Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a lovely cottage. In a beautiful, picturesque village, complete with pub, Post Office and Local Shop, and a quaint Village Green. After London, it was like a postcard haven. In the far corner, tucked away between the church and the small primary school, was a tiny little lane, edged by hedgerows and barely wide enough for a car. After a couple of minutes walk, the road faded into a track - dirt and chunks of stone with a lump of grass roaming drunkenly down the middle. Another couple of minutes and there came a pair of cottages set back and facing each other companionably across the track. One white-washed and cared for, the other… his. 

Eden Cottage. 

An old building with red walls, bricks chipped like teeth that had smiled too hard, and diamond-leaded windows that twinkled and shimmered with secrets in the sun. Exposed timber beams looked like a furrowed brow concentrating hard on drawing him in, focussing on what he was looking for so the house could give him all of it. 

Aziraphale fell in love with it immediately. It was not even remotely practical - he didn’t know how to deal with the roof (did one have to do anything with thatch?) the interior needed some serious work, and the back garden was worse than chaotic. But it was cheap, and when he stepped inside with the estate agent, his belly glowed with warmth. He breathed in the dust and the must and let tingles spread through his chest. He felt the love of the families that had bloomed in this house, the joy of life and the comfortable inevitability of age. He felt home . 

It took a week after he got the keys to even get the electricity switched back on. There was no phoneline, which would never do; clients liked to be talked to, apparently. Which was vexing in itself. 

He needed to get himself a vehicle of some sort, now he was out in the arse-end of nowhere. He’d managed to get himself and all his stuff moved in. He was moving from a tiny one-bed in London to a smallish two bed cottage; it hadn’t taken long.

One of the bedrooms, he immediately designated as his workroom. Aziraphale picked the one with the best natural light, overlooking the south-facing garden, drinking in sunlight most of the day. He rebuilt his workbench in there, secured his shelves to the walls and set out his larger tools and frames. A few minutes were dedicated to pondering if he could afford to plumb a sink in there, but he’d have to look into that, and there was no rush. He was here forever.

Aziraphale quickly learned that the garden was where he liked to drink his tea in the morning. Sometimes he took his toast and marmalade out there too. There was the cloying fragrance of some flower or other, and he could hear the bees buzzing and bumbling about. The rushing of the wind in the tall trees was a hypnotising hush. Every now and then there was the bleat of a distant sheep. Delightful. 

The overgrown state of the garden was getting seriously out of hand though. His crooked little patio was almost being consumed by the knee-high grass and wildflowers that possibly used to be a lawn. There was a creeper of some sort that had taken over the whole back of the house, and was actually stopping the windows from opening. If he didn’t sort it out soon he’d have to start using lights in the daytime, and he still had to get the wiring sorted. 

Now, while he liked looking at the garden, and being in the garden, he didn’t actually know the first thing about any of it. That was grass, he knew, and some sort of rose over there, and maybe that section used to be a herb garden, but it was now more of a small smelly jungle. He needed someone to come and clear it for him, before he could even see what was there to work with. It went down quite far to the small creek at the back; he’d battled his way there with the estate agent, but that was at the start of summer and the copse of trees was now blocked off by six foot high nettles and brambles. 

“I don’t suppose,” he broached that Friday night with Anathema, the lady who lived in Jasmine Cottage across the lane from him, “That you know someone who’d be able to do something with my garden?”

She looked at him for a solid minute: serious eyes, pursed lips. Weighed up whether or not he was worthy of her information. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Anathema, occultist and possibly part-time psychic, was a delight. A little younger than him, yet possibly wiser. Quiet, but full of words. She appeared hard at first, a little cold, but after only a few days, Aziraphale could see she was all friendliness and freckles beneath. She had brought him a jar of homemade jam and a bottle of wine when he first moved in. Had rummaged through one of his numerous boxes of books and announced they would be friends. She was not wrong. She rarely was, he was discovering. 

“He’s a weird one,” she continued, “But very very good. I’ll dig out his number before you go. He’s usually very busy, but it’s getting towards the end of high season, so he might be able to fit you in.”

“Weird how?”

“He’s… well… I suppose…” Anathema huffed in frustration at the limits of language. “He’s an arsehole. Complete and utter. In fact, I’ll call him, else he probably won’t bother.”

Aziraphale felt his eyebrows shoot up. “And you recommend him because?”

“He’s the best.”

He nodded politely. To be frank, he didn’t need the best; he just needed someone to hack down his accidental forest and stop it from swallowing his cottage. But now he’d asked, he’d at least get a quote from this guy. 

“What’s his name?”

“Crowley... A. J. Crowley.”

A.J. Crowley was an arsehole. Aziraphale opened the door to him at 11am the next day, took one look at him - lanky, grumpy, spiky-haired, stubbly-jawed - and decided then and there that he would most likely have to look elsewhere for a gardener. 

“Mr. Crowley, I presume?” Aziraphale asked in lieu of an introduction, which was not forthcoming. The guy hadn’t even removed his sunglasses. Oh God, he had a tattoo on his face. Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge, but… what kind of gardener had a snake tattoo on his face?

“Just Crowley.” He shoved his grubby hands into his jeans pockets and slouched a little more. “Anathema told me you needed work doing and to come today. Don’t think she realises I have other customers.”

Aziraphale tried not to narrow his eyes. He felt his lips press together and attempted to make them smile instead. “Sorry, it’s not that urgent. I’ve not long moved in, and I’m looking for quotes to tidy the garden. It’s a state. Just need someone to get it going for me, you know?”

Crowley didn’t reply, just stood silently, sullenly, cocked an expectant arch of an eyebrow. 

“Oh yes, please do come in.” He moved back to let him into the hallway, led him through to the kitchen, apologising for the state of the house and the chaos of the boxes as if he’d invited him over for dinner or something. Crowley was silent throughout. 

“Would you like a drink or anything? I’ve just brewed a pot.”

“Nope.”

Aziraphale opened the back door and gestured a little timidly at the mess outside. Crowley swaggered past him, all hips and swish, not even hesitating at the sight of the intimidating jungle out there. Aziraphale stood back and watched. 

Just watched. Because, as Crowley strolled out onto the patio, the sun broke through the clouds as if in fond greeting, shining down gladly, lighting up his copper hair into a twisting flame. A gentle gust of late-summer wind tickled through the garden, seeming to lean the greenness eagerly towards him. The mysterious Crowley stood completely still at the edge of the paved area, beneath a crooked wooden arch. There was some sort of climbing flower growing over and through it, woven tightly and desperately throughout. It swayed, straining down on the wind. Crowley reached out a mud-dusted hand to caress an outstretched shoot. Twined it around a gentle finger. Murmured something softly. 

He was talking. He was talking to the plants. 

And Aziraphale, against his better judgement, found it absolutely charming. 

“It’ll take days to hack this back into some semblance of a garden,” Crowley said finally, having explored his way around the wilderness at his own pace. 

That sounded expensive. “How many?”

“Hmm?” Crowley had been distracted, looking up at the creeper over the back of the house. He stepped up and caught a red leaf between two fingers. “This Virginia needs a bit of taming too. She’s been left alone far too long.”

“How many days?”

Crowley turned and looked at the garden. In fact, he hadn’t really looked at much else. Aziraphale couldn’t remember making eye contact with him once. Not that he’d know either way, with the sunglasses having stayed firmly glued to his face throughout. 

“Mehh-yeeaaahh-shuuuuzzzz…”

That was not a word. Aziraphale assumed it meant he was thinking.

“A week or so, four or five full days for one pair of hands. Get it smart and sparkling.”

Aziraphale looked awkwardly at his feet, ever so British about discussing money. Compared his stripey socked feet with Crowley’s scuffed and muddy leather boots. He cleared his throat finally. “Right. And how much will that cost?”

Another elongated jumble of vowels and consonants in the wrong order. Normally Aziraphale would take it as a sign he was being conned, but he got the feeling that was just how Crowley communicated. 

“I’ll do you a deal.” Crowley offered suddenly. “I’ve got a lot of work on at the moment, time-sensitive, you understand? If you aren’t fussy about time and don’t need it doing all at once…?”

He understood immediately. He did the same in his own line of work. “You want to fit me in around other jobs, you mean? I don’t see why that would be a problem.”

“Weeeeell, it would be really random. Probably spread out over a month or so.”

“That’s fine. I’m in no rush. And if it gets me a better price? I work from home, so just let me know when you’ll be round.”

Crowley nodded, hands back in his jeans pockets. He seemed to sink down onto his pelvis, folding slightly, like his spine started just a little too low. “I’ll give you the best price. I don’t come cheap though.”

“I can imagine.” Though Aziraphale didn’t want to. He’d got a nice cheque coming through from his last job completion, but he’d just bought a house, for heaven’s sake. He saw Crowley look him up and down, as if judging his wealth from his appearance. Well, good luck to him; Aziraphale was wearing his clear-up-this-wreck-of-a-house jeans and a fabulous Derek Rose linen shirt. So, he could either be a bit well-off in a dodgy pair of jeans, or a bit dodgy in a nice shirt. 

“I’ll sort out the particulars and get back to you with a price and the first dates.” Crowley gave the Virginia Creeper a last delicately affectionate stroke and mumbled a fond sort of farewell to ‘her’ before heading back to the door. 

Aziraphale knew then he would have nobody else. Nobody else would come near this garden. 

Anathema laughed and laughed when he told her she was right and Crowley was an arsehole. She gave him a commiserating rub on the back and poured him a glass of Pimms from a cut crystal pitcher. 

“Is he worth it?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Every penny. Every rudely raised eyebrow. Every awkward moment you spend trying to work out if he’s insulting you.”

“He’ll do me a deal if I fit in around other work. So, I think… I might...”

“You’ve already said yes, haven’t you?” She knew. She always seemed to know everything. 

“He starts next week.”

Eden Cottage was still friendly at night. Often old houses were cold and… spooky in the dark, but the Cottage seemed to remain a constant vaguely warm temperature. Even the shadows were like a casual embrace. 

Aziraphale lay in his bed, too hot for the duvet, too cold without, and listened to the owl hooting in the tree outside. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep in the countryside, after the constant noise of London. It was still noisy though, just a more soothing sort. Wind in the trees, something prowling around for its dinner in the garden, crickets chirping and the owl, constantly calling for something, someone. 

He wasn’t lonely; he liked solitude. But maybe one day, he’d like to share his solitude. One day.

There was a call on his mobile a week later from one of his regular clients. He’d spent his days until then well; cleaning the layer of dust and grime from the entire house, finishing the living room floor, picking out and buying wallpaper for the downstairs, hunting out odd bits of furniture. 

Mr. Gabriel agreed to drop the book off at the cottage in the morning, but apparently it was already sold on and would need to be done within that week. Frustrating to say the least - he’d hoped to get the kitchen more usable that week, and maybe even make a start on decorating the bedroom. Now he had one evening to get his workroom functional and then several days of constant back-breakingly finicky work. 

Aziraphale needed to keep this customer happy, though; he brought in a decent percentage of his work and always paid promptly. 

The tool drawers were in total disarray, his frames needed reassembling, his blades all needed sharpening from being jumbled around together. To make it worse, they were having some kind of summer heatwave and none of the upstairs windows would open. Aziraphale was frazzled and sweaty and had to work through the night to get things ready. 

It was too hot for it. He was tired to the point of dizziness. His house was the wrong size and shape and he was the wrong size and shape and all the stuff was too damn heavy and awkward to move around the small doorways and narrow halls. Giant bottles of detergent and chemicals, boxes of paper, metal vices and every time he finished something he had to stop to catch his breath and shake the feeling back into his arms. 

He was still going, wrestling a soaking tank up the narrow, crooked staircase at just past eight in the morning, when there was a knock at his door. Great. Perfect. He was wedged behind the giant tub, which was apparently just stuck, possibly permanently from the amount of give to it, and one of his better paying  (and undeniably respectable) clients was waiting to hand over a priceless antique book. He didn’t even have the safe ready to put it in; it was still buried behind boxes and supplies. He’d never felt at his best in front of Mr. Gabriel, and this would not help. Good Lord, why was the man so bloody early?

“Hallooo,” he called out, trying to sound more confident and competent and less stuck under a metal tank than he felt. “I’ll just be a moment.”

There was no reply. There was also no way Aziraphale could get to the door. He couldn’t go under the tank. He couldn’t go round it - he’d have to climb over the banister and the gap was too small and he’d probably fall and break his neck. He could try clambering over the tank, but his weight in it might dislodge it and he’d go tobogganing down the stairs and probably through the front door and crush poor Mr. Gabriel. Who may well deserve it for being half an hour early. 

He was still snorting at the thought when the front door handle clunked down and the door swung open. Perhaps not snorting, perhaps more cackling hysterically, and also at the fact he’d just realised his foot was actually wedged under the tank as well, and he might be stuck there forever or have to call the fire brigade and he was just so tired and wishing he hadn’t lost control of himself quite this badly and, oh, what a horrible mess. He was going to start crying any second. 

It was not even Mr. Gabriel. 

It was even worse. 

It was Crowley.

Chapter Text

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale wished he would just shut the door and go away. Instead, he stood in the open doorway and looked. Even silhouetted by the brighter light from outside and wearing his stupid sunglasses, Aziraphale could see the look on his face. He wished he couldn't.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale finally managed. He had manners. 

Crowley, apparently, did not. “Are you stuck?”

He could have lied, but what would be the point? “Very.”

Aziraphale was pretty sure Crowley rolled his eyes. He was also pretty sure that sigh was exasperated. He was not sure how he could have exasperated someone quite so thoroughly, quite so quickly. It was clearly a talent. 

Crowley took the first few stairs in one smooth long-legged leap, to take hold of the edge of the tank and heave. It shifted just enough for Aziraphale to extract his foot. He gave his ankle a swift rub, as though that would do anything except draw his body’s attention to the pain. Gave a grateful smile to Crowley, made a determined effort not to cry. He was just so tired and frustrated. There was a familiar uncomfortable blockage at the top of his throat; the sting of tears trying to force their way out. No. This was not happening. 

“Is it going up or down?” The tip of Crowley’s head was curious, but not about directions. 

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. “Up, but I can sort that out later.”

“Are you staying there all day, then?”

Good point. “I should have just had the removal men move it, but they’d already been here all day and I don’t like all those people in my house, touching all my things…”

“Doing their job?”

Yes, ok, he was an idiot. He knew that. He didn't need reminding. “Up, it’s going up.”

Crowley pushed and Aziraphale pulled and with the two of them it finally shifted. Though, the corner took a good chunk of possibly ancient plasterwork with it. 

Aziraphale heard it start to go and watched in horror. “Oh… fuck!”

Crowley seemed more perturbed by the swearing than the hole in the wall. His eyebrows were practically in his hairline. There was a light sheen of sweat to his face, a joint effort of trying to shift a giant metal tank and the ambient heat already floating around from the early morning sun. That, combined with the violent movement of his eyebrows, shifted the sunglasses a centimetre down his nose. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of sparkling gold before Crowley used a pointed shoulder to shove them back up. 

That was… unexpected.

Mr. Gabriel arrived just as Aziraphale reached the bottom of the stairs. Aziraphale tried to forget that he was wearing yesterday’s clothes, his shirt rumpled and his waistcoat open. He knew his hair must be awful - the white-blond curls rarely did as they were told, and he’d run his fingers through them several hundred times over the past few hours. Fake it til you make it, he told himself, and stuck a pleasant expression on his face. 

“Mr. Gabriel! How lovely to see you again. Please, do come in, and excuse the mess.”

He waved him through to the kitchen, the most respectable of the rooms and, unfortunately, the one Crowley was stood outside, cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips as he efficiently shot a metal tape measure around, measuring the patio for some reason. Aziraphale closed the back door with an apologetic smile in his direction. He didn’t want to seem rude, but he also knew how Gabriel liked his privacy. 

Why was he so worried about offending him? Crowley was an arsehole, he mustn’t forget that.

Gabriel was also an arsehole. Most people Aziraphale spent his time with these days seemed to be. Perhaps that was a reflection on himself that he should examine further at some point. 

“Almost couldn’t find you,” Gabriel complained. “This isn’t even a road.”

“No, I know, it’s dreadful.” He meant it was so dreadful it was actually rather lovely, like paisley, or over-cooked chips, but he doubted this man would ever understand that. “Can I offer you a drink at all?”

Gabriel looked around the room with a faint sneer of disgust, only slightly masked by an insincere smirk. “No, thank you, Fell. I’ll just drop this with you. You do have secure storage in this… house?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale tried to sound offended at the suggestion, rather than like he was worrying about how on Earth he was going to get this into his safe with his workroom in the state it was still in. 

“I’ll need it ready by the end of the week. Extra costs incurred by the urgency will be covered, of course.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale mumbled. He was just eager to see the book now. Normally he would have the details and have examined the specimen before agreeing to touch it, but Gabriel had been using his services for several years and he just assumed Aziraphale would leap at the opportunity to work on one of his books. He was usually correct. 

It was a shame - Mr. Gabriel, Antiquarian BookSeller, did not actually care about the books at all. If Aziraphale were a bit more cynical, he might say Gabriel looked at books and only saw pound signs. Though, maybe he was cynical enough, because that was what he thought. 

Gabriel thunked his briefcase down onto the worn pine surface of the kitchen table and clicked it open. He slid it over to Aziraphale though, knowing he would want to open it his own way. They had learned a few things about each other over the years of their acquaintance.

Aziraphale sat and opened the lid slowly, letting the crisp light creep over the surface of the cover like a caress. He inhaled, ignoring the expensive cologne of Gabriel and his case, and breathed in dust and damp and leather. He found the smell of fine old paper and the light drifting scent of the oils of fingerprints that had stroked the pages as they carefully turned them. A faint twang of… cotton in the paper. A bible. It must be a bible, he decided. He opened the case fully and looked his fill. 

It was a bible. Medium sized, old leather binding, falling to pieces, obviously. It was a book that had seen a lot of use, and then been forgotten for a long time. It would take hours and hours, he could tell without even removing it from its padding. 

Gabriel's small amount of patience fizzled out. "There are pages with names on inside, I’ll need those preserved. I don’t know if the cover is salvageable. If not, the spine needs to match exactly, lettering and all. I’m not fussed about the gold detail on the front.”

Aziraphale nodded. The cover was not saveable, he could tell already; it was too frayed on the spine, the boards falling off, the once gold details disintgrated beyond repair. Aziraphale however, was fussed about them and would take the time to recreate them. The pages were loose and by the time he took it carefully to pieces, it would never go back together again. He didn’t say any of that out loud though, he just closed the case and extended his hand. 

Mr. Gabriel took it, cool hand, soft in all the wrong places, and shook it firmly, much too well to-do to squeeze impolitely hard, but it was clear that he would have if he had thought it proper.  

“I’ll see you out.”

Gabriel looked at Crowley’s mud-spattered, but otherwise pristine, vintage Land Rover with a spark of interest. The way it was parked carelessly across the drive had meant he’d had to park his shining sports car partially blocking the road. Not that many people used the track, and Aziraphale assumed Gabriel wouldn’t have cared much if they had. 

Aziraphale put the kettle on and leant back against the counter while it boiled. He stared at the briefcase and wondered if he was in any state to get started on it. He was so tired his hands were shaking, so he’d probably better not. Maybe a quick nap. 

He poured boiling water over the teabag in his mug before he remembered the man in his garden. 

“Do you want a cup of…” There was nobody out there when he opened the back door to call out. “Oh.”

“Coffee. No sugar. Black and bitter, like my soul,” came a voice from around the corner of the house, just before the business end of a strimmer appeared. Crowley followed it, rake under the same arm, horrendously sharp looking shears in the other hand. “I’ve made a hole in your fence. I’ll sort it when I’m done. Guessed you wouldn’t want all this shit coming through the house.”

“Right, ok, good idea. Maybe I’ll look into getting a gate put in eventually.” It was a good idea, but he was not sure he wanted to know what the man meant by ‘a hole’. The cursing was oddly comforting, though, especially after his own slip up on the stairs. 

Aziraphale watched him dump his tools on the patio, the strain as his jeans tightened over his bent legs when he folded himself down to adjust something on the strimmer, yanking at the bright yellow cord at the end. His fingers were calloused, and dirt-smeared already. His thumbs bent the wrong way in the middle slightly, like well-used thumbs were often wont to do. 

“Will you be alright if I just leave you to it?” Aziraphale mumbled, wondering why he was staring. 

“Yup. Ta.”

“Do you want any food?”

“No. Ta.”

“I’ll leave the back door open, so you can come in for drinks and loo visits and whatnot.”

“Ta.”

“Just help yourself to the kettle. I’ll leave the instant coffee jar out. There’s a toilet just off the kitchen.” 

Aziraphale realised Crowley was just crouched there watching him make an idiot of himself, so he took himself quietly inside to make the coffee.The briefcase stared at him, loudly, and he knew he was not going to be able to sleep until he’d looked inside properly. 

Crowley was unreasonably grateful for the caffeine. He dropped the secateurs he was holding, a careless clatter, and reached for it eagerly. Aziraphale was amused to watch him drain half the mug immediately, wincing at the heat, but not letting it stop him. 

A sudden grin cracked through the surliness, almost blindingly. His teeth were white and sharp, and there was a dash of mischief, a red tip of tongue peeking through. Roguish. Charming. Oh dear. 

It was impossible not to smile in return. 

The shower in Eden Cottage was a little pathetic, but it was hot water that sauntered vaguely downwards, so Aziraphale could make do. When he got around to renovating the bathroom, he would do something about it, but that was weeks, if not months, away. Especially if he was taking on new work already. He let the lacklustre trickle of water tickle over his skin and thanked it for the effort it was making. 

When he switched it off, the monstrous caterwauling of the old pipes ceased and he could hear power tools in the back garden. With a little curiosity, he wrapped a towel around his waist and tiptoed, still dripping, into his workroom to sneak a look out of the window. Crowley was halfway down the garden, wearing what at first glance appeared to be ear defenders, but upon closer inspection were expensive headphones. Of course. He had already cut back a good quarter of the grass, and raked it into a huge pile in the middle. 

Even this early in the morning, it was warm out there. Aziraphale watched Crowley swipe an arm across his forehead, without even breaking stride in the sweeping arc of his strimmer. There was sweat sticking his shirt to the small of his back. Aziraphale felt his heart give a couple of good hard thumps in his chest. He looked away. 

The air was heavy with dust and seeds, and shimmered as it hit the shade under the trees at the back of the garden. Occasionally a stone or large clump of unwanted material was flung aside by Crowley’s cutting, and hurtled through the air carelessly, thwacking against leaves or grass before tumbling to the ground. 

Aziraphale pottered about in the kitchen for a few minutes, made himself some more tea and cleaned up what little mess there was around in there. He stood at the back door and looked out as it brewed. Crowley was topping up the fuel in his strimmer and he looked up at him. 

“You gonna go to bed before you pass out?”

How dare he? Aziraphale may look a little worse for wear, but there was no need for that kind of frankness. “I’m fine.”

Crowley shrugged carelessly as he screwed the cap back on the petrol can and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. Aziraphale pitied whoever did his washing. He probably should go to bed though. He would, after his tea. 

He removed the book from the case and opened it with a glorious cracking sound, an old man stretching his joints. It was an old family bible: a page full of names and dates at the front - each person who had inherited it having signed their name. Aziraphale looked at the different inks and handwritings from the last 300 years, he tried to imagine each person. He said their names out loud. 

He let the centuries of respect and worship and learning seep in through his hands, creep up his arms and fill his chest with warmth. Bibles were one of his favourites; unquestioning faith felt beautiful. 

Then he took a blunt scalpel to the spine and split it open. 

Chapter Text

The next day, Aziraphale worked from just past dawn until dusk, using the natural light to time himself. He separated the pages, cleaned those that needed it with powder, washed the front and back pages in distilled water, pricked scraps of long-fibred paper to fill a few torn gaps and painstakingly glued them in with tweezers and a tiny brush. 

He placed the pieces he could move back into the safe and spun the lock. Then he wished the drying pages a good night and shut the door.

He started even earlier the next morning, as soon as the sun had sent out reaching rays of joyful pink. He was expecting Crowley at some point that morning, so he left the front door unlocked and took the time to write him a note. 

Crowley, 
Please just come straight in and get started. Coffee in the pot should still be warm, and is all yours. 
I’m upstairs if you need anything, but do announce your presence first, because if you make me jump I am liable to ruin something priceless. 
A.

He stuck it at eye level on the door, slipped on his spectacles and got to work sealing the ink on the signature page. It needed washing, but he would not dare risking those scribbles. 

He heard Crowley arrive at about 8am; the hazy morning air cut by the bass rumble of the Land Rover, muffled stereo pounding, swerving crunch of chunky tyres moving too quickly and skidding to a halt on the gravel driveway. Aziraphale lifted his needle from the pages he was sewing together, trying to save himself from a distracted mistake. He listened for the scuff of footsteps up the path and the silence of the few seconds it took to read his note. A clunk and creak from the door opening and movement down the hallway and into the kitchen. 

It was an odd feeling: knowing someone was in his house, and not knowing what they were doing. He wondered if he should be feeling more paranoid, as it was he was just curious. There was an odd sort of bubble in his chest, not uncomfortable, just there. He listened very carefully, heard the kitchen cupboards open and shut - probably Crowley searching for a mug. Then he was out the back door. 

Aziraphale stood briefly, just to catch a glimpse of red hair and black-shirted shoulders. 

That was enough. 

He went out an hour later to find him. Crowley was on his knees at the side of the grass, a half-moon edging spade leant up against his shoulder as he decided where the edge of the lawn should be. Some sort of bed had been uncovered running alongside the grass. Aziraphale was going to have to ask for advice if that needed replanting, because he had no damn idea. 

He headed towards Crowley, trying not to look at the slip of prettily exposed skin above the waistband of his jeans. It was shaded by his t-shirt, but Aziraphale was pretty sure he could see a pair of dimples at the base of his spine, and possibly even the shadow of the top of his arse. Gosh, he really needed to stop looking. How awful of him.

“I’m just going to make some tea. Would you like another drink?” He offered by way of a greeting. He realised as he broke the silence that it wasn’t silence at all - Crowley had been mumbling, talking to the garden. It was a natural sound, one that blended perfectly with the distant bubbling of the brook and the breeze in the leaves. The halt in his murmured voice was a sudden sharp stillness in the air. 

“Coffee would be nice.” Crowley broke the moment. He didn’t look up, though, just kept glaring at the grass as if it should be telling him where it was meant to be ending but was refusing to speak. “Thanks,” he added on as an afterthought. 

“Anything to eat? Sorry, I feed people compulsively, it’s dreadful. Do they talk back?” Aziraphale tacked on the question, before he managed to rein it back in. Curiosity was a problem of his that was rarely ignorable. Knowledge was a desire, an addiction. 

He didn’t receive an answer, but the glare was turned on him instead. It should have been intimidating, but it was more endearing really. He could feel the fire of temper through the glossy black lenses of the sunglasses, and realised he probably needed to explain his question before he’d get a response other than that. “The plants, I mean.”

“Yeah, I guessed what you meant. I’m just trying to work out if you’re serious.”

“Of course I am!” 

The silence continued, more irritated than awkward. Crowley cocked a sceptical eyebrow at him. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Fine, keep your secrets, plant whisperer. But I’m bringing out cake with your coffee. Victoria sponge, I think.” And he turned to leave. He spun right back around when Crowley cleared his throat. 

“In their own way.”

Aziraphale’s smile was so wide he felt it in his ears. Crowley was more than curious, looking at him like a puzzle he was desperate to solve, or even receive a single clue to. Aziraphale was flattered to be perceived as mysterious; usually he was quickly and easily judged, rarely correctly. He’d never been a riddle before. 

“Now that’s a language I’d like to learn.” He said thoughtfully. 

Crowley’s smile was small and surprised.  

“I need your help,” Aziraphale said another while later, and then realised that was a bit abrupt and rude, and he wasn’t supposed to be the rude one here. “When you’ve got a minute, I mean. Please. If it wouldn't--"

Crowley interrupted his waffling, “Ok.”

Not even a question. Not even a hesitation. Crowley stabbed his shovel into the ground and stood, ready and willing. That was nice. Dammit.

“Could you help me move the kitchen table outside? Just… you were so strong with the soaking tank the other day, and I’m a bit, um, weedy, and it’s like solid piney… woody… wood.”

“Solid piney woody wood, eh?” Crowley’s look could have been described as affectionate amusement, had Aziraphale ever suspected he’d ever feel that way about him. Possibly it was more mild disbelief at his stupidity. 

He went with him though, and they lifted the table not quite easily between them. It took an awkward sort of turn sideways and wiggle to get the legs through the narrow back door, but Crowley went backwards and did the sensible directing, so it worked. 

“And why are we moving this?”

“I need an outside surface to work on. This table is too big anyway, takes up the whole kitchen. It’ll work better out here. It's not mine, it was left here. Well, I suppose it is mine now.”

“What are you going to eat off?”

“A plate.”

Crowley looked at him like he wanted to drop the table on his toes. It was odd, how Aziraphale was beginning to translate those facial expressions, even partly hidden by the shades. The eyes normally told more than half the story, but he was learning how to read the rest of his expressive face.

Aziraphale grinned cheekily at him and saw his lips twitch as he fought not to return it. It made his belly burn a bit. 

Song of Songs. Canticle of Canticles. Song of Solomon in this old Geneva bible. Aziraphale could tell a lot about the readers of a bible by which book was read the most. Usually it was Genesis, Psalms, or sometimes Mark. This one was Songs. Someone had come back to it over and over again, for years and years. 

“And the roof of thy mouth like good wine,” Aziraphale recited to himself as he checked through the worn pages for spots to repair, “Which goeth straight to my well-beloved, and causeth the lips of the ancient to speak. I am my well-beloved’s, and his desire is towards me.”

He agreed. Songs was the best part of the bible, by far. 

Crowley was strong. Aziraphale knew this, he’d proven it at least twice already. His muscles weren’t obvious, or bulgy, but hiding quite nicely, giving shape beneath the cover of his black Henley. But it was too hot, and digging out a tree sapling was hard work (he could have just chopped it down, but he had made it clear that went against his principles - Aziraphale liked him even more for that, and was making him an iced coffee as a silent reward), so Crowley pulled his top off. Top. Off. 

Aziraphale caught the wonderful moment. The reach of his arms over his head, the grasp of long dirt-caked fingers in the back of his shirt, and the tug, the yank to pull it up and over. His body twisted as it went, dislodging where the fabric was sticking to him with sweat. He had a vest underneath, unfortunately, but it rode up most of the way with the Henley. Aziraphale felt a bit like he was swooning. 

Tattoos. The tattoos were… beautiful, even from a distance. Botanical designs weaving up his arms, flowers disappearing beneath the cover of his vest. It was surprising. It was lovely. 

The skin beneath the ink was tanned, as though he often worked in the sun completely topless. His ribs were defined, as were the bumps of his spine and the angular curve of a hipbone. He was stood side on, and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a shadow beneath his belly button, a trail of hair that hinted slyly at his chest also having a dusting. Aziraphale had to hang on to the kitchen counter for a few seconds. 

No. NO. NO . This was most inconvenient. And he would not allow it. 

A harmless admission to himself that he found the man attractive was ok; he was well aware of his own sexuality. Sure, Crowley wasn’t his normal type, or even particularly friendly, but maybe that was half the fun of it. But this, this wasn’t a harmless admission, this was a punch to the gut. This was pure want. 

And Aziraphale had no idea how to handle it.

The bible leather was black, with a green tinge in the light. Aziraphale had the perfect replacement, though it had taken a quarter of an hour to dig it out. He took it downstairs. Partly because he needed to do this work outside (for the room and the mess it would make) and partly to use as a shield while he gave Crowley his drink. 

It was a great effort to appear casual as he handed the wet-misted glass over to a pleasantly surprised gardener, and the entire exchange was carried out in silence. He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him as he got to work. A heaviness of gaze prickled at his arms while he folded his sleeves back to his elbows and a  cleared throat when he untucked his shirt to allow himself to lean and move more easily. Aziraphale didn’t look. 

He measured out the linings and leather, sliced through them capably and smoothly, pinning them down as he went. He tucked his chalk marker behind his ear, held the handle of the knife in his mouth and began paring with the other blade. He shaved the leather thinner, cut corners measured against the boards. He created a new skin for the body of the bible with his hands. 

By the time Aziraphale looked up, Crowley was digging again, levering out the main rootball of the young tree with his spade. He was growling words aloud, quite clearly swearing at the sapling as he fought its grip of the ground. His muscled arms were straining and shining with sweat. 

Finally, as if it had been waiting for Aziraphale to witness the moment, the sapling tipped and leaned drunkenly, freed from the earth. Crowley let out a cry of triumph and gave a small leap of joy that Aziraphale pretended not to notice. Then Crowley wrapped his hand around the wispy trunk and hauled it out. He carefully wrapped the rootball in fabric of some sort, tied it with string from his pocket, ripping it with his teeth. A satisfied glance was shared with Aziraphale as he carried it past him to his car.

Aziraphale wondered what he was going to do with it. He had faith it would be planted somewhere it was wanted. He’d have to ask later. 

The two of them worked separately together for almost an hour.

“Are you cutting down those brambles at the far end?”

“Not with this, no.” Crowley gestured to the hedgetrimmer he had just put down. 

“Are the blackberries ready yet?”

There was an awkward silence, during which Crowley’s brow furrowed. “If you want the blackberries, you can bloody well pick them yourself.”

Aziraphale tried desperately not to laugh at the idea of Crowley downing tools to pluck blackberries from the bramble bushes and drop them into a little basket hanging from his arm. He didn’t succeed. Which made Crowley frown at him harder. 

“No, no,” Aziraphale hurried to reassure him, “I was just asking. Because I’d come and save them before you chop it all down. I was going to make some Bramble Jam. Though I’d have to find my jam pan. Not sure if I’ve unpacked that yet. No idea where it is, possibly in one of those boxes in the living room. And Lord knows how I’d get that much sugar back from the shop. And goodness, can you imag--”

“They’re ripe.” Crowley interrupted. Then he bent at the waist and yanked at the starter cord that brought the hedgetrimmer engine back to life. He looked at Aziraphale and revved it a couple of times, in a way that could possibly have been perceived as threatening. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and gave him a friendly pat on the arm. He immediately wished he hadn’t, because that was a very solid arm and he’d quite like to feel it again. He went to fetch a basket to dangle from his arm and collect the blackberries in. 

There was some sort of Village Fete on Sunday afternoon. Aziraphale heard it from his cottage; all distant cheering and muffled megaphones. He’d have to go and show his face, being the village newcomer and all. If people saw him out and about enough, they wouldn’t come calling. Which, he’d learned, is something people unfortunately did in the country.

He showered off the wood and varnish dust he’d gathered a coating of whilst trying to get the hallway floor done, and got dressed. Respectably. He had standards. A nice pair of warm grey trousers and matching waistcoat over a cream shirt. In deference to the hot weather, he forwent the tie and folded his sleeves to the elbow. 

Colourful bunting flapped in greeting, decorated the market stalls on the green. The local brass band played, crammed under a white gazebo - all very Midsomer Murders. Aziraphale strolled around, bought a scrumptious looking cake and a bottle of home-made elderflower gin, watched the local kids throw wet sponges at the vicar. 

Everyone seemed to know Aziraphale, giving him friendly nods and a wave or two. One lady in a flowery shirt and with a chocolate-smeared toddler on her hip addressed him by name, which he found a little disturbing, considering he had no idea who she was. He recognised Newt from the Post Office, and his mother. Anathema was sat outside The Flaming Sword pub, sipping at a pint of Guinness. 

“Isn’t this awful?” She raised her glass in a hello as he joined her. 

“No, it’s lovely.”

He laughed at the look of betrayal on her face. Her nose wrinkled in a disturbingly cute way, scrunching up her freckles. She looked at him over her glasses, which only made him giggle again. 

She sighed. “Should have known.” 

“Why are you here, then?”

“Mrs. Harrison’s Blackberry Whisky.”

“Ooh, I bought her Elderflower Gin.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“Is it horrid?”

“Oh no. You’ll regret it because once you start the bottle, you won’t stop and you’ll wake up in the morning with no idea what day it is or how you got to be naked on the Vicarage roof.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll bring it round one evening.”

It took Aziraphale a minute to work out who the message was from, because he was terrible at saving numbers and it was just a picture. Of a plant. Which, he had to admit, gave him a clue. He dug out Crowley’s number, checked it and added him as a contact, before he forgot. 

Then he replied. 

(12:30)
Lovely. It’s a... plant of some sort. 

                                                             (Crowley 12:32)
                                                                            Want? 

Aziraphale has absolutely no idea how to reply to that. What the heck did he mean? Was he offering him a plant? Was it marijuana ?! No, he was pretty sure what weed looked like, and that wasn’t it. Anyway, getting stoned with Crowley sounded quite appealing, actually. But he decided to leave it and see if anymore information was supplied. It took almost an hour. 

                                                             (Crowley 13:20)
                      Fern. I’m digging it out. Do you want it?
                                       Wld fit patch under buddleia.

(13:23)
Oh wow! Yes please!

                                                            (Crowley 13:24)
                                                         I’ll bring it on Sat

Well, that was nice of him, wasn’t it? That he had thought of Aziraphale. Granted, it probably just went against his morals to waste a perfectly healthy plant. But still, it was nice to be thought of. 

Chapter Text

The fern was beautiful. Big and lush and much less illegal looking in person. Aziraphale thought it looked like something from Jurassic Park, and should be surrounded by jungle and wet air and shadowed by a T-rex, but it was also perfect in the space beside the buddleia.

Crowley dug the soil out for the roots with his hands. 

“It does look nice, thank you!” Aziraphale exclaimed when Crowley stood back and wiped the dirt off on the back of his jeans. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. It’s what you pay me for.” 

Well, apparently the gardener was back to being an arsehole today. Aziraphale abandoned the situation and went back to work. 

Crowley had amazing hands. Long fingers, strong knuckles, squared blunt nails. His nails were, in fact, painted that day. Burgundy-tipped digits Aziraphale had seen, wrapped around a white mug, cradling the warmth of it, even in the heat of the day. The varnish had been chipped around the top and there was mud embedded around the edges, but Aziraphale smiled at the thought of Crowley sitting and painting his nails. 

Those hands were almost always dirty. Dirty hands. Aziraphale couldn’t deny it anymore; he wanted them on him. He wanted them to smudge at his clothes, leave prints on the light fabrics. To shove those clothes out of the way and smear streaks up his pale skin. He wanted them to hold him and clutch at him and push him down. 

He wanted them. 

On him. 

Aziraphale could have done the next bit inside, but of course he chose not to. He chose to lay it all out on the table outside. It was ridiculous, he knew, but Crowley was making quick work of his garden, and soon he’d be gone. Until a couple of weeks ago, Aziraphale had been sure he’d never be able to stand being anywhere near the man, but there was something there, something Aziraphale wanted to get to know better. Something about this weird gardener who talked to plants, drove too fast, smoked like a chimney, swore like a soldier, and had possibly the nicest hands and arms in the country. Not to mention the wickedest grin Aziraphale had ever seen. 

Crowley stepped up behind him, too close, crowding him into the table a little, and streaming cigarette smoke out of his nostrils like an irritable dragon. He gestured to the cut edges of leather, fabric and newly marbled papers fanned around the body of the book on the table. 

“How d’you fit all them bits in the ends?” 

“A little hard work, a lot of fiddling, and immense amounts of patience.” Aziraphale looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “And it never works if anyone’s watching.”

Crowley gave him a devilish curl of lips and exhaled smoke in an obnoxiously attractive way. 

Aziraphale flapped at him over his shoulder. “Get that smoke away, you’ll ruin my hard work.”

He watched him walk away and bit at the inside of his lips. All in all, thinking about it, he somehow fairly adored him already, which was a bit of a pain. 

(Crowley 19:59)
ATTACHED JPG.

                                                                          (20:00)  
                                                                         For me?

(Crowley 20:10)
Peony. R-side long bed. Will flower 
dark red.

                                                                          (20:11)
                            Yes pls! V. Kind. When are you here?

(Crowley 20:15)                 
I’ll let you know. In the next few days

                                                                          (20:15)
                                                   Coffee will be ready x

Aziraphale stared at the sent message with his hand over his mouth, trying not to shriek. Shit. He’d put a kiss on there, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?! Crap. Rookie mistake.

Gabriel was happy with his book. The Bible. Aziraphale reluctantly handed it over. As usual, Gabriel didn’t understand, or much care, how much work went into the process, how Aziraphale had spent the last two days painstakingly reapplying cover detail and gold-leaf, he just took it with minimal thanks and told Aziraphale to email him an invoice so he could transfer the funds. He complained twice more about how hard it was to get to him now, told him he took his work too seriously, criticised him in that possibly well-meaning way of his. Told him his house was too pokey, and he had been better off in London and what on earth had he been thinking coming out here. He checked the page with the names on - one of them must have been of some renown to give the book enough value for Gabriel to be interested in it.

Aziraphale locked the door after he left. He went out to stand on the patio and breathe in the air of freedom. No city, no traffic, no people. Just himself, and his house, and his garden. 

He tried not to remember the comment Gabriel had made about his softness. Soft about books; they’re just paper and ink, he’d said, soft about everything. And then he’d looked at Aziraphale’s midriff and smirked to himself. 

The elderflower gin was heavenly. Aziraphale could feel the alcohol burning in his empty stomach immediately, like fierce regret. He was only two small helpings in when he abandoned the glass and tonic entirely and just drank it straight from the bottle. It was a dreadful idea, but he didn’t care. He was normally a happy drunk, and tonight he felt numb and was searching for that extra bounce alcohol could give him. 

So what if he was soft? He’d always been soft. Maybe Crowley liked soft. Hang on. When did Crowley come into this? 

But maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to feel that give under his hard hands. Maybe he wanted something cushiony to lean his sharp angles into. Aziraphale pressed a hand over the curve of his abdomen and imagined Crowley’s concave belly fitting over it like a fellow piece of a puzzle. It was a romantic thought. And a very attractive one. 

He wasn’t skinny, Crowley. Just… lean. Very little body fat, just bone and muscle and skin, so much delicious skin. Aziraphale’s mouth was watering at the thought of it. His teeth ached. He wanted to put his lips on it, bite it, suck it into his mouth and mark it with his lust. Wanted to bump his fingers over the lumps of his vertebrae, dip into those dimples he’d seen riding the top of his jeans. 

Oh, and his hips. That man had hipbones that were clear even through his clothes. Aziraphale wondered if they would leave bruises on him. He stared into the empty fireplace and bit his lip and wished he was in bed so he could deal with the sharp bulge in his trousers. 

Half an hour and half a bottle of gin later, he didn’t care about the bed, he just pressed his palm against the raised fly of his trousers and hissed at the heat reverberating through his body at the pressure. 

If he pretended it was someone else’s hand, then who did it bother? Except him , obviously. And he was very bothered. Because, in his mind’s eye, it was quite clearly Crowley’s hand undoing his button and zipper, quite clearly those long, elegant fingers curling around his cock, giving it a friendly squeeze, pressing his thumb up behind the head and digging in. Aziraphale’s grip was tighter than usual; he didn’t want to stretch this out. 

It actually only took a minute, with that image behind his closed eyes - Crowley knelt at his feet, dusty and dirty, red fire and shade. He was rough with Aziraphale, one hand grasping and squeezing, other hand pushing up, sliding up his chest, tracing the track of his sternum, fingers creeping slowly, wrapping around his throat… pressing in.

Aziraphale choked out a noise that he’d possibly never made before, his body burning and shivering at the same time and his hips bucking as he came all over his own lap. 

Wow. That was quick. And unexpected. That was… new.

He was not usually the type to feel... dirty after masturbation. Or even sex. It was something normal, human. He had read enough books to know that. He knew his body well enough to know that. But there was something about the evening that was not sitting right with him. It was probably not the alcohol. It was probably the self-loathing, if he was honest. 

It was just a stupid crush anyway. The man was going to be gone in a couple of weeks, probably never to be seen again. Plus he thought Aziraphale was some kind of ridiculous middle-class fop who couldn’t even heave a tub up the stairs, or mow his own lawn. 

Fuck. 

Crowley was smart and sexy and way way out of his league. He was probably not even gay, he was probably married to a delightfully tall and slender woman with big brown eyes, and they had three children all named after flowers, with flaming hair and a pointed noses. And Aziraphale was going to stop lusting after him before he made a complete idiot of himself. Or more of an idiot. 

It was a rude awakening, what felt like only minutes later (though clearly wasn’t) with a knock on his door. He was still in his armchair, in rumpled clothes (he had, thankfully, cleaned the come from himself before it got tacky and manky) and unable to open his eyes without wanting to squawk in agony. 

Why was the daylight so bright through the curtains? Why did his forehead feel like it had been stapled to his face? Why did his mouth taste of trampled hedgerows and nail varnish remover… 

Oh.

He wasn’t going to answer the door; whoever it was could bugger off. He was far too busy being hungover. And if it was morning, it must be Sunday, so no. Absolutely not.

Except they didn’t bugger off. They knocked again, and Aziraphale was far too British to successfully pretend to be out. He kept his eyes squinted shut as he staggered to open the front door. The unfiltered sunlight spilled through, slicing into his eyeballs like vicious, hateful laser beams. He managed to keep his sound of dismay down to a high-pitched whine. 

“Are you alright?”

What the hell? It was Crowley. What the actual hell? How long had he been asleep? Had he lost several days?

“I think I’m dying of some awful disease,” he managed to mumble. It unfortunately stirred up the taste of old gin in his mouth and he wished he hadn’t bothered. 

“Alcohol induced influenza, from the smell of it. Yes, very serious. Get inside and drink some water, for fuck’s sake, Angel, you look like you need a bloody ambulance. How much did you drink?!”

Aziraphale could only concentrate on one thing at a time, so he did as he was told, struggling through to the kitchen. It wasn’t until he was sipping at the glass of water that he thought to question the presence of his gardener aloud. He closed his eyes to allow himself to speak. “What’re y’doin h’yee?S’it still Sunday?”

“Yes it’s Sunday. How much did you drink?”

“You work Sundays?” Nope, even his hushed voice was too loud, and his eyes felt like they were digging backwards into his skull. He reached up to rummage around in the cupboard overhead for painkillers. He’d take some tablets and go to bed and hope the room stopped spinning when he was horizontal. 

“I’m working this Sunday, if it fits in with you.” Crowley replied. He got frustrated watching Aziraphale try and pop the pills out of the packet with his clumsy, shaking fingers and just took the whole thing from him. 

Aziraphale was trying not to look at the oddly graceful fingers working in front of him, or remember the fact that he had wanked about them last night. He was failing. “You’ve taken off your nail varnish,” he said stupidly, before his brain could reach through the fog and slap him into silence. Shut up , for God’s sake.

Crowley gave him a little half smile - just a corner-curl of lips, a flicker of a sharp white canine - and gently placed the two pills into the palm of Aziraphale’s hand. Passed him the blessedly cool water and watched him down them.

“It was left over from Friday night. It doesn’t hang around long. Job isn’t conducive to a pretty manicure.”

“You painted your nails for a Friday night?” He couldn’t seem to shut up. A new hangover symptom - he didn’t like it. 

“Lipstick and eyeliner too. Problem?”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s mouth, at his full bottom lip, imagined a sheen of colour there, a clean coat of shining red filling the shape. His own mouth, apparently, was not feeling cooperative. It shaped the word ‘Noooo’, but no sound came out. ‘ Not a problem at all ’ he wanted to tell him. Then, instead of saying what he asked it to, it popped out, “Beautiful.”

He shook his head to cover the lapse, to apologise, but the movement was not a good idea and he felt the blunt burn of bile rise in his chest. So he waved his hand at Crowley instead, hoping the message got across, and headed unsteadily for the stairs. He needed to lie down or he was going to hurl everywhere. Or worse, keep talking. 

“I’ll just be outside then,” Crowley called, sounding cheerful. 

There was something so very therapeutic about watching Crowley work. The way he cut away brown, overgrown bushes and shaped them back into something green and fresh and beautiful. The dead plants and weeds were removed, the ground refreshed, the healthy ones cut back to allow them to flourish and grow. Without the deadweight of unneeded, rotting baggage, they stood taller, prouder. 

Aziraphale watched from upstairs, headache finally receding after his nap, eyes no longer sharp and painful. He washed and shaved and put on new clothes, made himself fresh and new. He wasn’t quite recovered, but he was on his way. 

Angel . Had Crowley called him that, or had he imagined it? 

It was not a date. Not. Nothing of the sort. And he refused to attach such significance to it. If he did that, he’d never be able to ask. He was hungry, that was all. And Crowley was there. Aziraphale had manners, he wasn’t going to forget them now. 

“I’ve got nothing in, so I’m going to the pub for lunch later. The Flaming Sword, in the village.”

“Ok.”

Aziraphale wondered if he should leave a pause or not, to seem casual. Or perhaps it would seem less casual if he did. Then he realised he had left one anyway. “Do you want to come with?”

Crowley stopped working. Actually stopped, with one foot precariously perched at the bottom of the hedge and the other planted firmly on the grass, with a whole flower bed in between his legs. He stood up straight and looked at Aziraphale, long and curious. 

It took an effort, but Aziraphale managed not to waffle on pointlessly to fill the silence. He looked down at his feet, up at the blue of the sky, around at the garden. It was only lunch, but was lunch too far? Was his asking going to make things awkward? Had he put Crowley in an awful position? Surely not, he could just say ‘ No Ta ’ like he usually did.  

“Just you?”

“Yes, just me! It’s not a party, just… a burger. Chips. Maybe some cake. Ooooh, they have a lovely lemon meringue pie sometimes, I wonder if--”

“Yes fine. Call me when you’re going.” Crowley cut him off, and bent at the waist to carry on digging over the soil. Pulled up fresh damp earth to cover old dry dirt.

It was a burger - a mighty fine burger. With bacon and cheese and mushrooms and onions and Aziraphale had to cut it into quarters just to be able to approach it. Crowley hadn’t ordered any food, apparently it was too hot to eat and work, but he did filch a good few chunky chips from the side of Aziraphale’s plate. Aziraphale made sure they were plenty over there and graciously pretended not to notice.

“Did you get the book done? For the upper class ninny?” 

Aziraphale didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Yes, thank you. He was…” He wanted to say pleased, but he wasn’t sure Gabriel had ever been pleased with anything, except himself. “Satisfied.”

Crowley scoffed, rolled his eyes hard enough it was clear even with the dark lenses hiding them. He headed to the bar for another beer, flagging down the barmaid’s attention on the way. He swaggered, pelvis swaying, feet carelessly landing wherever they fancied. Jesus, his hips were obscene . 

Aziraphale took a mouthful of his soda water and tried to make sure he wasn’t still watching by the time Crowley would turn back around to catch him. It ended up a close thing. 

“So. Why books?” Crowley asked eventually, as Aziraphale finished the side salad and dabbed gently at the corner of his lips with a paper napkin. Crowley was still on his second drink, and was savouring it slowly.

It was a hard question to answer. Well, no, it was easy, but it was difficult to find the words to translate his answer. “Knowledge,” he settled on finally. “The sharing of knowledge. The sharing of stories and love and life and death and faith and doubt. Everything is in books, books are everything. A physical form of someone else’s thoughts that you can hold in your hand. It’s generosity, sharing your words, it’s a gift. And it should be treasured.”  

Was that a bit much? Should he have just stuck with I like reading ?

Crowley didn’t look bored though, or intimidated by his passion and obsession. He turned his pint glass around on the table, his long fingers sliding lazily around the rim. “So read them. Or write them. Why fix them?”

“I don’t fix them!” Aziraphale protested. 

Grimy palms shot up in surrender. Eyebrows high above sunglasses. “Woah, Angel, no offence intended.”

“It’s not fixing. They don’t need fixing. They need a bit of care and attention. Some delicate surgery and healing. Someone to care for them, revive them, rebuild them, reassure them. Put them back together and help them stay that way.”

There was a long pause and a bittersweet smile from across the table. Crowley finally looked away and downed the rest of his drink. “Don’t we all,” he mumbled. 

(Crowley 10:10)
ATTACHED JPG. 

Aziraphale looked. And he looked a bit more. And then he bit his lip a little and carried on looking. It was a photo of a floppy, happy looking labrador, tongue lolling and eyes so big and brown, that Aziraphale was falling a little bit in love. Around the dog’s inside out ear was a hand, and Aziraphale knew that hand. That was Crowley’s hand, all mud smeared and knuckley with veins and thorn scratches. He made sure the photo was saved before he replied. 

                                                                          (10:15)  
                                                    OMG who is THAT?!?!

(Crowley 10:19)
Rocky. Monday friend. 12/10. 
Very licky. 

                                                                          (10:21)            
                                                          *heart eye emoji*

Aziraphale did not stop looking at the photo for an awfully long time.

Chapter Text

Sometimes when it was raining, Aziraphale liked to watch it from the back door. Liked to watch the spread of each drop splatting, reaching out across the tiny bumps of the patio, merging into the one beside it. He’d stand there, breathing in the smell of British summer rain, so unlike any other smell anywhere, and watch until the entire patio had changed colour. 

Sometimes, when he was watching the rain, he thought of Crowley. Did he work in the rain? Probably in the light rain, else in this country he’d be bankrupt by now. But when it was bucketing it down, did he work until he was soaked through and cold and dripping? 

Did he have anyone waiting at home to put his towel on the radiator so it would be toasty and comforting to wrap himself in after his shower? Lie on top of him on the sofa to make sure he was warm through? 

The important questions in life, Aziraphale thought. 

He bought a car. He didn’t like cars, particularly, but living out there without one would be impossible in the long-term. He found a lovely electric-hybrid hatchback on the internet (which he had finally got sorted out) and bought it that same day. 

It was light blue, almost new, and looked super smart on his driveway. He took it out the next day, freshly taxed and insured and whatnot, and zipped down the country lanes far too fast. He had a bit of a fright and nearly took out a sheep at one point, but had a lovely time overall. 

Work would be much easier now, with him able to go and visit clients, rather than making them come to him. 

                                                                         (06:40)   
                                             (ATTACHED .JPG) - HELP!

(Crowley 06:42)
It’s a vine. Come down in the wind?

                                                                         (06:42)
                                 Yes HeLp! Will it die? Is it DEAD?

( Crowley 06:44)
Will be fine. Very flexible. I’ll put it 
back up next visit. 

(Crowley  06:44)
Just don’t fuss at it.

He didn’t fuss at it. He left it completely alone, as bedraggled and feral as it seemed. He was relieved to see Crowley when he arrived a few days later. The vine was old, even Aziraphale knew how long it took them to become established like that. He was worried for it. Crowley seemed to find it amusing, as he stood on the lawn and looked it over. Maybe it was him he was finding amusing. 

“It needs a new arch. See, where it went over that wood there." He pulled Aziraphale in front of him and pointed over his shoulder. “That old wood’s all rotten and smashed and we’re going to have to replace it. It needs something to grow onto.”

“So an arch thingamy?” He was a bit distracted at how close they were, Crowley right up behind him. Aziraphale could just lean back a couple of inches and be against his chest. And the ‘ we are going to have to’. That was also distracting. God, he smelled so good.

“Yes. I can go and get a thingamy from the garden centre now. Or I can leave the vine down and do it another time. Get a proper one that’ll last longer.” 

Aziraphale had a think. It took a minute, because he was still distracted by the closeness. If he had any sense, he would have moved away, but he hadn’t. “Could you make one? A nice solid wooden one, with trellisy bits and strong posts, so it doesn’t break again? One of those cheap archy things wouldn’t have a chance against that old monster.”

Crowley made a humming sort of noise. Aziraphale noticed he hadn’t moved away either, and the realisation made his breath catch. 

“I definitely could. But if I go today, I’ll have to work longer to get the garden finished.”

“Will it put you far behind? I’m going to pay extra for it and your time, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crowley echoed obnoxiously. He huffed a small laugh, “No. If you’re determined I’ll go shopping for you.”

“Oh, really? Thank you!” Aziraphale turned and caught the indulgent look on Crowley’s face. He gave a wide grateful smile, knowing his own eyes were twinkling merrily. 

The garden was finished early that evening. Well, it wasn’t finished; a garden was a long-lived, fluid thing, that would forever need care and attention to keep it tame and pleasant. But the tidying was finished. It had been a long day, but Crowley had managed, even with the extra time taken for the new vine support. He was just tootling along with the leaf-blower, directing the miniature hurricane of loose leaves and debris towards the brook. 

Aziraphale made him one last coffee, sneakily, because if he’d made it, then Crowley would have to stay and drink it, wouldn’t he? It was probably a bit wrong, but morals were flexible. And he couldn’t bear to just watch him leave. 

He put it down on the old kitchen table, waiting to be claimed. And when it was, and was raised to thirsty lips, he joined Crowley on the patio, overlooking the work he’d done. 

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s tidier,” Crowley allowed. “Are you going to need maintenance visits? I’ve got a couple of spaces on the schedule, I can fit you in.”

“How much and how often would you recommend?” Yes, yes please , was what he really wanted to say. Partly because he had no idea how to tend this monstrosity (he didn’t even own a lawnmower) and partly… well, because of the obvious.

“I’d say probably at least half a day a fortnight. So, like four hours or so. It’s more than an hour just for the lawn. Maybe a bit over if it’s one of the lads and not me.”

“You have lads?”

“Yes, Angel, I have lads.” He laughed, probably at how that sounded.

“Oh?” Expand, elaborate, he invited. 

“Well, there’s Adam, who you likely know from the village. Eric is part-time while he’s studying, extra in the summer. And Pepper who would push me in nettles for calling her a lad. Plus Bee in the office who would do the same. And little old me.”

It made sense, Aziraphale supposed. He seemed to run a successful business, though picturing him working with others was difficult. He always seemed so… antisocial, alone. 

“Well, yes, please. Book me in for whatever you think is necessary, or can spare.” 

Crowley nodded and drained half his coffee in one go. Aziraphale wished he would slow down and stay longer. 

The garden was beautiful. He’d seen the potential in it when he bought the place, but he’d never imagined it quite like this. He had a lawn, obviously still a bit brown and threadbare, but Crowley had assured him it would fill out nicely with regular mowing. And the hedges were neat and square (except the one at the end, but there’d been birds nesting in there, so it’d been left until they moved on), the patio weed free, the beds tidy with cleared black soil as a background to the plants. He could walk down to the brook, which he did frequently now, to sit and listen to the lazy rushing of the stream. 

He was going to get a bird table, he decided, and plonk it right down in the middle of the grass so he could watch the birds flitting to and fro. 

There was still work to be done, but nothing urgent now. He wanted a side gate, and path laid down along the side of the house. And the patio was old and broken brick, maybe eventually he’d splash out on a new one. And he’d need a shed or something to keep things in, Crowley would probably build sheds too, wouldn’t he? Because it wasn’t like he’d consider letting any other gardening firms near his place. 

The next week was spent introducing himself to all the antique shops in the area. A local supply and customer base was important. He pootled around all the local towns and popped in, had a browse, bought a few books, bought himself a few things he did not need (including a bureau that he absolutely did not require in any way whatsoever but that was now being delivered next week - it just felt so loved and he couldn't bear to see it lonely), and left a stack of business cards with all of them. They were all happy to take them and to have him as a potential buyer. But they were all general antique stores, not specialists.

In one lovely little shop the owner had been over the moon to meet him; she had a box of books that were in need of a little tlc and would he want to take a look and see if it was worth it. He did. It was. He bought them and took them home straight away. She was also happy to rent him a shelf in the shop, if he wanted to sell some through her. He politely declined. There was never much money left over doing it that way, and he, more importantly, he liked to be in control of who was buying his books. 

Reverend Paul seemed a very nice man. Aziraphale had met him once or twice, nodded hello a few more times. He was a relatively young vicar, thirty-something, with smart honey blond hair and an unfortunate nose. Aziraphale waited to be asked if he would attend church, but the question was so long coming and not quite a question, and he’d quite forgotten the answer that he’d coached himself into. 

“You’d be very welcome at any of our services,” Reverend Paul said, as if he hadn’t left it months since Aziraphale had moved to the village.

Perhaps he was a no pressure sort of shepherd, come along if you like, I’ll always be there waiting for you. Aziraphale liked that. He had a dog with him, a mutt of indeterminate breed, but quite friendly and very convenient to crouch down and say hello to while Aziraphale tried to remember how to politely get the priest off his case. 

“From experience, that’s probably not quite accurate,” he settled on, smiling up at the man. “But thank you all the same.”

Eyebrows raised in question, silent but succinct. Please explain, if you feel able, they said, but I won’t push.

“Exactly how forward thinking is St. Michael’s, Father?”

The vicar smiled joylessly at that, as if he knew exactly the problem Airaphale had. “Call me Paul, and not as forward as I’d like. It’s a village church, and very friendly, but also unfortunately traditional.”

“Well, I rather think it’s best if I give Sunday mass a miss then, thanks. I’m as gay as the trees and have far too many questions.”

“I would make sure you were welcomed, Mr. Fell. Your faith is between you and the Lord, nothing to do with the rest of the congregation.”

He meant so well, and Aziraphale wanted so much to give him what he wanted. But he’d done this before, and he learned the hard way. “My relationship with The Almighty is quite settled, thank you, Paul. It’s the minds and politics of Men that corrupt Her Word.”

The Reverend, Paul, was taken aback momentarily, but recovered, his face brightening “I hope to see you there one day, Mr. Fell. I really do. I feel The Church could do with more worshippers like you.”

“I’m fairly sure it could.” He held out a hand to him and they shook in a friendly way. “And please, call me Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale rolled over in bed to find his phone. It had buzzed, grating along the wood of the bedside table. If someone was texting him this late it was either an emergency, or Anathema. 

(Crowley 23:57)
ATTACHED .JPG

Or Crowley. Sending a picture of a set of antique Shakespeare volumes. 

Proper antiques, hundreds of years old, and something Aziraphale would leave exactly as they were, marked and worn from all the people who had read and enjoyed them. Sometimes books needed to be left alone. With leather worn to smooth colourless skin and spines bent to nothingness. He adored them on sight, and wondered where Crowley had seen them.  

                                                                          (23:59)         
                                                                YES PLEASE!!!

(Crowley 00:00)
Thought of you. When I win the lottery
I’ll get them for you. Bit out of my price
range for now.

                                                                          (00:02)
                                                                    How dare?! 

(Crowley 00:03)
I have a large laurel 
for you in the Landy. Will go nicely at 
the back where the brambles were

                                                                          (00:03) 
                                        Thank you! You’re very kind.

(Crowley 00:05)
Do you ever sleep?!

                                                                          (00:06)          
                                                                       Do YOU?

There was no reply after that. Aziraphale lay on his back and stared at the ceiling and smiled to himself. What was Crowley doing at midnight, sending him messages. Was he drunk? His messages sounded sober enough. 

Thought of you, he’d said. So he’d been out somewhere and seen old books and thought of Aziraphale. Thought of him enough to take a photo. Thought of him at midnight, thought hard enough to send the photo. Was he in bed too? Was he lying there and thinking of Aziraphale?

A lovely image that, Crowley in bed. Aziraphale pictured him sleeping naked, or just in underwear. Dark duvet low slung on his hips while he reached for his phone. The lop-sided grin as he got a reply notification. 

There was no way that man was straight. Not with a taste for lipstick and eyeliner and painting his nails. Not with a walk like that and midnight texts to another man. Aziraphale felt something warm and solid fill his chest. It felt an awful lot like hope. 

He pulled his own duvet up and over his shoulder and snuggled down into the pillows. He’d be too hot in a minute, but right now it felt perfect.

His first garden maintenance visit was from Adam. He was on time and polite and very grateful for the coffee that Aziraphale made him, even moreso for the chocolate hobnobs that came with it. He worked hard, solidly. Took only a five minute breather after unloading his tools to drink the coffee and scoff the biscuits. 

But he wasn’t Crowley.

It was a cloudy day, everything pale in grey tones. Aziraphale pieced back together a handful of ripped pages of music. A baroque puzzle. He secured the pieces carefully and set them on the fine rack to dry. 

Adam had brought the Laurel from Crowley in the work van, and he dug a hole and planted it in without question. He clearly had a list of instructions. When Adam addressed him hesitantly from the back door while Aziraphale had stopped for a late lunch break, he wondered if the instructions came with specifics about dealing with him too. 

“Sorry to interrupt your work, but I was just wondering if you want me to leave the buddleia?” Adam asked. “The flowers are nearly done and it looks a bit scruffy, but the butterflies are still about.”

Aziraphale did know Adam from the village, as much as he knew any of them. He was a nice lad, at that odd age where he was almost an adult, but with the lightness of childhood still in his eyes. A curly mop of hair and and expressive face. Aziraphale could see curiosity on that face, and it was not about the butterfly bush. 

“Leave it for them. Far more important to feed them than look pretty. Do you want a drink while I’m down here? Or anything to eat?”

“No, no, thank you. But I’ll just fill up my water, if that’s alright?” He paused. “I’m going to crack on with the lawn in about ten minutes. Will that be ok for you?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” Why was he being tiptoed around? There was an awkward moment of no answer and then he just had to ask. “Ok, Adam. I take it you have specific instructions for every job, yes? Am I allowed to ask what they are for this one?”

“Of course! It’s your garden, and you!” He obviously hadn’t meant to add that last bit and he blushed, painfully pink, when Aziraphale laughed. “No, I mean. Oh shit. Oh crap, and now I’ve sworn as well.”

“Trust me, I’ve had your boss in my garden, so I don’t give a shit about that.” He teased. 

“Well, I’ve got the list of jobs…” He gave it up as a bad cover-up job and just rummaged in his cargo trouser leg-pocket for a folded paper and handed it over. “I’ll just fill up my bottle and get to it.”

It was a proper list, business headed paper and spaces for certain instructions. Crowley’s scribbley handwriting scrawled all over it to the point he’d run out of boxes to fill in and trailed up and around the side. Aziraphale sat down and sipped his cup of tea as he read. After the list of actual work to do, including instructions to check the back hedge and see if the birds had gone so it could finally be cut back a foot, was a separate list of instructions. 

Coffee is good here.
Use driveway, do not block track.
IMPORTANT - Do not disturb customer if working upstairs.
Don’t eat all his food - he will offer it and then not stop.
Customer is my friend and nice, be nice back.
DO NOT piss in his garden.

He was Crowley’s friend. That was a remarkably lovely feeling.  

(Crowley 16:32)
(ATTACHED .JPG) - Sasha, Thursday
friend. Likes eating ham sandwiches 
and fox shit, very naughty. 11/10. 

Sasha was a border collie. She looked sleek and soft and her whiskery black nose was pressed up against a denim clad knee, her eyes closed in satisfaction. Aziraphale was a bit jealous. Of the dog.  

                                                                          (16:40)
                                She looks like the best girl. Don’t
                                              believe you for a second.

(Crowley 16:43)
Did Adam get on ok?

                                                                          (16:45)
                                You know he did. He worked very
                                 hard. Laurel looks lovely. Garden 
                                              is beautiful. Thank you x

He didn’t even bother pretending he didn’t put a kiss on that one on purpose. 

Anathema was not greatly pleased at the lack of Elderflower Gin that Friday night, but settled for a couple of bottles of Malbec. She brought over a lasagne and they ate it off the coffee table, sat on the floor, leant against the sofa.

“So, I slept with Newt,” she confessed suddenly. 

“The Post Office boy?” Aziraphale winced and corrected himself. “The man who works in the Post Office?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Was it… any good?” What exactly was he supposed to ask? He couldn’t quite remember. He’d had almost a whole bottle of wine. 

“There’s potential. And he’ll make pretty children one day.” She sounded certain. She probably was. “It’s not love, yet. But it’s there waiting.”

“He seems nice.”

“He is.” Anathema stuck her nose into her glass, suddenly a bit shy. “Now we can move on to sorting you out.”

“Lord no, I’m fine as I am. Living the life my mother hates: chubby and gay, too many books and not enough church. Which reminds me, how well do you know the vicar? He seems very modern...”

Anathema just looked at him. Her dark eyes were unblinking and unflinching and he could practically feel her inside him somewhere. He realised, oddly enough, that he didn’t really mind. She was a friend. It’d been a while since he’d had a real one, and now he’d got two. If she wanted in his head, then she was welcome, it got a bit lonely in there sometimes.

Chapter Text

It was too hot and too humid. Ridiculous. It was September. The air felt too heavy to breathe. Aziraphale wished he could take off all his clothes and lie in a cool sea somewhere. Alas, he had work to do, and he was due a visit from a gardener.

He wasn’t sure who would turn up today; he hadn’t heard anything. Last time he’d had a text telling him Adam would be with him, and what time to expect him. This time he’d heard nothing and was just trusting someone would turn up. Most likely at entirely the most inopportune moment. 

He was working on restoring a soldier’s diary, from WWI, and it apparently meant a lot to the family who had brought it to him. If he could have avoided messing with it, he would have, but they were determined it be cleaned and repaired and would have only gone to someone else. Aziraphale didn’t trust anyone else. So he had agreed to do the bare minimum he could to keep it together and in one piece. 

It broke him to clean off the mud and the grime, most of which would have been put there by the original writer’s hands. He asked for forgiveness as he powdered the pages. He bit his lip as he pulled apart the cover to stitch in the loose papers. He gave the book, the soldier, as much time as he could, making sure he read every word as he worked. If they wouldn’t keep his mud, then Aziraphale would keep his words. 

He ignored the sound of a vehicle pulling onto his driveway. The cover was halfway reattached - he would not be changing that - and it was too important to be worrying about who was at his door. If it was one of the gardeners, they had instructions to just go on through the house and get on. 

He did hope it was Crowley though. 

If he’d been thinking, he would have looked out the window to see who was here before he came downstairs, so he could get over his disappointment or pleasure before he was exposed. But as he walked through the cool kitchen, his hope swelled, fizzy and excitable anyway. The coffee jar was out.

As he filled and flicked on the kettle, Aziraphale spotted a ridiculously large bunch of keys and a squashed packet of cigarettes on the worktop as well, and that sealed it for him. He poured water over ice in a glass to carry it outside with his tea. And tucked the cigarettes under his arm as he went, because he may be an idiot about some things, but he certainly wasn’t about others. 

The patio was cleared and swept, hot and dusty on the soles of his bare feet. It had been almost a month for him. A bloody awful month. It was probably nothing to the other man, but to him it had been a depressing and boring three and a half weeks. And it’d probably be the same again after this brief encounter. Another month. Definitely at least two weeks. He had to stop. This had to stop. 

But then he spotted him. Stripped down to his vest again, Henley tied roughly around his waist, inked arms shining with sweat, half crouched and half knelt in the large long flower bed to the right of the garden. His shoulders were bowed as he worked; he’d have a dreadful backache later. Though, as if he’d sensed him, Crowley raised his head, and took a second to stare forward as if gathering himself, before turning to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. 

It was a long look. An up and down sweep of his eyes, clear even through the blank sunglasses, ending in a delightfully lopsided smile. And it lit Aziraphale up inside like a pure shot of adrenaline. He somehow managed to make his way casually across the lawn to hand over the water. 

“Afternoon, my dear.” His voice was steady, not too goofy, and he had toned his face back to friendly. But then he’d ruined it by calling him dear, how uncool of him. 

Crowley rose and swayed his swagger to meet him halfway. “Angel.” 

Oh God, his voice. He had even missed his voice. Dark and smooth and full of humour, just saying the nickname. He handed over the water, the ice clinking merrily and wished he could hear this man calling him Angel every damn day. What perfect agony that would be.

“Wasn’t sure who you’d be,” he said, knowing he’d be understood. “How’s it going? Everything growing?”

“Everything is growing better now,” he conceded, though he threw a warning look at the bedding plants. 

Aziraphale adored him. Oh it was dreadful. “I thought I’d take five minutes. It’s too hot to be inside. Well, it’s too hot to be out here too. When is autumn coming? It’s… unnatural.”

“I assure you, it’s perfectly natural.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and downed the water, head tipped back to show off his tendon-lined, dirt-smeared throat. Purposeful or not, it was like art.

Aziraphale watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and didn’t even try not to look. It would have been a total wasted effort; it was impossible. And then he watched him pat around his pockets fruitlessly for a whole five seconds before he realised what he was looking for and produced the cigarettes with a magician’s flourish. Crowley looked at him like he really was some kind of angel, then. 

There wasn’t any excuse to hang around outside. He tried to come up with one, but alas. Maybe he should just get over himself and ask Crowley out. What would he even say?! Should he ask him out for a drink? Or dinner? But… rejection. That would be worse than heartbreaking.

Surely it wasn’t all in his head, surely there was something between them. There were so many moments, where the air between them was a thick as honey, where time flowed at a different pace when their eyes met. It couldn’t all be in his head. Could it? 

He heard the splat on the window, violent and sudden. Just one lonely raindrop, but the heavens were about to open. Those green-grey clouds that had been threatening all afternoon were finally about to make true on their promises. A flash of lightning crackling across the blanket of colour in the sky. He felt it in his chest, rising up in his throat, the electric prickle of foreboding drama and excitement. A muffled rumble of thunder made the hairs of his arms stand on end.

Aziraphale stood to look out of the window to see if Crowley had noticed, and instead he spotted his washing hanging on the line. His washing!

It was raining properly when he got downstairs, and he dashed out the back door in bare feet to gather in the dry sheets before they were no longer dry. As he yanked them from the line, Crowley stalked past with hedgetrimmer in hand, heading to the Land Rover to put the tools somewhere dry, Aziraphale imagined. 

“Just put them in the kitchen for now,” he offered, “Quicker, and I’m not fussed.”

“Sorry about the mess. And the smell.” Crowley said, when he finally made it to join Aziraphale inside, just as he was about to dash out and offer his help. 

It was a bit petrol-fumey in the kitchen, and there were smears of mud and cut grass tracked in on the tiles. The scents mixed well though, and if you threw in the petrichor of the late summer storm and the coffee Aziraphale was just making, it was a confusing, yet oddly pleasant, cocktail. With the thick energy he could sense in the air, it was making his skin tingle. He tried to shake it off. 

“I can sweep and mop that up later. It’s not exactly pristine in here. As long as your bits and bobs are ok. I imagine leaving them out in the rain isn’t the best for them.”

Bits and bobs. What was he even talking about? Crowley was smiling at him though, before he looked down to take off his sunglasses and wipe them dry on the bottom of his vest. 

“No no, don’t do that!” Aziraphale protested. He snatched them from Crowley’s stilled hand, whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed them gently clean and dry. “All that mud and grit - you’ll scratch them awfully.”

It was when he handed them back that he realised Crowley had frozen, completely still, looking down at the floor. Aziraphale knew then that he had overstepped and he wanted to kick himself. That, there, was a man brittle with unease, rigid with dread. Aziraphale stretched out his hand slowly, offering the glasses back. Crowley took them, just as slowly, and replaced them on his face. 

Aziraphale turned quickly, supposedly to pour the coffee, but actually to hide his dismay and give Crowley the chance to cover whatever issues he apparently had. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, thank you. I’d have just been making them dirtier.” It was an anxious sort of laugh that followed, but at least it was a laugh. 

The guilty burn of his idiocy was still trembling at his hands, when he handed over the coffee. Strong, black, unsweetened, the steam thick in the already wet air. Luckily he had a good grip on the mug, otherwise it would be on the floor, because Crowley’s sunglasses were not back in front of his eyes, where he’d assumed they would be. They were perched jauntily on his head, nestled in his damp hair. 

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Crowley took the coffee, quirked an eyebrow. 

Beautiful. Goddamn beautiful. Crowley’s long-lashed eyes were large and golden: amber pools of light, burning almost unnaturally around the deep black of his large pupils. A sunflower. A summer sunset. Cat eyes. Snake eyes. He wanted to say how stunning they were. He wanted to look into them for hours. He wanted to watch them watch him, see them widen in surprise, to learn the sight of them hiding beneath fluttering eyelids, closing in pleasure. 

“Think the rain is set in now,” he said instead. Because they had been hidden for a reason. Crowley had issues with showing them for a reason. And if he trusted Aziraphale enough for him to see them, then he had to show him he’d been right to.

Crowley gave him a look that was surprised and grateful at the same time. “Yeah, I’ll drink this and get my tools out to the Landy. Then I’ll be out of your hair, Angel, let you get back to your books.”

Aziraphale had been meaning to ask for ages, but never quite found the guts. Now though, in the dim kitchen, with the rain attacking the house and Crowley unshielded in front of him, the guts made themselves known to him. 

“Why do you call me Angel?”

“Well, uh, myeurnngyeah…” Crowley was obviously unprepared for the question. “You sort of are, an angel, I mean. All…. clean and sweetness… and love and light and I’ll stop talking there. Now. Stopping. I’ve stopped.”

There was an odd sort of heat in Aziraphale’s belly; a variety of anticipation that he didn’t quite understand. He tried to tell it to stop, to point out that Crowley probably called all sorts of people all sorts of pet names. It was not listening. Neither was his mouth, which was curving upwards shyly. 

“You don’t have to stop.” It came out as a bit of whisper, but Crowley heard it. He stepped closer though, as if he hadn’t, as if perhaps being a little nearer might help.

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice was lower now too. His gilded gaze flicked between Aziraphale’s eyes, his mouth, his eyes. The movement was almost hypnotising.

Aziraphale took a breath, filled his lungs and hoped oxygen worked like courage, because he was raising a hand, swiping at a stray raindrop meandering down Crowley’s face. Cool water, warm skin. If this was going to go wrong, it was right about now.

It was a long pause, a drawn out moment where both of them were trying to communicate in the same silent language, but it was one that neither of them could quite dare to be certain they understood. Aziraphale moved first, leaning up and forwards, but Crowley sealed the action, pressing their lips together, gently, so gently. 

A thrill shot through Aziraphale, whooshing up his spine, thrumming in his chest. He returned the pressure for a second, then pulled back a little to go back in with his lips parted. Sweet, tasting like rain, feeling like heaven. A tiny whimper escaped on his next exhale and Crowley stepped even closer, angling their kiss more sharply, deeper, butting his hips into the conversation, spilling half his coffee as he stretched to fumble it down onto the counter. And then Aziraphale’s hand was slipping up into the softness of his hair, sinking in, like he'd wanted to since the first time he saw it light up in the kiss of the sun. This was it. And it was perfect. 

There was movement beside him, he felt it, senses heightened by the adrenaline coursing unchecked around his body. He cracked his eyelids to see Crowley’s hand, held open in the air, a few inches clear of his ribs. Hesitating, afraid to touch. Aziraphale reached out and took it, plucked it from the air and steered it to himself. Touch me please , he wanted to say, put your hands on me .

“Mm-mm.” Crowled hummed warningly. He took a last sip of a kiss, before withdrawing to look meaningfully at their hands, together on Aziraphale’s waist. “I’m filthy, Angel.”

“I know.”

“I’ll get you all dirty.”

He would. Yes. His hand had already left a rust-brown smear of mud on the cream cotton of the shirt, a mark of his presence, a label of possession. Aziraphale loved it. 

“I know.”

Well that was apparently very much the right thing to say because, the next second, Crowley had tight hold of Aziraphale’s shirt, bunching it at hips, using it to steer them backwards towards the counter. He waited for the thump of contact with the wooden cupboard behind Aziraphale, and then he kissed him again, hungry, plundering, hot and desperate. 

Aziraphale breathed him in: the damp dirt of him, the underlying cologne and cigarette smoke, the green tang of cut plants. He could feel the heat of Crowley’s breath on his face, at odds with the sudden chill the rain had brought. The rasp of stubble against his chin, the dull scrape of teeth at his lip. 

There was a deep warmth burning at the base of Aziraphale’s spine, and it was spreading out, up up into his chest and down into his pelvis. He grabbed at Crowley’s side and pulled him in closer, pushed their bodies together. 

Hungry hands skidded chaotically down Aziraphale, his waist, his hips, his arse. Crowley ducked down a little, refusing to lose contact at the lips, wrapped a hand around the back of Aziraphale's thigh and pulled it up and around himself. He shoved backwards at the same time, urged him to lift up, to slip his backside onto the kitchen worktop. Aziraphale let Crowley bear his weight for a second and rejoiced in the simple strength of him. 

At this height, Aziraphale could get his arms over Crowley’s shoulders, so he rested one there, trailing the fingers of his other hand down his face, along his jaw, his throat, to tuck in and feel the pulse there at the very base of his neck. It was thrashing just under his skin. Aziraphale’s mouth curled into a smile against Crowley’s. He was touching him, and revelling in the feeling of doing it. He’d wanted so long for this, and it was just as wonderful as he’d imagined.

“This what you want, Angel?” Crowley asked him, his voice gravel and bass. 

Aziraphale moaned a reply, tucked his legs tighter around him, pulled him right in until their groins lined up and he could feel the push and reluctant give of cock against him. Oh god, he was hard, Crowley was hard against him, about him, for him.  

Crowley bit at Aziraphale’s swollen bottom lip, tugged it, let it go with a little growl. “Is this it? What you want? A dirty tumble with the gardener?” He rocked his hips forward, ground against him. “I’ll give you anything, Angel.”

Please, Aziraphale needed to say, yes please. Give me all of it. 

Hands in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers wrapped in the soft curls, pulling tight and tipping his head back. Then there were teeth at his throat, followed by the hot wetness of lips. Aziraphale whined and grabbed at Crowley’s arms - something solid and firm to hold onto. He wanted to hold on so hard, needed to, the room spinning, the walls leaning drunkenly in around him.

There was a sudden flash of violet light, bright enough to blaze even through Aziraphale’s eyelids, which opened as Crowley ripped away from him. It was followed less than a second later by a crack of thunder, close and loud enough to make the windows buzz. It went on and on for long deafening moments. They had both been looking out the open back door, but now they looked at each other. Awkwardly. 

Crowley left. Of course he did. What else was he ever going to do? He had pulled away, looking troubled, ashamed. Aziraphale was left sat on the kitchen side, his fingernails digging into the old formica counter to stop himself from reaching out. 

Crowley's excuse was the rain, the flooding they could both see rising outside. The lane would already be awful, he needed to get back to town. He needed to get away from Aziraphale, is what it sounded like. Aziraphale closed his eyes and willed him to leave quickly. He realised for the first time, as he slipped down to the floor, that his feet were still wet. 

He helped Crowley take his tools out to the car. They both got soaked on the driveway, but neither said a word. Aziraphale didn’t let himself watch Crowley drive away. He went back inside, bursting with disappointment and embarrassment. The heat that had blossomed in his body had turned to discomfort - a giant air bubble that was cracking his ribs and stretching his muscles out of shape. He rubbed at it distractedly while he shuffled back to the kitchen. There was a cooling cup of coffee in a brown puddle on the side. 

He didn’t often give into temper tantrums, but felt no guilt when he picked it up, walked calmly to the back door and hurled it out with all his might to smash on the patio. 

The shards of white were washed clean in seconds. 

Aziraphale closed the door. 

Chapter Text

Smudges of touch, smears of lust, fingerprints whispering of desire and want. Aziraphale didn’t sulk. He didn’t cry. He just sat and stared at the muddy handprints on his clothes, traced the actions through in his mind, and wondered what the hell had happened. 

Crowley had obviously had second thoughts. Or maybe first thoughts, because kissing him was probably something Crowley hadn’t really thought through at all. It had been going so well , but just one distraction, one pull from the moment and Crowley had fled. So, all that led one to think that perhaps the decision wasn’t a concrete one to begin with. 

Aziraphale actually jumped when his phone buzzed. There was a sudden lightness in his chest that set his heart thumping like a mad thing, and he scrambled across the room to where he’d left the device on the sideboard. It had to be him, it had to be. It might be something horrible; an apology, a demand for an apology, an excuse to never come back. It might be… 

Anathema. Oh. 

(Anathema 19:50)
Farm called to say there’s a tree down 
on the lane. Completely blocked, so be 
careful if you’re going out. He will clear 
it tomorrow. 

(Anathema 19:51)
Do you need firewood?

Bless her, it was nice to warn him. But curse her all the same. And no, he didn’t need firewood; it’d be all soggy anyway.

                                                                             (19:51)
                                  Thanks for the warning. And no, I 
                                haven’t had the chimney swept yet.

That was something he needed to sort out. Also the wood store needed clearing out. He should make a list. Though not now. Now was time for drinking and not caring. His phone went again, lighting up and vibrating in his hand. 

(Anathema 19:53)
About half an hour ago. Maybe it was
that lightning! How thrilling. I wonder
if it’s on fire.

(Anathema 19:54)
Could burn down the whole village.

She was so macabre; he really did like her. Aziraphale remembered that lightning strike. He remembered it clearly, and not at all fondly. In fact he remembered it with a scornful sneer and a bitter twist of his lips. 

He was just about to sit back down when he realised - the tree had come down before Crowley left. Of course, he may have found a way round it. But… completely blocked, she’d said. Though Crowley had plenty of tools in his Land Rover, maybe he was going to clear it himself. Perhaps he was so desperate to get away from Aziraphale that he was taking a chainsaw to it to escape right then. 

He could text him, but to be honest he would be unlikely to respond. Either driving, or avoiding him. And the tree could only be within a few minutes walk. It would be impossible, he sighed, to relax without knowing. Oh bugger. 

The rain lashed his face cruelly when he opened the door, but he had no choice, really, had he? And the lane was slippery and ankle deep in mud already. Ugh. Sometimes being a decent person was hard. 

He heard the Land Rover before he saw it. Engine rumbling heartily, speakers vibrating something far too loudly: Queen, he registered as he drew closer. He was unsure whether he was relieved the car was there or not. Obviously he wanted to see Crowley again, and so soon. But also… no. Because they somehow had to deal with this, and the only realistic way Aziraphale could see that working was to break his heart just a bit more thoroughly.

The red glow of the back lights illuminated the road dramatically, and as he rounded the corner he saw the big old oak tree down, immense unmoving shadows in the beam of the headlights. There was no movement within, Aziraphale noted. Crowley hadn’t crashed into it, had he? 

The front of the car appeared fine: no smoke, no crunched bits, nothing squished. Aziraphale approached the passenger window, looked inside. The glow of the lights bouncing back into the interior of the car was enough for him to see Crowley in the driver’s seat, bent over, his forehead resting on the steering wheel.

Aziraphale flicked off his torch, took a fortifying breath and opened the passenger door. He was hit with a wall of sound at the same time as Crowley bolted upright in his seat, possibly about to punch an intruder in the face, judging from the wild look in his eye and the way his fist was raised ready to pull back and let loose. Aziraphale very calmly and deliberately (and presumptuously) slid into the seat and closed the door behind him. He reached to turn down Freddie Mercury. 

“I daresay you’d better turn this heap around and come back.”

Crowley just looked at him. He had his sunglasses off, presumably it was impossible to drive in the dark with them on, and Aziraphale could see the nervous and confused flicking of his eyes, even in the dimness of the car. 

“I have a sofa, and a spare duvet. You’re not going to get anywhere this way. The farmer’ll clear the tree in the morning.”

“Look, Angel--”

“I rather think it’s better if you don’t call me that right now, Crowley.” Aziraphale looked out of the window, watched the harsh rain stabbing at the glass and the drops falling down in defeat. “And you’ve very little choice, unless you have other options in the village. I’m not leaving you here all night. Can you turn around, or do we need to leave the car?”

Crowley didn’t answer, thankfully, just jammed the car into reverse.

Vintage Land Rovers were not made for comfort. The rattle of the engine plus the bumpiness of the stony lane shook the car roughly, and Aziraphale watched the gearstick dance with the vibrations. About ten seconds in, Crowley put his arm up, his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s headrest, to keep himself turned more comfortably. He leant between their seats and steered one-handed in an infuriatingly attractive way, driving much too fast considering he was on an unpaved road, in the dark, in a storm, going backwards. And, goddamnit, he still smelt so darn good.

It was only eight o’clock, half the evening still ahead of them.This was a stupid idea. He should have left Crowley out in the rain. Aziraphale hung his dripping coat and kicked off his wellies a little too roughly. He took a few moments to arrange them neatly: left one, right one, inched them closer together, made them level. It helped him breathe a little easier. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked, trying to sound like he was not crawling out of his skin with anxiety. Crowley  must be hungry, just running off coffee and cigarettes all day. He needed fuel; he didn’t even have a coat on, for goodness sake, and his clothes were dripping wet. Aziraphale needed to feed him.

“No.” 

“I’ll see if I’ve got anything you can wear - you can’t sit in wet clothes all night.” There wouldn’t be anything that fit, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And then he’d trick him into eating something. 

Crowley nodded, and raked a hand through his rain-flattened hair. He looked a bit pathetic really, if it was possible to look pathetic and ridiculously hot at the same time. Messy and crumpled, wet hair, pale face, looking down at the floor, his clothes soaked through to the point that the artful dip of his belly button was visible. 

Aziraphale managed to dig out some almost suitable clothes and give them to Crowley nicely, rather than throw them at his head, which is what he felt like doing. 

“I’m going to go… do stuff so this isn't…” He wanted to say awkward, but it already was. So he just waved a hand between them vaguely. “Let me know if you need anything. Help yourself to everything, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Angel,” Crowley started, stopped to correct himself, shook his head. He was clutching the clothes like some sort of shield, and if he wasn’t not careful they would end up just as wet as the ones he was wearing. He was still looking at the floor, hiding his eyes. “ Aziraphale ." 

And, oh, the way he said his name. Like it was precious, like every syllable was something beautiful. Aziraphale stepped a little closer, drawn in like a bee to a flower, breached the outskirts of his space. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard him say it before, and if he put that much feeling into it, that was probably by design.

Crowley didn’t look up. “I apologise for… before. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have... So. I uh. Sorry.”

“Ok.” He was trying to sound understanding, when he was anything but. He was confused, more than a little lost. 

“I don’t do... I can’t do that. Not to you.” Crowley was really struggling for words. He made a frustrated sound and scratched at the back of his head. “You’re too good for that.”

The ‘ too good for me’ was silent, but clear. Aziraphale felt a rush of comprehension, settling over him, cool and fresh. It was a relief, light, a breeze of reassurance, confidence. This wasn’t about him, and his own shortfalls. For once it wasn’t that he was too eccentric, or chubby, or bookish. Crowley’s problems were with himself, and Aziraphale already knew they would be nothing to him. He shuffled forwards to stand in front of Crowley, waited for him to lift his head and look at him.

The quirk of Crowley’s uncertain lips was heartbreaking. There was regret clear in his beautiful eyes, but adoration on his face. 

“Do you want me?” Aziraphale asked, hopeful. He’d never quite had the bravery to do something like this, but Crowley inspired all sorts of things in him that he’d never had before.

Crowley laughed humourlessly. It sounded like broken defeat. “Angel, I’ve known I want you since the wall, since we broke the wall." He waved a wild arm at the stairs. "You said fuck so prettily... And to be honest, I think I was a bit slow on the uptake. It was probably before even that.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hold back the smile, which was annoying when he was trying to be serious. He wrestled it back under control. Looked him in the eye. Held out a hand. 

“No pressure, you can say no, I’m not going to kick you out or anything, or ever even mention it again. But, but , if you want me… you can have me.”

There was a second where Aziraphale thought he would be refused, where Crowley would shake his head and step back, make his excuses and possibly even leave again. He was laying it all out here, opening himself to rejection, he was bared and exposed. He saw Crowley taking it in, drinking in the vulnerability and the depth of his seriousness. 

And then he could see nothing, because Crowley was against him, ignoring his outstretched hand and instead dropping the clothes he held and just taking hold of Aziraphale around the waist. Pulling him against the hardness of his body. Aziraphale’s eyes closed as their mouths collided, lips side-sweeping on the first contact, but Crowley came back in an instant, bumping them back together. Aziraphale grabbed hold of him, one arm around his neck, the other hand in his hair, tight. 

They broke apart for air after only a few seconds, gasping at each other’s breath, lips barely separated, before diving back in. Crowley was so hungry for him, his mouth devouring, all determined heat. Tongue sliding into taste his own, licking at his teeth. Aziraphale revelled in it, undulated his body up, rolling from hip to chest against him, feeling wanted, feeling desired. There was a chill battling with the warmth generated between them; he could feel it through his own damp clothing. He knew the source, and it was something he could deal with quite easily. 

“Take your wet clothes off,” he panted, fingers digging into Crowley’s scalp so he wouldn’t retreat too far in the pause between their kisses. 

“Worried I’ll catch a cold?” Crowley teased breathlessly. 

“No.” And he bit at Crowley’s lip. 

Walking backwards up that narrow, crooked staircase was fairly tricky. Doing it while kissing someone was difficult. Add in trying to take off clothes that were so wet they needed peeling off and it got ridiculous. They fell over twice. The third time they didn’t even bother getting up for a while. Aziraphale finally managed to get Crowley’s top off, ran his hands greedily over his chest, scritched at his chest hair, fingers catching at his nipples. 

Finally he could see the tattoos close up; lavender and tulips and roses. A branch of autumn leaves growing up his bicep, across the front of his shoulder and onto his chest. So many, so many he didn’t know. He wanted to learn them all. He traced them with his fingers until Crowley moaned and rolled his hips, grinding down against Aziraphale’s pelvis, drawing a whimper from the throat he was sucking at. 

Crowley did it again, wedged a knee between Aziraphale’s legs and slithered between them. Aziraphale’s head dropped back onto the tread behind him at the heat skittering up his body. It was intense, he felt feverish, dizzy with it. 

“Please,” he said, not knowing why. 

“I’ve got you, Angel,” Crowley mumbled into his neck. “I’ve got you.”

That was a lovely thing to hear. It made him feel warm inside in a whole different way. 

Crowley’s hard hand was down at Aziraphale’s thigh, sliding round, pulling it up alongside him, fingers pressing in enough that Aziraphale could feel each one, the tender ache blooming, and he hoped they bruised. He wanted to look at those purple fingerprints tomorrow, to prod them and savour the ache. 

“Bed.” Aziraphale demanded, commanded. He pushed at Crowley, struggled upwards with him. His legs were shaking; he hadn’t even taken his clothes off yet. This was chaos, delicious chaos. He wanted it no other way.

He led him backwards, Crowley working on the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. His victorious cheer when he finally got it open made Aziraphale giggle, a noise that should have sounded silly, but somehow made Crowley's eyes darken. He pushed Aziraphale down on the bed and followed gladly, climbed over him, elbows and knees everywhere. Mouth like lava on the chilled flesh of his chest, sucking at the skin, biting at what he could. Sharp teeth, wet tongue. Aziraphale pushed at Crowley’s hips so he could get in between them and fight viciously with his belt. 

“What do you want?” Crowley asked. His voice was like those distant rumbles of thunder, low and desperate. 

“I want you to fuck me.” He said easily. He yanked the belt free so roughly it thwapped against Crowley’s side.

Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder and took a few deep breaths. 

“That ok?” 

Crowley's  laugh was shallow, his body still mishandling the oxygen it was gasping in. “More than. Christ - ‘is that ok’? What the hell kind of a question is that?” He squawked a little as Aziraphale managed to undo his jeans and just shoved his hand in there. 

Aziraphale pushed them down over Crowley’s behind, too eager to wonder if he should take the boxers with them; they just went. He grabbed, dug his fingers into the deceptively soft flesh there, pulled Crowley down against him and let his jaw drop on a moan at the pressure between them. 

“Yes, look at you, so beautiful,” Crowley was encouraging him, rolling his hips, frotting gently against him, driving him mad. “I knew you’d be lovely like this.”

Considering the urgency and rush of their journey to this point, Crowley’s touch between his legs was gentle. Aziraphale had gone for the lube, had been completely ready to be slicking up his own hand when Crowley had taken it from him and squeezed it onto his own fingers. Oh yes, please, those hands, on him, in him... 

They were on their sides, facing each other, the perfect position for Crowley to kiss him as he reached under his bent leg and rubbed tender fingertips against his hole. 

Aziraphale shivered, his nerves tingling, his body starving. “In. Please. Now."

Crowley smirked against his mouth and pushed a finger straight and arrogantly into Aziraphale’s arse. Aziraphale may have bitten him. A little hard. He didn’t seem to mind. He grunted in a satisfied sort of way, withdrew and pushed back in again, spreading lube as well as he could.

“More.” Aziraphale said, begged possibly. There was a stretch for two, Crowley’s knuckles up against the skin of his backside as he undulated his fingers, a wave of in, and long slow pull of out, again, again. Addictive heaviness laid foundations; a weight in Aziraphale’s abdomen, pulling his hips downwards, demanding. It wasn't enough. He flung out an arm to fumble in the top drawer for condoms, pushed them at Crowley. “Please, oh God, please.”

Crowley may have been gentle with his hands, but he wasn’t gentle when he was fucking. He sank in slow, giving Aziraphale time, kisses at his neck, his hand up and down his thigh, patient, reassuring, waiting. Then, as soon as he felt the initial tenseness in his body dissipate, he fucked and he fucked hard. 

Moments ago, before, Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s cock: long, uncut, red with the heat of want, and he had wanted it in him. He had wrapped his soft, pale fingers around it, felt the give of skin over the hardness beneath, had lined it up against his own and rubbed them together while Crowley had ripped into the condom packet with his teeth. It felt wonderful. It felt even more wonderful shoving into him, every thrust shifting them up the bed, until Aziraphale had to put a hand up to push back against the headboard. 

Crowley was glorious, looking down at him, eyes like the sun, his gaze hot on Aziraphale’s face. He bent to lick up Aziraphale’s neck, bite down into the flesh of his shoulder, his hips steadily moving the whole time. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice jerked with each movement, his moans released in little bursts of sound. He grasped at soft red hair, pulled hard to steer Crowley’s mouth to his. Panted into it, breathed passion and need into it, felt the same being sucked into his own lungs. “It’s, oh.”

“I know, Angel, I know.”

There would be time for slow later, there would be time for long looks and delicate touches and deep kisses. Now was a rush, a desperate rutting of heat and sweat and pent-up need. Aziraphale dug his fingernails in and held on, arched his back, let his voice out on each thump of flesh on flesh. 

He could feel his orgasm building already; that unbearable heavy heat in the base of his back, in his pelvis, setting his body trembling. He chased it, pushed up, shifting so that every thrust rubbed his cock up against Crowley’s belly.   

“Ugh, God,” Crowley grit out in response, changing gear, losing the decadent roll of his spine, but gaining speed and, somehow, more strength. He dug a hand between them.

“No, no.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley down against him to trap his arm before he could reach his cock. “Too much, it’ll be too much."

“Ok, ok, yeah.” Crowley pulled his hand back out, used it to push himself up so he could look down on Aziraphale, bent a knee for more leverage, and curved Aziraphale’s tense thigh higher. “Are you there? Are you going to come for me, Angel?”

Aziraphale felt the muscles start clenching, his leg kicking out as he pushed higher and higher, the pressure spreading. “Yes, yeah, don’t stop,” he gasped.

“Do it loud.” Crowley breathed, and snapped his hips faster. “Let me hear you.”

He did. He let the orgasm overtake and overwhelm him, he let it flood through his body and push the air from his lungs. And if the air came out of his mouth in the shape of Crowley’s name, well, it wasn’t deliberate, but it was probably alright. He moaned and gasped and called out into the space between them, distantly heard Crowley growling in reply, urging him on, slowing to push into him deep, to guide him through. 

He couldn’t catch his breath afterwards, he felt light and floaty, but as if he was sinking into the mattress as well. He opened his eyes to find Crowley watching him, biting at the inside of his lips, holding still to give him a minute. Bless his heart. And bless his cock, which was twitching inside him eagerly, probably wondering what the hold-up was.  

Aziraphale pulled him down to kiss him, bite at those lips himself. “You can keep going if you want,” he said, “Just go slow to start with.”

Crowley watched him carefully, swaying first, rather than moving. It was uncomfortable, but Aziraphale knew he could push through it. And if he did, it would be fantastic. Bump over that first painful oversensitivity and he’d be back into ecstasy territory. He hitched his legs up, hooking them under Crowley’s round backside and squeezed him in tight. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” Gentle words, Aziraphale digging his heels in hard and rocking his head back with the overstimulation. “Oh god, oh yes.”

It only took Crowley a minute, Aziraphale’s body clutching at him in uneven pulses, the slide of sweat on their chests, the slick of come on their bellies. He gave a few scattered moans, rising in pitch, slipping out between the clench of his teeth. It was thrilling, watching him fall apart, the desperation rising in his eyes, the stuttered catch of his breath, the feeling of his fingers scrabbling at Aziraphale’s shoulder blade where his arm was beneath him, trying to anchor, to hold on. 

He pushed in deep as he came, his voice breaking on a hard exhale, his head dipping down to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, sweat damp hair tickling at his face. The sight of him and the sound of him was amazing, addictive, something Aziraphale wanted as often as possible. The surprised choked laughter that followed his random muscles spasms was beautiful. The weight of his body pushing Aziraphale down into the bed was perfection. 

How long could he keep him? Could he have him forever? 

Chapter Text

The storm had moved on, though the rain lingered. Aziraphale was jolted awake by the sheets moving against his naked skin. He lay for a few moments, listening to the rain hitting the window, the sounds of the night outside muffled by the wet in the air. The sounds of the night inside were different though, and he smiled at the snuffle that came from beside him, turned to look. 

Crowley, lit only by the narrow slip of light sneaking through the cracked door, lay on his front, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other half reaching out towards Aziraphale across the space between them. Just looking at the shadows cast over his face made Aziraphale’s stomach flutter, his lips curve, his heart thump a little harder. He shifted closer, breathed him in. Stale cologne, a dusting of smoke, sweat and earth and sex . It should probably have been off-putting, but Aziraphale just filled his lungs and felt his mouth start to water. 

The duvet was kicked down to Crowley’s buttocks, which was probably what woke Aziraphale in the first place, with one long lean leg flopped carelessly over the top of it. It was uncomfortably warm, especially with the two of them. Aziraphale would not have changed it for anything.  

Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out a hesitant hand, let it hover over the dip of Crowley’s back before placing it, ever so gently, on his bare skin. He was warm, slightly clammy with sweat. Then Aziraphale trailed his fingers up, stroking up over his spine, watching his ribcage swell with breath, opening him up like a book. Rode the bumps of his vertebrae and let the pads of his fingers coax a wave of movement from his muscles. 

Crowley didn’t wake. Instead he shuffled closer, his hand spreading to search, finding Aziraphale’s skin, and satisfaction. 

“Angel,” he murmured, eyes still closed, breathing still steady. Aziraphale let himself believe he was dreaming of him. 

Hungry. He was hungry. Bread and cheese and prosciutto and olives, that’s what he fancied. Shame, he could probably manage the bread and maybe a lump of cheese, but that was about it. 

It was almost eleven, he’d not eaten since lunchtime, and Aziraphale had never let timings stop him before. So he slipped as quietly as he could out of bed, pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers and headed for the stairs. Opening the door widened the beam of light and drew his attention to the man in his bed and he realised, Crowley hadn’t eaten either. 

“I’m hungry,” he whispered, crouching beside the sleeping form. Crowley cracked open a bleary yellow eye, all black and blaze in the dark. He looked honestly surprised to see him. 

Oh, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself and he pressed gentle kisses on his face, over the bridge of Crowley’s (slightly wonky now he looked at it) nose, on the skin-cushioned points of his cheekbones. He had to make himself stop, because he may be slightly eccentric, but he couldn’t let Crowley think he was an absolute lunatic.

“Mleurgh.” It was a not-uncontent Crowley noise. And it was lovely. 

“Do you want anything to eat? It’s very late, but I’m… very hungry.”

Crowley’s eye closed again. “Mmmm.”

He may well have just gone back to sleep, Aziraphale supposed. “Well, come down if you want anything, ok?”

“Mmhmm.” 

He did though, against expectations. 

Aziraphale was curled up in the corner of the sofa when Crowley strolled down the stairs, wearing only what appeared to be Aziraphale’s discarded shirt. Possibly because his own clothes were still all wet, but whatever the reason it made Aziraphale blush like an absolute buffoon. Being a dress-shirt, it was long enough to almost cover him decently, and Crowley had buttoned it halfway up. A delicious triangle of lightly fuzzed and heavily inked chest peeked out. And his legs, oh they went on for days. 

The room was chilly, dimly lit with only the corner lamp and dimly heated by whatever was left over from the day, so not much after that storm. Crowley sleepily tucked himself down beside Aziraphale on the sofa and let him pull the tartan throw over the pair of them. 

“My snacks are for sharing,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley had closed his eyes and was possibly asleep again. He listed off the pile on the coffee table in the hopes it would catch his interest. “Bread, cheese, proper salty crispy crisps, apples, tea, biscuits-”

He stopped then. Partly because he had run out of food to list, and partly because Crowley had shot out a hand, palm up, waiting to be supplied. 

“Biscuits?”

The fingers wiggled in a gimme gimme sort of motion and he obeyed, piling three chocolate hobnobs on the outstretched palm. He planted a kiss in Crowley’s gorgeously scruffy hair and enjoyed the feeling of him leaning, tipping over until his weight was partially shared. After Aziraphale had taken a mouthful of his tea, he offered it and watched Crowley take a slurpy gulp. He could feel the crunch of biscuits through Crowley’s temple resting on his shoulder. It was oddly intimate.

The next time he was awoken, they were back in bed and there were soft lips on the side of his neck. He didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t move, he just let it all sink in, let his body place everything, let himself feel it. Crowley was spooned up behind him, mouth just below his ear, hips flush against his arse, half-hard cock nestled between his buttocks in a very comfortable sort of way. One arm was beneath Aziraphale’s neck, and bent back on itself at the elbow to sink his fingers into his hair, to steer his head so he could spread more kisses on his skin. 

The other hand slid onto his waist: a possessive restraint, an adoring exploration. Down to the corner of his pelvis, not sharp like Crowley’s, but just as sensitive. It journeyed down his thigh, palm heavy with lust, and back up again, fingers pressing this time, accompanied by slow movement - a rolling curl of spine to push his erection more firmly against Aziraphale’s flesh. 

Aziraphale let his body follow the ripple, leaned back into him. He found that curious hand with his own and coaxed it back down, fit his softer fingers between Crowley’s long, calloused ones, and encouraged it in between his legs, led it to spread out and pull his thigh back. Let the desire brew in his body, boil and bubble over, released a weighty sigh at the feel of rough leg hair beneath the silky skin at the back of his knee.

Crowley’s teeth grazed him in response, at the sensitive curve where neck met shoulder, and Aziraphale heard a shuddering, keen breath sucked in.  

They did not speak, not one word. Aziraphale brought Crowley’s touch to his cock, and they felt it harden together in the light wrap of fingers. Crowley held him and caressed him until he shook in his arms, then his touch moved down further, over his balls, his perineum, found the sensitive rim of him and traced around it. 

It was enough, enough to turn Aziraphale over, mouth searching, finding, slotting his lips together with Crowley’s. Long and slow, a rhythmic give and take that felt like more than just kisses. Aziraphale pushed him onto his back, slipped a leg over him, covered him with his own body. He reached down between them and took hold of Crowley, his erection hard and urgent against their slow lovemaking. He stroked it, up and down, calm and quiet. 

Finally, he opened his eyes. Watched Crowley arch up into him, his ribs pressing into Aziraphale’s chest, his eyes wide, pools of molten gold in the shadows. His hands restless, pulling them closer together.

When Aziraphale found and passed him a condom, Crowley arched an eyebrow in question, was he sure, did he want, again? He opened his mouth to voice it. But Aziraphale pressed a finger over his lips, sealed them, felt the kiss placed against his fingerprint and bit his own lip at the gentleness of it. 

He let Crowley slide it on and slick himself up and then he sank down onto him slowly, luxuriously, feeling every millimetre, and looking up, as if he could see the heavens and thank them. He scratched his nails into Crowley’s chest, rose up, and rocked back down. 

Crowley held his hands, stroked his thighs, his cock, his chest. He touched every inch he could reach, watching his own hands on pale skin with worship in his eyes. He looked up at Aziraphale, his gaze of adoration potent and open.

Crowley came first, silent but for his heaving breaths and the way his voice almost caught on them. Then he pushed Aziraphale down into the mattress, kissed down the curves of his body and took him in his mouth. He pushed their hands into the flame of his hair, tightened Aziraphale’s grip around the soft red tufts for him. Then his own fingers he pushed up inside of Aziraphale, took his cock into his mouth, and sucked him dry. 

Aziraphale woke with the dawn, as usual. He gave himself a minute to stare, probably creepily, at the sleeping face of the man beside him, his lover. Then he slipped out of the bed, pulled on the pyjama trousers that were scrumpled on the floor, and padded down the stairs, trying (but mainly failing) to avoid the squeaky bits. 

The garden was soaked, leaves weighed down heavily with rain, the plants exhausted by the battle of just being upright. He flicked on the kettle and stood in the back doorway to watch the sun finish rising over the east hedge. The birds were obnoxious, horrendously cheerful, and he loved it, letting the joy of their calling widen his smile. 

He was halfway through his second cup of tea when he heard movement; the house alerting him with fond creaks and growls. Crowley appeared in the back doorway, having poured a mug of the coffee Aziraphale had brewed ready for him. 

Aziraphale tried so, so hard not to look at him, no idea how they were playing this out. He kept his gaze lowered, watched the bare feet approach, admired them: slim and elegant, long toes, pale against the damp stone of the patio. Watched them step gingerly around the shards of the broken mug still lying there gracelessly.

Crowley, perfectly imperfect Crowley, bent at the waist, one hand straight to Aziraphale’s jaw to tip him up for a kiss. Just a plain kiss, planted firmly on his lips, tasting of coffee. But it was oh so brilliant. And then he sat on the chair beside him, kicked his feet up onto the old pine table and sipped at his drink. He poked a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a click and hiss of a shiny metal lighter, his first inhale deep and desperate. He blew it up to the sky in a blue-grey stream. 

“Any idea what time that tree’s going?”

Aziraphale was yanked from his otherworldly wonderings. He’d been staring for long minutes, he realised, at Crowley’s bare torso; the tattoos winding up his arms and across his chest, his nipples pebbled in the chill of the damp morning. There were faint pink lines hiding beneath the dusting of auburn chest hair - fingernail tracks. 

He thought hard for a minute, trying to hear what had just been said. “Not sure,” he finally said, “I can call and ask, if you like?”

“Oh no, don’t do that. I’d have to work. If I don’t know, I can just have a late start. Relarrx in the sarn-shihhne, dahhling.” Crowley drawled, flashed a grin at him and drained the dregs of his coffee. He scritched lazily at the scruff of not-quite-beard on his cheeks. 

Aziraphale's skin felt too tight all of a sudden, warm and itchy with unease. What the heck was he doing? Crowley was just… he was so… gorgeous. He was in just a pair of jeans, content and unashamed in his own nakedness. All long lines, muscle, bone, skin. Artfully mussed red hair, long nose, sharp stubbled jaw. Aziraphale was a mess. He could pinch an inch around the middle, his thighs strained his trousers when he sat down, he was pretty sure he’d graduated to a double chin. His hair was ridiculous, his nose was too, he wasn’t even sure he had a jaw unless he was annoyed with someone and could feel it grinding. 

What on Earth had he been thinking? Had he been thinking? There was no way this would work. Crowley needed more than him. Crowley could have anyone he wanted. Why would he want him? 

It was sharp in his chest. He felt his nostrils flare with the singeing, stinging feel of it. He became uncomfortably aware that Crowley wasn't the only one topless. 

“Don’t do that.” Crowley pointed his newly-lit, second cigarette of the morning at him. “Don’t. No.”

“What?”

“Whatever is making you pull that face. You were so happy, sitting there, softly smug and well-fucked.”

Aziraphale felt himself holding back a giggle already.

Crowley continued, waving his hand around lazily, “And then I mentioned work and off you went to the sad place, all frowny and big eyes. Go back to sipping your ninth cup of fancy tea, and listening to the birds tweeting, and the trees swishing gaily or whatever the fuck you were thinking of before.”

He was so chaotic, Aziraphale loved him so. He really did. How stupid of him. 

Another cup of tea. That’s what he needed. It wasn't quite his ninth. The kitchen was dim and chilly, compared to outside, and not just because of the sun. It took his eyes a second to adjust. The flagstone floor was cool on his bare feet and he must remember to buy some slippers because, come winter, that would be unbearable. 

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind, skimming the sensitive skin over his ribs, sending him shivering. But then a hot body pressed against his back and he could not stop himself leaning into it. Fresh cigarettes and coffee sank into his senses and he smiled at how oddly pleasant it was. 

“I might need to borrow your shower.” Crowley mumbled against his shoulder. "And a toothbrush."

Aziraphale tipped his head to the side and Crowley took the hint, sliding the kiss of his lips along his shoulder and up his neck. Gentle and teasing, the scratch of stubble sending shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. Oh, it was a sweet feeling; it made his fingers slip and slide at the worktop. 

“That’s fine,” he made himself say. While inside he was actually saying ‘No, please don’t wash me off you, be like this forever.’ 

“As much as I’d like to smell like you for as long as possible, I actually stink more of me, at the moment.” 

How did he know what Aziraphale was thinking?

Aziraphale huffed a small laugh and made himself pour a cup of tea. He didn’t go to the fridge for the milk though, because that would involve disengaging from his cuddle cloak, and he was putting that off as long as possible. “Go for it. It’s a bit… pathetic, but it’s hot and it tries.”

“Kiss me first though. Please,” Crowley whined, actually whined . It was adorable. 

“You don’t even have to ask.” Aziraphale turned in the circle of his arms, until the callouses of Crowley’s worker’s hands tickled at the small of his back. They crept downwards, fingers tucking their tips under the elasticated waistband of his pyjama trousers. 

He slid his own hands, from tight muscular waist, up over his firm abdomen, the lean curves of his chest, over the hard shoulders, around to the back of his neck and up into the soft fluff of his hair. Then he pulled him down a few inches so he could unite their mouths. It was meant to be a little kiss, just a smack of lips, maybe a little bit of a snog. Crowley wanted a shower, and Aziraphale wanted more tea and they’d already knackered each other out. Twice. 

Only Crowley made a soft little noise and Aziraphale heard it and then suddenly the kiss was a real thing, with tongue and breaths panted against each others faces and Crowley’s cheeky fingers dipping lower until he had two palmfuls of arse.

“Shit, I just can’t get enough of you,” Crowley admitted, as he pulled away. He didn’t go far; he trailed his lips down Aziraphale’s jaw, nipped at the soft skin below his ear before catching his earlobe in his teeth and tugging gently. 

Well, his ears were apparently more sensitive than he’d ever noticed before, because Aziraphale’s legs actually trembled. 

Once again, though, their kitchen interludes were interrupted. This time by Crowley’s phone, jangling rudely in his back pocket. 

“Sorry, I’ve got to get it; that’s the office ringtone.” Crowley pulled his mouth away, but kept the rest of him pinned against Aziraphale as he swiped to answer the call. His voice turned hard and businesslike to snap, “Yes, what?”

“We’ve got an issue.” Came the lightly buzzing voice.

Aziraphale quickly realised he could hear both halves of the conversation. Part of him felt rude, part of him was unbearably curious to find out how Crowley interacted with other people, so he stayed where he was - pressed against a naked chest. Delightful. 

“Yes, mi’lord. We’ve got several,” Crowley replied easily, voice soft and teasing again. He shifted his hips forward, pressing his half-hard penis into the flesh beneath Aziraphale's belly. He grinned. “Or do you mean today specifically?”

“Yes. The supplier hasn’t got the timber in yet. Or rather, they’ve got the wrong one. You might have to go elsewhere, but you won’t get a delivery in time, so you’ll have to pick it up yourself.”

“What did they get instead?” The phone call only had half of his attention, because his free hand had slipped back into Aziraphale’s waistband to hold him still so Crowley could rub himself against him. 

“It’s five mil thinner, and 25 mil shorter. So, by all means, check the design. But I’ve called around and the yard around the corner from you has almost enough and they’ll keep it back for you. Are you in the Landy? Because I can send Eric round in the truck.”

“I’m not at home.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Oh Satan himself, you dirty stop-out! It’s not even 7am, where are you?”

Crowley laughed, head tipped back, glorious neck on show. Aziraphale had to try really quite hard not to bite it. “Let me get the designs, I’ll see if I can give it a tinker and a tweak. We might have options.” 

He bent his head to give Aziraphale a quick kiss, a last squeeze of buttock, and then he extricated himself and sauntered off, mumbling away to himself, or the caller, about measurements and staining options. He shoved his feet into his boots by the front door. 

“Ew, wet, Yuck… Keys, keys keys...” his voice rose to address Aziraphale, “Where did I leave my keys? Nevermind. Got them!”

Aziraphale smiled. He finished making his tea. He wondered if maybe he might be able to look forward to this sort of morning more often. 

Chapter Text

Crowley had a folder. It was worn black leather, and huge, bursting full with loose pages and notes scribbled on papers. He carried it under one arm, moving through the cottage like a whirlwind, finding a pen (from the coffee table) stealing a piece of paper (from the printer), giving Aziraphale a kiss (as he passed him in the kitchen). He dropped it carelessly on the table in the garden and started rifling through it. Aziraphale followed him out, carrying a new cup of coffee for him, and his own tea. 

“I haven’t got enough arms for this shit. I’m putting you on speaker, Bee, so behave.” He used his newly free hand to take the coffee from Aziraphale and burned his mouth on it. It didn’t stop him, as usual. “Thank you, Angel.”

“Angel?!” Came the exclamation from the phone. It sounded joyful. “ The Angel? You’re with him?! ”

“Speakerphone, Bee!” Crowley growled. He looked up to Aziraphale almost guiltily. “Excuse them, they're an idiot.”

“Ah yes, apologies Mr. A. J. Crowley, sir. Pure professionalism from here on out.”

“Shut up.” Crowley rolled his eyes. He spent a minute looking between a colourful design sketch, a sheet of numbers, and the paper he had commandeered, and made calculations with a determined look in his eye. “Bee, I reckon I can do it, with the first lot.”

Aziraphale had very little idea what they were talking about. He was not actually even listening anymore. He was totally overwhelmed by the Angel discussion. Crowley had told someone about him. And called him Angel to them. Whoever this Bee person was. Oh wow. His heart was beating a little too fast, he was sure it was visible through his chest. 

“I’ll be there on time.” Crowley’s voice cut through his cloud of pleased wonderings. 

Bee laughed, a buzzing cackling sort of laugh. Happy, but filthy. “On time, but in yesterday’s clothes because you--”

Whatever they were going to say was lost by Crowley slamming on the End Call button, with all of his fingers, a bit desperately. He smiled, unmistakably embarrassed. “So, that’s Bee.”

Aziraphale was already smiling. Watching Crowley talk with someone else, even just on the phone, was charming. And then he was embarrassed. Even more charming. Aziraphale was charmed. Right down to his toes. 

Until Crowley said, “S’pose I’d better get ready for work. Can you find out about that tree?”

The pipes were giggling and squeaking in the walls while Aziraphale munched on toast and pottered around tidying up. Crowley’s black henley was abandoned on the stairs, damp and crumpled, so Aziraphale shoved it into the dryer for a few minutes. He couldn’t do much about his boots, but he could lend him clean socks and boxers. Oh, the idea of Crowley wearing his socks and boxers all day was rather nice. He put some on the creased black jeans, where they’d been chucked on the bed. That random pair of boxers that he’d kept for some reason even though they didn’t fit. Crowley had a lovely backside, but it was not quite as… generous as Aziraphale’s. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to keep pulling them up all day. Nice red cashmere socks would be ok though, perfect in fact. 

He switched the radio on, Classic FM obviously, swept up the broken mug outside, and the mud and grass on the kitchen floor.  The pipes stopped smashing about and a minute later Crowley skipped down the stairs, red footed and damp. 

“Thanks for the skivvies,” he said, lifting a foot to wiggle it in the air. “Have you seen my top?”

The expression on his face when Aziraphale whipped it out of the dryer, hot and dry was ecstatic. He yanked it on immediately, making obscene noises of pleasure. Then he grabbed Aziraphale, making him laugh, and hugged him, hot and comfy and oh, it was heavenly. 

Crowley was apparently happy this morning, and he bit playfully at Aziraphale’s still bare shoulder and grabbed at his backside. "At some point, Angel, I am going to have you properly in this kitchen."

"But now you have to go to work. The tree is gone. Do you need any food before you go?"

"Noooo." Crowley whinged. He shoved his nose into Aziraphale’s hair and breathed him in. “You smell like honey shampoo and sex. Do I have to?” 

"Yes. Yes you do." Obviously he’d rather the opposite, but apparently one of them had to be a sensible adult. “Oh, just maybe one more minute. Kiss me.”

He fed him, of course he did, it was what Aziraphale did. He didn’t quite force him, except he sort of did, pushing him down onto the sofa and thrusting a plate at him. Only toast though, with butter and some of his homemade bramble jam, the mention of which made Crowley snort crumbs everywhere. 

They didn’t talk about things, that would have been far too sensible. They didn’t discuss later, or tomorrow, or now, or yesterday. They talked about the garden and the jam and how late Crowley was going to be. 

And then he was going, kissing Aziraphale goodbye with a jam sweet mouth and a gentle hand on his neck.

Aziraphale opened the chiming message on his phone. It was… a picture of his house. Yes. Thanks for that Anathema. 

Another message swiftly followed. 

(Anathema 07:46)
You saucy minx! Tell me you took him
out for dinner first!

Oh. The picture was not of his cottage. It was of the black Vintage Land Rover reversing from the driveway. Of course, Anathema would have seen it there yesterday, and out her kitchen window first thing this morning. Aziraphale felt his cheeks tingle and burn. 

                                                                           (07:48)
                                                    The road was blocked.

He replied simply, grinning as he imagined her response. It did not disappoint. 

(Anathema 07:50)
Don’t rain on my parade, let me keep my 
fantasies! Tell me he was marvellous and 
kept you up ALL night. Lie if you have to.

                                                                            (07:55)
                                                                I don’t have to. 

She stormed into his house half an hour later, a pointless rap of knuckles on the door before flinging it open and stomping into the hallway. 

“I can not believe you fucked Crowley.” She shouted, kicking off her shoes as violently as possible, before coming to find him in the kitchen.

“Good morning to you too, Anathema. Luckily I don’t have company, but thanks for checking.”

She did not even have the grace to look embarrassed. She just poked a sharp finger into his chest and looked over her round spectacles at him. “Shameless, you are. Brazen hussy. Make me some mint tea and tell me all about it. At once.”

Aziraphale gave a long suffering sigh and flicked the kettle on to boil. “I’m not dishing out details of what I may or may not have got up to last--” 

“With Crowley! ” She interrupted smugly.

“Yes. With Crowley.” He admitted. He waited for the kettle, then popped a mint tea bag into the glass mug and poured freshly boiled water over it. 

“But there was scandalous behaviour? Tell me there was.”

He grinned. “Of course there was, have you met him?!” 

“Perfect.” Anathema said, satisfied for now. She leant back against the kitchen counter and dipped her teabag up and down in the water. “What’s that folder outside?” 

While Aziraphale understood privacy and client confidentiality and basic morals, Anathema clearly gave not two hoots about any of it and went straight outside to retrieve Crowley’s papers to rummage around in. 

“Oh good gracious, his writing is awful .” Anathema sipped at her tea and flipped through the folder on the coffee table. “Boring, boring, lists, receipts, invoices, blah blah. Oooh, that’s pretty. And that. Wow, that’s expensive. Oh my God, I want to marry his drawings. I’d frame that and put it on my wall if he hadn’t scribbled numbers all over it. Oh, look at this one…”

She waved it in his face. It was pretty. It was beautiful. It was also his garden. He snatched it from her hand and frowned at it. He was correct: it was his garden, viewed from the back corner of the house. Slightly changed though: a new circular patio with a flowering magnolia tree overhanging a wrought iron table, a higgledy piggledy path down the side of the lawn, overflowing cottage garden style flower beds. It was lush and chaotic and colourful and art . 

Crowley was an artist. This was beyond work. This was talent and passion. Aziraphale loved it, Crowley clearly did too. On the table he had sketched and coloured a teacup and a slice of cake on a plate. A book lying open, pages turning in the breeze.

Aziraphale dreaded to think what expression was on his face, but Anathema was laughing at it.  

Actually, Anathema had been lovely. Full of reassurances that he was right to think Crowley had serious feelings for him, that he hadn’t done something silly, that Crowley would be back and in contact soon and was probably feeling just as weird about it as Aziraphale was. Well, he’d have to be in contact soon, he’d left his workbook there.

She stayed for hours, in fact, sharing every tiny bit of information she had about him. How she’d met him years back, when he was a bit dodgy and probably drinking and smoking things he shouldn’t, but so very talented. They had shared a crowd of friends, still did to a certain extent, but in the way you did when you’d all grown up and sorted your shit out, apparently. 

He was young then, she pointed out, and she had been even younger. Aziraphale secretly wondered if anything had ever happened between them, until she pulled a face and put paid to that notion as quickly as possible. She had known she’d met Crowley for a reason, though, she said, and had made sure to stay in contact. And what if Aziraphale was that reason, wouldn’t that be great? 

Yes, he thought, it would be. But he’d wait and see on that one. 

It did strike him, though, that Crowley could have gone to hers last night. Could have slept in her spare room. Instead he'd sat out in the dark and rain and then come back with Aziraphale. That had to mean something. 

Unfortunately, or fortunately, considering he needed distracting, Aziraphale had work to do. He had to take the diary back to the family, and there was an estate sale going on twenty miles away that he’d like to look at. There were apparently old books boxed up and being sold in lots. Someone’s bookshelves disassembled and disordered and packed away - the idea made him shudder. But if he could see any treasures in there it might inspire him to get his online business up and running again. He had nothing else lined up yet, and it was always a good income. Buy them, tidy them up, sell them on. Well, the selling them on was often a problematic part of it, but he’d be strict with himself this time. He would. 

The roads were awfully busy in town, and he’d pulled something in his back at some point last night and sitting in traffic was not helping . Self-doubt crept in again. He was too old and fat to be doing stuff like that, with someone like that. Crowley was lithe and fit and did marvellous things with his hips. Aziraphale had one night of passion and cursed himself for it the whole day after. 

He delivered the diary and handed over his invoice, skipped the estate sale and brought cake home instead.  

Aziraphale was in the bath when he heard tyres on the gravel of the driveway. He sat up, sloshing water all about. The slam of a car door and, yes, a knock on the front door. Now, either his hope was well founded, or someone was going to get a surprise when he opened the door half-dressed. It was late in the evening though, so it would be their own fault. 

He shoved wet arms into his dressing gown and jogged (not sprinted) down the stairs. He cracked the front door open. There stood Crowley. Though, he looked a bit worse for wear, clean clothed but black shirt crumpled, hair sticking up every which way as if his hands had shoved through it a few too many times, and sunglasses on, even in the dark. Not a good sign.

“Yeah, we need to talk.” 

Oh. Dear.

Chapter Text

It was an odd feeling, dismay - somewhere between panic and heartbreak. There was a plummeting inside him, he could almost feel the wind whipping past his face as he fell, but his feet were flat on the floor. Then the burn and tingle of adrenaline pumping through him, pushing blood too fast into his limbs. He took a breath and yanked the belt of his robe tight to tie it around his waist.

“Is this talk going to require me to put some clothes on?” Aziraphale meant to convey that he was feeling insecure, feeling unshielded in an exposed situation.

“Can we sit down a minute?” Crowley paused, his head rocking back as he heard what Aziraphale had just said. “Are you naked under there?”

“One tends to bathe naked, yes.”

“You were in the bath?”

Aziraphale decided Crowley was not quite feeling himself, and therefore he had better forgive this odd echoey sort of conversation. “I’d rather not get dumped in the nuddy, Crowley.”

“Dumped?!”

He would not forgive the drop of Crowley’s head though, as he clearly looked his fill at Aziraphale’s nude legs, following them up to where the dressing gown fell just at his knees, and further, as he was obviously imagining what was going on under there. 

“You turn up here at this time of night, looking like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and are trying to find the kindest way to never have to speak to me again, and then you say ‘We need to talk’ and what am I supposed to think?”

“I’m. Not. No. I just have… I might need to know…” 

“Eyes, Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped. But then heard how that must sound to him, who had so many issues about them. “I mean, look up here, at me.”

Crowley didn’t seem bothered though, well not by that at least. “I am looking at you.” He mumbled and then stepped in. “Talk later.”

“It sounded important.” Aziraphale protested, but not really minding at all, as Crowley backed him against the coats hanging from the hooks on the wall, closing the inches between them until they were almost touching. For a few seconds there, he had thought he’d not get this again. 

“Hmmm? Nah, not really, just… stuff. Now this,” he waved a hand at Aziraphale’s barely covered body, “ This is important.” 

Aziraphale knew he should insist. He knew it was clearly something that needed discussing. 

But right now, Crowley had bent slightly at the waist to slip his hand under the dressing gown and put his lightly chilled palm on Aziraphale’s hot, damp thigh, and there was very little talking happening. There was still a scant gap between their bodies, and Aziraphale hated every millimetre of it. Crowley tipped his head, brushing his mouth up to Aziraphale’s cheek, dragging the soft flesh of his lips over the light rasp of blond stubble, the pull of movement parting them to release a whisper of his breath onto Aziraphale’s face. 

It was decadence and suspense. It shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was. It was nothing, a tiny little tease of a movement, but Aziraphale felt the tremble in the back of his knees. He reached up to take off the sunglasses that were tickling coolly at the side of his nose. Crowley offered no protest, in fact he leaned back for a moment to allow it. 

“So,” Aziraphale broached, voice low, “Not dumping me then?”

Crowley huffed a little laugh, amused or frustrated, possibly both. “No.”

Aziraphale held his mouth up to the tattoo by Crowley’s sideburn. “What did you want to talk about?”

Even distracted as he was, Crowley’s cheek curved with his smile at the blatant attempt at manipulation. “I don’t know, Angel. Just, odd insecurities, self-hates and doubts, you know the sort... Is it too early to take you to bed?” He bit gently at Aziraphale’s ear, licked at the shell with his tricksy tongue. He was stood up straight now, a full handful of bare backside in one hand, and dismantling the knot of the belt with the other. 

“Not at all.”

Aziraphale took him by the hand and led him up the stairs. It was dark up there, apart from the warm light flowing from the open bathroom doorway. He should let the water out of the tub, but Crowley was crowding behind him, hands starting to stray eagerly, and, oh, he’d do it later, it was fine.

They made it to the doorway before patience disappeared and Crowley tugged the belt free from behind, the halves of Aziraphale’s dressing gown swinging open, slithering around his sides. He shrugged, letting it slip down from his arms, and gave Crowley a confident come hither sort of look from over his shoulder. It took an effort to find that confidence, but he was glad he did, because he received a throaty chuckle and mouth to bare skin for his troubles. Crowley moved up behind him, sliding the robe down to pool on the floor, his hands finally finding the nudity they’d been after. 

There was a fully-clothed body pressed against his back, the denim of jeans worn soft and soothing against the back of Aziraphale’s thighs. Crowley’s grip moved from Aziraphale’s arm, to his waist, his chest, sliding up. The span of his big hand put his fingertips on one collarbone and his thumb on the other and Aziraphale felt a thrill shoot through him, scattering goosebumps and peaking his nipples. 

He had never actually felt this comfortable naked in front of someone before, no matter how many times they’d seen it before. But there was an odd trust here, an instinctive one. He felt right now that he knew for a fact that Crowley found him attractive, despite his pale skin and pudgy bits and the blond fuzz on his belly and chest and the stretchmarks on his hips. Possibly even found him attractive because of them. How he’d doubted it earlier, he wasn’t sure. 

Crowley sensed the trust, and fulfilled his silent promise immediately, shifting the V of his grip up around the base of Aziraphale’s throat, a worshipful weight on his neck. 

“Angel,” he breathed into Aziraphale’s ear, a low crooning sort of voice, “You like that.”

It was not a question, but Aziraphale answered it anyway, tipping his head back to rest on Crowley’s shoulder, opening himself up to the ownership. “Yeah.”

Crowley held him there, up and against him, one hand on his throat and the other wrapped around his cock, stroking and squeezing. Never fast enough to build anywhere, and just enough to cruise him along the edge of frustration. He kissed Aziraphale’s shoulder: wet, open-mouthed affectionate kisses, with nips of teeth and swipes of tongue. 

“What do you want, Angel? Do you want to come like this? Or in my mouth? Or straddle me on the bed and come all over me? Mark me up? Naked or clothed - your choice.” Crowley stopped jerking him off, fondled his balls for a minute, humming in thought. “Want my fingers too? My dick?”

Aziraphale’s own erection jerked as his muscles twitched at the thought, grazing the head of it against Crowley’s arm. 

“Ok, honey, anything you like.” 

“Oh, but,” Aziraphale managed as Crowley lay him down on the bed. Well, how embarrassing. There was no delicate way to put it. He pulled his face to the side and moaned as it directed kisses to his neck. He had to make a conscious effort to keep talking. “I’m not sure I can, oh teeth uhhh please, yes, because I’m not quite…  mmm from… earlier.”

Crowley got the jist and was appalled, clearly. Rearing back, wide eyes and flared nostrils. “Did I hurt you?”

“Goodness no,” Aziraphale rushed, palms catching Crowley’s cheeks and making him stay still in case, just in case, he got some stupid idea into his head - like stopping or, God forbid, getting up and moving away. “It’s just been a while. And it was twice. Once quite hard, which was perfect and lovely and don’t you dare worry. And, well, you aren’t exactly… small.”

As expected, that made Crowley grin. “Oh sweetheart, you should have said. Shall I kiss it better?”

Aziraphale laughed. How could he not? That mischievous face, combined with the teasing tone, and the fact that Crowley was already making his way down, wriggling ungracefully backwards, coaxing him over onto his front, with hard hands and soft words. 

“Oh, beautiful, that’s it, Angel, let me have a look see now. Well, look at this fucking stunning backside, I'm feeling really quite lucky.” He gave a cheek a good squeeze and a quick nip of sharp teeth. “Oh God, you are so fine. I could stare at this fucking magnificence for days. Open up your legs for me, sweet thing, let me in.”

Aziraphale smiled into the duvet. Let his legs fall open as Crowley lifted up on his arms to let him. Rubbed his erection down into the bedding. Allowed Crowley to pull him back until his arse was slightly raised.

“Grab a pillow for me, darling, put it under here, you can hump it for me while I eat you out.”

Oh good Lord, the mouth on him, the beautifully filthy mouth. 

Aziraphale did as he was bid, shoving the pillow under him to keep his hips raised, rearranged his cock so it wasn’t quite so crushed sideways.

"Angel, I, ” Crowley mumbled, possibly intending to say something else, but it was lost as he lowered his mouth and sucked what was most definitely a big fat mark into the inside of a chunky thigh. He journeyed up, biting and sucking, sinking his teeth in to bruise, and pulling what felt like all the blood from Aziraphale’s brain down into his pelvis. And then Crowley had two hands spreading his cheeks and all Aziraphale could do was moan as he felt himself exposed. 

Crowley put his mouth on him like a man who truly enjoyed this activity, like he was half-starved and Aziraphale was a juicy peach, a forbidden apple. He went in with a delicate lick, cautious, a kiss of lips to the sensitive skin there, and then just went for it. Gently testing and tasting and digging his fingers into the flesh of buttocks as he pushed his agile tongue inside. Aziraphale gave a guttural grunt, felt himself open up welcomingly, his awkward nerves soothed and the discomfort of the pressure fading immediately into pleasure. 

Crowley’s stubble rasped at his skin as he licked him open, as he flickered his hot tongue gently over the puffy pink skin, fucked it inside for long minutes, until Aziraphale was keening into the bed. 

“Fingers, please,” he begged, struggling to find the words. 

Crowley pulled back to speak. “If you’re sure, maybe just a little...”

“Put your fucking fingers in me now, or I swear to God- OH!”

Crowley was apparently feeling obedient. Just one saliva-slicked digit, but it was long and it was solid and Aziraphale’s body clenched around it desperately as it slid slowly home.

“I can’t take it when you swear. Makes me feel all hot and liquid inside.” Crowley bit at thigh, tickled the tip of his tongue at the muscles tight around his finger. “Unhh, look at you, your greedy little hole sucking me in. You take it so well. Let my tongue in too, I’ll be so gentle, just slip it in slow, loads of spit, nice and wet, oh Angel, you’re so perfect.”

He was so desperate for it, his body was so hungry. Aziraphale felt like he was losing his mind, more than a little. It was uncomfortable, it was a spiky kind of sore, but he wanted more of it. He gave his answer by pulling his knees forward under himself, opening himself wider and pushing his arse back towards Crowley. 

“Oh christ.” Crowley shoved his face into Aziraphale’s backside and, as promised, slowly and gently wiggled his tongue in alongside his finger. Undulated it, panted and moaned into him, and stretched him wider. 

He fucked his finger in and out, pushed in another. It was amazing, the drag and slick, the deeper feeling and the shallow soft sensations together. Aziraphale was going to come like this, he was going to come any second, he could feel it building.

And then, all of a sudden, his body had had enough and the spikiness came back, hot tingles up his spine. He must have made a noise of discomfort, clenched hard perhaps, because Crowley knew, pulling out immediately, and carefully. 

“Ok, ok, too much, sorry,” Crowley soothed. He crawled up the bed and collapsed down beside him, wiping his wet face on the sleeve at the side of his elbow. And he stated, perfectly seriously, “You have the best arse in the country. If not the world. Possibly the universe. I want to eat you out and fuck you for days.”

Aziraphale’s body took a minute to calm down. Crowley waited patiently, lying beside him, looking his fill at the naked form beside his own fully clothed one. 

“Have you got your boots on the bed?” Aziraphale said, finally breaking the contented silence.

“No! Of course not.” But he kicked about a bit and there were two distinct thumps that sounded very much like boots falling on the floor. Then he turned onto his side and shuffled a little closer. “We don’t have to do anything, but... do you want to top me?”

Aziraphale had to close his eyes. And breathe deeply for a moment. His cock had perked back up immediately. “Oh God. Yes please.”

Crowley was a vision, just as Aziraphale had known he would be, half naked - shirt open to show tattoos and tensed muscles, jeans and underwear still hooked up around one knee, hard cock leaking in hand. Aziraphale pushed a leg between his thighs, pushed his tongue between his lips, encouraged him to open up. He had lube-slicked fingers, and Crowley jerked at the first contact of them at his backside. 

“Sshh,” Aziraphale soothed him, pulling back to give a few millimetres of space between their mouths. Enough space for him to watch Crowley’s face carefully, study his reactions and commit them to memory and remember them forever. He used Crowley's own words, remembering how they'd made him feel. “I’ve got you.”

Crowley’s eyes smiled, though his mouth dropped open as he felt the pad of a finger stroking gently but surely. Aziraphale couldn’t not kiss him then. He sucked at his bottom lip as he circled carefully around the furled tightness down there, spreading lube and rubbing kindly. 

“Tell me what you want.” 

He wasn’t Crowley, he couldn’t spew filth from his mouth effortlessly, he couldn’t drop lewd words like casual conversation. He could let Crowley do it for him, though. Especially as the command was making Crowley’s legs open wider, squeezing his hand around the tip of his cock, stuttering his breath in his chest.

“Open me up nice and gentle, Angel. Feed me your fingers so slowly that I’m begging for you. Spoil me." Crowley arched a little towards Aziraphale as a finger breached his arse. “That’s it. So good, so easy. Fucking finger me so slow, so deep, until I can’t breathe.”

Crowley had said he didn't need this, Aziraphale could just leap on and fuck in if he wanted. But there was something so intimate about it: careful touches, breaching a body with your hands and building it up to a height with delicate movements. When he’d said he wanted to do this, to touch him and feel him, Crowley had looked so soft and surprised that Aziraphale felt almost sad. So he stroked inside him, in the heat and squeeze of him, until Crowley was whining into his mouth, needy little keens, his jaw lax and open, his eyes tightly shut.

He waited until they were both completely sweating and desperate, and then he slipped out. Crowley was on his belly before Aziraphale's fingers were even free, pushing his backside into the air demandingly. 

The push in was so slow it ached, and the breach must have been incredible. Crowley was incredible: sweat beading on his forehead, teeth sinking into his lip. And he begged so prettily, just as he’d said he would.

Aziraphale smoothed his palm up and down Crowley’s spine. Then lay himself down over the hard body beneath him and rocked in and out carefully, just little tips of his hips, shifting inside. Tight and hot, the give of flesh and the tense of muscles. He listened to Crowley, the breathless grunts and the whispered encouragements. He watched the clenching of hands into the duvet as their movements lengthened. Crowley was so beautiful, and he was inside of him, and just that was nearly overwhelming.

“Pillow,” Crowley demanded suddenly, “Get me the humping pillow.”

The laugh bubbled out of Aziraphale immediately, which made Crowley laugh too. And the fact they they were having deep and meaningful sex and laughing throughout was something that made his heart feel hot, like he’d taken a mouthful of tea too soon and it was scalding in his chest. He got the pillow, he wrestled it beneath Crowley and he nearly came at the noise that came from him at the angle adjustment. 

“Fucking fuck .” Crowley had apparently lost any other words for a minute. “Fuck, oh fuck.”

“Good?” Aziraphale shifted further up on his knees and pushed in, down and deep. “More?”

Crowley could only moan in response. Aziraphale took it to mean a yes, please, harder. And he obeyed. Judging from the rhythmic writhing of hips and increasing volume from the chest beneath him, it was the correct translation. 

Crowley’s orgasm was spectacular. Aziraphale was determined to make him come first. He knew it was approaching from the frantic movements, the even more broken breaths. Crowley arched, his head lifted up from the bed, so Aziraphale reached for his hair, stroked his hand through the sweat damp fluff of it. Then came a moment when the heat clenched too tight around his cock, shooting electric heat through Aziraphale’s body and his fingers tightened in Crowley’s hair, accidentally pulling sharply enough to make him hiss. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

Crowley growled. “Pull.”

And so Crowley came, hard, with Aziraphale yanking brutally on his hair. He still wasn’t loud, he still bit it back behind his teeth as his hips bucked and his spine heaved. It went on for an impressively long time, violent and vivid. One day, Aziraphale swore to himself, he would hear those noises, free, echoing round the room. 

There was almost the chance to follow him over, but not quite, so after a few moments, he slipped carefully out of Crowley’s body, and let him fall, boneless and panting, to the bed. And then he took hold and finished himself off, looking at the deliciously blissed-out sight in front of him. 

“You’d better be doing that over my arse, Angel.”

He did. It was brilliant. 

“You know, it just occurred to me that I don’t actually know your name.”

Crowley laughed and laughed, his chest bouncing and his belly sucking in for breath. “You mean, hang on a second, Mr. Crowley, I believe you have put your tongue up my arsehole and I have yet to catch your good Christian name.”

“Oh stop,” Aziraphale admonished, nudging him with an elbow, but laughing too. 

Crowley finally stopped cackling quite so hard, but still letting small chuckles escape. “Anthony. The A stands for Anthony.”

“Anthony. Ok.” He didn’t feel like an Anthony. He felt like... Crowley. “J. What does the J stand for?”

“Ehhyeeummeeah, s’just a J really.” 

“A family thing?”

“Noooo…” Crowley struggled with stopping there, needed to add more, so Aziraphale waited patiently, and soon enough it came. “I don’t have any family.”

Oh. Oh good lord. This man was going to break his heart, Aziraphale could already tell. He hooked himself up to lean on an elbow and look down at Crowley. He laid his palm flat on the bones of Crowley’s chest, felt the life beating beneath them, and listened.

“First foster home gave me Anthony, probably luck of the alphabet. I chose Crowley as soon as I had the freedom to. But A Crowley sounds a bit like… A Thing. Had enough of being a thing. So I added a J.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t not put a smart kiss on the bare shoulder beside him. Carry on if you need , he was saying. 

“So yes. I have some… issues . They’re mostly sorted, as much as they can be. Abandonment and self-worth, yadda yadda. But there’s probably several others that I don’t know about, so sorry in advance.”

Didn’t bother him. In the slightest. Apart from the fact that he hated that Crowley had to have them at all. Everyone had issues of some sort or another, Lord knows, he had enough himself. Aziraphale swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, but he had to ask the question. “Do you still see them, the Crowleys?”

Crowley’s head turned to him so fast it must have hurt.

He had to explain, didn’t he? Aziraphale pushed down with his hand, reminding Crowley of its presence on his chest. “When you said the name, and that you chose it, I felt the love, here. The warmth and affection. They were yours for a while, weren’t they? If not your family, they were something. Do you still see them?”

“Friends. They were my friends. Are. You felt it?”

“You talk to plants, so let’s not be making eyes at me about that,” Aziraphale scolded half-heartedly. “Do you still see them?” 

“At least once a month. Plus birthdays, Christmas, all that.” 

“Oh good.” It was good. It was heartbreaking, but good. “I’m glad.”

“I know you are. Because you feel shit like this, don’t you?” Crowley looked at him then, all wide golden eyes. “You care too much, you know?”

“I think I care just the right amount.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley allowed. And then he pushed him over and kissed him. “What’s for dinner?”

Aziraphale made a shepherd’s pie. Crowley interfered. The carrots were nibbled and the mashed potato sampled until they nearly had to make more, the red wine was drunk instead of added and in the end Aziraphale threatened him with a wooden spoon until he slunk into the living room and played on his phone while he waited.

“You need a TV in here. Why do you have no TV? How do you survive?” Crowley called belligerently. “Smart TV with catch-up and Netflix and Prime. I’ll get you one, Angel, this is not the dark ages. What do you do? How are you not insane? How do you watch porn? And don’t tell me you don’t watch bake-off, you cake-fiend, I think I’ll faint!”

Aziraphale snorted at Crowley’s sudden rage over the supposed injustice. His voice was rising to full on yelling levels of volume, about The Great British Bake Off of all things. Aziraphale scooted the casserole dish into the oven, nudged the door shut with his foot and joined him in the other room. And pointed out reasonably, “I have a laptop, darling.”

Just as he was about to sit down at the other end of the sofa, Crowley grabbed hold of his hand and tugged him over. “Come and make out with me until dinner’s ready.”

“It’ll be half an hour!” But he wasn’t really protesting, he was climbing over to straddle Crowley’s lap and enjoying his cheeky grin. Sampling it with his own.

“Perfect.”

Chapter Text

It was damp. He was damp. Being damp was the worst. Hot was bad, cold was awful, wet was worse. Damp… the worst. Everything clinging to wrinkled skin and chilly enough to be uncomfortable yet not cold enough to shiver or complain. Damp was the creation of the devil, Crowley was sure of it. 

The work van was parked on his Angel’s drive, taking up the empty space beside his cutesy little hatchback, so Crowley had swerved and pulled up on Anathema’s driveway. She wouldn’t mind. Or if she did, he didn’t much care. 

Unfortunately the van’s presence meant the gardeners were still working - must have been running late, the mizzley rain had fucked them all up that morning. He hadn’t intended on getting back before they left; he had no idea how to act now. Ugh, how annoying. He hadn’t quite figured out what he was to Aziraphale yet, how to act in front of others, let alone his own employees. They’d been shagging for at least a month, but it was more than just that, shagging, wasn’t it? So what was he supposed to do?

Maybe he should just sneak in, he could have a shower and warm up a bit and hope they’d left before he’d finished. The front door greeted him with a familiar clunk as he entered. Aziraphale’s greeting followed it. “Crowley? Is that you?”

He kicked off his work boots in the hallway, shoved them to the side with his foot into the dirty spot behind the door, marked and muddy with the signature of their previous presence there.  There were books spread all over the coffee table, a half-drunk cup of tea and a crumby plate, but no Angel. 

“I’m in the kitchen. Just making coffee for Adam and Pepper. Do you want one too?” 

No. He didn’t want coffee. Aziraphale was soft and rumpled and delightfully domestic, and that inspired a completely different want in him. Absent-minded hands had been run through his pale hair; it was all fluffed up at the top. Crowley could picture the movement now - his Angel, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose just as he would have been perched at the edge of the sofa. Elbows on his knees while he examined his new old books on the table, fingers making tracks through his white-golden curls, releasing them to frizz together, only to be teased at all over again. 

Crowley gave in to his want, and stepped up behind him, sliding his dirty hands around Aziraphale’s soft middle, ducking to rest his pointed chin on the welcoming curve of his shirted shoulder. He inhaled, absorbing the fine paper dust and tea tannins, the shadow of cologne and fabric conditioner, highlights of honey shampoo. Aziraphale leaned his head lovingly, his temple against Crowley.

“No coffee? Hard day?”

“Damp.” He mumbled, leaving his teeth clenched together so he didn’t dig uncomfortably into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Oh, the worst.” Aziraphale commiserated. Then pointed out, “You’re making me all grubby.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” he chided, the smile clear in his voice. He didn’t mind either. He never did. “I’ll just take these drinks out.”

Nope. Crowley was too comfortable here, leaning his weight on the steady form in front of him. He refused to move, tightening his arms, shuffling his feet forward until his whole body was in contact. He did, however, let Aziraphale move a little, turning in the hold of his arms, slipping his hands up to take off his sunglasses and hang his arms around Crowley’s neck, dangling the metal frames in the air behind him.

“Your workers will go on strike,” he warned, but apparently didn’t care either because he tipped his head back to kiss Crowley. 

He’d never get over it. He could kiss this man everyday, as much as he wanted. Could sup at the joy of his lips, the taste of his affection. Sink his sharp bones into the soft embrace of this absolute Angel, drink in the used air from his lungs until it made his head spin. His hands tightened into cotton and scrumpled it in his hands. He could feel the dried mud crusting off him into dust, making even more of a mess of the shirt.

Aziraphale’s kiss was gentle, romantic, tender. It made Crowley’s body feel hot, made his toes want to wiggle against the stone floor. He pulled him even closer, let it graduate into a deeper sort of kiss, full on, wet and warmth, with an exquisite dash of sex to flavour it. He dipped his tongue out to chase across the underbelly of a top lip. Fucking delicious. There was a half-hearted token resistance, as Aziraphale undoubtedly thought of the coffee growing cold on the counter and the gardeners just outside the door. Fuck them all. 

Crowley felt the moment he gave in, breathed in the change in the air he was drinking, the sharp tang of want glittering around the edges. The arms around his neck tightened, pulling him down and he let his spine take the strain, rather than lose the contact he was fostering between their lower bodies. Yanked Aziraphale’s hips closer, pushed his filthy work clothes against his clean fabrics, dark and light, dirty and no longer untouched. He’d be leaving handprints and smears on Aziraphale’s outfit. Marks of use and curses of his presence. Perfect. He bit at Aziraphale’s lip, sucked it into his mouth to worry at it.  

There was a scuff at the back door, the sound of an approach and a swift retreat. Jesus wept, they picked their bloody moments, didn’t they? He’d fire the lot of them.

“What?” He pulled his mouth away to bark out. Pressed a small smooch of apology on Aziraphale’s swollen lower lip, licked it better a little. A little more.

Then Adam came back. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t… know you were... here.”

No, of course he didn’t. And the fact that not only had his boss turned up unexpectedly, but was also necking with the customer was probably even more of a surprise. 

Ah well, back to that earlier problem - he’d soon find out how Aziraphale expected him to act in front of people. Half of him, and he hated that half, expected to be treated as the filthy gardener, offering the cliched rough and tumble tryst. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But Aziraphale wasn’t like that, was he? And this wasn’t some casual fuck with the weekly maintenance visit - take care of the garden, take care of the client up against the side of the conservatory, press her naked back into the cold glass, leave bootprints in the flowerbed and fingerprints on her body, just what she wanted. 

No, this was a relationship. He wouldn’t be sent off with a winked thanks and fingers creeping around his body to slide a tip into his pocket. 

Instead, Aziraphale sent him off with a stroking palm to his cheek and a soft kiss to his cheekbone. “Go and have a shower, darling, and let me take these hard workers some sustenance before they faint. Look at poor Adam, he’s positively grey.”

Crowley didn’t think that was from low blood sugar. 

The shower was absolute shit. He was going to have to do something about it. Aziraphale deserved a multi-jet power shower that would massage tired muscles and possibly pound the skin from his body in a most pleasurable way. Maybe Crowley would plumb him one in for part of his Christmas present or something. There was no way that unashamed hedonist would not find that a perfect gift. 

It occurred to Crowley then, that it was only just October and he was already planning Christmas presents. Count your chickens, and all that. He mushed his face into the hard chill of the tiles for a second and called himself all sorts of names. And then he washed his hair in Aziraphale’s expensive organic shampoo and conditioner anyway, because he was a dickhead and he liked to smell like him.

While he’d been behind the shower curtain (that one day soon he’d change for a posh glass door), someone had crept up and moved his towel from its heap on the floor to hang nicely over the radiator. Not someone; clearly Aziraphale, the sneaky little shit. It was a mini orgasm, pressing the soft, warm pile to his face. And the feeling in his chest was even warmer. 

It didn’t dissipate at all, either, because when he trailed wet footprints to the bedroom to find something clean to wear, the stack of his clothes that had been leaned precariously against the wall under the window had disappeared. The ‘leaning tower of Crowley’ had been steadily growing and leaning over the last couple of weeks as he came here wearing clothes and they were absorbed into the laundry basket, washed and hung on the line; his black slim cut jeans alongside beige chinos and dark t-shirts flapping in the wind with cream cotton shirts. 

He didn’t even spend a second staring at the space, because beside it was Aziraphale’s chest of drawers, and the second one down was open, his own folded clothes tucked inside, practically singing at him. Operatic arias of love and triumph. He wanted to carry on, pull some out and pull some on, but he was stuck. Stuck standing and looking at them. 

They had never discussed this. They had never. He had never even dared to assume he would ever be allowed. He had never considered the space would be made for him. People didn’t make space for Crowley; he shouldered in and made it himself, or just didn’t bother. 

“Fuck.”

“Is that not ok?” His Angel had approached him quietly from behind, and when he turned to him the worry was clear. He thought he had overstepped. 

There were no words. He had no words to reassure him, to rub that look of concern from his face, to unwrinkle his forehead and sprinkle the sparkle back into his eyes. Crowley wasn’t a crier, but for some reason there was an uncomfortable bump in his throat, a burning behind his eyes. Aziraphale, as always, saw. He saw it all. 

He took hold of Crowley’s face, palms to cheeks. “Stay.”

Crowley nodded. 

“Here, with me, Crowley. Be with me.”

“Yes, please.” He finally found his voice. It wobbled traitorously though, so he shoved forward instead, lowered his mouth down onto his and said it that way instead. ‘ Forever, please ’ he wanted to say. 

“I want to keep you.” Aziraphale spoke into his mouth, pushed his words inside for Crowley to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

Those weren’t just random words, Crowley knew. He knew Aziraphale knew exactly what he was saying and exactly what it would mean. Just like he knew what it would mean for Crowley to not have his clothes in a pile, ready to move on. Just like he knew how hard it would be for Crowley to believe anyone actually wanted him, and that he would have to say it plainly and clearly. Just like he knew to keep their faces pressed together so Crowley could process it without being looked at. How did he know these things?

“I love you.” 

Crowley hadn’t meant for that to come out of his mouth at all. That was a problem Aziraphale usually had, his mouth saying things he didn’t mean it to. It was apparently catching. Not that he didn’t mean it, no he’d meant it for a long time. But never, for a second, would he have consciously put himself out there and admitted it.

Aziraphale didn’t falter, not even for a second, he kissed at Crowley’s eyelids and tugged at his hair and laughed softly. “Oh good, because I love you too, and it would have been bloody awful if you didn’t.”

He had made him coffee, of course he had. It was a perfectly drinkable temperature, when Crowley got downstairs and found it in the kitchen. He smiled to himself as he slurped his first mouthful, liquid heat, the bitterness somehow sweet in the fact that it was made for him. And the fact that he was a sappy tart right then and drinking mud would have probably made him happy.

The kitchen floor was chilly on his bare feet, and he curled his toes up under him as he stood and drained the mug. Then he went to help Adam and Pepper pack up. 

Both of them gave a visible double take at the sight of him. He didn’t know whether it was due to the fact that he was still there and they’d expected him to disappear off home; or that he was showered and now wearing slouchy black yoga pants, an old band t-shirt and Aziraphale’s crocs (not that he would ever admit putting his feet into those monstrosities, comfortable or not); or that he appeared to be in a good mood after the day they’d all had. 

“Put the bloody guard over that hedgetrimmer before you start swinging it about or there’ll be no blade left,” he snapped at Pepper. She rolled her eyes at him, but pulled the cover over it anyway. That was better, back to normal.

Pepper paused as she passed him. “So… you…”

He had the choice of answering the obvious question or waiting and making her finish it. He waited. It would be more entertaining. 

“And Mr. Aziraphale?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you…?"

"Are we?"

"Y'know."

“If you say fucking, I will--”

“No! I was going to say together . Living together and snogging together in the kitchen like teenagers and being all mushy and romantic. Are you together-together, like a real couple?”

“Rather than a pretend one?”

“Crowley, oh my God!” Pepper lost whatever patience she had, threw an arm up in the air and stomped off in her usual dramatic fashion. 

Aziraphale shuffled up beside him. His blue eyes twinkled, his smile curving and colouring his cheeks like ripe fruit. He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Crowley’s stubbly cheek. “Never change.”

THE END