Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he finally returned, Aziraphale told Crowley the story. How it had taken him little over an hour to grow tired of Heaven. One day to realise that he had made the biggest mistake of his existence. Two years to avert the Second Coming, another one to rebuild Heaven to such a condition that he could in good conscience leave and live on Earth once more.

In Heaven, he had fought for change but landed on preservation. The Earth stayed, and he and Crowley were safe, finally retired for real. Everything else was as it had been since the dawn of time.

And that, to Crowley, was the crux of it.

Aziraphale was still an angel.

Crowley was still a demon.

They still didn’t talk about the things that mattered.

And Crowley ached for more.

The first two years, they settled into the normal, safe routine that they had built for themselves after Armageddon’t. Dinners and plays, strolls in the park, late hours in the bookshop, extraordinary amounts of alcohol. They never talked about their time apart, except for the bare necessities. Aziraphale sometimes let slip small snippets concerning his time in Heaven, but trailed off once he caught himself or saw Crowley’s conspicuous discomfort. Crowley talked about his new flat – Hell had kicked him out of the old one for a second time when he refused to assist them in the Second Coming – and his friendship with Nina (and by extension, Maggie). They both agreed that Muriel would do a fine job as the new Representative on Earth. Incrementally, the tension between them became easier to ignore, their bantering more jovial than venomous. Everything was as it had always been, or at least since Armageddon’t.

And Crowley ached, longing for a change that never came.

---

Crowley hadn’t meant for it to happen. During his long stint on Earth, it had only happened twice before. Mariam had been brilliant, her astrolabes even more so. More importantly, she had been curious, nonjudgmental. A friend. More. A lover. A confidant. A love, as much as a demon could love a human – which turned out to be a great deal. Crowley had lasted four years before forcing himself to leave her, knowing he could never bear watching her grow old and wither away. Leonardo had shared many of her traits – but he had also been more of a bastard, tricking Crowley into staying longer than he had planned. When he was laid to rest, Crowley had sworn on two things. First, to never stay around long enough to see anyone dear to him perish ever again. He had kept that promise until the bookshop burned (and maybe longer, depending on the definition of perishing). Second, to never again get involved with a human, their fragility and mortality making the heartache too inevitable for it to be worth it.

He kept that one until Oscar.

It started out innocently enough. Nina had, from Aziraphale’s Ascension and onwards – with various degrees of frustration – nagged Crowley to start therapy. Crowley had scowled at the suggestion, making the case that Freud had been a right bastard – he should know. Before Aziraphale’s return, the demon had somewhat managed to convince himself that everything was alright, all things considered. Sure, since the angel’s departure, his existence had consisted of a lot of cursing and sobbing, drinking most of the nights – and days – away. But he had done similar things before and survived, hadn’t he? And besides, like the optimist he was, he still held out hope. Moreover, he had a plan:

When – because he firmly believed it was when, not if – Aziraphale came back, they would talk it out. They hadn’t managed to do so during the years following Armageddon’t, true. Still, during those years, it had felt like they were slowly (glacially) moving closer to a place where the angel would finally be comfortable enough to let go of at least some of his inhibitions and anxieties. Small gestures and touches, meaningful looks – the signs had been there, Crowley was sure of it. When the angel returned, they would finally manage to say what they had to say to each other, and if Aziraphale didn’t love him back – well, then at least Crowley would have tried. He would make himself scarce for a millennium or so and then gradually ease himself back into the angel’s life as if nothing had ever happened. Easy-peasy.

Only, when Aziraphale did return, there was no Talk. Not even an acknowledgement of the Thing at hand. There was silence, and then small talk, followed by lunches and dinners until it felt weird to raise the issue. And Crowley grew tired of it all. The silence. The evasion. He loved Aziraphale – but he needed more. He needed to talk, needed to be seen.

The next time Nina brought up therapy, Crowley finally obliged – just to shut her up, of course. Which was how he found himself, approximately two years after Aziraphale’s return, in a large office space that had been converted into a therapy room with the help of some comfy armchairs spread haphazardly in a corner. They were occupied by a couple of middle-aged men (Crowley of course was neither, but at least he looked the part), who all suffered from suspected or diagnosed PTSD because of trauma stemming from their relatives and/or spouses. Crowley had gotten a place in the group by presenting a version of himself as rich, early retired, and with a complicated relationship towards both his relatives and someone called Ezra. Basically the truth – although put in a human framework.

They were an odd assortment of men, only grouped together because of their perceived similar traumas and an ability to pay the frankly outrageous hourly rate. There were six of them: two in their mid-thirties, the rest (if Crowley was included) in their forties, not counting the uncomfortable-looking and frankly too young therapist. After each session they all quietly went their separate ways, as if ashamed to break the illusion of camaraderie when faced with the real world. It fitted Crowley to a tee. After all, he wasn’t there to make friends.

After every meeting, Crowley drove the Bentley right to the bookshop and took Aziraphale out for lunch, while sardonically recounting what had gone down during the session – Aziraphale being under the assumption that Crowley was there because of the “relatives” part. How Greg, an unassuming man in his late forties, had suddenly started to shout uncontrollably during an empty chair exercise when tasked with telling his spouse how he really felt. How Mehdi (who left the group a couple of sessions in), had broken down sobbing when he realised that his ex actually had been abusing him. How Kim and Johan nearly had started fighting because they had very different takes on the importance of being in shape when dealing with relatives, before the therapist had put an end to that.  

For some reason, Crowley never told Aziraphale about Oscar. It just felt…wrong…to mention him to the angel, like a breach of trust – although Crowley couldn’t pinpoint why. After all, a few sessions in, he knew quite a lot about the man in question. Oscar was American, forty or thereabout. He was an actor (Crowley had scoffed at that), living in London for the time being due to a project he had signed an NDA regarding and therefore could not disclose anything about (Crowley had scoffed even more at that). He certainly looked the part, pushing 6,2 and with handsome features accentuated by curly, black hair and an impeccable and modern sense of style. His ex had either committed suicide or died of an accidental overdose – the cause of death had been ruled undetermined. In his youth, his religious parents had kicked him out when they found out he was gay. Overall, as he liked to describe it, he was a Hollywood cliché – although usually based in New York.

Crowley – even if he was loath to admit it both out loud and to himself – found him fascinating. There was something about the actor, a certain sparkle in his eyes that spoke of natural curiosity and adventurousness. While the other participants struggled to contain their emotions – positive or negative – when exposed to the tales of their unfortunate companions, Oscar remained neutral but interested. Rational. Insightful. His advice was usually sound, delivered in a way that made the recipient feel seen, not accused. Sometimes Crowley even wondered if Oscar – as a paid actor – had been placed in the group in order to facilitate the talking rather than actually requiring any help himself.

He never told Aziraphale that – or anything at all.

Which was why, a few sessions in, Crowley had a hard time explaining to the angel why he was late to lunch and drenched to the bone.

---

The chilly October weather was awful, rain smashing down as if the Almighty had decided that a new flood was due. The weekly therapy session ended, and the participants all found themselves facing the choice of waiting in the impersonal lobby or daring to challenge the wrath of God. Kim, Johan, and Greg – all long-time inhabitants of London – just shrugged and unfolded their umbrellas. Oscar, however, made a face.

“Fuck.” He sighed, rolling his eyes in Crowley’s direction. “I should have known. It’s not like I usually live in the tropics. I’ll just wait it out. See you around, Anthony.”

For a millisecond, Crowley considered miracling an umbrella for the unlucky fellow. Instead, he surprised himself.

“I can give you a ride, if you want to. It’s no problem.”

Oscar lit up, and Crowley’s lips involuntarily curled upwards. They hurried to the parking space, the rain deciding to increase a tad more for good measure. Despite the unyielding weather, Oscar stopped in his tracks when Crowley gestured towards the Bentley.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “This is yours? I’ve checked out this beauty so many times! Make me miss my own.”

This time, Crowley found himself smiling genuinely. It’s been a while since you did that, his mind told him, apropos nothing.

“You got your own Bentley?”

Oscar shook his head, his damp curls whisking water in every direction.

“Nothing that fancy, no. Someday, perhaps. Just got an old Porsche. A fast one. Standard, I know – but as I’ve stated, I’m a cliché. It’s back home, tough, and I haven’t gotten around to rent something here yet. Can I have a look?”

The rain kept pouring as Crowley happily obliged, showing Oscar every small detail of the exterior. As the tour drew to an end, Oscar started to laugh.

“So much for not getting ourselves wet. We’re freaking soaked! Can’t really get inside now, can we? Would ruin the leather. Guess we’ll just have to wait it out. Or take the subway, since we can’t get any wetter.”

Crowley laughed as well, in earnest. Been a while since you did that too. Not since… An unpleasant itch grew in a corner of his mind. His smile faltered as he glanced at his watch. Shit. Aziraphale would wonder where he was.

“Actually, I’m having lunch with a…friend, so I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll still drive you, though. There are blankets in the boot, just put them in the front seat. No worries, she’s seen worse.”

“She?” Oscar mused, but happily climbed in after telling Crowley his address.

---

It felt weird, Crowley admitted, having someone that wasn’t Aziraphale (or a representative of Hell, but those occasions had never been approved by Crowley in the first place) in the Bentley. Not unpleasant, necessarily. New. The Bentley seemed unsure as well, opting not to play any music – or maybe it was because that feature shouldn’t exist in the car in the first place.

The rest of the ride consisted of Oscar gushing over the Bentley until Crowley was sure he could hear the blessed car purr. Finally – it took longer than expected, since Crowley at least for the most part adhered to the speed limit – they arrived. Oscar put his hand on the door handle, but appeared to hesitate.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

One second of silence was followed by two, three, before Oscar broke it.

“It was fun, talking cars. Can I have your number? I don’t really have that many friends in London. Maybe we could grab a drink sometime?” When Crowley didn’t answer, Oscar cleared his throat. “I know what it sounds like. I don’t mean it like a date – I mean, you’re clearly not over your ex, and I’m way too fucked up after Carl. Just…you know, company.”

Company. Crowley wasn’t sure how to feel about that. For so many years, Aziraphale had been enough. And now he had Nina, and Maggie when she decided to tag along, and Muriel. Too many as it was, really. His mouth started to form a “no”, but for some reason changed its shape somewhere in the middle.

“Sure,” Crowley croaked instead, his number floating out of him before he could stop himself.

Oscar beamed as he saved the number on his phone.

“Thanks! Um, I’ll text you mine. If you want something, or…whatever. And…maybe a drink soon, then?”

“Sure,” Crowley offered again, unsure of what to say. I look forward to it? Don’t bother? I might be able to squeeze you in some time? It seemed to be enough, though, because Oscar nodded and exited, a small smile tracing the corners of his mouth.

Crowley’s lips mirrored it.

---

When Crowley arrived at the bookshop, he was predictably met by a fretting angel. He told Aziraphale he had gotten caught in the rain while showing off the Bentley. When his phone buzzed and he couldn’t conceal his smile, he said it was someone from therapy asking about the car.

It was all true – so why did it feel like lying?

Chapter Text

They never did meet up for drinks. Oscar’s project took up most of his time, growing more hectic as the weeks progressed. However, they continued texting. At first, it was about cars. Oscar had decided to rent a Tesla, and Crowley – although never seriously considering letting go of the Bentley – was intrigued. Little by little, their conversation drifted to other things. Somehow, Oscar found out that Crowley owned a great deal of plants, and started to frequently inquire about them. Crowley on his part relished the (unofficial, of course) gossip regarding certain for the time being unnamed actors that seemed to make Oscar’s life a living hell. Sometimes, they even touched upon harder subjects. Relatives. Exes.

First, the texts came twice a week, then twice a day. Soon, the conversation just never stopped, although it became somewhat halted or stifled whenever Oscar’s work schedule was particularly crammed or Crowley hung out with his other friends, or with Aziraphale. Crowley sometimes started the day by texting Oscar, even before calling upon Aziraphale to grab a bite or take a walk. If Aziraphale for some reason wasn’t available – usually because the stubborn angel still sometimes liked to pretend that his private library was a bookshop – it happened that Crowley just stayed in bed, content to wait for another text. He didn’t realise it, but he started to smile more in general. Nina even commented on it, telling him that therapy looked good on him – which of course made him turn the smile into a scowl.

After each therapy session, Crowley and Oscar found themselves lingering until the others had left, walking to their respective cars while talking about nothing. It became a routine, and a nice one at that, Crowley had to admit. Just enough to keep in touch but not infringe on his otherwise busy schedule.

However, one day a couple of months in, Oscar’s normally carefree attitude had been replaced by a haunted look, his step stiffer than usual. Crowley didn’t comment on it. Not his place, surely. Just when he was about to get into the Bentley, something grabbed hold of his shoulder from behind. Crowley whipped around, ignoring the suprisingly tingling sensation of what he realised was Oscar’s hand on him.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Oscar chuckled, a small, dry sound. He refused to meet Crowley’s eyes, instead scratching his knuckles and staring intently at them. “It just…I’m leaving. Next week. Wrapping up production before Christmas.”

In response, Crowley’s stomach churned, his corporation unable to stop a sudden strangled noise from escaping. He silently scolded it - it really shouldn’t react like that. After all, Crowley was used to humans moving, getting other things to do, even dying. Usually, it stung a bit, but not more than a bite from a mosquito (he guessed, since mosquitos were smart enough to avoid demons). This, though, felt more like a bite from something big. A tiger, maybe.

“Right.”

“We could still text, though.”

“Yeah.”

Crowley forced his lips into a grin. For some unfathomable reason, he found himself desperately fighting an urge to drive off at full throttle while sternly forbidding the Bentley to play any music that involved lyrics about lost…friendship. Much to his surprise, he stayed. Waiting.

“I was wondering if…,” Oscar started, before trailing off. He took a sharp breath. “If I could call you, sometime. Just, I’ve really benefited from therapy. Would be good to continue talking to someone from the group. And…I think we’ve…well, clicked…more than the other guys.”

The bite turned smaller, not a tiger’s but a cat’s, Crowley’s shoulders suddenly relaxing.

“Sure,” he said. “Just mind the time difference. Although I’m usually up, actually. Don’t need that much sleep.”

Crowley bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say those last things. Didn’t want to sound too…desperate. He wasn’t desperate! Oscar was his acquaintance-bordering-on-friend, that was all. He had made space for the actor in his life, and it would be inconvenient to have to fill that space with something else. Yeah. That was totally it.

Oscar grinned, and Crowley felt the last remains of the bite dissipate.

“Of course! So, I call you when I get home then?”

Crowley nodded.

“Alright.”

---

Oscar called, as he had promised. The first time was a bit awkward, but they quickly settled into their new routine. They even tried facetiming, but found that it didn’t really suit them, both preferring to be in motion or doing various chores (in Crowley’s case, caring for his plants) while talking. As with the texting, it started out as a sporadic occurrence, eventually turning into a daily thing – sometimes lasting five minutes, sometimes hours. One time, Crowley joked that Oscar could call him at every hour, which led to a call at three in the morning that morphed into a two-hour chat.

Nina and Muriel noticed, of course. Crowley could hardly hide the fact that he answered the phone a lot more frequently, although usually to tell the person on the other end that he was busy but would call them back. It was something in his voice, Nina told Muriel: how its pitch turned a little bit brighter and softer in a way usually reserved for addressing Aziraphale. Muriel didn’t quite get it - but they had noted that something had changed. And sometimes when they hung out with Crowley, his phone started vibrating and he just up and left. But that was ok, they guessed. Probably an Earth-thing. When questioned, the demon just gave Nina a blank, too-nonchalant stare and told her he was talking to people (he didn’t specify how many) from therapy, the same therapy that Crowley insisted had ended weeks ago.

Crowley never answered the phone in Aziraphale’s presence. In fact, he usually kept it on mute, checking the phone at regular intervals. If Oscar called, he texted the actor right back, apologetically telling him that he couldn’t talk right at that moment. If he and the angel went to a play he put it in flight mode – not that he cared about any eventual disturbance, but Aziraphale sure did – but made sure to check it as soon as possible. A few times he forgot to turn down the volume, and the phone rang loud and clear at dinner or in the bookshop. He usually left it ringing, Aziraphale pointedly telling him to either answer it or text the person wanting him something. When the angel implored to know who it was, Crowley gave noncommittal answers.

Sometimes, Oscar couldn’t call Crowley for a couple of days because of work. At those times, the demon made sure to busy himself with screaming at his plants or hanging out in the bookshop. He didn’t think about the lonely feeling in his gut - because if he acknowledged it, he would have to acknowledge a lot of other things as well. Still, Crowley couldn’t stop the small trickle of anticipation that spread through his corporation on those days when he knew that Oscar would call again.

Or his chest constricting when the actor didn’t.

Today 9:58:

Oscar: Sorry. Stuck at work. Call you tomorrow!

Today 9:59:

Anthony: Sure. No worries.

Right. Of course. It had been a week, but Crowley could wait. It was just that he had been looking forward to telling Oscar all about how one of his prayer plants (Crowley had bought them as a joke but taken a liking to them) had started to blossom. Sure, he had sent the actor some pictures, but it just wasn’t the same as bragging about it out loud. He had already told Aziraphale, and Nina, and Maggie, and Muriel. No one else to tell, really. That was probably why he felt a bit down. No additional reason.

The phone rang, and Crowley hurriedly picked it up, scanning the screen. Maybe…Oh. Aziraphale.

Crowley wanted to be excited. He was. Of course he was. Still, he couldn’t really muster his usual sarcastic tone as the angel complained about a particularly eager customer, settling for humming at appropriate intervals.

“Crowley? Are you all right?”

The hint of anxiousness in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley snap out of it.

“Yeah. Fine. Tip-top. You?”

“Well, yes, dear,” Aziraphale answered, before apparently hesitating. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a small matter. You see, there is this manuscript - the Arcana Humana. Supposedly from the 15^th century, although no one appears to know if it has de facto existed in the first place. You don’t happen to know anything about it, do you?”

Normality. Safe ground. 

“I might. Tell you what, I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. Pick you up at six?” 

“Oh, that sounds lovely!”

Aziraphale’s tone changed immediately. Crowley gathered a smile to further put the angel at ease, despite Aziraphale not being able to see him. Of course he was excited. What else would he be?

“Great. See you then, angel.”

---

The restaurant was fine, newly opened with white tablecloths and baskets containing those miniature loaves that Aziraphale adored. The angel seemed to enjoy the rest of the food as well, from the small entrée of scallops to the dessert consisting of strawberry cheesecake. He had been delighted to hear Crowley recount his involvement in the creation of the manuscript, but devastated to find out that it had been destroyed in the Second Great Fire of Amsterdam in 1452.

They had just ordered another bottle of wine when Crowley felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He had ignored it all evening, the small vibrations against his thigh as a text reached him sending waves of…something…up his spine. This time, however, it rang. Probably just Muriel, he tried to convince himself. Although, Muriel never called without asking if it was alright first.

His hand unwittingly went to his pocket, enveloping the phone. Maybe Nina had an emergency. He better check. He glanced at Aziraphale, who was happily reminiscing about something that had occurred in the 12^th century and that Crowley had long forgotten about. He quickly took out the phone and checked the screen. Oscar. He stared at the name, unable to move. He should ignore it, he really should. Still, Oscar had said that he wouldn’t call today. Maybe he was in trouble? Maybe…

“Sorry angel, got to take this. Back in five.”

Crowley scrambled from the chair and quickly fled outside, barely noticing Aziraphale tracking his movements with a stunned expression.

“Anthony,” he answered. His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat. In his haste, he had forgotten his jacket in the restaurant, and the chilly April air did its best to creep under his skin. He ignored it, focusing on the matter at hand. Had something happened? 

“Oh, hi! It’s Oscar. I know I said I’d call tomorrow - but one of the actors had some kind of breakdown so the production is put on hold and I thought, well, good time of the day to call London. Are you busy?”

Relief flooded through Crowley. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes. No big deal.

“Yeah. Actually, no, I’m having dinner with…a friend, so I have to go back soon, but I can spare a few minutes.” He swallowed, desperately trying to banish any trembling from his voice. “It’s…it’s nice to hear from you.”

He could hear Oscar laughing fondly on the other end of the line, and suddenly he didn’t care how he sounded.

“Can’t believe it’s been a whole week! Well, if a couple of minutes is all that you can spare, then let’s make the most of them. How’s your prayer plant doing? The flowers were beautiful!”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s a nuisance, all too proud of itself, but…”

The conversation sprawled, trailing from the plants to the colleague’s breakdown to the new Tesla Oscar had bought and was anxious to get delivered, to…

“I’d like to continue talking, of course,” Oscar suddenly said, interrupting Crowley’s litany of complaints regarding shipment times. “But didn’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Crowley’s heart skipped a beat as he checked the time. Half an hour. Fuck. He looked inside the restaurant window and was met by Aziraphale’s frowning, disappointed face. His heart sank, a shockwave of nausea hitting him. 

No. No, no, no.

The feeling was familiar; the reason not. It wasn’t because he had disappointed the angel – Crowley was used to that. No, an unwelcome realisation had harshly reared its ugly head, making Crowley’s whole world spin uncomfortably.

He didn’t want to go back inside, to Aziraphale. He wanted to continue chatting with Oscar. Laughing. Feeling…something.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry, got to go. Talk to you tomorrow? Can I call around three?”

“Of course.”

Crowley put the phone back in his pocket. His hands were shaking, and not because of the cold April wind.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Chapter Text

This couldn’t be happening.

As Crowley dropped off Aziraphale and sped away in the Bentley, his head spun faster than a gyroscope on crack. The Bentley herself seemed to be in a tizzy, changing the song every few seconds:

That's great, it starts with an earthquake…

Somebody said you got a new friend…

If you wanna run away with me, I know a galaxy / And I can take you for a ride…

Once back in his flat, Crowley threw himself on the bed.

This couldn’t be happening.

He wasn’t really sure what “this” entailed, but he knew something was different. A certain kind of curiosity, of longing, had somehow managed to weasle its way into his mind - a feeling both new and achingly familiar. Sure, he liked Nina and Muriel well enough. He had liked various people (and in Muriel’s case, beings) well enough in his long existence. But if he was being honest, he had never missed most of them that much – it had always been more of an “out of sight, out of mind”-type of thing. Sometimes, he had been surprised when someone told him that they hadn’t spoken to each other in years. Occasionally, he had thought about writing someone a letter or paying them a visit just to find out that they had died a century or so ago, probably without even remembering him.

The only one whose company he usually longed for was Aziraphale’s.

His longing for Aziraphale was a steady undercurrent in Crowley’s existence, a stream that had been flowing through his mind for millennia. He could still hear its deep murmur  – but in the landscape of his thoughts something else had turned up: a flower perhaps, an interesting cloud, a star. A feeling, one he hadn’t felt since…

Fuck! No! Not that!

Crowley had had human lovers over the years, of course he had. Aziraphale as well. Some relationships had been physical, some emotional, some both. Some had started passionately but dwindled fast, others had spanned years until Crowley saw fit to depart. However much it had hurt to leave right then and there, time had played its cruel trick and he had forgotten their names, sometimes even their faces. Only two had stayed, clear as day. Mariam. Leonardo. Curious, brilliant, both of them. Where the others had been mere leaves on the stream, those had remained, stubborn rocks that the river parted against as it licked their shores. The only ones who had made him long…

Crowley’s heart started to race, sweat rising up through his corporation. No. Not the time. Definitely not the time. He couldn’t do that to Aziraphale. He couldn’t lose him. Not again.

But you don’t have him. You never did. He left and came back and still he doesn’t see you. Still he doesn’t talk.

Millennia of tiredness ambushed Crowley. He wanted to rest, he realised. Just for a while, he wished to stop floating on the stream that was his love for Aziraphale and just…go for a walk or something. He knew he would always hear the roar of the river, its existence such an integral part of him that he could never fully block it out even if he wanted to. He didn’t – not now, not ever. But, for now, he needed something else. Something growing. Something changing.

You’re overthinking it. Oscar doesn’t like you in that way. Besides, he’s human. How many years can he give you? How many years can you give him? You’ll trick him, in the only life he’s got.

Crowley moaned and resolutely turned off his phone. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not Aziraphale. Not Oscar. He wanted to sleep. Forget.

That night, he dreamt about past longings.

---

Crowley woke up to a sound. The doorbell, he realised dimly. He groaned and hastily miracled on something that he hoped stated ”voguish nightclothes” before heading to the door.

Aziraphale was standing outside, twisting his fingers.

All the angst from the previous night (or was it longer ago? he wasn’t sure) instantly returned to Crowley at the sight of the angel. While sleeping, Crowley’s mind had failed to provide him with an answer to his conundrum - probably because it wasn’t sure what the question was to begin with. The stream within him overflowed in the presence of Aziraphale, drenching the rocks. Still, Crowley found himself in search of land, of someplace to escape – no, not escape, take a break from – the currents of the river.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted him shakily, a nervous glimmer in his eyes as they darted from side to side. “I’ve been worried sick! You didn’t answer your phone! I know you like to sleep in occasionally, but Nina and Muriel told me that you haven’t answered their texts either, and…well, pardon me for saying it, but you did appear a bit distracted after our dinner the other night. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Ngk,” Crowley grunted, desperately trying to ground his mind. “How…how long have I been asleep?”

Aziraphale blushed.

“Oh, just two days. Silly of me to check in, really, but…”

Crowley’s stomach dropped. He forced himself to relax, lowering his shoulders an inch.

“Nah. Thanks. Good, actually. Don’t want to sleep through a century if that could be helped.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched, a small smile slowly making its way to his eyes.

“Quite. May I tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

For a second, Crowley’s mind split in two. One part of him – the one which could never turn down the angel – immediately wanted to say yes. The other – the exhausted, bitter part – insisted he should just shut the door in Aziraphale’s face and go back to bed.

“Fine,” he finally said. “Just…I need to, you know, get myself sorted. Just give me a minute.”

He gestured for Aziraphale to step inside before hurrying to the bedroom, grabbing his phone. He quickly turned it on, ignoring the long string of missed calls from Aziraphale and the messages from Nina and Muriel. His heart made strange things at the sight of the other notifications. Two missed calls from yesterday. Three messages: two sent before the calls, one after.

Wednesday 23:03:

Oscar: It was great to finally catch up a bit! Talk to you tomorrow at three (London time)!

Wednesday 23:37:

Oscar: Guess who’s gonna star in that new project I told you about? Five points if you get it right without any other clues. American, blond, has a big jaw.

Yesterday 16:04:

Oscar: Are you ok? I understand if you can’t talk, but please drop me a line.

Hurriedly, with a glance towards the living room, Crowley started to type.

Today 13:18:

Anthony: Shit, sorry! Was really under the weather yesterday, basically unconscious and didn’t check my phone. Feeling a lot better today though. Sorry. How are you?

He examined himself in the mirror, making sure he had everything he needed for an outing with Aziraphale. Glasses. Skin-tight clothes. A mind of steel to stop the angel from sensing his inner turmoil.

The phone buzzed, and Crowley forgot all about the mirror.

Today 13:19:

Oscar: Glad you’re feeling better. Are you up for a call, or do you need to rest? I have some time to talk right now, otherwise it’ll have to wait a couple of days. Will probably text a bit less as well. Really busy schedule atm.

Crowley’s thumb hovered over the phone. It would be easy, telling Oscar that he was still too tired to talk. He started to write – deleting, rewriting, before finally deciding.

Today 13:22:

Anthony: Need to wake up properly, drink some water or something. Call me in 10?

The answer came immediately. A thumbs-up.

Shakingly, Crowley changed his clothes back to his loungewear. After some consideration, he reluctantly removed his glasses as well. With slow, hesitant movements he dragged himself into the living room.

Aziraphale was sitting on the couch with a hopeful expression. Crowley’s heart ached, his mind screaming at him to text Oscar and tell him that he had started to feel worse again. He took a deep breath.

“Sorry, angel. Still feeling really tired. I’ll make it up to you, promise. How about sushi tomorrow? Name a time, I’ll pick you up.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered, and so did Crowley’s resolve. Take it back, the voice within him shouted.

“I…” Crowley started before trailing off, eyes pinned on a non-existent stain on his window.

Aziraphale rose, the creak of the sofa hitting Crowley’s mind like church bells. 

“My dear, you really do seem a bit ill, however unlikely that is,” the angel said, voice brimming with concern. “Please, go back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Five sharp?”

Crowley just nodded, unable to move or form a coherent thought. 

When Aziraphale left, he felt lonely.

When Oscar called, the loneliness abided somewhat.

Chapter Text

The calls with Oscar continued, but Crowley made sure to strictly adhere to the ground rules. He never answered when he was with Aziraphale, making sure to always mute the phone. He didn’t want to repeat the mistake from the restaurant, and talking to Oscar tended to alter his concept of time. He never called Oscar twice in a row, instead waiting for the actor to get in touch. That rule he couldn’t explain. Don’t go too fast, a voice within him whispered, but Crowley suppressed it quickly. It was nothing. This was nothing.

Months passed, and the voice in Crowley’s mind turned mute as a new normality set in. He met with Aziraphale every other day, he talked to Oscar on an oftentimes daily basis. He watered his plants and contemplated taking up photography. A demon needed something to do, after all.

Then, as things often did whenever Crowley felt even just a whiff of contentedness heading his way, something shifted. It wasn’t Aziraphale, because of course it wasn’t. Steady as a rock, for better or worse. For now, Crowley was ok with that status quo, the stream of longing finally back to its normal pace after Armageddon’t and the Second Coming had disrupted it. It felt safe, calm. Maybe this was how their…companionship…was supposed to be. How everything was supposed to be. No need to rock the boat.

Sometimes, though, the boat rocks itself.

Crowley hadn’t spoken to Oscar in a couple of days, and his corporation gradually started to pulsate with nervous energy. He grew more irritable, hissed at Muriel and Nina, was even curt with Aziraphale. Sure, Oscar – as always – had told him in advance. Work. It didn’t make the itch go away, nor his bad temper. Texting every day wasn’t enough, it really wasn’t. Crowley made sure to always have his phone close so as to not miss a text, or maybe even a call – perhaps another actor would have a nervous breakdown or something. He even broke one of his carefully crafted rules, leaving the volume on in Aziraphale’s presence. He wouldn’t answer, of course. He just needed to know.

Unsurprisingly, the text came while he was in the bookshop. Aziraphale had handed him a glass of whisky, himself preferring a cup of tea, and dug his nose into whatever book he was currently obsessed with, humming happily. Crowley – who was lounging on the sofa, as per usual – couldn’t help glancing at the angel, the normality of it all hitting him. He had watched Aziraphale read innumerable times, often with a drink in hand. It had something, he had to admit. A sense of belonging. A feeling of safety. He allowed his mind to briefly float in those sensations as he closed his eyes, contemplating taking a short nap…

PING!

Crowley nearly jumped from the sofa in his haste to silence the phone. While doing so, he couldn’t help but read the message on the screen.

Today 22:43:

Oscar: New contract signed today! So excited! It’s a leading role – their first pick got seriously ill, so they had to replace him ASAP. Production starts next month – not really enough prep time, but I’m sure it’ll be ok.

Crowley read and reread the text, the wrinkles in his forehead getting deeper every time. He was happy for Oscar, he was. Still, he knew what it meant. The actor would be busy. Too busy for a call, most days. He started to type something vaguely positive, but another text hit the screen before he could finish.

Today 22:45:

Oscar: Still, comes with some negatives. Will be busy. BUT! The filming will take place in London! Maybe we could finally grab that drink?

The world turned unsteady, and Crowley was thankful he was sitting down. His corporation and mind seemed to fight, sending too many signals simultaneously until they all morphed into a ball of entangled feelings and thoughts. Change. He knew it – this – meant change. He just didn’t know in what way – or if he should welcome it or run from it. Fingers trembling, he typed:

Today 22:48:

Anthony: Congrats, you deserve it! And, yeah, sure. Let’s meet up. Could be fun, talking while actually seeing each other’s faces. Been a while.

Today 22:48:

Oscar: Great! Gotta go, celebratory dinner with friends. Talk to you later!

 
Crowley let out a shaky breath.

“Something wrong, dear?”

Aziraphale looked up from his book. The angel’s eyes were filled with worry, making Crowley feel as if he was slowly sauntering downwards, towards his own personal Hell.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbled, downing his whisky as he stood up. “Look, angel, I think I’m going to head home. See you Thursday, yes? The play?”

Aziraphale nodded, the mention of the play making him perk up, his worry apparently momentarily forgotten. 

“Of course! Mind how you go.”

Crowley didn’t, his mind far too occupied with other things as he sped back to his empty flat.

---

The weeks flew by, as they sometimes do. Every day, Crowley grew more and more restless. His anxiousness refused to die down since that evening in the bookshop, an undefined moment in the near future turning into the focal point of his thoughts. A crossroads, but in what way?

During his first days in London, Oscar was unable to meet up with Crowley. His manager had booked several parties and other events for him to attend – to, as she had put it, rub shoulders with the right people. Crowley didn’t mind. He knew he was being ridiculous, but the thought of Oscar being in London was enough to make his nervousness flair up even more, if possible. He was grateful for the opportunity to get used to it. Still, their…meeting…was approaching fast, making him all jittery.

Of course, Aziraphale noticed.

“You’ve been awfully stingy lately, my dear. Care to tell me about it?” the angel said between bites, as they enjoyed a rather late Saturday brunch in the late summer sunshine.

Crowley grunted. It’s because tomorrow night I’ll do something I don’t know if I’m going to regret for the rest of my existence or not.

“Just being me, really. Demon and all. Stingy as they come.”

Aziraphale tutted.

“You never did share many personality traits with your ex-colleagues. Better not start now.”

“Ngk.” Crowley shrugged, trying to make his voice carefree. “Look angel, I might not be able to see you for a couple of days. Have some things I need to take care of. Don’t worry, I’ll be alright,” he added when he saw Aziraphale’s expression. “It’s just...Earth business. Nothing from Hell, silent as ever.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, carefully patting his lips with a serviette. 

“Care to tell me about that?”

Crowley shrugged again, resolutely refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eye.

“Just different things piling up. The flat. The Bentley. Some problems with the bank. You know, I might have gone a bit too native.”

He mustered a smile, that Aziraphale hesitantly mirrored.

“I see. Well, in that case - how about dinner on Thursday? I’ve been dying to try out the new Italian restaurant, the one I told you about the other day.”

Crowley’s smile turned more sincere. Normality.

“Sure, angel. Sounds good.”

---

Crowley firmly told his legs to stop shaking. He had opted to walk, as he was sure Oscar wouldn’t like him driving the Bentley home after drinking. Despite the season, the wind felt cold - but the shaking had nothing to do with that, he admitted. He caught a glimpse of a distorted version of himself in a car’s shiny exterior. Without thinking, he rearranged his hair one last time, using a miracle to make sure his clothes were impeccable. Silly, really.

They had agreed to meet at a cocktail bar, and the neon signs outside of it shone bright enough for Crowley to get blinded even behind his glasses. He drew a short breath – his lungs didn’t cooperate when he tried for a deep one – and opened the door.

Oscar was seated in the bar, dressed in a tight outfit that somewhat resembled Crowley’s own, except it was dark green. At the sight of Crowley, his whole face lit up, his teeth glimmering in the cold lights. He got up from the bar stool and gave Crowley a light hug.

“Finally! So nice to see you in person again!”

Crowley tried desperately to hide his chock. Oscar’s touch felt like being hit by lightning, an occurrence that Crowley had actual experience with. Conjuring up the small part of his mind that was still functioning, he managed to pat Oscar on the back.

“Yeah. You too.”

Although the greeting was a bit stiff, the rest of the evening turned out not to be. Within a few minutes, Crowley found himself laughing as Oscar told him the plot of his new film, some kind of zombies vs ghosts story that for sure was going to tank – but it paid well. Oscar’s vivid gesturing and facial expressions embellished the narration in a way that a phone call – or even a video call – really never could have done justice. As always when in the actor’s company, whether on the phone or in person, Crowley lost track of time. Soon, the bartender called for last orders.

The thought of their time together running out made Crowley’s anxiousness return. Oscar seemed to be of a similar mind, because he started to fidget with his lapel, the conversation dying down.

“Screw it,” Oscar finally said, taking a big gulp of his drink. “I’ve been meaning to ask you the whole evening. Look, remember when I got your number? I said that this was not going to be a date – us getting drinks, I mean. And it hasn’t been. But I would very much like to take you on one, if you want to.”

He met Crowley’s eyes, hope and nervousness playing across his features.

Crowley fled.

Chapter Text

Crowley couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. This. Not this. This. He had known that the question might come up, theoretically even welcoming it. But once asked, reality had hit him, hard and uncaring. Whatever he did, it would be the wrong choice.

And so, he fled outside, his corporation leading him to a bench a couple of buildings away from the cocktail bar. There, he collapsed, his legs unwilling to cooperate anymore. He put his head in his trembling hands, in a futile attempt to steady himself.

“You alright?”

Oscar’s voice reached him from afar. Crowley quickly removed his hands, unable to resist looking for its source.

Oscar’s eyes were red, his lips pressed firmly together. Still – he had followed. Followed him. A sob worked its way up Crowley’s throat before he could stop it, his eyes itching.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, resolutely studying the cracks in the asphalt.

Oscar sighed.

“Me too. Can I sit down?”

Crowley hesitated.

“Sure,” he finally croaked.

They sat in silence for a while, their jagged breaths competing for the thin space of sound. The air felt thick, the last days of summer stubbornly trying to postpone the forthcoming decay that autumn would bring. Crowley’s mind was spiralling. He had to say something, had to explain. Oscar deserved that, at least.

“I…I really want to. Go on a date. With you. It’s just…” he started, before trailing off. It was true, he realised, as he verbalised what he already knew.

Oscar let out a noncommittal grunt, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s just…I’m not sure that I can,” Crowley continued. He shrugged, blinking furiously. “Too much baggage.”

At that, Oscar laughed, a shaky sound more akin to a snort.

“We’ve been in therapy together, Anthony. I know about your baggage. You know about mine. We’re both a bit broken, aren’t we?”

Crowley forced his lips to smile, but it turned into yet another sob.

“You don’t know half of it,” he managed, fatigue entering his voice without him meaning to. “And I can’t tell you. I really can’t. It’s not like – a hang-up, something for a therapist to get their hands on. I really, really can’t. They…they’re dangerous. Or, they could be. My past, you see. I…I wasn’t in the mafia or something like that, it’s just…they leave me be, if I leave them be. Simple as that. Easy. But. You know. I…”

He shrugged again. He really couldn’t explain it better. He hung his head, waiting for Oscar to leave. Everybody always leaves.

Oscar stayed, slumped against the backrest of the uncomfortable bench. After a few tense moments, he sighed heavily and leaned forward.

“I’ve always thought that you used to be in a cult. Felt a bit weird to ask, though. Is it something like that? I won’t ask for details. Just – I want to understand.”

Crowley swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“Something like that. Yeah. Suppose you can call it that.”

“Alright.” Oscar sighed again. “Not a dealbreaker though.”

Apprehensively, the actor placed a trembling hand on Crowley’s. Warmth spread through the demon’s corporation, his flesh longing for the sensation. He forced himself to withdraw, crossing his arms.

“There’s more.”

“Ok?”

“My…my ex.”

“Ezra?”

“No, that’s just what I called him in therapy. His real name is Aziraphale. Unusual I know, that’s why I didn’t use it. Didn’t want to expose him, see.”

“Uh-huh.”

Crowley took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“I still see him. Often. Not…not like that. But, the…cult. He was in it for a lot longer, and in some respects, he hasn’t left. He needs me. And…I don’t think he would like it. Me. Dating someone. If…if this leads somewhere, I’ll tell him, but until then…and I still want to see him. I care for him. Deeply. Wouldn’t want him to get hurt.”

Oscar let out a raspy laugh, filled with both bitterness and sorrow. And this is the part where he takes his leave. Crowley crossed his arms even more tightly, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

“You know what, Anthony?” Oscar said, his voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m going to be honest here. The normal part of me screams no! Don’t get involved with that guy, the one who still hangs out with his jealous ex and has a shady – sorry – background. But…” he hesitated, and made a face. “…in a way, I get it. If Carl was still alive, I might have done the same. He…he relied on me a lot. And I did care, even after we broke up. Deeply. Even after he hurt me. It’s a bit like plants, I guess. You can take good care of them, but sometimes the conditions aren’t the best, like the soil or sun or whatever. So, you give them to your neighbour or something and – by some miracle – the next time she invites you over they look so much better. And you can’t help but check in on them from time to time, making sure they’re alright. But you never take them home again, because the conditions haven’t really changed. Instead, you buy yourself a new plant, hoping it’ll fit your apartment better.”

Crowley laughed inwardly at how correct the metaphor was, in a literal sense. Mrs. Allen did so enjoy when he presented her with new specimens. He loosened his arms, letting his hands relax against his thighs. Oscar apparently took it as a good sign, because he grazed Crowley’s hand again. This time, Crowley didn’t flinch.

“I want to try,” Oscar continued. “Our calls…they mean a lot to me. My life is better, because of you. And if it proves too much – for me, or for you – then, well, at least we gave it a go. No need to regret something we didn’t do. Right?”

Crowley nodded shakily. It was just for a short while. Oscar was only going to be in London for a couple of months. It would be alright.

“R…right.”

Oscar smiled, and grabbed Crowley’s hand in earnest.

“So, let me ask you again: would you like to go on a date with me?”

Crowley willed himself not to withdraw, the feeling of Oscar’s hand both thrilling and intimidating.

“Yeah,” he croaked, silently kicking himself for not sounding more excited. You want this. Show him.

Oscar, however, wasn’t perturbed.

“Great!” He beamed. “Ideally, I’d take you tomorrow, but as you know, my manager has done a pretty thorough job, planning my life. How about next Wednesday? And we talk on the phone before that, of course. If you want to.”

“Yeah,” Crowley repeated, despite his best efforts. Get a grip! “Of course I want to. I…I always look forward to our calls.”

Crowley blushed. Too much, a voice within him screamed.  

Oscar squeezed his hand, his smile broadening.

“Great, gives me time to plan something nice. Hopefully, I might be able to surprise you.”

---

Back home in his bed, Crowley cried.

He didn’t know for what, or who.

Chapter Text

Crowley spent the next days mentally balancing on a strange scale of agony and hopefulness. While alone, he usually jumped from one to the other without even noticing it. Talking to Oscar gave him some solace, a warm blanket for his troubled mind. When spending time with Aziraphale, the pendulum was firmly placed on anguish.

The Italian restaurant must have been a treat, if Aziraphale’s glowing review was anything to go by, but everything had tasted like ashes to Crowley – even the wine. Their walk in the park on Saturday and the follow-up sushi on Monday hadn’t been any better, and every small fragment of peace that Crowley had managed to grab hold of quickly went down the drain when Aziraphale asked him out to dinner on Wednesday. Telling the angel that he was busy, having to say no – it didn’t come naturally to Crowley, and the guilt nearly crushed him. He did tell Aziraphale that he was meeting up with one of the guys from therapy, he was just…vague regarding the details. He hadn’t lied, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t convinced that it mattered, or even that it was strictly true. As a form of absolution, he agreed to brunch on Friday. It was the least he could do.

When Wednesday evening arrived, Crowley was a mess. Ready to go, phone in hand, he found himself trying to come up with last-minute excuses, most of them bordering on ridiculous. The Bentley had a cold. A sandstorm killed his plants. Stupid. He flung the phone on the bed.

He wanted this. Normality. Initiative. And Oscar wasn’t just someone. If he had been, Crowley would’ve said no. He cared about Oscar. Longed for him. The actor was worth taking a break from the stream for – for Someone’s sake, he was one of the reasons Crowley even craved it in the first place! And he had told the Oscar about his past, albeit a sanitised version of it. He knew about Crowley’s apprehension, and the reasons for it. Also, it would only be for a few months, at most.

It would be alright.

It was only a date.

---

Oscar had been really secretive about what he had planned for the evening. Covertly, Crowley hoped for something that didn’t involve a big gesture. Sure, this wasn’t like a normal first date – he guessed – where people didn’t know each other that well. Still, he would prefer something a bit down to earth. Casual. Easy to ignore the magnitude of.

Which was why he was absolutely gutted when Oscar took him to the Royal Observatory, or rather to The Great Equatorial Telescope.

“Ta-da!” Oscar exclaimed in a triumphant manner as they walked in. “I know you like stars, so I thought – why not do some stargazing? Supposed to be romantic. I knew something good would come from all those parties. Handshakes and backrubs – boring as fuck, but the whole thing opens doors. Like that to an observatory after opening hours.”

His face fell when he saw Crowley’s expression. Crowley’s face had dropped, the curve of his lips pointing downwards.

“Shit! Too much? I should have gone with dinner and a movie, I knew it.” Oscar looked around, taking in the room. “Actually might have been more romantic, this place’s…kind of sterile, right? Let’s go. I’m sure we can find a nice restaurant. If I haven’t totally screwed this up, that is.”

He started to turn towards the door, shoulders sagging. Crowley resolutely grabbed his wrist.

“No.” Crowley gulped, struggling to keep his voice steady. Too much. Too thoughtful – too serious. “It’s just…you thought of me. What I like. I’m…not used to that. Thank you.” The last words came out like a whisper.

Oscar immediately straightened his posture, his optimism clearly returning.

“Of course I care about what you like! I have a whole list of things you like right here.” He pointed at his head, and winked. “Plenty of good dating plans, if it comes to that.”

Crowley smiled shakily, unsure of what to say. A whole list. He wasn’t even sure he couldn’t name that many things he liked.

“Let’s start with this one, ok?” he managed at last. “You’re right. I like stars. Fascinating things. I tell you all about them.”

They walked the few steps to the telescope. Once there, Oscar’s smile vanished again.

“Shit! I am officially the worst date planner ever. Forgot all about your glasses! Can you even use a telescope with them on?”

This time, Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah. It’s easier without them, but I think I can manage.”

“Look…sorry, I know you’ve told me that you have an eye condition. But – I don’t really get how it works. Is it like, light sensitivity? Or colour blindness? Don’t know why you would need glasses for the last one, though. Fuck, I’m rambling, asking too personal questions, as I said, worse date…”

“No. It’s ok.” Crowley interrupted. “It’s not for…not for light. It’s…no doctor has ever been able to tell me what it is. They work perfectly fine. It’s how they look. They might be…frightening.” He shrugged, and looked away. “Another thing I probably should have mentioned before agreeing to a date, I guess. Thought I covered it all last time.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed, and Crowley felt his gaze like hellfire.

“Listen, Anthony,” the actor said. “You don’t need to show me, if you don’t want to. I can look away when you use the telescope or something. But…hell, I can take it. You – I like how you look, of course I do, you’re beautiful and hot, but…I’m not here because of how you look. I’m here because of how you are.”

Beautiful. Crowley’s mind rested on that word. Not many people had ever called him that. Hot he had heard before, but seldom by someone he cared about. He soaked it in, before catching himself. He won’t think of you in that way when he’s seen your eyes.

A part of him wanted to wait, to have Oscar think of him as beautiful and hot just for this evening. He sighed. Best to get it over with. I’m here because of how you are, Oscar had said. His eyes were a part of that, Crowley supposed. A demonic part. Fallen. Unworthy. Unlova…

“It’s alright. I’ll...I’ll show you.”

Slowly, Crowley took off his glasses, bracing himself for the reaction that would undoubtedly come.

At first sight, Oscar’s face morphed into an unreadable expression. Soon, Crowley told himself, soon the disgust will shine through. Even Leonardo winced the first time. However, the next moment Oscar broke into a smile, broadening for every second.

“That’s what you’ve been hiding? They’re awesome! I’ve never seen those colours! And the pupils? They’re like a cat’s, or…a snake’s! Like your tattoo! Fuck, you’re beautiful! Sorry!”

He continued to stare, a mesmerised look on his face. Crowley’s cheeks started to burn.

“Glad you don’t hate them,” he managed, with a lopsided smirk.

“I really don’t.” Oscar grinned. “Quite the opposite. Now, show me some stars!”

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Crowley wasn’t sure who had initiated it. When sharing a telescope, you’re doomed to get close to each other’s faces, after all. It doesn’t take much, just a tilt of the head and a small acknowledgement from the other party for it to turn into something else.

The first kiss was chaste, uncertain. Soon, it deepened, hands grabbing necks and hair, tongues meeting. Crowley relished it. Something about Oscar made him feel safe, and that feeling only increased with the physical closeness. He wanted to drink it in, live in it.

When they left the observatory, their fingers brushed and Crowley, feeling brave, took Oscar’s hand in his. Oscar answered with a small squeeze and leaned in for another kiss. They strolled through the dark streets, eventually finding some nondescript restaurant. Crowley couldn’t focus on what they ate, just their thighs touching as they sat close on too-high bar stools. When the place closed, they walked for a bit in what might have been the last warm summer night, before suddenly finding themselves outside Oscar’s flat. Crowley stole another kiss, and another, not wanting the night to end.

Eventually, Oscar withdrew with a groan.

“Shit. I really must get up early tomorrow. Don’t want to. Not one bit.”

Crowley smiled broadly. He felt relaxed, a very unfamiliar feeling. Happy. He didn’t want the night to end, but he didn’t feel any fear in it doing so, safe in the knowledge that this was not the last time they would meet, that Oscar wanted to see him again.

“Me neither. But I’ll see you soon.”

Oscar groaned again.

“Told you. Going to work 14-hour shifts for the next three days. Too long.”

He leaned in and kissed Crowley again. Crowley returned it eagerly. After a few moments, Oscar broke away and tilted his head coyly, lips twitching.  

“You know, if you’re OK with being left alone in the morning, you can, I don’t know - stay?”

The unfamiliar feeling of ease made way for a far more familiar anxiousness; the implication of the question clear. Just say yes! It isn’t that hard!

Crowley nodded.

“Suppose you got a coffee maker?”

He could have kicked himself. What kind of stupid question was that?

Thankfully, Oscar just laughed.

“As a matter of fact, I do! Feel free to use it. And the shower. Anything, really.”

Crowley swallowed, and managed a grin.

“Deal.”

---

The rented flat was sparse, lacking the personal touch of someone living there permanently. Crowley didn’t mind one bit. He only cared about Oscar, leading him to the bedroom with shaking but confident hands. Kissing inside of it felt more intimate than on the street, an anticipation for something else, a non-spoken, mutual promise. Slowly, they undressed, until only their boxer briefs remained. Crowley let his hands roam over Oscar’s body, basking in the closeness and the safety and the warmth. He let himself be caressed, Oscar’s hands both caring and firm. As they lay down on the bed, Crowley felt his own corporation responding, the heat radiating from Oscar making him suspect that the feeling was mutual. Confidently, he deepened the kiss, positioning himself on top of the actor. For a second, Oscar returned the ministrations eagerly - but suddenly, he pressed his palm firmly against Crowley’s chest, creating a small gap between them.

“Can…can we slow down for a bit?” he asked, still panting.

Crowley flinched as if someone had hit him, and quickly rolled off. Too fast, you always go too fast. The feeling of security crushed, his eyes darted from side to side, desperately searching for a way to escape, to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he managed and drew his knees up to his chest, settling as far away from Oscar as the bed allowed. This had been a bad idea. A really bad idea. Of all of his bad ideas, this one was…

Oscar reached for his hand and gave it a small peck, stroking his thumb against Crowley’s knuckles.

“Please. Don’t apologise. It’s not you. It’s me.” The actor sighed audibly. “And there’s the cliché again. Fuck, I…”

Oscar sat up, not letting go of Crowley’s hand.

“I need to tell you something. I really didn’t think it would affect things after all this time, but…well, it does.”

Crowley nodded, eyes locked on the doorway.

“You remember Carl?” Oscar started. He leaned against the headboard, pulling the covers up to his chest, leaving Crowley outside in the cold.

You deserve it, demon. This is all that you deserve. Always.

Crowley tried desperately to focus as Oscar continued.

“The last years, the drugs…he wasn’t himself. Sometimes, when he was especially out of it, he could get…handsy. Pulling me down, doing…stuff. It…it wasn’t who he was, but…”

The self-deprecating voice within Crowley was quickly replaced by rage. He briefly considered abandoning all pretense and march straight down to Hell to make sure that Carl was firmly where he belonged.

“He raped you,” he stated cooly, trying his hardest not to betray his inner turmoil.

Oscar flinched and squeezed Crowley’s hand harder.

“Please. Don’t…don’t be mad at him. He’s dead, but even if…it wasn’t who he was. It was the drugs. OK? I’ve forgiven him. I need you to do the same.”

Crowley shuddered, struggling to keep his emotions at bay. Slowly, he nodded, still rigid with anger. However, the direction of it quickly strayed from Carl to himself as the voice within him returned.

You should have read the signs. You only cared about yourself, your feelings, your wants.

“He hurt you. I’ll never do that. Never.”

Finally, he glanced at Oscar, taking in the actor’s reddened eyes.

Another thing you didn’t see, didn’t care about.

“Never,” he repeated, a promise as much to himself as to Oscar.

Oscar nodded shakily.

“I…I’m sorry…” he said.

“Don’t apologise.” Crowley interrupted.

Oscar furrowed his eyebrows, fire suddenly brimming in his still glazy eyes.

“Let me finish! I’m sorry if you thought that I implied that you would. It was just…it was good, but then I got – I guess you call them flashbacks? – and I, I panicked.”

“Sorry.” Crowley echoed, deflating. “I thought you were apologising for not wanting to take it further. Never apologise for that. I never want to do anything you’re not comfortable with, by mistake or on purpose. And I didn’t take it like that. I’m sorry if you thought I took it that way.”

At that, Oscar managed a snort.

“If we continue like this, we’ll just end up telling each other we’re sorry for being sorry for being sorry.” His eyes shone dimly, the fire gone but remains of sadness lingering. “Look. It’s not about wanting to or not. I want to, believe me. I just…not tonight. Soon.”

Crowley studied him, sensing a desperation and need mirroring his own. He shook his head.

“Scratch that last thing,” he said, looking deeply into the actor’s eyes. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. I…I really had a good time tonight. I want to continue to have a good time with you. Whatever that entails. You seemed alright with kissing, right?”

Oscar nodded eagerly.

“Then kissing it is. And nothing more, not without you feeling totally safe. Not now, not ever. As I remember you telling me about my baggage – it’s not a deal-breaker. At all.”

At that, Oscar’s smiled in earnest, his body visibly relaxing.

“Thank you. It means a lot.” He blushed. “You know what? I really liked everything we did before getting into bed. I think I would be alright with some cuddling, if that’s fine by you.”

He lifted the covers, invitingly. Warmth returned to Crowley, literary and figuratively. He climbed inside, feeling Oscar’s body close, his scent of honey and citrus enveloping the demon. Crowley willed his corporation not to betray any other wishes – not now, not in his sleep. Oscar deserved to feel safe. It was all that mattered.

Oscar put a hand on Crowley’s cheek, allowing their lips to meet again. They kissed lazily, the hurried feeling gone for now. Crowley felt his muscles grow soft and pliant as Oscar put his arms around him. He started to drift, but the actor teasingly nudged him in the side.

“Big spoon or little spoon?”

Crowley snorted, but couldn’t stop his lips from curling upwards.

“Whatever you want.”

Oscar didn’t answer, just turned around and dragged Crowley by the hand until the actor’s back was pressed firmly against Crowley’s chest.

As they fell asleep, their breaths matched instinctively.

Chapter Text

Crowley woke up to an empty bed. He hazily remembered Oscar leaving in the morning, planting one last kiss on his lips. He stretched, briefly contemplating snoozing for a while. The bed was warm, Oscar’s scent still lingering. For a few seconds, he felt content.

His pleasant existence was rudely disturbed by his phone, which started to ring. Crowley glared at it. Surely, he’d turned it off last night? He reached for the offending device, fingers trembling. Nina, the screen informed him. Crowley let the call go unanswered, a strange mixture of sadness and relief permeating through his corporation. It wasn’t Oscar. It wasn’t…Aziraphale.

Guilt hit him, plain and clear, but Crowley firmly pushed it away. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Aziraphale had made his choice, and Crowley had made his. He didn’t regret the previous night, didn’t want it to have gone any other way. He deserved this, brief as it probably was. A break. A chance to breathe, to think.

With a snort, he got up, miracling his clothes on from where they had been discarded the previous night. The shower could wait until he got home, he figured. Coffee as well. The empty vibe of the flat had multiplied without Oscar in it to distract him, and he didn’t want to pry. Hopefully, he would get another chance to see the place.

Outside, the Bentley was waiting for him, having decided for herself to pick him up. He climbed in, expecting a snarky comment in the form of a song. The Bentley stayed silent.

Crowley sighed.

“Look, I get that this is difficult for you,” he said into the air. “I know you like Aziraphale. I know you like Oscar. Please, just trust me on this one.”

A low melody started playing, a string of notes that Crowley recognised as the Harry Lime-theme. He frowned.

“That one doesn’t make any sense at all. You’d know, had you actually watched the film.”

---

At home, Crowley didn’t shower, and his coffee maker was left untouched. Instead, the demon’s mind seemed unable to do anything but conjure up images and sensations from the night before – the first kiss, the conversation, Oscar’s warm body a haven. The bliss. The guilt. He tried yelling at his plants, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He watched some TV, changing the channel every five minutes. One hour in, he gave up and texted Oscar.

Today 11:08:

Anthony: Really had a good time last night. Look forward to seeing you again. Hope work is going ok.

Despite being aware of Oscar’s busy schedule, making a delayed answer perfectly reasonable, Crowley started to get antsy as the hours drifted by. Please, tell me yesterday wasn’t just a one-off. He spent the time sprawling on the couch, unable to take any initiative whatsoever that would alleviate his troubled mind. Lunchtime came and went – not that Crowley noticed of course, because why would he, hoping that Oscar might take a break, phone in hand? And why would he fear that the actor had taken a break, and still didn’t text him back? – and was joined by another couple of hours, but finally – finally! – the screen lit up.

Today 14:31:

Oscar: Sorry, didn’t have my phone on me – the costume didn’t allow for it. Me too! Maybe I’m not the world’s worst date planner after all! How about you give me another chance to show off my skills on Saturday?

Crowley let out a sigh, exhaling all the air that he had unwittingly gathered as he held his breath for the better part of the day.

Today 14:32:

Anthony: Sounds perfect, although the last one will be hard to beat. Also, I can’t say if you are or aren’t - the data isn’t big enough. I guess you’ll have to let me arrange something another time, for the sake of comparison.

Today 14:37:

Oscar: For scientific reasons, of course.

Today 14:37:

Anthony: Of course. Only that.

Today 14:38:

Oscar: Only that. Gotta go back to work. I’ll text you later.

Later turned out to be 4 hours and 37 minutes later (not that Crowley counted, of course), when the sky had already started to turn dark, night approaching fast. Crowley hadn’t left the couch, an unending number of episodes of some reality show buzzing out his thoughts as he re-read their short conversation time after time. This was good. This he could work with.

Today 19:15:

Oscar: This is the worst fucking production ever! Someone set fire to a prop, and now the whole building smells like shit. They called it quits for today and tomorrow, to check for damage before we continue.

A snort escaped Crowley, echoing through his empty flat.

Today 19:16:

Anthony: I’m sorry, but that’s just hilarious. Was it a part of your costume?

Today 19:18:

Oscar: No, but I wish it had been. Anyway, seems I’m free tomorrow. Want to go on a second date? Can’t promise you anything fancy because of the preparation time, so Saturday is still on.

A tingling sensation spread through Crowley, the longing growing stronger, making him feel bold. Before he could stop himself, he typed:

Today 19:19:

Anthony: Sure. We can figure something out together, so as to not disturb the data set. If you want, you can come by tonight and plan it? There’s wine, and/or whisky.

He regretted it immediately, and even more when the phone stayed silent, the message marked as read. Fifteen minutes passed, and Crowley found himself spiralling.

Today 19:35:

Anthony: Sorry. Too fast? No pressure. See you tomorrow.

He hit type, a millisecond later contemplating crawling through the metaphysical phone network into Oscar’s phone and delete it. Another 20 minutes, and Crowley’s spiral had turned into a full-blown tornado. When the phone finally buzzed, he snatched it from the armrest, nearly dropping it on the floor.

Today 19:55:

Oscar: Sorry. Costume forced me to take some measurements before leaving. Took forever. I’d love to see you, but maybe it’s too late for that now?

Relief flooded Crowley, the tornado dying down and leaving him on a green, mellow field.

Today 19:56:

Anthony: No, the offer still stands. But really, no pressure. Although you’re welcome to stay over.

Too little.

Today 19:56:

Anthony: Btw, I meant what I said last night. I just liked sleeping beside you. No hidden agenda.

Today 19:59:

Oscar: I liked it too. You made me feel really safe. Haven’t felt that in a long time. If you’re ok with waiting for a bit, I can be at your place in an hour. Just have to swing by the apartment real quick, grab a change of clothes, take a shower. Alright?

Crowley briefly considered offering some clothes and a shower, but thought against it. That would be too much. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to explain to Oscar why he owned some clothes that fitted the actor perfectly, when he was at least two sizes bigger than Crowley.

Today 20:01:

Anthony: Alright. I’ll wait. Eagerly.

---

When Oscar finally arrived, Crowley’s nerves were on the verge of exploding. When the doorbell rang, he took a moment to gaze at nothing before opening the door. Oscar looked tired, but he took Crowley in his arms and kissed him without so much as a hello. Crowley melted into the touch. They stood like that in the doorway for a few moments, before Oscar broke free and playfully pushed Crowley inside. Unsure of what to do, the demon showed Oscar around, studying the actor’s expressions carefully. He had spent the hour (it had actually been closer to two, but who counted?) before Oscar’s arrival in a frenzied state, going through every room to make sure that everything was up to standard. He had yelled at his plants a bit more, ensuring that they knew how disappointed he would be if they weren’t on their best behaviour. He had changed the sheets (by miracle of course), and glared at the couch until it had reluctantly agreed to look at least a tad inviting. He wanted Oscar to like the flat, even if he wasn’t sure he did himself. At least it wasn’t the old flat in Mayfair. The throne would have been a hard sell. Still, everything was grey or black.

“It’s a bit grim,” Crowley grumbled apologetically. “I don’t know why, it just seems that whenever I need something, my brain automatically goes to darker nuances.”

Oscar laughed.

“How is that not at all surprising? I’ve barely seen you dressed in something else. It fits you. Both on clothes, and décor. And…is that the plants? They look even better than in the pictures!”

He strode into the plant room, oohing and aahing while Crowley shot the plants a dirty look behind the actor’s back. Behave, or else. When Oscar turned around, Crowley forced his face into a neutral expression –  that soon morphed into a smile when Oscar started talking.

“This is going to sound so boring, and I’m sorry for keeping you up, but – I’m really tired and it’s getting late. How about we save the alcohol for another time and just head to bed?”

Curled up against Oscar, Crowley slept better than he had ever done in any of his flats.

---

The next day started out even better than the last, because this time, Oscar was still there when Crowley woke up, a warm and steady shape pressed against him.

“Good morning,” the actor said when he realised Crowley was awake, and planted a quick kiss on Crowley’s forehead. Crowley grinned and returned it with one on the mouth, which escalated into deep kisses. Crowley made sure to remind his corporation of the rules, but allowed his mind to enjoy the moment, basking in the attention and feeling of bliss.

Of course, that was when his phone started blaring at the highest volume, making them both jump.

“Shit! I turned the volume up last night so I wouldn’t miss your texts. Sorry, I’ll turn it down.”

He pressed the volume button without looking, not breaking the kiss. However, the phone kept buzzing, indicating a call. Crowley paid it no mind, focusing on Oscar’s lips.

On the 15^th signal, Oscar broke the kiss.

“Is it even possible for a phone to ring this long? Have you forgotten an alarm or something?”

Crowley shook his head, but obligingly grabbed the phone to turn it off once and for all. At the sight of the screen, his mind went black. Shit. He had forgotten. Again.

“I need to take this,” he spluttered. “It’ll just be a moment.”

Avoiding Oscar’s astonished, hurt face, he ran into the kitchen, answering the phone in the process.

“Crowley? Where are you?”

Aziraphale’s voice sounded concerned and annoyed at the same time. Crowley’s stomach sank.

“Shit. Sorry, ang…sorry. I…overslept.”

A poignant pause followed, before Aziraphale continued, his voice now firmly set on worried.

“Again? This isn’t like you.”

“Ngk.”

“Do you want to reschedule for another time? Perhaps tomorrow?”

I don’t deserve your care. I don’t deserve your worry. Crowley forced himself to sound neutral, his voice calm and collected.

“Yes. Reschedule. Yes. Not tomorrow, no. How about Monday?”

Another silence, laden with meaning that Crowley wasn’t keen on deciphering.

“Of course. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Promise.”

Aziraphale sighed, a resigned sound.

“See you Monday, then, my dear. Take care.”

“You too.”

Bloody Hell and Heaven and everything in between.

Crowley returned to the bedroom, but promptly stopped in the doorway. Oscar had positioned himself against the headboard, arms crossed. Fuck. He deserved it. Better lay all the cards on the table, to salvage what he could.

“It was Aziraphale. I’d forgotten I was meant to meet up with him today. He always worries when I don’t answer the phone, thinking something bad has happened. We rescheduled. I would have just texted him, but the damn relic doesn’t own a mobile. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Oscar studied him for a while, eyes narrowing. Slowly, he nodded.

“Right. Thanks for telling me.” His shoulders relaxed just a little. “Honestly, I figured it was him. Felt a bit jealous. Still do. I know I told you I was ok with you seeing him, and I am. But…you leaving me…here...” he gestured at the bed. “A bit much.”

Crowley nodded.

“Sorry. You’re right. If a…situation…arises again, I take care of it afterwards. Or I just text Nina next door, so he knows I’m not dead. Not a figure of speech – he’d actually believe that.”

Oscar nodded again, but didn’t lower his guard.

“Look, I promise you this,” Crowley continued, desperate. “You can call me, anytime. And I’ll pick up, doesn't matter whatever else I’m doing. Always. Ok?”

Oscar shook his head, eyebrows furrowing.

“No. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that person. Controlling. Jealous. I…just keep it out of the bed, please.”

Eagerly, Crowley took a step towards said bed.

“Ok. But you’re not that person. You didn’t force me – I offered. And the offer still stands. You call, I pick up. Every blessed time.”

He looked at Oscar, desperate to convey the sincerity of the offer. Finally, the actor’s lips curled into a smile, and he winked.

“I might do it, just to screw with you, you know? Like I did that one time in the middle of the night, remember? Right now, though, I have other plans. I believe we have a date to plan. Care to join me in bed for that?”

Chapter Text

“I have to go, handsome. See you tonight.”

Crowley groaned as Oscar rose from the bed, the heat of his naked body disappearing. Over the last couple of months, they had gotten closer, physically and emotionally. A second date had morphed into a third without intermission, and later they had had a fourth and a fifth before they stopped counting. They went to the cinema, took long drives in the Bentley or the car – another Tesla – Oscar had rented, visited gardens and museums. Most nights, even on the days when Oscar worked from dawn to dusk, they found themselves together in bed, exploring the limits of their minds and bodies.

On the days that Oscar was busy, Crowley did see Aziraphale. Sometimes he even got tricked into hanging out with Muriel or Nina. However, the frequency had decreased drastically, together with Crowley’s inclination to plan something in advance – on the off chance that something else went wrong with the production of Oscar’s film. Aziraphale never commented on this newfound unwillingness to commit, settling for shooting him sideways glances. Crowley didn’t explain. He was tired of Aziraphale never talking. If the angel wanted to know, he could just ask. As if he’d ever would do that.

Crowley tried not to think about the near or distant future. Of course, sooner or later, Oscar would be leaving for New York. Crowley didn’t know when, finding the thought of asking, of making it real, unbearable. The peace of the last months had been…miraculous. A balm for his soul, or whatever he had instead of one.

The sound of Oscar brushing his teeth interrupted Crowley from his musings. He smiled at the normality of it all, as he listened to Oscar moving around the flat. When the actor closed the front door – carefully, so as to not wake Crowley – Crowley exhaled and allowed himself to drift off for a bit longer. That turned into a nap that lasted the whole day, Crowley content to just exist on the brim of consciousness in a place that smelled safe and warm, infrequently texting with Oscar. He got up in time for the actor to arrive back from work, making sure to order some Thai food from the place Oscar loved. He set the table, waiting for the familiar sound his lover arriving.

As soon as Oscar set foot in the flat, Crowley smelt trouble, as clear as the stinging November air that followed the actor through the door. Oscar kept fidgeting, pinching his chin in a way that Crowley had grown to recognise as a nervous tick.

“What is it, star?”

Oscar didn’t answer, just took Crowley’s hands and kissed him. Crowley could sense deflection long way, but decided not to argue as he melted into the kiss. Surely, whatever it was could wait. But Oscar untangled himself, meeting Crowley’s eyes with an unsure, solemn expression.

“We need to talk.”

Panic grabbed hold of Crowley. He had known that this day would come, but he had hoped to delay it, just for a bit longer. A couple of weeks, maybe months at best.

“Right,” he offered, and gestured for Oscar to join him in the kitchen. “Let’s eat first.”

They ate in silence, Crowley’s normally bad appetite even worse than usual.

“You’re just picking in your food,” Oscar commented. “Please. You never eat enough.”

“I…” Crowley sighed and put down his cutlery. Better get it over with. “I’m just…nervous, I guess. Of what you want to talk about. Has it something to do with your contract?”

Oscar mirrored his sigh.

“Yeah. I’ve tried to block it out, really. But people are starting to talk, you know? About shooting ending. What they’re going to do afterwards.”

He glanced at Crowley, an unsure smile playing on his lips. Crowley tried to return it, but his face seemed to have turned into stone.

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, a hollowness accompanying his voice.

Oscar shrugged, smile fading, eyes darting out the window.

“I don’t know. My next project starts in a few months. I need to go back to New York, though, to get some things sorted.”

“Right. I understand.”

The hollowness reached Crowley’s limbs, his muscles tensing. This was it. He looked away, desperate to hide the tears that threatened to dampen his eyes. Hopefully, at least it would be quick, Oscar gone and himself curled up in the bed for the next year or so.

Oscar reached under the table, placing a hand on Crowley’s shaking thigh.

“I was wondering – would you like to come visit me? Or, you know, stay for a while, and then maybe I can come visit you?”

The train that was Crowley’s mind suddenly found itself on parallel tracks, making him dizzy.  

“What?”

The word came out sharper than Crowley had intended, and he could sense Oscar recoil. His leg felt cold and empty without the actor’s touch.  

“You don’t have to, you know, I just thought it could be nice. Not stop seeing each other.”

Shit! Do something! Say something!

“I…well, I don’t…of course I don’t want to stop, but…” Crowley stuttered, his mind refusing to form a coherent thought.

Oscar swallowed and closed his eyes, before mumbling under his breath.

“What I really wanted to ask you is if you’d be interested in some sort of long-distance…thing. No. Not ‘thing’. Relationship. Like, official. Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever.”

Crowley froze. No timeline. No end – well, for a while. How could you do that to him? How could you not take this chance?

Sensing his hesitation, Oscar abruptly rose from the chair, shoulders sagging.

“OK, I get it. I’ll…”

Crowley interrupted him.

“I don’t want kids. I don’t want to get married.”

Oscar knitted his eyebrows, his eyes piercing Crowley’s.

“Huh?”

“I…” Crowley stood up, quickly taking Oscar’s hand. “I’m…I’m in love with you.”

The confession rang through his mind, both because of the truth of it and its implications. Heartache. Now, or later.

Oscar’s features smoothened, and he beamed as Crowley continued:

“I’m in love with you,” – it was easier the second time – “and I want to make this official. But, if this is going to be a long-term thing, then I might as well just say it. No kids. No marriage. No talking about my past in detail. That won’t change. Ever.”

Oscar’s eyes became a mixture of every emotion there was. They stared at each other, hands locked but unmoving. After a few breaths, Oscar sighed.

“I’m in love with you too, if that wasn’t obvious. I don’t care about kids. Never have. My friends at home always say that I was born without a biological clock. I don’t care about your past. Marriage…I’ve always dreamed about that. Which part of it are you opposed to? The vows? The legal side? The party? The rings?”

“All of them.” Institutions. Rings to mark to whom or what you belong. Parties celebrating a contract that in Crowley’s case would be a fraud. “Listen, I don’t want to use it as an excuse for everything I don’t want to do, but trust me on this one: it has nothing to do with you, it has everything to do with my past. It can’t be fixed, and I don’t want you to try.”

Oscar nodded.

“I think…” he started, but paused, searching for the right words. “The most important thing for me is the sense of belonging. I know it sounds silly, but I’d like an outward manifestation of that. Is it just rings? Would you – in a hypothetical future – be opposed to, say, tattoos? Bracelets? Necklaces?”

Crowley contemplated the options. No tattoos, obviously. But…

“Necklaces. Yes. I’d like that. As long as there’s no party. It just…it reminds me too much. Of things.”

He gestured vaguely, but Oscar paid it no mind. Instead, he moved his hands to Crowley’s cheeks, smiling softly.

“In that case, would you like to be my official +1 to the wrap-up event?”

Crowley kissed him.

“Only if you call me your partner. I feel too old to be someone’s boyfriend.”

Too old to be something at all - at least to you, star.

Still, I’ll make sure you’re happy, for as long as you let me.  

Chapter Text

As soon as production finished, Crowley and Oscar flew to New York together. Crowley hadn’t been to the city in decades, but as soon as he stepped foot in it again, he was intoxicated by its atmosphere. Chaotic and creative, dangerous and demanding, promising and frightening – sensations mixing in a way that made his demonic senses tingle. You’ll like it here. You always have.

Oscar’s flat was small, since only the richest actors (which Oscar wasn’t, although he hardly was struggling) could afford anything bigger in the city. It was sleek and modern, but the wooden details and soft cushions made it a lot more inviting than Crowley’s. The biggest surprise was the easel that occupied the living room.

“You paint?” Crowley asked Oscar. “All those hours on the phone and together, and you've never mentioned that you paint?”

Oscar blushed.

“I dabble,” he corrected. “And I do it for a couple of months, then forget all about it before I start all over again. Never improve.”

“Can I see something?”

The red on Oscar’s cheeks deepened, but he led Crowley to the bedroom, where an impressionistic painting of a garden with yellow flowers hung. It was brutish and somewhat unskilled - but the feeling was certainly there.

“It looks fantastic.”

Oscar smiled.

“You look fantastic,” he said, and playfully pulled Crowley onto the bed.

---

During the next weeks, Oscar showed Crowley the city and his new car - and, more importantly, introduced him to his friends. They were of all sorts: gay, straight, something else. Accountants, actors, aristocrats – the actor knew them all. It’s because he doesn’t judge. He gives everybody a chance. Even me.

Crowley sent Aziraphale a postcard. The angel had looked crestfallen when Crowley told him that he would be away for a fortnight, but with a promise of a Ritz dinner as soon as Crowley returned, he had – begrudgingly, Crowley was sure – refrained from commenting further. 

“Have you told him yet?” Oscar asked as Crowley picked out the card. Crowley shook his head. Oscar’s shoulders grew stiff, but he didn’t say anything – and neither did Crowley. Don’t go there. Not yet.

The days went by at top speed. Soon, Crowley found himself back in London, in an empty flat that he loathed more and more each day. He didn’t spend Christmas with Oscar – Crowley had wanted to but not dared to ask, and Oscar hadn’t offered. Still, he and Oscar talked every day, even face-timed, and a non-stop stream of texts flew across the Atlantic. It wasn’t enough, though – not by a mile. Crowley longed. He went to dinners with Aziraphale, hung out in the bookshop. Every time Oscar called he answered, one time standing in the pouring rain outside the shop for nearly an hour while Oscar told him about his day.

Oscar visited once, but soon found himself a new gig in New York which made it impossible for him to travel. Instead, Crowley’s visits to New York became longer and more frequent. He told Aziraphale he was travelling, but didn’t specify to where. Aziraphale didn’t pry. As always. In New York, the demon started to hang out with some of Oscar’s friends while the actor was working. After a few visits, he had found some favourite spots for a stroll, and during his fourth stay, Oscar encouraged him to buy some plants for the flat.

They seldom argued, and when they did, it was usually resolved within minutes. Only one subject ran like a dark streak through their relationship.

“Have you told him yet?” Oscar asked again, as they returned to the flat after one alcohol-induced night out in May. Again, Crowley shook his head. Oscar sighed, his jaw hardening. Crowley cupped the actor’s cheek, but Oscar withdrew.

“Does this even mean anything to you? Us?”

Oscar’s voice was low, the words barely discernable - but Crowley’s corporation reacted immediately, his stomach churning as an unexpected heat rose within him. Anger. But for what and towards whom?  

“What do you mean?” he spat, involuntarily allowing his frustration to seep out. “Of course it does! I’ve become a bloody transatlantic commuter because of you!”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. Instead, he folded his arms, his piercing gaze holding Crowley hostage.

“If it leads somewhere I’ll tell him. You told me that, before you agreed to our first date. Well? Has it led somewhere?”

The rage turned rawer, gnawing at spots deep within Crowley. The unfairness of it all.

“Of course it has! We’re officially a couple! And I love you!”

Oscar blinked. Crowley bit his lip, hands searching desperately for something to grab hold of as the world turned unsteady, the magnitude of the statement hitting him. Not in love. Just love. Deeper. Stronger.

He was saved by Oscar, who shook himself alive and took the demon’s hand. A tremble hit Crowley’s senses, its source impossible to discern.

“I…I love you too,” the actor whispered, eyes glistening. “So why can’t you tell him?”

Crowley shrugged. How do you explain 6000 years of something?

“Honestly? Because I’m afraid it’ll break him. And I won’t be able to live with myself if that happens.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around Crowley, his breath close to the demon’s ear. Warmth. Safety.

“He’s not your responsibility. I felt the same about Carl. I still feel guilty, from time to time. And I know how much you care about Aziraphale. I’m ok with you being in contact with him. But as you said, we're a couple. And I don’t want to be a dirty secret.”

The actor untangled himself, taking a step back before continuing:

“Have you actually told anyone in London about us? I know you don’t have that many friends, but Nina? Muriel? Anyone?”

Crowley shook his head.

“No. They…they all know Aziraphale.”

A bitter snort escaped Oscar, his lips quivering slightly. 

“So, everybody knows Aziraphale, nobody knows about me. Got it.”

The actor turned his back to Crowley and grabbed his phone from the table, before walking towards the front door.

“Wait! You’re right,” Crowley stuttered, tripping over his tongue in his haste to say something. “Aziraphale isn’t my responsibility, and you’re not a dirty secret. Far from it. I love you.”

Oscar stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn to face Crowley. The demon inched closer, his whole corporation shaking to control his urge to touch the actor, to hold him close and refuse to let go.

“Look, star - I promise I’ll tell him, them, next time I’m in London. I’ll even introduce you, if that’s what you want.”

Slowly, Oscar turned his head and met Crowley’s gaze, expression inscrutable.

“It’s not about what I want,” he said softly. “It’s about what you want. With me. Us.”

Crowley reached out, his trembling fingertips brushing against Oscar’s arm. Please stay. That’s all I want.

“I want us to move in together.”

The words left Crowley unwittingly, but he immediately knew them to be true. Oscar opened his mouth to answer, but Crowley continued:

“I want to move to New York. Find a larger flat, something for both of us. I’m not saying this to get out of telling Aziraphale. I will talk to him when I get back. Whether or not you say yes.”

Oscar knitted his eyebrows, giving Crowley an incredulous stare.

“You…want to move here?”

Crowley nodded emphatically. Please let me stay, star.

“If you’ll have me, yes. I don’t need to bring that much, really. Just the Bentley and some of my plants. Those are non-negotiable.”

Something in Oscar shifted, his whole body relaxing, his lips bursting into an unsteady smile.

“I would never ask you to leave her or them behind.”

Within seconds, Crowley was enveloped by Oscar’s scent as the actor once again embraced him. The demon's eyes started to itch as he took a deep breath, savouring the sensation. Stay. Hold me close.

The tears broke into a stream as Oscar whispered:

“Of course I’ll have you, handsome! I love you!”

---

Crowley left for London, his heart in turmoil. This is it. He had lived in London for a long time, seen the city burn and rise both literary and metaphorically, in tandem with the strange bond that was his and Aziraphale’s. Leaving it meant a break of sorts. For how long, or how deep, he didn’t know.

He planned to stay for a month, to take care of business. Of course, business could and would be taken care of very swiftly with some demonic intervention, but he wanted to give both Oscar and himself a chance to digest. Give Oscar a chance to change his mind.

He met with Aziraphale several times without telling him, not about Oscar and not about New York. The words got stuck in his throat as Aziraphale ravished yet another crème caramel, and transformed into an inaudible whisper as the angel happily prattled on about the play or opera they had just seen.

Oscar didn’t change his mind, and the day of the move kept creeping closer. The actor didn’t push, but the task of the Talk still awaited, hard and heavy.

Tell him, a voice suspiciously similar to Oscar’s told Crowley. Tell him, and move on.

They met in St. James's Park, Crowley and Aziraphale, on the demon's last day in London. They fed the ducks, and it all felt perfectly, terribly normal. Crowley savoured every minute, mourning before it even was over. I’ll miss you terribly, angel. But things have to change. Too soon, they started to head back to the bookshop, the moment slipping through Crowley’s fingers once again.

“I hope you have a nice trip, dear,” Aziraphale said as they approached Whickber Street. An uncertain smile traced his lips, his hands fidgeting. “I’ll…I’ll count the days until you return.”

The hopeful yet unsure glance that accompanied the words crushed every fibre of Crowley's being. He took a deep breath, avoiding the impulse to answer in a similar vein. This was it.

“I need to tell you something, angel,” he croaked, looking everywhere but Aziraphale. “The trip…it’s not really a trip. I’m moving. To New York. Tomorrow.”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks.

“I see.”

Crowley watched as the angel gulped and closed his eyes, exhaling loudly before schooling his features. Crowley’s stomach dropped. He recognised that routine - he had seen Aziraphale use it many times, preparing for a conversation with some Representative of Heaven. Never when talking to Crowley, though. Not even when the angel chose to Ascend.

“There’s someone else, isn’t it?”

Crowley flinched, unsure if he had heard correctly. He had been prepared to tell the angel, had spent the last month agonising over it. But in none of his – sometimes very detailed – fictional scenarios had Aziraphale actually asked. And if he had, he definitely hadn’t asked like this. Like Crowley cheated or something. The demon tensed, the hair on his arms bristling as he fought an urge to lash out. Between clenched teeth, he hissed:

“No. There's someone.”

Aziraphale knitted his eyebrows, in that condescending way of his.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Anger finally reached Crowley, simmering but ready to explode at any moment.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” he repeated, mocking Aziraphale’s voice. “It means that I’m moving in with someone I care about – and who cares about me in return.”

A perplexed look crossed Aziraphale’s face, followed by uncertainty.

“I care about you, dear. An awful lot.”

Crowley sighed, the anger slipping away. He doesn’t understand. He never will.

“I know you do, angel. I care about you too. Always have, always will. It’s just…when you came back from Heaven, I thought…I thought something would happen, alright? That we would become something more. An us. Or at least talk about it. And it didn’t happen. And then I met Oscar, and…”

At the mention of the actor's name, Aziraphale let out a huff.

“Oscar? You’re punishing me.”

The fury returned, rawer, all-encompassing.

“You know what, Aziraphale? It’s not always about you! Oscar is a common name, for Someone’s sake! Had it been Theoprastus, or Eidelbert, or Ashurbanipal, then sure – a bit too weird for this day and age to be a coincidence! I’m not punishing you. I’m doing this for me. For once, I’m actually doing something for me!”

Aziraphale’s lip started to tremble. However angry, Crowley couldn’t have that.

“Come on, angel!” he pleaded. “We’ve both had…partners…before. You know about mine, I know about yours.”

Aziraphale snorted, somewhere between a sob and an angry hiss.

“Yes. But…those other times…I wasn’t there. You weren’t there. And considering, well, our sides, there realistically was no chance of…”

“But that’s the thing! You’re not here!”

Crowley started to pace back and forth, circling the angel, his hands and arms moving in wild gestures as his voice grew louder.

“You’re still in Heaven, or the past, or some imaginary future where everything will have magically changed. You're never here. With me. And I…it feels lonely. Or, it did. Before Oscar.”

Crowley stopped, the sudden silence deafening.

At last, Aziraphale drew a sharp breath.

“You could have told me,” he whispered, voice quivering.

Crowley pressed his lips together hard, gnawing on their insides as he struggled to hold back the treacherous tears that threatened to erupt from his eyes.

“Ngk! I did tell you! Before you left! And when you returned, you acted like nothing had happened! Like it didn’t matter at all! Like I didn’t matter at all!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but closed it again. Finally, he sighed.

“Does he know what you are?”

Surprised, Crowley laughed, a bitter sound filled with venom.

“What? That I’m a demon? No, he doesn’t bloody know! And he never will. You know why? Because it doesn’t matter! Because he knows about what matters. About my past, or a version of it with the important bits. That he will never have a family with me, or marry me. Hell, he even knows about you! And you know what? He’s been more patient about that than someone could ever ask for. He knows who I am. That’s what matters!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth again, but Crowley kept on going, resuming his pacing.

“But that has never mattered to you, has it? Who I am? Only what I am. For 6000 years, angel, I’ve been nothing but – well – kind to you. Still, during Armageddon’t, you threw it in my face. Demon. Opposite sides. And then, you basically pounced at the chance of making me an angel again! Tell you what, Aziraphale: I’m no angel. I never will be. I’m not even sure I count as a demon anymore, and frankly, I don’t care. I just want to be me!”

“Please, dear, let me explain…”

“No!” Crowley shouted in earnest, not caring in the slightest that people could hear. Let them hear everything. Let the whole world hear. “You’ve had years to explain. Millennia even! Well, too late for that. I don’t want your explanations. I can’t be who you want me to be, period. I’ve tried, I really have. I barely eat, and still, I take you out to dinner every other day. I don’t read, and still, I hang out in a bloody bookshop all the time!”

Aziraphale looked crestfallen, his hands trembling slightly.

“I thought you liked restaurants. And the bookshop.”

Crowley sighed.

“I do, angel,” he murmured. “It’s just…you know, for our first date,” – Aziraphale flinched, but Crowley continued – “Oscar took me to the Royal Observatory. He’d arranged it, a chance to use the telescope. Because I’ve mentioned that I liked stars. Because he wanted to do something that he thought I would like.”

Tears glistened in Aziraphale’s eyes, the shaking more discernable.

“You hate me,” he whispered, his voice brimming with defeat. Crowley loathed it, loathed Aziraphale for it.

“No angel, I don’t bloody hate you! I love you! And it’s killing me, that I can never be good enough for you!”

The words hang heavy in the air, millennia of truth boiled down to three sentences.

Aziraphale started to cry in earnest, tears running down his throat, dampening his bow tie.

“I love you too, my dear,” he managed to get out between sobs. “More than anything in the world, in the universe. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. Please, don’t ever think you’re not good enough.”

The angel brushed away his tears in a hasty manner, before meeting Crowley’s eyes pleadingly. Crowley stared back, blankness enveloping his mind. For the most part of his existence, he had longed for those words. Now, they filled him with emptiness. He didn’t want them like that. Not said out of fear, out of necessity.

I can’t keep going like this. I’m sorry, angel.

“I’m moving to New York. To Oscar. I’m not punishing you. I love him. Not in the same way, but I do.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded, his expression suddenly unreadable.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Crowley’s world broke. He wanted to hug the angel, tell him that of course they would see each other again – and next time, Crowley would do better, he would be what the angel wanted him to be, he…

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

Crowley turned around, walking away.

The angel’s sobs would haunt his dreams for years to come.

He didn’t regret his decision.

Chapter Text

The next five years passed by quickly, as Crowley and Oscar settled in New York. Their new flat was a lot bigger, with space for both an art studio and a plant room. Sometimes, Crowley let Oscar borrow one of the plants to practise his painting skills – although not for long, lest the paint fumes made it wilt. Soon, the walls were filled with Oscar’s paintings. Crowley especially enjoyed one depicting his zebra plant in bloom. He put a picture of it as his phone wallpaper and gushed about it to all of their friends, to Oscar’s equal delight and frustration. If sometimes the windows found themselves miraculously cleaned and the pantry always stocked with Oscar’s favourite cookies, none was the wiser.

Nina and Maggie hadn’t been happy with Crowley’s decision at first, which they had made clear in a litany of texts following his departure. But Nina reached out mere weeks after his move, apologising and explaining that although she and Maggie had wished for another outcome, they understood why he did it. He really didn’t think they did, but who knew? Humans had a knack for that sort of thing. Muriel had been upset as well, but soon texted and said that they missed him and wondered why he had stopped calling. Eventually, the communication progressed to Facetimeing, and all three seemed to find Oscar endearing. Oscar’s smile when he was introduced made something blossom within Crowley. The actor’s laughter when he realised they all called Crowley by his last name, not so much. How very British, he commented. For his part, Oscar continued to work as an actor, incrementally getting more recognised. Crowley found himself accompanying the actor to a lot of parties, which he sometimes enjoyed, and arriving home with a bubbly Oscar, which he always loved.

Crowley didn’t talk to Aziraphale, not once. Nina had, unbidden, told him that she would keep an eye on the angel. Crowley had just nodded, thankful but not ready to say so. At times, Muriel or Nina let slip something, an insignificant fact that didn’t make sense if one didn’t know Aziraphale. How the weather in Soho seemed to have gotten a lot rainier and colder. That a café that was one of the angel’s favourites had been forced to close down, no miraculous intervention preventing it from happening. Crowley tried his hardest not to dwell on the implications.

You made your choice. Deal with it.

He didn’t know if he meant himself or Aziraphale – but overall, he did in fact manage to deal with it, finding life in New York both hectic and peaceful. That was until one evening when Oscar arrived home from work, an uncertain look on his face as he gave Crowley a peck on the cheek.

“I have to run something by you, handsome,” the actor said, “and if you don’t like it, I won’t do it.”

Crowley took a step back, his corporation immediately tensing up. 

“Alright.”

“Remember that horrible movie I was making when we started dating? They’re doing a sequel. I know I hated it, but I miss the crew. And London, sometimes. Great memories and all.”

He winked, and Crowley blushed. It was strange, how the gesture still made him all flustered. 

“They offered me to repeat the role," Oscar continued. "I’d like to accept, but I know you might not want to go back to London. So…what do you say?”

Crowley sighed. I’d rather go back to Hell. I’ll do it for you, though, star.

“I…I don’t know. Where would we live?”

“How about not London? Some of the commuter towns. No risk of running into…people.”

He gave Crowley a knowing look. The demon nodded. That could work. He’ll make it work.

“I want a fast car. To drive when you’re working.”

Oscar grinned.

“As if we’d ever rent a slow one. Who knows, with what they’re paying me we might even buy one, if one of them catches your fancy.”

---

London was the same. Sure, some shops had closed, some restaurants and attractions opened, but the heart and atmosphere remained. Crowley felt it seeping into his corporation, intermingling with the centuries of memories he had gathered in the town - like a plague, a fire in his mind. He kept out of the city as much as possible, driving his new Aston Martin well over the speed limit during workdays, exploring the countryside with Oscar – whose interest in plants didn’t match Crowley’s, but who still enjoyed the gardens and cafés – on the days the actor was off work.

Nina and Maggie visited a couple of times. To Crowley’s surprise, they wore rings now. A courthouse wedding, just the two of them – they had wanted to tell them in person, they explained. Crowley congratulated them, noticing the small sagging of Oscar’s shoulders. You can’t give him that. You’ve told him so. Sometimes he and Oscar met up with Muriel, who had abandoned the white for a colourful palette that hurt Crowley’s eyes but made Oscar smile.

All in all, the trip went better than Crowley had expected. Oscar was by his side, every night and many days. They visited some of their old hangouts (after some coaxing from Oscar), reminiscing about their time spent in the city. They never visited Soho – a shape inside the town with borders not to be crossed.

When it was time to return to New York, they planned a small gathering in Horniman Gardens for their friends outside of production. Oscar had insisted on a picnic, despite the unlikeliness that the weather would turn out good. Crowley had relented of course. He would make sure it was sunny and the temperature perfect.

They were driving back to their rented house, having just finished shopping for the picnic, when Nina called.

“Hello?” Crowley answered.

“Crowley? You sound weird.”

“I’m in the car. Driving. You’re on speaker.”

“Right. Is Oscar with you?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley thought he could hear a muffled curse, followed by a sigh.

“Ok," Nina continued. "Um…about the picnic. Should we bring something?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” – another voice, presumably Maggie’s, interrupted, and a shuffling noise followed before the second voice was heard again, much cleared this time - “The picnic. We spoke to Aziraphale. We didn’t mean to, but it happened. You can be angry with us later, when you’re back in New York. Anyway, he wants to come. How do you feel about that?”

Like being locked in the deepest pit of Hell, forever watching The Sound of Music.

Crowley exchanged a glance with Oscar, who mouthed “Your call”. Crowley shook his head. No. No, he definitely didn’t want Aziraphale there. At all. However, the decision wasn’t his. His mind remembered a promise made five years ago.

“Call you back in five,” he said, and hung up. He quickly parked the car on the side of the road, taking Oscar’s hand.

“Look, I promised I’d introduce you to Aziraphale if you wanted me to. Do you want me to?”

Oscar stared straight ahead, his gaze far in the distance.

“You know what, I think I do,” he finally said, sighing. He turned to look at Crowley. “But more than that, I want you to be ok. Will you be ok?”

Definitely not.

“Always, star.”

----

Crowley and Oscar arrived early at Horniman to set things up. The weather was splendid, but if he squinted, Crowley could spot some clouds gathering on the horizon. Poetic. Or Aziraphale’s doing. They laid out the picnic blankets under some trees, keeping the food shaded until the others arrived.

A pair of arms reached Crowley from behind and enveloped him, and he nearly jumped before relaxing into Oscar’s arms.

“Are you alright? You can’t stop fidgeting with your glasses.”

Oscar broke the hug and met Crowley’s eyes, concern splayed across his face. Crowley mustered a smile. He wasn’t alright, not by any means. But this was important.

“Not really. But I will be. I…I want you to meet him. I really do.”

He actually did, in some twisted way. He wanted Oscar to know he would never be ashamed of him. He wanted Aziraphale to know…well, something. He felt weirdly protective of both of them. Please, Aziraphale, don’t be a condescending bastard. Please, Oscar, don’t laugh at his old-fashioned clothes and manners.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what Aziraphale’s game was. Why did he want to meet them? Crowley could think of many reasons. Curiosity. A chance to evaluate the situation. Pettiness. Revenge. None seemed to fit, though. The angel he knew would never force this kind of encounter. Perhaps change was actually, finally coming.

Crowley could sense Aziraphale before he saw him, a tingling sensation, the call of the river getting stronger. The angel looked the same as ever, bow tie and waistcoat immaculately done, lips pursed tightly as he strolled between Nina and Maggie, Muriel close in tow. Crowley’s heart fluttered. Please, Aziraphale, be nice. He glanced at Oscar, hoping that the actor’s soothing presence would steady him. Oscar, however, looked tense, his posture guarded as he studied the group walking towards them. At least he didn’t seem to be stifling a laugh. Please, Oscar.

The introduction was stilted. Crowley had instructed Oscar not to reach for Aziraphale’s hand, and to Crowley’s relief, he didn’t. Instead, the two – three, if you counted Crowley – settled for a nod and a short introduction by the demon, as if they didn’t know who the other was already. When they sat down, the other three guests found it fitting to place themselves between the angel and the couple.

The picnic was alright, Aziraphale sturdily ignoring them in favour of chatting with Muriel, Crowley and Oscar doing the same by talking to Nina and Maggie. Crowley did his best not to let his mind spiral. From time to time, when his breath hitched, Oscar grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Every time, Crowley shot him a thankful look. Soon, this charade would be over. Soon, they’ll be back in New York.

Suddenly, Nina and Maggie decided to explore the gardens, and in a suspiciously miraculous way, Muriel goaded Oscar into go looking at the bandstand of all things. That left Crowley and Aziraphale, uncomfortably staring at each other from opposite sides of the blankets.

Crowley studied the angel as Aziraphale took a sip from his flute. He opted to remain quiet, knowing the angel far too well. Predictably, Aziraphale soon broke the silence.

“It…it’s nice to see you. You look happy. I’m glad.”

The angel’s lips twisted into a polite smile, his eyes unreadable. Crowley sighed. Still not talking then, angel.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?”

Even if Crowley hadn’t been looking at him, he still would have been able to conjure up the befuddled stare Aziraphale shot him, just by his tone of voice.

“What do you mean?”

Crowley’s nostrils flared, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. Don’t start an argument. Just…

“Come on! You weaselled your way into the picnic. What for? To see if I’m still standing? What Oscar’s like?"

Aziraphale huffed and adjusted his bow tie.

“I did nothing of the sort! Maggie and Nina invited me. I was actually under the impression that it would only be them and Muriel. In fact, I believe I will have a rather stern talk with them later.”

Crowley massaged his temples, trying to unclench his jaw. For Someone’s sake! It made sense though. Except…

“Really? So why didn’t you leave, when you realised what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Well, that would have been awfully rude.”

Of course it would. Bloody angel and his very situation-dependent politeness.

Crowley didn’t have it in him to argue, he realised. Not change, then. Of course not. He sighed and closed his eyes, envisioning himself being somewhere else. Preferably in the Bentley, or in a bed with Oscar.

Again, the silence stretched, and again, Aziraphale eventually broke it.

“I…I’ve started therapy,” he blurted out.

A cold torrent reached Crowley, the river overflowing with a feeling he wasn't ready for, and didn’t fully welcome. Hope.

“Good for you,” he answered, carefully schooling his voice.

“Yes. Yes, it rather is. Talking.”

“Mhm.”

Silence, again. This time, Crowley ended it.

“You’d like him, you know. If you gave him a chance.”

Aziraphale’s eyes glistened, a stunning opposite to the wobbly smile playing on his lips. 

“I’m sure I would, dear.”

They were saved by Oscar and Muriel returning, Muriel laughing at some birds who had decided to take advantage of the food when the angel and the demon were otherwise preoccupied. Crowley hastily rose and took Oscar by the hand, creating a couple of steps between them and the angels.

“I need a break,” he mumbled. “Will you be alright?”

Oscar nodded, carefully eyeing Crowley. His eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. I’m sure Muriel can handle any awkwardness.” He sighed. “Listen, handsome, I’m sorry about this. Aziraphale seems like a great person and all, but he’s clearly not ok with you and me being together. Take a walk, keep out. When Nina and Maggie come back, we’ll leave. I’ll fake an emergency if it comes down to it.”

Crowley squeezed his hand and gave him a light kiss. Finally.

“Thank you, star.”

---

Back in New York, Oscar took Crowley to Carl’s gravestone.

A couple of weeks later, they bought each other matching necklaces.

Chapter Text

It took Crowley about a year to forgive Nina and Maggie, but eventually he did. They resumed talking from time to time, the ocean between them and Oscar’s calming presence effectively cooling down any animosity. After another year or so, Nina and Maggie introduced him and Oscar to Ally, their foster child. A lanky, just-teenager with a sullen mood, she and Crowley instantly hit it off. When the placement turned out to be a permanent thing, the trio even visited.

At Oscar’s insistence, he and Crowley started couples therapy before they really needed it. It was hard at first, despite their previously shared experience with the practice of self-improvement. It was one thing to share your innermost thoughts with a group of virtually unknown people, quite another to discuss them with the person you spent your everyday life with. They worked on Oscar’s shame of sometimes flinching when Crowley leaned in to touch him, the last horrible months with Carl engraved in his muscle memory. They talked about Crowley’s fear of abandonment, Oscar reassuring him that the actor’s need for some alone time now and then didn’t mean anything other than that some thoughts were best contemplated in solitude.

The years rushed by, filled with experiences all across the world thanks to Oscar’s work and Crowley’s habit of always tagging along (although thanks to therapy, he did learn to stay at home from time to time). Home or away – it didn’t matter, because every moment together was time well spent. Their lives got incrementally more intertwined, until they reached a point where you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended. What was once a friend to one and an acquaintance to the other soon became mutual friends and confidantes. The pastimes they shared gradually outnumbered the ones they didn’t, as Crowley’s interest in plants spilled over to Oscar and Crowley helped Oscar select and practice for his different roles.

They quarrelled, of course, sometimes even shouting at each other. After the first time Crowley stormed out and left the flat for a couple of days after a fight, Oscar made the demon promise not to do it again without telling him where he was and when he was going to return. For his part, Oscar never let an argument die, for better or worse. For better, because it made Crowley realise that disagreement didn’t always mean destruction. For worse, because it could be tedious and annoying, and sometimes resulted in more agony than resolution. Still, they loved each other, and made sure the other knew it. Touches, words, and gifts flowed freely between them, given not out of habit but out of genuine care.

It took six years before they once again found themselves in London.

---

The letter caught Crowley’s attention, just by the formal look of it. He groaned. He knew that kind of letter. A wedding invitation – or worse, a gender reveal. The wedding thing he could understand, but celebrating that you knew the reproductive organs of your unborn offspring? That was humanity in its weirdest sense.

“Who do we know that are getting hitched or have a future boss on the way?” he asked as he strolled into the living room, playing a game they had perfected over the years. Sometimes they got it right - most of the times, they didn’t.

Oscar looked up from his painting, pausing putting the finishing touches to yet another still life.

“Well, let’s see. Erica and Alex have been trying for a while, but I’m sure they would have told us if anything had happened. Gordie and Charlie? They might want to tie the knot. Charlie has always liked parties and Gordie’s father has been nagging him about getting married for years. You? Got any ideas?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Maybe it’s a vow renewal?” he suggested. “In that case, the opportunities are endless.” 

He fidgeted with his necklace, as had become his habit over the last few years. Oscar shot him a fond look.

“Well, don’t keep me on my toes! Open it!”

Obediently, Crowley tore open the envelope, revealing a card with an interesting aesthetic that could only be described as “edgy teen”. His stomach sank. Apprehensively, he read the lines out loud:

My mums have finally decided to make it official before they miss their chance: I’m getting adopted!

To celebrate, I got to choose between having a party or a trip to Tokyo. Obviously, I chose the trip, but my mums insisted on throwing a party anyway. You are hereby cordially invited. The details are on the back.

Xxx

Ally

The colours of Crowley’s corporation drained as pictures of London and Aziraphale flooded his mind. The stream had been silent and nearly dry for quite some time, while Crowley enjoyed the adventure he and Oscar had embarked on. Now, its roar filled his ears once again - calling for him, pleading with him. He stubbornly forced it down.

Oscar anticipated his reaction. After all, they had talked about Crowley and Aziraphale’s complex relationship at length, both in therapy and in private. Crowley hadn’t been able to tell him the whole truth, of course - but the gist was there. There had been complications, obstacles to their relationship. Things had happened that had made Crowley feel abandoned. He didn’t care for that feeling, or for being reminded of it.

“We don’t have to go, handsome,” Oscar said without hesitation. “Or I can go alone.”

Crowley shook his head.

“Hard to get out of this one, star. They know I basically do nothing on a daily basis.”

“You can pretend to be sick.”

At that, Crowley let out an exasperated laugh.

“Have you ever seen me sick? That would be one hell of a coincidence.”

Oscar stayed silent, letting Crowley figure it out on his own.

“I guess we’ll have to go,” Crowley said slowly, thinking out loud. “I don’t want to hurt Ally, I like her.” I don’t want to deny you anything, star. Not even a trip.“Just…don’t leave me alone with Aziraphale. Please?”

Oscar’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Wow, therapy has really got you good! Admitting weakness and asking for help. I’m proud of you.” His face softened, and he wiped his hands on a cloth before taking Crowley’s. “Of course I won’t leave you alone. You’ve been my trophy partner at so many events over the years. I’d be delighted to be yours for a change.”

He leaned in for a kiss. Crowley returned it, but didn’t relax. Instead, he pulled away, his gaze piercing Oscar.

“Not for a second.”

“I promise,” Oscar replied, and kissed him again.

The river calmed down, earth returning under Crowley’s feet. 

---

Nina and Maggie’s flat was cosy and eccentric, but above all, it was small. That wouldn’t normally have been a problem, had not a large number of people showed up to Ally's adoption party. After greeting their hostesses, hugging Muriel and giving Ally her gift – quite a big lump of money to make the Tokyo trip even better – Crowley and Oscar found themselves alone in a sea of people. Oscar was sweating profusely, desperately trying to get some air through a window that would only partially open. Crowley shot him a worried look.

“Are you alright, star?”

Oscar shook his head, wiping his forehead with an annoyed grunt. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have chosen the suit. I really need some air. Can we go outside for a bit?”

“Sure.”

They made their way towards the exit, Crowley nervously scanning for any sign of Aziraphale. He had been surprised not to sense the angel on arrival. Aziraphale was usually very keen on punctuality. A silent conversation with Nina – consisting of raised eyebrows from both ends – had confirmed that Aziraphale was expected, and that Nina shared his surprise.

They had nearly reached the door when disaster struck. A little girl ran straight into a chair in the hallway, splitting her lip open. For a moment she was silent, before starting to howl at the top of her lungs as the blood dripped down on her dress.

Reflexively, Crowley scooped up the child, pressing his sleeve against the child’s mouth to stop the bleeding. When an adult – presumably the mother – tried to remove the girl from Crowley’s lap, the child screamed even louder and didn’t let go. People around scurried for paper towels and passed them to Crowley. Oscar stood still, frozen, not a fan of either children or blood. Crowley glanced at him, recognising the expression of someone on the verge of a panic attack.

“Why don’t you go outside for a bit? It’s ok.”

Oscar hesitated. A sudden surge of affection washed over Crowley. As uncomfortable as he was, Oscar clearly was reluctant to break his promise.

“It’s ok, star,” he said. “There's nothing in here that could hurt me.” He tilted his head, indicating the absence of Aziraphale.

The actor’s eyes darted across the flat, checking for any sight of the angel. Finally, he nodded. “Sorry,” he mouthed, before hurriedly heading out.

Crowley turned his attention to the child. He removed the paper towel and unceremoniously shoved a finger into her mouth, ready to perform a small miracle if any of the girl’s teeth had gotten loose. Thankfully, they hadn’t, and although the wound bled quite heavily, it wasn’t deep enough to require stitches. A man handed him a bag of frozen peas and a towel to put on the cut, and Crowley carefully alternated between that and the paper towels until the bleeding and the howling started to ebb out. At last, the girl seemed calm enough to be returned to her mother, who wouldn’t stop thanking Crowley profusely.

Freed from the distraction, Crowley rose. He took the flute and thanks offered by Nina, who glared at everyone until they stopped paying Crowley any attention. Crowley nodded a thanks, and Nina disappeared to take care of something else. Crowley downed the bubbly, trying to calm his nerves. He put the flute on the table, ready to go outside and make sure that Oscar was alright.

“It was very nice, what you did. Thank you.”

An old woman, vaguely resembling Nina, suddenly stood before him, blocking his path. Her grandma, maybe. Crowley couldn't remember if they had talked before. It appeared that they hadn’t, because she held out her hand. Crowley took it. It felt warm, and wrinkly.

“I’m Nina’s great-aunt, but everyone just calls me Aunt Linda, even my own children from time to time. I’m the last of the old gals and farts, so I’m kind of the grandma to all – even the little one you just helped. Eliza. And you must be Crowley. How’s New York?”

She smiled, but Crowley couldn't tell whether the gesture was meant to be inviting or scrutinising. His eyes wandered to the front door. Just a few steps.

“Eh…fine, I guess. How…?”

“Oh, I’ve heard about you. You’re hard to miss. Just like that lovely husband of yours, of course.”

Crowley blushed and reached for his necklace.

“Partner. We’re not married.”

Linda raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Crowley found himself at a loss, unsure how to respond. Can’t the old bird just leave me alone?

“What…”

He was interrupted by the front door opening. To Crowley’s immense relief, it was Oscar. Within a second, the actor had spotted Crowley and made his way to him, hastily grabbing his hand and leading him to a corner of the living room.  

“He’s on his way,” he mumbled and positioned himself close to Crowley, hiding him from view. Hiding me from the world. Protecting me. Crowley fought the urge to cling to Oscar, settling for standing as near as he could without making a scene.

At that moment, the door opened once again, and Aziraphale entered.

Crowley tried his best not to stare. To most people, Aziraphale’s appearance must have looked the same as always - but to the demon, the small differences spoke volumes. A new set of shoes, a different pair of cufflinks. A subtle change of haircut. He looks good, Crowley’s mind provided. A strange mix of sadness and relief hit him. Aziraphale didn’t seem miserable. In fact, he seemed…content? Changed? He watched as the angel hugged and laughed his way inside, apparently already acquainted with many of the other guests. A good life. A…

Suddenly, a fraction of stiffness overcame the angel. Crowley inched closer to Oscar, afraid that he had been spotted. Instead, Aziraphale walked over to Linda, who greeted him with a hug and kiss before cocking her eyebrow in a curiously challenging manner. The angel turned his head, and his eyes met Crowley’s. Aziraphale’s nostrils widened, but after a millisecond his lips morphed into a polite smile that burned through Crowley’s corporation.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed, the unnatural smile still plastered on his face. “It’s…good to see you.”

Crowley just nodded. He couldn’t say the same, not really. Of course, some part of him always enjoyed seeing Aziraphale. A bigger part was relieved that the angel seemed to be doing alright. The largest part just wanted to drag Oscar out the front door and catch the next plane to New York, back home.

Aziraphale’s smile faded at Crowley’s cold greeting, but he didn’t break eye contact. However, his hands betrayed his nervousness as he fidgeted with his waistcoat, a movement so distinctly Aziraphale that Crowley felt a tug in his chest. 

“I…I met Oscar outside. We talked for a bit,” Aziraphale continued. He glanced at Oscar, who tilted his head briefly in recognition, expression unreadable. “And…,” the angel took a deep breath, pursing his lips tightly before proceeding. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I’ll respect that. I just need to tell you that you…,” he trailed off, gulping and shaking his head, before continuing. “I need to tell you that you did the right thing. Leaving…London. I was certainly not in the best mental state after, well, everything, and I just ignored it, selfishly choosing not to address my problems. I’m sorry for the trouble and pain it may have caused you.”

He nodded, as if to himself, and took a few steps back, as if preparing for Crowley’s wrath.

The wrath didn’t come.

“Thank you,” Crowley whispered instead, unable to stop himself. Oscar’s hand burned on his as his mind fought the conflicting sensations of longing to crawl even closer to Oscar, and simultaneously craving to let go of him and reach out for Aziraphale. Not to leave Oscar, not to do anything drastic – just to lay a hand on the angel’s shoulder, a small gesture to convey how much it meant to Crowley to hear the angel say it, to apologise. Even if it was too late.

As it were, he stayed absolutely still, unable to move. After a few seconds, Aziraphale flashed yet another artificial smile at him before whipping around, hastily finding an acquaintance and inquiring about her whereabouts, voice slightly elevated. Crowley exhaled loudly, once again feeling Oscar’s steady presence beside him. Thank you, he thought, not sure to whom the gratitude was directed.

For the rest of the party, the angel and the demon carefully avoided each other.

When Crowley asked Oscar about the actor’s conversation with Aziraphale, Oscar said it wasn’t his place to tell. For once, Crowley respected that. Not all curiosity was fated to be satisfied.  

Chapter Text

Another eight years passed before Crowley and Oscar returned to London. Ally was having a naming ceremony for her daughter, and the couple had agreed to attend – after Crowley covertly had checked that it wasn’t going to go down in a church.

Crowley was in a good mood. His morning had consisted of a long snooze, followed by something more physical when Oscar joined him in the shower. The party was going to take place outside, so the risks of crowds and overheating were severely diminished. He wasn’t even that nervous about seeing Aziraphale – well, comparatively at least. Their last encounter had made something shift within Crowley. The guilt had slowly subsided, making way for a feeling of necessity. He wasn’t sure what had caused it – Aziraphale’s words, the small changes to his appearance, or the joy that the angel had radiated when entering Nina and Maggie's flat – but what had once felt like a betrayal had slowly started to feel like something inevitable, a detour valuable in itself but also part of a longer journey. Maybe we both needed this. Time apart. Time to think.

Crowley hugged Oscar from behind as they studied each other in the mirror, looking sharp in colour-coordinated but not too alike outfits.

“You know, you don’t have to follow me around everywhere today, if you don’t want to," Crowley said, tracing Oscar's neck with his mouth.

Oscar scoffed.

“As if I wouldn’t want to.” His features softened as he brought Crowley’s palm to his lips. “I’m glad you’re feeling alright, though. I’ve been worried, you know.”

Crowley tightened his embrace.

“I know. I’m just saying - you don’t have to be. I’m alright. It’s ok.”

And it turned out, it was. The party was a success: the child cute in that nondescript way that most babies are, Nina and Maggie proud as punch and happy to see them, and Ally mocking them for looking like a pair of overripe boyband members. Muriel hugged them both, still overexcited about humanity in general and parties in particular. Aziraphale…well, he was punctual, having in fact arrived before Crowley and Oscar, and overall seemed to be in a good state of mind. They exchanged pleasantries, and if the angel’s facial expressions appeared a bit forced from time to time he at least didn’t avoid Crowley like the plague. Overall, Crowley felt content, relieved. For the first time in a long while, everything seemed to be alright.

That feeling was soon to be obliterated.

…

They stayed in London for a week, and every day, Oscar seemed to grow more jittery. Crowley asked, of course, but got a shrug in response. Still, every day, the actor became more distant, his usual talkativeness replaced by sullen silence, the handholding and kissing reduced to a minimum.

Crowley worried, but put his hopes on returning to New York. Maybe it was London – the city could make anyone sullen. However, Oscar’s mood didn’t lighten at the familiar presence of home. In fact, it grew incrementally worse. For weeks, Crowley tried to pry it – whatever it was – out of Oscar. He even asked some of their friends if they knew something, but they either didn’t or refused to tell him.

Crowley grew desperate, trying his best to right the wrong he was sure he had committed. He brought presents – jewellery, paintings, tickets to the best shows. He tried to be more attentive, making sure to ask Oscar about his day. He even contemplated starting to exercise, before dismissing that thought outright.

Nothing helped. Soon, Crowley found himself waking up alone in bed, his lips not wettened by the memory of a good morning kiss, Oscar already up and ready for work. In the evenings, his advances were ignored or outright turned down, and during the nights his sleep was interrupted by Oscar squeezing himself out of Crowley’s embrace. The demon ached and asked - to no avail.

A few weeks after their trip, it all came to a head. They were seated on their sofa scrolling on their phones – a couple of inches between them, an unfamiliar abyss that sucked all comfort out of Crowley – when Oscar broke the silence.

“I need to ask you something, and you're not allowed to laugh or lie to me.”

The actor was still staring at his phone, but the tension in his voice was unmistakable. Crowley’s heart skipped a beat and he shifted uncomfortably, the gulf between him and Oscar expanding slightly.

”Alright.”

Slowly, Oscar lifted his gaze and stared at Crowley, scrutinizing every inch of him as if seeing him for the first time. Crowley squirmed.

”What are you?” Oscar said, voice thick with emotion.

In response, all movement left Crowley’s corporation, his limbs turning cold.

“What do you mean?” he stuttered.

Oscar sighed, readjusting his knees until they were pointing at Crowley.

“Look. I…I’ve been thinking,” the actor said, pinching his chin. “I know I promised to never ask about your past, and I’ve been fine with that, but…”

The coldness spread to Crowley’s mind, making it impossible to think. Oh no. No, no, no.

“Don’t. Please, star,” Crowley pleaded, desperate to stop the inevitable. He took Oscar’s hands, but Oscar withdrew and looked away. He’s leaving. He’s done with me. Please, Oscar…

“You and Aziraphale. And Muriel,” the actor continued, before trailing off again. His hands wandered, in search of a place to rest. Reluctantly, the demon put his own hands in his lap, watching in agony as Oscar’s mirrored the movement. “You don’t age. Like, at all. I’ve been looking at photos of you and me from our first years together and you look exactly the same. Can’t believe I haven’t noticed before. And Aziraphale and Muriel do too. I thought about it at the naming ceremony, how Nina and Maggie, and, well, myself have started to look old, while you…” He laughed, a sad attempt to lift the mood that ended in something reminiscent of a sob. “What are you? Is it the cult thing? Are you robots? Am I in love with a robot?”

Crowley tried desperately to get Oscar to look at him, but the actor steadfastly looked away.

“We’re not robots!” he blurted out. “I assure you, we’re living…beings.”

At that, Oscar finally met his gaze, lips pursed and red-eyed.

“You slip up from time to time, you know. When you chat with Muriel. Talking about humans like we’re a different species, and about things that happened a long time ago like you were there. So – what are you?”

Who – what – was he anymore? He wasn’t sure.

“Angels,” Crowley mumbled.

Oscar huffed.

“What?”

Crowley cleared his throat.

“Angels. Aziraphale and Muriel are angels.”

Oscar’s befuddled expression morphed into anger, and he wrinkled his forehead.

“You don’t have to make fun of me! Angels don’t exist! My parents tried their best to make me believe in them and other stupid shit. You’re not allowed to go all Catholic on me now!”

Crowley took a deep breath, followed by another one. Who was he anymore?

With a sharp movement, he stood up and unfurled his wings, the dark feathers extending over half of the living room.

Oscar shrieked and jumped off the sofa.

“What the fuck?”

Quickly, Crowley tucked away his wings. He closed his eyes and took a step forward, unable to stop the tears from streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry, star, I’m…”

“Don’t touch me!”

Crowley froze. Even without looking, he could sense Oscar’s rejection. Of course.

“They’re black.” Oscar’s voice reached him, cold and flat. “I’ve never heard of angels with black wings before.”

“I…I fell. And then….”

It all rushed out of him. His names: Crawly. Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. His story: the Fall, the Garden of Eden, Aziraphale, the Arrangement, Armageddon’t, the Second Coming. What he used to be. What he still was. Demon. The word echoed inside of him, as he said it out loud. Demon, demon, demon, the universe seemed to whisper.

Finally, he opened his eyes.

Oscar had returned to the sofa, his body turned to stone except for his face. His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips quivering. In his eyes shone a fire, fuelled by an indecipherable bundle of emotions. Loathing, hatred, disgust, Crowley’s mind provided. Rejection. Always rejection.

Crowley sank to his knees, watching through a fog as Oscar rose and walked closer, stopping mere inches away from him. The hands and arms that usually enveloped Crowley at every opportunity lay stiff against Oscar’s hips.

“I…this is a lot," the actor said. He sighed. "Too much. I need space, and time. To process. This…you lied to me! Our whole life…” His lips started to tremble harder, and he snorted angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered. Please forgive me, star. Please stay.

“No!” Oscar shouted, arms suddenly flailing. “You have no right to be sorry! You fucking lied! About everything!” He shook his head. “I…I need a break. For a week. A month. Longer. I don’t know. And don’t you dare run or hide! Don’t you fucking move! You owe me an explanation, Anthony J. Crowley. You better fucking be here when I return!”

Without looking, Oscar whipped around. The front door shut behind him, a physical echo of a conversation long in the making.

Everybody always leaves.

Chapter Text

Crowley lost count of time as the days and nights ebbed and flowed. Dust started to gather on every surface, even on Crowley himself as he stayed perfectly still except for the occasional sob. His mind had him in a loop, replaying the fight over and over until its inevitable end. Rejection.

It was his own fault, of course, he chastised himself. He shouldn’t have done this, shouldn't have let his own feelings get the upper hand. He should’ve left Oscar a long time ago, giving the actor a chance at a normal life, with a human, not a…not a demon. Demon. Demon. Demon. That was all he was, that was all he ever would be, to everyone. A disgusting abomination. He knew he was more than that – but if no one else knew, did it even matter?

One day, just as the sunbeams had yet again reached Crowley, a sound broke the daily routine. A small click indicated the front door being unlocked, before a squeak signalled its opening. Crowley didn’t pay it any notice, just as he hadn’t cared about the sounds of rain or sirens from the street outside since Oscar left. Nothing matters.

Footsteps drew closer, followed by a shocked gasp.

“For fuck’s sake, you idiot, I didn’t mean it literally!”

Suddenly, Crowley found himself yanked to his feet and dragged to the sofa, firmly but not uncaringly placed on soft cushions. He blinked for the first time in a long while, the dust on his corneas making his vision slightly blurry as he tried to regain his senses.

“Oscar?” he asked shakily, his voice raspy after staying silent for so long.

A familiar sigh was followed by a familiar arm draped around him, engulfing Crowley in a familiar scent. For a second, Crowley allowed himself to be immersed in it - before hastily pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley mumbled. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar didn’t try to pull him back in, a gulf once again conquering the space between them. Crowley took the opportunity to study the actor. Oscar looked the way he always did. Normal weight, hair and clothes done. As if nothing had happened. You’ve always been a superb actor, star.

“Yeah, so you told me.”

Oscar sighed again. For a moment, Crowley wondered if he had said the last thought out loud, but then Oscar continued:

“Look, I’ve been thinking. A lot. And – you know, you haven't really lied to me. I haven’t asked you if you weren’t human before, for obvious reasons. And you told me about not wanting a family, or a wedding, and about having a past. I guess...I guess it’s just…not what I was expecting.”

Crowley shook his head. No. Too easy. I don’t deserve it.

“No!" he replied. "I…everything I’ve told you, it’s true. About me. How I am. About Aziraphale. I was just…hazy with the framing, I guess. Still, I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you in the first place. It wasn’t – isn’t – fair to you. That…I didn’t plan it. I just – I couldn’t stop.”

At that, Oscar broke into a small, bitter smile.

“Well, that’s flattering, I guess. An eternal entity being tempted to spend time with a lowly human like me.”

Crowley inhaled sharply, a small sense of unfairness blending with his self-loathing.

“I never thought of you like that! Quite the opposite,"  he hissed, before he could stop himself. “I love you,” he added, softer.

Oscar snorted, the bitterness still palpable.  

“You know what? I love you too. I really wish I didn’t, but I do. But it’s different, isn’t it? You’re the love of my life, while I…what am I? Human love interest number 3000?”

Crowley shook his head again, this time more vigorously.

“Divide it by a thousand. In 6000 years, I’ve loved two humans before you. Listen, I’m sorry, I’ll leave, I….”

He tried to rise, but Oscar grabbed his wrist. The sensation sent tingles through Crowley, as his touch-depraved corporation responded with a feeling of hope. Don’t, he chastised it.

“Two? For an eternity you’ve only loved two others? What about Aziraphale?”

Crowley shrugged. How could he explain? Did he want to explain? 

“Well, he’s not human. And that’s…different.”

He trailed off, his hand spasming as his mind tried to figure out whether to run or not. Oscar didn't let go. 

“He’s the love of your existence.”

It was a statement, hard and cold in itself – but Oscar said it thoughtfully, warmly even, as if it explained - forgave? no, never - everything.

“Well…” Crowley replied hesitantly, not ready to acknowledge it out loud.

Oscar let go of his wrist, instead intertwining their fingers.

“It’s alright,” he assured Crowley. “As I told you, I’ve been thinking. About you – and about Carl. You are the love of my life. This life. But before I met you, I had another life. With Carl. And he was the love of my life in that life. I can’t compare you. I still love him, even after everything he did – and I love you. So…maybe I’m your love of this life? And the other two of those lives? And Aziraphale…well, I guess he might be your love of multiple lives? Or of another type of life - an existence?”

Something clicked within Crowley, the cogs that had long been broken suddenly functional again. The river, the rocks. That was it.

”Yes! Yes…that’s…I haven’t been able to…but yes! I love you! In this life, I love you so much, star!”

Oscar didn’t answer - but suddenly, his eyes glimmered mischievously, a trace of his normal cheerfulness shining through.

“The other two…anyone I know?”

Involuntary, Crowley's lips twitched.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Really? Care to tell me?”

The smile disappeared. No. But I’ll do it anyway, for you, star.

“Well, the first one was Mariam. Remember the documentary about astrolabes we watched? That was her.” he said. "They got a lot wrong," he added, going for cheeky but failing miserably.

Oscar stared, then rolled his eyes.

“Of course you loved an astronomer. Of course.” Suddenly, he grinned. “I’m actually more surprised that it was a woman. We haven’t really talked about it - part of your past, I guessed - but with all your history with Aziraphale and never mentioning anyone else, I’ve always pictured you as gay. My bad.”

Crowley couldn't help the huff that escaped his lips.

“Gender doesn’t matter that much to angels or demons, to be honest. That's not to say that we don’t enjoy certain…parts.”

Oscar snorted.

“Glad I haven’t read that wrong over the last decades at least.”

The atmosphere turned chilly again. Oscar cleared his throat.  

“And the other one? Galilei? Lippershey?”

“Da Vinci.”

Oscar gasped, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

“Leonardo? You’ve let me borrow your plants and complimented my paintings when you were previously in a…relationship…with fucking Leonardo da Vinci?”

This time, Crowley laughed in earnest.

“It doesn’t matter, but for what it’s worth, you’re a far better actor. And cook.”

Oscar just shook his head, an astonished look strewn across his face. He took a deep breath.

“This…too much again. This conversation isn’t over,” he warned. “Not by a long shot. But I think we’ve both had enough for today. I won’t stay the night, but I’ll return tomorrow. And then, we talk some more. And we fix this. For our life.”

Crowley couldn’t hold back his tears as Oscar planted a small kiss on his cheek. It was just a peck, but it spoke of more. Hope. Endorsement. Truth.

“I’ve got to go,” the actor continued. “See you tomorrow, handsome.” He furrowed his brows, in a mockingly stern manner. “Go to bed. I think it misses you.”

That night Crowley slept, and dreamt of absolution.

---

Oscar came back the next day, and the day after that, setting into a routine. All questions the actor had, Crowley willingly answered. He told him about miracles, assured him that he hadn’t in any shape or form been responsible for Oscar’s success as an actor. When asked about the Fall and Before and the Garden, he gave some vague explanations, and Oscar didn’t push. As for the demonic part…well, he didn’t shy away from all the things he had been forced to do in the name of Hell – but he also told Oscar about the things he had avoided or even stopped. When it came down to it, when given a choice, he had never been keen on anything more than minor, non-deadly individual or communal misfortunes – although occasionally he had settled for something worse when the human definitely deserved it. Oscar took it as well as one could expect: he didn’t condone all of Crowley’s actions, but he understood the reasoning behind them. It was more than Crowley could ask for, really. They laughed, and cried – and fought, when things got too intense. Still, Oscar always returned the next morning.

Finally, the inevitable happened. When all other topics had – for now – been dealt with, one remained, a dark cloud on an otherwise increasingly benevolent sky.

Their hands intertwined, legs touching, Oscar said what they both already knew but hadn’t acknowledged.

“One day, I’ll grow old and die. You will not.”

Crowley exhaled, jaws tightening. He nodded. What was there to say? It was true, after all.

“How did you do it? With Mariam and Leonardo?”

Since that day Oscar had asked about his ex-lovers, Crowley had known this question would come up. He had spent many nights contemplating his answer. Still, he stuttered, his mind reflexively shying away from the memory.

“With Mariam, I…I managed to leave her, after a couple of years. Before she understood what I was. It was easier then – not because I loved her any less, but because I didn’t know how bad I’d feel afterwards. With Leonardo – well. He always found clever ways to make me stay, just for one more day, and I was too much of a coward to leave. And then he died…”

He trailed off, tears prickling in his eyes. Oscar squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“And what did you do? Afterwards? How did you feel?”

For a second, Crowley considered lying. But he wanted Oscar to understand the depth of his feelings towards Mariam and Leonardo – but most importantly towards him.

“Everything. Heart-break. Guilt. Longing. I drank a lot. Cried. Slept. I…the things I had kept, I destroyed them. My astrolabe. Leonardo, well, he painted me. I burned the painting. Over the years, I managed to get my hands on other things they made, but…”

He lost his train of thought again. This time, Oscar cupped his cheeks.

“This life,” he said, looking Crowley deep in the eyes. “Our life. It will have to end someday. Not now, but one day. I won’t let you see me grow old and die, but I won’t have the strength to leave you. You’ll have to do it.”

Crowley sniffed, the tears finally overflowing.

“I’ll stay with you, every moment, star,” he promised, his voice a heated whisper.

Oscar’s fingers dug into Crowley’s face as the actor tensed.

“No! I don’t want you to remember me like some wrinkly old man. I don’t want to walk down the street looking like a pervert with a toy boy." He winked, shooting Crowley a wobbly smile. "Come on, handsome, you know how vain I am. Please, don’t do that to me.”

Crowley shook his head, avoiding Oscar’s gaze.

“I don’t care what you look like. I love you.”

“If you truly do, then do as I ask.”

“I…”

Crowley let out a sob, and Oscar’s eyes glistened as his lips met Crowley’s. The kiss was messy, a desperate promise, regardless of what was to come. Crowley broke the kiss, lips trembling.

“I’ll make you forget me,” he breathed. “I make sure you meet someone else, someone better. I can’t promise that you’ll go to Heaven, don’t have that authority, but you’ll live to be old, and die peacefully without sorrow or pain.”

Oscar flinched.

“No! I don’t want to forget! This is our life, and it’s a good life! 20 years we’ve spent together, don’t you dare make me forget them! Not one of them, not anything, do you hear me? And don’t you dare interfere with my next life! I’ll make it good! Maybe I meet someone, maybe I don’t. Maybe I die within a year, maybe I live to be a hundred. I don’t want you to…save…me. I want you to let me be me!”

Let me be me. Crowley could understand the sentiment. However, he wasn’t ready to fold. 

“Just…please. The last one. Just the one. I can’t bear you…dying…wrongly.”

“Wrongly?” Oscar mused behind tears. “But alright, I… – if you promise to leave me before I’m too old.”

Crowley studied the actor. Oscar was crying - but from him shone a steadfastness that Crowley had always admired, a determination he had never been able to compete with on those occasions when they had disagreed on things.

“I promise, star.”

Oscar’s shoulders relaxed, and behind his tears a smile suddenly manifested, a sun breaking through the clouds after months of rain.

“In that case, I’d love to stay. Tonight. The following nights. And spend the rest of this life with you.”

He grabbed Crowley by the neck, their tears intermingling as they kissed once more, hungrily, angrily, tenderly. Crowley inhaled the actor’s comforting scent, determined to ingrain it in his memory.  

One day, this life would be over.

Until it was, they would live every moment to the fullest.

Chapter Text

The years went by, and Crowley made good on his promise. He and Oscar continued like they always had. Travelling, relaxing, buying fancy cars (well, Oscar did. Crowley stuck to the Bentley). Living. Every year – if not every day – was a bliss, a gift to be treasured. Of course, some things changed. Oscar allowed Crowley to use some miracles, especially concerning things like washing dishes and other chores. No demonic business. No interfering in people’s lives.

It was a happy life, all and all.

Until, one night, it was over.

---

Crowley couldn’t stop fidgeting. He knew he had to be very careful for Oscar not to notice anything. 27 years they had shared – and now it had to come to an end.

Crowley didn’t want it to end. He didn’t care about Oscar’s hair going grey, his eyesight worsening. He wanted to stay, wanted to cherish every moment. However, he had felt it. The actor’s meaningful glances when some of their friends commented on how well-preserved Anthony was, jokingly insinuating that Oscar suddenly looked way older than him. The way Oscar incrementally stopped planning vacations for them years in the future, refrained from gushing over this or that place they ought to visit sometime. Their time together was running out. And Crowley had promised.

He walked through the apartment – he had gotten used to calling it that – trying to take everything in. The striking normality of it all. His plants, Oscar’s paintings. Their bed, trinkets from their trips. A life shared. A life loved.

He would take nothing except the Bentley, and…

Don’t think about it.

He wasn’t going back to London, not yet. Berlin. He had always been fond of that city. Dark, open, experimental, friendly. A mixture of people, a bit more unpolished. He would drink, and sleep, and cry. For how long, he didn’t know.

Of course, Oscar figured it out. He walked through the front door, cold from the rain, beautiful as ever. He took one look at Crowley, and froze.

“This is it, right?” he asked. “You’re leaving.”

A few words were all it took for Crowley’s resolve to break.

“I stay if you want me to, star. You know that.”

Slowly, Oscar embraced Crowley, not even discarding his coat. Crowley started to tremble, as Oscar stroked his hair.

“I know that, handsome,” he whispered, between planting kisses on Crowley’s forehead. “But we’ve discussed this. Many times. A new life, remember? A new existence. When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Oscar hugged him closer.

“Tonight,” he murmured, in a way that told Crowley that no protests would suffice. “I don’t want our last night together to be filled with sorrow. I want it to be a normal one. Like yesterday, when you hugged me close, as you’ve always done.”

Oscar lips trailed down to meet Crowley’s, tears running down his cheeks. Crowley returned the kiss hungrily, the trembling morphing into shakes.

“I…I can’t. I love you.”

“And I love you too. But you promised. And – no miracles, remember? Let me live my new life, whatever may come.”

“Just the one. You promised.”

Oscar put his palm onto the demon’s cheek, forcing Crowley to meet his eyes. A small smile traced his lips as he nodded.

“So I did. Just the one.”

Crowley’s lips curled downwards. He couldn’t move, he realised, because when he moved, it would all be over.

Oscar’s smile turned into a wobbly smirk as he broke the embrace. The air felt chilly, Crowley’s suddenly exposed corporation tensing.

“I’m going to leave the apartment now,” Oscar said. “I’m going to go out with our friends, and I’m going to tell them that I left you, and that you left New York. And we’ll probably talk shit about you, you know how they are. And when I return, you’ll be gone, and our new lives will start – apart. When the time is right, you’ll know what to do. Whatever it is, I support it, as long as it makes you happy.”

“I…”

“Please, handsome. Don’t say anything. Just – let me go.”

A small nod was all that Crowley managed. I’d do anything to make you let me stay. Anything, star. 

Oscar wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders. With a shaky smile, he blew Crowley one last kiss.

The door clicked behind him with the finality of a church bell, ringing for a funeral.

Crowley closed his eyes - desperate to forget, desperate to remember.

That night, the power went out all over New York. For once, you could actually see the stars. 

Chapter Text

Crowley went to Berlin, to Istanbul, to Tokyo. For decennia he travelled, traversing the world and taking in the beauty and destruction of humankind. By some miracle, he managed to avoid any news about Oscar. He never returned to New York, but he did travel to London from time to time. When Nina was laid to rest, he consoled Maggie and Ally. When Maggie followed, he made sure Muriel was alright. At both funerals he watched Aziraphale from a distance, but didn’t engage in conversation. Crowley wasn’t ready, and thankfully the angel didn’t push.

One day, in a city he had forgotten the name of, Crowley woke up and knew. He couldn’t tell how, and yet certainty engulfed him.

Oscar was gone.

He cried himself to sleep for months.

A year and a half later, he decided it was time.

---

During his years of absence, Whickber Street had subtly transformed, some businesses having left room for others, a few exteriors being painted in new colours. The bookshop, of course, looked the same as always. Crowley’s hands shook as he reached for the door handle, mentally checking his clothes and glasses one last time. With a soft click, the bookshop opened for him.

Crowley stepped inside, drinking in the familiar scent and scene. On the whole, nothing had changed - with some notable exceptions. In one of the windows, an assortment of wilting plants had been placed, and the couch behind the till was draped in linen. And…

The sound of footsteps walking down the staircase startled him. Aziraphale came into sight, his nose deep in a book. Crowley stared at the vision, familiar yet brand new. You’ll always be a marvel to me, angel.

“Unfortunately, we’re actually closed,” Aziraphale started, before looking up. The book fell from his hands, landing with a hard bang on the floor.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed, his face an indecipherable array of emotions.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley answered, unable to utter anything more. He felt like choking, his knees suddenly wobbly.

Within seconds, Aziraphale was beside him, firmly grasping his hands.

“I’m so terribly sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale stammered, eyes damp. “Please don’t leave. Please, let me talk to you. Let us talk. I give you all the time and space you need, but please don’t leave.”

Crowley swallowed.

“I…I don’t need space. Or time. Had enough of that, really. I need…I need you to…”

Carefully, Aziraphale removed the demon’s glasses. Without breaking eye contact, he cupped Crowley’s cheeks and leaned in, brushing their lips together chastely before letting go.

“I love you, my dear. Please. I love you so much.”

Crowley sobbed as he embraced the angel, inhaling the scent that was Aziraphale. Things were not settled, but for now, this was enough. Love.

“I love you too, angel. I’d love to stay.”

---

Years passed, but this time they paid it no mind. Crowley found himself immersed yet again in the stream that was Aziraphale. He had planned to slowly dip his feet in, but of course, the angel had dragged him down like a water spirit and refused to let go. Not that Crowley had complained, or resisted. This time, it felt different. For instance, the river welcomed him, the water glinting friendly instead of ominously - as if Crowley belonged, not an intrusive object but a part of the river itself. This time, not only Crowley’s rocks were discernable in the water. Four small islands layered with white sand broke the stream, monuments of others who had dared to answer the river’s call.

They talked more. They loved visibly. The first time they walked outside the bookshop together, Aziraphale had firmly grabbed Crowley’s hand and intertwined their fingers, a habit he had kept ever since. Every time, it made Crowley sigh, content.

---

The cottage had been Aziraphale’s idea, but Crowley had jumped at it. The bookshop was home, but it would always be more of Aziraphale’s home, however much the angel insisted on letting Crowley decorate things to his taste; the angel even letting him choose the style of their new bed when the old one finally gave way to use after living a peaceful life for the first two centuries of its existence.

Their new garden had potential and Crowley had great plans for it. Right now, however, he found himself sitting on a worn-down bench, taking in the hillside as the wind gently grazed the grass. Inside the cottage, he knew Aziraphale was pottering around, probably fretting over where his books and knick-knacks should go. Giving Crowley some space.

Some things, however, were already decided. The Mona Lisa had gotten a place of honour in the living room, which also hosted a glass-incased display of a first edition Oscar Wilde, some strange-looking scrolls and tablets that any historian of ancient philosophy would have gone wild over, and a small bronze horse. On a pedestal, an ancient astrolabe was proudly displayed.

Still, something was missing.

Aziraphale had asked, and Crowley had answered him truthfully. He hadn’t kept any memento of his life with Oscar, not on his person. He couldn’t bear it, not yet. His hand automatically touched his chest as he tried his best not to think about a necklace, tucked away in a security box in one of the safest vaults on Earth with firm instructions for it not to be opened in a hundred years.

Twenty-six years had gone since he last saw Oscar, five of those spent with Aziraphale, and the memory of the actor still hurt. It always would, to some extent. The river seemed stronger now that it allowed Crowley to be carried by it - but a new rock had been placed alongside the other two. The stream moved around the three of them, never immersing them entirely.

Three loves of his lives, one love of his existence.

Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.