan. I owe him a lot.”

“Crowley, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I know.” Though quiet and still, Crowley looked like he was bursting with the need to unburden himself to another human being. Placid waters on the surface masking a violent current rushing beneath. Quietly, he said, “I don’t know what you must think of me.”

This conversation was getting stranger by the minute. Aziraphale abandoned his cooking and strode over to sit on the sofa, shifting so that he was facing Crowley. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re in some sort of trouble. “I think you must need him in your life for some reason,” he said. “I think your reasons are probably valid ones. I think it’s not for me to judge you.”

Crowley didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “He’s the reason I have the Montreal Symphonia concert. He pulled some strings.”

Aziraphale’s first reaction was to laugh, it seemed so improbable. Then he stopped. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“But—”

“One day I’m a struggling musician, toiling away in obscurity, next day I have a concert lined up in one of the premiere venues in the country. Amazing, really. Dream come true.” He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They had an anxious look about them, as if he felt compelled to keep glancing over his shoulder.

Aziraphale scooted closer. “Crowley,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine.”

“Because... You could tell me if you weren’t. It matters to me that you’re all right.”

“Really, I am,” Crowley said, looking the furthest thing from it. “Just hungry. Haven’t had time to eat lately. Whatever you’re making smells good.”

“Listen...” Aziraphale placed his hands over Crowley’s, stilling his nervous picking at the woollen throw. “The thing about relationships is that you can end them if they make you unhappy. I get the distinct impression that – forgive me, I mean no offense – you’ve gotten yourself into an arrangement that’s somewhat... transactional in nature, and you’re not very comfortable in that role. If that’s the case, you can always walk away.”

“Just like that.”

“Well, yes.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I know it isn’t. No doubt there are some tremendous professional opportunities on the line for you. Although how a man could have that much influence is a little beyond me. Did you say he simply pulled a few strings?”

“The cellist they had lined up ran into some medical issues. Luca suggested me. He’s a big donor, so they listened.”

“Must be a very big donor.”

“He is.” Crowley looked embarrassed. “He bought me a new performance tux. Armani. Shoes too. I haven’t worn them yet; I feel awkward about scuffing them. I’m just... not used to any of this.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it. And I’ll bet you look divine in all that finery.” Aziraphale let himself slip into a flirty tone. He’d been too intimidated to let that side of himself show before, when Crowley was all cool confidence and slithering hips. But this Crowley needed reassurance, and playful banter seemed just the thing.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” Crowley’s jaw wasn’t as tense as before.

“Only the handsome ones. And you’re as handsome as they come, gorgeous.”

“I haven’t come yet. Not this side of our shared wall anyway.”

Aziraphale batted his lashes. “Oh sweetheart, believe me, that can be arranged.”

They both burst out laughing. Crowley was smiling now, with something like relief. Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “You’ll be alright, pet,” he said. “One problem at a time. Now, how ‘bout that dinner I promised you.”

*******

Crowley fell upon the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Which, to think of it, he probably hadn’t. Aziraphale uncorked a nice bottle of Chardonnay and resolved to invite him over more often; if nothing else, the boy clearly needed feeding up. Plus – well, this was nice. It was almost like a date. With a glass of wine in him, Crowley was good company, and a lot closer to that confident, sex-on-legs creature, if not quite so unattainable.

“I like your place,” he said, looking around at Aziraphale’s knick-knacks and clutter. “S’a lot different than mine, but it’s nice. It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

“All these books. You read all of them?”

“Most. They’re like old friends; after I’ve read them, I can’t bear to let them go.”

“You got a lot old friends? From years back?”

“A handful. I’m not exactly the life of the party. You?”

Crowley shrugged. “Guess I like my life a little more streamlined. My space too. But this—” He gestured to a piece of art that had pride of place on Aziraphale’s wall. “This I like.”

It was a black and white photograph of two sailors seated on a hanging platform, painting the hull of a ship. Both were naked from the waist up. “You have good taste.” Aziraphale smiled. “Local artist. Gay. Photographed beautiful views of the city – and beautiful men. This picture’s from the fifties.”

“Really? Looks timeless. And sort of... peaceful. Could look at it all day.”

“You’re welcome here anytime, I mean it. Knock on the door. I’m just across the wall.”

Crowley looked at the wall again and seemed to sober up. He glanced at his phone. It was nearly eleven. “So,” he said. “Speaking of walls. How soundproof is that one, exactly?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well. Hm.”

“Because I do hear you sometimes, just going about your business, and that means you must hear me too.”

“Oh, I don’t know...”

“Aziraphale.”

“All right, I do sometimes. But it’s not as if—"

“Look, I’m not embarrassed. I mean, I’m not a prude. Whatever you might have heard— It’s fine. But I just wanted to say... that if you ever hear anything... What I mean is...” He was stuttering now, and the colour had risen in his cheeks. With his delicate, redhead complexion, it was a fetching blush, like the rosy flesh of an apple that had ripened in the sun. Aziraphale had to hold himself back from the impulse to stroke his thumb across that sharp cheekbone. Crowley cleared his throat. “What I mean is, whatever you may hear, it’s my business and it’s fine.”

“Of course.”

“And I’m fine. So don’t come knocking on the door. Just... it’s fine, okay?”

“I wouldn’t think to intrude,” Aziraphale said, slightly alarmed. “You know I wouldn’t. Although now you’ve got me somewhat worried. What would I be hearing, exactly?”

“Nothing. Really.” Crowley wiped his mouth with a napkin. “But I do have to get back. S’getting late. Thank you for dinner, it really was delicious.”

“It was a pleasure.”

“If you eat like this all the time, you’re a lucky man.”

“It has its downsides.” Aziraphale stood and smoothed down his waistcoat, wishing – as he often did – that he were more svelte and longer of limb. “I’m not exactly in the best form.”

The door was just a few paces away, but Aziraphale accompanied Crowley to it, as was fitting with a guest. Crowley took up more space now than he had a few hours ago, no longer hugging himself small. His hands were in his pockets and he led with his hips as he walked. His gait was smooth and purposeful; he moved like a sun-warmed serpent gliding through the grass. Beside him, Aziraphale felt lumpy and halting, as if he were made of clay.

Crowley put his hand on the door handle, then hesitated. “I quite like your form,” he said. “If my friend weren’t the jealous type, maybe we could—” He shrugged, paused. “But anyway. Thanks again.”

The door clicked open, letting in a gust of cooler air from the hallway. Crowley bent down to pick up his grocery bags, then turned toward his own apartment. The scent of him lingered in Aziraphale’s space after he was gone: pine needles and something smoky, like Lapsang Souchong tea. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in.

There wasn’t much to overhear through their shared wall that night, regardless of Crowley’s warnings. Some grunts in a voice that wasn’t Crowley’s and the thumping headboard, mostly. From Crowley there was nothing except for his uncharacteristic silence. Aziraphale sat up for a while, worrying, but Crowley’s guest did not stay long at all; within a half-hour he'd slipped out the door and vanished into the night, as anonymous as ever.

Chapter Text

Things at the library were quieter over the next few weeks, which meant that Aziraphale could devote more time to his archival work. Between that and the Messiah rehearsals, he kept busy. There was something perversely appealing about working late in the weeks leading up to Christmas – the intangible excitement of striving to meet deadlines with the prospect of holidays ahead. He and Vincent used to decorate the apartment from ceiling to floor, bring in a real Christmas tree, pile presents up beneath it. It wasn’t the same now, naturally, but there was still the illusion of warmth in all the festive lights illuminating the city streets.

Luigi’s letters were getting interesting too, more explicit with every pencil stroke, and shedding light on new and surprising aspects of Beatrice. She seemed to be quite forward for a girl of her time, something Luigi clearly enjoyed. “Remember how you used to push me up against the wall?” he wrote. “How it made me hot and eager to feel your hands grip my ass, tear at the buttons on my fly?” The first time Aziraphale saw the words “my cock” written plain as day on the notepaper Luigi used for his letters, he got a hard-on right there at his desk. After that, working when most people had left made even more sense.

Tracy, of course, was having a ball. She’d taken to popping in to see him in his office after her workday ended, just to see what Luigi and Beatrice had been up to. Any new mention of Beatrice’s take-charge approach filled her with glee.

“See? It’s not just modern girls, I’ve been telling you for years.”

She had said no such thing, not that Aziraphale remembered. Although it was possible he hadn’t listened to her that closely. The first year or so after Vincent’s death, he’d been in a bit of a fog.

“What I mean,” Tracy continued, “is that this is the sort of thing people expect women nowadays to be like. Or— not expect, exactly. There’s still an awful lot of hangups, sadly. But not be surprised by, I guess. And they think, back in the dark ages, it was all long gowns, and girls holding their knees together, and twin beds for married couples, and keeping the lights off when you do it. But that’s not true at all. Women have liked sex for as long as it’s existed.”

Aziraphale gave her an amused look. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course not.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “Which is why it’s my job to enlighten you. Someone has to. Academics are in real danger of getting too specialized – archivists too. And even if you’ll never have practical knowledge of something, a bit of theory never did anyone harm.”

“You can be my teacher then,” Aziraphale said. They were descending the outside steps of the library, heading for the string of the city’s downtown underground shopping centres. If you walked from one to the other, you eventually found your way to a metro station, all without being exposed to the winter cold. That, and Tracy had expressed an interest in buying a gift for Shadwell. Tactfully, Aziraphale hadn’t discouraged her.

“All I’m saying is—” Tracy gesticulated with her hands; apparently, this was a topic close to her heart. “That it’s alright for women to be aggressive sometimes. Men like it.”

“Men do like all sorts of things. I can attest to that.”

“Right, that is your area of expertise.”

Aziraphale was a bit out of practice, but he had a solid grasp on the theory in this case. Plus, in his younger years, before he’d met Vincent, his fieldwork had been fairly extensive. He smiled.

“I guess I sort of get it now,” Tracy said, with a faraway look in her eyes.

“What?”

“Why you like your job so much. Rifling through other people’s papers. People who are long dead and gone. Sometimes you find something and it’s like, oh, this person is just like me. You can relate to them.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“Anyway – if Luigi ever mentions leather corsets and riding crops, just... You know. Make sure you tell me right away. That would be an exciting find.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Don’t look so shocked. What I wonder though is—” She tilted her head, looked right at him. “What is that family thinking, exactly? Making these letters public. Do they have any idea what’s in them?”

“I suspect they didn’t actually bother reading them. Not all the way through. Luigi’s handwriting is hard to decipher sometimes, so they would have had to put in a fair amount of effort. And to be fair, he did write a lot of letters; at least two a week.”

“Well, it’ll make a very exciting dissertation for some lucky graduate student, I guess. Unless the family shuts it down first, of course. I don’t see them being that progressive. These crime families tend to be quite traditional, you know. Won’t stand for embarrassment.” Tracy had stopped by a storefront, looking at the display. “Would he go for a scarf, you think? A little personal but not too intrusive?”

“I think that tartan is a bit much. For Shadwell, I mean. I’d wear it, but you’re not shopping for me.”

“Hmm...” She held the scarf up to Aziraphale’s face with a conspiratorial look. “It is nice on you. The captain used to buy you all kinds of tartan, I remember. Guess there’s no one to spoil you now.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

The tartan had started out as a bit of a joke, years ago. So long ago, in fact, that Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember the punchline. It had evolved into an affectionate ritual, part serious and part teasing. Boxer shorts, scarves, socks. I got you this bow tie. Put it on, take everything else off, and let me see you. God, you look good enough to eat. Aziraphale still had most of the things Vincent had got him. Even wore them sometimes when he felt brave enough to handle the memories.

“Hey – you’ll never guess who I ran into the other day,” Tracy said. “And he acted so oddly. That new singer, the young one – Newton. Saw him on campus. He walked with me. Got the impression he would’ve carried my books if I’d had any.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re pretty.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m twice his age. At a conservative estimate.”

“Like I said, men like all sorts of things.”

“Well, yes, but— No, don’t be silly. Anyway, he asked when my birthday was. Not how old I would be turning – he has enough sense, bless him – but just when it was.”

“Coming up soon, right? Your twenty ninth?”

“Right before Christmas. And there’s no need to be catty, mister. We celebrated your twenty ninth just last year.”

“Sorry – I was just teasing.” He squeezed her hand. Joking about age was all well and good, but Tracy could be sensitive; he didn’t want to overstep. “We should do something.”

“That’s what Newton said. Had this crazy idea of going dancing. A bunch of us from the choir, mostly young folk. You should come, could be fun.”

“I don’t know. Young folk? Me, dancing?”

“You. Dancing. It’ll do you good.”

“Pigs will fly.”

“Oh, come on. I insist. Think of it as your birthday present to me. I want to see you having fun. I can bake some butter tarts and bring them along.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale resigned himself to the prospect of a night under pulsing strobe lights. Pigs might fly, but he had never been known to say no to Tracy’s butter tarts.

*******

When Aziraphale got home, he made himself a cup of cocoa, opened his score, and turned on his favourite recording of Handel’s Messiah, the one by Tafelmusik, played on period instruments – crisp and true to the original Baroque orchestration. He’d intended to simply go over the difficult bits of the choruses but it was far too tempting not to listen to the soloists too. Before he knew it, the cocoa at the bottom of his cup was cold and he was belting out the “Amen” with gusto.

The CD’s running time was over two hours, and it wasn’t until he’d finished listening to it that he realized how late it was. For a moment, he felt guilty about disturbing his neighbours – until he heard the noises coming from next door. Something was happening. Something different than usual.

There was the thumping headboard – that was standard. Apparently, Handel’s music had drowned out much of the preliminaries between Crowley and his guest; Aziraphale was picking up on the proceedings across the wall in medias res. But the thumping wasn’t regular, and it was louder than he was used to, more aggressive.

Aziraphale went into his bedroom and put his ear to the wall. For a while, he heard nothing. Then a gasp or... was that a whimper? A deep voice growling, “Take it, you know you like it.” The thumping headboard again. A slap. God, how hard would you have to slap someone for it to be heard next door? The same deep growl: “See what a slut you are, how much you love it.” And then finally Crowley’s voice, so quiet it was almost inaudible. Not a voice really; more of a croak. “Stop. Please, stop.”

All the hairs on Aziraphale’s arms stood on end.

Whatever you may hear, it’s my business and it’s fine. That’s what Crowley had said, and it seemed likely he’d had something of this nature in mind. But surely not this. This did not sound consensual, no matter what kind of games Crowley had agreed to play. It didn’t sound safe. It sounded like Crowley was being hurt.

Aziraphale raised his fist, ready to bang it against the wall. But what if that made it worse? What if that was why Crowley had warned him against it? Frantic, he looked around the room, grabbed a heavy dictionary and threw it on the floor. Thwack! The noise it made was surely audible in Crowley’s bedroom, and for a moment all activity next door ceased – but only for a moment. Soon, the thumping began again.

I have to do something, Aziraphale thought. Oh Christ, what do I do? Inspiration struck suddenly, like lightning zapping across a summer sky. He sprinted to the main door, wrenched it open, burst into the hallway and then felt his way along the wall almost by instinct. Where was it, shit, where was it?! – he passed it on his way to and from the elevator every day... There. A little red box on the wall. PULL IN CASE OF FIRE. He grabbed the handle, yanked, and pulled.

A deafening clang rang out throughout the building.

For about thirty seconds nothing happened. Aziraphale made his way back to his apartment, lingering by the door to keep an eye on the hallway and listening to sounds from next door. Then the door to Crowley’s apartment opened, and a disheveled man in an expensive overcoat ran out, speeding past Aziraphale on his way to the emergency stairwell. A waft of cologne enveloped Aziraphale, so strong his eyes watered. Good riddance, he thought. Bad rubbish.

Gradually, other doors opened and various neighbours ventured out, many of them in pyjamas, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Some headed straight for the stairwell, others wondered aloud whether there was a real fire or if this was merely a false alarm – the building had had its share of those. Whatever it was, the fire department would arrive soon and firemen in full gear would walk up all those flights of stairs to check on the status of the building. Eventually, when they found no fire, all residents would be reassured and would go back to their apartments. All this would take at least a half-hour. In the meantime, no one would be bothering Crowley.

Aziraphale cracked open Crowley’s door and slipped inside.

The apartment was neat and minimalist – the opposite of Aziraphale’s own. But that didn’t interest him right now; Crowley’s wellbeing did. Aziraphale headed for the bedroom. He found Crowley there, tangled in the sheets – black satin sheets, stylish and decadent. Crowley was naked, curled up in a ball. When he saw Aziraphale, he sat up slowly, wincing.

“Fire?”

“False alarm. You’re safe, dear boy. No fire, I promise you.”

“You sure? Should I get Bentley out of the building?”

“That’s what you’re worried about, your cello?”

Crowley gathered the satin sheets to him, covering up a little. “She’s the best part of me. Also the most valuable thing I own, so I’d be stupid if I didn’t...”

“No fire. It seems someone pulled the fire alarm. A lot of bother for the fire brigade, coming down here for nothing, but they’re obliged to check it out nonetheless – standard procedure. Be here any minute. Oh – speak of the devil.” The blaring of the fire siren could be heard outside, flashing lights reflecting off the windows of the building across the street.

“They’re just getting here now. Haven’t checked anything out yet.” Crowley looked at him, the crease in the middle of his forehead deepening. “So how would you know? That it’s a false alarm.”

“Ah. Well. Turns out, uh... I might have pulled it.”

“I see.”

“You told me not to come knocking no matter what I heard. I didn’t know what else to do, Crowley. You didn’t sound alright. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

“M’fine.” Crowley’s features softened somewhat.

“Oh, well – sorry – erm... did I blunder? Maybe I should have minded my own business. I do apologize if you didn’t wish to be interrupted but things did sound rather, well, intense—’

“No, it’s okay. Kinda glad you did. Not sure how it’ll play out tomorrow, but for now it’s a relief.” Crowley swung his feet to the floor, reaching for his clothes. His wince this time was more pronounced.

“You aren’t fine. Oh dear, let me take you to the hospital. No all-night clinics open; I’m afraid the emergency room is our only option.”

“No hospital. No need. I can deal with this myself.”

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed. “You know, I do have a well stocked first-aid kit next door,” he said. “Let me help?”

It was telling that Crowley didn’t even protest much.

*******

“Is this alright? It’s just some Polysporin. And then you ought to sleep on your stomach tonight, take the weight off your back and behind.”

“Mhm.”

“My apologies, dear boy, that probably hurts quite a bit. Can’t believe what he did to you. It’s criminal.” Mystery asshole had used his belt, leaving welts all along Crowley’s back and upper thighs. In places, he’d even broken the skin. “At no point should consensual play do that kind of damage, I’m sorry, it just shouldn’t. I would know, I was no stranger to it back in the day, but I would never, ever do something like that to someone—”

“Were you really?” This was mumbled into the sheets; Crowley was lying face-down on Aziraphale’s bed.

“A bit. Years ago. One wasn’t always an old fuddy duddy, you know.”

Crowley laid his head on his forearms, turned to the side so he could see Aziraphale better. His mouth curled up in a smirk. “You’re not an old fuddy duddy. You’re my guardian angel.”

“You’re making fun of me. But I don’t mind – it means you’re feeling better. Let me just get you some covers. It’s cold tonight, quite windy.”

“I’ll get your sheets all greasy.”

“I have some old flannel ones in the cupboard. They’ll launder perfectly well, and even if they don’t, they’re old so it doesn’t matter. They’re not satin, but for this they’re just the thing.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me going back to mine? M’fine, I told you.”

“I would feel better if you stayed here. Just for tonight, even. Please don’t feel you’re putting me out; you’re not.” What Aziraphale didn’t say out loud was that he didn’t want to risk Crowley’s mystery man returning tonight, unlikely as that prospect was. Crowley was in far too vulnerable a position to be left alone. “I’ll take the couch, you can have my bed. Nice and comfy.”

“What? No, no way.” Crowley had risen up on his elbows. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. Either we share or I’m going back next door. S’a big bed – lots of space for us to share. I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours.”

“Crowley—”

“Don’t worry; I’m not in any shape to get frisky. And I trust your intentions to be honourable, angel of mercy. We’ll sleep.”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “Alright then, I guess.”

*******

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Aziraphale turned off the lights and crawled under the covers next to Crowley, careful not to jostle him. Crowley seemed to be asleep and, despite the events of the past few hours, looked comfortable. He lay on his stomach as his ribcage moved up and down, steady and reassuring. A strand of his crimson hair trembled by his mouth on every outbreath.

He was beautiful like this – unguarded, all his sharp angles smoothed out in sleep. His head rested on one of his arms, the other arm was extended beside him, wrist relaxed, index finger gracefully reaching out as Adam’s did to God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. A fucking Renaissance painting, that’s what you are, Aziraphale thought. Michelangelo couldn’t do you justice. He watched for a while. Finally sleep claimed him too.

He woke to the smoky smell of Lapsang souchong tea and the feel of a warm body in his arms. He opened his eyes. His nose was in Crowley’s hair and his right arm was draped across Crowley’s stomach; they’d both turned onto their sides in sleep and were now spooning. Crowley’s back was still covered in the flannel sheet, so at least there was something separating them, although it wouldn’t do much to hide the fact that Aziraphale was growing harder by the second.

He made a move to disentangle himself, and his hand, splayed on Crowley’s stomach, bumped up against something hot and insistent. Crowley’s erection. Jesus. He heard Crowley’s breath catch; he was awake. Aziraphale’s own cock, fully hard now, twitched against Crowley’s backside. Fuck.

“I said I wouldn’t take advantage.” Aziraphale moved his hand away.

“S’okay, I don’t mind.”

“Crowley, you’re still in pain. We shouldn’t—”

“Chrissakes, don’t stop now. Angel, please don’t make me beg.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and curled it around his own cock. Stroked gently, setting the pace. “This is okay,” he said. “You won’t hurt me like this.” After a while he added, “You wouldn’t hurt me at all.”

Aziraphale stroked and pulled slowly, then a little faster. Circled his thumb around the head, ran it up along the frenulum and the slit, moist with precome. Crowley had a young man’s cock – hard as the wood of his cello, filled to bursting with blood, with life. Over a freckled shoulder, Aziraphale watched Crowley’s stomach muscles contract as he worked that beautiful cock in his grip.

“I’ve got some lube if you want. I could just—” The bedside cabinet was right there.

“Don’t need it.” Crowley’s eyes were closed in pleasure. “I like the feel of your hand like this.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah. You have such soft hands. Soft but strong. Oh...” Crowley tipped his head back, mouth open. He was moaning softly, his hips giving sharp involuntary thrusts. His ass bumped up against Aziraphale’s prick, every jounce a delicious tease. Aziraphale breathed in the scent of his hair, kissed his neck, his bare shoulder. Something inside him thrilled when he thought about all those times he’d leaned against their shared wall, hand working in his boxers, listening to Crowley moan under the touch of a random club pickup.

“I heard you all those nights, you know,” he said into the curve of a long neck.

“Yeah?” A sharp outbreath.

“You made such lovely sounds. Enjoyed yourself so much. All those men you brought home. I liked hearing you, singing so prettily.”

“You were—” A gasp. “—listening?”

“I was. I thought about what they were doing to you. What I wanted to do to you.”

“Jesus—”

“Now – will you make noise for me? I’d like to hear you.” He quickened his hand’s pace. Crowley’s body was as taut as a cello string, responsive under his touch. “You like that?”

“S’good...”

“And this?”

“Yeah...”

“I want to see you fall apart for me. Want to hear you.” He sped up his movements, tightened his grip.

Crowley gave an all-over body shiver and then keened, “Angel, oh, angel...” His hips jerked a few times as his orgasm crested. Aziraphale worked his hand, slower now, gentling him through the aftershocks.

Crowley sagged back into Aziraphale’s arms as his breathing slowed. “Holy shit.” He turned his head to the side, his mouth seeking Aziraphale’s in a soft kiss. “Wow, angel, you really are something.”

“Was that too much? Your back—”

“Well, I don’t think I could stand up right now; I felt that right down to my toes. But I’m fine – I’m great. Could never get too much of that. And that’s just a hand job – Christ, what must you be like when you...”

“Just being a good host, my dear. Hospitality is a dying art. Once things have begun, I like to do them properly.”

Crowley laughed but the look he gave Aziraphale was a little awestruck. Then he reached back, slotted his hand between their bodies, and found Aziraphale’s cock. “Let me be a good guest then.”

“Crowley, there’s no need. You’ve been through a lot. I certainly don’t expect you to—”

Crowley cut him off with a deep kiss. Then he just kept on kissing until Aziraphale forgot to protest, not that he protested much. Crowley was enthusiastic and skilled – and so very beautiful. His long fingers knew what they were about; one hand cradling Aziraphale’s balls and squeezing gently, the other jerking him off with confidence and care. It had been a long time since someone had done that.

Later, after Aziraphale came in messy spurts, gasping against Crowley’s mouth, and they rolled away from the wet spot – the sheets were a lost cause at this point – Crowley pulled him into a languid embrace, chest to chest, and slotted their legs together. It had been a truly long time since someone had done that, and it was almost better than the sex had been. They fell asleep tangled up, the bed in disarray. Aziraphale slept better than he had in years.

*******

Aziraphale’s alarm clock woke them both; it was Thursday, a workday. Anemic sunlight was filtering through the blinds along with early-morning traffic sounds.

“Time s’it?”

“Just past seven.”

“Fuck. You aways up this early?” Crowley’s hair was a messy mop on Aziraphale’s pillow.

“It’s hardly early. But yes, I am. I like to take my time in the morning, putter around a bit, not rush. You can sleep though. I don’t need to leave for another good hour.”

“Nah. I’ll get up.”

“Very well. Omelette?”

“What?”

“Would you like me to make you an omelette? Or eggs? Over easy, sunny side up? I could do pancakes too, if you like. Or toast. I have some fresh strawberries – hard to get good ones this time of year but they have one stall at Atwater Market that has good imports. Sometimes I splurge.”

Crowley sat up, disoriented. His eyes were still crinkled with sleep. “Are you for real?”

“We both need a good breakfast. All the problems in the world seem smaller after you get a solid breakfast in you. So – omelette?”

“I’ll... Uh, whatever you’re having is fine.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It’ll be ready in a jiffy. Coffee? You seem like a coffee person. I do have some.”

“Uh, yeah. Please.”

Aziraphale slipped on his plaid housecoat. His eyes felt dry from lack of sleep and his mind was fuzzier than he would have liked, but there was a pleasant ease in his bones that came from having spent the night hearing someone else’s heartbeat next to his. All in all, a good trade-off. “There’s an old bathrobe in the closet you can put on. It’ll keep you warm.” It was Vincent’s, but he found he didn’t mind the thought of Crowley wearing it.

He worked in the kitchen for a while, making coffee, pressing orange juice, slicing ham and Raclette. He could hear Crowley moving about in the bedroom, clearly not yet awake. By the time Crowley made his way to the kitchen, breakfast was on the table.

“You keep feeding me.” The look on Crowley’s face was pleased. He was swimming in the navy-blue bathrobe, could have wrapped it around himself twice and had fabric to spare.

“Someone has to. You’re skin and bone.”

Crowley’s smile wavered and he looked down at his feet. It occurred to Aziraphale that his teasing comment could be interpreted as a criticism by someone used to censure. Yeah, I know. M’not looking my best. I’ve been told. He stepped forward, took Crowley’s face in his hands, and kissed him. “Come here. You’re beautiful. Your body is perfect. You saw last night how much you turn me on. But a young man needs good nutrition, and a proper host would be remiss if he didn’t—”

Crowley chuckled against his mouth, kissing back. “Never been hosted so well in my life, me.”

They sat down. Crowley started with coffee, sucking it back like his life depended on it, but then moved onto the food and ate every bite. He was perched gingerly on the edge of his chair but didn’t complain of pain. The sleeves of the robe kept sliding down until he rolled them up along his forearms. “S’a bit big for me, and long too,” he said. “Didn’t think you were that tall.”

Aziraphale took a breath. The subject would come up sooner or later; no time like the present. “Actually— it was my husband’s.”

Crowley’s features froze in an expression of surprise. “Wow, you’re married?”

“Was married. Happily. He died five years ago. I’m very much single now.”

“I’m sorry. Shit, I—” Crowley’s hands fisted in the lapels of the robe. “You’re sure this is okay? Me, wearing it?”

“My dear, it’s fine.” And, oddly, it was. It was just another piece of clothing now, the scent of the person who used to wear it long gone. Aziraphale had taken a bag full of Vincent’s old clothes to the Goodwill last year. The row of empty hangers in his closet still hurt, but not as much as the sight of all those orphaned shirts and sweaters had. “Time marches on, you know.”

“How long were you married for?”

“Six years. But together for nearly twenty. Could have got married sooner, with same sex marriage being legal now, but we were waiting for the Anglican diocese here to catch up. Wanted to do it properly. His church and all.”

“He was religious?”

“He was the music director at St Beryl’s, and the organist there.”

“You were married to a musician?” Crowley’s face lit up.

“Yes. I do seem to have a weakness for you types...” Aziraphale picked up a strawberry with two fingers and popped it into his mouth with a smirk. “The piano was his. I don’t play well enough to justify buying a baby grand. It’s a bit wasted on me.”

“I’d wondered about that. Heard you singing through that wall, but never playing.”

“Oh, I can play. Just not that well. I usually use it to learn my choral parts, picking out melodies with one hand.”

“It’s a beautiful instrument.”

“You’re welcome to play it if you want—”

“With you being a good host and all, yes.” Crowley grinned. “I’ll stick with Bentley; I’m better with her than with piano keys. You know, you really have been very good to me. I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

“For last night?” Aziraphale felt warm underneath the collar of his flannel robe. “I would think that was more of a... well, uh... More of a mutual thing—”

“Oh, it was! I think we both enjoyed it.” Crowley shot him a rakish grin. “I meant before that. With the fire alarm and... y’know, my guest.”

“Right. About that...”

“I know what you’re going to say, and it’s not as simple as you think.”

“Isn’t it? There comes a point where your personal safety trumps professional opportunity is what I think. And – I know I’m a bit out of touch, but what goes on between you and that man doesn’t strike me as terribly consensual. And it certainly should be – especially if you’re to engage in the sort of activities that leave welts on your shapely behind, my dear.” He reached out and took Crowley’s hand, ran a thumb across his knuckles. Lifted an eyebrow playfully. “Very shapely.”

Crowley gave a half-smile. “You’re not wrong, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“Do you care for him? Look forward to seeing him?”

“No, I dread it.”

“Then, my dear boy, it seems simple to me.”

Crowley squirmed in his seat.

Aziraphale watched him for a moment, chastising himself for being too judgmental. His parents’ tendency to view the world in stark black-or-white terms still echoed down through the years. At times, he found it too easy to fall back into the simple dichotomy of, this is right, that’s wrong, full stop. He should know better by now. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m pushing too hard, and it isn’t my place. You and I spent the night together – which I very much enjoyed, by the way – but that doesn’t give me the right to make decisions on your behalf. You’ll leave him when you’re ready to, and not a moment sooner. I know I should take a step back here, Crowley. I do apologize.”

Crowley didn’t look up but his cheeks grew pink. He fiddled with his phone, scrolling and tapping. After a while, he handed the phone to Aziraphale. “I’ve been meaning to show you this. Like I said, complicated.”

Aziraphale took the phone from him. Burlington Free Press, he read. Latest news from Burlington, Vermont. “What does this have to do with anything—”

“Just read it.”

“All right.”

Locally-based cellist Bea Den Elzen-Bubel is in hospital this morning after being assaulted while on their way home from a recital last night. Den Elzen-Bubel, an internationally renowned soloist, was accosted on the way to their car, a block away from the performance venue, when two unidentified individuals dragged them into a back alley and brutalized them. Den Elzen-Bubel, who suffered a concussion and two broken arms, is expected to make a full recovery but has had to cancel all upcoming performances. They were scheduled to play Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor with the Montreal Symphonia in the spring.

Crowley was looking at Aziraphale intently, gauging his reaction. “Hard to play cello with two broken arms, eh?”

“But how... I mean, what...” Aziraphale could see the words, could understand their individual meaning, but the significance of what he’d just read still eluded him. It felt like that time Vincent had decided to wash the sheets in the lake at the summer house they’d rented for two weeks. He’d thrown the damned things into the water and for a while they just floated there, skimming the surface, refusing to sink or get wet. Something about surface area and trapped air bubbles.

The water got them in the end, of course. “Oh my God, Crowley. This is about the cellist you’re replacing.”

“It is.”

“Was this a hate crime? I mean—” Aziraphale got up and began to pace. “The person’s pronouns being ‘they’ and all. Although Burlington is a liberal place. I wouldn’t think—”

“No. I’m pretty sure it was a hit. A deliberate, targeted hit, eliminating the competition. Their cello was smashed to bits too. To send a message.”

“Does it say that in the article?”

“No.”

“But...” Aziraphale sat down. “What... I mean, how...”

Crowley squatted down in front of him, resting on his haunches. “Angel, do you know who I’m sleeping with? Who he is, I mean. His name.”

“Older man, likes privacy, has money. Power too, you said. Influence. I never asked about his name.”

“His name is Luca Malatesta.”

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. For a moment, Aziraphale had trouble catching his breath. “The mafia family.”

“Yeah. He’s one of the sons.”

“Oh my God.”

He should have known. Should have clued in weeks ago; all the information was there. The man’s cologne. Musky, and so strong it made Aziraphale cough – it was the same smell that had irritated his eyes when Gabriel introduced him to the library’s wealthy patron. They had watered so much he never got a good look at the man’s face. Just the expensive clothes. And the impression of entitlement, of power. Of threat.

Crowley was still squatting on the floor at his feet, looking up. “Angel, I owe him,” he said. “Whether I like it or not, I do. Even if it wasn’t my idea. Even if I find the very thought of hurting someone like that – a fellow musician no less – abhorrent. But I owe him. And I can’t just leave.”

“But surely your obligation to him has limits—”

“It’s not the obligation. It’s that he won’t let go. He likes me. Likes the way I look, likes to show me off as his protégé, likes to fuck me when no one can see him. Doesn’t want to stop anytime soon. Calls it a mutually beneficial arrangement. He’s done this before, with other young artists. Launched the career of one or two. Destroyed a few others. And he’s possessive, controlling – wants to call the shots. I can’t do the leaving.”

“So you just put up with it?”

“That’s my best bet. He’ll get tired of me eventually, move on to someone else. And I don’t want to piss him off, angel, or he could hurt me. He’s a vengeful bastard, and jealous as hell. I don’t want my arms broken. He’d do it, too.”

Aziraphale slid out of his chair and knelt facing Crowley. He wrapped his arms around him, holding on tight. Crowley returned the embrace with clumsy force. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. “Angel, I’m scared. This is a real mess. It’s hard to see a way out.”

Aziraphale stroked his hair. “There must be one.”

“I haven’t been sleeping so good. I keep racking my brains but...”

“We’ll think of something. My dear boy, I promise you. I’ll keep thinking.”

Chapter Text

Tracy’s reaction was short and to the point.

“Well, fuck me.”

First thing Aziraphale had done was seek her out, texting an urgent I NEED TO TALK TO YOU in all caps before he even arrived at the university library. She took an early lunch and they made their way up Pine Street to one of the paths on the mountain. It was chilly and the park was empty, which meant privacy. This was good; they had a lot to discuss.

“So lover boy is sleeping with a mafia boss?”

“His name is Crowley.”

“Seriously?” Tracy cocked a hip. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

“Sorry. It’s just that...” It was just that Crowley wasn’t the hot guy next door anymore; he was a person. With real feelings and real fears. And very real problems.

“Hold on... did you two...?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh honey, that’s wonderful.” She gave him a side hug. “How was it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, looking for the right words to describe the erotic charge of the night before, the sense of connection. The way Crowley had melted under the touch of his hand, the way he, Aziraphale, had felt completely free to be himself. The release of it, the freedom. The comfort.

“That good, huh?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that it’s been a while. And he’s gorgeous.”

“You think that’s it?”

He didn’t; it had been something more, something special. But it wouldn’t do to gush like a teenage girl. “Oh, what do I know... It was good, anyway. And he confided in me. He’s in a real pickle; I’m scared for him.”

“Oh, Azi.”

They had made it up to the Chalet and the lookout spot on the summit. Tracy pulled him by the hand until they stood leaning against the stone railing, looking down. Downtown Montreal lay sprawled under their feet: the McGill campus, the round medical school building, Place Ville Marie and the other glass-and-steel office towers. Behind it all, the St Lawrence River flowed on its stately way, its waters glinting silver like the scales of a giant fish.

“I’ll talk to the people in our office who’ve had dealings with the Malatesta family through the whole donation business,” Tracy said. “The more we can find out, the better. Meanwhile, you keep reading.”

“I know. I was thinking that too.”

Aziraphale wasn’t a quick thinker but he had a gift for letting hunches percolate until they bloomed into insight; he could already sense the edges of an idea, still vague and nebulous. All he knew is that it had something to do with Luigi’s letters.

Tracy nodded. “The sooner you can find out what’s in all those letters, the better. At this point, they’re the only leverage we have. And I’ll talk to Newt.”

“Newt?”

“Don’t scoff. He’s involved with the student newspaper, so he may know people. And he’d be willing to help.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to give Tracy an appraising look. “Something I should be aware of?”

“Hush now, he’s just a friend.”

“Sure he is. Does Shadwell know about this?”

“Shadwell wouldn’t notice me if I paraded around naked at rehearsal. Believe me, I’d have tried it if I thought it would do any good.”

“I bet Newt would notice.”

Tracy actually blushed. “Oh please, honey, I have more sense than that. Past a certain age, a lady looks best with a little bit of clothing on – judiciously chosen, of course. I have a few leather corsets that would be just the thing. They still fit, you know.” She gave a flirty wink.

Despite the roiling anxiety in his gut, Aziraphale found himself smiling.

*******

The next few days at work were busier than Aziraphale would have liked; two of the library assistants were off with the flu, which left him manning the reference desk. Any spare moment he had, he spent poring over Luigi’s letters. He still had a large stack to go through, and the job would have gone quicker if Luigi’s penmanship had been more legible and the pencil marks not quite so faint. Tension headache squeezing his temples, Aziraphale walked home each night puzzling over how Beatrice’s sexual appetites might be parlayed into a bargaining chip. As distasteful as he found the idea, it seemed the only viable avenue.

He saw Crowley on each of those evenings. They’d exchanged numbers so they could text but did so sparingly since Luca Malatesta wasn’t above looking through Crowley’s phone. They also came up with two secret knocks so they could communicate through their shared wall – one which meant “it’s alright, feel free to drop by” and another intended as a warning: “absolutely do not come over.” Crowley was convinced that Luca would cause problems for Aziraphale if he found out that he and Crowley were more than just neighbours. Aziraphale was more concerned about what he might do to Crowley.

Crowley was on high alert all that week, anticipating a visit, but Aziraphale did manage to give him some home-cooked food and check his back to see how it was healing. It was an intimate thing, tending to Crowley’s injuries. Crowley slipping off his henley, hair mussed, arms stretched overhead, auburn tufts in each armpit. Turning around so that Aziraphale could run fingers over his spine and flanks, lowering his head. Gooseflesh on his forearms, a spray of freckles across each shoulder.

Afterwards, they kissed, pressed up against the inside of Aziraphale’s front door – nothing more than kissing, but they savoured it. Slow and open-mouthed, as if they had all the time in the world, which they didn’t; Luca could arrive at any moment. It was Crowley who’d made the initial move, melting into Aziraphale’s arms the first time, and they didn’t keep score after that. It was clear by now that they both wanted it.

Luca showed up on the third day. He’d texted ahead, which was fortunate – it gave Crowley time to return to his own apartment, splash some water on his face and change his shirt; it wouldn’t do for him to smell like bergamot tea. Aziraphale sat on tenterhooks for the whole of Luca’s visit, which lasted nearly an hour and a half.

It wasn’t too bad – no violence to speak of – or so Crowley claimed. He said there’d been some wine and a blow job which went on forever: it took Luca a long time to come. Aziraphale suspected Crowley was putting a brave face on things; he dropped by afterwards with one reddened cheekbone and a sore jaw, and with a look of resignation about him that was worse than any injury. Aziraphale made him cocoa and they sat on his couch, sharing a blanket and watching reruns of The Golden Girls. They held hands. It warmed Aziraphale’s heart and broke it a little too.

*******

“What was it like, being married for so long?” Crowley asked a week later. It was nearing midnight and they were lying on Aziraphale’s bed, under a blanket. Luca had left Crowley’s apartment a half-hour before, so they figured it was safe enough; he wasn’t likely to return that night. “I don’t mean the piece of paper necessarily. Just – being with someone. You said, what, twenty years?”

“Yes, just about.”

“Long time. Way longer than I’ve ever... Well, y’know. Way longer.”

Aziraphale took a breath, pondering. It hadn’t seemed long at the time. Just one day after another, fluttering down like leaves from a sugar maple in the fall. Leaf followed leaf, and before you knew it the whole ground was a colourful carpet. One day Vincent said, my place is just around the corner, handsome, come and see it, and the next day you were making funeral arrangements. Blink of an eye.

“It was easy,” he said, because, oddly, that was the impression that remained. “People say that marriage is hard work, but most of it was actually easy.”

“Really?” Crowley rose up on an elbow.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s all a bit of a slog. But that’s just life – it’s a slog even if you’re alone. It’s routine, and there’s money problems and work is stressful and the toilet always needs scrubbing. You’ve heard all of each other’s stories, and his habits are as annoying as ever. He drives you mad.”

“Sounds like paradise,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose.

Aziraphale laughed. “It’s life. But then you get home to him, and, well, it’s him, and it feels like home. And you can breathe, you can be yourself. So you just... do it again the next day. And the next. That’s all there is to it, really.”

“Simple.”

“Simplest thing there is, when you’re with the right person.”

“I never thought of it that way.” Crowley was looking down at the blanket, pensive. “Does it ever get hard?”

Aziraphale raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Oh, my dear boy, I should hope so.”

“Not that, you awful man. You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale leaned over and gave Crowley a kiss, partly to stall for a moment. He knew the answer to this question but didn’t like to dwell on it. Plenty of things were hard. Trying to focus on work while waiting for the doctor to call back with test results. Those awful automated hospital messages with the date and time of the next chemo treatment. The beige carpet in the oncology waiting room and those ancient vinyl chairs, rows of people sitting in them, waiting their turn. I’ll be fine, I’ve brought a book.

“Of course it gets hard,” he said. “It’s hard when he’s sick, when he’s suffering. Hard to see him that way, and hard to live with him too – being in pain doesn’t make one pleasant. But it’s not his fault. And you still want to be there – even when you don’t.” He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his temples. “Not sure that makes sense?”

“Yeah, kinda does.” Crowley lay his head back down and shifted closer to Aziraphale. Their bodies were flush with each other, Crowley’s angles against Aziraphale’s soft curves. “See, I knew you were an angel.”

“I’m really not.”

He wasn’t. So many times he’d been snappy with Vincent back then, so many times he’d wished himself away from it all. It had taken a lot just to keep going some days. To smile and mean it. Especially toward the end.

“Was he a sailor?” Crowley asked.

“Vincent?”

“Yeah. The picture in the living room – the ship. And there’s a captain’s cap in the closet. The barometer on the bookcase. Anchors on the hand towels... Was he a captain or something?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not a real one, no. That all started as a joke, actually. We were reading Walt Whitman together – the Calamus poems mostly, but also Abe Lincoln, you know: oh captain, my captain... It stuck. He had that nickname for years, people bought him all kinds of nautical gadgets as gifts. Do you know, he didn’t even like sailing? Got seasick every time.”

“Yeah, s’hard for some, the way a boat rolls. Don’t have their sea legs.”

“Why, do you?”

“I grew up on boats.”

“Did you really?” Aziraphale asked, fascinated.

Crowley laid his head down, looked at the ceiling. “Yeah. New Brunswick. My dad was a fisherman – owned his own boat: family business. Lobster traps mostly. My brothers run it now, Hastur and Ligur, will probably pass it down to their boys. S’a hard life, but not a bad one.”

“Not for you though?”

“Nah, I wasn’t made for it. Always wanted to play music, me. My mom encouraged it. Made sure there was money for lessons.”

“But not your father?”

“Ugh.” Crowley covered his face with both hands, rolled over onto his stomach. “Let’s not talk about him.”

“All right.” Gently, Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, rubbing his scalp. “We don’t have to.”

“It’s not anything bad, angel. Don’t want you thinking that. I come from good people. Just – my dad wanted a certain kind of son and got another. Bit of a disappointment, I was.”

“But you’re brilliant! How could he be anything other than proud? Anyone who’s ever heard you play would say the same.”

“You’re flattering me.”

“I’m not.”

“Y’are.” Crowley’s tone was self-deprecating, but his shoulders relaxed. He liked praise. As confident as he could seem in public, in private he craved approval, basked in it like a cat in the sun. Right now he was stretched out on the bed, on his belly, pressing his head into Aziraphale’s palm as if asking to be petted.

Aziraphale rubbed the nape of Crowley’s neck, stroked up around his ears. “It’s not flattery, it’s the truth. You are uncommonly talented.”

Crowley closed his eyes and nosed against Aziraphale’s hip. “Yeah?”

“Determined. Passionate. Creative.”

Crowley’s face was pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh, his hand working its way up toward the zipper on Aziraphale’s khakis.

“Sensitive. Brave.”

A puff of breath against Aziraphale’s groin. “Tell me more.”

“Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”

Crowley pulled the zipper down.

“Crowley, you know you don’t have to... Especially not right after Luca’s visit.”

“I know.”

“I certainly don’t expect anything—”

“Shut up, angel. What I do with you, I do because I want to.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Just... keep talking. Okay? Say nice things?” Crowley glanced up. The expression on his face was hopeful. He reached up to the back of his head, to touch Aziraphale’s hand – the one he had threaded through Crowley’s hair – as if to make sure it was still there.

“Do you want me to keep my hand there? Hold your hair?”

Crowley looked uncertain. “Yeah. S’that okay? Not weird?”

“Anything you like, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said. Fragments of his past were coming back to him, glimpses of a more virile time, when Vincent was still well. And of a period before Vincent, when Aziraphale had left home and set out to find out what life was like when you were blond and bookish and preferred men. Back then his angelic looks and broad chest had proven surprisingly popular, and he’d learned a thing or two. Now he stroked the back of Crowley’s head, gently gripped a handful of crimson hair and said, “You don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley closed his eyes and shivered. His long fingers unzipped Aziraphale’s fly and freed his cock. He bent his head to the task.

“My dear boy... Oh, that’s good.” Aziraphale watched him, attentive. He might get blissed out from this – the mere idea of having Crowley sucking him off was enough to do that – but it was his job to make sure that Crowley’s needs were met. Being in control meant taking responsibility for your partner’s pleasure. “You beautiful thing, what a lovely mouth you have.”

Crowley was trembling, licking up Aziraphale’s shaft and all around the head. Eyes closed, he looked utterly absorbed in what he was doing – more than just focused, almost as if he were in a trance.

“And that clever tongue of yours. Making me feel so good.”

Crowley whimpered and took Aziraphale in deeper, gripping the base of his cock with one hand. He sucked and began to bob up and down all the while licking under the head. He did it all with such grace, that it seemed as if this were a dance and not a sexual act – as if he were moving to the sound of music only he could hear.

It felt so amazing Aziraphale almost forgot Crowley’s request. But he wasn’t new to this game; he knew what his role was. He cradled the back of Crowley’s head and gently tugged, directing his movements. “Slow down, my dear, I want this to last. Your mouth feels wonderful, I’d like to savour it.”

Crowley did as he was asked, letting Aziraphale set the pace. He was pliant and responsive, flowing with the movements of Aziraphale’s hand. If they had been dancing, they would have been moving as one, Crowley letting Aziraphale lead with complete trust.

“Oh, you are good at this, aren’t you. I just knew you would be.”

A whimper. Crowley was in another world. There was a look of ecstasy on his face and his hips were beginning to rut against the mattress. Whatever tension had been in his shoulders and back, was now gone. Instead of his usual sharp angles he gave the impression of fluid motion, his spine like the slowly undulating coils of a snake.

“Are you hard for me? Go ahead and touch yourself. I’d very much enjoy watching that.”

“Oh...” Crowley canted his hips and thrust his hand between his legs, stroking himself as much as his position would allow. His entire face bloomed with a pink blush. There was a sheen of sweat along his hairline.

“Look how beautiful you are. Lovely and strong. And generous too – how you suck me so well, even while taking your own pleasure. The whole time focused on me. So giving. So good. You’re so good to me.”

Crowley was shaking like a leaf now, but still giving his all. Aziraphale could feel himself on the edge of orgasm – from his cock in Crowley’s mouth, yes, but also from the sight of Crowley so affected. It seemed that being told he was good did something to Crowley, dismantled his defences, took him apart, piece by piece.

So Aziraphale kept on telling him. He held him by the hair, rhythmically thrust into his mouth, and told him how good he was, over and over. At the last moment Aziraphale pulled out, worked his cock in his own hand, and came in his palm, kissing Crowley on the mouth with all the pent-up emotion he was feeling. Crowley, gasping, came too.

It took them a minute to catch their breath. Aziraphale held Crowley close, feeling uncharacteristically blasé about the mess they’d left on the counterpane. He really ought to start keeping some towels by the bed again in case they made a habit of this. And wouldn’t that be nice, making a habit of this with Crowley.

“How do you do that?” Crowley was still trembling a little.

“Do what, dear boy? I think you’re the one who did most of the work just now. And a splendid job you made of it, too.”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck as his breathing evened out. “How are you so kind and in control at the same time?” More quietly, he added, “I never met anyone who could be both.”

“Do you like that?”

Crowley nodded. His face was still hidden, his chin resting against Aziraphale’s clavicle, arms wrapped around his middle. He clung to Aziraphale with his whole body, like Saran wrap to leftover pie. Far from smothered, it made Aziraphale feel invigorated. He’d never been one to revel in being alone. Oh, he could do it – had been doing it – and function just fine. But there was a richness to going through life in tandem with someone, like two layers in a fine tiramisu.

“I’m glad you liked that,” Aziraphale said. “I quite enjoyed it myself.”

Playfully, Crowley ran his foot up and down Aziraphale’s calf. “You could come in my mouth, you know,” he offered. “Next time. I don’t mind.”

“Ah. Well. You see... I came of age at a time when being safe was a matter of life and death, my dear, so I’m afraid I’m still a bit old fashioned about these things. Not obsessive – just... smart. Come on me, not in me, was the rule of thumb in a pinch. And condoms of course.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I get it. No problem,” Crowley said. Then he looked at Aziraphale shyly. “I tested negative two months ago and... Well, Luca is obsessive about not leaving any traces. Won’t even take the condom off after and throw it in my trash. Wears it home to dispose of.”

“My goodness! That’s a bit—”

“Crazy, yeah, I know. Also... I’m on PrEP. But s’fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with, it’s fine.”

“I know about PrEP. So many medical advancements these days, it’s amazing.”

“It’s just the past year or so, I’d been going out more, and... Well, I figured it would be safer than taking a chance. These days, some guys don’t want to use condoms. And even if they agree to use’em, there’s no telling what they do with other people, so—”

“I’m not judging you, Crowley. You’re a young man, you’ve been having fun.”

“Going through a phase, more like. Looking for something.”

All those Friday late-night hookups, men pressing Crowley against his door, pawing at him. Fucking him in that bedroom of his, dominating him as he moaned out his pleasure. Then, his mafia boyfriend – older, authoritative, and certainly dominant too. It wasn’t hard to divine what Crowley had been after. Only, kindness had apparently not entered into the equation.

“That’s what youth is for. Searching,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s cheeks reddened a little. “Plan is, I’ll stop looking if I ever find it.”

“I hope you do find it.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and his shuttered expression fell away. What remained was raw emotion and pure honesty in those amber-flecked hazel eyes. He took a fortifying breath, as if he were readying himself to dive off a high platform. “Angel, I—”

The loud ding of Crowley’s cell phone cut him off. He glanced at the screen and his face fell.

“Who is it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Luca. He can’t sleep.”

“Is he coming over now? But he was just here. Surely he can’t expect—”

“No, no. But he likes to text back and forth sometimes. I’d better head home. He might be up for a while.” Crowley unfolded his long limbs and reluctantly stood up. He moved stiffly as he adjusted himself in his jeans.

“Oh, here—” Aziraphale leapt off the bed. “Let me just get you a washcloth. No one likes a mess in their underpants. Back in a tick.” The bathroom was right there; it took less than a minute.

Crowley’s shoulders rose up when he slipped the washcloth into his shorts to clean himself up. As his hand worked, his collarbones became more pronounced, moving like bird wings trying to take flight. “You ran it under hot water,” he said.

“It’s only good manners. A proper host—”

Crowley took a step forward and cut him off with a kiss. Hands fisted in Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “You’re ridiculous, angel, you know that? So fussy. And far too good to people. You should stop. Don’t give away so much – you know? Of yourself. You’ll...” You could hear the tension in Crowley’s windpipe as his voice rose in pitch. “You’ll run out.”

“Of what?”

“Kindness. Y’know— light.” Crowley let out a breath, like a balloon deflating. “I don’t know. Goodness. Stuff.”

“Crowley...”

“People are mean, angel. Don’t let them take advantage of you. They will. If you let them. They will, you know.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Crowley. I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” Crowley didn’t sound convinced. He was still gripping Aziraphale’s waistcoat aggressively, knuckles white.

Aziraphale enfolded him into a gentle hug and held on.

*******

On the Thursday afternoon before the Messiah concert weekend, Aziraphale ran into Gabriel on the mezzanine level of the library. He’d just finished a shift on the reference desk and was headed back to his office but something about the look in Gabriel’s eye made Aziraphale detour toward the photocopiers. Pretending he had something important to copy, he waited to see what Gabriel wanted.

“Az!”

God, how he hated that nickname. Not that Gabriel had ever asked; he simply called him whatever he wanted. All the while smiling that plastic smile of his. “Hello, Gabriel. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m just copying something for a graduate student; the reference desk scanner is out of order.”

“Heading back to your office?”

He was. At least that had been the original plan. But stalling for time seemed like a wise move. “Not just now, I need to run this down first. Why, is it something important?”

“Those letters you’ve been working on. The ones associated with that large donation?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to look through them. I know it’s not usual but...” You could see Gabriel trying to finesse his next statement. “But then, the source of that particular donation isn’t run of the mill either. I’d prefer to handle certain aspects of it myself.”

Alarm bells rang in Aziraphale’s head. “Of course. I completely understand.”

“Great! Could you bring them ‘round to my office later?”

“Let me just take care of a few other matters first.”

“Ah yes. Students at exam time. So needy, so annoying. Anyway, thanks. Team player, remember?” Finger-guns pointing at Aziraphale, Gabriel winked and then made a clicking noise with his tongue.

Aziraphale waited until his boss’s blinding-white smile had disappeared into an elevator and then quickly made his way to his office. Whatever Gabriel had meant about handling things himself, it did not bode well for the letter collection’s integrity. Maybe Gabriel had gotten wind of what the letters contained. Maybe the Malatesta family had started asking questions. In any case, Gabriel’s asking to see them, in that smarmy tone of his, was bound to signal trouble.

With shaking hands, Aziraphale gathered up every last letter and placed them in a banker’s box. Then, absolutely floored at what he was about to do, he hefted the box and took the emergency stairwell down to the side entrance leading out into the unofficial student smoking pit – which was mostly a vaping pit these days. Looking surreptitiously over his shoulder, he hurried down the street. Taking archival material home could get him severely disciplined; it simply wasn’t done, and for good reason. But right now he didn’t care. The letters would be safest with him, at home.

Chapter Text

Handel’s Messiah would have been an absolute delight of a concert if Luca Malatesta wasn’t sitting in the front row. The smug bastard was dressed to the nines, as usual, and had probably also slathered himself in cologne – only Aziraphale didn’t get close enough to smell it. Crowley did. Before the chamber orchestra started warming up, he walked up to Luca to say hello. His spine was stiff and his steps seemed reluctant, but he went. He sat down in the pew next to the man who held such power over him and chatted for a few minutes, an obligatory smile pasted on his face.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s genuine smiles; this wasn’t one of them.

Tracy had brought two large Tupperware containers filled with homemade chocolate-chip cookies, but she let Newt do the heavy lifting. They walked in together, Newt’s arms full of Tupperware, Tracy with a satisfied look on her face. Newt hovered, solicitous, while she settled herself in the alto section. Shadwell watched them from a distance, looking equal parts discomfited and confused.

After the warmup and a quick run-through of the difficult bits, they waited. The parish hall buzzed with a low-grade excitement. There was something about a roomful of people dressed head to toe in black – save for the men’s white shirts – and wearing their polished dress shoes. Anticipation gave the air around them a sort of shimmer, too comfortable for nerves but too electric to be ordinary.

Choir folder in his right hand, Aziraphale clicked the heels of his oxfords against the green linoleum. It was a nervous habit. Vincent would have laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and stilled his fidgeting, but Vincent was dead and buried, and the harpsichordist tonight would be someone else. Talented, no doubt. But just not the same.

The conductor of the chamber orchestra came backstage shortly before the concert was to begin and said a few encouraging words. And then it was time to go on. Sorted into sections, the singers walked out into the sanctuary and stepped onto the risers.

As the orchestra played the overture, Aziraphale watched Crowley. So did Luca, from his spot in the front row. Crowley had worn his fancy tuxedo tonight, black-clad limbs bracketing his cello, midnight fog against warm wood. He looked tense at first, but the music did its work; before the first tenor solo was through, Crowley was no longer here, he was gone – his spirit flew and danced along with the eighth notes and trills, bounding up and down the staff; it soared with the string tremolos as each movement of the oratorio filled the church with Handel’s vision.

Luca was still watching, but Crowley didn’t seem to take any notice of him anymore. He was in his element, wrapped up in the music, radiant. Aziraphale’s heart glowed at the sight and the concert regained some of its magic – not enough to forget that in the front row sat a man who could cause Crowley untold harm, but enough to pretend for a while that it didn’t matter.

The harpsichordist was actually pretty good, Aziraphale grudgingly admitted. She was a young woman with dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, voluminous black skirts fanning out around her as she sat at the ancient instrument. Her face was screwed up in utmost concentration as her fingers bounced over the keys. Aziraphale caught Newt stealing glances at her from the bass section and smiled to himself. It seemed Tracy had competition.

Then it was time for the intermission, and the risers creaked as the singers retreated backstage for some water and cookies. As buoyant as their spirits were, standing for so long could be hard on the feet. That was amateur music-making in a nutshell: flirting with the sublime while firmly rooted in the mundane.

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye as he walked past. Discreetly he held his gaze for a moment. I see you. I’m with you. Then he walked on.

“You did really well! You should be proud of yourselves. A real professional performance.” Shadwell was pacing up and down the parish hall, looking as rumpled as ever, only in dress clothes. “Now – don’t relax! The concert isn’t over yet. And remember, it’s ‘all we – lift – like sheep,’ not ‘we like sheep.’ No sheep lovers in this choir! Support the sound and watch the maestro’s baton; his tempos may be different than the ones we practiced. Now go on and have a cookie, you’ve earned it. But don’t relax!”

Aziraphale had a cookie and sat down. He wouldn’t have relaxed anyhow, not with Crowley out there with his mafia boyfriend.

“All well?” Tracy sat down beside him.

“Yes.”

“Audience seems pleased. Not a dry seat in the house, as the captain used to say.”

“Ha. Yes. So he did.”

“Crowley all right?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “I suppose so. Hope so. For the duration of the concert anyway. Afterwards...”

“At least you’ll be there to keep an eye on him. Or, an ear out – you know what I mean.”

“I guess. Although it’s not as if I can do much. Bearing witness is an awfully passive business. And Tracy—” He turned to her, letting his façade crumble a little. “The more I get to know him, the more I grow to care for him... Well, the harder it gets. He seems so cool and in control, I know, all that tight black leather, but it’s just a front, really. He’s so much more... He’s just... He’s so...”

Tracy squeezed his hand.

“Places, everyone! Back in your rows,” Shadwell bellowed. They lined up.

The second half of the concert went about as well as the first. Crowley looked stiff at the start but got lost in the music long before the Hallelujah chorus had the audience on their feet. And then it was time for Aziraphale’s favourite part. I know that my redeemer liveth, the soprano soloist’s voice soared effortlessly up to the rafters. And it was as if everyone in the cathedral collectively took a breath and held it in wonder. This was no showy aria full of fireworks and quick-running melismas; this was a slow and gentle lifting, as if on the soft wings of angels – effortless, timeless, ever upwards.

And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God. The words, sent heavenwards by the simple soprano line, floated over the pews. Aziraphale knew a thing or two about death now, in a way he hadn’t in years past. He held knowledge of the impermanence of things, the betrayal of a body breaking down. And yet this aria never depressed him. It squeezed tears from his eyes always – today too – but not of grief.

The music went beyond hope; it conveyed a humble certainty. And regardless of where Aziraphale stood with respect to religion or the divine – and his attitude toward it tended toward agnostic these days – this aria always cradled his spirit. It seemed to say, whatever happens, however impermanent life may be, it’s alright. Nothing in this world ever really disappears; it simply changes shape.

The rest of Messiah always seemed to let loose around this point, barreling toward the triumphant conclusion of the endless Amen chorus, exultant in its blaring trumpets and resounding timpani. And then, just like that, it was over. The audience was clapping, the conductor was bowing and then extending his arm toward the choir, prompting them to take a bow in turn. The singers were walking offstage, all smiles, risers creaking beneath their feet – and Crowley was once again at the mercy of his mafia asshole, who would do with him as he wished; the night was young.

Once all the singers were in the parish hall, Aziraphale turned around and weaved back through the crowd to peek into the sanctuary. Crowley was putting his cello in its case, Luca a few feet away, waiting. Crowley was slipping on his coat, Luca at his elbow. They were walking toward the exit, Luca’s hand in the small of Crowley’s back. They were talking, heads bowed toward one another, Luca a good two inches shorter than Crowley. They were by the door, half hidden by the crowd.

They were gone.

A sense of powerlessness compressed Aziraphale’s lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He sat down in the nearest pew. Let us break their bonds asunder, he’d sung that very night, and cast away their yokes from us. If only it were that simple.

*******

Aziraphale stood by his coat rack and looked out through the peephole into the hallway. After a minute Crowley’s door opened and he took a step out onto his welcome mat, barefoot, wrapped in a black silk bathrobe. His eyes fell on the package at his feet and he gingerly leaned down to pick it up. He straightened up, wincing. (Damn, Luca must have been rough tonight if he winced like that.) Then he smiled, turned back and went inside.

*******

Amore,

I haven’t written in a while but it’s not because I wasn’t thinking about you. They were on us something awful this past month, working us half to death. I guess the factories need lumber. Which I suppose is no wonder, the war going the way it is. Anyway, we were out, dusk til dawn, chopping wood and sawing logs. Could barely keep my eyes open when I got back to barracks and my bunk. Too tired even to, you know... Think of you and remember what you used to do to me. Censor’s back on the job so can’t spell it out any more than that. But enough of my bellyaching. How are you? How are people back home? Mamma still taking in laundry? Is it bringing in enough money? Look in on them from time to time, please. Sometimes I’m so frustrated being here in this camp I could punch someone. But that could end up with me in the cooler so better keep my frustrations to myself. Miss you. Miss your mouth. Miss your hands. I’ve got calluses on my palms now like you wouldn’t believe. Would put yours to shame.

Luigi

*******

*******

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: December 9, 2022
Subject: Donated letters from the Malatesta family

Az!

I stopped by your office earlier today and was somewhat taken aback to see you weren’t hard at work. Taking a long lunch break, were you? In any case, I took the liberty of letting myself in and rifling around a little. You certainly have an interesting filing system. Pile it on and let it rot. Perhaps we’ll revisit it during your annual evaluation.

But I digress. I was not able to find the donated letters, which I had specifically mentioned wanting to examine. I can only assume they are stored somewhere else in the archive, since anything else would be against university policy – as I am sure you are well aware. I also clearly recall asking you to bring the letters to my office, which you for some mysterious reason failed to do. I do hope this is merely forgetfulness on your part.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience so that we can set up a time for me to view the letters.

Best,

Dr. Gabriel Arcangelo, MBA, PhD (ABD)
Planning and Finance Office
McGill Libraries and Archives

Chapter Text

Paradiso was a multi-storey dance club in the heart of Montreal’s gay village. Its red brick exterior was lit up with the club’s signature halo and angel wings logo, a beacon in bright neon, summoning partygoers from far and wide. In the summer it was surrounded by a street-level patio, shaded by planters and lit up by paper lanterns, but at this time of year the action was all inside. It had been years since Aziraphale’s last visit, and even back then he’d felt out of place. He wished Crowley were here; this seemed like much more his kind of scene.

Tracy was tottering in heels, flanked by both Newt and Shadwell, both of whom were vying for her attention. Behind them trailed Leslie and Maud, whom Aziraphale knew, and a handful of people he didn’t know at all but who seemed to be friends with Newt.

Inside was dim and bright at the same time, coloured light fracturing around the room with the spin of a large disco ball suspended from the ceiling. The dance floor was in the centre, crowded with bodies, and was overlooked by a second-storey gallery that ran all around – for those who preferred a bird’s eye view and some privacy. A long bar ran the length of one wall. Somehow, in the crush of the crowd, they found a free booth. Aziraphale scooted down the length of the bench, away from the commotion, taking refuge like a small creature in its burrow.

“Too much?” Tracy sat beside him.

“It’s a little loud for me, is all. And crowded. Not used to it.”

“You’re having a good time, though?” She was glowing; this was probably the best birthday she’d had in years.

“A lovely time, yes.” He lied. “I’m so glad you invited me along.”

“Wonderful! But you said Crowley can’t come?”

“He could never risk it, not with Luca around. Besides, he had an afternoon concert and then he was supposed to see the man later. I’m hoping to hear from him soon.” His phone hadn’t buzzed all day. He was starting to get concerned.

“Are you sure your phone is working right? You never replied to my text and then we found you waiting in front of the wrong restaurant in Chinatown.”

“Wait – you texted me? When?”

“Hours ago. To tell you we were going to Agnes’s Bistro, not the Golden Dragon, where we found you. See? He’s probably fine and you just didn’t get his text. Now – come dance with us.”

“Us?”

Tracy stood up and pulled both Newt and Shadwell by the hand. Newt’s friends were already on the dance floor. The music was thumping and swelling, bodies were gyrating, and Aziraphale felt about as comfortable as a cat under a dripping drainpipe. But Tracy looked radiant, and she was his friend. So he went.

It was almost worth it to see Shadwell’s attempts at dancing. The man had a determined look in his eye and was gritting his teeth as he stepped from foot to foot, but he didn’t leave Tracy’s side. Newt stuck close to her too, but his dancing was more spirited; he was twirling in circles and waving his arms about. Tracy was the planet around which both these worshipful moons revolved, and she looked the part: poised and lovely, wearing a lace-up bustier top, short skirt and tall black boots – presumably what she’d referred to earlier as judiciously chosen clothing.

There was nothing for it but to be a good sport, so Aziraphale rolled up the sleeves of his white button-up and tried to find his dancing feet. From past experience – long ago now – he knew that time would pass more quickly if he simply gave himself up to the music rather than trying to ignore its driving beat. Or if he found someone to blow in the bathroom – but this wasn’t that kind of night, alas.

Of course, the other thing that would help him feel more comfortable in this sea of flashing lights was alcohol. Aziraphale leaned in to shout in Tracy’s ear, “Just going to get a drink! Want anything?” She shook her head, so he set out for the bar. Dancers bumped into him as he squeezed past, hips and elbows grazing his flesh. A few men eyed him suggestively, one even sliding a hand across his lower back, but Aziraphale pressed on. An unsteady bride-to-be flailed into his path, supported by her bridesmaids, and as she whipped her head around he got a mouthful of white veil. Why was it always so difficult to move around in these places?

Three things happened then. Somewhere behind him, Aziraphale heard one of Newt’s friends call out, “Anathema? Is that you?” and at his right elbow the harpsichordist he remembered from the Messiah concert turned around and waved to Newt’s group with a grin. In the pocket of his waistcoat, his phone buzzed – once, twice, a dozen times. I must be getting all my messages at once, he thought – but promptly got distracted because up ahead, in the middle of the dance floor he glimpsed a familiar shock of crimson hair along with two graceful arms raised in the air and a slithering movement of hips. Crowley?

Disoriented, he glanced at his phone. There was that message from Tracy about the change in restaurant, and then a string of messages from Crowley.

Dazed, Aziraphale looked up. Something hard sat in the middle of his chest but it was good too – happy and warm and dissolving into a fizzing excitement. Up ahead, Crowley was dancing, eyes closed and a look of blessed relief on his face. Men watched him, some trying to sidle up to him, but you could tell from his face that he was there just to dance. Aziraphale moved toward him as if drawn by a magnet.

Powering through the crowd like an icebreaker through Arctic ice, Aziraphale found harbor by Crowley’s side. His hands, moving of their own accord, landed on Crowley’s hips. Crowley startled, opened his eyes – and then melted into his arms. “Angel!” Crowley’s face was pure joy. “You’re here! Was looking for you.” He was shouting; the club was loud. Then he leaned in close to Aziraphale’s ear and said, “Dance with me.”

“I’m terrible.”

“Who gives a fuck? No one’s looking. I have a week to myself, and I want to spend it dancing with you.” Crowley was radiant, drunk on his freedom.

“A whole week might be a little much but... well, for tonight, I don’t see the harm.” Aziraphale wiggled closer. “Isn’t all this noise bad for your hearing?”

Crowley turned his head with a flirty motion and pointed to a bit of bright pink foam in his ear. “Ear plugs. Don’t worry ‘bout me, angel. I’m all right. Besides – we’re away from the speakers. Crowd muffles the—” His last few words were lost in the thumping beat.

“What?” Aziraphale leaned closer.

“I said...” Crowley started to say something but then waved his hand in a ‘never mind’ motion and handed Aziraphale a pair of earplugs as well. “We can talk later. For now – dance with me!” He raised his arms in the air and spun around.

The thing about dance clubs, with their impertinent assault on your senses – sight, touch, and sound all at once – was that if you stopped fighting the tide of sensory overload but let it wash over you instead, if you allowed it to buoy you up and carry you along, it stopped being so overwhelming. After a while it was like meditating. You floated along in an eternal present, alone, but somehow connected to all those bodies writhing around you. It was like being in a bubble.

Tonight, the bubble held two people. Crowley knew how to move; he had an innate sense of rhythm and a natural grace. The way he rolled his hips oozed sex appeal, and the clothes he wore only accentuated his charm. He could have been the centre of attention on any dance floor – he had been, in fact, before Aziraphale got there. But he didn’t seem to mind Aziraphale’s limited dancing skills at all; he seemed happy to be in his sphere, dancing with him alone.

If Aziraphale felt self-conscious, it wasn’t for long. The crowd was large enough that no one noticed his awkward dancing. It was wall-to-wall bodies, really, to the point that you only saw what was right in front of you. And what was right in front of Aziraphale was Crowley. Crowley, turning in Aziraphale’s arms; Crowley, rubbing up against him; Crowley, looking at Aziraphale through lowered lashes, eyes accentuated with eyeliner. Before long, Aziraphale was half-hard, desire thrumming through him with every thump of the bass.

Crowley’s head was tipped back, exposing the long line of his neck. His hair was messy and sweaty at the temples, and the fractured light cast shadows over his cheekbones, making them look even sharper than usual. He wore tight black leather trousers and a shirt that was both flowing and sheer, with a deep v-neck which exposed the planes of his chest. He was moving with the beat but was somehow beyond it, floating on a cushion of bliss. Really, he was a vision. That plump bottom lip, the narrow wrists making fluid motions above his head, the occasional flash of those amber-flecked eyes – a little feral, a little transcendent.

Talking was out; the only way to communicate here was through touch. Aziraphale pulled Crowley toward him – firmly, forcefully – and slotted his thigh between Crowley’s legs. Crowley huffed out a surprised breath and curled his top lip in a smile. They moved together. Aziraphale’s hands gripped Crowley’s waist, thumbs feeling the sharp points of his hips, and then they slid back and down, cupping his ass, poured so perfectly into those skin-tight pants.

They were griding together, both hard now – Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s erection against his thigh – still somehow moving to the beat of the music, hypnotized by its power. Crowley’s lips were parted wider now, showing his one slightly crooked lower canine, and his eyes were shut tight. It was as if he’d forgotten they were surrounded by a hundred people, as if it didn’t matter. Feral, Aziraphale thought. God, I just want to bite into him.

Then, Crowley plucked out Aziraphale’s earplug with two fingers, lowered his mouth to Aziraphale’s ear and said, “Take me home, angel. Take me to bed.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to be asked twice. He found Crowley’s hand, twined their fingers together and pulled him along. The exit was all the way across the club; they’d have to cross the entire dance floor again to get there – damn, Aziraphale thought, too far. The bathroom would have to do. Aziraphale pushed the swing door with his shoulder and pulled Crowley inside. There were a few men at the urinals but the stalls were mostly empty; Aziraphale found the farthest one, near the wall, and nudged Crowley inside.

“Here?”

“Closest place,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him as if his life depended on it. Crowley’s mouth was hot and sweet like a ripe raspberry in the summer sun.

“Not home?”

“Oh, I will take you home tonight, dear boy. There’s nothing I’d like more. But I don’t think I can wait that long for this.” Aziraphale pushed Crowley up against the metal wall and dropped to his knees.

“Angel, your clothes! This floor, you’ll ruin your—”

“To hell with my clothes. I need to get my hands on that beautiful cock of yours.”

“Ngk.” Crowley tipped his head back against the metal stall with a thunk. “Oh wow, that’s not your hand. Angel, ahh...”

Aziraphale breathed on Crowley’s prick through the tight black leather, turned his head sideways, opened his jaw wide and got its entire outline into his mouth; bit down gently. His hands palmed Crowley’s thighs, slid up and back, gripped his rear. Crowley bucked, moaning, fingers clutching Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale undid the button on Crowley’s fly and slid the zipper down with his teeth.

Crowley’s cock stood straight and tall, flush with his belly and so long that it nearly peeked out the top of his waistband. Aziraphale licked the head, tasting the salty musk of Crowley’s precome, then took the entire length of it into his mouth in one smooth motion.

Club bathrooms were not the place to linger on the preliminaries; the lack of privacy translated into urgency, which was fun in its own way and kind of the whole point. Aziraphale swallowed Crowley’s prick down as if it were a feast and he’d been starving for months. The weightless feeling he’d had while dancing still flowed through him, but now it was fuelled by a desire to possess, to claim; his dominant streak had come to the fore. His hands pushed Crowley’s hips against the bathroom wall, preventing him from thrusting. Aziraphale wanted to be the one to give Crowley pleasure – only him, no one else.

He let Crowley’s cock slip from his mouth and sucked his own fingers for a moment, then yanked Crowley’s pants down around his thighs and edged his fingers in between Crowley’s cleft. Teased the puckered rim, slipped inside. So hot, so lovely. And oh, so goddamn tight.

Crowley gasped and then actually growled. His hands fisted in Aziraphale’s curls with such force that it hurt. He’s mine, Aziraphale thought. He’s losing control, he’s not faking, this is real, all the pleasure he’s feeling is because of me, he’s mine. He crooked his finger inside Crowley, rubbing against his prostate, and worked his other hand on his cock all the while sucking as if it were an Olympic sport and he were going for gold.

Crowley flailed, one of his hands going up to grasp the top edge of the metal partition, and then came like a fountain, shouting something that sounded like praying with a lot of expletives mixed in. Aziraphale worked his cock, slower now, gentle, and held him up – Crowley would have fallen otherwise; his knees had buckled.

They kissed, sweetly, almost chastely, Crowley nearly boneless in the aftermath. Then Aziraphale bent down and, licking Crowley clean, tucked him back into his clothes.

“Jesus, angel.”

“All right, there, my dear?”

“Fucking excellent. Only, you... I mean... Holy Jesus, angel—”

“Only human, I assure you. No one so exalted. Watch your step now, we made a bit of a mess on the floor. You aren’t supposed to spill your seed upon the ground or some such, if I remember correctly, but I’m sure they’re used to it in this establishment.”

“Too right they are.” Crowley huffed out a laugh. “S’why I warned you about your pants.”

“No harm done. Now. Shall we head home or get a drink first? I know at least one person who is dying to meet you. She’d never forgive me if smuggled you out of here right under her nose. It is her birthday.”

“Just... let me find my feet. Not sure I can stand.”

“Take your time, my dear boy. Would you like to wait until the bathroom is empty? No walk of shame, no witnesses?”

Crowley took his hand. “S’alright. I don’t mind.”

*******

“Oh, it was actually an office Christmas party. We did a caroling bit with some of the library assistants, had a hard time recruiting men to sing – you know how it is, they’re too macho for their own good – but then Azi heard us practicing in the staff room and joined our group. Gorgeous tenor voice.”

“I know, I’ve heard him.” Crowley beamed at Tracy.

“Anyway, we did a splendid job in the end, and then Azi asked me if I was looking for a choir to join, said he knew of a good one. Amateur but keen, good repertoire. I had my Saturdays free.” Tracy lowered her voice, whispered, “Had just given up my side gig, you know, maybe Azi will tell you about it sometime.” She continued at full volume, “Anyway, I’ve been singing with them ever since. And Azi and I have become friends. He’s a good egg, you know.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “I know.”

“Too hard on himself sometimes, and he’s had a rough time since the captain died; those two were beautiful together, it really was something to witness – what?” She threw up her hands. “I’m only telling the truth. He’s not made for being alone, and you’ll never meet a kinder soul or someone who’ll treat you better – or grill a more delicious steak, has he cooked for you yet?”

Crowley nodded, grinning.

“Gourmet chef, is what he is. He’s just been gun shy about dating. God knows why – those shoulders, those arms, that bum? Perfection, I say. And I can’t speak for his skills in the sack but I know the captain certainly never had any complaints, so I’m pretty confident—”

“Tracy!” Aziraphale could feel his face burning. Crowley looked delighted.

“Sweetheart, not a word I’ve said has been a lie. You are all that and more, the boy should know it.”

“That’s as may be but...” Aziraphale spluttered. “There are limits to...” He inclined his head, pointing to her drink. “How many of those have you had?”

Tracy smiled blissfully. “Vodka martini. A classic. I dunno, a few? Shadwell’s just gone to get me another.”

“Maybe it’s time you slowed down, dear girl. Make that the last one? You don’t want to peak early – save something for later, for Shadwell, or... Where is Newt, by the way?”

“Off dancing with his new friend with the flowy skirt and the long dark hair. And just as well. To Shadwell go the spoils.” She made a toasting motion with her martini glass. She didn’t look upset in the least.

“Well then, take my advice and get Shadwell to walk you home after this drink. Strike iron while it’s hot and all.”

“Iron, you say?” Tracy wiggled her shoulders. Her voice dropped into a sexy register. “Hard as iron, oh, I certainly hope so...”

“Tracy!”

Crowley was doubled over, laughing.

*******

The streets were quiet, though Aziraphale’s ears still rang and his body still thrummed with the memory of the club’s persistent beat.

“Walk? Metro? Taxi?”

“I’ll get us an Uber, angel. Twenty first century and all.”

“If that’s how it’s done these days. I’m not averse to learning. You can show me on your phone.”

“Alright.” Crowley got his phone out of a back pocket, looked up and lifted an eyebrow. “And then maybe you could show me a few things?”

“As soon as I get you home, my dear.”

How was it possible that they could have this? A whole evening of freedom, of being together, out in public, with the prospect of the whole night and the entire morning laid out in front of them like a feast, like a road that rose up and up, ahead and over the horizon. Life still wasn’t fair, Crowley’s situation was shit, Aziraphale’s boss was breathing down his neck – that was all true. But they would deal with it tomorrow. Tonight was now.

They sat in the Uber, pressed thigh to thigh. The city’s night skyline unfolded around them, neon reflecting off dirty snow. The car’s windows were half fogged up from their warm breath.

They held hands in the elevator, watching the floor numbers change slowly – too slowly – on the electronic display. Aziraphale fumbled to get the keys in the lock, one arm around Crowley’s waist. The door gave. They tumbled in.

And then it was simple. A trail of clothes left from the front door to Aziraphale’s bedroom: shoes, shirts, pants – Crowley’s leather ones took a bit of wiggling to remove. “How do you even get into these?” Aziraphale laughed. Crowley kissed the laughter from his lips, saying, “You like them.” Which was true; he did like them. The way they hugged Crowley’s angles, made him look like the bad boy he was and wasn’t. The way Crowley moved when he wore them, like he owned the room, more confident that he’d been in months.

The bed linens were cool against their bare skin. Crowley fell back against the pillows and pulled Aziraphale to him. “Will you fuck me, angel? Do you want that?”

“Very much. Is that what you want?”

“Yes. I took a bath before I went out, I’m clean all over. Just for you.”

“Oh, you lovely boy. So thoughtful. Shift up a bit, let me feast on you. I so badly want to taste all of you.”

“Angel...” More a whimper than a word.

Aziraphale parted Crowley’s thighs, used his thumbs to spread him wide, licked up his cleft. The tightly furled rim was probably pink like the rest of Crowley’s flesh but it was too dark in the room to see. Aziraphale wished they’d turned on a light; he wanted to watch Crowley blush all over. Gently he lapped at the pretty rosette, pushed his tongue inside. Crowley moaned and arched his back, a muscle twitching in his calf.

God, how he loved hearing the sounds of Crowley’s pleasure. All those grunts and sighs and moans, the ones he used to overhear through their shared wall – the ones that had fallen silent when Luca arrived on the scene. They were an indication not just of how turned on Crowley was, but of how comfortable. Comfortable enough to let go.

“Crowley?”

“Huh?” Crowley lifted his head, face flushed, hair disheveled.

“Lube and condoms are in the bedside table. Could you...”

“Right, ‘course.”

A crinkle of plastic wrapping. Cold lube on Aziraphale’s fingers. “There you are, my dear. Slow and steady, just one finger to start. Or maybe two? Been thinking about this all night. I want to make it good for you, so talk to me, all right? Anything doesn’t feel good, you let me know.”

“Feels fucking wonderful so far, angel.”

“Here, why don’t you get on top. I’ll lie down and you straddle me, that way you can go at your pace. We can flip later if you like.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Put your hands on my chest. You can rest your weight on me, I can take it. Go as slow as you like. Ahhh... Oh, Crowley. Oh, you clever thing. You wicked, clever thing...”

Crowley was sinking onto Aziraphale’s cock, lean thighs flexing, hands curled around Aziraphale’s shoulders. His eyes were closed and his mouth had gone slack. Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s buttocks, warm and firm like two ripe peaches, and eased his own hips up a bit, sliding in. Crowley was so welcoming, in this as in other things: he’d let Aziraphale into his life, had confided in him, and now he was letting him into his body. The generosity of it was exceedingly sweet.

Crowley let out a measured breath and began to move up and down, slowly at first, using his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders as leverage. In his position, bent almost double, his stomach was in shadow but Aziraphale could make out the scattering of ginger hair across his chest, trailing down to Crowley’s erect prick, which now bounced against his belly. He wasn’t sure which was better – the feel of Crowley’s tight arsehole holding him so snug or the sight of Crowley moving above him, chasing his own pleasure.

Ah, the sight of Crowley. Sharp nose, plump lower lip, that one slightly crooked tooth, the toned line of his biceps, his shoulders – wide and solid if a bit bony – every part of Crowley was beautiful. Strong and yet vulnerable. Awkward and graceful. Here, in Aziraphale’s arms, in his bed.

Aziraphale ran his hands down Crowley’s lightly furred thighs, the hinge of his knees, his calves, which flexed with every thrust. Crowley’s legs were so long, it was a wonder he fit like this, crouched, straddling Aziraphale’s belly. God, those legs. Aziraphale wanted to see them, to watch them in all their glory, miles and miles of them, from hip to toe. “All right to switch positions?” he asked, and when Crowley nodded, he said, “Hang on, my dear.” Gripping Crowley by the waist, he flipped him over onto his back.

“Wow, you’re strong.” Crowley couldn’t quite catch his breath. “Angel muscles at work.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders. He increased his pace of his thrusts. “Strong for a librarian.”

“Must be. Lifting. All those books.”

“They’re very heavy, yes, my dear.”

“You fuck good. For a...” A few quick breaths. “A librarian.”

“We aim to please. Suggestion box is in the hall. Comments welcome. Criticism too, so long as it’s constructive.”

Crowley gave a half-laugh, half-moan. “M’laughing. Sorry, angel. I’ll stop.”

“Why sorry?”

“Well, s’just... Dunno. Y’don’t mind?”

“Of course not. We’re having a.” Breath. “Lovely time.”

“S’not putting you off?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale slowed down a smidgen; he was getting a little winded too. “This is perfect. You’re enjoying yourself and that’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, listen. I mean it.” Aziraphale paused for a moment, adjusting their position, and then resumed the movement of his hips, thrusting slower and deeper this time. “You’re perfect. I wouldn’t...” Thrust. “Change a thing.”

“Angel...”

“God, you’re lovely.”

“Ngk...”

“That’s right, relax for me. Close your eyes, listen to my voice, feel my cock inside you. This is a good angle for you, isn’t it? Hitting just the right spot? I can tell.” He moved inside Crowley, slow, smooth and deep. Again. And again. “I want to give you pleasure.”

Crowley hummed and closed his eyes, drifting away to his happy place. It made Aziraphale’s chest fill with joy to think he was the cause of that look on Crowley’s face.

“I love watching you enjoy yourself. You turn me on so much. Oh Crowley, so much.”

Crowley moaned and tipped his head back, exposing the long lines of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. Aziraphale dipped down to lick that pale, inviting throat. “How fortunate I am to be here with you. You gorgeous man, you feel so good.”

“Yeah?” Crowley’s forehead crinkled in uncertainty, his tone seeking validation. That someone with his physical attributes could be at all insecure in bed seemed unnatural and wrong, but then the company Crowley had been keeping was not of the reassuring kind. Aziraphale felt a wave of protectiveness well up inside him, wanting nothing more than to take care of Crowley, to love him as he deserved. “My beautiful boy,” he huffed out between thrusts. “You’re doing so well. I’m so pleased with you. You’re so good.”

“A— angel...”

“It feels just divine to be inside you. Better than anything I could have imagined. Better than— Oh, fuck, I’m so close.” Talking was becoming difficult. “Won’t last long. Are you close?”

“God, yeah...” A long, drawn-out moan.

Aziraphale slipped a hand between their bodies to where Crowley was fisting his own cock and joined in the effort. He sped up his movements, snapping his hips hard and fast.

“Aaaah...” The noise Crowley made was almost like a sung glissando, loud and vocalized on a series of pitches. “Angel, ah— Ah... Oh, fuck me, just like that, fuck me...”

Aziraphale did. Crowley raised his arms above his head, like people do on rollercoasters when they embrace the inevitability of the fall, and shook with the force of his orgasm. The blood pounding in Aziraphale’s ears took on the quality of acoustic feedback and everything receded into the background. He was vibrating, turning inside out, his whole body was gloriously alight, every nerve ending thrumming with pleasure.

They slumped together in a heap. After a minute Aziraphale disentangled himself to deal with the condom and fetch a hot washcloth – messy practicalities couldn’t be wished away – and curled around Crowley’s back, holding him around the middle. “All right, my dear boy?”

Crowley had a silly grin on his face. “Still floating, angel. That was somethin’ else.”

“You’re too kind.”

“M’not kind.” Crowley reached over for a kiss. For a moment, they breathed each other’s breath. “Gonna say something that may sound a bit unkind – I have no filter when I’m like this, s’hard to tell what’s okay to say and what isn’t, so sorry if I—”

“You can tell me, whatever it is.”

“S’just...” He turned to face Aziraphale. “You wouldn’t be able to tell, from looking at you. I couldn’t, at first, not when we first met. You don’t look like much, at first glance. You know, older – not old, I don’t mean that, just, middle-aged, you know – M’sorry, I’m making a mess of this—”

“I’m not offended, Crowley. I’m a middle-aged man, not especially fit, with a sedentary job – that’s all true.”

“Yeah, but... See—” Crowley was looking at Aziraphale intently now. “Underneath all that, you’re... You’re so very... Nnnrgh! Why am I so terrible with words?” He scrunched up his face in frustration. “You’re so kind and good, it shines through you, and being with you is like finally being able to breathe after being strangled for ages, but also— Well...” He nestled his nose in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, hiding his face. Speaking more softly, he said, “Angel, that was the best fuck of my entire life, no joke. It was spectacular. I mean, you had me in the palm of your hand, I was flying. And every time with you is like that, it’s like... like you own me, like you could do anything to me, and you do – you take me apart piece by piece, but then you put me back together again so carefully, it’s like I fit better than before. I never knew anyone like that.”

“Oh Crowley.”

“I think I was looking for that, but I didn’t think I’d ever find it. Didn’t think it was possible. Why would I? And now I— Well, I—” He glanced up shyly. “I think I may have found it. In you. Is that okay?” He pulled the duvet up to his chin, looking a little terrified of what he’d just said. Then, trying very hard for casual, he added, “Y’know, it’s fine if it’s not. That’s a whole pile of serious I just unloaded on you, and it’s a lot, I know. If this is just casual, that’s completely fine by me, I can do casual. I’m a pro at casual—”

“Crowley, my dear boy. Shut up, will you?”

Crowley did. You could almost hear his train of thought come to a screeching halt. Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed his mouth, then his eyes, and finally the tip of his nose. “This isn’t casual for me,” he said. “There’s something here, between you and me, something big. I don’t know the shape of it yet, not fully, but I do know that you’re far from a casual fuck for me, Crowley. I’d like to follow this trail and see where it leads. With you.”

Crowley’s eyes somehow got darker as the lines in his forehead relaxed. He smiled. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah, that’d be good.”

After Vincent’s death, Aziraphale had mostly assumed that he was done with love. He’d had his one chance, his partner in crime. A happy home, years of memories like silt settling on the bottom of a river. Someone who knew how he took his tea, a trusted name to put on an emergency contact form. Someone to hold him when life got to be too much. Once in a lifetime was enough; once was a lot, actually. Some people never even got that.

He'd never expected another chance, not one with feelings that ran so high anyway. He’d thought, maybe companionship. A friend with benefits – a man his age, with limited expectations, for whom he could feel fondness, whom he could take to the symphony, maybe get season tickets if they liked each other enough. A tepid relationship, perfect for someone who’d already had his allotment of passion, whose capacity for love had been tempered by grief.

This thing with Crowley... It wasn’t tepid. It wasn’t limited. It was like a window blowing open in a storm, letting in so much of the outside weather that within seconds all the stale air in the room was gone. He found himself shocked to be feeling so much at his age and at this place in his life; it hardly seemed possible. And yet here they were.

“There we are, then,” he murmured into Crowley’s ear and then pulled the duvet over them both. Crowley’s feet found his under the covers, and there was something so comforting about that. Their breathing slowed in tandem.

At the close of the day, thought Aziraphale, something something when I heard how my name... He could never remember the entire poem. He didn’t have the memory for verse that Vincent had had. He did recall the final stanza, and he turned it over in his mind now. It had been years since it accurately described his life. It had once – and now it did again. How about that for a miracle? For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy.

Chapter Text

The first time they woke, it was still early. Crowley turned toward Aziraphale and embraced him, and their semi-tumescent cocks nestled together and hardened in tandem. They joined hands and stroked, pushing down the duvet when it grew too hot. It was quick and sweet. Afterwards, they slept some more.

The second time, it was Aziraphale’s phone that woke them, beeping out a notification. He reached over, blindly, for the bedside table.

“Who the—”

Aziraphale swiped, still blinking back sleep. “Tracy.”

“Doesn’t she sleep?”

“It’s almost ten, my dear boy. And yes, she slept...” A pause. “Oh my.”

“What?”

“With Shadwell, it appears.” Aziraphale sat up. Tracy had sent him a photo of herself grinning like a madwoman and giving a thumbs-up, with Shadwell in the background, still asleep in her bed.

“Let me see!” Crowley reached for the phone.

“A birthday for the ages, it seems.”

“Good for her. She seemed keen on him last night.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Years of longing. Years. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Crowley grinned. “I bet it was really good. All that pent-up desire. I bet he rocked her world.”

“For her sake, I hope so.” Aziraphale frowned over the screen of his phone. “You’d think she’d want nothing more than to stay in bed all day but she’s suggesting dinner later. Oh-- I see. Shadwell has a board meeting of some kind. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t see her for days.”

Crowley pulled the duvet up to his chest. “D’you want me to... clear out?”

“What?”

“I do have lots to do. My place is a mess, my plants need tending. I can go.”

“Why?” Aziraphale put down his phone. “No, Crowley, no. If you can stand to put up with dinner with my friend, I would love for you to be there.”

“Y’sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s just... I had planned on spending the day reading through all those letters I brought home. I’m out of time; I need to tell Gabriel something by tomorrow. Which means I don’t want to traipse around the city, going to some restaurant, or shop for ingredients and then cook.”

“I can do it.”

“You?”

Crowley’s pale chest flushed a pretty pink. “I’m not totally useless in the kitchen, angel. Ramen notwithstanding. I’ll make dinner for you and your friend. Lobster all right?”

Aziraphale goggled. “Did you say lobster?”

“S’not that fancy. But it is just fancy enough for those who aren’t used to it. And it’s the one thing I know how to cook well. Come on, let me dazzle you tonight, angel.”

Crowley seemed excited, and lobster did sound heavenly; Aziraphale smiled. “All right. I look forward to it.”

Crowley rubbed his palms together. “Can’t wait. I’ll have you eating out of my hand.”

“If that’s what you’re into, my dear, I’m open to it.”

“Ha!”

Crowley freshly awakened was a delectable sight. His pale throat and shoulders bore a faint blush, like strawberries and cream. He glowed with youth, with life, all warm from Aziraphale’s bed, and every shift of the duvet released a hint of the musky scent of him: Lapsang souchong tea and pine needles – and sex. The cozy fug of a slept-in bed, a loved-in bed. How could one not desire him? Aziraphale was only human; he reached for Crowley. “Before you run off to do your shopping, my dear...”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but his eyes were bright with happiness. “Again?”

“All right?”

“All right. Not bad for an old man, gotta say.”

“Cheeky. Will you let me have you once more this morning? If you’re not too sore?”

Crowley flushed a deeper pink. “I’d like that. I like you inside me. And I’m not sore.”

“Oh good. Come over here, then.”

All in all, it was a very good morning.

*******

Aziraphale spent the rest of the day elbow deep in the stack of Luigi’s letters he hadn’t yet read. He didn’t bother transcribing or digitizing them at this point – or reading every word, really; there was no time. He merely skimmed them as quickly as possible to get the gist. Could the letter in question be given to Gabriel? Did it contain information they might be able to use as a bargaining chip when dealing with the Malatesta family? He was on the lookout for anything that might prove useful.

There were some carefully worded letters that made it clear that Luigi was deftly sidestepping the censor. More enquiries about how mamma was coping financially. Then the tough censor seems to have been replaced by someone more lax because the letters became more sensual again, with passages about Beatrice’s broad shoulders and clever tongue. There was another Christmas, lonely and cold up in the bush-bordered prison camp, and another spring during which Luigi’s libido ran high. April gave rise to peans to Beatrice’s golden skin and memories of the curls at the nape of her neck and her thumbs pressing into Luigi’s back.

Meanwhile, Crowley went out to get groceries and came back loaded down with enough lobsters to feed the entire alto section, then took over Aziraphale’s kitchen. It was cozy and domestic to have him puttering around just a few feet away. Working separately but sharing the same space, with the expectation of a delicious meal to be eaten together at the end of the day. Aziraphale found himself wishing they could do this sort of thing all the time.

Tracy arrived at a quarter to six. She burst in, shining with joy, and promptly gave Aziraphale an enthusiastic hug. Then she turned toward the kitchen. “You must be Crowley. Did I meet you last night?” she asked hesitantly. “Only I can’t quite remember. If I made an idiot of myself, I’m really sorry. Vodka martinis do tend to go to my head.”

Crowley shrugged. “It was fine, just a little harmless fun. And yes, we met. Aziraphale introduced us. Happy birthday again.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You were three sheets to the wind, my dear. I’m surprised you didn’t spend today with your head in the toilet,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, I’m too excited to be hung over. Plus Shadwell made me drink plenty of water. He took care of me last night.”

“Did he now?” Aziraphale said. “Come sit down and tell me all about it. Crowley’s got dinner handled. Right, dear boy?”

Crowley winked at him.

They settled on the couch. “Oh Azi,” Tracy said, aglow. “It was so great. He was so sweet to me. Took me home, gave me water, stroked my hair. By then I was mostly sober, and he hadn’t really been drinking much to begin with, so he was fully in control of his faculties.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “You know his hands are a bit rough – it’s winter and he doesn’t use lotion; he’s such a typical man, nothing in his bathroom but soap and shaving cream. So his palms snagged on my hair and he apologized, and then...”

“And then?”

“He sort of kissed my temple, and then he worked his way down...” She nearly shivered with delight at telling her story. “And he helped me out of my boots and we ended up in my bed and – oh, Azi.” She lowered her voice and glanced around the room.

“You can tell me.”

“He calls it his thundergun,” she whispered. “Which is a bit silly, I know, but he does know how to use it.”

“So he used it on you?” Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling.

She leaned in closer. “Twice. Hit the target both times. You wouldn’t know, but it’s a bit more challenging for women, especially the first time you’re with someone new. It’s not like with men, you pop the cork on the champagne bottle and poof, you’re spraying bubbles all over the room, guaranteed. With women it takes a bit more finesse. Sometimes you don’t climax until you’ve gotten comfortable with a new lover, not the first time certainly, not right away. But with Shadwell... Well, it wasn’t an issue.” She looked impressed. “I was actually a bit surprised. He doesn’t have that much experience. Not, you know. Like me. But it seems he’s a natural.”

“You also fancy him a lot, that probably helped.”

She nodded. “There is that.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley in the kitchen, his red hair damp from steaming lobster pots, his cheeks flushed from the heat, his socked feet on the kitchen tiles. So beautiful. Yes, when you fancied someone even the ordinary things were exceptional.

“And then this morning,” Tracy continued, “he was so sweet to me again. And we’re seeing each other again later tonight. Maybe we’ll actually get more sleep this time.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

She laughed. “I’m not. But you know – I think this actually might go somewhere. Not just a one-off. He’s all gruff on the outside, but on the inside he’s quite tender. And – well, I feel like he’s letting me in.” She looked peaceful; her fizzing excitement had mellowed into a quiet happiness. “What about you two?”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. “Very similar to you, dear,” he said.

“Well, aren’t we the lucky ones then.”

*******

“Crowley, this is incredible.” Tracy had just reached for her second helping of lobster tails with homemade garlic butter. “Best I’ve ever had.”

“Save some room for the lobster rolls, they’re fantastic too.” Aziraphale had had three helpings, and now felt full enough to bursting – but it had been worth it. Crowley had made lobster two ways, with simple but delicious ingredients and the freshest rolls he could buy on a Sunday afternoon. He must have gone to the bakery at the market, not just the closest grocery store. In any case, he’d gone above and beyond, and the end product was worthy of accolades. “Aren’t you glad you came over for dinner, my dear girl?”

“And here I thought it was only Azi who could cook.”

“He’s better than me; I’m just a one-trick pony,” Crowley said. “Nothing but seafood.”

“I’m not sure you remember, Tracy, but you mentioned my cooking skills last night. My other skills too. Trying to pimp me out to Crowley. It’s a wonder you didn’t strip me naked to show off my assets.”

“I did not!”

Crowley grinned. “You did actually. When we officially met. Quite a memorable introduction.”

“God, how embarrassing!”

“Have some more lobster, my dear, you’ll feel better.”

“No more for you?” Crowley inclined his head in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Not for a while; need to focus on these.” Aziraphale had taken a break from reading in order to eat, but it was already almost eight in the evening, and there was a small stack of letters still left to go.

“You’ll let us know if you find something juicy?” Tracy had re-tied her lobster bib around her neck and was loading up her plate.

“Of course. The censor seems to have taken to drink, and the last few ones have been raunchier than usual, so there’s a good chance.”

“Oh good.” Tracy tucked in. “Has he been giving you the blow-by-blow, so to speak?” she asked Crowley.

“The highlights.”

She lowered her voice and said reassuringly, “I’m sure there’s something in there that we can use. It’s just a matter of strategizing about it. We’ll get that awful man off your back. I’ve talked to Newt about it a few times – that’s our choir friend with the newspaper connections. We’re supposed to be meeting about it this week. And it turns out that Shadwell’s niece runs a detective agency. She’s young but a crackerjack at her job, he’s really proud of her. If it’s all right with you, we’ll get her involved.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Means a lot that you’re trying, even if nothing comes of it,” said Crowley.

“You’ll be all right, pet.”

Aziraphale stirred from his spot on the sofa. “You know, I think this censor must have been a raging alcoholic; it’s hard to believe some of these things got past him. Listen to this: ‘Lately I’ve been thinking about having your fingers inside me. When all the others are asleep I slip my hand between my legs and pretend it’s you.’ It’s not as if there was proper lubricant in an internment camp. God only knows what he was using.”

“Lard?” ventured Crowley.

“Butter?” said Tracy.

“As if there’d be butter in a prisoner of war camp,” said Aziraphale. “They weren’t that fancy.” After a few moments he piped up again. “Cooking oil! Says here he started working in the kitchen. And that the oil came in handy.”

“Resourceful,” Crowley said with approval.

“People will do all kinds of things when they’re desperate for some physical love.” Tracy leaned toward Crowley as if to share a confidence. “I mean when they’re lonely and they’re feeling amorous.”

Crowley leaned toward her in turn. “Marine grease,” he said. “On my father’s boat. That was my first time with another man; I was seventeen, he was older. Hard to wash that stuff out of underwear, I tell ya. Had to throw that pair out.”

“I bet.” Tracy nodded sagely.

Aziraphale looked up from the letter in his lap. “Oh Crowley. Was he kind to you? I mean, was it a good first time?”

“It was pretty much what you’d expect, quick and dirty. Not bad though. Didn’t get caught, which is the main thing. It’s what I mostly worried about.”

From the tone of Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale deduced that things would not have gone well for him if he had been caught. It made him wonder about Crowley’s father, which in turn made him think about his mafia boyfriend and the trouble Crowley was dealing with. He leaned over the letters again, determined to find something useful.

“Not sure if Azi mentioned it,” Tracy was saying to Crowley, “but I had a bit of a sideline back in the day. Helping lonely hearts with the physical needs they couldn’t get met elsewhere, discipline for the discerning gentleman – you know, that sort of thing. I’ve heard all kinds of stories, but marine grease is a new one for me. Few people surprise me, so thanks for that.”

“S’just because of where I grew up.” Crowley shrugged.

“Human experience never ceases to amaze me. You’re a fascinating young man, Crowley.”

“M’not. You’re the interesting one. You should write it all down. All the stories you have, I mean. I bet you’ve seen a lot.”

“Maybe one day. Then I can be like Luigi, there.”

“Ha.”

Aziraphale looked up again. “Speaking of Luigi, I think the censor must have given up altogether because this last letter is the raunchiest yet. Listen to this: ‘When I get back home, I want you to fuck me. Hold me down and fuck me though the mattress.’ Written down on paper, plain as day. In the year of our Lord 1944.”

“Oh my,” Tracy fanned herself. “Quite a girl, that Beatrice.”

“Wait, there’s more,” Aziraphale continued. “Listen to the rest: ‘Push me down and slick me up and’ — Wait, hold on.” He stopped, holding the letter out in front of him. “This doesn’t quite make sense.”

“What?” asked Crowley.

“Unless... Oh my God.” Aziraphale stood up, clutching the letter. “Oh my God, it can’t be. It’s not as if the rest of the letters said... But then again, it’s not as if they didn’t say...”

“Azi, what does it say?” Tracy was standing up now too, her dinner forgotten.

“It says: ‘Push me down and slick me up and... slide your hard cock inside me.’”

For a moment a stunned silence filled the room. Then, in a flash, both Crowley and Tracy were by Aziraphale’s side, peering at the letter. “What else does it say?”

Aziraphale kept reading. “’I need to feel you fucking me, hard and long. I’ve missed your cock so much, missed the feeling of being so full of you I feel complete. Your broad hands holding me down. Your teeth nipping at my neck. I miss your arms around me.’ And then later, down here, it says, ‘I know what you’ll say, that it’s not possible, that we have to be patient, that we need to be men about it. That this war will end eventually and we can be together, even if we can never walk down the street openly, like lovers.’”

“Holy shit.” Crowley was pale. “Does that mean Beatrice was a man?”

“Hold on, Azi,” Tracy said, the glint of an idea in her eyes. “Are any of the letters actually addressed to Beatrice? Like, does he ever use her name? Does he say ‘Dear Beatrice’?”

Aziraphale thought back on all those hours peering at nearly illegible pencil marks. “Actually, no. They all say, ‘my love’ or ‘amore’ or something along those lines. But they were mailed to Beatrice, every one. The envelopes have survived. They’re authentic, the postmarks, the handwriting, the paper quality, all of it, it matches the letters.”

“But does he ever say things about her breasts when he writes – about missing them, wanting to touch them? Her cunt? Her waist, her curves? Do any of the letters mention that?”

“No. Just – mouth, hands, shoulders.” Calloused hands. Broad shoulders. Things were starting to slot into place. Aziraphale felt a shiver go down his back.

Crowley peered at the page in Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel, there’s a postscript down here. It’s kind of sideways, hard to read.”

Tracy bent down. “It says... ‘Please thank B. None of this would be possible without her. We owe her so much.’”

The three of them looked at each other as understanding slowly dawned.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “I know which of these letters I won’t be giving to Gabriel tomorrow. Now let’s see how soon we can get Newt to meet with us. There’s a lot to talk about now we know that one of the biggest local mafia bosses was in love with another man.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale and Crowley barely slept on Sunday night, too busy discussing the implications of Luigi’s hidden love life. They finished reading the rest of the letters, kept a handful that were especially revealing, and then brought the remaining ones back to the library around one o’clock in the morning – thankful for extended library hours during exam time. Aziraphale put them back in his office, in a locked closet – all well out of Gabriel’s sight. It was as if the letters had never gone missing in the first place; if pressed, Aziraphale could chalk it up to Gabriel simply not having found them.

It took three days to gather what Tracy referred to as their “war council.” They met on Wednesday night at Aziraphale’s apartment, over take-out pizza, as no one had the presence of mind to actually cook anything.

There was Newt, who’d somehow managed to break the intercom on arriving and looked very apologetic and uncoordinated, if keen to help. And there was Tracy, who had brought Shadwell – which surprised Aziraphale at first until he remembered that Shadwell had been a sergeant in the army reserves in his younger days. Tracy assured them that he was a deft hand at strategy and could come in useful. Newt and Shadwell eyed each other warily.

Crowley merely shrugged and said, “What’s one more?” and then retreated into the background. He’d been a bit embarrassed at the fuss that was being made over helping him. “But you play in front of hundreds of people. You’re used to attention,” Aziraphale had said earlier, to which Crowley had replied, “That’s different; that’s about the music, not about me.”

The biggest surprise of all was the young woman Shadwell brought with him, whom he introduced as his niece. “Pippin Moonchild or some such hogwash,” Shadwell said, “but she has the good sense to call herself Pepper. More sense than both her parents put together.” He looked gruffly proud. Despite her youthful appearance, Pepper ran a private detective agency, so her inclusion in the war council made sense. She explained that the past few days had been all hands on deck at the agency as she and her three “partners” – Adam, Brian and Wensleydale – gathered as much information on the Malatestas as they could. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether that meant partners in a professional or in a more personal capacity. Given Pepper’s offhand remarks about oppression and the patriarchy (and the “to hell with monogamy” T-shirt she wore), it could really have been either.

Aziraphale’s head was spinning, but he felt grateful that all these people were helping Crowley.

They gathered around the dining room table, crowded though it was. Aziraphale brought out a bottle of wine, which he figured couldn’t hurt. “Thank you all for being here,” he said. “I’m not sure how much each of you knows about the situation we’re trying to remedy. It is rather sensitive.” He caught Crowley’s eye.

Crowley cleared his throat, looking both brave and resigned. “No point in mincing words, angel. Basically, turns out I’m dating a member of the mob. He’s not a nice man. I’d like to put a stop to it before he seriously hurts me. But I’m scared that if I try to break it off, he’ll hurt me even worse. If you got any ideas, we’ll take ‘em.”

“Statistically, it’s when you’re leaving an abusive relationship that you’re most at risk,” Pepper said. “All thanks to possessiveness, jealousy and toxic masculinity. I can see why you’d worry. And the mafia angle makes it worse.”

Crowley blanched and reached for the wine bottle. Tracy hurried to reassure him. “None of this is news, pet, but it is why we’re here. We do have information which gives us some power, after all.”

“If we need to make things public, I can help,” piped up Newt at the same time that Pepper said, “We’ve been looking into things with our agency, seeing what more we could find out—” A low buzz of conversation rose around the table as everyone started talking at once.

Shadwell stood up. He looked around, making eye contact with each person in turn until the whole table fell silent. Then he sat back down. “Why don’t we start with the basics,” he said. “What do we know? Crowley’s so-called friend is Luca Malatesta, a member of one of the city’s preeminent crime families. Crowley and Luca have been sleeping together for a number of months now, and Luca’s sadistic streak is getting worse – sorry to be so blunt about a personal matter, but we’re all adults here.” He looked at Crowley.

Crowley nodded for him to keep going.

Shadwell continued, “Luca doesn’t take rejection well. There’s precedent there; he’s hurt others. Badly. Am I right? And given his family’s reach and deep pockets, he has more power than anyone else we know. Crowley can’t just file an assault complaint, and getting the police involved would be pointless. Anything else that’s relevant?”

“He’s in the closet,” Crowley said. “Like, deep in the closet. Crazy paranoid about being found out, or about things being made public.”

“And based on what Tracy told me a few days ago, staying deep in the closet is a Malatesta family tradition – and we have the documents that prove it. Anyone have anything else to add?” Shadwell asked.

No one volunteered any information.

Shadwell smiled. “Pepper,” he said. “You’re up, girl.”

Pepper took out her phone and scrolled for a moment. Then she looked up, all business. “We’ve spent the past two days combing through local newspapers, parish records, the local Mormon archive – you know they keep genealogical info on everyone, right? – and anything else we could get our hands on. This is what we know about the Malatesta family. Luigi was released from the Petawawa internment camp near the end of 1944. He and Beatrice got married in the fall of 1947.”

“It took them three years? Not sure if that’s a lot or a little,” said Aziraphale.

“There was a real marriage and baby boom after the war. All those returning servicemen,” said Pepper. “And getting married young was the norm. Like, crazy young. But by the time they tied the knot Luigi was 27 and Beatrice was 24, so I’d say it was a bit on the late side by the standards of the time. Maybe they waited because they had no money? But many couples didn’t let that get in their way. So I suspect it was more of a question of—”

“Sexual orientation,” said Crowley.

“Exactly,” said Pepper. “Family and community pressure finally got to them, so they got married. And here’s a real interesting fact.” She paused and grinned. “They lived in the same apartment for the entire time they were married, basically for the rest of their lives. And the whole time they had a boarder living with them. His name was Stefano Ricciuto. Beatrice’s older brother. He’s there during the 1951 census, and the 1961 census too, into the early 1980s.”

“Wow.” Crowley put his wine glass down. “S’that the man Luigi was writing letters to?”

“As far as we can tell, yeah,” said Pepper.

“That’s... kind of touching,” said Aziraphale. “It is a love story after all.”

“Let’s not lose sight of the fact that this is the same family who ran prostitution rings, smuggled drugs, and broke people’s legs if they didn’t pay back their debts,” Shadwell said. “Let’s stay on task here. Pepper?”

“So they’re married, right?” said Pepper. “And what’s the first thing you get asked if you’re a young bride? Or a young woman in a serious relationship?”

Tracy gave her a look of solidarity. “When are you going to have a baby?”

“Exactly, right?” Pepper and Tracy shared a look. “As if that’s anyone’s business but her own. Maybe she doesn’t want kids. Maybe she’d rather do something else with her life. But no, the patriarchy will insist on keeping her down, as if it’s her goddamned obligation to procreate and—”

“Pepper...” Shadwell said gently.

“Sorry, uncle. Getting off track. Anyway, the pressure on Beatrice must have been intense, so in 1949 she had a son, Lorenzo. There were three more kids, but not until later, and there’s a bit of a sad story there. Lorenzo died when he was nine years old. Meningitis.”

“Oh...” Tracy covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, probably was,” Pepper continued. “So Lorenzo died early in 1958, and that same year, around Christmas, Beatrice had another boy, Dominic.” She glanced over at Tracy. “He’s still alive, that one. Hard at work keeping organized crime on the streets of Montreal, so don’t worry.”

“Still, poor Beatrice,” said Tracy.

“By this time Beatrice is in her mid thirties. Not sure why – whether she wanted more kids or the family insisted she have more – whatever reason: she had two more in quick succession. A girl in 1960, Samantha. And a boy in 1963, Luca. That’s your man,” Pepper said to Crowley.

Crowley nodded. “So that means that Luca is almost 60 right now.”

“Why, how old did he tell you he was?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, he didn’t really. But he likes to give the impression that he’s younger. Early fifties, maybe. He’s very particular about how he looks.”

“Yeah, that’s the impression we’ve gotten about Luca,” said Pepper. “He’s the family dandy. Also the family black sheep; he’s caused them all kinds of trouble in the past. Spends the most money too. And then they have to spend even more, cleaning up his messes.”

“When you say ‘they’...” Crowley gestured with his wine glass.

“We mostly mean Samantha, his older sister. And this is the really interesting bit.” Pepper looked excited and a little smug. “Turns out, she’s the one who really runs things. I mean, officially it’s Dominic and his sons. Traditional, male-dominated organization, all that crap. But really, it’s her.”

“Isn’t she the one who gave all those TV and newspaper interviews?” Aziraphale asked. He had a half-remembered image of a compact woman in a smart suit, hair neatly styled in a silver bob.

“Yep, she’s the one.”

“So it was her idea to donate the letters in the first place?” Crowley asked.

“We think so. And it’s likely because of her son. Samantha has two kids,” she explained. “Maria is older, has a baby, a job – pretty ordinary, mostly keeps to herself. Sergio is the younger one. He’s in his early thirties, has a law degree from McGill, and – as far as rumours go – would like to get into city politics.”

“And maybe later federal politics, who knows,” said Newt. “We published an article speculating about his ambitions around the time of the donation.”

“Anyway, Samantha seems keen to help him get there,” said Pepper. “I mean, I’m sure it would be useful to the family.”

“All those city contracts, garbage collection, bridge construction.” Shadwell helped himself to another slice of pizza. “I mean, they get half of them already anyway, but having one of their own as city councillor would smooth the way. And later mayor. You can just imagine.”

Crowley was nodding. His wine glass, half-drunk, sat abandoned by his plate. He looked absorbed in the conversation, full of purpose and hope. Maybe something would come of their little war council, maybe it would actually free him from Luca’s orbit. Aziraphale sent up a fervent prayer to a God he half-believed in.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Tracy held up an index finger. “Samantha donates the letters to the archive and then does all those media interviews. The press goes crazy for the Romeo and Juliet story, which is what she’s after – good publicity for the Malatestas. And most of the letters bear the story out. Except a few don’t – and those end up casting doubt on the whole house of cards. So why would she have let those letters slip through her fingers? Carelessness? Or did she honestly not know what was in them?”

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale. “Honestly, with the number of letters there are, and Luigi’s awful chicken scratch writing, it would have taken some serious commitment to read through them all. Maybe she just didn’t realize. About Luigi and Stefano.”

“She must have realized at some point, or else why would Gabriel have asked to see them or tried so hard to get them back?” Crowley said.

“Maybe someone screwed up. Maybe she delegated and someone let her down. It happens,” said Aziraphale.

“Luca?” Crowley suggested.

“Mhm,” Pepper said through a mouthful of pizza. “He sounds like the kind who screws up a lot.”

“Or maybe...” Newt spoke up; he was looking off into space, deep in thought. “Maybe something tipped her off. About what might be in the rest of the letters. Like, maybe she found more documents. Got new information.”

Tracy caught Newt’s eye. “Those letters, they’re all about Luigi. What he thought, what he felt – all his experience. So he had his love affair with Stefano, bully for him. But what about Beatrice? Where is she in all this? Making it all possible, passing letters, keeping secrets, that’s where. Having her husband and his lover in her house all those years, giving birth to all those children, raising them, grieving for her dead son. Can you imagine?” She wiped a tear off her cheek. “I’m sorry, I can’t help but wonder about her. What was she thinking all those years?”

“We may never know,” Aziraphale said. “Archival sources are like that. You don’t always get the full story.”

“Still...” Shadwell looked around the room like a general appraising his troops. “All things considered, I think we know quite a lot. Now let’s think about what it all means.”

“Meaning?” Crowley sat back in his chair, adopting his familiar slouch.

“Meaning – and I’m not trying to offend anyone, Pepper, just seeing things as they are, not necessarily as they should be,” Shadwell shot his niece a meaningful glance. “Meaning, is Luigi actually the father of Beatrice’s children?”

“He is on their birth certificates,” Pepper said.

“And really...” Crowley squirmed a little. “He could very well be, you know. Just because he preferred men doesn’t mean he didn’t like women too. He could have—”

“Exactly! Being bisexual is a real thing!” Pepper sounded indignant.

Shadwell held up his hands. “Fair enough. So, let’s say he is the father, and that’s the reality. Now imagine that a rumour starts circulating that maybe he’s not the father, that there’s some doubt about the kids’ paternity. In an organization where family is everything, where they value tradition, where power runs along lines of loyalty and inheritance – how damaging do you think that rumour could be?”

"Shit.” Crowley sounded impressed.

“And not only that,” Shadwell went on. “And again – sorry, don’t mean to offend present company. Only, it has to be said. Italian mafia families, they’re conservative, male-dominated, macho as hell.”

“Homophobic up to their eyeballs,” said Pepper.

“Exactly. See where I’m going with this?”

Aziraphale sat up. “You’re saying that if that organization found out that one of its original members—”

“The godfather figure,” said Crowley.

“—was gay,” Aziraphale continued, “it could do some real damage.”

“Bingo,” said Shadwell. “And what if their competitors found out? Rival gangs? It could cause trouble. Chaos maybe. Jockeying for position. Territorial wars. And on a different level – just think about Sergio’s political ambitions. He’s counting on the vote of the Italian community here in town, right?”

“Naturally,” said Newt. “He’d probably do events at community centres, Italian parishes, photo-ops at Italian-owned restaurants, coffee shops.”

“Thing is,” Shadwell went on, “the Italian community is pretty conservative around here. Not exactly progressive. Way more conservative and old-school than actual Italians back in Europe. I mean there’s that church here in town that still has a mural of Mussolini on its wall.”

“Is that for real?” asked Crowley. “I thought that was just a rumour.”

“No, it’s actually there. A picture of Il Duce, leftover from the 1930s. People don’t mind it.”

“But being gay they’ll mind,” Crowley said sadly.

“Well, let’s just say it could cost Sergio some votes. Which would undo all of Samantha’s hard PR work. Anyway.” Shadwell sat back in his chair. “Information is power. And we’ve got some pretty powerful information here.”

“It’s just a question of how to use it,” said Tracy.

“Hey, do you have copies of those letters?” asked Newt. “If you don’t yet, then make sure you make copies. Put them somewhere safe. For, you know, leverage or whatever.”

“Newt is right,” said Shadwell. “And if you’re going to be talking to anyone, it should be Samantha, Luca’s sister. That’s my instinct on that. She’s smart, she’s got her eye on the big picture, she’s the one who pulls the strings in the family, and if anyone has any influence over her baby brother, it’ll probably be her.”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley. Then both nodded in acknowledgement.

“But be careful, lads,” said Shadwell. “We all know these aren’t nice people.”

Chapter Text

Two days later Aziraphale woke to the sound of Crowley tuning Bentley in the living room. It was still early, not even seven a.m., but neither of them had been sleeping well lately – too much on their minds. Still, playing early-morning music was a healthy coping strategy; it was something Crowley used to do in the days before Luca. Aziraphale lay back and listened. Crowley seemed to be playing some version of a major scale, but very slowly, almost as if in meditation. Ascending, then descending. Like breathing.

After a few minutes of this, Aziraphale got up and peeked into the living room. Crowley had his eyes closed, focused but peaceful. His jaw held no tension. Aziraphale stood and watched for a while.

When Crowley put down his bow, Aziraphale padded over to the kitchen island to quietly put the kettle on.

“Mornin’ angel.”

“Good morning. Were those just scales or was it something else?”

“It’s a piece by Arvo Pärt, the Estonian composer. There’s a piano part too; it’s amazing when you hear the two instruments together, so meditative. But no piano today, just in my head.”

“You have it memorized?”

“S’one of my favourites. I can let you hear a recording, you’ll see, it’s beautiful.” Crowley ran a finger along Bentley’s flank. “Would love to play it in concert one day.”

“No doubt you will.”

“Maybe.” Crowley’s face had clouded over once more. Whatever peace had been there while he was playing, was gone. “Gotta do the Elgar first. And... well. You know. Deal with things.”

“Speaking of.” Aziraphale carefully poured himself a cup of tea, then set the kettle down. “Tracy called last night. She’s got Samantha’s contact information – her personal cell number: the one the office doesn’t have on file; the one only Gabriel had access to. You were out playing a gig, or else I’d have told you right away.”

“How’d she manage to get it?”

“Sneaked into Gabriel’s office, apparently. Got it off his computer when he wasn’t looking.”

“Just like that?” Crowley looked impressed.

“Right under his nose, too. She says she’s as good as invisible to men like Gabriel because she’s just a secretary. She has no fancy title, no letters after her name.”

“What she does have is balls. Way more than Gabriel.”

“I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll be pleased.” Aziraphale reached up into the cupboard to get the black mug Crowley favoured. The sole survivor of a matching set that had broken years ago, it had sat in a back corner of the top shelf until Crowley unearthed it and made it his own. “Coffee?”

“The answer to that question is usually yes, angel. You know that by now.” Crowley stifled a yawn as he bundled Bentley back into its case.

This was true, especially in the morning. Crowley wasn’t fully conscious until partway through his second cup. “Still just instant, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said. He fished for a teaspoon in the drawer. “I keep meaning to get one of those fancy machines you like, but I wouldn’t want to get the wrong one. We should go shopping together one day, pick one out.”

Talking like this was tricky territory but something they both indulged in. Making plans for things they wouldn’t be able to do unless – until – Luca had been got out of the way. It was like testing the ice on a frozen lake, listening for the telltale crack. We can make it across, sure we can. Maybe not today, but certainly tomorrow.

Crowley sauntered over to Aziraphale, accepted the mug. Sipped. His face was serious; he seemed to be readying himself to take some sort of step, like a diver poised above a swimming pool, picturing in his mind the twists and turns he was about to execute.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley set down his coffee, determined. “Will you give me that number?” he asked.

“Samantha’s number?”

“The very same.”

Aziraphale sipped tea from his cup, prolonging the silence. “Why do you want it?”

“Come on, angel, don’t play dumb.”

“Why, I never!”

“Apologies.” Crowley held up his hands. “No offense meant. Just— stop stalling, please.”

“Stalling?”

“We both know that the phone call needs to be made. As distasteful as it is to profit from homophobia – and it does make me cringe, angel, believe me – it’s better than the alternative. I think we can agree on that.”

“You don’t think contacting Samantha would make things worse for you? Draw the entire family’s attention to you, shine a spotlight on you? They are criminals, after all. I admit, I worry about that a little.”

Crowley sighed. “Worse? Than what, the shit he’s already putting me through?”

“From the frying pan into the fire... No, of course.” Aziraphale felt chastened. “You’re right; the frying pan is already ablaze. I’m being overly cautious.”

“Listen,” Crowley continued. “I think I should be the one to make the call. I’m the one with the problem here, so I should be the one who faces the music and reaches out to solve it. If things go badly, then I’m the one who deals with the consequences and the damage is contained. You don’t suffer. It’s clean, simple. S’the logical choice.” Crowley picked up his mug and took a long swallow. The dive had been performed, the twists and turns as precise as Crowley had meant them to be. The outcome was now in the hands of the judging panel. Over to you, Crowley was saying, see what you make of this.

Aziraphale felt his heart rate accelerate. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Because, my dear boy, I hate your idea.”

“But that’s not an actual argument, angel. That’s just you being emotional. Being emotional won’t get us anywhere; now hand over the phone number.”

“And what if I say no?”

“Look.” Crowley huffed with annoyance. “I’m stubborn and this isn’t a hill worth dying on. So quit being difficult. Give me the bloody number.”

Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height. In his comfortable slippers, he would never tower over Crowley but he could face him, eye to eye. “No one will be dying on my watch, my dear. Certainly not you.”

“I wasn’t planning on dying, angel.”

“It’s not a question of planning! Don’t you see? It’s not your actions I’m worried about. It’s the people we’re facing. Crowley, darling, don’t you think you’ve had enough dealings with that family? You face that dreadful man multiple times each week, put up with his demands, his twisted requests and desires – never having the chance to say no, no less. And now you want to face his sister and explain why you’d like to be released from this prison he’s got you locked in? Why should you have to do it? Don’t you think you’ve done enough? That would be like sending a shell-shocked war veteran into combat. It’s inhuman.”

“I can do it.” Crowley gritted his teeth.

“You shouldn’t need to. I’m more than capable.”

“And I’m not?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Aziraphale felt his fingernails dig into his palms. This was infuriating and, in its own strange way, as familiar as a repeating echo. He and Vincent had had their share of arguments over the years, generally minor ones. The fights they had towards the end, though – those ones had been weightier, fraught with consequence.

Butting heads over Vincent’s treatment options once the leukemia had progressed from chronic to acute, they’d both dug their heels in. Vincent had pushed for a stem cell transplant – fifty percent chance of success, think about it, love, I could be free of it forever! – but Aziraphale was terrified of the gaping chasm that awaited them should they leap and not land safely. If the transplant failed, there would be no going back. Vincent wasn’t that young, which made him more vulnerable; a more conservative treatment plan would not cure him, but it would give them more time. After all, a fifty percent chance of success also meant a fifty percent chance of failure. And should you really stake your life on the flip of a coin?

In the end, Vincent had prevailed – it was his body, after all. They’d never flipped an actual coin but, looking back, sometimes Aziraphale would visualize it – he’d see the quarter turning in the air in slow motion, the metal glinting as it fell down, down...

“Angel? Earth to angel...” Crowley touched his hand. “Where’d you go, there? You were miles away for a minute.”

“Sorry. Just... sorry.”

“S’alright. It’s a lot, I know. Here, drink your tea.”

“Yes. Tea.” The cup felt warm in his hand.

Crowley smiled at him, took a final gulp of his coffee. “We don’t need to sort this out today, you know.”

“But we should.”

“Oh yeah, we definitely should. And one simple way to be done with it once and for all? Agree with me, give me the number.”

“Oh, Crowley...”

Apparently there was no way off this merry-go-round. They’d just keep going in circles forever.

“Come on, Aziraphale. My idea makes the most sense. Surely even you can see that.”

“What do you mean, even me?”

“Nothing.” Crowley grimaced, ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, m’terrible with words. I just meant that—"

“That what, I’m old and decrepit and incapable of seeing sense? That I’m unwilling to take risks? That you wouldn’t trust me with this? Is that what you meant?”

“Aziraphale, dammit, no, not at all. I do trust you, that’s not what this is about. Shit, don’t take this so personally, angel. It’s not about you.”

“Not about me? Not personal?” A flush of rage crept up Aziraphale’s collar. “The fuck it’s not! Crowley, this is about you! About your life, your safety, your wellbeing. That’s personal as hell, if you ask me. I don’t know what you’ve been doing these past couple of months, but I’ve been busy falling in love with you, you infuriating creature. I can’t imagine my life without you!”

Crowley’s face froze mid-expression. “Angel, I... I... I—”

“And that means I’m responsible for you, don’t you see? It means I have to protect you, keep you safe. Keep you out of trouble. And when you insist on making disastrous choices, like this one, then it’s my job to... to dissuade you from—”

“From what?”

“From, well, making a mistake. Getting yourself into hot water. Like—”

“Like I’ve already done, right?” Crowley took a step back, gripping his empty coffee cup. “Getting myself mixed up with a member of the mob, is that what you’re getting at? Stupid Crowley, sure knows how to pick ‘em. Idiot Crowley, up to his ears in a mess of his own making, and now you have to clean it up because he can’t do it himself. Oh, it was only a matter of time before you threw that in my face, wasn’t it? I should’ve known this thing between us was too good to be true, I should’ve known...”

“Crowley, no! That’s not it—”

“Then, what, angel?! What are you trying to do here?”

“Just... guide you. You know, point you in the right direction. For your own—”

“My own good?” Crowley’s tone was icy cold. The coffee mug in his hand was shaking. “Are you fucking serious? Aziraphale, I’m not a child. And you’re not my father. I already have a father back home. He once tried to ‘point me in the right direction’ for my own good, angel, did you know that? Thought I was turning into too much of a sissy, thought forcing me to play football would turn me into a real man. That, and taking away my cello. I nearly broke my hand during my first game, and then as if that wasn’t enough, some of the other players cornered me in the locker room after and showed me what they thought of my athletic skills. Kicked me ‘till I puked.”

“Crowley, I’m so sorry...”

“And the best part of all? My father made me play out the season. Character-building, he said. Oh, it sure was.” Crowley was waving the coffee cup around now, as if for emphasis. “But you know what? Joke was on him. And you know why? Because at the end of it all, I was just as limp-wristed as I’d been at the start, but I was tough. Because I could take it. And through it all I refused to apologize for who I was – and I still do, angel, I will not apologize for who I am! And you know the type of person I could never be? Someone who lets others do his dirty work for him, put themselves in danger on my behalf, when it’s my job, my responsibility, my fucking problem, my goddamn—” The coffee mug flew out of his hand and smashed against the counter. Shards of crockery flew around the kitchen, landing in the sink and on the floor by Crowley’s bare feet. “Shit. Oh, shit.” Crowley’s shoulders fell. His hands were still shaking.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stepped forward carefully in his slippers. “It’s all right, it’s just a silly mug.” He wiped the broken shards off the kitchen island. “Can you hop up here? Watch your feet, you don’t want to get cut. I’ll sweep the floor.”

“Sorry, angel. Idiot Crowley strikes again.” Crowley seemed deflated, though his eyes were still angry. Slowly, he hoisted himself up onto the counter.

“No! It’s nothing like that! And you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Oh look – here’s a tiny piece right in the arch of your foot. Hold on, let me get it. Does that hurt? It’s bleeding a little.” Aziraphale grabbed a paper towel, dabbed. Ran his hands over the soles of Crowley’s feet. “I think that’s it.”

“Yeah. S’just the one.”

“I’ll sweep up and then get the peroxide and a band-aid.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Crowley was looking down. His mouth was a horizontal slash of suppressed fury.

He’s right, Aziraphale thought as he rummaged in the bathroom cabinet. You’re not his father, nor do you have any right to make decisions on his behalf. Especially not in reaction to perceived past mistakes that have nothing to do with him. Vincent would have laughed. He would have reached out his bear-like paw of a hand and stroked Aziraphale’s shoulder blade and said... And said...

Grief over Vincent’s absence grabbed Aziraphale by the heart and squeezed like a vise. He rested a hand on the bathroom counter and breathed through it. In, out. One, two, three. The decisions we made about my treatment options are not your burdens to carry, Vincent would have said. And – my sweet idiot, don’t hold on so tight. You can’t change the past anyway; why let it fuck up your future?

The vise in the middle of Aziraphale’s chest released as the wave of grief receded. He slumped for a moment, drained. Would Vincent have said that last bit? He might have. With a twinkle in his eye, too. Aziraphale exhaled. Then he reached for his phone and headed back into the kitchen.

Crowley was still perched on the counter, a self-contained ball of indignation. He side-eyed Aziraphale.

“Here, give me your foot.” Aziraphale tipped the peroxide onto some cotton wool. “I brought you a pair of socks too; you’d best put them on while I get out the vacuum.” Gently he cradled Crowley’s heel in the palm of his hand, disinfected the cut, peeled off the band-aid backing. “You know, I may be relatively old but that doesn’t mean I have it all figured out. I’m just as apt to do stupid things as the next man.”

“You mean me?” A suspicious glance. “Are you saying I do stupid things?”

“What? No!” Aziraphale raked his fingers through his curls. “Dammit, Crowley, you don’t make it easy. I’m trying to apologize here. Check your phone.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, please.”

Crowley reached into his back pocket.

“I texted you Samantha’s number,” Aziraphale said, backing away to give Crowley space. “You’re right, it’s not my place to make decisions for you. I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m sorry. I would never want to control you; that’s not what our relationship is about at all – you know that. What we do in bed is another matter entirely, and it’s not like that’s about me controlling you either. Far from it. It’s about me giving you what you want. The desires you entrust me with – I would never want to take advantage of them. They’re...” Precious, he thought. Sacred.

“Yeah, I know.” Crowley looked up from his phone, eyes glinting golden. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“I still don’t think you should call her. I think you’re too close to it all to negotiate on your own behalf; I think it should be done by a third party, like me. Maybe just think about it? Or – at the very least – wait 24 hours, sleep on it.”

A quirk of an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m scared for you. I’m so scared for you, Crowley.” Aziraphale felt his voice shake.

“M’scared for you, angel.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Well, I am. I mean, I just found you. Wouldn’t want to lose you and it be my fault, too.”

“Crowley, you won’t lose me, I promise you that. And I’m so sorry...”

...about your father, Aziraphale was about to say, about what he did to you and how that trauma is still echoing through your life – but then Crowley’s phone beeped out a notification.

They both froze. Crowley thumbed the screen of his phone, reading the text. The set of his jaw hardened.

“Who is it?” Aziraphale asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

“Luca. He’s flying back tomorrow afternoon. Says he’ll drop by later, that I should expect company.”

“So soon?”

Crowley slid off the counter, landing on the tile floor in his sock feet. The look on his face was grim. “S’been a week since he left, angel. Party’s over.”

*******

After their fight, Aziraphale dragged himself off to work. The library was quiet in the pre-Christmas lull, which was just as well since he found it impossible to focus. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Crowley – the resigned look on Crowley’s face when he read the text from Luca, his sock feet picking their careful way across the kitchen floor that morning, the tender way Crowley had gripped Bentley by the neck as he headed off to rehearsal for an upcoming Christmas concert. Every bit of him so dear, yet so vulnerable. That was the downside of loving someone: all of a sudden, the stakes were higher. You worried about them coming to harm – and, selfishly, about yourself having to pick up the pieces if they should be taken away from you. The mere thought of it made Aziraphale nauseous.

He was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice Gabriel arguing with someone over his cell phone. At first, he paid it no mind – it seemed like an everyday occurrence; to Gabriel, berating people over the phone was a bit of a hobby – but then Gabriel looked around and ducked into a stairwell. It seemed odd. Acting on impulse, Aziraphale took the elevator up one flight and then inched into the same stairwell. He closed the heavy fire door behind him as quietly as he could and pressed his back against a concrete pillar, so he could listen unobserved. Gabriel’s voice from below could be heard quite clearly; stairwells amplify sound.

“Madame, I assure you, I’ve looked at them all,” Gabriel was saying.

So the person Gabriel was talking to was a woman. Aziraphale’s heart beat faster. Could it be Samantha? He held his breath as he listened.

“I swear, there was nothing more explicit than what I’ve already told you.” Gabriel’s voice was emphatic but he was making an effort to be polite, despite his obvious irritation. This meant that the person on the other end of the line was someone in a position of power over him. Aziraphale strained to catch even the slightest nuance of their conversation.

“If a letter like that exists, I certainly haven’t found it,” Gabriel was saying. “I went through them all twice, just to make sure.”

Bingo. It was Samantha. Aziraphale found himself exhaling unsteadily as his hands gripped the concrete at his back.

“No, we haven’t misplaced it.” Gabriel was getting flustered. “No, not at all... Yes, of course I’m taking this seriously... Madame, please—”

From the sounds of it, Samantha was in high dudgeon over being unable to get her hands on the very letter that was currently in Aziraphale’s possession. Which meant that she might be receptive to making a deal to get the letter back. It was like seeing dark clouds part and a beam of sunlight illuminate the ground right in front of his feet. Go on, the universe seemed to say. You know what to do next.

Energized, Aziraphale launched himself away from the concrete pillar and took two steps toward the door. The heels of his shoes echoed in the cavernous stairwell.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Gabriel said.

Shit. The last thing Aziraphale needed right now was to get caught. He froze with his hand outstretched toward the push bar. “Hello?” Gabriel called out again.

Just then the door swung open and a group of students clattered down the stairs, talking loudly to each other about their exams. Gabriel went back to his conversation. Aziraphale, shaking with adrenaline, slipped out of the stairwell and took the elevator back down to his floor.

He locked himself in his office and sat at his desk for ten minutes – ostensibly to give Gabriel a chance to finish his conversation but really to steady his nerves. An opening like this was unlikely to drop into his lap again; the time to act was now. Then, he called Samantha. “I think I might have what you’re looking for,” he said. His heart was hammering so much he could hear it in his eardrums but his voice didn’t shake.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale and Samantha agreed to meet the following afternoon, a Saturday. The sooner, the better, thought Aziraphale. He felt like he was about to step into an empty elevator shaft. He’d told Crowley about the phone call after getting home from work the previous night, responding to Crowley’s “whatever happened to ‘sleep on it’?” with a play-by-play of Gabriel’s stairwell conversation. Crowley had agreed that it was too good of an opportunity to pass up, but Aziraphale could tell that he hadn’t liked being denied agency in the matter.

Walking to the pre-arranged rendezvous, Aziraphale found himself lulled by his surroundings. The old Malatesta home was in one of those classic Montreal walk-ups with a tall outdoor staircase that, while a safety hazard, was undeniably picturesque. On a quiet Mile-End street, it was urban but not modern – at least not in the glass-and-steel way of new condo construction. This was a family neighbourhood, where people lived in each other’s pockets. During the post-war years, the street must have been teeming with children, mothers sharing gossip in their tiny front yards and on the balconies.

It didn’t look like a mafia stronghold. Aziraphale didn’t know quite what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Samantha, too, was not what he’d expected. When she opened the door to his nervous knock, she looked like a successful bank executive. Her clothes were expensive but understated, her silver hair, elegant. “Mr. Fell? Come in. Welcome,” she said in a tone that didn’t make him feel welcome in the least.

He followed her down the hall. He was still out of breath from climbing the staircase and his feet felt as if they weren’t really touching the ground. He’d wondered why she chose the old family home as the location for their meeting, but now he could see why. It was mostly empty save for the unfashionable wallpaper and out-of-date furniture, and there was a thick layer of dust on everything. No one had lived here in a while, and few visited. This was as close to private as a public person was likely to get.

They walked into the apartment’s kitchen, at the back of the unit. The windows overlooked the back alley, where some of the neighbours’ laundry hung on the line. Oh look, linoleum, how quaint, Aziraphale thought, as if in a trance. Haven’t seen that since my student days. Random details of his surroundings were registering with odd clarity.

“Tea?” Without waiting for an answer, Samantha set a metal kettle on the stove and started taking old Corelle mugs from the 1970s kitchen cupboard, putting one teabag in each. I didn’t know Italians drank tea, Aziraphale thought dazedly. He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience.

“I assume you’ve brought the letters with you?” Samantha sat down at the Formica kitchen table, motioned for him to do the same.

“They’re right here.” Aziraphale reached into his inside jacket pocket; the letters slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the ground. Awkwardly, he picked them up and placed them on the tabletop.

“On the phone, you mentioned that you wished for my brother Luca to leave your friend in peace,” Samantha said. “Just so we’re clear, what exactly has my brother done to your friend?”

“They’re in a relationship. Of sorts.”

“I deduced as much.”

“Some of your brother’s proclivities...” Aziraphale began. “That is, his conception of boundaries and consent...” He sagged in his seat. He didn’t know how to talk about this to a complete stranger, one who held so much power, to boot. “Luca likes rough sex,” he finally said.

Samantha nodded, unsurprised, but he could tell her composure had deflated a little. “Go on.”

“I’ve seen bruises, welts, cuts. And it’s getting worse. From what I’ve overheard—”

She waved her hand. “I get the idea. My brother thinks he’s the picture of discretion and then goes and does things like this. Guaranteed to draw attention to the family for all the wrong reasons. And it’s not the first time. I’ll make sure to put a stop to it.”

“He won’t— I mean, he won’t hurt Crowley, will he? Luca doesn’t strike me as someone who easily lets go.”

“I’ll lean on him,” Samantha said in a tone so icy it was terrifying.

“I see, alright, that’s good.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “It’s just that... You see, if anything should happen to Crowley...” He took a deep breath, straightened his spine. “I’ve made copies. Of the letters. I don’t have them anymore, they’re stored in a secure location, I promise you. But a number of people know about them and know how to access them, if needed – only if needed, mind you. If anything should happen to Crowley – or to me, come to think of it—” His heart was beating so fast he was lightheaded. “I just wanted you to know that. If we are unharmed, no one will ever see the letters, ever. They’re like—” By now he was nauseous, but he plowed on ahead. “Like a ship on the ocean that will never reach port—”

Samantha put her hand over his. “Breathe, Mr. Fell,” she said. “And have some tea. My mother drank tea, you know. Her best friend was an English war bride who lived next door. That’s why there’s always tea in this kitchen. I find it soothing.”

Aziraphale took a sip, spilling some over his jacket.

“You’re not used to issuing threats, are you?” she said. “And you’ve been reading too much John Grisham if you ask me. But all right, I get the message. We’ll leave you alone. Just – know this. If those letters ever become public, I’ll know it was you. And I won’t be pleased.” She gave a smile full of elegant menace.

Aziraphale nodded and put his mug down. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers or his toes. Black spots were starting to swim across his vision.

Just then steps sounded in the hallway. Samantha looked up, startled. “Maria?” she asked.

“Hi mom.”

“How long have you been here? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Just got here. Taking Joshua for a walk, we were passing by. Sometimes I stop at grandma’s old place.” The young woman adjusted the baby on her hip. “He’s cutting another tooth, had a rough night. Walking helps. That way he naps and I get a rest from all the crying.” There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked like her mother – the nose, the cheekbones, the set of her mouth – but there was something different about her. Instead of chic, she looked plain. Instead of sharp, she looked kind.

“I told you not to expect all that Italian grandma nonsense from me,” Samantha said with a hint of annoyance. “I won’t cook and I won’t babysit.”

“I don’t expect it, mom. I can handle it on my own.”

“Good.” Samantha nodded. Then she turned to Aziraphale. “I presume we’re done here? I’ll take care of things, as we discussed. You’ll see yourself out?” She reached her arms out for the baby, making a ‘give-it-here’ motion with her fingers. “You might as well hand him over for a few minutes. Then I have to go,” she said to Maria. “Oh, look here, his nose is all runny. It’s no wonder with the way you dress him, and you refuse to listen to reason.”

Aziraphale got up and made for the front door. When he was halfway down the hallway, he heard Maria say, “Damn, I forgot Joshua’s spit-up cloth. I’ll go get it from the stroller. Be right back, mom.” Then her footsteps were behind him.

They walked together onto the outdoor stair landing, where she had parked the stroller. Aziraphale nodded a goodbye and then made to descend down to the street, but she caught his arm. “Wait,” she said under her breath. “Mr. Fell?”

“Yes?”

“Here.” She put a piece of paper into his hand. “My number. I think you should talk to me.”

“How do you know my name? Did your mother tell you--”

“No, nothing like that. Just— call me. In about an hour. All right?”

He inclined his head, too mystified to do much else. The young woman – Maria – bent down over the stroller and retrieved an elephant-patterned flannel. She swung her long dark braid over her shoulder, turned on the heel of her running shoe and went back inside the apartment.

Aziraphale descended the curved outdoor stairs carefully, gripping the railing. His knees were still weak from adrenalin. Then he dug out his phone and called Tracy. “Ask Shadwell what Pepper has on Samantha’s daughter, Maria,” he said. “Call me crazy but she seems like a good egg. My instinct is to trust her but I don’t know if I can rely on my instincts just now. It’s been quite an afternoon.”

*******

“Well, she’s not her mother’s favourite, that’s for sure,” said Shadwell. Tracy nodded. The three of them were sitting in Tracy’s living room, in her sunny condo on the Plateau. The walls were yellow, the rug good quality Persian if a bit worn. The mantlepiece was covered in knick-knacks from all corners of the world. Tracy hadn’t traveled that extensively, so presumably at least some of the trinkets were gifts from former clients.

“What exactly did Pepper say?” asked Aziraphale.

“Maria’s not an overachiever,” said Shadwell.

“Unlike her brother. You know, the one who went to law school and wants to go into politics,” added Tracy.

“And that’s a problem?” There was less than a half-hour left until Aziraphale was supposed to call Maria; he wished they wouldn’t beat around the bush. He twisted the teacup in his hand.

Tracy took the cup from him and set it on its saucer. “You know what, Azi?” she said. “Let’s just give Pepper a call. No need to hear this information third-hand, right?”

They put Pepper on speaker. Businesslike, she got straight to the point. “Maria’s an odd one. Doesn’t seem to fit with the Malatestas somehow. She made it through secondary school and went to CEGEP but then didn’t do anything afterwards – no university. She doesn’t have a practical trade though, either.”

“Like?”

“You know, esthetician, hairdresser, personal support worker, that sort of thing. The female equivalent of well-paid things that blue collar men do, like welding and electrical work. The wage gap between the real trades and the ‘female trades’ is enormous, you know. It’s staggeringly unfair the way women get shunted off to the side—”

“Pepper?” Shadwell’s voice was gentle.

“Sorry, got off track. So, Maria’s not blue collar but she’s also not white collar – no degrees, no law school, nothing like her brother. She works as a library assistant. Which is not the same as librarian, in terms of pay.”

“Yes, I know,” said Aziraphale.

“She likes books though. Doesn’t bother with makeup or wearing heels or doing her hair – unlike most of the Malatesta wives. Wears glasses. Her mother tends to look down on her for that. Like she’s... you know, not academically smart but not into the typically feminine stuff either, so she’s failing on both counts. Total bullshit, if you ask me; I don’t think that’s failure at all.”

“Tell him about the baby,” prompted Tracy.

“I met the baby,” said Aziraphale. “Strapping little fellow. Maria strikes me as a good mom.”

“Well, she’s a single mom, which apparently is a big no-no in her family. In this day and age, can you imagine?” Pepper sounded indignant.

“Pepper...”

“Right, sorry uncle. But yeah, she’s a single mom. And she’s doing it all on her own. Most of all – she hasn’t told her family who the father is, which did not go down well, let me tell you.”

“They probably would have made them get married,” said Tracy. “Being, you know, mafia and all. They’d use strong persuasion tactics.”

This sounded like the preposterous plot of a mafia-themed movie. It chilled Aziraphale to think that it probably wasn’t too far from reality.

“The thing is...” Pepper hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know, there’s something about her. Maria. I have a good feeling about her. She doesn’t seem like much – at least not to her mother – but she’s got real backbone. Came home pregnant one day, didn’t say a word about how it happened. For all we know, she just decided to have a baby one day and got a sperm donor. Lots of people go to fertility clinics these days, the stigma isn’t there like it used to be. Plus – she’s doing it all on her own, raising the baby, I mean. Her mother pretty much told her not to expect any help. As a matter of principle.”

“Raising a baby on a library assistant’s wage?” Aziraphale said. “That wouldn’t be easy.” He knew how much the women working the front desk made per hour; it wasn’t much.

“Anyhow,” said Shadwell. “I think if you’re going to trust any of the Malatestas, she’s your best bet. She told you to call her, so call her.”

“Call her,” said Pepper.

Tracy nodded. “I’m with them, Azi. Call her.”

Ten minutes later, at the appointed time, Aziraphale dug out the folded piece of paper from his pocket and dialed Maria’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Mr. Fell?”

“Yes.”

“I know about the letters. I’m the one who found them.”

“I see.”

“I know about all of the letters.”

“Oh.”

“I assume you’ve read them? I have a vague idea of why you were talking to my mother today.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then you might be interested to hear that my grandmother kept a diary.”

“Beatrice?”

“Yes, Beatrice. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh dear God, yes.”

Maria laughed. The sound was soft and melodic, like the tinkling of wind chimes. Instantly, it made Aziraphale relax. “We should meet, Mr. Fell,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Let’s arrange it.”

*******

Walking home, Aziraphale felt as if he had wings. His feet barely touched the pavement as he neared his building, and the whole time he was thinking, it’ll be alright. Something about the short conversation with Maria had made him trust her, had made him feel like they had an ally inside the enemy camp – and that fact buoyed him up and gave him hope. I have to tell Crowley, he thought. He won’t mind that I was the one to meet with Samantha, not when he hears about this.

The hallway was silent; no noises from behind Crowley’s door. Aziraphale entered his own apartment and took off his coat, intending to reheat a fortifying bowl of soup and wait for Crowley to text him. Then, walking by his bedroom, he heard knocking on the other side of the wall – on Crowley’s side. It was the special knock they had devised, the one that said, “feel free to come over.” Except that Crowley kept knocking, over and over, as if Aziraphale’s dropping by was a matter of urgency. He could just come over here, Aziraphale thought, and then understanding dawned and he broke into a run.

Crowley was stretched out on the black satin sheets, his wrists tied to the slatted headboard. His lip was bloodied and one of his eyes was swelling shut. “Aziraphale,” he said. “Oh angel, am I glad to see you.”

“Crowley! What did he do to you? Are you all right?”

“M’fine, mostly. I mean, considering.”

“You don’t look fine.” Aziraphale crawled up onto the bed beside him, gently touching his face. “Here, let’s get you untied. Silk scarves, honestly. I’m surprised you haven’t lost all feeling in your fingers, those things aren’t safe for this purpose. And they were too tight.” He took Crowley’s wrist in his hands and massaged it.

“The bastard just left me. Said ‘see you tomorrow’ and walked out the door. Power trip of some kind. Asshole.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Aziraphale untied Crowley’s other hand and kissed it. “Does this feel okay? Move it around, get the circulation going again.”

Crowley made circles with his wrists. “M’so glad you came home when you did. It was just a half-hour but I was worried... I mean, I need my hands to play. And he knows it, too. But it’s okay.” He exhaled, relieved, flexing his fingers. “They feel fine.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Crowley shrugged. “A little, maybe.”

Which probably meant ‘a lot.’ Aziraphale took in the bruise blossoming all along Crowley’s left side. “Get some clothes on, we’ll take a taxi to the hospital. Or one of your Uber things.”

“No hospitals, angel.”

“I won’t take no for an answer this time. You need proper medical attention; this is beyond my skillset.” He helped Crowley stand up. “You don’t have to tell them who did this to you if you don’t want to.”

“Ah fuck, angel. I hate this so much. What a mess.”

“I know. But he won’t be hurting you anymore. I won’t let him.”

Chapter Text

The emergency room was packed; it was a Saturday night, after all. Crowley’s injuries weren’t alarming enough to warrant immediate treatment – he wasn’t bleeding out or having a heart attack – so they braced for a long wait. Aziraphale helped him settle in a waiting room chair, but Crowley kept shifting in his seat. It was clear that being upright wasn’t comfortable for him. When, about an hour in, a two-seater bench became available, it was a relief. With no arm rest between them, at least now Crowley could lean on Aziraphale, maybe even try to get some sleep – that’s if the bright overhead lights ever let him.

Aziraphale hated hospitals. The antiseptic smell of them, the recycled air that always seemed too cold, the endless waiting. The feeling, when you finally emerged into the fresh outdoor air of the parking lot, of having been coated with sanitized misery, given bad news camouflaged by incomprehensible medical jargon.

He’d been here before, in this very room, in these chairs – many times. The memories made his skin prickle. Here, lean on me, love. I gave the triage nurse the piece of paper from your hematologist, she said you’re at the head of the queue. I’m sure it won’t be long.

The doctors always sounded so reassuring to begin with, so omnipotent – until you realized they weren’t. They talked about treatment options and new developments and drug trials, and you trusted them. And then, before you knew it, they were talking about palliative care – and their reasonable, doctor-voice tone never changed.

Bile churned in Aziraphale’s gut; that old familiar feeling of helplessness was hard to shake.

Crowley gave a muffled grunt, then shifted with a visible wince. Right, Aziraphale thought, focus on the present. He kissed Crowley’s temple, ignored the disapproving look from an old man in a baseball cap on the other side of the room. “How are you feeling, my dear? Can I get you anything?”

“M’fine. No, nothing. Just... wish I could lie down.”

“I know, these waiting room chairs are awful.”

“Hope they see me soon.”

Judging by the number of people still ahead of them, it would probably be hours. Aziraphale opened his mouth; the words that came out were borne of habit: “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

His phone beeped out a notification; he pulled it from his pocket. “Tracy’s asking how you are.” He typed out a response.

“What’d you tell her?”

“That we’re here, waiting.”

“Helluva place to spend a Saturday night, angel. M’sorry.”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, let’s make that clear, all right? There’s no place I’d rather be right now than here with you.” He glanced down at his phone, which had beeped again. “But Tracy says she’ll meet us down here and sit with you for a bit. I may have to pop out for a moment to see to something.”

He had made arrangements to meet Maria this very evening. He’d been going to tell Crowley that they seemed to have a friend in the enemy ranks – had wanted to get his opinion on how to proceed – but that was before he found Crowley brutalized and tied to the bed. Now it seemed prudent to wait, to keep that information to himself so as not to burden Crowley further. There would be time for revelations later.

“That’s nice of Tracy,” said Crowley.

Something in his tone made Aziraphale ask, “Any requests?”

“Maybe... a mango lassi from that Indian place next to the metro station? And a straw.” Crowley grimaced with the side of his mouth that wasn’t bloodied.

“Of course, my dear boy. I’ll text her.”

Tracy showed up a half-hour later with three mango lassis and a clamshell container of freshly baked naan bread. “In case anyone’s hungry,” she said, looking at Crowley’s split lip in sympathy. “You can rip off little pieces if biting is hard.”

“M’not an invalid,” Crowley said, but reached for the food.

They settled in to continue their long wait. Across from them, a young woman was hunched over with an obvious fever; near the door, a homeless man was walking up and down, talking loudly to himself. Just an ordinary night in the E.R.

Tracy gave Aziraphale a meaningful look. “Anytime you need to go, feel free,” she said. Her eyes were full of questions but she wasn’t about to ask them in front of Crowley.

Aziraphale had been texting back and forth with Maria, asking her to move the meeting to a location closer to the hospital. She had offered to meet him at the hospital itself, which was truly splendid of her, and he’d gratefully accepted. By the time the appointed time came, Crowley was no closer to getting seen by a doctor than he had been when they first arrived, so Aziraphale guiltily left him in Tracy’s hands and hurried off.

Three floors up and a maze of corridors later, he sat down in an out-of-the-way Tim Hortons that served bleary-eyed medical staff and family members of patients undergoing day surgery. With only a handful of tables in a corner, most of them empty, this was as private a meeting place as Aziraphale could possibly hope for. No one was likely to observe them here or care to eavesdrop. He ordered an Earl Grey tea, too nervous to be tempted by the maple dip donuts.

Maria arrived out of breath, shaking snow from her coat, cheeks reddened from the cold. Aziraphale stood up when she came near his table. “No baby tonight? Where’s little... uh... Johnny? Jimmy?”

“Joshua. It’s way past his bedtime. My neighbour is watching him.” She sounded weary, as if arranging childcare was a constant weight on her mind. Which it probably was; she was a single mom with little support.

“Thank you for coming all the way here to meet me,” Aziraphale said.

She draped her coat over the back of her chair, sat down. “It’s okay. Curious though, why the hospital?”

“Ah. Well. You see, my... friend...” My boyfriend. My partner. “My... Crowley. Had a bad experience with your uncle this afternoon. I brought him here so he could get medical attention.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Uncle Luca? Again?”

“Does he do this a lot?”

“Sadly, yeah. Your friend – Crowley – isn’t the first person he’s landed in the hospital. My mother used to ignore it mostly, but it’s getting worse. Someone had to do something.”

“Someone?”

She raised her eyebrows, drummed her fingernails on the table meaningfully.

“I see. What exactly did you do?”

“Well, you’d think going to the police would be the obvious thing, but with my family, it’s not so simple – as you well know. Wish it were.”

She’d used the subjunctive form of the verb ‘to be’. Despite her supposed lack of education, it was clear that Maria was someone who read a lot and spoke well. What’s more, she didn’t use her eloquence like a weapon, the way Samantha did – I’m better than you, now be on your guard. Aziraphale found himself relaxing a little.

She continued, “I found the letters my grandfather wrote. And I thought – here’s my chance to make something happen. If the family is under scrutiny, it’ll be harder for my uncle to get away with things. So I put the idea in my brother’s head that our grandparents’ love story would win him points with the public. He talked my mother into donating them – she can never say no to Sergio, he’s the golden boy, he can do no wrong.”

“But some of those letters are pretty graphic. I assume you read them all?”

“Oh, I did.” Her eyes twinkled, and Aziraphale was put in mind of a mischievous sprite playing pranks in the woods. “I didn’t show my brother those ones, obviously. Just the not-so-racy letters. My mother approved them; said that ‘the love story they portrayed would be great PR for the Malatesta name’ – the very words I’d used to convince my brother. Then I made sure that the donation contained all the letters, not just the approved selection. Uncle Luca’s the one who made the donation; I handed him the box of letters, and away he went.”

Aziraphale remembered that day: the fuss Gabriel had made, Luca’s expensive suit and scarf, his overpowering cologne. It had been early October, the weather crisp and mild. Crowley had just moved in next door; he and Aziraphale had barely exchanged a few words. Aziraphale had had no idea how much Crowley would come to mean to him or the role that Luca would play in their lives.

Maria took a long sip of her hot chocolate, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction. “My mother’s not stupid, you know – of course you do, you’ve met her. She knows what kind of marriage my grandparents had; she grew up in that house. I knew she’d be careful to make sure the letters we made public didn’t say too much. But she didn’t suspect anything; she didn’t suspect me. She wouldn’t. She doesn’t think I’m capable of much.”

“But you are capable, aren’t you?” Aziraphale said. He didn’t even know her, but he felt proud of her.

“Mr. Fell, growing up in my family, I learned a long time ago to fly under the radar.”

“And you fooled her.”

“For a time. She was bound to suspect something eventually; she’s used to being on her guard. She had Sergio make copies of the letters before we donated them, and when she looked over the copies she noticed a discrepancy in the dates. Plus, at one point my grandfather writes, ‘I think I said too much in my last letter, I was drunk, sorry to put you at risk’ – or something to that effect. So she started asking questions, looking for the missing letters. The rest you know: that’s where you come in.”

“But how did you know about me? That the missing letters might be in my hands?”

Maria waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not a mastermind, Mr. Fell, nothing like that. I just have some friends who work at the McGill library. They said your boss was going out of his mind, that he nearly broke down your office door one day, looking for something. I figured out the rest.”

“Clever girl.” Aziraphale sat back, marveling; she really was impressive. Then he brought himself up short. “I— I’m sorry, I meant that as a compliment. These days some people find expressions like that to be patronizing.”

“It’s okay.” She laughed; the tinkling of wind chimes rang soothingly through the empty Tim Hortons. “I’ve been called worse. The people in my family don’t mince words. My nonna used to hate it, the language some of the men used.”

“Did you know her well, your grandmother?”

Maria’s expression softened. “I did. We were close. She practically raised me.”

“What was she like?”

“Beatrice? In some ways, a stereotypical Italian grandmother. Kind but strong, yelled a lot, stayed out of the men’s business. Cooked enough to feed an army – pasta, lasagne, chicken soup with orzo. And there were always live eels in her sink on Christmas Eve morning, you know – it’s a whole thing where she comes from. She tried to teach me one year, it was a disaster...” Maria looked both amused and wistful. “But in other ways, she wasn’t typical at all. Did you know she worked in a munitions factory during the war? Made enough money to support her family.”

Aziraphale leaned forward on his elbows; he couldn’t resist a good story, especially when it was clear the storyteller was bursting to tell it. “You said she kept a diary.”

The sprite-prankster glint in Maria’s eyes was back. “I can’t let you keep it or make copies. I’m not ready for that. But if you want to look through it...” She reached into her purse and took out a notebook safely ensconced in a Ziploc bag.

Most of the archival materials Aziraphale dealt with at work simply showed up on his desk one day. Families were keen to clear out attics, auction off any valuable antiques, and then sell grandma’s post-war bungalow, or duplex, or condo. Capitalizing on the real estate market was a priority, as was getting on with their day-to-day lives, which likely weren’t even in Montreal anymore. It was rare that he got a chance to see how much a document meant to someone – a tangible connection to the past, to the person who had written in its pages.

“I’ll treat it with the utmost respect,” he said. “And if you’re not ready to let it go, that’s fine.”

She handed him the notebook.

It was in decent shape for something that was clearly decades-old. The paper wasn’t high quality; just an ordinary notebook, really. But it wasn’t too yellowed and the pages weren’t too well thumbed. “Someone has taken good care of this,” he said.

“It was hidden under a floorboard, away from sunlight – which I guess is good? For the paper?”

“Very good, my dear girl. Ideally, you’d store it in an archival container – you can get them online, I recommend it. But clearly being under a floorboard hasn’t done it any harm.” He handled the notebook carefully. The writing inside was small, rounded and evenly spaced. Easy to read. Beatrice had written in pencil, which was good – it was less likely than ballpoint pen to fade or discolour. “There are no dates here,” he said to Maria.

“I know. But you can figure out more or less what year and month it is based on how old the kids are – my mother and her siblings. Nonna writes about her son who died young – Lorenzo. Then there’s a long stretch during which she didn’t write, and then she mentions my uncle Dom as a baby – by then she’s writing again.”

“She didn’t write a lot.” The notebook seemed to span the late fifties to the mid-seventies – a long stretch of time for a single volume.

“That’s because she kept other notebooks. Full of kids’ milestones – height, weight, first word, that sort of thing. And family happenings. Big, extended Italian family – lots of stuff to write about. The... legal stuff, I mean,” she added awkwardly. “Domestic, not business. She tried to stay out of that.”

“Right.” Aziraphale nodded. “Were those notebooks under a floorboard too?”

“No.”

“Ah. So, what makes this one special?”

Aziraphale had never seen a Mona Lisa smile in real life before. It made him feel just as intrigued as the one in the painting. “Keep reading,” Maria said.

Aziraphale read. Skimming page after page, he took in familiar names: Luigi, Dominic, Samantha, then Luca. Occasionally, Stefano – Beatrice’s brother, the man who was her husband’s lover and lived in her home. There were no obvious signs of bitterness or resentment between the notebook’s pages, no complaints from Beatrice about this arrangement, but then Aziraphale didn’t have time to read closely. Perhaps they were there, just subtle. There was another name, though, one which first appeared around the time of Dominic’s birth, and which continued to appear regularly – more and more frequently – as the sixties gave way to the seventies.

“Who’s Lilian?” Aziraphale asked.

The Mona Lisa smile turned into a Cheshire grin. “You are perceptive, Mr. Fell.”

He set the notebook down. Clearly, it had served its purpose. The name he’d picked out from among its pages was some sort of key; Maria was the guide who would tell him which door it opened. “Who was she?”

“My mother would tell you that Lilian was nonna’s best friend, an English war bride who lived next door.”

“Taught her to drink tea?”

“That’s right. That’s what all those ‘official’ notebooks say. The ones nonna kept on the shelf.”

“And the one under the floorboard? What does this one say?”

Maria took the notebook from Aziraphale, ran her hand over it tenderly. “It says that she was the love of Beatrice’s life. That they were together for years, and no one knew.”

Somehow it wasn’t a shock. Rather, it was like a puzzle piece that you knew just had to be there somewhere but which you couldn’t find – until it turned up in your hand. Yes, of course, there it is. It made perfect sense.

“Turns out, my nonna didn’t live an unhappy life,” Maria said. “After I grew up enough to understand what Zio Stefano meant to my grandfather, I always wondered about how she felt living with men who loved her but only as a sister. I mean, my nonna and my grandfather had been friends from the time they were little, so there was plenty of love in their little family. But there’s love and there’s love. And if you don’t have someone who thinks the sun rises and sets on you, well... it’s a little sad. To always be shunted aside, like a maiden aunt in an Austen novel.” She hugged the notebook to her. “That’s why it made me so happy to find this diary. And grandfather Luigi’s letters – under the same floorboard. Carefully kept, treasured. You see, turns out they both had that kind of love. Just not with each other.”

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair. Back in his adventurous youth, he’d dabbled in recreational drugs: mostly pot at house parties, some poppers while out dancing – nothing serious. He remembered the feeling of exhaling leisurely as the world came into focus around him, everything more intense, colours brighter, insight at his fingertips. That’s how he felt now – and he was stone cold sober. “Oh, my dear. Thank you for telling me.”

Maria smiled. “I just wanted you to know. Wanted someone to know.”

“I’m honoured.”

“I told you because you’re one of the few people I can tell. Because this story has to stay secret – for now at least. Given your situation.”

Cold reality came rushing back in like water though a burst levee. That’s right, they had a stake in whether or not this information came to light. Crowley had a stake in it. In making the deal with Samantha, Aziraphale had ensured that they would be forever mixed up in the family’s cover-up of the grandparents’ sexual identity.

“Have we disrupted your plans?” he asked. “I mean, if not for us, would you have released all this information already?”

Maria rubbed her temples as if the whole business had given her a headache, but flashed him a reassuring smile. “Like I said, Mr. Fell, I’m not a mastermind. It’s not like I planned out every detail of some righteous scheme here – I was just acting on instinct. I found those letters and the diary and I thought, oh my God, my nonna lived a whole life that no one knows about and, unless I do something, no one is likely to ever know about it. Everyone thinks that she was just an obedient housewife – because my family would never allow her to be anything else. I mean, I’ve always known that my family is...” She hesitated, swallowed. “That they do bad things. I hated it and I’ve tried to distance myself from it. But this – this was about my nonna. I didn’t want her experience erased like that.”

“That makes sense; it was personal for you.”

“Plus, I’d just had Joshua, you know.” Her voice shook a little. “Having a child... it makes you look at the world in a different way. I thought, what if he grows up gay too, like his grandparents? I don’t want him to hide or be ashamed. I want him to be able to love who he chooses to love and be open about it; I don’t want my family to crush him, sweep him under the carpet – or... or warp him, like they did uncle Luca. So when I found the letters and the diary, I just knew: this has to go public, the world should know.”

“And now?” Aziraphale asked nervously. “What will you do now?”

Gently, Maria took Aziraphale’s hand. “Nothing, Mr. Fell. Not for a very long time. Please don’t worry. I wouldn’t compromise yours and Crowley’s safety. I can’t very well go on some sort of pro-gay crusade on behalf of my grandparents, who are no longer here, if that crusade has real-life consequences for actual, living gay people, now can I? That would be wrong.” She squeezed his hand. “I believe in right and wrong, Mr. Fell.”

Relief flooded Aziraphale. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d been waiting for some sort of reassurance from her. “Thank you, my dear girl. I appreciate that.”

“As long as my mother is alive, this information won’t be released. And you can rest assured that she won’t share it with anyone, not even my brother – that’s not how she operates. So whatever threat you face, it dies with her – that at least should be a comfort. Not that I’m wishing death on my mother, you understand...” She winced. “It’s... complicated.”

“I’m getting that impression.”

“But one day, I’ll make my nonna’s story public. I’m determined to make it happen; I’ve even put a provision in my will about it. Even if I die before my mother, this story will be told. Maybe it’ll be Joshua who tells it. Maybe he’ll be the one to change things for the better. I... I can’t really explain it, but I have a good feeling about him.”

“I think your nonna would be proud of you.”

“I hope so. In any case, it’s the right thing to do. I’m pretty sure it is, anyway.” She gave a half-shrug. “Growing up in my family, right and wrong have been pretty hard to navigate.”

Maria began to gather her things; it was getting late. There were no windows in the hospital Tim Hortons, but it was definitely fully dark outside by now. Judging by the handful of people who had recently walked by, stomping their boots and shaking snow out of scarves and hats, a sizable blizzard was raging too.

“Thank you for reaching out to me—” Aziraphale started to say when Maria’s phone rang.

She picked up. “Yeah, almost done here. No, it was good...” She listened to the person on the other end of the line, her face relaxing into a comfortable intimacy. “You’re sure? I can take the bus, the wait isn’t long. No, really. Only if you’re sure. All right. Aww, thanks.”

When she hung up, she looked somehow different than she had a minute before. Calmer, happier – more loved.

“Who was that?” Aziraphale had a feeling she wouldn’t mind being asked.

“This man I’ve been seeing for a few months. Called to say he’d pick me up and drive me home. He’s like that: it’s out of his way, but he doesn’t mind if it makes my life easier.” She cracked a mischievous smile. “Sometimes I tease him about how he always calls and never texts – you know, like a normal person. It’s because he doesn’t like to write. Couldn’t spell his way out of a paper bag, you know? Never went far in school because of his dyslexia. But God, he’s sweet. Big teddy bear of a man, works construction, his name’s Joe.” Her eyes took on a dreamy look. “He’s so good with Joshua too, so kind.”

“He sounds lovely.”

“He is.” She hugged her coat to herself, lowered her voice. “We’re talking about moving in together, you know.”

“Congratulations!”

“We just want a regular life, Mr. Fell. Away from the influence of my family. Pay the rent, raise my little boy to be a good man. Just – live, you know? Just be happy.”

“I know, my dear girl.” Aziraphale said, squeezing her hand. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale made his way back to the emergency department feeling as if he were gliding along the sterile corridors of a spaceship. One empty hallway followed another; it seemed that any minute now the doors would swish open at the touch of a button to reveal the silent void beyond.

Instead, when the elevator doors opened at the emergency room level, what he found was bright lights and chaos. The E.R. was busier than it had been before, if that were even possible, or maybe it was just louder. The homeless man who had been muttering to himself earlier was now talking loudly and pacing back and forth. One of the nurses approached him, trying to calm him down.

The seat where Aziraphale had left Crowley was occupied by someone else; Tracy, too, was nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale walked up to the desk. “I’m looking for Anthony Crowley. Came in around five o’clock? Could you tell me where he is now?”

The tired-looking nurse squinted at the computer monitor and then pointed to a set of heavy swing doors. “Through there, around the corner and to the right. Behind one of the curtains. We’ve got him in a bed for now.”

It was quieter on the other side of the swing doors, but still busy; all the hospital cubicles along the right-hand wall seemed to be full. The curtained-off bed provided a modicum of privacy, though you’d have to keep your voice down if you didn’t want to be overheard. Aziraphale approached the bed and slid the curtain closed behind him. Crowley looked pale but more comfortable. Tracy stood at the foot of his bed.

“How’d it go?” Tracy’s tone was nonchalant, but she looked at Aziraphale with laser focus.

“Fine. Better than fine, actually. Really well.” Aziraphale smiled at her, mouthed tell you more later. Gingerly, he sat down at Crowley’s bedside. “How are you, my dear? Has a doctor come to see you yet?”

“No. S’good to lie down though.”

The cubicle was bare, just the hospital bed with its metal railings and assorted medical equipment against an off-white wall. The narrow bedside table on wheels stood empty in a corner, flush against the blue privacy curtain. It was all so impersonal and sterile, and all so heartbreakingly familiar. The back of Aziraphale’s neck prickled with a feeling he’d long repressed: numbing weariness mixed with a creeping sense of menace.

Vincent’s hospital room had been just as bare. No flowers or plants in the room, the doctor had insisted; the risk of bacterial infection to patients after a stem cell transplant was just too great. There will be time for flowers later, they’d been assured, when you celebrate. They never got their celebration.

“You okay, angel?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow, grimacing a little. Moving his face must have hurt.

“Tickety boo, my dear. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” Crowley sounded skeptical but the expression in his eyes made him seem young and vulnerable. Looking intently at Aziraphale, he reached over and took his hand. “S’like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s just... hospitals. Don’t like them much.”

“Who does,” Tracy said.

Just then the curtain swung open and a nurse slipped in, chart in hand. “Hello, Anthony. I see we’ve been causing all kinds of trouble tonight,” she said, winking at Crowley. There was a motherly energy about her that seemed to defuse some of the tension in the air.

“Oh, you know me,” Crowley joked.

“I’d like to. Hear more about you, that is, have you tell me what happened?” she said. “Maybe your friends could leave us for a bit. Give us a chance to have a chat.”

“Aziraphale can stay,” Crowley said.

“Is Aziraphale your partner?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, the nurse’s eyes lingered on Crowley’s bloodied lip. Then she looked over at Aziraphale, as if assessing what he might be capable of. “If it’s all right with you, Anthony, I’ll talk to you alone for a few minutes,” she said. “It’s just routine, nothing to be alarmed about.”

Crowley inclined his head. “I guess. Okay.”

“We’ll be close by, pet, don’t you worry. Not leaving you,” Tracy said reassuringly. Then she took Aziraphale by the arm and ushered him out of the cubicle.

She steered him toward the far wall, out of the way of the medical staff. Aziraphale’s legs moved slowly, stiff with disbelief. “She thinks it was me. That I did that...”

“Azi, she’s only doing her job. Asking the questions she should be asking. It means that Crowley’s getting good care, which is what we want, after all.”

He nodded. “I just wish I could be there. Don’t want to leave him. He said that I’m his partner, Tracy, did you hear? Out loud. He’s never done that before.”

“You’ll only be apart for a few minutes, sweetie, no need to be so dramatic about it. You’ll have plenty of time to dote on him later.”

He leaned back, felt the cool of the hospital wall against his shoulder blades. “Yes. You’re right, of course.” But the familiar din of the emergency room only served to ramp up his anxiety. He could try to reason his way out of feeling this way all he liked; it did no good. His body’s reaction to being in this place was visceral, almost Pavlovian.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long before Crowley’s cubicle curtain shifted and the nurse peered out. “Aziraphale?” she called, and then waved him and Tracy over. “You can come back in.” She smiled at them. Presumably it had become apparent that Aziraphale was not the one who had inflicted violence on Crowley; that at least was a relief.

Crowley was sitting up in bed, shirt off, blood pressure cuff around his right bicep. The bruising along his left side was darker now, as were the red marks around his wrists, left by the silk scarves. On the vinyl-covered mattress in front of him lay a handful of pamphlets; Aziraphale could make out the words “trauma” and “counselling.”

“If you change your mind, let me know,” the nurse said gently. “But ultimately, it’s up to you. Now...” She took the cuff off Crowley’s arm, stood up. “We’ll probably do some bloodwork to make sure your levels are all okay, but that’s for a doctor to decide. Someone should come see you soon. I’ll just pop out to get some supplies and come back to take care of that lip.” She winked again. “Be right back, sailor.”

As she closed the curtain behind her, Aziraphale sat down beside Crowley. “What did she mean? Change your mind about what?”

“Oh, just...” Crowley shrugged, then looked around apprehensively. The privacy provided by the blue curtain was illusory at best; they were surrounded by other patients. He dropped his voice to a half-whisper. “No point in doing a rape kit, is there, angel. S’not like we’ll press charges anyway. And besides, it’s not like he assaulted me in an alleyway. I let him in.”

Tracy took two determined steps forward and perched on Crowley’s bed. Quietly, she said, “Now listen, honey. You may be right that we don’t want to press charges against a member of... well, that particular organization, but that doesn’t mean what happened between him and you was consensual. He had you scared for your life if you didn’t do what he asked; that’s not consent. I know you know that.”

Crowley gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You keep that clear in your mind, you hear me? Don’t forget it. And call one of these numbers,” she said, pointing to the trauma counselling pamphlets. “Or let me refer you to someone; I do know a few good therapists. You need to talk about this if you want to get past it, not bottle it up. If you bottle things up, they come out in other ways. I should know; I’ve seen it all, over the years.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask. He’d known about Tracy’s side business but it had never occurred to him that it had a psychological component.

“There were two kinds of gentlemen who used to come see me,” Tracy said. “Most just wanted a bit of fun, but some needed to punish themselves because of something that happened in their past. Atoning for something they’d done, maybe? Now – don’t get me wrong – we’re all kinky to some degree, and it comes from somewhere. And that’s fine. Maybe your mom smacked you with a wooden spoon when you were a kid and then felt bad about it and gave you a cookie – and now being paddled makes you feel taken care of. Hey, whatever floats your boat. I don’t judge. But for some people, it just goes deeper, and not in a healthy way. I used to suggest that they talk to someone if I could see they were really suffering. Some took me up on it. Some didn’t.”

Crowley picked up the pamphlets. “Okay.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Tracy gave his hand a squeeze.

Crowley reached for his shirt and slipped it back on, wincing. “I do intend to deal with all this,” he said. “S’just... s’hard to try to get over something when it’s not fully over yet, y’know? Not quite in the rearview mirror. Luca could still...”

The words do me harm hung in the air, unspoken.

“Ah! But, you see, my dear, I have reason to think it will all be fine,” Aziraphale piped up. He sat down at Crowley’s bedside. It was high time to fill Crowley in on the events of the past few hours. After all, Crowley didn’t know that Samantha had agreed to keep Luca in line in exchange for their silence about grandfather Malatesta’s love life, or that Maria had proven to be a true ally in the enemy camp. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. You see, when I spoke to Samantha earlier, I met her daughter, who said—”

“Mr. Crowley?” The curtain swung open, revealing a young-looking doctor. “I’m Dr. Gupta, one of the residents. How are you feeling today?”

Aziraphale choked back the rest of the sentence and stepped away from the bed. Crowley’s physical wellbeing took precedence right now; Aziraphale’s revelations would once again have to wait. He felt all that unshared knowledge lodged in his throat.

It was uncanny how familiar being back in the hospital felt. Really, it was almost like déjà vu. When Vincent was going through his stem cell transplant, Aziraphale was reluctant to say certain things in front of him, but his mind teemed with questions. Why were the bruises on Vincent’s body getting worse, not better? Why were his platelet counts still so low? Shouldn’t he be improving by now? The doctors scurried around in a blur of white coats and, rather than chase them down and demand explanations, Aziraphale just sat there and held Vincent’s hand, unasked questions like a lead weight in his larynx.

“... and a blood panel,” the young doctor was saying to Crowley. “Someone will come and show you the way down to ultrasound – sorry, no portable one here in emerg. Just want to take a closer look at your kidneys. And then maybe we can send you home. Sound good?”

Crowley nodded. “Home sounds good.”

“You should take it easy for a few days, Mr. Crowley, but overall, things don’t look too bad.”

As the curtain swung shut behind the doctor, Crowley’s phone rang.

Aziraphale and Tracy stared at it as if it were an unexploded grenade.

“It’s Luca.” Crowley’s voice sounded hollow.

“Don’t answer it,” Tracy said, but Crowley didn’t need to be told. He set the phone down on the bed in front of him and listened as his Another One Bites the Dust ring tone filled the cubicle. It took a while, but eventually the phone fell silent.

“Persistent bugger, isn’t he? Are you alright, my dear boy?”

“Fine.” Crowley attempted a breezy tone. Someone who didn’t know him better might almost think he wasn’t concerned.

“Maybe you should block him,” Tracy said. “Unless you think that would make things worse, make him more angry...”

Crowley gave a one-shouldered shrug and grimaced in a noncommittal way. But he didn’t pick up his phone to block Luca, which spoke for itself.

The nurse chose this moment to draw back the curtain and push a wheelchair up to the bed. “Hello again, Anthony,” she said. “The doctor would like you to have an ultrasound, which is in the basement. Just take the elevator down one level and follow the arrows. They’re expecting you down there.”

“I’ll take you,” Aziraphale said. “I can find my way; I’ve been here before.” Which was true, in more ways than one. The role of caregiver was as familiar to him as the hospital hallways.

The wheels squeaked when Aziraphale pushed Crowley into the elevator and pressed the button. The Muzak playing in the background was as unobtrusive as the beige vinyl flooring, and just as depressing. Aziraphale could see Crowley’s seated silhouette reflected in the polished steel doors: long legs angled sideways to fit in the wheelchair, bony elbows resting on the armrests, bruised wrists hanging loosely so that his long fingers met in his lap.

Limp-wristed is how Crowley had referred to himself when he’d mentioned his father’s bullying. But also tough. Because he could take whatever abuse was meted out and face it head-on, refusing to change who he was, refusing to bow to pressure. His slinky hips and musical vulnerability belied a spine of steel – but even steel breaks sometimes, given enough wear. How much damage had Luca already done to Crowley, and how much could he still do? When he had called Crowley’s phone just now, the tendons in Crowley’s neck had tightened with the effort to keep calm. How many more moments like that would Crowley have to endure before he was free?

The elevator doors opened at the basement level but Aziraphale stood still, lost in thought.

“Angel?” Crowley shifted in the wheelchair, turning his head and looking back at Aziraphale.

“Hm? Oh. Don’t worry, my dear. I know where I’m going.” He pushed the wheelchair forward.

“S’not that.” Crowley’s amber eyes regarded him with compassion. “I was just thinking... Must be hard for you, being back here. This place.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Yes, I guess. It is sometimes.”

“Thanks for bringin’ me anyway.”

“Of course. You’re hurt, I—”

“I mean it.” Crowley reached back and placed a hand over Aziraphale’s knuckles, which gripped the push handles of the wheelchair. “Thank you.”

Crowley’s long fingers curled around Aziraphale’s thumb, establishing connection, providing comfort. In this dim, sterilized basement, permeated with echoes of the past Aziraphale would rather forget, Crowley was setting aside his own suffering to look after Aziraphale, to be kind to him. That was the thing about Crowley – gorgeous, tempting creature that he was. Of all the parts of him that took your breath away, his heart was the most beautiful of all.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale leaned down and buried his nose in the messy mop on Crowley’s head. “My dear boy.”

“When you said, before...” Crowley’s voice was thick with emotion. “That you. Were busy falling in love. Well, I just wanna say...” He dropped to a choked whisper. “Me too, angel. I... You know. Me too.”

*******

There was no lineup at ultrasound, so the procedure was quick. Crowley lay down, wincing, and closed his eyes as the technician applied the gel to his back and then pressed a probe to his skin and moved it around. He clenched his jaw when she touched the bruising, and Aziraphale felt slightly sick and wished he could take the pain on himself, and then did that thing he’d done countless times when he'd watched Vincent in pain: something in him went numb while the rest of him held his breath and watched, unaffected, as if from far away. Feelings tucked away for later, so as not to break down and be a burden.

The monitor displayed shapes and shadows, but of course Aziraphale couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was seeing. The technician’s face was a more readable source of information; she was calm and seemed unperturbed, so he took that as a good sign. Then she told Crowley he could get dressed and go back up to emerg, and that the doctor would review the images but was unlikely to find anything alarming. It seemed all was well.

On the way back upstairs, Aziraphale braced himself for what was to come: the blood-taking and talk of infection. Triggers, both, bringing back painful memories; but there was no avoiding them. They would simply have to be endured. Sooner or later, the doctors would release Crowley and they could go home. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Feeling all right?” he asked Crowley in the elevator.

“Having a fabulous Saturday night out, angel. S’a wonder we don’t come here more often.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley looked up coquettishly. “Maybe you’ll give me something else to bite later?”

“Naughty boy. Maybe I will.”

The fact that Crowley felt up to joking and flirting was a relief; Aziraphale exhaled as some of the weight lifted from his chest. When the elevator doors opened on the emergency room level, he pushed the wheelchair out with gusto – and then immediately had to duck as something large, grey and plastic came flying at his head. “What the—”

“Duck, angel! And move!”

He ran for it, pushing Crowley. Looking back, he saw that the same man who had earlier been muttering to himself was now flinging the hospital trash can at various people. Eyes wild and beard matted, he seemed to be aiming at a target only he could see. The nurses were trying to contain him while one announced a Code White over the intercom. Just another Saturday night in the E.R., apparently.

Aziraphale manoeuvred the wheelchair through the metal swing doors and toward Crowley’s curtained-off cubicle. It was quieter here, more peaceful. He helped Crowley back up onto the hospital bed, smoothed back his hair.

“All well?” Tracy asked.

“Think so, yeah,” Crowley replied. “We ran the gauntlet back there, but we’re fine.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Some guy nearly knocked my angel out with a garbage can. If his aim had been better...”

“Not a chance. I’m limber and have great reflexes, my dear.”

“Not sure about limber, but he did duck like a pro.” Crowley grinned.

It did Aziraphale’s heart good to see Crowley smile.

“Aziraphale? Really?” Tracy’s eyebrows were up near her hairline. “And I missed this? Damn, I should have gone with you.”

“Don’t worry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not out of the question that we’ll have to run that particular gauntlet again on our way out. You’ll get a ringside seat before we’re through here tonight, I’d wager.”

He felt buoyed by his earlier exchange with Crowley, and slightly giddy from their near-miss by the elevator. It was like swimming in the sun dappled waters of a mountain lake, enjoying the warmth of the top layer and not thinking about the cold and dark fathoms below. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s problems were serious, but it was tempting to float on the surface and forget about them for a while.

It was at this moment that Crowley’s phone rang again.

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. “Him again?”

Crowley nodded.

“Just block him already,” Tracy said, but Crowley set the phone down in front of him and let it ring, like he had earlier, staring at it with a haunted look. Dum, dum, dum, another one bites the dust.

“Crowley, this is torture,” Aziraphale said. “Just decline the call. You don’t have to sit here and listen to that ominous ring tone.”

“He might just be testing me, angel.”

“What?”

“He does that sometimes. To see if I’m doing what he told me.”

“How do you mean?” Tracy asked.

Crowley looked at them with the infinite patience of a put-upon schoolmistress. “He left me tied up, remember? With instructions not to move. I can’t get to the phone if my hands are tied to the headboard.”

“Oh! My goodness, of course.”

“Shit, that’s messed up.” Tracy looked at Crowley, mental wheels clearly turning. “Why does he do that, do you think?”

“Dunno. Mind games? Power trip?” Crowley hesitated, thinking. “Profound insecurity that requires constant reassurance... It’s like he hopes he’ll catch me doing something wrong, but at the same time hopes he doesn’t. Like—”

“Like worrying a scabbed-over cut until it starts bleeding again,” Tracy said.

“Something like that.” Crowley put the phone back in his pocket. “Anyway, just because he keeps calling, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He hasn’t left a message, so I don’t think he knows I’ve gone – he’s not in the apartment. We locked the door, right? So he couldn’t get in anyway. And s’not like he’s standing outside in the hallway, listening for the ring tone. Someone might see him. He wouldn’t take that risk, it’s not his style.”

Tracy shot Aziraphale a quick look. What Crowley had said was technically true – provided Luca was in his usual state of mind. But it was entirely possible that Samantha had already had words with him about leaving Crowley alone. Which might cause Luca to act out of character and do things that were not his “style” at all. They had to be on their guard.

“Crowley, my dear boy.” Aziraphale steeled himself for a long-overdue revelation. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something all night, but we keep getting interrupted. You know how I was going to meet with Samantha about those letters? Well, I did, and she said she would—”

The curtain swished open again and the nurse from before bustled in. “Mr. Crowley, back from ultrasound, I see? Good. Now let’s look after that lip for you.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Aziraphale muttered as he stepped back once again. He was glad that Crowley was getting looked after so promptly, he really was. But the emergency room clearly wasn’t conducive to important conversations. His revelations would have to wait.

*******

By the time the doctor let Crowley go, it was nearly one in the morning. Aziraphale flagged down a cab in front of the hospital and bundled Crowley in, their breath visible in the freezing night air. Tracy came with them, rather than wait for her own taxi. She’d see them to their door and then catch the metro home. They watched the city lights go past as the cabbie skidded down one winter street after another.

Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, extending his long legs as much as space constraints allowed. Aziraphale laced their fingers together. “Got your prescription, my dear?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll pick up the antibiotics first thing.”

“Thanks, angel.”

“Crowley...” It had been a long evening of nearly constant interruptions, and there were still things Crowley didn’t know, and probably should. But he seemed so relaxed now, so deservedly sleepy. Aziraphale decided to give him the bare bones version. “You know how I was going to see Samantha today?”

“Mhm.”

“She’s as tough as her reputation would have it, but she agreed to what I asked. I gave her that handful of letters back, the dirty ones, you know. Said I’d kept copies. She joked about John Grisham but said okay. Said she’d keep Luca in line. Or something to that effect.”

“She did?” Crowley cracked his eyes open for a moment and smiled. Relief bloomed on his face.

“Yes. And I met her daughter, who’s nice. Not happy with her family’s doings at all. Said she’d help us. Maria is her name. She has a baby boy; he’s cute, for a baby. It was a good day, Crowley. I just wanted to tell you. Now you can go back to sleep.”

Crowley burrowed deeper into Aziraphale’s neck. “Mmm, angel.”

Tracy craned her neck to make eye contact with Aziraphale from her spot in the passenger seat. “Poor lamb.”

“He’s just really tired, we’ll be home soon so he can rest.”

“I meant you.” She crinkled her forehead in sympathy. “Long day, huh?”

“You can say that again.”

“Azi, sweetheart?”

“What?”

“What you just told Crowley? That’s all good news, it really is. But let’s not pop the champagne just yet, okay? Do keep looking over your shoulder for the next little while. I know I probably don’t need to tell you this, that you already know. Just... keep in mind what Pepper said: it’s when you’re leaving an abusive relationship that you’re most at risk. I don’t see Luca taking this lying down. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Thank you, harbinger of doom. We will.”

“No need to get bitchy about it. You know I’m right.”

He nodded. “Sorry, dear girl. Like you said, long day.”

“I know, honey.”

The motion of the car was soporific, as was the sound of the wheels driving through slush, but Aziraphale still found it hard to relax. He kept getting the shivers, and not because he was cold. It was as if the effort of holding it together through the taxing events of the day was finally seeping out through his pores. He needed a long soak in a hot bath, to rinse off the hospital stench. And maybe a good strong drink.

The cab pulled up to the curb by their apartment building. Tracy reached for her purse.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear girl, you’ve already done so much for us tonight.”

“You have your hands full. You’ll get me next time.”

“But—”

“I’ll take a nice hot toddy though, before I go on my way.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

He helped Crowley out of the taxi, gingerly supporting him around the waist. Tracy was still in the front seat, rummaging around in her wallet. “Go on up.” She waved him off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The elevator was right there, on the lobby level, as if waiting to welcome them home. Aziraphale glanced behind him, but Tracy was still talking to the cab driver, and Crowley looked so very tired. No point in waiting. They got in, pressed the button. The ride up to their floor was quick and smooth. Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, like he had in the taxi.

“Watch your step,” Aziraphale said as the doors opened on their level; the building manager had put down a winter floor mat right in front of the doors, and it was easy to trip if you didn’t remember it was there. One of the mat corners had folded over, presumably kicked by someone coming out of the elevator. Aziraphale righted it with his foot.

“Guardian angel,” Crowley teased him.

“I just don’t want people to trip, is all.”

Crowley smiled. “S’my point.”

They walked down the hallway, holding hands. Some of the apartment doors were decorated with Christmas wreaths. That’s right, it’s almost Christmas, Aziraphale thought. In all the madness, he’d almost forgotten that Christmas Eve was just around the corner.

“Yours or mine?” he asked, out of habit more than anything. There was no question where they would go, where they’d feel safer. Besides, the ingredients for the hot toddies were at his place.

“Yours, of course,” Crowley replied.

Maybe someday they’d get to call it ours. Maybe that day wasn’t too far off.

“On second thought.” Crowley dug in his pocket for his key. “I’d better get a few things from mine first. Clean clothes, like.”

“You know I can clear out a few drawers, some closet space. For your things.” Aziraphale had been thinking about this for a while. It was time to let Crowley into his life in practical terms, to make space for him in Aziraphale’s apartment, not just in his heart. He could donate the rest of Vincent’s things to the Goodwill. This time of year especially, there was a need for warm clothes.

“Hey...” Crowley frowned, jiggling the key in the lock. “Did we lock this door when we were leaving? I remember handing you the key.”

“I think so. But maybe not?” In all honesty, he couldn’t remember. The panic of getting Crowley to the hospital had made him feel a bit stunned.

“S’not locked...” Crowley hesitated. Then he turned the doorknob, pushed the door open.

The stink of musky cologne hit Aziraphale first, before he even saw the figure standing in the doorway, inside the apartment. It was dim inside, most of the lights were off. But even so it was clear who was standing there, drink in hand, a look of fury on his face. Luca.

“There you are.” Luca spat out the words like they were venom. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Chapter Text

“Where were you? Why weren’t you here?” Luca paced back and forth along Crowley’s small living room, raking fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I came back to untie you, but you were gone, Anthony.” He gestured with his other hand, drink sloshing over the rim of the glass. “How the hell did you manage to... And who the fuck is this?”

Aziraphale’s brain was churning. He and Crowley were inside the apartment with Luca; Luca had insisted they enter, and they had. The door was closed behind them. Maybe they should have refused and run. But they hadn’t, and now here they were, face to face with an enraged and slightly drunk mafioso. There was no way this would end well.

Crowley went into damage control mode immediately, trying to calm Luca down. “This is my neighbour. Lives on the same floor. He’s nobody, really. Please, just let me explain.” He took a step forward, discreetly blocking Luca’s view of Aziraphale.

“The fuck, Anthony?! I told you to stay, and when I came back, you were gone. Gone! How am I supposed to trust you? Why does everyone make it so hard to trust them?”

“I’m sorry.” Crowley’s voice shook a little. “It’s just that I wasn’t well. My lip was bleeding and you said ‘see you tomorrow’... I went to the hospital, you see.”

“And I bet your neighbour took you there.” Luca drew back his gums like a growling dog and spat out the word ‘neighbour’ as if it were poison.

“He happened to be around.”

“You think I was born yesterday? You think I’ve never had any neighbours?”

“My hands were going numb; I guess I panicked.”

“You should’ve waited, Anthony! I was coming back; I wouldn’t have left you for long. You’re supposed to do as I say.” Luca’s pacing was growing more erratic. He’d set his drink on the counter and was raking both hands though his hair now. “I thought you were different, loyal to me. You of all people...”

“I am loyal.”

“Who am I to you, Anthony?”

“I—” Crowley’s Adam’s apple was working up and down, and though his body conveyed a studied stillness, Aziraphale could tell that his thoughts were racing. “You’re... you’re my—”

“Your protector, is who I am. Your mentor. I take care of you, like no one else does. I look out for you. Don’t I?” This was less a question and more of a statement.

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale supposed there wasn’t much else he could do.

“And all I ask in return is some trust. I don’t think that’s too much to expect. You can’t have a relationship without trust, can you, Anthony?”

“No.”

“Of course you can’t! Without trust, all you have are people trying to stab you in the back when you’re not paying attention. Like my fucking family.” Luca stopped in front of Crowley, regarding him intently. “You wouldn’t be one of those people, would you, Anthony? Trying to stab me in the back?”

It was so silent in the apartment that, for a moment, Aziraphale heard the pipes gurgle in the walls. Crowley shook his head slowly, caught in Luca’s gaze like a deer in headlights.

Luca cracked his knuckles. “Do you know who called me this afternoon? My sister. Did I ever tell you about my big sister, Anthony? You got a sister?”

“No. No sister. Only brothers.”

“Ah, so you don’t know what you’re missing. They like to boss you around, sisters, tell you what to do, keep tabs on you. Like the police, only worse. Because they know you. I hate it. All that meddling. Always hated it, even when we were kids. Know what she told me?”

Crowley shook his head meekly.

“Said I should leave you alone, said I was drawing too much attention to the family. Said a friend of yours had copies of some documents we couldn’t afford to make public, that he was blackmailing us. A friend of yours. So, this is me thinking, maybe this friend of yours is a neighbour, Anthony. What do you think about that? You like that theory? Cause I’m good at theories. I’m not stupid.” The wolflike sneer was back on Luca’s face.

Crowley was as white as the walls of his apartment. The fact that he was still standing upright was testament to his backbone. Aziraphale wished he could make it better, but there was nothing he could think of that wouldn’t make this situation a hundred times worse.

“You know.” Luca resumed his angry pacing. “I’ve got a brother too. He’s on my tail as we speak; I had to drive around for a half-hour to lose him. Did you know that? So yeah, I got a fucking chaperone now, like a six-year-old. And my sister’s treating me like I’m a fucking teenager – ‘stop seeing your musician, Lukey,’ she says to me, like we’re still kids.” He kicked the kitchen island, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his fancy suit jacket, sniffled.

Was the man actually crying? Somehow, this made things worse. Now they were dealing with a mafioso who was drunk, angry and emotionally unhinged.

“She liked to boss me around back then too,” Luca continued. “Only, these days, she’s got more power. Can send me to work with our associates in New York, or even back to Sicily if I don’t do what she wants.” He stopped in front of Crowley again. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, Anthony?”

Crowley stayed silent. From his vantage point, Aziraphale could see that he was trembling.

“So that’s how it is?” Luca continued. “You get others to do your talking for you? Your neighbour. With the documents. See, this makes me wonder what exactly those documents are, Anthony. What does my sister not want known? You got any idea?”

Well, this was interesting. Samantha had told Luca about the existence of some incriminating documents but hadn’t mentioned what they were or what they contained. Apparently what Maria had said about her mother was true: Samantha wouldn’t share the information in the letters with anyone, ever. She’d even limit the info she shared with her own family. Maybe this was something they could use against Luca? Maybe they’d manage to get out of this situation unharmed after all? But how?

Meanwhile, Luca’s mood had turned morose. He sat down on a kitchen chair, with his head in his hands. “Why, Anthony? Why’d you do it? Betray me like that. I mean, blackmail? You could’ve had anything you wanted. An international concert career. Concert halls all over the world! I pulled all the strings I could to get that performance lined up for you, the one with the Montreal Symphonia. Well, you can forget about it now, you ungrateful boy. I’ve already made the phone call; they’re giving the solo spot to someone else. You don’t deserve it. You never did! Fuck, when will I learn? You’re all the same... Pretty boys with your shiny instruments, only after my money and my connections. You say you care but you’re just out for what you can get...”

Crowley looked bowed, like a tent roof sagging under the weight of a downpour. And yet, despite the enormous stress of the situation, Aziraphale could see flickers of sympathy on his face. Luca may have been dangerous and unpredictable, but just now he merely seemed pathetic: an overgrown child reaching out for love in all the wrong ways and getting only rejection. Crowley was compassionate by nature. He also likely had practice in defusing violent people’s anger by flattering them. He reached out now. “Luca,” he said. “I really am grateful for all you’ve done for me. And I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us. The soloist spot was too much for me, you see; too much, too soon. I couldn’t handle the stress. You’re right; I didn’t deserve it. I’m more suited to playing in the background. We may be better off apart but you can be sure I’ll... think of you when I play. I’ll remember you fondly.”

“When you play?” Luca looked up, eyes red rimmed. His lips curled up in a cruel smile. “And what will you play, I wonder? Your beautiful cello?”

There was something about the way this was said that sent chills down Aziraphale’s spine. Crowley stilled, as if trying to understand Luca’s words. “What do you mean by that? Oh my God, what did you do?” he whispered. Then he stumbled forward and began desperately searching all around the living room. “Where is she?” Behind the couch, beyond the cluster of plants blocking the way to the little balcony, behind the kitchen island. The closet, the bathroom. Finally, the bedroom. Aziraphale followed.

And there, on the bed, broken and battered, lay Crowley’s cello. Out of its case, its neck snapped in half, strings tangled up and loose. The bow lay beside it, in pieces, bow hair fanning out like a sad horse’s tail.

“No!” Crowley’s legs gave way. He cradled the cello in his arms. “Not Bentley... Not my beautiful girl...” He rocked back and forth. “She never did anything to you! You’re heartless!”

“Oh, Crowley... Oh, my darling...” The horror of the situation had robbed Aziraphale of all good sense. He knelt behind Crowley and held him, offering comfort heedless of Luca’s reaction.

Luca loomed in the doorway to the bedroom. “See? I knew it. You’re a liar, Anthony. You love everyone except me. Even that piece of wood is more important than me. Even that overweight poodle of a neighbour of yours. Well, if I don’t get what I want, then you shouldn’t either. You don’t get to play that smashed piece of wood anymore.” There was a menacing pause. “In fact... I don’t think you should get to play anything ever again.”

What had Luca just said? Alarm bells rang in Aziraphale’s head. He looked up; Luca held Crowley’s metal gardening trowel in his right hand, brandishing it like a weapon.

“What are you... No!” Aziraphale scrambled to his feet.

Luca advanced. “I usually have people do the dirty work for me. Consider yourself special, Anthony.” He took a swing.

Bentley’s hard case had been lying abandoned beside the bed; Aziraphale grabbed it and blocked Luca’s blow. Thud. His arms ached from the shock. “No! Please, listen, listen...”

“Well, how ‘bout that. The poodle knows how to fight.”

Aziraphale may have looked soft, but he was solid and strong underneath all that bookishness. And above all, he was motivated. He wielded the cello case like a shield, blocking Luca’s access to Crowley. “Let’s talk about this, Mr. Malatesta! Luca. Luca! You seem like a reasonable man. I’m sure we can come to some sort of—” Thud. “Arrangement! Just—” Thud. “Just give us a minute, let us talk like civilized people—” Thud.

Crowley had jumped to his feet as soon as Luca struck the first blow. Keeping out of the way of the metal trowel, he tried to reason with Luca too. “I do care! Luca, listen. I was just... surprised to see my cello destroyed. You know, that conversation with your sister doesn’t have to mean anything! We can still be together if you want. This doesn’t have to end!” He glanced around frantically for something to use as a weapon; found nothing but pillows.

“Forget it, Anthony. I always thought you moved your hands too much when you talked. No one who’s not Italian has any business doing that. Well, that won’t be a problem after today. You won’t be moving them much at all.”

“No! Luca, no, please...” Crowley jumped on the bed to avoid Luca’s blows, backing away. “How will I... I mean, I can’t give you a hand job if my arms don’t work! You always said you liked that, you know, in the back of the limo, driving through the city...”

“It’s no use!” Luca was slurring his words, both from alcohol and emotion. “My sister said... blackmail. She said... I can’t, because, the family, and—”

“Stop!” Thud. Aziraphale stood as close to Luca as he could manage, made eye contact. “Listen! I’m the friend who talked to your sister. I have the documents she told you about. I can give them to you!”

Luca stilled. “What?”

“You can have the documents back. Then, no more blackmail. Poof! Problem gone. Anthony’s all yours. You see?” It was like trying to calm a spooked horse. Short sentences in a soothing tone. Repeat. Maybe at some point the meaning would get through. “No more blackmail. No more problem. Anthony all yours. Okay?”

This was a Hail Mary if ever there was one. Aziraphale didn’t intend to hand over copies of the incriminating letters written by Luigi – the copies he’d kept as insurance. They were too important. And besides, he’d made multiple copies; one was somewhere on the cloud and another, in an actual bank vault – not easily accessible. But Luca didn’t know that. He didn’t even know what the documents were. What’s more, Luca was drunk and unhinged. The most important thing right now was getting Crowley out of this apartment alive and in one piece, and Aziraphale would have said anything to make that happen.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“It would make me so happy to spend time with you again!” Crowley lied with gusto.

“You’ve got the documents?” Luca asked, suspicious underneath the cloud of alcohol vapour wafting from him.

“I do! They’re back at work. At the McGill Library.”

Luca set down the gardening trowel. “I’ll call for my driver. He’ll take us there now. And then afterwards, Anthony – you’re coming with me. No more neighbours.”

*******

It was the weirdest procession Aziraphale had ever been in. They left the apartment slowly: first he, then Crowley, and finally Luca, who gripped Crowley by the elbow. Calmly, they made their way to the elevator, as if just minutes before they hadn’t been involved in a violent struggle. Gentle, measured steps, so as not to set Luca off. Aziraphale pressed the button; they waited a half minute. Then the elevator doors opened and out stepped Tracy.

She took one look at their bizarre cortège and kept on walking, pretending she didn’t know them. Rummaging in her purse, as if for a key, she walked down the hallway and around the corner, disappearing from view.

“Library’s open 24 hours right now because it’s exam time, but most students have their noses in a book, and the stacks are pretty quiet. So we shouldn’t be disturbed,” Aziraphale said, ostensibly to Luca and Crowley, but loud enough for Tracy to hear. We’re headed to the library, dear girl. We’ll do what we can, but some backup would be lovely.

The elevator ride down was silent; neither Aziraphale nor Crowley dared disturb their trio’s equilibrium. They stepped outside onto the snow-covered sidewalk, and there was Luca’s driver, pulling the car up to the curb. In the time they’d spent up in Crowley’s apartment, it had started snowing: blowy, aggressive snow, like tiny pinpricks of ice on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He turned his face into the wind, relishing the feeling. Here was the real world, beyond the reach of their mafia nightmare. If only they could stay here – but no, the driver was already opening the car door.

The three of them squeezed into the backseat, Luca holding onto Crowley the whole time. The driver was probably armed, so there was nothing for it but to sit still and try to think of a plan – preferably one that wouldn’t put any innocent bystanders in danger. The library was full of students at this time of year, after all: hardly the perfect place for a showdown. Aziraphale’s brain stuttered. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with anything other than taking Luca up to his office, handing over some of the letters and hoping that would mollify him.

The car began to move. Outside the car window, Aziraphale could see Tracy running for a taxi while at the same time yelling something into her phone. Perhaps the cavalry was on the way after all. Only how? And who might it be?

Luca’s driver turned down Sherbrooke, past the Museum of Fine Arts, with its traditional and modernist pavilions on either side of the street, past the Golden Square Mile’s luxury boutiques, past the Ritz Hotel, all decked out for Christmas. They were nearly at the McGill campus when Luca, seemingly out of nowhere, said to the driver, “I’m hungry. Swing by Fairmount.” And the driver continued on up St-Laurent, which at this time of night was crowded with late-night revelers.

The traffic was stop-and-go, so it took a while to get to Fairmount Bagel, the tiny storefront bakery that never closed. Apparently, Luca did this all the time because the driver didn’t ask questions, simply hopped out and came back with a paper bag full of sesame bagels. Luca ate two, then passed the bag around. Aziraphale declined; he couldn’t have choked down anything if he tried.

The way back downtown was much faster; Luca’s driver whipped down Parc Avenue, then turned onto Pine, skirting the university campus along the edge of the mountain as he made his way back down onto Sherbrooke. All this time, Aziraphale kept thinking, Christ, what will I do when we get there? Lock Luca in a seminar room? Call the police? Call Samantha? Give him some letters and hope for the best? None of these options seemed good. And none would ultimately solve their problem: that Luca wanted Crowley wholly to himself or he wanted him broken beyond repair.

And then they were pulling up beside the library, getting out of the car, and climbing the steps off McTavish, past the Milton quote inscribed on the side of the building, inviting students to “behold the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies,” past the bronze statue of Icarus, naked and perfect – before he’d aimed too high and plummeted to his death in a blaze of wings.

The Brutalist building loomed above them, the glass entry doors heavy against Aziraphale’s shoulder as he pushed them open. Shit, what now? Behind him, he could see Crowley sway on uncertain legs as Luca pulled him along. Crowley had been worn out and in pain even before Luca showed up; by now, he must have been holding himself up by willpower alone. The elevators were straight ahead, and beyond that was the study area, crammed with students. Bizarrely, Aziraphale had a sudden memory of himself back in high school, listening to his driving instructor. If you have to crash, try not to take any pedestrians with you. He glanced left, to where the wide stairs led to the basement.

And there! In the corner, on the landing. That was Tracy! And with her, someone whose silhouette looked familiar even though she had her hood up to hide her face: dark braid, running shoes. Maria? It was! Tracy was talking, saying things that seemed completely nonsensical but were loud enough to be overheard. “I’ve been thinking of renovating my basement. Did you know, my basement flooded last spring. I should really get one of those sump pumps installed in my basement.” What was she on about? Her condo didn’t even have a basement. Why would she repeat the word, as if...

The penny dropped as Aziraphale’s stuttering brain stilled. Tracy was trying to send a message. Go down instead of up; keep whatever was going to happen away from the innocent students.

Aziraphale looked back at Luca and Crowley as he pointed toward the basement stairs. “This way,” he said. “We’ll go straight to the archival storage. It’s where I hid the documents you want.”

*******

The library’s basement was a warren of rooms running alongside a tunnel to the social sciences building. In the winter, students used the tunnel to avoid the frozen walk across campus. Staff came down here to retrieve documents that weren’t in the library’s regular collection – things that were in deep storage and often hadn’t been touched in years. Some were in boxes, some in files; many were covered in dust.

Aziraphale hadn’t been down here in months, but he knew the place well enough; he opened the door that led into the largest of the rooms, where rows of rolling library stacks loomed in the dark. Grey and rickety, the mobile shelving was ancient – one of the first installed at the McGill Library, when cost-saving began to be equated with space-saving in financial reports. There was a rotary handle at the end of each shelf – these stacks weren’t electronically powered, like the ones upstairs – and the track running along the floor needed to be oiled; it squeaked when the units were moved. All in all, the aesthetic was one from a horror film. But there was a second exit at the back of the room, and Aziraphale hoped he might manage to smuggle Crowley out that way. It was as good a plan as any.

The automatic overhead light struggled on as they entered, the neon wavering like an old person’s voice.

“The fuck’s down here?” Luca scowled. “An axe murderer?”

“Personal papers,” Aziraphale said. “Filed alphabetically by surname, mostly. Not many people come down here so, you know, it’s a good, um... hiding place.” He hoped he was being convincing enough to fool a mafioso.

“Where are they? The documents?” Luca looked suspicious; he was beginning to sober up.

This wasn’t good. A sober Luca would be a tougher adversary than a drunk one.

“I think I put them in—” Aziraphale glanced around. “Chartrand to Ferguson.” He cranked the rotary handle, and the metal shelves slid apart with a groan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley lean against the shelf, exhausted. “There’s a chair over there, maybe Crowley can sit—”

“He stays with me.” Luca’s tone was like granite.

Aziraphale took an archival box off the shelf, set it on the ground, rifled through it. Someone’s Christmas tourtière recipe and wedding invitations – not quite material to blackmail the mafia over. Or at least, nothing that would fool Luca. He’d have to try another box. Discreetly, he caught Crowley’s eye, motioned with his head toward the far wall and the second exit door. When you get a chance, make a run for it.

“What’s taking so long?” Luca asked.

“Sorry... sorry, I just— thought I’d put them in here but I guess they’re on a different shelf. Silly me. Let’s try Hébert to Johnson. Two shelves over.”

Aziraphale put the box back and then walked back out from between the stacks. Cranked the handle again, and the racks moved, one maw closing, another opening, seemingly ready to devour whoever stepped between the shelves. As much as he loved libraries, rolling stacks always made him feel claustrophobic. Something about the fact that they had the potential to trap you. It was ridiculous, he knew – there were safety mechanisms, motion sensors and whatnot to prevent it. Still, it made him uneasy.

He tried two boxes on this shelf. They yielded memorial programs from Princess Elizabeth’s 1951 royal tour and old church documents. Shouldn’t these be stored in the Catholic diocese archives? He batted the thought away like an irrelevant fly. Not the time. The point was, he still hadn’t found anything plausible to hand over to Luca.

There was a creaking sound behind them, and the door they’d used to enter the room opened. “Zizi?” A young woman’s voice. “Are you here? Uncle Luca? Talk to me, please.”

For a moment, Luca looked confused. He probably hadn’t expected to encounter his niece in such circumstances. He took a few steps toward the voice, all the time pulling Crowley with him.

Maria emerged out of the shadows. “Zizi? Can we talk?”

“Did your mother send you?”

“No!” Maria’s indignation seemed genuine. She’d pulled back the hood of her winter coat; her eyes shone with sincerity. “Come on, you honestly think she trusts me with anything? I came on my own. Wanted to talk to you. Wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything you’d regret, that you didn’t hurt anyone.”

Luca smirked. “Is that what you think of your dear old uncle?”

“Well, no, but...” Maria glanced at Crowley, who was barely staying vertical. “I mean...”

“Listen, bella, this has nothing to do with you,” Luca said. “Nothing to do with family. I keep shit like this totally separate. Or I would, if only your mother would stay out of my business. Wait, who’s that?” He pointed to Tracy, who was trying to stay inconspicuous in the shadows by the door.

“Friend of mine,” Maria said. “She works here. Doesn’t matter... Zizi, please listen. Sometimes family doesn’t know what’s best for us – our family certainly doesn’t. And we should be allowed to live our lives the way that makes us happy. But hurting people is never the answer. You can’t hold on so tight that other people suffer. You can’t harm people.”

“I wouldn’t have to, if only they did what they were told.”

While talking to Maria, Luca had let go of Crowley’s elbow. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Aziraphale inched along the library shelf and put an arm around Crowley’s waist, helping him stand. “Okay?” he whispered. Crowley’s answer was half-breath, half-moan. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He was close to collapsing – but maybe, just maybe, he had one more burst of exertion in him? Maybe he’d make it to the door at the back of the room, and then up the stairs? They’d have to take their chances.

“I just...” Maria searched for the right words. “I wouldn’t want you to regret anything you might do.”

“Regret?” Luca huffed out a laugh. “Our family doesn’t do regret. Don’t you know that by now? They reward loyalty and punish betrayal. No second chances. You know that, Mia. And there’s not much room for personal happiness either. But I get why it’s like that, I do.” He shook his head sadly. “I mean, you can’t be weak in this business, or else they eat you alive, they take over your territory. If it’s not the Calabrese, it’s the biker gangs. Or one of the Five Families in New York. Someone’s always waiting to pounce if you show vulnerability. So yeah, if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that I can’t do regret either. Can’t afford to.”

“Please, uncle Luca,” Maria had put her hands together, as in prayer. “Just... let the man go. He hasn’t done anything to you. He just wants to live his life, play his music.”

“And fuck around behind my back? I don’t think so. I don’t forgive betrayal. Our family got one thing right: you’re either with us or you’re against us. We gotta close ranks.” He titled his head thoughtfully, peered at Maria. “Your little boy, he’s what? One year old? Just you wait, he’ll learn. Oh, he’ll learn. The family trade – we all learn it in the end.”

From his position between the library stacks, Aziraphale saw Maria blanch.

Luca continued, “What, you don’t like the sound of that? You’re a girl, you’ve had it easy. You don’t matter so much. If you don’t go along with the family, no one really cares. You can be all meek and mild, you can have a conscience; you’re allowed, the family can do without you. But your son is a boy and that means one day he’ll be a man. They need him. The family needs generals, lieutenants, soldiers. Even incompetent ones like me.” He grimaced.

“No. Not him.” Maria’s voice sounded hollow. “Not my Joshua. They’ll leave him alone.”

“What, like they left me alone? Like they let me study music and live out my dream of playing for a living? Forget it, bella. The family is our destiny, whether we like it or not. Always was, always will be.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way!” Maria pleaded. “We can change it!”

“Maybe it doesn’t need changing – you ever thought of that?” Luca sounded resigned. “The family taught me to act like a man. Maybe I didn’t like it, but it’s what I needed. I may be bent but at least I’m not proud of it. I don’t flaunt it. I don’t go around waving rainbow flags or marching in those disgusting parades. In a way, I’m grateful. If not for the family, I might have been—”

“Happy? Well adjusted?”

“Oh, fuck off, bella. You know some boys need a firmer hand. Otherwise they’ll be weak. And if your son is one of those boys, well. I’ll see to it that the family sets it right. The family taught me to toughen up. I’ll make sure they teach him too.”

Maria didn’t reply. She looked like she might throw up.

For a few minutes now, Luca had been preoccupied arguing with his niece; now it seemed he’d noticed that Crowley was no longer by his side. “Hey! Where’s Anthony?” From his vantage point at the back of the room, Aziraphale heard Luca’s footsteps grow closer. “Anthony! Where’d you go? Come back!”

Aziraphale froze. He and Crowley had almost made it to the back door. But there were stairs beyond the door, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how fast Crowley would be able to climb. Certainly not fast enough to outrun an angry Luca. He glanced around in desperation.

“Tremblay! Wallace!” Tracy yelled.

What the fuck?

Luca was hurrying toward them through the Hébert to Johnson shelving stack, the one that was open like a corridor.

“Tremblay!” Tracy screamed once again. “Wallace!”

“Wallace! Tremblay!” Maria echoed.

What did they mean? Those were last names. But whose? Unless... Aziraphale pulled Crowley along the back wall, toward the second-last row of shelves – the ones containing documents from T to W: Tremblay to Wallace. Luca was a few metres behind them. Crowley was stumbling, struggling, so Aziraphale threw one of Crowley’s arms around his own neck and half-carried him as he ran. Behind him, he could hear the rolling rack shelving move as Hébert to Johnson squeezed shut; ahead of him, he could see Tremblay to Wallace begin to open.

With as much energy as he could muster, he turned into the Tremblay to Wallace stack, forging on through the opening library shelves like a ship through water, trying to get to the other side, to reach Tracy and Maria; running for his life, for Crowley’s life; half-carrying the man he loved and whose life he was trying to save. He wasn’t sure what Tracy and Maria had in mind, but he had no choice but to trust them.

“Come on!” Tracy was yelling. “Faster, Azi! Move it!”

He ran, Crowley stumbling beside him. Almost there, almost there – Luca was gaining on them, was only a dozen steps behind.

“Hurry!” Tracy yelled one more time and, as Aziraphale reached the end of the row, she grabbed Crowley from his arms and pulled them both clear of the space between the shelves. The only one now left in the narrow Tremblay-Wallace corridor was Luca.

Aziraphale saw Maria grip and crank the rotary handle. Like a devouring beast, Tremblay-to-Wallace began to close. Luca was still inside – surely the safety mechanism would kick in and stop the shelves from closing... Wouldn’t it?

There was a crunch. And a scream. Then the sound of boxes falling off shelves and landing with a thud – some on the floor, some on Luca’s head.

The heavy shelves ground to a stop with a screech of metal rails, like a perverse academic train.

“Help me...” Luca’s voice sounded thin and reedy. With horror, Aziraphale noticed a pool of blood spreading along the floor.

Then Crowley’s hands were cradling Aziraphale’s face, turning it away from the sight. Crowley’s eyes locked onto his own. “Don’t look, angel. Focus on me. I’m right here.”

“But... He... I... But we...” Aziraphale found he couldn’t catch his breath. His knees seemed to be sliding out from under him like melting butter.

“You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

“Crowley...”

“Just hold on to me.”

Everything went a bit fuzzy at the corners and then the world tilted on its side. The last thing Aziraphale remembered was his vision giving way to grey pixels, like an old TV screen when the signal was down.

*******

He came to with Crowley holding him close. They were sitting on the library stairs leading up from the basement, his head in Crowley’s lap. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he could see paramedics manoeuvring a loaded stretcher through the library doors. Nearby, Tracy was deep in conversation with a tall, heavyset man who looked a lot like Luca. Although the man towered over her, his posture was deferential.

“Angel? Aziraphale?” Crowley’s brow was wrinkled in concern. “Can you hear me?”

Aziraphale lifted his head. “Ahmm.” Words were still tricky.

“Welcome back. Take your time. Here, have some water.”

The crinkling sound of a cheap plastic water bottle. Liquid against his lips, some spilling down his chin. The world around him gradually came into focus. “Is he... is he dead?”

Crowley held the water bottle motionlessly for a moment, set it down. “Technically, no. But he’s not in good shape.” He grimaced. “I heard one of the paramedics say he probably wouldn’t make it.”

Aziraphale let that sink in. Was it terrible to feel relief because another human being had come to harm? He could still hear the crunch of those metal shelves and Luca’s scream. On the other hand, here was Crowley, sitting by his side – and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder. He wasn’t in immediate danger. The release from fear was so palpable it felt like elation.

Tracy walked over toward them and bent down so as not to be overheard. “We need to clear out now. Maria’s already gone. Dom says he’ll give us about a ten-minute head start before the police arrive – keep our names out of it. It’s good for us, good for them – less publicity. How he has an in with the police, I don’t want to know. Anyway, I’ve called Shadwell to come pick us up. Can you stand? We’ll walk toward Sherbrooke.”

Aziraphale was fully alert now. He raised an eyebrow. “Dom?”

“Dominic. Luca’s brother.”

“His ‘chaperone.’ Remember, angel? He ranted about that earlier. About his brother following him around. I guess the brother tracked him here. He showed up right around the time you passed out.”

“Yes, yes. But... Dom?”

Tracy blushed. “Uh, yeah. About that. Turns out... former client. Small world.”

Crowley was wide-eyed. “You didn’t say anything before.”

“He didn’t use his last name. And we didn’t talk about his day job. It’s not what he came to visit me for. Anyway.” Tracy twirled her fingers, making a ‘let’s wrap it up’ sign. “Come on boys, police are on their way.”

Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley’s waist and they limped their way to the library exit doors. They passed Dominic; the man was tall and built like a brick shithouse. Certainly not someone you’d want to encounter in a back alley. Aziraphale tried not to stare as Dominic bowed to Tracy and quietly called her ‘mistress.’

*******

Shadwell dropped them off in front of their apartment building, and Tracy hugged each of them tightly before she got back in the car. Walking through the quiet lobby toward the elevator, with Crowley leaning on his shoulder, Aziraphale was struck by how surreal it felt to be back home. It had been less than an hour since they were last here, but it might as well have been a year. So much had happened.

The whole sordid business wasn’t quite over, but they could take a breath for now, and that felt like a gift.

“Yours or mine?” Aziraphale asked when the elevator stopped on their floor.

Crowley looked solemn. “Yours but... let me check on her first. Okay?”

Aziraphale didn’t have to ask who Crowley meant. They opened Crowley’s apartment door and headed straight for his bedroom.

Bentley lay on the bed, a mangled mess. Crowley sank to his knees. With gentle hands, he traced his cello’s contours, as if touching a loved one who was hurt and needed comfort.

Aziraphale crouched beside him. “How bad is it?”

Crowley ran a finger up Bentley’s broken neck. “S’not good. But honestly? I’ve seen worse done to instruments after an airline was through with them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I know a good luthier in the Old Port. Seen ‘em work miracles before. Maybe they can help her. Fix her.” A tender caress along Bentley’s flank. “She deserves to be whole again, to resonate with music. To be well. Unmolested. To feel joy when she plays. To...” He took a deep breath; this wasn’t about the cello anymore. “To freely make choices. Sleep without nightmares, you know? Not jump at every text message, like I have been. Just live a normal life, an ordinary life, wake up without that weight pressing down in the middle of my chest, every thought a reminder, I just want to—”

Aziraphale held him close. Didn’t say anything, because, what good would words do? What they needed was time – and it seemed they would have that now. Between the two of them, there were still so many broken places. But broken places heal.

Chapter Text

“This good?”

“A smidgen to the right. More right. Up, up a bit more. Not quite that much!”

“Angel, come on...”

“Just a little lower. Thank you for humouring me, dear boy. You know I like to get things just so. That’ll do.”

Crowley hammered a nail into the wall, took a few steps back to get a better look. “I still think it’d be better in our bedroom, over the dresser.”

“I prefer it here, where I can see it from the kitchen as I’m cooking. It always makes me smile. You look so goofy in your green top hat.”

“I look ridiculous,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale could tell it was a good-natured kind of grumbling.

The object in question was a framed photograph of the two of them taken on St. Patrick’s Day. They’d gone out drinking with Tracy and Shadwell, slowly getting used to the fact that being seen together in public was something they could do now. In the picture, they looked mildly soused and utterly, deliriously happy.

“Where I’d really like to hang it is on the wall facing the kitchen, but it wouldn’t be visible because of that monstrosity of a television set you insist we need.”

“You love it.” Crowley grinned. “Makes your baking shows look like they’re mixing and kneading right in our apartment.”

“Well, yes, but. It’s just... so big.”

Crowley sidled up to Aziraphale with a snake-like movement of hips, hands in pockets. “Too many inches, angel?”

“There is such a thing, you know.”

Crowley’s raised eyebrow conveyed amused skepticism. He didn’t answer.

“What, my dear, you don’t agree?”

A mischievous glint in those gold-flecked eyes. A shoulder shrug. “Sometimes big is good.”

“Oh, honestly, Crowley. We’ll never get these boxes unpacked if you keep distracting me.”

“S’my job, distracting my angel. I take it seriously. Hard worker, me.”

Aziraphale set down the stack of books he’d been holding and wiped his palms on his thighs. Slowly, he eyed Crowley up and down. “Aren’t you, just.”

This conversation had ceased to be about their new television, if it ever had been, and was going in a predictable direction. Which didn’t bode well for work getting done but that was fine; it was lovely. A lot of their interactions over the past month had gone this way.

After a low-key Christmas, which involved a lot of take-out Chinese food, they’d spent the winter being careful of each other, solicitous of one another’s trauma. They’d been tender, and slow, and partly celibate. There was a lot of hand holding, gentle kisses, hugs, sometimes a blow job. Questions like “May I?” and “Is this all right?”. Crowley saw a therapist twice a week, wrote in his journal, still had the odd nightmare. They drank cocoa and snuggled under blankets, and the fallow winter days stretched on.

But then, one morning, there was a news item on the CBC about Luca Malatesta passing away in hospital after several months spent in a coma. The reporter mentioned an unspecified “accident” and said the family had elected to keep things private. There was some talk of Luca being the black sheep of the mafia family, but nothing at all about his personal life.

Crowley came back from rehearsal that night and, without even taking off his coat, pulled Aziraphale into an aggressive kiss. Aziraphale stroked his cheek and asked, “Is it okay if I—” but Crowley cut him off with, “Damn it, angel, I know what my safe word is.” Which pretty much set the tone for the next twenty minutes. They stumbled to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, and – there really was no other way of putting it, crude as the slang term was – Aziraphale bent Crowley over the bed and railed him good and proper, to the point that people making their way to the elevator in the hallway probably heard Crowley’s ecstatic moans.

It had been good. Really good. They lay in bed after, nuzzled into each other, and felt the way you do after a heavy storm finally breaks. Winter had passed, it seemed. Spring was bursting into flower.

Now here was Crowley, looking at Aziraphale with a seductive smirk, saying, “I’ll work as hard as you want me to.”

The living room was strewn with unpacked boxes. They had exactly two days to get things squared away before their planned Crowley-moves-in-with-Aziraphale housewarming party, to which all their friends had been invited. There was no way they’d get the apartment ready in time if they didn’t focus.

Crowley was wearing his tight black jeans, which left little to the imagination. He palmed his erection with one hand all the while undoing the top button on his fly with the other. He did this while running his tongue along his top teeth.

Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry. Ah, fuck it. Unpacking could wait.

“Come over here,” he said gruffly. “I’ll show you hard.”

Crowley huffed out an eager breath and stepped between boxes, making his way over to Aziraphale. He wobbled but caught himself before falling.

“Watch that box, dear boy; it has your fancy whisky glasses in it. It would be a shame if they fell victim to our afternoon delight. Here, give me your hand.”

A few unsteady steps on Crowley’s part, and they were pressed together, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. God, there was nothing like it in the world. Crowley’s mouth was hot. Aziraphale let his hands roam over that long, sinuous back, slid his palms down to cup both of Crowley’s arse cheeks. Crowley arched into him, chasing more contact.

The kitchen island counter dug into Aziraphale’s lumbar spine. I’m too old for this, he thought.

Crowley opened his eyes, raised both eyebrows. “Bedroom?”

“Only if you promise to be very quiet, my dear; that wall is thin, and I think our new neighbours might be home. I’m still not sure of the hours they keep.”

“M’not that loud, angel. And besides, if anything, they’d understand...”

“I wouldn’t want to traumatize the poor girls, not a mere week after they’ve moved in. They seem lovely.”

Nina and Maggie had taken possession of Crowley’s apartment shortly after he’d moved all his things over to Aziraphale’s place – to their shared place. Seeing as no one had had a chance to properly unpack yet, Aziraphale’s acquaintance with the girls was still very fresh. He did believe that good fences made good neighbours and that there was such a thing as proper next-door etiquette. He and Crowley had plans to soundproof their bedroom; in the meantime they’d need to rely on restraint.

“I’ll be quiet, angel, I promise.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s neck. “I adore it when you’re this eager. But I know better than to believe you when you promise to be quiet, you fiend. No, no bedroom for us today. Turn around, grip the other end of the countertop.”

A blush spread along Crowley’s cheekbones. “S’the middle of the day, angel.”

“So it is.”

“Someone could see us through the balcony doors.”

It was unlikely, unless someone in the building across the street was motivated and had a telescope at their disposal. Still, the possibility was there, and it seemed to be giving Crowley a frisson. Aziraphale loved it when he could facilitate experiences for Crowley that took him out of himself and helped him forget the stresses of the past year. “You like that idea?”

Crowley exhaled. His body became relaxed, pliant. “M’in your hands, angel.”

“Yes, you are, my love. Now turn around.”

Crowley lay down over the cold quartz countertop, gripping the far edge of it with his long fingers, feet on the floor.

“Comfortable?”

“S’fine.”

It probably wasn’t comfortable, but that might add to Crowley’s pleasure in the end. It would keep him from being able to fully focus on any one sensation, robbing him of control in a way he craved. Like an irritant in an oyster shell, it would help create something lovely.

“There, I’ve got you.” Aziraphale stood behind Crowley and nudged his feet apart. He held his hips in both hands, and then slowly unzipped Crowley’s jeans and edged them down.

“Pfft...”

“All right?”

“Mhm.”

“I think we’ll make this all about you today. I admit, I haven’t quite recovered from the marvelous time we had in the shower last night. I’m not as young as you; I can’t perform on demand. What I’d like most right now is to watch you take your pleasure. Take the pleasure I give you. Are you holding on?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t let go.”

Crowley shook his head. That he would hold on for dear life, Aziraphale had no doubt. They’d discussed similar scenarios over the past month, as their fallow winter turned into a rather horny spring; had talked about all manner of possibilities and negotiated what would be okay and what wouldn’t. There was even a set of velvet-lined restraints currently sitting in Aziraphale’s bedside cabinet, waiting to be used. They’d picked them out together. But being bound was a sensitive thing, especially given what Luca had put Crowley through back in December. They hadn’t used the restraints yet; Aziraphale was waiting for Crowley to ask.

“I’ll start slow,” Aziraphale said, palming Crowley’s cock. “You feel so lovely in my hand, my dear. I could do this all day, just like this. Giving you nothing else, and gradually bringing you to a climax. But I won’t do that, and do you know why? Because I found the box with your toys – the box we’d misplaced, remember? When we were packing. I’ve got it right here.” He tapped a cardboard box at his feet. “And I was thinking. You have some things in there you enjoy, and it’s been a while since we used them. Any preferences?”

Crowley shivered – whether from anticipation or the cool of the kitchen counter on his belly, it wasn’t clear. He glanced over his shoulder with the look of a kid at Christmas who’d been asked which present he’d like to open first. “Dunno. They’re all great.”

“Chef’s choice, then? All right. You trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now – before we begin...” Aziraphale slid his hand between Crowley’s arse cheeks, down his crack, circled an index finger gently along his tight pucker. “This okay today? Not too tender? Okay if I just—”

Crowley moaned and the muscles in his arms tightened as he gripped the edge of the counter.

“Ooh, I see. It really is spring, isn’t it? Sap running high and all. Well, my dear boy. That certainly gives me some ideas. Lubrication first, of course. And then my fingers, to start. You just relax. Close your eyes and enjoy. Let me rummage in our treasure box here. Hmmm, yes, that one, I think. That’ll do nicely. Here. See how you like this – nice and slow.”

The anal beads in Aziraphale’s hand were made of black silicone and had a flared base. To the uninitiated they looked a bit like a knobby Christmas tree or a set of tiny stacked ice cream scoops that gradually increased in size the lower down you went. Gently, he inserted the tip while stroking Crowley’s cock with a lubricated hand. One bead. A few more strokes. Then another. “Not too much?”

Crowley was breathing through his open mouth, eyes closed in pleasure. His hips were rutting in tandem with Aziraphale’s strokes.

Aziraphale ran his finger around Crowley’s opening pucker, massaging gently. Another bead. “All right, my dear?”

“Yeah, s’good...”

“Shall we stop here? Have you had enough?”

“Nnnnn...” Crowley shook his head.

“Right, I didn’t think so. Tell me when you’re ready for more. You can have as much as you like.”

There were goosebumps all along Crowley’s flanks and lower back. His hips were rutting faster now. “More. Yeah.”

“Here you go, my love. Oh, you like that, don’t you? Like the feeling of being filled up. More still?”

“Yeah... aaah, please...” This was more of a moan than a string of words. Crowley had thrown back his head, his hands still gripping the opposite edge of the counter.

“This is the last one. It’s a big one, but I know you can take it. I’ve seen what you can do. I’ll go slow and gentle. And – there.”

A full-body shiver went through Crowley as he gasped and curved his spine, pushing his rear into Aziraphale’s hand. Full like this, it never took him long to climax, so it wouldn’t be long now. Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s prick, stroked with purpose.

Knock-knock.

Someone was at the front door.

Aziraphale stilled his hand on Crowley’s cock and listened. Maybe whoever it was would go away. Who’d want to bother them on a Saturday morning? Honestly. Canada Post was off the clock, and neither he nor Crowley had ordered any Amazon packages of late.

Knock-knock.

Damnation. Aziraphale sighed. “Hold still for a minute, my dear. I’ll check who it is.”

“Angel, come on, don’t stop—”

“Door’s locked, don’t worry. I won’t leave you for long. Just be good for me and wait. All right?”

The way to the front door was blocked with boxes upon boxes; Aziraphale navigated his way between them with care. He glanced through the peephole: on the other side of the door was a person in a green polyester vest with some sort of nametag, holding a clipboard and a pen. Nothing that couldn’t wait. If it was important, they’d come back. If not, well, good riddance.

Aziraphale turned away from the door and wended his way through the maze of boxes, back to Crowley’s side. “There you are, my dear. Were you good for me? Didn’t move an inch, did you.”

Crowley’s six-foot frame was held carefully still, but he seemed to be trembling. Cold? Anxious? Aziraphale stepped into position behind him while palming Crowley’s neglected cock. It was almost painfully hard, the slit weeping with pre-ejaculate. Oh.

“Crowley, sweetheart. You liked that, didn’t you? Being left all exposed and vulnerable, with a stranger at our door? If I’d wanted to, I could have turned back the lock and let them look their fill. Why, you dirty boy.”

“Ngk...” Crowley thrust into Aziraphale’s hand, then pushed back into his grip, the one that had a firm grasp on the butt plug.

“You know they’re still there, right? On the other side of the door? They’ll hear you if you’re loud. And I could wait until they’re safely away to bring you to orgasm, but you know what? I don’t think I will. You’re too close. You’ll just have to work hard to keep quiet or else you’ll be giving some stranger a show.”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder and made eye contact with Aziraphale, a look of desperation on his face. “You bastard.” He kept rutting into Aziraphale’s hand.

“I am. Lucky bastard too. Do you know why?”

“Pffft...”

Crowley was on the precipice of orgasm, ready to topple over. All he needed was a nudge now.

“Because I have you. And you’re lovely and kind and smart and good, so good, so lovely, you’re so good for me, Crowley...”

Crowley twitched and then exploded in Aziraphale’s hand, howling and biting his own forearm to muffle the sound as Aziraphale jerked him off with quick and even tugs all the while pulling out the anal beads one by one – pop, pop, pop – to increase Crowley’s pleasure.

It never got old. Seeing Crowley happy, watching him let go, feeling his body relax in Aziraphale’s arms as he resettled into an understanding of the world as a place of safety – it had been months since that traumatic night in the library basement, and there were still moments when the fact that they got to have this took Aziraphale’s breath away. They were so lucky. They’d found each other. And they got to keep what they’d found.

“All right, my dear boy?” Aziraphale stroked circles along Crowley’s lower back.

“Mmmhm. Yeah.”

There was a towel in the box with the sex toys, which was just as well because Aziraphale had an armful of post-orgasmic cellist who had apparently lost the ability to stand on his own, and there was an obstacle course blocking the way to the linen closet. Aziraphale kicked the box closer and leaned down to grab the sage green terrycloth.

Crowley reached behind him. “Lemme have that towel. Think I can stand now.”

“All yours.”

“The beads too; I’ll go wash ‘em. Gotta wash up anyway.”

“I can deal with the beads, my love.”

“No need. And you can’t use that ‘proper host’ argument anymore; I live here too now, remember?” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale found himself grinning too.

Back from the bathroom, Crowley looked composed again, though the colour was still high in his cheeks. The sarcastic arch of his eyebrow was back too. “Thought you were against traumatizing the new neighbours.”

“Nina and Maggie, certainly. They seem nice. But I have nothing against traumatizing people who come around on a Saturday soliciting us about duct cleaning. Or vacuum sales or what have you. We have a proper working vacuum; we don’t need a new one, thank you very much.”

Crowley snorted and leaned down to kiss Aziraphale. “And here I thought you were an angel. Turns out you’re a bastard too.”

“I am what I am.” Aziraphale gave a sassy head toss. “No take-backs, my dear.”

Crowley put both of his lanky arms around Aziraphale and squeezed tight. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

*******

Several hours of hard graft later, they sat on the kitchen floor, leaning back against the cabinets and eating delivery pizza from a box. The couch was covered in sheet music – organized in some sort of order which Crowley was loath to disturb – and every other piece of furniture in the place had something on it which was halfway to its permanent home and could not be moved for fear of being lost again.

Crowley scooped up a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. “Almost looks worse than when we started,” he said with his mouth full.

“Optical illusion, my dear.”

“Yeah? Dunno, looks pretty real to me.”

“What I meant was, it’s to be expected. It’ll look worse before it looks better. But we’re getting there. At least now we know where most things are, even if they’re not put away yet.”

Crowley nodded, chewing. He’d worked up an appetite. Manoeuvring his black leather couch into the den had taken some muscle power – but they both agreed it was the best place for it. With the bulk of Vincent’s papers donated to the music library, the den would now be Crowley’s domain: the place where he could practice his cello undisturbed while Aziraphale tried out new recipes in the kitchen. Since Crowley’s couch folded out into a decent bed, the den would also serve as an impromptu guest room if needed.

Aziraphale looked around the mess in their living room and felt his stomach sink a bit. “It is a bit discouraging though, isn’t it? How will we ever finish by tomorrow night? Maybe it was too optimistic of us to have everyone over so soon. I should have held off on that.”

Crowley nudged Aziraphale with his foot. “It’ll be fine, angel. ‘Sides, people can help when they come over. Whole idea, innit? And!” He gesticulated with his pizza slice. “I found those plastic outlet covers you bought. So we can babyproof the place ‘fore Maria and Joe visit with the little one. He’s into everything these days, she says, walking and starting to climb—”

“Oh dear...”

“But s’fine!” Crowley was quick to reassure. “We can put whatever you don’t want broken in the den and lock the door. Don’t worry. Your albums and knick-knacks. Bentley, of course, now that she’s good as new. And my plants – so he won’t eat ‘em... You know how toddlers chew on everything; they’re worse than puppies.” Aziraphale must have looked alarmed because Crowley hurried to add, “I can stay up tonight and get the papers put away, angel. That’s the bulk of the work done, right there. You’ll wake up tomorrow and we’ll be most of the way there.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale worried his bottom lip. “I’m just not very good with small children. They make me nervous.”

“Then you can have a glass of wine with the grown-ups and I’ll follow the little troublemaker around. I don’t mind little ones. Had lots of baby cousins m’self. Used to ‘em.”

“Are you sure?”

Crowley stuffed another piece of pizza in his mouth, waved his hand dismissively. “No trouble. It’ll be fun. Kids are alright. And it’ll be nice to have everyone over to our place. Our place, angel.” He paused as his face lit up with a smile. “Has a nice ring to it, eh? Our place.”

It did. Like a shiny new wedding band on your finger that sent a thrill down to your toes every time you saw it glint in the sun – (they weren’t there yet, he and Crowley, but the road to their future stretched out long and hopeful) – the two words, ‘our place’ were a delight to dwell on. Aziraphale leaned over and kissed Crowley’s pizza-smeared mouth. “This isn’t all too much? Too exhausting? You’ll have enough time to get ready for your audition in two weeks?”

“Plenty of time. I’ve played all the pieces before, so not worried. Been practicing, too. S’okay if I miss a night’s sleep now and then. Because of unpacking or—” He wiggled his eyebrows. “—whatever.”

“Fiend.” Aziraphale sighed contentedly and snuggled against Crowley’s bony shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re getting a second chance with the Symphonia though, Crowley. On your terms. A proper audition this time.”

“Yeah. Section cello. Would be nice. I’d feel like I’d earned it, if I got it.”

It was a coincidence that the job vacancy had come up: simple attrition through retirement with no evil plotting on the mafia’s part. Completely legitimate. But it was still a relief that the Montreal Symphonia was receptive to Crowley’s CV given their dealings with him over the past year. Apparently, some sort of musicians’ grapevine had ensured that Crowley’s reputation hadn’t been tainted. At least he was getting a fair chance at the job – as much of a chance as any other cellist. Which was all he’d ever wanted in the first place.

Crowley wiped his greasy hands on a paper towel and stood up. “How ‘bout some music? Bit’ve break before we unpack again.”

“Oh, but...” All the albums were in a box by the front door, and Aziraphale’s trusty turntable was buried under a pile of clothes.

“Still got your radio, angel, here on the counter. Old school, but it works.”

“Really, Crowley, bebop?”

“Whatever happens to be on; s’how radio works. That’s the joy of doing things old school. Full of surprises.” Crowley smiled at Aziraphale, something soft about his eyes. He fiddled with the dial. “There! You gotta know this one. A Canadian 80s classic.”

“Were you even born then?” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley reached out his hand. “My mom loved this song. Turned it up every time it came on the radio in the car. Now come on. Dance with your man?”

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and took Crowley’s hand. They slotted together and swayed to the music, socks sliding over tile in their cluttered kitchen. Everything else seemed to fall away as Jeff Healey’s gravelly voice crooned about the wonder of love reciprocated.

Aziraphale did know the song. It was a pretty song, popular when he was in high school – a heteronormative love ballad that was the soundtrack to every school dance and bush bash as drunk girls with teased bangs danced with pimply boys who tried to cop a feel in the dark. Aziraphale had always felt excluded during those times, set apart from everyone else. Those teenage rituals weren’t open to him. The song wasn’t about him.

That’s how he’d felt – until now. Now Crowley held him close. He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, shyly but with determination, as he mouthed along: Whatcha doin’ with a clown like me? How did I ever win your love? What did I do? What did I say to turn your angel eyes my way?

It was cheesy as hell but, God, it was lovely. And wasn’t it wondrous that this second chance at love that he was getting with Crowley was also a chance at a do-over of some of his teenage pain? He hadn’t been expecting that; it was a delightful surprise. Disarmed, he felt laughter bubble up from his chest – carefree, grateful.

“What’s so funny? My singing that bad?” Crowley said into his ear with a smile.

“Oh, Crowley. Sweetheart. No, not at all. It’s— it’s... you see... I’m the clown in this equation. Me. Such a clown.”

“Oh, angel.”

They giggled. Stepped on each other’s feet, almost fell. Held each other closer. Laughed some more.

You see, silly? Vincent would have said, in his stoic but twinkly way. Love can be so simple, and you can have it again, you really can. Aziraphale could almost hear the captain’s voice in his ear, saying the words like a blessing. See, I told you. Now be happy, my love. Be happy.