Chapter Text
A soft gasp snagged Crowley’s attention, and the silence that followed captured it.
The demon swung himself up off of the flat’s new, sinfully soft sofa and casually strode towards the kitchen.
He wasn’t worried, of course. There wasn’t anything[1] to worry about, now that he and Aziraphale were free agents.
It was just, Aziraphale was never quiet, not when he was truly at ease. A happy Aziraphale was an audible Aziraphale -- one who fluttered and hummed and wiggled and tsked. When he was in a good mood, the angel even smiled loudly, and his bloody pout could drown out an entire storm’s worth of thunder.
Still, Crowley wasn’t worried. Knowing Aziraphale, the angel had probably just found another advert for Numatic vacuum cleaners and was mulling over how best to persuade Crowley that a hoover with a face on it was a domestic necessity.
Entering the kitchen revealed that Aziraphale was still in the process of preparing himself to argue on the monstrous hoover’s behalf. He jumped guiltily at Crowley’s appearance and quickly hid some sort of circular behind his back.
Ignoring the anxiety radiating off of Aziraphale, Crowley crossed the kitchen to flip on the coffee machine. He pulled down a mug, which brought him strategically closer to the suspiciously quiet angel, and artfully slouched against a nearby worktop.
“So,” he said innocently, “anything good come in the post?”
“No!” Aziraphale said, turning so that Crowley couldn’t see whatever he was holding behind his back. “No, nothing at all! Nothing interesting, that is, of course, the post did come. You would know, you collected it!”[2]
“Right.” Crowley looked away to pour himself a cup of coffee, cleverly lulling the angel into a false sense of security. “D’you want any?”
“No,” Aziraphale said, his relief audible. “No, thank you, my dear.”
Crowley coolly returned to facing the angel, mug raised for a nice sip. Then, he caught sight of what Aziraphale was holding by his side and lunged.
“My dear boy!” Aziraphale protested, yanking the newsletter away.
“Where did that come from?” Crowley asked, glaring at the offending object as he willed it to reappear in his hand.
“How should I know? You’re the one who brought it up and tossed it across the worktop.”
Crowley’s thoughts whizzed about a single gravitational primary: Aziraphale could not be allowed to read that.
“I-- yeah-- but, how’d you get it? You shouldn’t have that!”
“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed prissily, “I won’t apologize for looking over the post like I do every morning. After all, it would hardly do for you to bin something important again.”
And alright, the angel wasn’t completely wrong, but that didn’t mean Crowley had to admit it.
“Mmm, yeah, but it’s mine! So, just be a good angel, and give it here.”
Aziraphale drew himself up. “I beg your pardon. I most certainly will not. And, not that it’s any business of yours, but this missive is addressed to me.”
“Whatever, just--” wait, what? “--wait. Wot?!”
Crowley’s mind spun furiously. Aziraphale’s claim continued not to make any sense.
“But, I, you… yours?”
“Precisely,” Aziraphale said with exaggerated dignity, “so, as the rightful recipient, I’ll put this away to peruse later.”
His hand rose to perform a miracle, and Crowley could not let that happen.
“No!” The demon sounded significantly more desperate than he would ever admit to. “No. Listen, I’ll. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll toss you for it.”
“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, sounding at least partly genuinely cross. But his hand fell, so Crowley accepted his ire as a necessary casualty. “Must I repeat that this is mine? I have absolutely no reason to ‘toss’ you for it.”
“A different game then,”[3] Crowley insisted. “You think it’s yours, and I think it’s mine, so we’ll… compete for it. To settle whose it’ll actually be. It’ll be like the Arrangement. But better since we’re on our own side now.”
Aziraphale’s face softened at the reminder. Just a little more.
“Come on. For old times’ sake. It’s worked for us so far.”
Aziraphale relaxed with a dramatic exhale.
“Oh, very well.” His eyes darted away, before returning to meet Crowley’s. “You old snake--”
“Oi,” Crowley protested, purely out of habit.
“--but only if we play wan tu som.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley couldn’t help but grin at his success. It was like riding a, what were those things called? The ones with the spinning wheels?[4]
“Hold on a second.” Bicycles! “You never win wan tu som. Why d’you want to play that?”
“Well, that’s, I might win!” Aziraphale spluttered. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“Yeah, but the fact that there’s a first time depends on there being a first time,” Crowley countered. “That’s circular logic, that is. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to go ahead and give it to me?”
Aziraphale’s spine straightened impossibly.
Crowley wasn’t finished. “It’s like a bicycle wheel, right? It’ll just go around and around and around and never actually get anywhere. Not with all the spinning.”
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and oh, Crowley loved how he could make the phrase sound like such a rude epithet. “I think you will find that bicycles are, in fact, perfectly capable of movement.”
Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but Aziraphale ignored him.
“Regardless, you have already agreed to my terms. Am I to believe that you’re reneging on your word?”
“Yeah, I mean no, I mean: angel, are you sure about this?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale’s expression remained stern, but his body stopped giving off such a strong impression of a lion preparing to swing its flaming sword.
“We can play a different game,” Crowley offered. “A round of Pank-a-Squith?”
“No,” Aziraphale said certainly, “but thank you.”
Crowley drew an unnecessary breath to insist, then paused. This was Aziraphale directly stating a preference. While Crowley had more experience responding to expectant silences of a different sort, he would always jump at an opportunity to affirm Aziraphale's wants.
“Alright,” he said instead, relishing the way that Aziraphale seemed pleased but not utterly surprised by his agreement. “Wan tu som it is.”
He set his prop mug aside, then grinned at Aziraphale. “Ready to lose?”
“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale replied, eyes flashing pale blue. He placed the newsletter on the worktop, then turned back to face Crowley.
Crowley could snatch the bloody thing now... but the angel clearly trusted him to keep his word. He would have to win the game instead.
He and Aziraphale each raised their fists. A screeching alarm in Crowley’s amygdala began to blare.
Wan.
Aziraphale usually played water, which meant that Crowley should play bird.
Tu.
But, if Aziraphale was playing to win, he’d play stone, which meant Crowley should play water.
Som.
Should Crowley play bird or water?
Shoot.
Crowley panickily made his move. He blinked. The sight of his hand curled into a fist persisted. He had played stone.
He looked at Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale had also played stone.
“You wily old serpent!” Aziraphale said, shocked.
Crowley always played bird. By playing stone, the angel had thought he had been guaranteeing his victory.[5]
“Me?” Crowley said, wholly unrepentant.[6] “What about you? You always play water. I was just trying to let you win!”
“No, but I-- you,” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “But you always play bird. In all the years I’ve known you, not once have you ever played anything else. Let alone stone!”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Crowley needled. “And what do you mean ‘let alone stone’? What did the poor buggers ever do to you?”
“There was that one kerfuffle during the fifth century,” Aziraphale said reflexively. They both grimaced at the memory. “But that’s hardly relevant. You always play bird. Don’t deny it.”
“I didn’t deny anything,” Crowley said, “because I haven’t done anything wrong. Like I said, I was trying to let you win, you great pillock!”
“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, virtuously refraining from snipping back.[7] “I suppose we ought to play a rematch then. To determine whether you’re telling the truth.”
“Right,” Crowley said, raising his hands at the ready.
“Right,” Aziraphale repeated, mirroring him.
They began.
Wan.
Normally, Aziraphale would need to play stone to beat Crowley, but that hadn’t worked.
Tu.
Crowley claimed he was trying to let Aziraphale win. Could Aziraphale trust him?
Som.
If Crowley was going to let him win, Aziraphale should play water.
Shoot.
Aziraphale played water. Crowley played bird.
“You utter scoundrel!” the angel cried. “You wretched fiend!”
“Oh, angel, flattery won’t help you now,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale refused to let him deflect. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” Crowley objected. “How dare I play bird? I always play bird, you were just harping on me for not playing bird.”
“How dare you, how dare you trick me?” Aziraphale accused triumphantly.
“I didn’t, I was trying to let you win!” Crowley shot back. “I always play bird. You know that! I know you know that. I thought you were going to play stone again, like you never do, ‘cept for today!”
“Well, well, how was I supposed to know that?” Aziraphale asked, voice lowering. He honestly couldn’t recall when he had raised it.
“I always play water,” he said sadly.
Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh.
“Listen, angel,” he said gently, “if it means that much to you, you can have the bloody newsletter.”
“Oh, really?” Aziraphale cooed.
He reached happily for the newsletter, then snatched his hand away.
“Oh, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Crowley gave him a long look. He wasn’t wearing any sunglasses to look over, but Aziraphale recognized the expression all the same.
He twisted his hands in distress.
“I really couldn’t,” he demurred, and to his surprise, he found the words to be true. He and Crowley were on their own side now.
Crowley deserved someone whom he could trust. Someone who was worthy of his trust.
Aziraphale would have to be brave.
“Alright,” Crowley said, his voice soft despite the skeptical look he had just given Aziraphale. “Okay, so I’ll just… take it instead?”
“I, yes?” Aziraphale said, hands fluttering briefly before finding each other atop his stomach.
Crowley didn’t move.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said more firmly, drawing himself up. “Yes, I think that would only be fair. You did win, dearest. You, you deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
“Right, good, yeah,” Crowley said loudly, grabbing the newsletter and twisting towards the doorway.
Aziraphale watched quietly as he hurried out of the room.
“‘Course,” Crowley’s voice continued from the hallway. “Sounds good. I mean not good, good’s bad, innit? Sounds bad? Or is it opposite now? Whatever.”
Aziraphale wondered if he meant to reply. He hadn’t the faintest idea of an appropriate response.
Crowley called from another room. “I’m taking it, is what I mean! I have it now! Yeah. That.”
Aziraphale’s fingers found the familiar velvet of his waistcoat. Oh, he really hoped that he hadn’t done the wrong thing.
There was a moment of silence, which found itself abruptly axed by an unintelligible shout.
A series of equally undecipherable exclamations followed.
“Angel!” Crowley shouted, suddenly reappearing through the doorway.
He violently waved the newsletter in Aziraphale’s face.
“Have you read this?” he shouted, pivoting out of Aziraphale’s personal space to stalk about the kitchen.
“No, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, only a touch tetchy. “I’m afraid I gave away my only copy.”
“Well, do,” Crowley said, returning to shove the newsletter under the angel’s nose.
Before Aziraphale could reach up to grab it, however, he retracted it once again.
“Really now!” Aziraphale protested.
Crowley ignored him.
“Actually, no, just let me tell you,” the demon announced. “That’ll be quickest.”
No explanation followed. Crowley stood in front of Aziraphale, as wordless as a hedgehog caught in the headlights.
“Tell me what, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, his patience spent.
“Ngk,” Crowley said, “I, you. I mean, that is: we.”
The demon frantically waved his hands back and forth.
“I destroyed your toaster,” he blurted out.
“Again?” Aziraphale gasped. He turned to look at the two apparently unbroken toasters, instinctively raising his finger to dole out a proper scolding.
“What? No, forget the toaster,” Crowley snapped. “Work with me here.” He thrust the newsletter towards Aziraphale a third time. “Read this.”
Aziraphale snatched it greedily.
He scanned the text, itching to learn what had Crowley so worked up. Oh, he did hope that Crowley didn’t mind him sharing so much about their relationship. He had made quite an effort to preserve their anonymity.
He reached the end of the newsletter and hmphed, bewildered. Surely Mx. Marje couldn’t mean what he thought she was implying. He returned to the beginning of the text, rereading it carefully.
The contents of Mx. Marje’s letter remained stubbornly unchanged. He frowned at the print, desperately wishing for his reading glasses.
“Crowley,” he said slowly, feeling very confused. “You hate being called the wrong name. The last time someone tried to change your name to 'Tony,’ you cursed them with printer jams every Monday and six generations of dandruff.”
“Ngk, wlyh,” Crowley said. “I mean, yeah, but. I knew that you knew that, so. I was hiding in plain sight. Very sneaky, me. But that’s not my point!”
“You!” he accused, then said quietly. “You want to cuddle with me?”
“I, well, I mean, yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “And you… didn’t mean that you nest, when you said you were like a gorilla?”
“Nononoooo,” Crowley protested. “Why would I mean that?”
Aziraphale did his best not to appear disappointed.
“Gorillas don’t nest,” Crowley continued.
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said crossly, “Sir Attenborough himself informed me that they do, in fact, build nests.”
“Don’t,” Crowley said, “but--" he gestured at Aziraphale not to interrupt “--doesn’t matter. For Heaven’s sake, angel! If you wanted to know whether I nested, why didn’t you just ask if I was like a bird?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with great dignity, “would you ever declare yourself to be unlike a duck?”
“I said ‘bird,’ angel,” Crowley protested.
“A duck is a bird, Crowley,” Aziraphale argued.
“I didn’t say ‘duck.’”
“They have feathers, and they fly.”
“See, I always told you penguins were bloody imposters. Can’t be birds.”
“This isn’t about penguins. I was trying to determine whether you nested.”
“Could have just asked me if I was like a penguin. They build nests, the little freaks.”
“My dear fellow, enough. The point is that it would not have worked for me to ask if you were like a bird. I hardly meant to ask whether you had ears or ate fish or were capable of loneliness.”
Crowley coughed but didn’t respond.
“I was trying to determine whether you nested.”
Crowley realized that Aziraphale was impatiently waiting for a reply.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, with the right--” Don’t say duck, don’t say penguin, don’t say bird, his brain chanted uselessly. “--person I do. I mean, would.”
Aziraphale’s gaze darted away, then back to Crowley’s. He opened his mouth to speak.
Crowley panicked. “With you! I mean, I would, if you would like, with me?”
“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale beamed, and oh, then they were hugging again. “I would be honoured.”
“Honour’s all mine, angel,” Crowley said, bringing his arms up to encircle Aziraphale. “All mine.”
“Angel?” Crowley said twenty-six minutes later, his breath gently ruffling Aziraphale’s hair.
“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale said, a bit muzzy from all of the love.
“Would you, er, I mean.”
Crowley took a deep breath. This close, Aziraphale felt the gentle rise of his chest and subtle shift of his shoulders.
“I have a sinfully big bed. Would you, maybe, want to try it out? Could be more comfortable, continuing this there.”
Aziraphale began to pull away.
Crowley panicked. “I mean, only if you want to, of course! And it’s, we wouldn’t ever do anything you didn’t want to--”
He fell silent, brain suddenly noticing the look Aziraphale was giving him. The angel’s eyes were brimming with an emotion Crowley wasn’t prepared to name.
Aziraphale reached out to him to initiate another hug.
If Crowley’s voice hadn’t already deserted him, the soft, warm embrace would have caused its immediate, euphoric death.
“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “That sounds positively lovely.”
The angel gave a reassuring squeeze, then pulled back again. “Lead the way?”
Crowley nodded, his voice still too preoccupied with a devastating amount of joy to attend to its usual responsibilities.
Their hands found each other, as easily as anything, and together, they left the kitchen for the first of many, many snuggles.
[1] Excluding Aziraphale’s strange behaviour, the rapid (and admittedly terrifying) recent changes to their relationship, the looming threat of Heaven and Hell’s desire for vengeance and war, and the murderous toaster that had been granted residence in their flat’s kitchen.
[2] Despite the fact that he had added Aziraphale as a co-tenant, Crowley always fetched the flat’s post. He greatly enjoyed the routine opportunity to mix up his neighbours’ mail.[2a]
[2a]And, if the amounts of certain bills had been intractably frozen for the past couple of decades, that was just a part of Crowley’s demonic work. After all, inconveniencing landlords was a Tartarean sport in Hell.
[3] They both knew that Crowley always won their coin tosses.
[4] Whatever they were, they were better than horses, and that’s all that mattered in Crowley’s world.
[5] Normally, Aziraphale was opposed to harming any of God’s creatures, but when it came defending the sanctuary of their nest, needs must. Besides, Crowley had a habit of healing any birds that Aziraphale happened to injure, so there wasn’t any real harm done.
[6] He was, after all, a recently retired demon. Old habits die hard, and all that rubbish.
[7] The fact that he couldn’t think of a sufficiently cutting response was, of course, completely irrelevant.