Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley has never felt more miserable in his whole life. And it isn't as though the job he'd just lost is worth the wretched feelings inside him or the headache that’s edging closer. No, Crowley could have kicked that blasted job to the curb, no hesitation. Draconian shifts, terribly underpaid, and frankly demonic coworkers who revel in making the others trip over paperwork that seemed to have been devised by Satan himself. Or God, on a really bad day. 

Whatever. Anyway.

The point is that, in any other situation, it would have been an immense relief to have been booted.

Now, however…

Crowley shoulders his way down to the Tottenham Court Station, brushing past cardigans and cashmere overcoats tightly wrapped around a myriad of people. He cowers into his own black coat and raises his collar. The cold gust of air is managing to find the perfect spots to knife at his skin, eliciting shivers despite his heavily layered clothing. The weather continues its relentless downward path toward freezing, uncaring of the poor humans seized in its claws, and it's still too early in December for a hope of a plateau to which Crowley could acclimate and finally stop anticipating worse. He hates cold with a passion reptiles would envy. 

He taps the silvery metal rail with a gloved hand and wishes, not for the first time, he could bend the laws of physics to manifest himself at the bookshop without delay. The thought stirs the swarm of butterflies that has taken his gut as headquarters since he moved in with Aziraphale.

Yep. There they go in a flurry at the name. Oh, fuck, what a sap he is.  

He sits in a vacant spot and vaguely registers the swish of the doors as they close.

The bookshop. Aziraphale.

Which, or preferably who, is the reason his unemployment is definitely not heaven sent. Back a year and a half ago, Crowley had found himself really in a spot of trouble: nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat, scant possessions, and just when he'd thought it was better to start looking for quarters at St. Mungo's, Aziraphale had happened. 

Crowley hadn't really been expecting much when he answered the ad about a roommate. Rents were always too steep, and even though it was Soho, he shouldn’t have dared to hope. But, idiot that he was, he'd hoped nonetheless. And, bloody hell, he'd been rewarded in spades. 

As soon as Aziraphale had heard his story, he'd welcomed him in, asking him for nothing until he was back on his feet. Which had been a bit worrying because what if Aziraphale had run into someone who had taken advantage of his trusting nature? Crowley shivers thinking about it now. An angel, Crowley had called him then, before thanking him profusely, and it hadn't been long before Crowley had found his way back into the realm of the economically active population…

… falling absolutely arse over teakettle in love with Aziraphale in the process.

When he'd found out the bookshop below their flat, which was Aziraphale's pride and joy, wasn’t making much of a profit, Crowley hadn't hesitated to chip in more than the agreed rent. He’d had to force Aziraphale to accept his money in return for all the time Crowley had leeched off him - in his own words - for house and food. It'd been difficult to make him accept, but Crowley had put his foot down on the matter. 

And for a time everything had been absolutely wonderful, and Crowley had found himself fantasizing about finally pouring the contents of his heart onto Aziraphale's khaki-clad lap, and bracing for the outcome.

Which always included a pink-cheeked version of Aziraphale, who would say beautiful things to Crowley before kissing him with abandon amidst books filled with stories of love that would never hold a candle to theirs. Maybe some song would be wafting around, like in a Barbra Streisand movie. 

He had bided his time because the moment never seemed to arrive. Never seemed perfect or enough. He had kept on waiting for a chance, a blessed chance, until now.

And now…

Crowley sighs as he steps from the Tube and climbs the stairs eagerly, three at a time, practically sprinting his way to the bookshop. 

He'll have to break the news to Aziraphale, which will absolutely be a blow. And Crowley sighs yet again because now he'll have to wait even longer. Wait until the financial things settle. No need to manufacture some hair-brained confession; he can't encumber Aziraphale with such heavy non-essential information right now. And if that resolution sounds like cowardice — a feeling that worms its way to the forefront of him more often than not — Crowley stomps on it viciously.

When he finally reaches the bookshop, Crowley pushes the door open, a shoulder sagged under his satchel strap, and has to doggedly bite back a growl. Oh, bollocks . The not-perfect ending to the not-perfect day. The little bell at the top chimes merrily, but instead of carrying him to that wonderful, familiar place of comfort, it makes his already high levels of anger kick up several notches. There's no mistaking the voice coming from the back of the shop. That horrible tone of affectation, slimy insincerity straining every word, can only belong to a certain someone. 

A certain someone Crowley would've very much liked to hurl out of the bookshop through the window, if it weren’t so bloody expensive to repair glass in London.  

"C'mon, Aziraphale, I know you're barely making ends meet," Gabriel says, his frankly massive back blocking Crowley’s view of his Angel. "Isn't it easier to sell me your Wilde? I'll take care of it, I swear." Crowley gives a tentative step forward and lets go of his satchel with a studied lack of finesse. 

Gabriel turns at the sound and raises a disapproving brow as he looks at him. As he always has. As if Crowley’s nothing but a smear on the wallpaper. So Crowley gives him his best toothy, false grin in return. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale says, smiling fit to burst, cheeks bunched up in an expression of utter delight. 

"Hey, Angel, ready to go to dinner?"

Okay, perhaps a small lie. It isn't planned, but Crowley knows how much Aziraphale abhors Gabriel. There'd been a time, about a year ago, when the mere mention of his name would've made Crowley bang pots and pans on his own head, but since the day Aziraphale broke up with him, realizing what a piece of work he was, Crowley found himself in a better mood to ask questions first and punch later.

Therefore, no hurling through any windows. At least, not tonight. 

"Of course, my dear," Aziraphale says. "Gabriel was just leaving."

Gabriel throws a glance back at Crowley and smirks. Gosh , Crowley really hates that tosser. "Very well. I'm leaving, but remember, Aziraphale. You know where to find me if you change your mind. On anything." He winks. He winks , and Crowley’s fucking beside himself with rage, wanting nothing but to gouge his fucking disturbing purple eyes out. Bastard.

Aziraphale sputters indignantly, his face blushing crimson, as they both watch him leave.

"You okay there, Angel?" Crowley asks, sauntering closer. But not too close. Never too close. He doesn’t want to test his limits, he isn’t that strong. 

“Yes, quite, dear boy. No need to make a fuss,” he says, although it’s painfully obvious Aziraphale is more than rattled. He rubs his hands over his worn waistcoat and sighs. 

“What did the tosser want?” 

“Oh, nothing new. The same things he has always wanted.” Aziraphale snatches a book from a shelf and grazes his fingers over the deep blue cover, tracing the gold filigree of the letters, and Crowley finds himself feeling an absurd desire to become something readable. Something Aziraphale would enjoy, would caress and tend to. Ridiculous. “My House of Pomegranates first edition.”   

“Why now? Didn’t you send him packing a few months ago?”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh, and the line of his shoulders sags. “I guess… I guess he must’ve heard about…” He makes a circular all-encompassing motion with his hand that Crowley understands rather well. 

Crowley tsks and flops on a nearby chair. “I hate it, Angel. I wish I could make it better and--”

“No, no, dear. It’s not your fault. I’m just terrible at marketing and apparently people prefer those flashy new places where you can find reams upon reams of written pages that certainly shouldn’t have been written to begin with. What a waste of good paper.”

He knows Aziraphale would eat his hand rather than sell the most recent best-sellers. Everything in here has been written by people long dead and turned to dust. Talking about the “ death of the author, ” if ever the concept was applied more thoroughly. Crowley chuckles, seeing Aziraphale puff and huff and, even like this, with that expression of haughty disregard, he looks rather… adorable. Which, again, makes Crowley feel something that he desperately tries to tuck away, because right now isn’t the time. 

And he could've stayed there, basking in the sight of his adorable angel, but a particularly cruel thread of thoughts pulls at his attention in a certainly unbefitting way. 

“Oh shit, Angel!" Crowley palms his forehead, his spine springing ramrod straight.

Aziraphale turns, a keen edge on his words. “What is it, dear?”

“Fuck, I know this isn’t the best moment for it, but," Crowley sighs, "I lost my job.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, placing a hand on his chest, his face losing the knots of concern. “You scared me. I thought you were going to tell me something horrible.”

“But this is horrible, Aziraphale! I can’t afford to lose my job. How am I supposed to help you with expenses and all that? We’re already hanging by a thread with the rent as it is.”

"Oh, dear,” Aziraphale tuts. “The situation isn’t as dire as you seem to think. You mustn’t let yourself repine. I'll look into the matter and, honestly, Crowley, you have already done so much for me. The bookshop is my problem."

"Nonsense! C'mon, Angel. You took me in when I was beyond broke! This isn't charity. This is just me paying back what I owe you."

Aziraphale shakes his head and gathers Crowley’s hand within his own, sending him effectively reeling, and could the screaming in his brain just stop, please? That would be rather nice. "You owe me nothing," Aziraphale says, firmly. “We’re friends, and I won’t hear another word about it.”

Crowley blocks the fluttering of his gut and sets his jaw to try to rein in his thoughts. “Regardless. Think about it like this, if you want,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale lets his hand go. “If you lose the bookshop, then I lose a place to live as well, so… call it a matter of self-interest.” 

Aziraphale looks at him, considering, his face finally warming up in a smile that melts Crowley's insides like butter under the sun. "No need to worry about that now, dear. We'll deal with it when we deal with it. Now, come along, I think it's time for supper."

An hour later Crowley plops down on the worn Chesterfield and kicks out his long legs, stretching like a cat. "That was delicious, Angel. I didn't know you could make such good Caper Cod."

"I still have some hidden abilities that might surprise you," Aziraphale says, ambling into the small living room. He has changed his coat for his old, threadbare cream jumper, a piece of clothing Crowley has an immense affection for. He knows that if he could bury his face in it and steal a whiff of the hoarded treasure that is Aziraphale's scent, he could well die a happy man. "So, what about some, how goes the saying… eh, Netflix and chill?"

Crowley smirks and cocks a brow, "Been getting in touch with the 21st century, haven't you? Finally come around to check the Google?" He bends his legs to make room for Aziraphale on the couch, waiting for him to settle before throwing them out again, now over Aziraphale's thighs.

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale says, extending the afghan over them both, tucking it neatly around Crowley's socked feet with the care of someone who knows exactly how much Crowley detests cold. "Honestly, my dear, just because I couldn't parse your speech about social media doesn't mean I'm not perfectly attuned to modern technology and terminology. In my defense, how was I supposed to know a Twitter isn't just a chirp? Seriously, they should've come up with a better name."

Ridiculously and utterly adorable.

"Meh. Mayhaps," Crowley says, and hides the star-struck smile that threatens to flash on his face. "You need to prove it, though, so pick the movie. And it has to be something from this geological era."

Aziraphale snatches the remote from his hand, muttering something between his teeth, and soon Crowley is watching some horrible adaptation of one of Shakespeare's plays, wondering why on Earth Aziraphale has such poor taste in films, being the most obnoxiously pedantic person regarding the written word.

Mysteries of the cosmos, Crowley thinks.

They're halfway through the movie before the weariness of Crowley’s day finally starts to dissipate. Every strained nerve and taut muscle relaxes in the warmth of the room, the white sound of the telly, and the grounding pressure of Aziraphale's thighs. Aziraphale's thighs . His overactive imagination wanders and he bites back a very inappropriate sound. Crowley isn't sure when his eyes fluttered shut but, as happens in most dreams, ragtag images and recurrent reveries lace and overlap, a manuscript filled with his innermost desires, writing themselves over and over again, as if by now Aziraphale were etched in his mind. Frankly, he isn't complaining.

He jolts awake during a particularly lewd turn of events only to realize, with a sense of shock, the gentle graze of skin to skin has chased him from the dream realm and it's very much present in the here and now. Right now. Because Aziraphale is caressing the small space between his trousers and socks, where his ankles are bare, and his skin feels like it’s burning. Every brush sears him to the core and stirs things Crowley had hoped to keep snuffed. He pretends to be asleep a moment longer, not ready to let this go. He gazes at the soft profile, at the expression of pure content dancing on Aziraphale's face, and he feels his heart about to burst out of his chest.

Fuck . Aziraphale is beautiful. How can someone be so beautiful that it makes it physically impossible not to ache while looking at them? Because Aziraphale has that covered completely, and now Crowley gulps, because how could someone like him pretend to reach such an angel? His gut twists, bright joy turned dusk, and he grasps desperately at the hope that, someday, Aziraphale could be his. He effectively stomps down on the nagging thought that if Aziraphale wanted something with him, he would have clearly said something by now. 

Wouldn’t he? It's been almost a year now. No, no, better not to think about it. 

The movie credits roll and Crowley stretches, feeling the hurried retreat of Aziraphale's hand, but he tries not to read too much into it. 

"Good movie," Crowley says, "really compelling, eh…"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale tuts, a light blush on his cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous. You were positively asleep."

Crowley winces. “Gosh. Sorry, angel. I’m really knackered.” He curls in on himself, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, setting his feet on the carpeted floor. “Swear to God, next time I’ll be fully, one hundred percent awake, okay?”

Aziraphale laughs, clear and joyful as anything. “No need to apologize, dear, you’re practically sleeping now, perched there on the edge of the sofa.” Aziraphale folds the afghan and stands up. “So now, off you go. To bed, come now, chop-chop.”

Crowley hauls himself up, mimicking a salute. “Good night, Angel,” he says, and buries the need to reach and touch , as he does every night. 

He opens the door of his room, and when he turns to close it, he thinks he might have seen the fleeting shudder of a sigh escaping Aziraphale’s lips, a particular twinkle to his eyes.

But he's beyond tired, and the angel is probably all worn out as well. 

Chapter Text

As comfortable as it is to roll around wrapped in high-thread-count sheets, angular lines and dips of skin bathed by bleak morning light, Crowley drags himself out of the bed, his mind set on job hunting.

He jumps quickly into the shower where the last slivers of drowsiness get washed away in rivulets of steamy water with a very particular brand of glycerin soap. He then hurries to get ready, picking his most flattering outfit from his perfectly organized closet; black shoes, crisp grey trousers, white button-up and burgundy tie, adding his black coat and a grey polka-dot silk scarf. He gives himself a once-over on the mirror, artfully tousling his hair, and he hums, pleased with the result.

Quite good taste in fashion, he thinks, even if it's an idle boast. 

It's one of the things he has always cultivated carefully - just a smattering of arrogance, really - which has served him well on countless occasions. He’s used it many times to woo potential partners in shady bars, ending up slotted between a body and a grey wall, soaking in the smoke and the touches and the afterburn of pale whiskey…. 

Crowley shakes his head. That was a long time ago, back when he was a lot more foolish and several years younger. Right now, there's no one who can catch his eye besides a certain literal angel-on-earth, currently pottering around the books and hand-hewn furniture, oblivious to his situation.

And he would be lying if he said the carefully-chosen cologne he dabs on his neck, on the inner part of sinewy wrists, was just an insignificant afterthought and not the purposeful last touch of the package he assembles in an attempt to make an impression on said angel. 

It's kind of pathetic, really.

Crowley sighs.

When he reaches the kitchen, he finds Aziraphale there standing next to the island, fingers of one hand tapping on the mahogany countertop, a piece of paper held in the other. He's frowning, a crease between those pale brows breaking the smooth line of his profile.

"Morning, Angel," Crowley says. 

"Morning, dear," Aziraphale answers, but his gaze stays fastened to the paper.

Crowley picks a mug and serves himself some coffee. "Er, something wrong? You look…"

"Ah. No, no. Not at all, nothing for you to worry about. Everything is fine. Absolutely tickety-boo," Aziraphale says with an uneasy little titter, pocketing the note. 

Crowley narrows his eyes. "C'mon, angel. Out with it. Sorry if you didn't want me to worry, but I regret to inform you that that ship has sailed. Puff. Gone over the horizon."

Aziraphale seems to ponder his options. Crowley can see his mind briskly at work, until he heaves a defeated sigh. "Oh, fine," Aziraphale says, reaching for the paper and handing it to Crowley. "It's from Sandalphon."

"Your landlord?" Crowley asks, his eyes roving over the words. He has never met the man because Aziraphale has insisted, time and again, on dealing with the “nuisance of his presence,” as he says, by himself.

"Yes."

The news is certainly discouraging. The lease is going to be rewritten within the week, including raising the rent. This, it says, is justified by the stated escalation in the value of the property because of the improvements in surrounding businesses. According to Sandalphon, the area is a commercial goldmine.

Crowley slams the note onto the counter. "This is terrible!"

"P-perhaps just a tad," Aziraphale says.

"A tad," Crowley echoes. His brows shoot up to his hairline, very much despite himself. 

"Aziraphale, he's asking for a fifty percent increase!"

"All right!" Aziraphale snaps, finally, twisting his hands as if he’s wringing wet rags. "Fine. I admit it. It is perturbing. But Crowley, I'm asking you, please do not feel obligated to--"

"Stop. Stop that." He cinches bony fingers around Aziraphale's warm, soft hand and squeezes. "I already told you. It is my problem as well. So please, stop trying to leave me in the dark, because it's only making everything more bloody difficult. This is illegal, angel. Tell him you have a solicitor with you and that you'll fight against it. I won't let it happen."

Aziraphale swallows, a gulp that he can't hide, and stares at him with eyes wide, until finally he relents. "Very well. You're right, I suppose…"

Crowley pulls his hand away, fighting the need to clench it and chase the ghost of that blessed sensation. 

"… I suppose I'll telephone Sandalphon then," Aziraphale continues.

"Yeah. You do that, and I'll be on my way then," Crowley says, taking a gulp of his coffee before settling the mug in the sink. "I’ll call you if I find anything."

And with that, he strolls out the bookshop and into the fog-choked streets. 

Crowley can feel his feet pulsing inside his shoes, the pain like barbs sinking under tendons and veins, slicing his flesh. Morning had sped past among sleek buildings and crowded lobbies of known law firms, while Crowley left his resume on top of every desk that would allow him to. He'd recognized a few of his classmates, now prosperous solicitors treading the pristine marble floors on their way to fancy offices and tight schedules. 

That could've been him if he hadn't squandered opportunities. If he hadn't spent a good chunk of his life fighting his parents and the choices he wasn’t allowed to make on his own. 

It's all water under the bridge now. 

He certainly hopes, expects , the reminders of old times and promises of cricket on Sundays will be enough to secure him a position. What really has Crowley worried out of his skin is time . Because even if he can get back on track in the job area, it could be a whole month before he sees any real money, and he can't rely on his insubstantial savings.

They're fucked . 

His mobile pings, and he plucks it out of his pocket, mind still bouncing between income, expenses, and wages, and the possibility of buying sushi for dinner, spending certainly necessary pounds, only because Aziraphale likes it and there’s nothing Crowley wouldn’t do to see a smile flash on that face. 

He peers at the screen of his iPhone. 

‘ lunch today? My treat. Haven’t seen you in forever .'

Anathema. Might as well use the scarce time he will allow himself for a break to catch up with his best friend before she hexes him for ghosting her. He owes her an update on what she calls the melodrama of his life. Like his admiration of Aziraphale and his oblivious - and magnificent - arse. 

'sure. where?’

‘chicken wings?’

‘can take the girl out of the States…'

‘shut up. you love them.’

‘not saying i don’t’

‘fine. see you where always.’

Crowley sighs. Bloody heaven, he loves Anathema, but seeing her is always as taxing as running a marathon. And there’s a reason he doesn’t own trainers. 

He’s already sitting at a table when Anathema strolls into the restaurant in a flurry of colorful skirts. 

“You’re un- believable,” she says as a greeting, tossing her knitted purse to the other side of the table before sliding on her seat.

“Course I am, thank you very much.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not even one call in almost three days. Not even a text!”

“Yeah. Been dealing with a bit of a hot mess, really.”

A server approaches them, carrying two glasses of water and menus, and they stop to order before continuing. 

“Well, spit it out," she says, leaning on the table with her arms crossed. "What has got you so grabbed by the balls that you couldn't even text me?"

Crowley rearranges in his seat, sprawling a bit wider. “I lost my fucking job, for starters,” he says, bitterly.

Anathema’s eyes blow wide behind her glasses and her jaw goes slack. “Holy shit! I’m sorry, man.” She opens her mouth and puffs, “How?”

“Downsizing,” Crowley says. “The firm isn’t as stable as they want everyone to think and, after Morningstar lost a high profile case, they had to let some people go.”

“Well, that sucks.”

"Wait 'til the end." Crowley takes a sip of his water. “That’s not everything.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nope. Aziraphale is still struggling with the bookshop, and now that wanker of a landlord wants to raise the rent and rewrite the lease. Within the week."

"Oh, Crowley." 

" And, get this, Gabriel just showed up yesterday to try and fuck things up again-"

" Noooooo ," Anathema drawls, encouraging. "Gabriel? Again?"

Anathema is such a good friend. She doesn't know Gabriel at all but, in sympathy with Crowley, she has always hated him with a passion that he finds rather commendable. It does help that he has passed on to her every little bit of information regarding how much of a twat Gabriel really was for the whole two neverending months he dated Aziraphale. "Yup," he says. "I fucking hate him."

"I know, babe."

"So, as you can see, we're completely fucked."

Anathema bites her lip, seemingly considering a question. "Then, I guess…"

"What?"

"Your plan to tell Aziraphale…?" She trails off and gestures, knowing full well he's catching her meaning. As if he hadn't nagged her with the same topic over and over and over. And over and over . 

"Yeah, it's on hold now. Can't pester him with things he doesn't need to know. He has bigger things to worry about."

For a moment, Crowley really actually thinks she's going to drop the subject, but that would be expecting too much. And he’d have to pretend he doesn't know Anathema as well as he does.

"I mean, I see your point. I really do," she says, proving his expectations right. "But from what you've told me…" She sighs. "Crowley, I'd bet my firstborn he feels the same about you."

Crowley smirks with just a light curl of his lip, because it isn't fucking wise to let himself get lost in hopes and daydreams of what reality could actually be if that were true. Perhaps he could do something as bold as to hold Aziraphale's hand, maybe even… kiss Aziraphale. Wild . His gut, ever helpful, clenches at the thought. No, no, no. Backtrack immediately . To start down that road is like walking into quicksand, and he very much likes terra firme . "I don't think Newt would let you honor that bet, to be honest," he says instead.

"Yes, well. I don't care. I'm that sure."

"Look. I really appreciate the cheerleading. You're the best cheerleader that ever cheerleaded..."

"Anthony…"

"Ugh. Don't call me that."

"Then shut up and listen." She straightens her back and grabs his hands, staring directly into his eyes as if she was trying to cast a spell or something. He wouldn't put it past her; Anathema can be a real menace sometimes. It's a bit unnerving, if nothing else. "He brought you breakfast in bed for your birthday. Took care of you when you were sick, going on the full home-made chicken soup experience. Read to you when you couldn’t sleep, went out of his freaking way just to get you something you like because you mentioned it once . Bought you fucking hydrangeas because they're your favourite, just because…"

Crowley feels warmth pool in his cheeks, creep slowly over his whole face, setting it alight with true embarrassment. He's blushing . Like a bloody Victorian maiden. "He's my friend," he says, and he isn't quite sure whether it's an assertion or an excuse to avoid exposing that all-encompassing fear of rejection that hedges him like glass whenever he thinks about Aziraphale. "That's what friends do."

Anathema tsks. "Oh, Crowley. Not even you can be that daft."

"Oi!"

"Seriously. I mean, we're friends and, yeah, I love you, but I ain't buying you chocolates at three o’clock in the morning just because you got sad watching Titanic."

Crowley groans and buries his head in his arms. "Hnngh! I shouldn't have told you that." He huffs. "Okay. Fine. Your point being?"

"My fucking point being, you should tell him, and scratch that one off your list of 'things that give me anxiety,' because it's a pretty long list as it is."

Crowley sighs. "It isn't as easy as that, Ana. Because, if what you say is true, then why hasn't he said something by now?"

"And why haven't you?" She asks, undeterred.

Crowley gapes a little, then sets his jaw. "Ngh. Take your logic away, witch."

Anathema smiles, with that knowing look that always manages to sour Crowley's mood. It strikes right in the patch of stubbornness, speckled with bits of self-deprecation, that he wears as a bespoke suit, and refuses to change. 

The server approaches their table carrying their lunches, and Crowley instantly passes his attention to his food, his gut clamoring for fuel.   

"Let's… let's just talk about something else, okay?" he says, his hackles lowered considerably by the food. 

Anathema hums around a sip of water. “‘Kay. Have any idea what you gonna do now?”

“I was actually job hunting when you texted me.”

“Any luck?“ 

“Too soon to tell,” Crowley says. “Looks promising though.”

“Oh, man, I wish I could help. But right now I’m barely surviving with my work, same as any mortal.” She gnaws enthusiastically at her half-devoured piece of chicken and licks her fingertips. “But wait ‘til I turn twenty-five.”

Crowley raises a brow. “Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. Then I’ll inherit what grandma Agnes left me, and I already know what I wanna do with that money.”

“And what’s that?”

Anathema wiggles on her seat, almost vibrating from excitement. “Okay. Don’t freak out and say no, but I’d really like to invest in Aziraphale’s bookshop.”

“No.”

“Told you not to say no.”

“Still, it’s a no.”

Anathema huffs. “Luckily for me, you don’t have a say in it.”

Crowley almost whimpers. Almost . He trusts Anathema, but he also remembers the waggle of eyebrows she's so fond of throwing his way whenever Aziraphale is present, and that's just a disaster waiting to happen. That's the rule-of-thumb of his life. “Why, oh, why, would you do that?”

“You live there, and you don’t know?”

“Ngk. Not much of a book person, me.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I mean, have you checked out the kinds of books Aziraphale has in there? It’s like an extension of  the fucking Library of Alexandria. Aziraphale could make a good profit if he’d hire someone who actually knows about selling or renting, rather than just, you know… hoard stuff.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.” Crowley raises his glass and drinks to that thought. Aziraphale selling books. Pffff . 

"Anyway, it's just a dream until I have some real money."

All lark and tease aside, Anathema's idea isn't as bad as Crowley makes it to be. The more he thinks about it, the less he finds to quibble about. She's a remarkable person, and he's quite sure that if there's someone who can meet Aziraphale and twist his mulish approach to business, it's her.

Maybe, some day. God knows, Aziraphale would really benefit from it. 

After three days, things haven’t changed much, even if Sandalphon has settled for just a twenty percent increase. Aziraphale is particularly fussy and pottering about more than usual, moving tomes around and stringing together what Crowley suspects are expletives from the Jacobean era for absolutely no reason. 

There’s a deluge outside, a common sight for dreary old London, the fat drops of rain pattering against the windows in a rhythmic staccato, interrupting Crowley’s beatific state of blank peace as he slouches on the settee, trying to cover as much space as he can with just one lanky body. Aziraphale is currently sitting at his desk, working on binding a book and, even though they haven’t said a word to each other in the last half hour, just the company feels rather nice. But it’s during times like these that things get dicey, because Crowley can’t handle the spate of relentless daydreams dancing in curlicues inside his brain. Oh, how he wants to get up, walk over, and slot his chin into Aziraphale’s neck, brush his lips over the blunt line of his jaw, and get a kiss in return. And for a moment the dream soars too high, pulses too loud, stretches and bends, and pushes Crowley further into himself and away, away . It's almost unbearable.

He swallows the stubborn knot in his throat as he realizes that the best course is to stay put and not make a fool of himself.

There's a knock on the front door that pushes his thoughts off track.

"Just a mo," Aziraphale yelps, setting his tools aside. "Coming."

Crowley's brow rises a tick, and he cranes his neck towards the entrance. He can hear the door opening and closing, followed by muffled voices. Whoever it is, it’s certainly not a customer or Aziraphale wouldn’t allow them inside the bookshop after hours (whatever hours he had decided to honor that day.) 

“Oh, dear. Look what the tide brought in," Aziraphale says, entering the backroom with Anathema in tow.

"Hey, Ana." Crowley tries to cram the whole extension of his limbs into a more sensible space. "What are you doing here?"

Anathema produces a book from within her black bag that reads 'I'm a Witch, Bitch' , and hands it to Aziraphale. "I just came to bring this back to Aziraphale," she says, "and to see how you guys are doing. Any good news?" 

Aziraphale shelves the book in the prophecy section. "Ah. I reckon Crowley already told you about our predicament."

"Yeah. Really sorry about that."

"Well, at least we still have a bit of time to come up with a solution. At least a way to pay the rent," Aziraphale says, sitting at his desk again, "although I already told Crowley he shouldn't shoulder this burden--"

"Nonsense, Angel. We've talked about this. You won't make me change my mind."

"Dear," Aziraphale says, plaintively, "I truly don't know what I'd do without you."

And the tone is so heartfelt, Crowley's gut takes it as a cue to flip and flop and flip again. He levels his gaze at Aziraphale, who has his attention back at his binding task, and then looks at Anathema.

A waggle of eyebrows.

Crowley's ears feel hot and he's sure there's now a very vivid crimson color on his face that doesn't at all compliment the fire of his hair.

"Anyway," Anathema says, "I talked to Newt about it, and he kinda gave me an option…"

Crowley's brow arches in interest.

"Oh, dear. Please do tell," Aziraphale says. "We're desperate."

Anathema rummages through her bag again and Crowley notices there's a small blush on her face. She plucks out a semi-crumpled piece of paper. She straightens it before giving it to Aziraphale.

"Someone is needing people where he teaches," she says. "Some kind of study, and I know this is probably many levels of wrong but…"

The rest of her words are lost to Crowley, whose eyes are fixed on the rollercoaster of emotions blatantly exhibited on Aziraphale's face. There's shock, awe, then something that seems like horror ? No. Disbelief. A violent blush settles on his cheeks, and his knuckles blanch hard enough Crowley thinks they're about to creak.

Aziraphale looks horribly flustered.

"Can I see that?" Crowley forces through, despite the heavy weight sinking in his stomach.

Aziraphale turns and offers him the paper, but his eyes do not meet Crowley's. It feels wrong . Terribly so.

Crowley leans forward and snags the paper.

He doesn't actually get it the first time he reads the words. And then it dawns on him, in one fell swoop, and he realizes he's been staring at the same two words for what could have been an hour. Two hours. Six thousand hours. Who bloody knows. Anathema isn't even in the room anymore.

PAID RESEARCH: A ROMANTIC COUPLES STUDY.

"Crowley?" 

Aziraphale's voice manages to break through the fog in his brain.

"Mmm?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, and wishes he could hide his eyes behind his sadly-not-ubiquitous shades. "Just, you know, considering Ana's option," he lies, because what other reason could he have had to sit dumbstruck with the paper in hand?

"Oh," Aziraphale stands and seems to hesitate for a second before strolling to the settee and sitting next to Crowley. Which is beyond distracting and not helping . "Are you, really?"

Crowley shrugs, wishing more than ever that his real self was as nonchalant as the ‘Anthony J Crowley’ persona he had cultivated through the years, and not a jumble of uncoordinated joints and loads of bitter comebacks that just happened to sound witty to those who didn't listen too closely. "Yeah. I mean, why not? Could be a good idea. Might be even fun. Would give us a few quid to pay rent, have something to spare for sushi… you still wanna try that new place? Do you think I can get a wasabi-free one this time?"

Lord, shut my bloody trap. 

He tries to downplay the full scope of the situation, says things he doesn't feel in the slightest, only because he knows Aziraphale should probably be looking for a way out of this mess, and any minute now he will hear a big resounding, 'don't be ridiculous, Crowley, ' slamming his heart against the hardwood floors. It'd probably be for the best. Crowley doesn't think he could actually pretend, whatever this situation would demand of him. He might find out for sure, devastatingly, that for Aziraphale this would be as inconsequential as going grocery shopping or eating a lolly…

… and that's an image he shouldn't allow himself right now.

He's going to kill Anathema. Painfully .

Aziraphale clears his throat, toys with his ring and looks at the ad. "I think you're right," he says. He says , and Crowley instantly loses the ability to tether himself to reality. His heart is thrown against the hardness of too-stark ribs. With intent. Violently. A too-fragile tendril of hope kindles inside him, one that could be guttered out in an instant. "It might be fun."

Fun . Of course. The flickering hope gets snuffed out.

"Yup," Crowley croaks, and perhaps this would be the moment to say something. To actually admit that this is much more than just fun. But the words seize in his throat, clashing behind his gritted teeth, and he's reduced to nothing but a monosyllabic mess with sweaty palms.

"Alright, then," Aziraphale says, but there's a fleck of steel in his voice that makes Crowley's stomach churn. As if he’s saying that he's doing this because there's no other way out. He’s lost in a maze of responsibilities, and Crowley isn't freaking Ariadne. Aziraphale's not doing this because he wants it. He's doing it because he has to. "How do you propose we proceed with this?"

Crowley gulps his pain and disappointment, and feels like he's readying himself to navigate uneven ground. 

He sighs.

"Let's… just let's read the requirements first, shall we?"

Chapter Text

Crowley plucks his mobile out and searches the University page still in a daze, thumbing through the links and the soothing slate-gray background. News about the study is not hard to find and he watches as Aziraphale grabs a notebook from his desk and starts to take notes. He starts to take bloody notes, calm as anything, and Crowley can't help the painful tug at his stomach wishing he could be so blasé about it. Time has an odd pace to it, an off-balance tick of the ancient clock that seems to mimic the stuttering rhythm of Crowley's heartbeat. The stale air of the room is stifling. Constricting. 

“Could you read me that first part, please, dear boy? I’m afraid the letters are too small and I can’t remember where I put my spectacles,” Aziraphale says, patting his too-many pockets, composed and proper, as if the whole thing wasn't a huge crack in the order of their universe. 

“Er, yeah. Ngh. Hold on.” Crowley draws the screen closer to his face, focusing squarely in the letters, disregarding the tantalizing warmth of Aziraphale’s thigh pressed to his. Get it fucking together . “It says the study starts in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Aziraphale echoes. “Jotting that down.”

“And er, uhm, it says all the potential participants should complete the application form at the Psychology department by… oh shit .”

Aziraphale’s brows rise in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

“ Oh . No. No. Ngk. All's fine. Very, uh, right.” Crowley licks his lips. “I mean. Tomorrow. We should be there tomorrow. Doesn’t give us too much time to maneuver.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale's cheeks dust pink, but he keeps scribbling on his pad, gaze pinned down. "Quite right, then. Are there, uh, any other requirements?"

That antiseptic, clinical approach doesn’t seem to waver, and it’s definitely starting to get on Crowley’s nerves. It shouldn't sting as much as it does, because this is nothing if not a charade that hasn’t even been discussed to speak of. And that’s something Crowley very much intends to do before proceeding to muck up the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. Very up his alley. And he doesn’t want to dwell on it, but the more this situation progresses, the more it’s becoming rather evident that Aziraphale has never even considered him anything other than a friend and, judging by the way he’s gripping the end of his pen, the mere idea of this ludicrous scenario is about to give him hives, which makes Crowley awfully ambivalent; he doesn’t actually know if he wants to run for the hills or stay and drink the dregs of what’s offered to him - ever the thirsty castaway. Which is totally fucked up, when he actually stops and thinks about it.    

He sighs, feeling the beginning of a headache flaring at the back of his skull. 

"Just that we both should be there to sign the consent to the study and uh, that the er, the relationship ,” he says, using air quotes and valiantly fighting a blush, “shouldn't have more than three months. Something about measuring responses of novelty, whatever that is.”

"Noted, which is actually beneficial, for us," Aziraphale says, considering. "Anything else?"

Crowley scrolls down a bit and… fuck . His eyes go wide and he really should start wearing those shades 24/7. He grounds his molars because he feels an apoplexy in the making, and wouldn’t that be an easy way out?

"Well?" Aziraphale asks, with those same precise manners, not a word wasted, pen still scrawling things Crowley can’t see. “What is it?”

"Er, yeah. It seems the bloody study is centered in the uhm,” oh , God, kill me, please , he prays inwardly to a notoriously silent deity as he chokes out what follows, “in the sexual aspect of the matter.”

Aziraphale’s hand stops abruptly on the paper. He goes into a full body clench as if he’s rebooting due to system malfunction, which is exactly how Crowley feels. A fly could have been heard flapping about in the silence that follows.

As it is, the merciful rain still splatters on the windows like a gift from Heaven to buffer the uncomfortable wave of unnatural stillness that has definitely unfurled between them and refuses to dislodge.

Crowley sees Aziraphale opening his mouth to say something and closing it again, floundering like a fish out of water. His own mouth feels dry, but as he scrambles to grip onto some common sense, the words just spill forth, unbidden.

"You don't have to do this if it makes you nervous," Crowley rushes out, his jaw finally complying and unhinging. ' Please, tell me you want this for the right reasons ,' he begs in his mind,  and perhaps if he hadn't delivered the words with a shrug and a clipped voice, the statement would have been a good plea. "It's perfectly fine if you aren't… er, thrilled about this."

Aziraphale swallows. "Are… are you?"

Is he? He's bloody petrified. "'S no big deal," Crowley lies, with a shrug, because looking aloof has always been his default, when pressed.

A flash of something akin to disappointment flares on Aziraphale's face, or maybe Crowley is just imagining it, his brain trying to make him trip over the things he wishes were true but would never be. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, and continues, "Then… let's… let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Ahead of…" Crowley feels a rush of blood in all his too-long limbs, blinking at how phenomenally wrong all this feels. "Aziraphale do you realize–"

"Nothing says that we can't just share the information by disclosing it to each other verbally, and answer their questions," he says, and there it is again. That precise scalpel in his words, as if he was using a yardstick to measure the viability of a household project, rather than discussing whether or not the possibility of fucking their brains out in front of an audience in the not-so-distant future was on the table. Crowley's stomach gives a sickening lurch. "Certainly they’re not going to check on how we know each other's preferences…"

Preferences . Bloody hell. Crowley's shoulders sag under the force of reality. Under the weight of their words. Because, yes, Crowley very much wants to know, and to commit every bit and piece of information to memory. He has toyed with that idea on many lonely nights, imagining the weight of Aziraphale’s cock on his tongue while he fucked his fist, or bit the pillowcase with three fingers up his arse. Coaxing that knowledge out of a pleasure-wrecked Aziraphale was very much his preference. Flushed, glistening with sweat, begging him for a kiss...

But not like this. Never like this. And he's an idiot for saying otherwise. Not a big deal … it's a sodding huge, monumental deal. He could have lived with just the flash of a smile, a wayward touch, a gentle word; he would’ve taken as little as he's offered. 

"Look. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I don't think they're going to let us just babble while we're supposed to eh…" Crowley gestures. "You know."

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. "I'm afraid I'm not catching your meaning, my dear. Why not?"

Oh, this can't be happening.  

Crowley bunches his cheeks and lets out a loud puff. "Jesus fuck, Aziraphale, they're asking for our bloody consent because they're going to have front seats while we're at the hanky-fucking-panky. We can't just talk our way out of this."

Aziraphale's face turns beet red and his eyes go wide. "Oh." 

"That's why they're paying so much," Crowley croaks, apologetic for something that’s not even remotely his fault.

Silence slinks into the room, circling them tightly, and Crowley wonders how they’re going to pull themselves above this mess. How is he supposed to find his way back to the realm of sanity after this… whatever this is.

"Look, Crowley," Aziraphale says, impossibly soft, breaking Crowley's train of thoughts and placing a hand that is threatening to unravel him completely on his too-bony knee. "I know this is… this is quite a lot to process even without adding the uhm, that last bit." Aziraphale lowers his gaze and toys with his ring. "Of course I don't have to do this, but I do think I'd like to give it a go, given that my options are limited. I… I trust you. You're my best friend and there's no one else with whom I think this whole exchange could actually work."

Exchange . Crowley hears the thud of his heart in his ears. "Aziraphale…"

"I know. I know. I don't want to blow this thing out of proportion because it's not a big deal. That’s what you said, isn't it?” He gives a laugh devoid of any mirth that cracks a hairline fracture in Crowley's heart. “The bookshop is all I have, and I don’t know what I would do if I–"

"Hey. Hey, angel." Crowley reaches a hand and lifts Aziraphale chin. And perhaps that isn’t the best course of action because Aziraphale goes very still. So Crowley corrects himself in an instant, never mind the block of ice in his chest. "I said it's fine. Not a problem. Not at all," Crowley says, words stumbling out in a punched-out breath. “You’re right. We’re friends, and I’ll do anything to help you keep the bookshop and our flat… Like I said, it’s not a big deal."

Aziraphale finally lifts his gaze, face blushing in the most delightful way, and Crowley feels lost at the sight of those absurdly blue eyes, of those impossibly soft-looking lips.

Crowley lets out a sharp breath and blocks the barrage of questions and doubts that are already springing in the fertile ground of his mind. Aziraphale gives him a coy smile and Crowley’s qualms vanish in an instant because, as pathetic as it is, he'll cling to whatever crumbs he's offered if it gives him even a golem , a doppelganger of his real dream. 

"Shit." Crowley's head thunks against his bed. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit ."

This couldn't be possibly happening. Except that, as his phone browser and his racing heart could attest, it has actually happened, and it hadn't stopped happening altogether up until five minutes ago. 

Everything was settled, sorted. Ballots signed and posted, so to speak. Nothing else he could do. 

Crowley rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands and turns his head to bury a scream in his pillows. 

Why did Anathema play him like that? She had to know how awful... no, no, how absolutely horrible a situation she was dooming him to. This wasn't just a sophomoric, moronic infatuation like which she knew Crowley had had hundreds of times. No, this was something else entirely. Crowley loves Aziraphale as he's never loved anyone before, with a stupid and venomous certainty that says that reciprocation isn't even necessary. Which is bananas because Crowley's very into self-satisfaction… unless it involves Aziraphale, apparently. He's an idiot and a buffoon for having entertained the idea that Aziraphale could feel the same way about him. Aziraphale with his books and his soft manners. Aziraphale with his pastries and his cocoa, and his gorgeous face. Aziraphale who has given him his friendship and his kindness and things Crowley hadn't even known he needed until they fell in his lap.

Aziraphale, so out of his reach. 

It's all so terribly unfair. 

And just the thought of touching Aziraphale's face, of kissing him, is already wreaking havoc inside him . Crowley groans and turns to his side. How can he even deal with that? The worst part is that this wretched feeling isn't leaving anytime soon because – and he groans again at the realization – this time it isn't a far-fetched fantasy, born out of an excess of alcohol and some heartfelt 'dear' thrown around, but a dream on the path of becoming reality because he is going to kiss Aziraphale, and do quite a bit more than that.

Holy fucking shit. 

Crowley's thankful for the support of the mattress beneath his body because all his nerves and joints have gone haywire and he's sure if he tries to stand up, his knees will give out on him, leaving him on the floor, flattened, like a cartoon character smashed by a piano. 

Oh, what a poor fucking sod he is. 

He grabs his phone and calls Anathema, gritting his teeth.

"Hey!" Comes the overly-chirpy reply that somehow manages to ignite Crowley's rage like napalm, "How are you, what happened?"

"You… you Judas!" Crowley hisses, much like a cornered snake would.

He can hear Anathema’s startled gasp, " What ?"

"You knew bloody well how much Aziraphale means to me and you just went and– and fucked me up!"

"What are you talking about?"

"What am–" Crowley exhales hard through his nose and switches his phone to the other side. "That fucking study. That was low, Anathema. You're supposed to be my friend… Why in the ever living fuck did you do that?"

"Whoa. Whoa." There's some shuffling and rustling before Anathema's voice comes on again. "Calm your tits. So, it didn't work? You guys are not going?"

"It didn't– what ? Yes, we're going, you meddling wench!" 

Anathema yelps, an oddly cheerful sound that has Crowley very confused. "Yay! Crowley, that's great! Why are you so upset? You and Aziraphale are finally an item, right?"

" Ngghsk ." Crowley laughs bitterly. " Yeaaahhhh . Nope. Nah-ah. Not by a long shot."

"I don't–" Anathema stammers. "What? Then… how? What the fuck happened?"

It takes Crowley five full minutes to untangle the story, going back and forth to add in details at Anathema’s behest. Five full minutes, in which she chimes in increasingly louder with 'oh, my god ' and ‘ ohhh, shit ’.

"You absolute moron!" She says when he finally stops to catch his breath. "I thought you were going to do the sensible thing and come clean to Aziraphale!"

"Have you gone off your trolley? Why the hell would I do that?"

"Ugh. I don't know, perhaps because that was the logical thing to do?"

"Ngk. Yeah. Have you fucking met me?"

"Touché."

"This is a disaster!"

"Okay. Okay. Breath and chill."

Crowley gathers as much air as he can in his lungs and gives a loud puff. "Now what?"

"You’ve got to tell Aziraphale the truth."

"See? I hear you, but you're just not making any sense."

Anathema groans. "Don't be an idiot. You damn well know once this ridiculous thing gets started you will get your scrawny ass hurt. I know you love him… gosh, Crowley, I've never seen you like this before… So, if it turns out that Aziraphale finds out about this later… well. It's gonna get reeeeeal messy. And weird. I mean, maybe he's bending over backwards, just like you."

For a while, Crowley had really believed that. Once, before they'd started discussing schedules and whatnot, there'd been a sliver of hope nestled between the turned-over memories he'd examined until they got worn-smooth. But the way Aziraphale had reacted, all sharp logic and unflappable determination, had kicked that to the curb. Oh, he was fond of Crowley, alright, apparently enough to fuck him, but not enough to let the fact get under his skin.

Better him than anyone else, Aziraphale had said and, bloody stupid as he was, Crowley hadn't realized how much of not a compliment that was. 

"Yeah. Don't think so," Crowley chokes out, barely more than a whisper.

Silence stretches for a second before Anathema replies, "Oh. Oh, man. I'm– I'm sorry. I can't believe I read him wrong. I was so sure, so–"

"Yeah. Don't mention it. Please."

"No problem," Anathema says, a good amount of commiseration packed tightly in those two words. "So, how are you gonna get yourself out of that?"

Crowley bites his lip. He isn’t really proud of… well, he isn’t really proud of anything that has happened in the last three hours, but somehow admitting this feels like a particular sour icing on a terrible cake. "I don't know, and to be honest with you?" He sprawls on his bed, shutting his eyes, his face flushing absolutely red, "Ana. I can't bring myself to say no.”

"Oh, baby ."

"Yeah. Yeah. Pathetic, isn't it?"

"Nah. None of that. I mean. I get you. I really do." Anathema sighs, and Crowley can picture her, taking off her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I just want to make sure you have a way out once this is over. I don't wanna see you with your ass emotionally handed to you. So promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Promise me that, even though this is Aziraphale, you will know when to say no. If it gets to be too much, you’ll say no, and obviously you can call me whenever you want.”

Crowley’s battered heart clenches at her words. “Yeah. Thanks, er, thanks . You, uh, you take care of yourself, and could you please tell Newt not to rat us out? Tell him we’re desperate.”

“He has absolutely no idea you guys aren't together, you know?” Anathema chortles. “And besides, right now he’s completely focused on a project he has. Everything else is just... flying over his head.”

"Right. Then I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah. Take care."

Crowley hangs up and stays on his bed, unnaturally still for what feels like hours. When he comes to his senses, the lights of the streets are on, orange will-o-wisps against the dark night. Minutes slip by too quickly, a relentless slough carrying him into uncharted territory, making his pulse jump up. He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, but hunger is miles away from his mind, and at the pace his synapsis are jumping from possible scenario to impossible scenario, sleep is probably also off the table. 

He doesn’t want to think about what the morning may bring, what he’ll have to face and–or– if he could navigate his way through the next twenty-four hours completely sloshed. Would Aziraphale notice if he downs a bottle of Pinot Noir before the meeting? Better not test that. 

He watches the shadows morph under the gradient hues of the sky, scrolling through thread after thread on Twitter and picking fights with people on Facebook. When morning arrives, his arm finally gives up and six ounces of iPhone land on his face, but he’s way too knackered to feel it. 

Crowley doesn’t so much wake up as jolt upright, and looks at the time on his drooled-on mobile. 

10:00 a.m

He lets out a loud breath and drags his feet to the bathroom to shower and make himself ready. As he puts on a black henley and a pair of black ripped jeans, which could be loosely described as tight, he tries to wrap his brain around the idea that this is actually happening. So, unless he decides to jump off the train at the last possible moment, he’d better square his shoulders, clench his jaw, and try to make the best of it. Yeah . That’s exactly what he needs to do. This isn’t a big deal. He has kissed and fucked lots of people in the span of forty years. Nothing new under the sun. The fact that his heart and his stomach deem it necessary to go into riot mode every time Aziraphale does so much as regard him with a smile has nothing to do with it. If anything, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and he should stop dithering and seize it. 

He likes Aziraphale. Bloody Heavens, he absolutely loves Aziraphale. So, instead of exploding into a fit of mad laughter he ought to get ready and go down. He manages to keep a lid on his hysterics and levers himself up.

He pockets his shades for good measure. 

When he finally reaches the first floor, Aziraphale is puttering about in the kitchen. Crowley catches sight of him as he makes breakfast, and he can smell sausages, eggs, bacon and beans in the mix. Despite the blundering mess in his brain, his gut makes this choice for him as it grumbles quite loudly, making Aziraphale turn around. 

“Good morning, dear,” he says, with an honest-to-God smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Uh. Fine,” he lies. “Had a dream about a car that only played Queen, apparently? Bit of a weird choice, if you ask me.”

“Mmm. Bebop, isn't it?” he says, and Crowley tightens his lips into a smirk. Aziraphale hands him a steamy mug of coffee and a plate of food. “Eat up. I think we have some things to discuss before we’re on our way out.”

Crowley pinches a piece of yolk and devours it to give his mouth something to do other than spill more nonsense that could return to bite him in the ass. He nods as Aziraphale, back to his calm demeanor, grabs the notepad he had the day before and reads details and fabricated scenarios he’d apparently concocted about their relationship. 

When Crowley finishes his breakfast, he has a pretty good idea of all the things necessary to sail smoothly through the whole ordeal, and he has bounced back to his usual caffeinated self. 

“So, we’ve been dating for a month,” he says. 

“Correct,” Aziraphale answers, if a bit stiffly. 

“And we met through common friends.”

“Mmm.”

“...and I was the one who asked you out?" Crowley asks, flipping the pages.

"Yes."

He cocks a brow. "Why not the other way around?" 

Aziraphale shakes his head and raises two pale brows over the line of his glasses. "... Beg your pardon?"

"Yeah. Why me and not you?" Crowley asks because it feels honest and scratches an itch he’s had for sometime. 

"Well–"

"I'd very much like to be swept off my feet, for once, thank you very much."

Aziraphale startles and blinks a few times. "Are you serious?"

"I'm absolutely serious, angel,” Crowley says, with a speck more confidence and a sly smile. Talking about it as if this is the new normal is making wonders for his frazzled nerves. 

"What could possibly be the difference, my dear?"

"That you were so into me that you didn’t care about throwing yourself at my feet.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Crowley, I think that’s pushing it a bit too much…”

“No, no. I’m serious. I want to be wooed. And I mean, look at you, that whole romance and what have you, it’s much more your cup of tea, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale huffs, but Crowley can see just a bit of rigidness bleeding from the line of his shoulders. “Fine. I wooed you.”

“Was I impressed?”

“You were very much impressed, dear boy, and couldn’t wait to, quote, hop my bones ,” Aziraphale says primly, and Crowley chokes on his coffee.

“It’s jump- jump your bones. And I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

Aziraphale blushes pink but lifts his chin, haughty. “Yes, well. Perhaps it does.”

Crowley opens his mouth but decides not to chase this particular thread of conversation. He takes a sip of coffee. 

"What time should we be there?" he asks, instead.

Aziraphale glances at the clock. "In an hour."

"Great. So. Anything else?"

Aziraphale starts fiddling with the pen in his hand, vexingly adorable. "Uhm. There's…"

"What?"

"There's just another bit of information we should discuss beforehand."

"Okay. Out with it, then."

"I think we should kiss," Aziraphale says, a good deal too quickly, as if pulling a bandaid off of a particularly sore wound. "Before the meeting, that is, just to not find ourselves overwhelmed if we need to do it there, and–"

"Alright," Crowley blurts out, slightly hoarse. He stares directly into Aziraphale's eyes and all his thoughts jerk to a halt. "If you think we should, then," he harrumphs. Christ . Because of course he does. "How do you want to do this?"

Aziraphale stands and shuffles until he's in front of Crowley. Almost bumping his knees against black denim. 

"I think it would work best if you…" Aziraphale motions him to get up, which Crowley does. 

His pulse races, his tongue heavy as lead inside his mouth. His brain is going into overdrive taking in all the small details he had never had the pleasure of noticing before, like the exact shade of pink stealing over Aziraphale's cheeks, or the fair hue of his lashes. His stomach goes tight, like anticipating a freefall or something equally exhilarating. 

"Well?" Aziraphale asks, and bloody hell , Crowley feels the breath of his words against his mouth. 

He isn't that strong. 

He presses his lips against Aziraphale's, gingerly, and gets almost knocked out of his boots when Aziraphale moans, manicured fingers finding their way into his red hair, scratching his scalp. 

Crowley makes a noise that could mercifully be described as a groan when he feels Aziraphale's tongue sweeping his bottom lip, and opens his mouth in kind, inviting. 

The air pushing in from the outside seems scarce, unseasonably hot, and Crowley can't keep his hands from reaching for purchase on the velveteen waistcoat, clinging to the perfect curve of the small of Aziraphale's back while the deft pressure of Aziraphale's tongue licks along his teeth. 

His cock twitches in his pants, electricity running along his limbs, daring him to breach Aziraphale's mouth, to swallow the huffs and shallow breaths that have his stomach doing a string of amateur somersaults.  

It isn't awkward or wrong. Their movements slot in place, seamlessly, and Crowley's breath hitches when Aziraphale's thigh nudges between his, pulling the flow of blood to his cock in an instant.

Oh, fuck . 

Just then, Aziraphale's pulls back.

He's panting, lips red-stung, a blurry haze over his blue eyes, and Crowley desperately halts the need to launch himself forward. It'd be a bit of overkill, wouldn’t it ?  

He bites his inner cheek to avoid that prickling sensation at the back of his neck, that awful reminder this is just a mirage, no matter the beautiful scarlett flush spreading on that beloved face. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, adjusts his bowtie and shifts back to business. "I think–" He coughs. "I think that went rather well, don't you?"

"Yeah. Ngh. 'Twas fine. Consider me sold," he says, and finds refuge in a sip of coffee.

His heart is hammering against his sternum, and he feels the phantom sensation of Aziraphale's body, hot against his. 

Satan, help him. He's beyond doomed. 

Chapter Text

“Something on your mind, angel?” Crowley asks. 

And honestly . 

Aziraphale throws a side glance to where his arm is inconspicuously laced around Crowley's trim waist, touches his tongue to his lower lip, and swallows. He'd been trying for the last hour to wrap his brain around the very evident fact that he had kissed Crowley, and now he was pressed like a magnet to his side. To Crowley's soft black knit jumper laden with his scent; sandalwood and leather, absolutely tantalizing. Aziraphale’s corduroy-clad hip bumps with the starkness of Crowley’s as they stride down the street away from the University. In his spot, nestled under Crowley’s arm, Aziraphale’s mind ticks over hurriedly.

"Not particularly," he lies, like a liar.   

They'd finished with the application, and a woman named Frances had dutifully filled in their personal information as they'd tried - and Lord, Aziraphale had tried in earnest - to pretend to be an effervescently joyful couple so no one could ferret out their charade.  

Happily, there'd been no need to test their kissing abilities for the sake of that dastardly experiment, because Aziraphale can do many things, but forbearance isn't exactly his forte. He wouldn't have been able to pull away for a second time the same day. Not when he has finally been granted the one sole thing he's been craving for so long. Even if it’s just a mirage.

More’s the pity.  

Aziraphale clenches his jaw, a second away from fracture. He is nothing but a selfish miscreant, taking by force what otherwise would be far out of his reach. Always taking , taking , taking , much more than is sensible. One more scone, one more meal, a final sip of wine, or the touch of smooth pages of a particularly rare book of which he already has two. Hoarding sensations like a dragon would treasure gold. 

But it isn't as simple as a matter of gluttony. That bleary, dark night, when he’d opened the door and seen Crowley for the first time, Aziraphale’s heart had tripped over his heartbeats. He hadn’t been prepared for how utterly gorgeous the man answering his ad had been, and before he knew it, those red tresses and enticingly painted-on jeans had sauntered directly into his heart, and he hadn’t known what to do with himself. 

Rather pathetic . 

He doesn’t know why he hadn’t called the whole bloody thing off, once it became obvious that Crowley had never seen him as anything but a friend. Not a big deal , he had said with one of his characteristic shrugs, and the words had crushed the air right out of Aziraphale’s lungs.  

Even if it’s true that he’s risking losing everything, that oughtn’t have been enough reason to cross the barrier he’d sworn to himself to maintain, to break the vow to enjoy Crowley’s company only from a respectful distance... and now he had gone and thrown himself headlong over the metaphorical fence. And all for what? To grasp a lie? To cling to a lackluster replica? He should’ve known better. A facsimile could never replace the original. 

“It’s getting late,” Crowley says then. He lets go, and Aziraphale is very much forced to do the same, despite himself. “How about lunch?”

A small part of him gets a bit brighter at the sound of that. “Oh. That’d be delightful.”

They end up in a quaint bistro in Covent Garden, and Aziraphale is already feeling slightly better. Food has always been a safe haven.

He can see Crowley fidgeting with his fork in front of him, clearly restless, black lenses still perched atop his sharp nose. 

"I think we should talk about how we are going to do this," Crowley finally says, cautiously. 

"Regarding?"

"I mean," Crowley clears his throat, "we have two weeks and I think, uh… I think perhaps we should… you know." 

"I don't think I do, dear boy," Aziraphale says, nervous of the answer.

Crowley sighs, "Look, angel, not to be that bloke, but you're a terrible actor."

"I am not!" Aziraphale instantly bristles. "I'll have you know I once took part in a production of Hamlet."

"Yeah, as a prompter," Crowley says pointedly. “Not as lead. Or background actor. Or extra. Neither--” 

“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale raises a hand, "But it still gave me plenty of experience."

"Aha. Well. Then you clearly see we need, er… we need some practice," Crowley says and his cheeks flare red. 

"Ah." Aziraphale bites his inner cheek and his fingers twitch on his lap. Practice . Good Lord, he can feel heat pooling on his face. He knows a kiss was not going to be enough, and even if a great deal of him feels heady just thinking about it, the smaller part that answers to logic is fretting. Sadly, there's nothing he can do but trudge forward. In for a penny, in for a blasted pound . "I do believe we could benefit from some rehearsal, to avoid dealing with impromptu difficulties," he says, as steadily as he can manage.

"You do?" Crowley's brows take a leap to his hairline. He clears his throat, "I mean. Good."

Aziraphale fights the fire on his cheeks, "Quite."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Let’s see. We need to fully inhabit the roles, so…," Aziraphale dithers on a pause, on a heartbeat, and good gracious … does he have the right to ask what he's about to? "P-perhaps we could carry on with the characters ," Aziraphale says, swallowing around that bitter word, "through our everyday lives, as if this were actually the truth."

Crowley nods, "Sounds alright."

"Rather. Well. So. I propose we behave as a couple whether we're seen or not," Aziraphale says, and raises his chin.

Crowley nods and hums. "Yeah. Yeah, uh, 'twas what I was thinking. And- and… given that we don't have lots of time, I suggest we be very vocal 'bout the things that we like and the things we don't."

"Such as?"

"You know," Crowley says, sprawling a bit further on his seat and staring at something to the left of Aziraphale. "Do you like pet names? Do you like to hold hands in public?" He clears his throat. "How do you like to be kissed? Stuff that will certainly arise once we start… nghkfj ," he gestures.

Aziraphale has never been one to partake in physical activities, but his brain is making such displays of gymnastics he's sure he could be summoned to the olympic team.

"And the same applies to you, my dear," he says, finally. "You have to let me know if there's anything you like or don't."

"'Course," Crowley says, pushing up his shades to his hair.

"And then we can wade into deep waters, once we're more at ease with each other."

Crowley nods. "Ngk. Sounds good."

After that, their meal proceeds in a polite exchange of facts about the weather and the political situation of the world. There's an undercurrent of tension building, however, whenever their gazes lock across the table. Aziraphale can feel it pulsing through the length of his spine, sinking right through him. 

Once they finish, Crowley is adamant about paying their bill, and Aziraphale is already dreading reaching the solitude of their flat where everything will be amplified by a thousand with nothing to muffle the uproar inside him or the mishmash of half-thoughts and barely restrained wishes.

He's standing next to the door when he feels the tentative graze of a fine-boned hand against his. He looks down.

"Sorry," Crowley says, retreating in an instant, "I didn't ask, I thought--"

Aziraphale reaches and laces their fingers together, watching Crowley exhale, softly. He's so close, Aziraphale calculates it wouldn't take more than a tilt of his head to press a kiss against those red lips, again. He feels so awfully tempted. "It's perfectly fine," he says, instead. "I do like to hold hands." Especially yours . No one’s but yours . 

"Ngk. That's- That's good. Me too."

They walk hand in hand to the nearest Tube station, and Aziraphale can't help enjoying the thrill climbing up his arm from the blessed contact; it seems to stir flesh, bones and tendons in its wake. They've fallen back into silence, yet it's quite a bit more comfortable. 

Aziraphale turns his head to the side and sees wisps of auburn hair falling freely from Crowley's bun, vibrant rust against the washed-out afternoon light. He looks so beautiful, Aziraphale feels dizzy. His heart gallops against his ribs, loud enough to drown out everything around. 

Outside the windows, the sky is mauve with the promise of dusk, glimpses of blue-black in the reaches beyond.

"How about a movie?" Crowley suggests, if a tad hesitantly. 

"Netflix and chill?" Aziraphale offers, but Crowley huffs a half laugh that eases some tension out of the air.

"Bugger me for a lark, angel," Crowley says with a smirk, and sprawls on their sofa. "You really have no idea what that means, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Yeah. Don't think so. You know, it's more like Netflix and getting to know you biblically ."

" What ? Why didn’t you say anything?" he asks, feeling his cheeks heating up.

Crowley shrugs, "Thought it was cute."

"Cute. Well, thank you. Good gracious. At least I never said it to anyone but you." 

Crowley laughs some more, and Aziraphale thinks that perhaps this doesn't have to be hard at all. He sits at the other side of the sofa, daring to close their usual gap by several inches. "You pick the movie, my dear ," he says, and lets a frisson of truth coat the word. 

"Okay, but I don't want to hear you whine if it isn't true to the book and whatnot," Crowley says, picking up the remote and selecting Pride and Prejudice . "Just zip it and watch."

"I promise I won't say a thing."

The movie starts, but the space between them still feels like an open crevasse. "Crowley?" 

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to scoot closer?" Aziraphale asks, and he's astounded at how firm he sounds, no matter his insides are practically jello.

Crowley looks at him, and his amber eyes seem to burn through him. "Mmm. Would you mind if I…," he trails off.

"Come now, dear boy… did you have something in mind?"

“Mmmph.” Crowley bites his lip. "I just…. My head? On your lap, I mean. Can I?" 

Something warm blooms in Aziraphale's chest. "Of course I don't mind," he says with a smile, already folding the afghan and placing it as a makeshift pillow over his thighs. He watches as Crowley stretches, throws his feet over the arm of the Chesterfield and slowly lowers his head. 

He still seems somewhat stiff as the first scenes of the movie unfold. He has let his bun loose, and his mane now falls in luscious strands over Aziraphale's lap, rich copper under the amber light of the cheap bulb. Aziraphale can't help but to tuck a curl behind Crowley's ear before realizing what he's doing.

"Sorry," Aziraphale says. 

"'S okay," Crowley croaks. He lets out a deep sigh and sinks into the afghan, further into Aziraphale's warmth. "I like it, you know? To have my hair petted," he says so softly it would've gone unnoticed if Aziraphale wasn't hanging on his every word.

Aziraphale weaves his fingers through the glossy tresses, and soon Crowley is much more relaxed as they keep watching the telly. 

"See? I'd happily kill that bloke. He’s an arsehole," Crowley says, at some point, jabbing a finger at Mr. Wickham. "An absolute idiot."

"Yes. He wasn't very nice in the book either." Aziraphale pauses. "Have you read the book perchance?"

"What for? Got the movie already, right?"

Aziraphale guffaws, "Well, my dear. I assure you the book is--"

" Mmmmmnaaah - ah. What did I say?" 

"Oh fine," Aziraphale gruffs, carding fingers through Crowley's hair, reveling in the softness around his fingers. "But seriously, Crowley. Why would you prefer the movie when you can read Miss Austen’s outstanding work?"

"Why would I-" He chokes a laugh. "Gotta update the spank-bank, angel. Can't ogle Mr. Darcy in the book now, can I?”

"You’re an absolute menace," Aziraphale chuckles. "Do you like him, then?"

Crowley gives a non-committal huff. "Tis alright. It’s not the actor you know? More like… the character I suppose." He cranes his neck slightly to the left, gazing up at Aziraphale, before drawing his attention to the movie again. "It's like… he's so proper, so restrained, yet you can see there’s oodles more of him underneath that facade. Makes you wonder what it would take to unravel him."

"I see." 

Aziraphale isn't an idiot. Or perhaps he is, because those words sound like impossible bait. Impossible being the key word. 

Time seems to drag, rather than march forward. Aziraphale finds it hard to focus on the movie, the weight of Crowley's body pulling him into inappropriate scenarios that have his cock stirring in his pants. He deals with it the best he can, shoving the visions out of the way, sometimes violently, but wayward possibilities keep assaulting him relentlessly.

Lord in Heaven . He's sure his face is beet-red, fever-hot. 

Crowley has shed his black jumper hours ago and now, as he stretches to find a more comfortable position, the hem of his henley inches up, exposing a swath of pale, smooth skin on his side, the jut of his hip bone showing above the line of those ridiculously tight trousers. Aziraphale's tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he licks his lips between scalding swallows. He finger-combs Crowley’s hair to one side, the tender spot where the slope of his throat meets the curve of his shoulder now visible. He wants to sink his teeth in and lave at the skin, to kiss and drag his tongue there, over the edge of his jaw. And goodness . He has a raging stiffy breaking the front line of his trousers. 

All too soon the movie ends, and Aziraphale doesn’t dare to move.

Crowley lazily slithers his way upright, sitting next to Aziraphale, and it’s almost indecent how good he looks all disheveled and pink-cheeked. 

“I think I’m gonna take a nap,” he says, eyes hooded, and Aziraphale wants to bite his fist, lacking any other fallback. “See you later for dinner?”

“Yes, dear. You do that, and I’ll see you later.”

Crowley leans an inch, his gaze slipping down to Aziraphale’s mouth and his lips part only the barest amount. Questioning. 

“Can I kiss you?,” Aziraphale rasps then, as if that were the new normal. What’s normal anymore ? His voice is several shades darker than just seconds ago.

“Course you can,” Crowley breathes, eyes wide. So Aziraphale tilts his head and brings their lips together.

Crowley’s lips are warm against his own, and Aziraphale presses a bit deeper, clings to the curve of Crowley's neck a bit tighter. There's fire rolling in his stomach, as Crowley shifts under every push of his mouth and every shy drag of his tongue. It sinks in his veins like hot whiskey, warming him in a rush, sizzling marrow-deep.

Just then Crowley makes a muffled sound at the back of his throat and it's as if someone had ramped up the heat in the room to sweltering, had pulled all the air out, because Aziraphale feels dizzy.

It’s a slow give and take that has Aziraphale pulsing and aching in his trousers, as Crowley's hands wave around the air, as if looking for an anchor, deciding finally to cinch around Aziraphale's sides, making him regret the too-many layers between them.

Aziraphale hums into the kiss, his free hand closing around Crowley’s waist, the flesh underneath the cotton, blood-hot. 

And Merciful Heaven , he can’t stop. He can’t--

Crowley draws back, finally, breathless and flushed down to his neck. 

"'Twas good," he says with a shuddery breath, slipping a thumb under his bottom lip to smear a sheen of wetness, with an unreadable expression. "Can't half-arse it."

Aziraphale's throat feels tight and whatever sparks had kindled from the kiss, get snuffed out in a second. "Quite right," he says and adjusts his bowtie, pulls down his waistcoat as if to armor himself. 

He watches Crowley leave, and sighs. He ought to toss any idle thought post haste to the pedal bin and to remind himself more often.  

It doesn't mean anything.

Thinking back to a year ago, Aziraphale would've never thought living with Crowley could be so difficult. But now, after a few days of more shared thoughts, hugs in front of the telly, and several more sessions of kissing that's inching more and more toward snogging, Aziraphale is at his breaking point.

Crowley has left the bookshop a bit earlier than usual,for job hunting, and the kiss he'd given Aziraphale has muddled his brain and swept out any trace of superior thought. Gone are the hesitation and the fumbling hands, and Aziraphale can feel the ghost sensation heavy on his lips. It's ruining his concentration as he prepares to bind a new tome of one of Heyer's novels, and his hands just sit idly at the desk.

Because there's also that glint of something else, something that has Aziraphale puzzled and more than a little anxious... it's quite obvious that at least Crowley is attracted to him... enough to put some of his inner turmoil at rest.

And yet.

Aziraphale draws a sigh and toys with his ring. It really skewers him because, as the days progressed, he'd really fallen into the concept that it didn't mean a great deal.

At least not to Crowley, apparently. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

Which is inconsequential. Because it's again nothing but a mere mock-up of what he really desires, and once he's thought about it, parsed it and processed it through the mill of his logic, all the hope blooming inside suddenly fizzles out.

This will end, so it’s better not to get any ideas, no matter how much his chest aches at the thought.

The phone rings then, and he's almost startled out of his chair.

"Hello?" He answers, finally.

"Hello, dearie."

"Oh, Tracy, dear."

"How are you? I haven't seen you since last week and haven't heard from you in more than three days, after you told me about…"

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale chimes in, not wanting to think about it. 

There's a silence that lasts a heartbeat. "How are you?," Tracy asks again, but it feels much more pointed this time.

And Aziraphale has never been able to hide anything from her. 

"Not quite good."

"Oh, lovey."

"But please, don't you worry my dear. I'd hate to burden you with-"

"Aziraphale, dear, you really need to stop doing that."

"..."

"I mean it. There's nothing you can tell me that would bother me more than knowing you're wading through a difficult situation alone."

Something in Aziraphale's gut knots hard. "Tracy…"

"So, please. Tell me. How are you? If you really don't want to tell me, that's fine, but please don't restrain yourself on my account."

The line of Aziraphale's shoulders sags then. "I really wish I had sold my first edition to Gabriel," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh. Oh, no. That bad, eh?"

"It isn't really bad at all, and that is what's jangling my nerves."

"How so?"

Aziraphale closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. "It feels too real."

"And that is bad because…?"

"Good Lord, Tracy. Because it's a lie! A farce. And it's difficult to keep reminding myself of that. Every single day."

"Are you sure he doesn't feel the same-"

"No. Not at all. And please, I know you're trying to cheer me up, but don't say that again."

"How do you know, dearie?" She presses.

And Aziraphale huffs. "Because I can see it. Because I'm not blind. Yes. Perhaps he finds me mildly attractive so kissing me isn’t a big inconvenience, but I see it every single time he thinks I'm not looking. A frown. A twitch in his jaw. A clench of his fist. He's doing this because he thinks he owes me, and I just--"

Silence spreads thick as oil.

"Will you come visit me tomorrow? I'll make raspberry scones," she says and, bless her, Aziraphale can hear the smile on her voice.

"I will, dear. I will, and thank you for calling me." He sighs. 

They say their goodbyes and Aziraphale tries, unsuccessfully, to commit to his task.

When Crowley arrives later that day, Aziraphale feels rather morose. But the moment Crowley enters the backroom, he can't help the sharp thrill crawling up his spine.

"Angel?"

"Oh, hello, dear. How was your day?" He closes the book he was pretending to read and places it elsewhere along with his glasses. 

"Good. But it's freezing outside."

"Oh, that won't do," he says, as Crowley sheds his coat, ungloves his hands and takes off his sunglasses. He sits next to Aziraphale on the sofa grazing his hand with his own. They're chunks of ice. "Oh, Crowley. You're going to get frostbite!"

“It’s really not a big deal, angel,” Crowley says, but still lets him do as he pleases. 

He bunches Crowley's hands between his own and blows a gust of hot breath on them. He rubs them together, massaging the sinewy wrists with his thumbs. He looks at Crowley and he’s so close Aziraphale can count the freckles on the bridge of his nose, see the slightly chapped lips opening in a pink sigh, and something tight coils in his chest. Aziraphale wants … wants … he doesn’t know exactly what, the words won’t form in his throat, but his hands must know because they land at both sides of Crowley’s face. 

Something flits in those amber eyes, sharp and warm. 

And then Crowley's kissing him, catching the nape of his neck and pulling him in. It's heavy. Heady . Hot and damp and too eager to have any of Crowley's usual panache. Aziraphale's breath escapes his lips in a whine, the weight of his doubts pressing behind every time he pushes back, deeper into Crowley's mouth. It's sloppier than before, and Aziraphale’s world narrows to the feel of Crowley's skin, of Crowley's hair when he digs a hand in it and tightens his fist.

It's almost possessive. He can feel it in the way his other hand slides down Crowley's side and settles at the small of his back, making Crowley gasp around a moan, his jaw falling slack, finally letting him in.

And Aziraphale is greedy. His tongue darts forward, sliding along Crowley's, licking every bit of new space he can find, deeper, messier, hungrier. Their bodies have instinctually searched each other, turning in the small space of the sofa, half of Aziraphale on top of Crowley.

There's a sound far away, like a clank or a thud, at the front of the shop but even if someone is robbing his prized first editions, right this moment, he couldn't care any less. Not when Crowley's tugging him closer, sucking his lips into his mouth, rolling his hips against him. 

"Zir'aphale," Crowley says, too airy , too throaty, when Aziraphale drags his mouth to his ear and good Lord, he needs to hear it again. 

He gives another lick, tastes the skin and now that he has the knowledge there's no way of going back. He pulls Crowley's hair, baring his throat, sucking a bruise on the side. And Aziraphale can't breath, every puff is short, sharp, mixed with strangled groans every time Crowley's hands find a new place to squeeze and grope.

He wishes they weren’t on this blasted couch because he won't stop, he can't stop to reach the bed, not with the heavy press of Crowley's cock, grinding against his thigh, with Crowley's lips yielding under his.

Someone clears his throat.

"Holy mother of fuck!" Crowley yelps first, hands clasping Aziraphale's jumper and arse. 

"Aziraphale?"

He cranes his neck slightly to the side only to see Gabriel standing there. There in his back room. There as if he owned the place, snatching away any bliss from the air.

"What the hell are you doing here, Gabriel?" Aziraphale asks, ridiculously haughty, a hand weaved in Crowley's hair, one of his legs perched on Crowley's thighs.

For the first time, Gabriel's default smug expression seems to be largely missing. 

"I was--" He coughs. "I was--"

"Did you invite him, angel?," Crowley asks, in a barely repressed growl.

"Of course not!"

"Then get the fuck outta here," Crowley growls at Gabriel, closing an arm around Aziraphale's waist that elicits a shiver. 

Gabriel blinks several times. "You two… are you…?"

"Together?" Crowley offers without giving time for Aziraphale to fret. "Not that is any of your fucking business, but yes. So as I said, get the fuck outta here and don't come back. Ever."

Gabriel closes his lips in a thin line. "That's not for you to decide," he says. 

Crowley springs from his seat. "What the fuck did you just--"

Aziraphale darts from his stunned spot at the couch and laces his fingers around Crowley's, and that seems to calm some of his rage. Crowley sighs. "Look, mate. You're not welcome here. So kindly fuck off."

"Gabriel, why don't you leave? I have no business with you," Aziraphale says. 

There are a loaded couple of seconds before Gabriel turns on his heel and storms out of the shop without saying another word, and at the last possible second Aziraphale realizes he has done too much, and he doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath. 

Chapter Text

Crowley’s knees feel wobbly. The massive bloody mistake he just made, unleashing a ten-ton load of jealousy on Gabriel, falls on his disheveled head once the rush of rage fades. 

Aziraphale’s fingers are still laced with his. He can feel every point of contact as a stark pressure, even if the hold is somewhat loose. His mouth is dry. His well-kissed lips are pulsing, his skin burning with the ghostly tingling of Aziraphale's touch. Its heat is scorching, yet it wrecks him like a chill, a shiver, the more he thinks about it. He’d kissed Aziraphale and bloody hell … he'd been just a couple of grinds away from… from...

Oh, fuck me backwards . Shit.

He's absolutely sure Aziraphale had been equally invested in it, equally keen to keep going, focused on every hot drag of lips and soft gust of breath against skin...  

No. Just- No. 

Crowley forcibly divorces hopes from reality. Aziraphale is only human, and in the real world these things never mean too much. Especially not where they're standing around, practically waiting for the smallest opportunity to prove to each other they're okay with this charade. That they have the other's blessing to push forward. That's actually the goal, isn't it?

The thought slices him through, cuts a yawning chasm deep within him. 

He shakes it away. 

It’s okay. It’s fine. Whatever . He can dodge that feeling, but the outburst is still a problem. It’s thrumming somewhere between his ears and his brain, an expression of anger that was too earnest, too keen and urgent to be called a lie. 

"Holy fuck, angel. Hope that wanker gets the fucking message this time," he says with a shrug, reluctantly disentangling from the pressure in his hand. "D'you think he bought it? The whole ‘we're together’ thing?" he asks, hoping it's a good enough downplay. “Can pose a real problem if he didn’t.”

There.   

The warmth of the shoulder next to him vanishes. “I think you put on quite the performance,” Aziraphale says dryly. 

He watches as Aziraphale, face flushed, walks to the liquor table, runs a hand through the unruly soft tuft of hair, and serves himself a tumbler. His bowtie is askew, there are light red marks along his jaw glistening with Crowley's spit. Crowley suspects he must be sporting their matches. Twin trails of wrecked lust. Which makes his face flame. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says, and signals Crowley to take a seat again. 

Crowley hesitates, shuffles on his spot for a breath, and a second, and then folds carefully onto the sofa. Aziraphale still stands. Clears his throat. 

“At least we can say we’ve muddled through to the other side,” Aziraphale says, cold consideration hanging on his brow as he nurses the pale whisky halfheartedly. “Right, my dear?”

“ Yeaahhup . Yeah, ready we are, nnnngh , think so,” Crowley says disjointedly, rolling his neck and throwing an arm over the back of the sofa. A fake display of confidence he hopes masks the restlessness of his hands, the annoying bounce of his leg.

Aziraphale looks at him. “So, from what I gathered, you would be amenable to moving forward in this, uhm…,” he pauses, and the apples of his cheeks tint crimson, “ endeavor ?”   

Fucking hell.  

“‘Suppose so. Has to be done anyway, right?” Crowley says, and he hates himself a little once the words are out. 

Aziraphale's lips clench tightly. “That is true, but it’s always good to be in concordance,” he says. He fiddles with his bowtie before adding, “I… I do apologize if I overstepped any lines…”

“What’s that?” He clears his throat. 

“About before,” Aziraphale says, uncertain. 

“You must be joking,” Crowley raises a brow and snorts. As if he hadn’t been practically humping his thigh when Gabriel decided to barrage in unannounced. "No need to be all chivalry-ish 'bout this, angel. I think I did my fair share of damage to you."

At this, Aziraphale seems to flounder before continuing, “No, I should’ve asked you first. We should’ve had a conversation-”

“We did converse, ‘member? And… and, well, I didn’t ask you either, so let’s say we’re even.”

“Even,” Aziraphal deadpans. 

“Yeah. Two consenting adults and all that, right?”

“Rather,” Aziraphale nods, but his tone is tight, stiff. He swirls the tumbler in an elegant hand, finely manicured fingers curling around the glass, the sight of which is far more enticing than ought to be. “That is… good to hear."

“Yup,” Crowley finally stands and moves to the liquor table. He serves himself whisky and downs it in one go, wincing at the afterburn in his throat, letting the alcohol work its way into his limbs, into his tongue. He presses his lips together. “So, just to be clear, next time we don't need to stop," he blurts out. He clears his throat. It seems there’s a lot of that going on tonight. Must be the weather. “Sound alright?” 

He turns around and catches the twitch in Aziraphale's jaw, a flit of his gaze. Aziraphale nods, licks his lips, and gulps down his drink, “Of course.”

Crowley’s head is raging furiously still, and he doesn’t think he could navigate the next few hours in Aziraphale’s company without throwing himself on him like a wild beast. Which decidedly isn’t the best course of action right now, much as he would like it. He collects his coat and gloves. “I’m a bit knackered today, Angel,” he lies. “Gotta pass on dinner.”

“Oh. All right.” Aziraphale sighs in his general direction. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Yup.” The need to embrace him is almost unbearable. “Night, Angel.”

Crowley ambles out of the back room in swift strides and doesn't look back. 

Aziraphale's been staring at the the same blank spot on the wall, hoping some kind of enlightenment would come upon him, any minute now. A path out of this maze, perhaps.

He traces the memories from yesterday's events much like he has done for the last four hours. There's been an undeniable frisson of want dominating them both, coating their movements with the need to have each other, and as much as Aziraphale tries to overlook it, it's fair to say it's been very much requited. 

Which doesn't mean a whole lot, Aziraphale thinks sadly, knowing fully well that sexual desire and romantic love are not one and the same. And Aziraphale wishes he could claw his inconvenient heart out to stop the pervasive aching that has lodged in his chest… or gather his courage and be forthright about what he has boiling inside.

Pitiful… and yet.

That hasn't stopped his cock from going hard in his pyjama trousers, when he lies in bed dredging up the memory of every caress. Oh, the things he would've done to Crowley. He can’t sleep, imagining Crowley pinned underneath him, squirming and writhing, sweaty and panting in the crook of his neck, while Aziraphale absolutely devours him, gorging himself on every inch of skin, thinking about his very biteable legs. Wrecking him to completion.

Good Lord .

He puffs and tries to lull himself to sleep, confused and aching. 

Aziraphale is still lost in the dream the next morning when he hears the creak of the stairs. Crowley coming down. He focuses on the task at hand, eyes fastened on the cover of a new copy of Where Angels Fear to Tread . He takes a breath. There's no need to make things odd. After all, they have both said their pieces, and now they're coming from the same direction. Right. 

"Morning, Angel," Crowley says, throwing his black coat haphazardly over his shoulders. Every trace of yesterday's stiffness is gone. "Gotta run today. A friend told me he has some news. Jammy bloke, me." 

Aziraphale raises his gaze, follows the curve of Crowley's throat as he adjusts his tie and scarf. "Oh? I hope it’s good news."

"So do I," Crowley says. "Can't run around London any more in these shoes. They're killing me."

"Honestly, Crowley. Who uses Crook & Jones as everyday wear?"

"They look rather nice," Crowley looks down at his feet. "I'll have you know this is quite in vogue."

"Oh, I don't doubt it, dear boy. What I doubt is your common sense, trudging from here to there, your poor feet trapped in those fancy torture chambers."

"Better to ditch common sense than fashion sense, Mr. Tartan-is-Stylish."

"Well, I say!" Aziraphale gasps in mock offense, a hand pressed to his chest. "At least my clothing of choice is not actively trying to cut off my blood flow, dear boy," Aziraphale says with a sharp smile. Not that Aziraphale has anything against any of Crowley’s sartorial style choices. Not in the slightest. 

Crowley chuckles, "Oh, you little blighter. Bet you think ungartered socks are just newfangled frippery."

"It's just a matter of precaution,” Aziraphale says, wriggling in his seat. “Who wants to walk around with their socks all rumpled around their feet?"

"No one. And no one actually does." Crowley tousles his hair, a deft flick of a thin wrist, and Aziraphale's stomach swirls. "It's called the 21st century. You should try it. Might even surprise you."

Aziraphale laughs wholeheartedly. 

"So. Yeah, well. The thing is, I do like these shoes, pain in the arse or not." Crowley looks at him for a minute too long and clears his throat, raises his collar. “It’s all about the look .”

Aziraphale can’t agree more. "That you have covered, my dear," he says boldly. 

Crowley smiles, biting the swell of his bottom lip and, to Aziraphale’s amusement, flushes deliciously pink. Aziraphale sees the hesitation clinging to the base of his shoes as he takes one step toward his chair, then another, too slow to actually count as a stride. More like a saunter sort of thing.

He reaches Aziraphale's side. "See you later then, Angel," Crowley croaks, and bends over, a hand cupping Aziraphale's cheek, a tingle, gone too soon. It's just a sweet peck on the lips, but it still makes Aziraphale's heart stutter. 

Then Crowley's gone and Aziraphale wishes that he had that first day to do over, that he hadn't panicked and agreed to this, that he had told Crowley everything and had allowed his line of questioning to go wherever it would. 

If he could just go back and walk the knife's edge, rather than falling hopelessly to the opposite side of where he wanted to be.

He sighs. 

It's a moot point now.

Aziraphale stares out the window, gaze unfocused on the narrow street outside, and watches the grey light of the timid sun run from one end of the windowsill to the other. 

The sky rumbles and threatens the rain that has been postponed too long, looming layers of cloud rolling over the city. Crowley joins the flow of people looking for an available taxi, passes between the silent buildings and the sleek lines of the street. The eternal cacophony of the traffic bustling in all directions, rumbling vehicles constantly darting to the next destination, never stopping. Never resting. 

It’s rather late. 

The meeting with Marcus had taken the best part of the morning, and after that he’d been invited to lunch, then back to the building once they were through. His place in the law firm was secured, but he’d been asked to spend the day there to fill out forms and answer questions that had felt like a very informal job interview. The perks of being friends with one of the Managing Partners, apparently. 

The only downside had been that he still had to wait a month to start the actual job. Then another month to get paid. Which meant he was still quite fucked. For a while, there’d been warring sides in his mind. Yes, he very much wanted the job, it’s a good position, but on the other hand….

Well. It’s difficult.

At least the job hunt has been a good outlet for the pent-up emotional and sexual frustration he’s been experiencing for almost a week now. He hurries his steps, realizing that Aziraphale was probably right and he should’ve worn the loafers instead of these foot grinders. He flicks his gaze up to cross the street, and his eyes land on a quaint flower shop. It can’t be helped, he instantly thinks of Aziraphale. 

He knows he shouldn’t spend money on idle purchases right now, but somehow this doesn’t seem trivial. He ambles to the black lacquered door and stares at the blooms in shades of mauve, pink, and yellow amidst fiery red, white, and green. They really seem to glow in the stark darkness of the night. Some are tight-budded, but others are beginning to artificially open out of season, no longer the promise of a far-away summer, but conveniently manipulated, as everything is in this 21st century world. Suddenly modernity doesn’t seem quite so attractive anymore.  

He spends pounds he doesn’t have and buys a bouquet of white alstroemerias, pink freckles adorning the petals.  

He walks all the way from Mayfair to Soho in his uncomfortable shoes. 

When Aziraphale arrives back at the bookshop later that day, the temperature has plummeted to such a degree that the air prickles at his cheeks, seems to frost the tip of his nose. He fumbles for his keychain in the ample pocket of his winter coat, producing it with a merry jingle. A rush of wind passes, and his cream coat flaps open around him like the wings of a solitary dove lost in the winter.

Tea with Tracy had gone rather well, as it usually does. Even if, ever loyal to her identity as self-proclaimed matchmaker, she had fished for more details regarding his situation and his flatmate. Aziraphale hadn't been able to hide from her the events of the previous night, and that had been fodder for the rest of the evening's gossip.

Aziraphale is very fond of her, and her scones are the best he has ever indulged in. But he feels the telltale dull ache at his temples that announces a headache inching closer, if he can’t stave off the flood of half-arsed conclusions he’s entertaining because of that blasted earlier conversation. He sighs. Right now, he yearns to sink into his armchair, to read a book, and perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll be lucky enough to catch Crowley's lips in a delightful kiss.

He desperately needs to see Crowley.

Once inside, he's greeted by the comfortable silence, by the warm wave of the well-lived-in room. The old grandfather's clock announces ten o’clock, the mechanism grating under the soft chime of the bells, and Aziraphale divests himself of his coat, gloves, and thick woolen scarf. He toddles to the backroom, and there, on a table next to his armchair, almost glowing against the maroon backdrop of too-old books and an ancient secretaire , there's a bouquet of alstroemerias.

Aziraphale stops, stunned, runs a finger along the stems, caresses the outline of a pink-freckled petal, and his eyes swivel down to the white card next to them.

Thought you might like them,

xx

C .

His heart lurches in his chest. How to interpret this? How to parse the words that are written there? Thought you might like them . With two kisses? Aziraphale’s fingers curl around the kraft paper, crisp and dry under his hand, and he pulls the flowers to his chest. What does this mean? That he’s in Crowley’s thoughts, at least. And that's… that's a precious commodity in this confounding game. A bit, just a bit of a dream worth preserving.   

Aziraphale takes the bouquet and the card and dashes to the kitchen. He rummages for a vase, runs water, and settles the flowers in their new home, taking the time to press his nose against one to feel the delicate softness.

Card in hand, he darts up the stairs, looking for Crowley. Because, yes, this is a very good excuse to steal a kiss as a thank-you. He does have manners, after all. He feels a little breathless as he scurries along the corridor, the tap tap tap of his oxfords against the hardwood floors. 

"Crowley?" he calls to the living room.

Only the creaks of the building answer. 

He padds closer to Crowley's bedroom and his good mood wilts a little, because Crowley is already asleep. He's sprawled on the bed, face down, stretched as if he’d wanted to cover most of the space of the obscenely large mattress. Embroidered sheets are wrapped around his lower half, a pile of tasseled cushions pushed off onto the floor. Aziraphale feels his cheeks heating up. Distilled moonlight casts beams across the covers, across Crowley’s body, highlighting the jut of his shoulder blades, the dimples at the small of his back, the glorious fire of his hair falling down in disarray, the pale smoothness of his skin.

He’s absolutely striking. 

Oh, dear. 

Apparently, Crowley sleeps shirtless, and isn't that quite a discovery? 

Aziraphale’s breath is sharp. He wants to reach, to graze a finger along the planes of the taut muscles of Crowley’s back, of his side. Let me see you , let me see your beautiful face, he wants to murmur into his ear. Crowley’s face is partially burrowed in a pillow and, more’s the pity, Aziraphale doesn’t get a glimpse of parted lips open in sleep, of the fluttering auburn lashes he’s so fond of.

There’s a tightness in his stomach, pulling along a curl of heat, spreading down to his thighs, to his cock. He clenches his jaw, trying to fend off the avalanche of unseemly thoughts barging in uninvited. Okay, fine . Perhaps just a tad invited. 

Crowley shifts then, a soft sigh on his lips, and Aziraphale’s feet, which had seemed nailed to the floor a few seconds ago, catch on his realization of how utterly wrong this is, standing here watching. He retreats quickly, dashes to his bedroom with all due haste. 

Once inside, he slumps onto his bed. He tries to shake off the images emblazoned on the insides of his eyelids. He sets about the task of preparing for bed, changes out of his clothes, brushes his teeth, tries to ignore the ache of his half-hard cock. But every brush against his cotton pyjamas seems to spike the sensations crackling over his skin. It’s difficult to push the images away, and he knows that, even if he manages to, his unabated desire will not go away entirely. He could pleasure himself thinking of Crowley, as he has done so many times before, but somehow, now it doesn’t feel quite right any more. It’s like violating a bylaw, an unspoken clause of this… this contract . 

Right. 

That does it. 

Aziraphale presses the heels of his hands over his tired eyes. He twists in his bed and faces the wall. There's not much time left on the ‘contract’, barely a week, and Aziraphale feels terribly lost. He closes his eyes, tries to blank his mind, tries to drift off.

And finds his eyes open again, following the lines of smoky light seeping through from the outside. It's late and he can't sleep. He tosses and turns, trying for distraction, for comfort, but to no avail. Maybe… maybe he could spare a glance at Crowley again. A perfectly innocent admiration-from-afar scenario. Just to settle his mind, to revel in the soft lines of his face. He really shouldn't, but… he sighs in defeat, pushes himself upright and out of the bed.

And he's standing at Crowley's doorway, watching him sleep yet again, the light from the hallway making the room look slightly less dreary. Crowley has rolled over in his sleep, the sheet shifted down, and his chest is now bare and exposed for Aziraphale to see. A soft dusting of red hair reaches from one nipple to the other, extending down to his navel and disappearing under the black boxers he's wearing. 

Of course he would wear painted-on boxers under painted-on jeans, Aziraphale thinks, and tries to resist the need to touch him. To press a kiss against his skin. 

Crowley shifts minutely against the sheets, a sleepy whisper in his mouth, and Aziraphale heaves a sigh.

If he could just… 

"Zir'aphale?" Crowley asks, sounding very much sleep-drunk.

Oh, drat .

"Yes, dear?"

Crowley props on his elbows, eyes hazy, blinking slightly in evident confusion. He is an absolute vision. "What are you doing there? Something wrong?"

"I, uh, I… had a nightmare," he lies. 

"Oh?"

"Yes. Terrible thing, I'm afraid."

"And you were watching me sleep, because...?"

More like ogling you, ever helpful, his brain supplies. 

"I wasn't. I came to see if you were awake… to talk, perhaps."

"Well, I am now." Crowley seems to consider something, and Aziraphale could swear a blush steals under his cheeks. But the room is too dark to trust his eyes. "If you want to talk… why don't…," he clears his throat, "why don't you come over here and lie down?"

Aziraphale's brows take a leap to his hairline. "in y- the bed?" 

"It's okay if you don't…," Crowley hurries to add.

"I do!" and Aziraphale curses inwardly at how desperate he sounds. "That is to say, I think that's perfectly acceptable."

Every step he takes from the doorway to the bed - Crowley's bed , his mind screams furiously - seems particularly heavy. 

He reaches the bed, stands there a minute too long, trying to control his pulse, trying to rein in his breathing and tell his cock not to get any ideas.

"Well?" Crowley rasps. 

Aziraphale finally sits on the edge of the mattress, balancing his legs, feeling like he’s about to dive into a pool. He takes a deep breath and lies down.

The mattress is good, surprisingly so. He watches the outline of Crowley's body rearranging the sheets, pulling the discarded duvet to cover them both. Aziraphale thanks his merciful stars that Crowley can't see his intent gaze roaming every line and stretch of his back and arms. 

Crowley finally sinks again and turns on his left side, facing him. "'Was too terrible?"

"What's that?" Aziraphale says, fighting the impulse to roll closer and take him in his arms.

"Your nightmare, I mean."

"Oh. Yes." Aziraphale shifts to his right side, feeling like a sham. "Dreadful business."

A second ticks away.

"Go on then."

"Mmm?"

"You said you wanted to talk?"

" Ah . Yes." He furiously grapples for a lie, which would be far easier if he wasn't distracted by the warmth of Crowley's body radiating toward him. Crowley and his lack of shirt. Just a couple inches away, his scent wafting over and obliterating any sense of coherent thought. Because Aziraphale is lying on his bed, with nothing between them but Aziraphale's ridiculous tartan pyjamas and those ridiculously tight boxers Crowley's wearing. His cock twitches in his pants. Blast . 

"You don't need to tell me anything if you don't want to," Crowley finally says, misinterpreting his silence. Aziraphale fishes for the memory of a past bad dream.

"Waterstones," he blurts out.

"What?"

"I dreamt the bookshop was a Waterstones!"

"Er…"

"And suddenly a horrible young man asked me to point out, and quote, the best James Patterson book," Aziraphale says, slightly agitated.

"Oh no."

"As if such a thing existed!"

Crowley laughs, throaty and deep, and Aziraphale's stomach ties itself in preposterous knots. 

"You're ridiculous," Crowley says, and before Aziraphale can complain any further he kisses him softly, drinking small sips from his lips.

It's an unthought reaction, like a dam overflowing. Aziraphale presses his whole body to Crowley's, an unbroken line from chest to knees. He feels the kiss pulsing in every cell of his body, prickling on his skin like electricity, and he moans, wanton, into Crowley's mouth. His hand soon finds the sinuous line at the small of Crowley's back, that spot he has longed to touch for so long, feeling the bare skin burning under his touch, and pulls him closer with a shockingly deep desire to have him. To possess him entirely. Aziraphale's tongue slides into Crowley's mouth, spilling broken whines as he pushes Crowley onto his back to not miss an angle of him.

"Oh, Christ, Angel, yes, please..."

Crowley sobs a moan, his hands falling at the sides of his head before Aziraphale straddles him. And it is so perfectly right, and he looks impossibly beautiful. Crowley whimpers through clenched teeth when Aziraphale's teeth scrape along the sharp line of his jaw, gasps when Aziraphale's mouth sucks the column of his throat and nuzzles behind his ear into his sweet-scented tresses. 

"Oh, fuck, Azss'raphle."

Aziraphale tangentially registers his own state of overdress and he does want to shed his button-up, but he refuses to stop touching Crowley even for a second. Crowley arches into his touch, into every rub of his hands along the dips of his ribs and swell of his thighs, bucking his hips, and Aziraphale feels the hot, heavy press of his cock against his own aching erection. 

"Yes, darling , just let me… let me…"

His own voice is alien to his ears, deep and rough, and Aziraphale is so hard he can't think straight. But he doesn't need to think. Not right now, when his body seems to know exactly what to do, following movements he's harbored in dreams over the course of the last year. He licks a wet line down Crowley's neck to his collarbone, biting and sucking, knowing fully well there will be bruises tomorrow, blessed marks of his hunger. 

His hands skim under Crowley's boxers, the narrow width of his hips fitting perfectly on his handspan, as if Crowley was made for him, and the thought makes him almost dizzy with desire. 

" Angel ," Crowley breaths, and he sucks on his pulse spot, his gasps and whines broken things, rent from his throat unbidden. Aziraphale lets him taste his neck, angling his head to give Crowley better access, feeling fire filling his veins, Crowley's touch firebrand on the skin he would gladly see marked with his thin fingers.

He's perfect. He's gorgeous. A heady flavor on Aziraphale's mouth, intoxicating smoothness under his fingertips, and he must have him, Lord, let me have him-

This is going to be the death of him. 

Aziraphale feels Crowley's hands cradling the swell of his arse under his frankly obnoxious clothing, pulling him closer and, in the span of a second, Aziraphale's in real danger of coming in his trousers. He hasn't done that since he was a teenager. 

He props on his arms to gather the tendrils of his self-control, and admires the sight beneath him. Which is definitely not helpful.

"Is there something wrong?" Crowley asks, lips bitten-red and swollen, and Aziraphale can see him already fretting, the spark of a doubt flitting in the wide black pools of his pupils.

"You're stunning, my dear," Aziraphale dares to say because, even if it's useless, he wants to give this moment his truth, and if Crowley shies away from him because of it, there's nothing he can do about it. "... positively ravishing, and I need… I need…"

Crowley surges, kissing him soundly, and Aziraphale is canting his hips yet again, seeking that marvellous friction, hearing Crowley give more of those intoxicating, breathy little moans as he meets him, rolling his hips, pushing the hard front of his boxers against him.

"I'm- Oh!- I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale says in a hot exhale, sailing down the spit-slick angle of Crowley's throat, his teeth now catching on one of Crowley's nipples. "I'm – not going to last."

" Fuck , Angel, me neither."

Aziraphale can barely breath, his stomach tightening, liquid heat pooling there, threatening to consume him.

He fists a hand in Crowley's hair, the other tightly anchored on Crowley's hip, and let's his body take over, rutting mercilessly against Crowley's cock as Crowley slings a leg over his hip. 

It's animalistic, a primal urge that he has never felt before, compelling him to thrust with artless movements of his hips, despite the too-many layers, and who in his sane mind wears that many clothes to bed? Aziraphale swears silently at himself.

He can't help think that he could be fucking Crowley into the mattress, if the circumstances were slightly different, pouring into him the last bit of his love, the last drop of his come. If he could ask, if he felt worthy enough to have him without reservations. Black tar oozes inside him, tarring over the overwhelming sheen of his pleasure. He focuses on Crowley, then, on his red hair splayed on the pillow like a halo, on his skin glistening with sweat and that sweet mouth, open wide and panting. 

Aziraphale can’t resist the heat of it and he sinks into it. He feels Crowley's tongue deftly gliding along his lips and catches the tip with his teeth, sucking it deep into his mouth.

The pleasure crests in relentless spikes, and before he knows it his own orgasm crashes over him, and he's a ball of hot, white need exploding from within. 

He growls into Crowley's mouth, feeling Crowley's long legs hooking behind his and soon Crowley's arching off the bed with a sob-like grunt. 

Aziraphale's head falls forward then, and he uses the last speck of his energy to roll off Crowley before crushing him.

Neither of them says a word for what seems an eternity. They're already past the point of no return, and Aziraphale can't help but feel that he has forced it, that he has forced Crowley into this and somehow he's just--

"I can hear you doubting from here, you know?" Crowley says nonchalantly, but Aziraphale catches a current of hurt underneath his words.

Does Crowley actually think he regrets it?

"No, no, my dear, I was just thinking, I hope I wasn't too rough with you."

"Oh."

"Not regretting anything in the slightest."

"Oh," Crowley says again. "That's- that's, ngk, good. Me neither." He shifts on the bed and Aziraphale feels the mattress tilt when Crowley stands up. "Gotta go clean up."

Aziraphale flushes scarlett, which is ridiculous given what they just did. "R-right."

He stands, and even though he yearns to return to Crowley's bed, he sinks his teeth into his lip hard enough to draw blood, and collects himself and stumbles back to his own room. 

There's no need to add unnecessary, farcical layers of intimacy that will later serve only to make him weep. 

So he closes the door of his bedroom a tad more forcefully than required and proceeds to clean himself.

He slides under the covers and, when sleep finally comes, he closes eyes stung with tears. 

Chapter Text

It's one thing to expect for something and another one entirely to actually get it. 

Crowley shucks his stained boxers off and dabs with some kleenex at the garish wetness between his thighs. He ought to take a shower… but right now he can't bring himself to care. He splashes water on his face, fumbling with pathetic, trembling hands, rubs thin fingers over a sticky patch on his neck where he knows a bruise is starting to show. He casts a glance to the mirror, and presses there, to that spot where the red is turning purple, a mottled bit of flesh nailing him to the vicious reality. 

This isn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. This is an absolute fucking mess, is what it is. 

He feels like he’s suspended in limbo, like that bloke Schrödinger and his fucking cat or whatever, and as long as he doesn't open the bathroom door, as long as he keeps all his too-earnest hopes and well-hidden fears in this two-by-two of cold white tiles, he can pretend this is something else. They’re something else. A blessed, beautiful, idiotic chance to grasp a dream for a few seconds more. Agonizing, desperate seconds, stolen by the clock. 

He feels naked in more than one way, the tiny wisps of coolness biting at his skin, all of him worn out, just strung up. He grabs a towel from the storage dresser and cinches it around his waist. His heart throbs in his chest, rattles his throat as he finally scrapes his courage from the walls inside him and leaves this makeshift refuge. 

His bed is empty. 

Yeah. It’s one thing to expect something and another one to actually get it… good or bad. 

He hadn’t been expecting for Aziraphale to stay, had he? Even if he doesn’t want to admit it, this is a blessing in disguise, and he won't allow the wave of disappointment to bleed into him because it doesn't make any bloody sense. For all his tendency for dramatics, there’s just so much of the theatrical in him. Certainly not enough to lie there next to the Angel and pretend everything’s just fine, that this was just a twiddly bit of the new arrangement. Yeah, fancy that, we totally fuck now. Having a bit of fun there, nothing else. 

Crowley feels like choking, like the words he didn’t get to say are actually queueing up in his throat, which is way too narrow for the width of the truths he’s holding inside. He rubs his face with damp hands and fuck , at least he doesn’t get to know whether the wet trails on his cheeks were there a second ago. He sinks onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling, as if the white plaster has some kind of an answer, as if it weren’t the same as it was minutes ago when he… he…

Fuck .

He closes his eyes, and his brain collapses under the weight of all the memories, translucent things that don't allow him to hide from the truth. 

This had been just a quick fuck. 

What had he been expecting, really? At this point, it’s a situational hazard, and it doesn’t matter how much he still tries to cling with knuckled fingers to the idea that this could be something more, that every caress and kiss, every brush of warm fingers on every crevasse of him is more than convenience. He’s just a warm body that Aziraphale happens to fancy and care for in a very particular sort of way. Crowley digs the heel of his hands into the sockets of his eyes and presses . He digs the sharp edge of a canine into his lip and chokes out a grunt-like sob. 

Stupid, really. A fool’s errand. Stupid him, with his stupid flowers and really fucking stupid card. Aziraphale hadn’t said a word about it. Perhaps he’d hated them. Too much. Crowley’s always too much. And of course Aziraphale had brushed it off, the whole thing had been inconsequential at best. 

He didn't have the right to hurt so fucking much. They'd had a good frolic, and that was that. 

Crowley shifts on the bed and tries not to bury his face in the abandoned pillow, the one with traces of Aziraphale's scent. He can be an idiot, but he isn't a masochist. His whole body aches. He tucks his arms around himself, holding all his shattered pieces together. 

Enough.

Enough of that.

He tosses the towel to the floor and wraps himself in the comforter. 

If he's really going to push himself through this, he’d better paper over any vulnerable places and just… fucking do it. No flowers, no lingering gazes, no soft kisses where there should be business and nothing else.

Like ripping off a bandaid from a bloody gash, tomorrow he'll place the cards on the table. Better than waiting idly for things to happen when he hasn't had time to brace for them. 

Just a suggestion.

Precise, quick, clean and direct. Yeah, he can do that.

He lets out a shivering breath that hisses through clenched teeth. Right now, however, right here, there's no one who will judge his tears.

Crowley squares his shoulders, clenches his jaw, and tries to ignore the pointed whiteness of the alstroemerias turned on his direction. He hadn't been expecting to see them at all, and it punches the breath out of his lungs.

Anyway. He swallows. He has something to say. 

Fuck it all, here goes nothing.  

"I really think we should fuck," he says, and it sounds so terribly loud in the contained space of the kitchen.

Aziraphale's fork clatters against his plate, pinched bacon instantly forgotten. 

He blinks, and tilts his head to the side. “Sorry. What was that?”

“We should fuck," Crowley says, and fuck him if he doesn't hate how disgustingly crass it sounds.  

Aziraphale's eyes are wide as saucers. “As in right now ?”

“No! Not right now! 'Course not right now! It’s just-,” Crowley clears his throat, weaves fingers through his hair and is fucking glad he didn't forget his sunglasses this one time. He’s got this. This is just a hurdle to jump past. It isn't personal. “Look. Just. Nggh, pfff , I mean, it’s not as if you didn’t like it, is it? Last night, that is. Er.”

"O-of course I did. I thought that had been quite, uhm, quite obvious," Aziraphale says, cheeks glowing pink, adjusting a bowtie that doesn't need any adjusting.

“Ngk. Right. That's… good. And that's why I think we should just mpkf." Crowley buries the word and the heat of his face in the rim of his coffee mug, fills his mouth with a sip so he needn't say the word. " Bit of a step up, but must be done."

Aziraphale nods and looks at Crowley with a little frown between his brows. Crowley's stomach instantly flutters… flashes of the same expression in that beautiful face hovering above him hours before, panting in his neck . His throat goes sand-dry.

"May I ask what prompted this, my dear?" 

"What prompted what?"

"This. Such an upfront suggestion, as one may put it."

Crowley makes some kind of sound that's ninety-eight percent consonants, and two percent saliva. "Nothing. Just, you know. We're almost there. So. Sooner rather than later, and all that jazz, right?"

"Right," Aziraphale assures with a small smile. Crowley doesn't want to even think about how much Aziraphale must be hating this.

"And I think we're already stepping on the later . I mean. It isn't like we have all the time in the world to just sit, larking about, braiding our hair and whatnot."

"No, I'm afraid we don't have time to dilly-dally around much longer."

"So." Crowley shrugs and drinks another sip of black coffee, focusing on the bitter aftertaste that isn't managing to cover the tang of his own words.

Aziraphale sits across him, silent for what seem like hours but is probably just seconds. Not even a minute. Crowley wants to scream, to actually fucking yell, because there's no bloody way their relationship could come out of this unscathed, and just the idea of losing whatever crumbs of Aziraphale he can have makes him want to run to the loo and retch.  

Just then, Crowley sees the twitch of Aziraphale's jaw and the blanched angle of his knuckles around the angel mug he'd gotten him for his birthday, months ago. 

"Fine," Aziraphale says finally, and his voice is clipped and determined, with a detachment that seems to skewer Crowley like fucking deli meat. "Let's say I see your point. What do you suggest, then?"

" Me ?"

"Wasn't this your terribly clever idea?" Aziraphale asks, the corners of his tightly-clenched mouth curving distinctly downwards.

"I'd hardly call an impromptu 'let's fuck', a terribly clever idea." Yeah. Impromptu . 

"Well, then. Your suggestion. I gather you must have thought about some course of action to take?"

"Ahhhh. Nope ."

"..."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Aziraphale sighs. "Any words of wisdom in that head of yours, at least?"

"Words of wisdom. What, did you lose your manual?" Crowley feels the vibration of the scream bouncing around in his skull. "It's just sex," he says and, isn't that the world's biggest fib ? It's just sex . It's so much more than just sex. Bloody hell . It's a whole universe away than just sex. Still, he presses. "It doesn't have a bloody 101, you kinda just, nggh… go with the flow."

Aziraphale hums, and it might be because Crowley has dedicated several waking hours to trace every emotion in the lines of that beloved face, but he knows there's something bubbling underneath that mmm .  Fuck, he loves Aziraphale way too much for his own bloody good. 

"What? I know you. What's wrong?"

Aziraphale bites his lip, his eyelashes flickering over the curve of his round cheek. He looks impossibly gorgeous, which makes Crowley dig his nails into his denim-clad thigh to keep from pouncing over the table and kissing his sodding arse senseless. "Oh, nothing. It's only that…," Aziraphale clears his throat, "I'm afraid I might be a bit rusty."

“Rusty?”

“Mmhm.”

"Beg your pardon?" 

Aziraphale levels his gaze up to Crowley, slightly flushed. "Well, if you must know, I haven't performed in quite a while."

"Mmm. What about Gabriel?" Crowley asks, with that residual jealousy scratching beneath the surface. 

"Oh, that pillock," Aziraphale tsks. "We never got physical, which enraged him immensely, I should say."

"Wanker," Crowley says, the word just popping out of its own bloody accord. Somewhere deep within him, a knot of black, heavy misery untangles and smoothes. "If it's any consolation, which I know it isn't, because of course it isn't," Crowley stares at the compelling depths of his mug and finds his treacherous mouth saying, "I'm- I'm in the same bloody boat, actually."

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true! Cross my heart.”

" Oh . Oh. Really?” 

He looks up just to see a flash of, what, relief ? Hope ? Happiness ? Nah. He's a gormless arse if he thinks that. "Yeah. 'S been a long time." Suddenly Crowley feels rather exposed. It hasn't been a long time in all honesty, because he has never been with someone capable of stealing his breath away with a smile, someone who can strip away his defenses and his pretenses, someone who can easily slip through the cracks and into his heart doing something as mundane as uttering a soft 'goodnight, my dea r'. And he has fallen, his feet tipping over the edge of a steep cliff, and he's bound to find his end on the sharp rocks below if he can't grab onto something. Quick. He sighs. "But all that's just rubbish, you know? 'Cause you never forget it. I bet it's like-"

"Riding a velocipede?"

"If you're fucking Buster Keaton, yeah. Otherwise it's just a bike. But yeah, you have a point," Crowley says, feeling slightly better. "It's going to be alright. We can, I don't know, schedule for wednesday?"

"Schedule," Aziraphale deadpans with just the shadow of a frown, cutting a piece of bacon with perfect calm. 

"It's just a manner of speaking, don't get into a tizzy," Crowley says. "So, are you in?"

“I believe that depends on your preferences, but I’m amenable," Aziraphale says, without looking up from his scrambled eggs.

It takes Crowley a blink to catch on. " Nngghh , you bastard," he scoffs, feeling his cheeks heating up and a flare of heat in his gut. "Er, just one more question, have you got yourself tested?"

"Mmm? Oh. Yes. Six months ago, and you?"

"Shortly after starting to work, so less than a year."

"Then it's all settled," Aziraphale says. And then he adds primly. "I think we'll have a jolly good time. Nothing prevents us from it, right?"

"Ngk. Jolly- Yeah. Whale of a time, we'll have. Yep. Why not?"

Crowley swallows the sour lump in his throat and nods. And indeed, if this is all there is, if this is all Aziraphale can give him , why the fuck not ?

There must be a special circle of Hell for someone like him, Aziraphale thinks. He’d been determined to back down. He can’t do this, he’d been convinced he couldn’t do this. That night, that magical, wretched night he’d been set on would end with all of this. 

One taste, and he’d been doomed. 

Touching Crowley had unleashed a whole sea of pain, of regret for what he couldn't have. Borrowed time, borrowed touches, intoxicating kisses, and shivering breaths of someone who would never be his, and Aziraphale had almost gone mad thinking about it. He loved Crowley to the point that it was physically painful, and having him by sections, by insufficient pieces, holding his body but never his heart, was undoing him.

The fact that his brain had kept throwing him into more and more disastrous scenarios hadn't helped at all. Some day, somewhere, Crowley would find someone else, someone he might love. Someone who was going to be able to touch him as Aziraphale had, but who would be granted the privilege to stay and take him in his arms through the night, to cradle his warmth close, as Aziraphale couldn't. The mere idea had filled him with such an inordinate amount of rage he'd ended up tearing a poor mantle apart. 

But then, in the morning, when Crowley had come down for breakfast, looking as starkly beautiful as he always did, Aziraphale's resolve had crumbled. 

No matter how much Aziraphale's heart had twisted inside him at how direct and dismissive Crowley had been about the fact, he still hadn't been able to say no.

Even when he'd seen the change in Crowley, who no longer sought to kiss him at any given time, who now shied away from Aziraphale's casual touches because, of course, there's only so much one can take. 

What on Earth is wrong with him ?

And now…

He's waiting in his room, sparing glances at his pocket watch from time to time. They'd agreed on a time, and Aziraphale has consciously divested himself of his jumper, bowtie and waistcoat, now sitting on the bed in only his trousers and button-up.  No need to pretend anything else, is there? 

He rises and paces from one side of the room to the other, socked feet shuffling nervously over the carpet. He stands in front of the mirror and tries to tousle his hair, a ridiculous attempt, obviously. Forty-eight years should've taught him that was a lost battle. 

Aziraphale feels as if he’s about to burst out of his skin. There's anticipation sparkling in every cell of his being, but also something else. A doleful frisson that tells him he ought not let his brain wander down paths that only offer pain.

There's a knock on his door and, heedless of the warnings, he jumps to open it, his heart pounding in his temples, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"Hey," Crowley says, a shy smile tilting his lips, and Aziraphale thanks his stars he hasn’t brought those dreadful shades, because his eyes are unguarded and golden and beautiful. He's dressed in black joggers and one of those shirts that have a name in some blocky typography Aziraphale has never been able to decipher. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." 

He steps aside and watches Crowley, all sinuous lines, body flexing, make his way to the center of the room. The fire of his hair shimmers like gold under the last rays of clarity seeping through the window, the long angle of his throat an enticing swath of skin Aziraphale is dying to kiss. 

"Nice knick-knacks you have here. See your archaic taste ranges from fashion sense to in-decor," he says, bending to view a figurine.

"I'll have you know that's Crown Derby." Aziraphale dithers for a moment next to the door, then sits on the edge of his bed. There's nowhere else to go.

"Right," Crowley turns and smiles. "That makes it better."

Aziraphale wants to talk, to say something to blunt the edges of the loaded silence, but before he can say anything, Crowley steps forward and sits at his side.

"Are you ready?" He asks, softly, and Aziraphale finally sees his hand clutching a paper bag, which he places on the bedside table. 

"Oh, yes. Quite." Very .  

"Figured I should bring supplies," Crowley says with a shrug, but a delightful flush spreads from his cheekbones down his jaw.

"Oh."

"How do you want to do this?"

"I-I really don't know. I think… perhaps…"

There's a pressure in his chest, a resistance of some sort that traps what he really, truly wants above anything else. It's better this way, Aziraphale thinks, even if he's left a blundering fool with stuttered words.

He swallows. "Mmm. Perhaps I could kiss you?" he says, calmly, as if his whole body weren't begging for just a slip of Crowley's touch.

Crowley clears his throat, “Sounds alright.”

Aziraphale draws Crowley closer, curling a hand around the back of his neck, and leans in, meeting him halfway. He has missed those lips. They're soft and moist under the gentle press of his mouth, making him almost forget, almost , the ache inside. They kiss slowly and deeply, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley's taste heady on his tongue when he slides inside his mouth.

He should stop it, stand up and say he can't do it, but a part of him, an awfully greedy part of him, won’t let him. And so he drifts a hand and anchors it to Crowley's thigh, stroking with idle circles of his thumb. His stomach is tight and heavy, and Crowley is making more of those gut-twisting little noises that seem to go straight to his cock. 

Crowley shifts then, and Aziraphale can feel the outline of the tent in his trousers when his hand wanders a little to the left. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, which is ridiculous and he knows it.

"It's alright," Crowley says, his breath rushing across Aziraphale's stung lips.

A thread of rust hair falls in front of his eyes, and Aziraphale can't think, can hardly breathe, and yet he wants to scream until the silent weight in his chest is gone. If this is all there is, all he's allowed to take, then he'll make it count. He thumbs the flyaway strand, curls his hand along Crowley's jaw, and sees him. Looks at him.

The way he sucks in a quick breath, his cheeks pink and freckled, and those eyes that are gold and beautiful and full of something he can't name. Aziraphale pauses, and desperately wishes, wants, Crowley would take, would accept this bright thing he's willingly giving.

Aziraphale kisses him, and this time he doesn't hold back. He presses forward, both hands framing Crowley's face, and it's needy and wet, Aziraphale's tongue more demanding as Crowley finally lets him go all the way in. The noise he sort of garbles at the back of his throat is downright obscene . He decides to move a hand to rove over Crowley's back, over his side and he's grasped in return, tight , Crowley fisting his shirt and moaning each time Aziraphale sucks his lips and licks the outline of his inner cheek. 

There's something burning inside him, a searing ember settled in his gut and he knows he shouldn't love this, these stolen kisses, as much as he does, but he can't help it.

Crowley collapses on the bed just then, flat under Aziraphale’s weight, tugging him by the neck, and there's no denying how incredibly hard Aziraphale is against his thigh. Especially not now, when Crowley is grinding his hips against him. The hand that isn't touching Crowley's body weaves in his hair, firm and a little bit demanding. Crowley smiles on his mouth, tilting his head to the side. 

Oh, Aziraphale really loves his neck. He noses and licks down Crowley's mouth, tongue wet against the rough stubble of his jaw and dapples his skin with bruising kisses because, really, there's no way he can contain himself.

Crowley moans, the sharp angle of his nails raking over Aziraphale’s back, burying them deep in his curls, making him groan in blissful arousal.

The room is airless, and they're already panting, sweating, while they roll their hips and their foreheads touch, tacky against each other.

If they don't stop, don't move onto something else, he's risking another event like last time. Which wouldn't be the worst, but if he really thinks about it, he'd rather prefer--

"Can I suck you off?" Crowley rasps, and Aziraphale's spine quivers just thinking about it.

"Do you really want to?"

"Yeah. I mean. We should start somewhere," Crowley says, and perhaps he should feel off about the wording, but Crowley's palming his erection over his trousers and his body jolts, his cock probably red and leaking by now.

Aziraphale nods, kissing Crowley one last time and pulls back.

He sits at the edge of the bed and watches as Crowley pushes his legs open, splays them wide to kneel between them. 

"You need to tell me if you don't like it," Crowley says then, as if that could be remotely possible. "Any of it."

"Likewise," he manages, hearing the pulsing of his heart in his ears.

Something hot and tight coils in his groin, the mere thought punching the air out of his lungs. He has fantasized about this far more than would be sensible, knowing it was impossible, and now... 

His breath is shallow, terribly sharp as he watches Crowley thumb his trousers open, freeing his cock that is flushed and already leaking precome in a terrible mess.

He lets out a deep sigh when Crowley closes his hand around his base and pumps.

"Is this alright?" Crowley asks, without looking at him.

"Quite," Aziraphale answers, biting back his eagerness. Because it isn't alright , but so much more; Crowley's hand is warm and Aziraphale could probably come just by seeing his mouth hovering over his prick.

Crowley scoots even closer and curls a hand on his hip. Aziraphale can feel the muscles of his thighs quivering, pulling and tightening, as finally Crowley opens his mouth and takes him in. 

"Oh, God. Crowley ..." 

He's almost gone then and there. He fists the tartan comforter and sinks his teeth in his bottom lip so hard he almost cries out in pain. It really has been ages, and Crowley is sucking him deep, his tongue swirling around the head and licking down, dear God , now sucking in his bollocks, first one and then the other. 

Oh, God . 

He can't come. He can't come inside Crowley's mouth unless he says so, which he won't because… because of course he won't, he thinks with a sudden pang of pain.

So Aziraphale digs his nails in his palms, and watches Crowley bobbing up and down his length, cupping his sack and giving little tugs at it, while Aziraphale spills more broken moans, and hates the constricting bundle of his trousers at his feet.

Crowley's lashes flutter as his hair falls in messy waves around his face, tickling the flesh of Aziraphale's thighs. His lips, red and swollen, obscenely stretch around his cock and the sight coaxes a groan loose from his throat. Crowley flicks his gaze up and stops, watching his hands.

He pulls back with a wet pop, a line of saliva stretching from his abused lips to the flushed tip of Aziraphale's cock.

"You can put your hands on my head, I don't mind," Crowley says, hoarsely, and Aziraphale swallows thickly.

He clears his throat, "I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to, uhm, to stop myself from, erm,-"

"Pulling? Yeah. I don't mind that either," he says, pumping his cock idly, which is still painfully hard.

"I don't want to be rough," he bites back the 'my dear' because it's very possible that something entirely heavier would spring from his mouth, unbidden.

"You can. If you want that is." Crowley blushes beet red, "I like to have my face fucked, actually."

"Ah."

Aziraphale has completely lost the ability to speak and instead gazes at Crowley, eyes hazed, wanting him so much that it burns him from the inside.

Slowly, he dares to reach forward and weaves his hands through Crowley's mane.

"Yeah, like that," Crowley breaths, giving a broad stroke around his head. "I won't break."

God, help him. He wants to voice a thousand things. To tell Crowley how gorgeous he looks, how much he loves him, to tell him please never stop touching me and to lean into the warmth of his hands. But he can't and he could've kicked and thrashed, overwhelmed by ache.

Instead, he tenses his hold as Crowley goes down on him again, lapping up at a fresh dribble of precome and Aziraphale huffs a groan when Crowley flattens his tongue and licks the veiny underside. 

Crowley pulls off, making Aziraphale whine. "Is this good?" 

"Yes. Rather," he chokes out.

"Okay. If you want anything, er, just- say so."

Aziraphale nods. 

Crowley takes him inside his mouth, and swallows around him, pushing him further and further down his throat, and Aziraphale feels himself going mad.

"That's-That's good," he says. Keens . "Oh, that's wonderful." 

Crowley glances up, and to Aziraphale's dismay, he winks at him. Winks. Which reminds him this is nothing but a game of sorts, and even then, he can't bring himself to resist him.

He hates himself for it. 

Aziraphale tries desperately to sail to even ground, to detach himself just a tad, to fall back into his role and pretend he's much more in control than he really is.

"You look perfect with a cock in your mouth, don't you know, dear?" He groans, adding to his pretense, earning him a soft sob from Crowley, who now looks at him with wide eyes. "You really look lovely, there on your knees."

Aziraphale pulls at Crowley's hair in a downstroke, much despite himself, but he doesn't have time to regret it because Crowley is moaning around him, a soft and shivery sound, and Aziraphale curls his toes to keep his orgasm at bay.

"There you go," he says, darkly. "Such a sweet mouth you have, perfect to be fucked."

And perhaps he's laying it a bit thick, trying with all his heart to not let Crowley see past the pleasure written in his face, to not let him see the hunger in his eyes, the utmost devotion he feels brimming inside, because this is just sex . 

How had Crowley put it? It's just sex. You don't need a manual . Aziraphale feels the sting of tears behind his eyes, frustration burning in his temples under the wave of exquisite pleasure. If he just… if he could just say…

But it's pointless, doing this. Things can't change with wishful thinking alone. His hands fist Crowley's hair tighter and Crowley speeds up his pace, now takes the whole thing, messy and wet. Aziraphale can feel it in the dribble of saliva trickling down his cock, gathering on his pubes, and he can't do anything but stare as Crowley pumps him and opens his mouth to show him his own prick slipping up and down his tongue, spit going down his chin. 

And he looks so perfectly debauched by his touch, Aziraphale feels like bursting . His thoughts slug inside his brain, the mind-shattering pleasure just there , curling at the bottom of his spine and going up his legs. He's close. Too close. 

"Crowley," he groans, sounding as wrecked as he feels. Now all pretense is lost, fists tightly wrapped in the fire of Crowley's hair, fucking his mouth in earnest. "Crowley, I'm- I'm close."

It's as if Crowley hadn't listened. He looks at Aziraphale, golden eyes glazed, completely gone, and he looks so beautiful it hurts, a bruising ache inside Aziraphale, knowing no matter how many times he can lean and feel Crowley's heart pulsing under his palm, it would never be his. He fucks him harder then, feeling his balls drawing up, and Crowley's jaw goes slack allowing him to use him.

" Fuck, Crowley . I'm coming..."

Aziraphale can't take it, his control fraying at the edges. He tries to pull away but Crowley grabs Aziraphale's hips, pinning him in place, hollowing his cheeks, and goes down until his nose is buried in Aziraphale's pubes. Aziraphale lets him.

And just like that he comes, with a moan-like whine, down Crowley's throat, reality petering out with every pulse of his cock in his mouth. Crowley thumbs his taint and he can feel his orgasm sharpening, as if the spurts kept coming on and on, until he's nothing but a body adrift in a blissful glow.

When the tremors finally ebb away, the whole scope of his own transgression falls on his head, and he stares at Crowley dragging a hand over his wrecked mouth, and a horrified expression twists on Aziraphale's face.

He crossed a line. This isn't something they had discussed and he should've tried harder. Crowley didn't deserve that.

"Oh, god. Oh, god ." Aziraphale chops off the I'm sorry , because it feels too small. Too insignificant. "Oh, god . That was a mistake!"

Pain flashes across Crowley's face, swift, intense like a lightning strike, and then is gone. He stands up and Aziraphale can see the bruised line of his throat going bowstring-tight.

"A mistake?" Crowley laughs then, a jagged, jarring sound and Aziraphale feels as if he's been cleaved. "You know what? You're right. I can't do this anymore."

Aziraphale flounders, failing to find his words. He should've stopped this when he could. It was foolish to expect he could find a way out of this without ruining their relationship. And he still managed to do it, and all because he can't bring himself to be sensible. To love Crowley in a way that isn't selfish. Selfish, greedy, ridiculous creature wanting what he can not have. 

He realizes he's been opening and closing his mouth for what's probably half a minute, before Crowley speaks again.

"I'm going to make it real easy for you," he says, walking towards the door. "I'm leaving. I'll pick up my things tomorrow."

"What?" Aziraphale frantically tucks himself in, and stands. He didn't think the faux pas had been so preposterous. "Surely, we can fix it. Crowley, I- I understand if you don't want to keep doing this, but leaving?"

Please, don't leave me , Aziraphale wants to sob, wants to grovel, but he isn't in any place to make demands.

"Yes. Leaving. Because I can't keep doing this, this ," Crowley signals between them both, "is killing me. You sit there and tell me it's a mistake and expect it doesn't fucking, absolutely kill me? I seriously thought I could do this, you know? To- to be what you needed me to be, but I can't."

"Dear-"

"No. Let me finish!" Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, and Aziraphale aches to hold him, to cling and cry and beg him to stay. But he has already imposed too much on him, too many of his sins on Crowley. "I know I can't blame you, but I- I seriously don't know what I expected. Perhaps some part of me just wanted to know what it felt like, but I just-- I can't pretend anymore. I'm sorry, Aziraphale." He takes a deep breath and his gaze burns Aziraphale through. "I love you. All I've ever done was love you, probably more than what's bloody sensible, and the fact this is all a sham for you is absolutely fucking killing me."

He turns on his heels and before Aziraphale can react, he hears the chime of the bell at the door of the shop, followed by a hard clank and knows Crowley has already left. 

His heart is thrumming in his ears, down his skin, and the words, Crowley's words, are vibrating in his skull. Has he really been such an idiot?

An idiot blinded by his own fear, and in doing so he has managed to muck up the absolute best thing that has ever landed on his lap. Staying away from Crowley is torture. He wants him, he needs him, he loves him. He wants to live by his side and wake up to every brand new day buried in his warmth, to build memories together, to take him in his arms and never let him go. 

He wants to be the person that Crowley can love more than what's bloody sensible , for ages and ages to come. A ripple of joy froths in his chest, a fire licking him from the inside, a determination to right all the wrongs because suddenly the things are painstakingly clear.

He can fix everything . 

He grabs his worn-out jumper, dismissing the waistcoat and bowtie, and darts to the telephone.

He can only hope it isn't already too late.

Chapter Text

“It’s okay, just let it out,” Anathema coos. 

This isn’t how things should’ve been. 

The wrong living room. The too-open windows.

Crowley is sitting on Anathema’s sofa, taking a space that isn’t his, and there’s nothing to let out; he’s done his crying, has already wallowed, carved his heart out and tossed it into the bin. He’s done his debriding, or something of the sort. He can hear Newt puttering about, the rattling of a saucer in the stifling silence of the room. Tea. As if something could soothe the thrum that seems to vibrate in his bones, that very particular ache, very similar to being flayed. He supposes, in a way, he was. 

Tea.

As if something could wash away Aziraphale’s salt-sour taste from his tongue. 

He feels a hand on his back, rubbing circles through the black coat he grabbed before storming out of the bookshop. 

“Hey, sweetheart. You don’t have to answer me, but you’ve been silent for like an hour. I would have never thought it possible, and...”

He’s been chasing a dream for a year, and perhaps it’s just time to let go, to mourn the dissolution of whatever this was, and drag his arse to a bar and drink himself into stupor. To force his fingers open and let that last sliver of hope slip through the cracks. 

“... and if you haven’t thought this through, perhaps it’s best if you just sleep for a bit. Have some rest? You can use the guest room.”

He can’t sleep. It’s barely dusk and there isn’t enough darkness to fade into and try to disappear . He can rough it, though. He’ll rough it through, even if it fucking kills him. His eyes feel heavy, and he’s sure they look awful - two haunted, red-rimmed things drawing attention to what he’s trying so desperately to hide inside. Fuck him for leaving his sunglasses behind. The phone rings, and the silence fractures like spiderwebs in glass. Which isn’t necessarily unwelcome, and for Crowley it only registers as a far-away echo until it stops. 

Time stretches and sinks into itself, but it isn't weeding out his pain.

Whatever. 

“Crowley,” Anathema squeezes his shoulder. 

“What?” he says, and his voice is a horrible, grating thing. 

“It’s… It’s Aziraphale. He wants to know if you’re here. Should I tell him?”

His jaw unhinges a little and his heart lurches in his chest, but no words come out. 

"Crowley? Should I tell him?"

He's taken so much time to answer that it must be obvious to Aziraphale that Anathema is asking him. Aziraphale can be many things, but stupid he is not. 

Crowley nods.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't fucking matter.

It isn't as if he has asked to talk to him. 

He tangentially registers some muffled voices and the noise of the receiver, back on its cradle. 

If he could stop caring. If he could just shut off that pathetic side of him that cares. How is Aziraphale going to deal with the rent? How is he going to be able to forge through? 

Crowley is mildly happy that Anathema has decided to talk to Newt and leave his poor melodramatic arse alone. He sits there for what seems hours, until Anathema unfolds an afghan over his legs.

He looks down. 

It’s the wrong afghan. It's the wrong everything and his hands are cold, his jaw is sore, and his heart is broken. 

He still doesn't drink the tea.

The doorbell chimes, but he pays it no mind until he hears the footfalls coming up the stairs. Haunting. There's no mistaking the sound of that distinctive gait. Abso-fucking-lutely no mistaking it.

Crowley feels his rage crescendo to full uproar again. 

The moment Aziraphale crosses the threshold, Crowley springs up from the sofa, ready to put as much distance as he can between them. 

"I… I think I'll leave you two alone," Anathema says, grabbing a perplexed Newt by the arm, dragging him away and out of sight. 

It's torture, this. Aziraphale stands in front of him, looking every bit as beautiful as he always has, the bleeding mauve of the sky catching in his eyes, turning his cotton hair to ethereal gold. But he's a mess. No waistcoat or bowtie, his shirt rumpled and poorly tucked in under a haphazardly-worn cream coat, the lines of the shoulders all askew. Heat rises in Crowley's cheeks and fuck , his insides twist so hard he feels ill.

He could fucking cry. Aziraphale has no right to stand there and make him feel like this, like flotsam and jetsam the tide just threw onto the shore. 

Aziraphale moves forward, a furrow on his brow, his hands behind his back, and Crowley instantly takes a step back with a sharp breath. 

"What are you doing here?" he manages, and he intends it to sound furious but it comes out terribly broken. He feels his heart throbbing in his throat. His tongue is heavy, and still tastes like him . 

"You left before I had a chance to explain," Aziraphale says, plaintively, his sea-blue eyes gentle, perfectly fixed on him. "We need to talk."

"What for? To rub it in? What can you possibly want, Aziraphale?" 

His cheeks are ruddy, and he looks as if he’s been running around London chasing something. Crowley doesn’t know. "Can I… Can I come closer?"

"You're really fucking doing this, aren't you? I don't need your pity.” Crowley forces the words out, even when every part of him wants to let Aziraphale do as he pleases. When so much of him wants to run forward and sink into him. “Yes! We're friends, despite what the fuck just happened, but that doesn't mean I need for you to check on me, because," Crowley feels his throat clicking, closing around gritted words, "I can't take it."

"That's not why I'm here."

"Then why? Why, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale takes one step closer, and Crowley wants to run away. But there’s a shadow of a smile on Aziraphale’s face, and it’s as if a shard of it has pinned him in place. 

"To ask you to forgive me,” he says. “I should've never dragged you into this, but the truth is that I was selfish, and a fool, and I- I believe I only wanted one blessed chance to be able to touch you, to kiss you, and to pretend every one of those things were as precious to you as they were to me."

Crowley's heart races, his breath shallow, and he blinks against the crimson glow seeping through the windows. "I- I don't understand."

"My dear, my darling ,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley lets him grasp one of his hands in one of his own, barely registering the rush of blood in his ears. “I think I ought to tell you that I'm in love with you. And I should never have allowed this feeling to be tainted by lies." He lets go of Crowley's hand and thumbs at his jaw. "You told me that you loved me more than what's bloody sensible, and if I get to have the chance... if, for all that I've ever done right in my life, you still mean it, then I think you should know that you’re my haven of peace in this utterly terrifying world. My heart is yours, if you want it."

The tightness in Crowley's stomach lurches, his breath coming so fast he feels lightheaded, deaf to anything that isn’t the beat of his own heart in his ears. “Then why…,” he falters. “You were so… so fucking cold. It was as if it all just disgusted you. That the idea… and then that day, when I came out of the bathroom… you were gone. Gone. I just-”

“I thought you didn’t feel like I did. I thought you were doing this out of pity, out of loyalty," Aziraphale says in a voice so small it seizes Crowley's ability to breathe. "I didn't want to impose."

"Oh, bloody hell, Aziraphale. No, no. Never. I love you." Crowley grabs his hand between his own and kisses his knuckles. "I- I wanted to touch you too, you know? Just once, I said to myself. Just bloody once."

He's smiling. He has been smiling for whole minutes now, and he's gazing at Aziraphale. Who is gazing back at him. And all the pain of the day, all the memories that had skewered him through, shift into something brighter. 

"I have something for you," Aziraphale says, presenting the hand he was hiding behind his back. "I thought… I thought you might like them."

Hydrangeas. Fucking hydrangeas, and in the soft light of winter they seem to shine and warm the air. Promise of Spring after the cold. Crowley tries to wrestle words that he knows are in his throat but won't come out. 

"You shouldn't have," he says finally. "We don't have money to just throw away."

Aziraphale blushes, a soft pink stealing onto his cheeks. "Don't you worry about that anymore, my dear."

"I should. We're still dealing with the money problem."

"No. Not anymore. You needn't to worry. About any of that," Aziraphale says, looking a bit flustered.

Something twists and wrings in Crowley's gut. "Aziraphale, what did you do?"

Aziraphale sighs. "It's all right…. I- I sold my Wilde to Gabriel. That's why it took me so long to come here."

"You what ? But… you love that book!"

"Not as much as I love you. And what would it say of me if I couldn't part with something as mundane as a book, knowing it can bring you - us - some comfort?"

"But I don't mind doing that study. Not anymore. I just…"

"Oh, but I very much do mind. I won't allow Sandalphon's greed to spoil something this sacred. And, being quite honest," he pulls on the hand he’s holding, shifts to grip Crowley's hips tightly with a hunger that stirs the banked embers in Crowley's groin, and adds, "I find myself feeling rather selfish."

"Fuck, Angel ."

Crowley leans in and kisses him.

He kisses him for all he's worth, winds his arms around Aziraphale's neck and feels Aziraphale pulling him closer by the hips. It's heavy and clumsy, filled with intent, and lacking any subterfuge to pretend it is anything other than utter devotion. Crowley has never kissed anyone like this, has never been kissed like this in return. Like nothing else matters. Like there's no other place they belong but in each other's arms.  

"I love you," Aziraphale chokes out in a gasp, softly, so softly that Crowley only hears it because he's breathing the words into his mouth. "I love you and, God forgive me, I'm never letting you go."

There's a knot in Crowley's throat, as if all his flyaway hopes have converged there, words crowding together, unable to break free.

"Angel," he pushes through with a husky whisper, "Angel, get us out of here."

There. That glint of mischief in eyes so blue. 

They stumble down the stairs and find their way to the frozen street. The light is fading, red giving way to purple hues up there in the sky, and the sounds, traffic and music from little shops, mingle amongst them.

A cab miraculously finds them, and they tumble inside. 

Aziraphale nuzzles his neck, and Crowley groans, tilting his head back against the fake leather of the seat, barely maintaining his grasp on the flowers. 

"I can't wait to feel you, my darling," Aziraphale says, miles bolder than Crowley would have expected. His lips are pressed against the skin of Crowley's throat, the words vibrating almost within Crowley himself. "I can't wait to make love to you, to kiss you until there's no part of you I haven't kissed."

" Nnngh . Angel, you can't say things like that and expect me to… to…," he trails off when Aziraphale nips the skin behind his ear, and Crowley lets his free hand wander along Aziraphale's thigh, pressing the tented front of his trousers. He cranes his neck and parts his lips when Aziraphale leans in, sliding his tongue along the seam of his mouth, pushing in, and each breath, each brush of hands over clothed skin, seems to muffle the hubbub of the world outside. 

Crowley’s burning, his blood running too hot in his veins. Aziraphale drifts a hand under the hem of his shirt, skimming over the lines of his ribs, each digit pressing and pulling him tighter, the air he manages to catch insufficient between their kisses. He craves more. He’s almost tempted to forgo public decency and go down on Aziraphale then and there, but he grounds himself, clasping the stems of the hydrangeas even tighter. 

And the car is stopping outside the bookshop.

Aziraphale pays, muttering apologies to the driver who gives them a thumbs up and a cheeky smile before going on his merry way.

The world closes in now, the violet sheen of dusk broken by the halo of street lights.

Crowley watches Aziraphale fumbling with the keychain and laces his arms around his middle, gently nipping his earlobe.

"If you keep doing that, it's going to take me far longer than ought to to open this blasted door," Aziraphale says, a bit breathless. 

"Fine. For the greater good, then," and Crowley backs off. 

Finally, the door swings open and Aziraphale pulls Crowley inside by the lapels, pushing him back against the next clear swath of wall, as the door swings shut, the hydrangeas promptly forgotten on a nearby table. Crowley's breath escapes in a whoosh, and Aziraphale finds his jaw with a soft hand, bringing their mouths together. Crowley opens his lips, coaxed by the deft pressure of Aziraphale's tongue, and he relents entirely under the stark pressure of hands around his waist. It's heady, and a bit terrifying, this feeling of being able to be true, to demand without shame, to taste and taste and taste without holding back, until Aziraphale is moaning and his flavor fizzes on Crowley's tongue. And it's easy to fall, to lay himself open, as easy and natural as breathing. And he probably whimpers, bloody fuck , when Aziraphale's hands slip down his hips to press his whole body so sweetly against him.

"My darling boy," Aziraphale breathes onto the line of his jaw, "I've waited too long for this. To have you like this."

" Yeanngh . You should- fuck!" he weaves fingers into Aziraphale's hair and presses those soft lips against the oversensitive skin of his own neck. "You should've done this ages ago."

"Allow me to remedy that."

Crowley drops his jaw, and Aziraphale surges forward, all the way in. The thickness of his thigh wedges between Crowley's legs, grinding against the bulge of his cock that's already twitching in his trousers, and Crowley makes some kind of sound that's not far from a grunt. It's like drowning between sounds, soft huffs and grunted moans ripped from their throats, and Crowley's own breath is tighter, sharper each time he manages a lungful.

It's intoxicating how much Crowley wants to lose himself in each touch, how easily whatever tight string was wrapped around Aziraphale's restraint unravels, too quickly, leaving the burning desire to run free each time he nips and licks and ravages Crowley's skin with his mouth. 

Crowley is whimpering. Aziraphale's hands have found his hips again, his thumbs sliding past, inside the waistband of his joggers as he kisses him, sucking back all the air Crowley has managed to inhale. 

"Bed," Crowley tightens his hands around that arse that has been tempting him since forever and pulls, moving his hips against Aziraphale in small, needy thrusts. "Now."

Aziraphale groans and huffs a laugh, "A little bit demanding, are we?"

"Are you complaining?"

"Not even a little bit."

He's not sure how they reach Aziraphale's bedroom, his knees all wobbly and threatening to make him crash against any nearby surface. The room welcomes them, awash in indigo light, the day lying in the grasp of an evening that promises to be warm - at least in this bed. 

Aziraphale slides out of his coat. Crowley does the same, and he's about to  shed his shirt when Aziraphale winds fingers around his wrist.

"Allow me," he says, deep and rough. 

Crowley stares at him, transfixed, the lust-blown pupils making Crowley's body tense in anticipation. Fuck, he wants him. He needs him so much his stomach shakes with the weight of his desire. 

"Angel, please, we'll have another day when you can unwrap me like a bloody present. I just- I want you. I've been wanting you for too long. You make me wait another ten minutes and that's it, I might die."

Aziraphale flushes, and licks his lips. "Do it, then. I want to see you, Crowley. I need to see you."

Crowley grunts some sort of ‘yes’ that hisses at the end, and commits to the quickest strip-tease in history until he stands naked in anticipation. 

"Look at you, you gorgeous thing. Do you even know what you do to me?" Aziraphale says, kissing him soundly.

He pushes Crowley to the bed, falls on top, kissing every bit of him he can reach, sucking his lips, licking his jaw, while his hands rove over creases and freckled spans of flesh, thumbing and pinching his nipples until they're stiff and just this side of sore. Crowley tilts his head back, all the air leaving him in a sigh, before licking a trickle of sweat off Aziraphale's neck. It's maddening. He clings to Aziraphale, to his still-dressed chest, and feels like yelling. 

"C'mon, Angel! Not fair. I want to feel you," he rushes out. " Please , let me feel you."

Aziraphale brushes a wayward fiery lock from his damp forehead, kisses him again, and peels off his body, leaving him cold and shivering. Crowley turns on the lamp and watches him then, much like a hawk would do. Aziraphale wrestles that wretched shirt off, shucking buttons, his undershirt following it promptly to the floor. The sight knocks the air out of Crowley’s frankly useless lungs. The curve of that chest, the pink nipples he's dying to suck into his mouth, the blonde dust of hair trailing down…. All newly his, to taste and kiss and adore. To slake the thirst he’s had for so long. Crowley clasps the base of his cock, pumping idly, waiting, waiting , until finally Aziraphale kicks his trousers and underpants off and away. And bloody heavens, oh fuck , he does wear garters! He tugs and snatches at them, probably breaking one, until he’s finally free and his socks are off. 

Aziraphale's cock hangs heavy and thick between his legs, and Crowley's mouth tingles in memory of the taste and feel of it. His jaw pulses with a faraway ache and he's sure his lips show the red mark of the vicious scrape of his own teeth. He clenches his arsehole in needy anticipation, much like he'd done earlier when he sucked him off. 

"Fuck," Crowley gasps. "How can you be that beautiful? Should be illegal."

Aziraphale laughs then, his face easing into something warm, and Crowley sees him letting out a breath in something that sounds inexplicably like relief. 

Crowley beckons him closer with a flick of his hand, "C'mere." 

Aziraphale lands at his side, and Crowley finally gets his hands on that soft, warm skin, feeling his self-control tattering. They roll on the sheets, sending the comforter down to the floor, gasping and scraping teeth, hands dragging against sweat-dewed skin. Crowley gropes the solid curve of Aziraphale's chest, kneads the lush flesh of his sides, breathes hot air on his neck before clamping his mouth around a nipple. Aziraphale cries out, and Crowley feels a hand pulling his head tighter against that blessed heartbeat as he sucks and laps and licks everywhere he can reach.

"You've no idea how many times I saw you there, standing on the kitchen," Crowley rasps, around a mouthful of Aziraphale, "and wanted to fucking devour you."

" Ah- You- you're one to talk, you fiend. Looking always as gorgeous as a painting. I was driving myself mad with the need to have you." Aziraphale brings a hand closer to his face and spits on it. Crowley watches dumbfounded as he reaches between their bodies and clasps the root of Crowley's cock.

" Fuck !"

Aziraphale pumps him, coating the spit-slick from head to base, thumbing at his slit where precome has welled up. "The many times I pictured myself choking on your cock."

" 'Zssiraphale , you're going to make me come."

"Oh, silly me, I thought that was the idea," Aziraphale whispers in the curve of his ear, kissing his shoulder.

Crowley can hear the smirk on his voice, so he licks his own hand and closes it around Aziraphale's prick, bucking his hips into Aziraphale's tight fist.

"You're too coherent for- shit ! - for this. Can't have that."

Aziraphale grunts, stutters in his pace, and drags his wet mouth along the slope of Crowley's throat, over his cheeks, whispering sweet nothings into his skin.  

There's sensation everywhere. The hot clasp on his cock, blunt nails digging painfully into his thin hip, a mouth Crowley kisses over and over, tasting the slick of it. He’s too close, the link with the world breaking at each tug, each time Aziraphale pushes into the ring of his fist, and Crowley loves every second of it. Every second of that slow, sweet descent into chaos, the spiral down, out of control, where he can feel Aziraphale losing himself in the need of him, hotly aroused and so very demanding.

"Not- Not like this," Crowley hears himself saying through the fog of his lust-addled brain, his hips still helplessly grinding into Aziraphale’s hand. "God. Angel, I want you. You . Don't wanna end like this."

"What- what do you need, my love?" Aziraphale asks, speckled breaths, hot and wet, bouncing off Crowley's lips.

"Want you to fuck me,” he almost mewls. “Wanna come on your cock."

" Crowley… " Aziraphale’s voice does something weird, broken moans bracketing the words. 

"Been wanting to since I sucked you off…"

“You tempter.” Aziraphale gives a shuddery exhale. "How- How do you want me?"

Crowley maneuvers them until Aziraphale falls on his back with a thick moan, and sits astride him. They’re both so hard it’s painful, Aziraphale’s cock nudging against the cleft of his arse and his own erection leaking onto his stomach. Crowley leans down and kisses Aziraphale softly, mouths angling into something deeper as Aziraphale’s hands slide up Crowley’s thighs, slowly brushing up to his waist, flaring goosebumps in their wake, until they settle back on the rise of his hips. He grips tighter and tighter until Crowley starts rocking back against the length of him, making Aziraphale whine.

“Dear, oh, darling ,” Aziraphale gives a breathless moan. When they finally break apart, the glow of fondness in Aziraphale’s face strikes Crowley dumb.

He can feel himself, hot, and burning from the inside out, gasping at the needling of lust in his bloodstream. Aziraphale reaches a hand for the bedside table.

“Shall I?” he asks, brushing the paper bag with trembling fingers.

“Yes, yes, please...” Crowley says, grinding down, tugging at his own sack, chasing that dull edge with wanton abandon.  

Crowley watches as Aziraphale fishes for a condom. 

"Don't need that," Crowley says.

"Are you sure?"

"Both tested, aren't we?" He can't keep making words, and the wait is slicing his patience thin.

Aziraphale then grasps the bottle and pours a generous amount of lube on his hand. 

"May I?" He asks, low and lovely, showing him his glistening fingers.

Crowley blushes scarlet, he's sure, judging by the way his neck and cheeks burn. " Nnnghnno need, angel." He clears his throat. "I uhm, I may have readied myself a bit. Earlier."

"You-"

He groans, "Well, we were planning to fuck, weren't we?" 

Aziraphale smiles softly, but his blue eyes are dark. "Such a greedy thing you are, aren't you, my dear?" He surges, sliding his empty hand up Crowley's face, weaving fingers into his hair. “Tell me, Crowley,” he says with a sense of urgency that rattles Crowley to the core, “did you really want me that badly?”

“Fuck, you really need to ask, Angel? ‘Course I did. Still do.”

Crowley rises on his knees and lets Aziraphale's slick-coated hand slide over his own cock. His erection is pulsing and leaking precome down his stomach, making a mess of his rust-red pubes.

"Give me some," Crowley asks - demands - signaling the bottle, and slicks his own hand. 

He clicks the lid closed, tosses the bottle aside, and coaxes Aziraphale to let him do the rest. Reaching behind, Crowley pumps him, slowly, feeling the firm grasp of Aziraphale’s hands on his hips, thumbs gently grazing the skin. It’s not long before Crowley kneels up, holds him in place, and starts to lower himself slowly. He feels the breach of the thick, blunt head, the burn ricocheting up his spine in the most delicious way. 

Crowley looks down at Aziraphale, curls a messy riot, eyes half-lidded and glazed, biting his bottom lip as Crowley sinks further and further down until Aziraphale is fully inside him. 

A groan drags from Aziraphale’s throat, long and rough, while Crowley settles his hips. The stretch is maddening. Too much. Too full . There’s a moment, just a fleeting second, when he clenches around Aziraphale’s cock and feels he can’t take him, the burning drag in his arse sucking the air out of his lungs. He whimpers, his eyes fluttering shut and he feels Aziraphale’s soothing touch along his sides. 

“Darling, are you alright?” Aziraphale sort of chokes out, a frown marring the beatifical trance of his face.   

“Yeah. Yeah, fuck . Just- Just a mo.”

He braces his arms on the strong line of Aziraphale’s shoulders, his whole world narrowed to the flare of pain, now ebbing away, giving way to white-hot pleasure while he shifts, adjusting for the intrusion. It chases all thought out of his brain, completely wrecks his ability to breathe. He starts to move, slowly, a gentle hitch of his hips, back and forth, as Aziraphale grips him by the hips, holding him steady. 

Crowley lifts himself, releases a ridiculous high-pitched moan as he presses back down, his lower lip catching between his teeth. It feels fucking amazing. He starts rocking his hips in a gentle wave, watching the full-blown lust on Aziraphale’s face as he sinks into the pillows giving small broken gasps, his hands encouraging Crowley to move, to keep going. 

“How - does it feel?” Crowley asks around a groan, grinding down.

Aziraphale slides a hand up Crowley's chest to his mouth, traces his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Tight - God - very tight... Hot - Oh, heavens , Crowley…"

Crowley sways, rocking a bit harder, the muscles of his stomach, of his thighs, flexing, the pain now completely gone. There's electricity ripping through his veins, and a kind of elation too, a shivery delight that comes from the knowledge that he's full of Aziraphale , closer than he's ever been before. 

"Oh, Crowley, you gorgeous - ah - lovely thing , " Aziraphale pants, reaching around to brush slicked fingers against the place where they’re joined. "You're a vision."

"You don't - ngk," Crowley gasps under a forceful thrust of Aziraphale's hips, "you don't look - so bad - yourself."

Crowley shifts, bracing now on the headboard, speeding up, fucking himself on Aziraphale, crying out at the tight heat. His breath is coming in short, broken bursts, and he can feel the heady arousal sizzling in his limbs, crawling up all of him. He won't last. Not with Aziraphale groaning and meeting his downstrokes in earnest. His own cock bounces against his stomach, neglected, the tip flushed and almost purple. Aziraphale tries to reach for it, tries to clasp a hand around it.

"No," Crowley moans, clenching around Aziraphale, dragging a whine from him, "I can come like this. I want to come like this."

A deep, rumbling groan thrums in Aziraphale's chest while he jerks Crowley's hips against his own thrusts, pulling him roughly onto his hard length. 

" Fuck ," Crowley is almost gone, not really there, his muscles working on their own accord as he rides Aziraphale faster, harder, his lungs burning with the sharp-edged exertion. Every thrust is pushing him further and further toward the edge, his insides quivering each time Aziraphale hits his prostate. 

Aziraphale pulls him down with an arm around his back and kisses him softly, in complete contradiction with the hard fucking, his free hand weaving through the damp strands of red hair, and that’s what undoes him.

His climax washes over him, groping at his brain, seizing every synapse, and shattering every last shred of control. The white static of the assault of pleasure fizzes along his spine, fanning out his limbs, until the only thing he can feel is Aziraphale's tongue in his mouth and Aziraphale's cock filling him over and over again.

Aziraphale moans his name into the crook of his neck, and Crowley almost misses the realization that he's coming too, pumping his seed deep into his arse.

When the world sort of rights itself on its axis, he takes a deep breath and nuzzles Aziraphale's neck, inhaling the many layers of that blessed scent.

"Hello," Aziraphale says, pulling his head back to show a smile that could outshine the sun, tracing circles on the small of his back and brushing errant locks out of his face while Crowley lies sprawled on his chest. "How are you feeling, my love?"

So this is it. Crowley is his love now. 

"Oh, Angel. More than good. Fantastic." He shifts his hips and feels Aziraphale's softening prick slipping out of him, his come dripping freely from his arse. "Don't wanna move. Ever. Will retain you here. Forever."

Aziraphale laughs. "You'll retain me in my own bed? I think that's quite a tempting offer."

He kisses Crowley again and arranges them so they're lying on their sides, with Crowley's back against Aziraphale's chest.

"I love you," Aziraphale whispers in his ear, looping an arm around his waist and kissing his shoulder. 

"I love you too," Crowley answers, and he feels gloriously, stupidly happy. And sticky, and a bit sore, but so full of everything that is right that he could fly.

Crowley hears the bell of the shop jingling, but he sprawls further out on Aziraphale's armchair next to the cashwrap and waves a hand without lifting his eyes from his mobile, calling loudly, "We're closed."

"No you're not."

Crowley smiles before truly focusing his gaze to see Aziraphale trudging in with Anathema in tow.

"Hey, Angel, how did it go?"

"It was a nightmare," he says, giving Crowley a chaste kiss. "He almost didn't accept. Both of them were quite stubborn, actually."

"I'd say Sandalphon was way easier to handle than Gabriel," Anathema said. "But yeah. Quite a pair, they are. They could be friends if they got to know each other."

"Ugh. Why would you think something so foul," Crowley asks.

Anathema rolls her eyes. "Anyway. Aziraphale, here's the paperwork for the bookshop, which is entirely yours now-"

"Ours, dear. Partners, aren’t we? I don't think you bought it as charity."

"I didn't," Anathema smiles. "But I trust your honesty and I think you have already put a lot of effort into curating the collection you have here. I just chipped in some money."

"Regardless. I'm forever grateful, and I think your business acumen is marvellous."

"Hey. I've been saying the same things for months! Why aren't my ideas marvellous?" Crowley chimes in.

"Oh, dear heart, don't be like that."

Aziraphale laces an arm around his waist and kisses his temple, which makes Crowley grunt something indescribable and flush beet red.

"Adam is coming tomorrow to help you start to catalogue and inventory everything," Anathema says with a smirk. "He's a good boy, just a bit hectic."

"I bet he'll be wonderful."

Anathema rummages in her purse. "And here, you can have the Wilde back, perfect and yours again. It was a good thing I went to visit that massive prick alone. I don't think he would've sold it to me if you’d been there."

"Oh, Anathema, how can I thank you?"

" We ," Crowley says, because it’s true and he wouldn't have it any other way. "How can we thank you?"

"Nah. This was just Gram Agnes saving the day from the beyond. And besides, I don't need this much money. But if you guys want, just… consider this a wedding present for when the time comes." She winks, and Crowley sees Aziraphale's eyes twinkling, a flush rising in his cheeks. 

"Well," Aziraphale says, and Crowley knows he's trying not to cry, "thank you, for everything."

She nods and bids them goodbye, promises to come by the next day, and leaves.

"I can't believe what she just did," Aziraphale says. 

"She's a good egg. A nutter, but a good one."

Aziraphale winds his arm around Crowley's neck, and Crowley feels himself swaying in utter bliss. He knows this honeymoon phase will end, even if he still doesn't believe it's possible. But in the meantime he does intend to act like a lovestruck fool, shamelessly. 

He kisses Aziraphale, relishing his soft lips and each gasp, each breath, each brush of hands against his face. 

"It's been two months," Crowley says, when he finally and reluctantly pulls back. "I can't believe you've been mine for two whole months."

"A bargain, if we consider I get the best part - that is, to call you mine."

"Oh, shut up," Crowley says and his smile widens. It's absolutely ridiculous how much he has taken to smiling recently. His face seems to have set on that as a default when Aziraphale is around. "What about the Ritz? Would you fancy that?"

"My darling, I'd fancy anything, as long as you're with me." 

Crowley hums something at the back of his throat, feeling a tug at his stomach, at the very essence of who he is. Aziraphale draws his jaw closer, shares his breath, and kisses him unhurriedly in the winter sun, against the backdrop of the heaven-given snow outside. 

Crowley hates the cold with a passion. But right here, in Aziraphale’s arms, he can almost feel the spring sparkling in his bones.