Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i. let’s pretend, my January friend

There’s a love story in there, somewhere. 

🌳🌳🌳

The cottage is – definitely a cottage.

Thatched roof, walls made of bricks, small windows with leaded glass adorned with window boxes, a wooden door painted bright green. 

The cottage is also – a bit worse for wear. The paint is chipped, the shutters are missing several pieces, one of them hanging dangerously low, on the brink of falling down completely, and the window boxes are empty. “Well,” Crowley says, arms resting on the roof of his car. “This is definitely a house.”

“Oh, I know.” Aziraphale replies, a bit too briskly, waving a hand. He gently closes the Bentley’s door and starts walking towards the bright green door. “Not the best of conditions, but it has potential.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley decides to follow him. It may be a bit pathetic, but he chose to stop denying himself the joy of following Aziraphale sometime around the start of the Second Great Celestial War. Aziraphale turned back to look at him, and Crowley followed. They won, after all. It was a good choice. “Potential,” he mutters now, somewhere in West Sussex, one week after the world did not end. “You dragged me out of London like Satan himself was about to bite your balls for ‘potential’?” 

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, evidently disapprovingly. Crowley knows by the twitch of his fingers he’s suppressing a giggle. “Ever so charming.” He snaps his fingers in front of the green door, opening it with a less than welcoming creak. “Erm, I can fix that.”

Crowley snorts. “What’s waiting for us inside? Mold? Demonic possession?” He snorts again at his own joke, ignoring Aziraphale’s less than impressed glare. “It was funny.”

“No,” Aziraphale shoots back. Crowley refuses to snort again and let Aziraphale know he’s sometimes actually funny. “Anyway, please.” He makes a show of letting Crowley enter first, jazz hands and all. Crowley sighs, but complies with the silent request anyway. 

The floor creaks as well. It’s wooden and old, splinters visible even with a quick glance. The walls are bare and painted white, no furniture in sight. He shivers as he spots a chunk of glass missing from the bigger window in what it’s supposed to be the living room. Things are not much better in the kitchen: the cupboards were once painted white, now chipped and worn down, a leaking faucet, table and chairs covered in dust. He does not want to imagine what the upstairs looks like. “Potential,” he repeats, turning around to see Aziraphale looking back at him, wringing his hands. 

“Yes, well. It looked better when –” He cuts himself off with a sharp cough. “I love the natural light, and if you just look out of that window you’ll see the garden.”

Crowley frowns, but walks closer to the window nonetheless. Outside, there is a garden. Overgrown with weeds at the corners and covered in the grey-white winter frost, but bigger than the living room and kitchen combined. It’s mostly bare, safe for the ways nature found to haunt the free, uncared-for space, but it could be… full. Alive. Loved, even, despite the word leaving a weird taste on his tongue still, after everything. Sweetness cut with a half-bitter aftertaste. 

“What do you think?” 

Aziraphale’s voice is closer than he expects it. He shifts, leaning back against the window and looking into Aziraphale’s wide eyes. Winter has made them look grey. “Why didn’t you fix this? You could just, you know,” he snaps his fingers in demonstration. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d go for fixer uppers.”

Aziraphale lowers his gaze, bites his bottom lip. Wordlessly, he picks up the best looking chair and sits down on it. Crowley almost laughs: the contrast between Aziraphale’s perfectly pressed coat and pristine cashmere scarf and the dusty, splintered old table is objectively hilarious. He settles for half a smirk as he watches Aziraphale exhale through his nose. “It was beautiful when I bought it.”

Crowley crosses his arms. His eyebrows have taken up a life of their own. “Bought it? Did you – when?” 

Aziraphale swallows. “In 1967.”

Right. “Right,” Crowley says. He snaps, fixing the chair closest to Aziraphale and plopping down on it. “Before or after you –” gave me a suicide pill. He wants to say it, he wants to see Aziraphale flinching, he wants him to say how wrong he was, again. He swallows it down. He’s – he’s a demon, alright, but he’s not cruel. Not with Aziraphale, not when his eyes are so big and his fingers are shaking, not when the world is still spinning because of the angel, really, not when he chose to follow, and chose to be with him. Not when Aziraphale looks at him like this, all expectant and hopeful and nervous, and makes him wonder if staying with him was ever really a choice for him. “When?” 

“After,” Aziraphale replies, because he knows him better than anyone. It’s simple, straight to the point. He even allows himself half a smile. “The very next morning.” 

The silence stretches on. Crowley waits for Aziraphale to elaborate, huffing when he doesn’t. “Why?” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale clears his throat, sends him a wobbly smile. “It is a bit complicated.” 

Crowley thinks about them for a moment, an angel and a demon sitting in a disgusting kitchen after freeing themselves and the world from a Plan they did not consent to being apart of. “Isn’t it always?” He sighs, gazing outside. “Come on, out with it.”

Aziraphale’s fingers start tapping on the wood. Not for the first time, Crowley wants to reach out and still them. “I was terribly distressed, so I – I hopped on a train and just – I did not miraculously change the destination, I swear. It just – it brought me here.” 

Crowley hasn’t seen any train stations on the way here, but he nods, knowing Aziraphale can read his expression perfectly. As expected, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, I know. Not here here, but close enough.”

“Alright.” Crowley shrugs. He starts tapping as well, just to have something to do with his hands. The unsynchronised tapping of their fingers is midly annoying, but he pushes through.

“So, as I was saying, I was… just thinking, and walking, as one does. And I walk straight into this bakery.”

Crowley’s lips react before he can make a conscious decision about it. “Of course you did.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale swallows, cheeks pink. “And this gentleman looks at me and says, are you here for the house?” 

“Which you weren’t.”

“Which I wasn’t.”

Crowley can picture what happened next. “But you still took a look, because why not, and then you saw this quaint little cottage and thought it was pretty, so you bought it.” 

Aziraphale smiles, but lowers his gaze. “Not quite. Almost, though.” 

Crowley frowns. “What do you mean not quite?” As he gets more impatient, his tapping does too. The floor creaks every time his foot hits the ground. 

“I did take a look, because why not, and I did think it was quaint and pretty and everything, but – well, you see –” Aziraphale trails off, looking at anywhere but Crowley, and he’s still tapping, and floor is still creaking, and – “Will you stop with the stomping?”

“Stop with the tapping,” Crowley shoots back, stilling his foot nonetheless. “And spit it out before my arse melts into this deathtrap of a chair.” Seemingly offended, the chair in question makes a very concerning noise. 

“It was the garden!” Aziraphale blurts out, cheeks redder than before. “I saw the garden and thought, if we ever had that picnic, here would be a – a nice enough place for it.” Aziraphale swallows, and gets up before Crowley has a chance to process it. “Apologies for the state of this place. I thought – nevermind. I’ll wait in the car.” 

That bloody picnic. That stupid, fucking picnic that gave Crowley hope for decades, those words he replayed in his mind every time his bed felt too cold or the silence too oppressive, every time Heaven came and snatched his angel away, every time he had to witness Aziraphale stop being Aziraphale and start being Principality Aziraphale. Every damn time, he had those words at least, that promise. A vow, when he was his most hopeful.

It was the garden. Crowley can almost picture it with perfect clarity, the green grass, the weeds gone, flowers blooming and bees swarming around. It was the garden. He thinks – he thinks it would have been a nice enough place as well, because Aziraphale deserves the Gardens of Babylon but only wants a nice garden in a quaint cottage where he can hear the birds chirping in the spring and strawberries maturing in the summer and snow covering the ground in winter and leaves turning red in the fall. He bought this place for a reason. It was the garden. 

Crowley gets up, and finds the stairs easily enough. They’re battered as well, and he’s pretty sure one or two steps break under his feet, but he gets upstairs. There is an empty room, a singular desk in the middle of it and empty shelves adorning the wall, a big window bathing it in the frail winter sunlight. The bathroom has a copper bathtub and an unusable sink and a stained glass window painting it blue. The bedroom – the bedroom has one bed, lacy curtains, and two nightstands. 

Crowley bangs his head against the nearest wall, and bolts down the stairs. 

What Aziraphale means by waiting in the car is apparently being in said car, already buckled up and everything, staring straight ahead with his hands in his lap and a faraway look in his eyes. Crowley gets in, and grimaces as he slams the door shut with way more strength than intended. “Do you want to move here?”

Aziraphale doesn’t really react. Unfortunately for him, Crowley knows him better than he knows himself, and doesn’t miss the way his fingers dig into the velvet of his trousers. “I merely wanted to show it to you. Now, if you’d be so kind, I believe we can still make it to dinner if –”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley feels the tiniest bit manic. “Do you want to move here?” 

Aziraphale tips his head back. “Why does it matter?” He keeps his eyes closed as he says the next bit. “Maybe, just maybe mind you, I wanted you to see it and – and maybe, just maybe, I thought over the years that it would be… nice to have a retirement spot for – for us.” He shakes his head, and keeps looking straight ahead. “Now, if you’d be so kind.” 

Crowley bangs his head against the steering wheel, just once. He wonders when things went so horribly wrong that now Aziraphale can even believe that him buying a house with living with Crowley in mind would not be the best moment in his entire damned existence, and feels even worse when he can pinpoint the exact moment. So much for leaving the hurt behind. “I think,” he starts, very slowly and very carefully. “I see the potential.” 

Aziraphale whips his head so fast his neck snaps. “Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.” Crowley fights the urge to bang his head again. “I – we’ll have to do a big miracle and I don’t want to even think about all the spiders we’ll have to banish and I’m not in the mood to befriend more rats, but –”

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale cuts him off. Gosh, those eyes. He has no idea how Aziraphale has ever looked his former bosses in the eye and not immediately gotten everything he ever wanted. “I mean, potentially. Could you like it?” 

Crowley, who started to love the place with every fiber of his unlovable soul ever since Aziraphale mentioned the year 1967, just nods. “Sure.” He does not want to blush, and wills his blood to stop flowing for a second. “The light is – a lot. And the floor isn’t ugly. Lots of, uh, room to… roam.” Jes – Jiminy Christmas. “And the garden is big.”

“It was so pretty when it was alive.” Aziraphale muses. “But you do not have to, well, put up with it. You like London and –”

“Aziraphale, shut up.” Crowley is seconds away from banging his head again. “Do you want to move here?”

Aziraphale takes his sweet time. He bites his lip, again, wrings his hands, again, taps his fingers against the Bentley’s leather seat, again. He squares his shoulders as if readying himself for battle and, seriously, how did Crowley miss the fact that things are still so bad? How can Aziraphale not know, even now, after everything, that Crowley never once stopped wanting? 

In the end, when he speaks, he’s quiet and terribly serious. “I miss nature when I’m in London. How the air is crispier, how the nights are clearer.” He casts a surreptitious glance at Crowley, who’s probably looking at him like a dog waiting for his owner to throw him a bone. “And I think I’d like to be here, now that I don’t – now that it’s over.” 

Crowley nods, for some reason. He waits, still, because Aziraphale still hasn’t breathed. “But I’d be terribly bored without my best friend.” 

Crowley would like the record to show that today started out as a regular Tuesday. 

It’s not like he did not know – Aziraphale is his only friend, but even if that wasn’t the case, he’d still be the very best. Being in love with him doesn’t change the foundation of their relationship. His friend, his only one, the one who shielded him from the rain and came back to him instead of leading a war and held his hand when they thought the world really was ending. His best friend, who saw a garden and thought of him. “Yeah,” he croaks out. “That tracks.” 

Aziraphale finally takes a breath. “So, if you want to, well. I mean, not right now, but soon, if you –”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Yes, let’s.” He should ask some more about Aziraphale’s thought process. About technicalities and miracles needed and the colour of the walls. He should ask about the one bed situation, definitely. He starts the car instead. “When you say soon, you mean?”

Aziraphale smiles. How can the sun not decide to stop hiding behind clouds after such a thing, Crowley has no idea. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Crowley speeds away. 

🌳🌳🌳

It takes three miracles. Huge, separate miracles that require a lot of energy and  handholding, so Crowley is fine with it. Aziraphale’s brow is sweating by the time the windows and floors are fixed. He hopes to see a glimpse of forearm, but the house is fixed before Aziraphale sheds the bowtie. 

It is still empty, save from the now sturdy kitchen table and matching chairs they’re now occupying and the desk in the studio upstairs. And the bed, he supposes. The bed he’s definitely not thinking about. He hasn’t set foot in the bedroom ever since that first visit two weeks ago, not for any particular reason. He’s mostly afraid the vastness of his longing may choke him.

“So,” he claps his hands, startling Aziraphale as he pours his tea. Somehow, the only appliance they own is the angel’s trusted – and ancient – electric tea kettle. “We need furniture.”

“Oh, of course.” Aziraphale dips his teabag in his cup, making Crowley wonder when did he manage to sneak in a miracle for tea appliances. It’s very Aziraphale, at least.

“It’s awfully empty. I hate hearing my voice echoing through the walls.”
Aziraphale visibly shivers, and Crowley wants to ask whether the emptiness reminds him of Heaven. All the white nothingness he escaped too, in the end. All the vacuum of fake goodness and blinding light he ran to, leaving him behind. 

Crowley shakes his head. “The bookshop has nice armchairs. And a settee.” Crowley’s settee, if he’s being honest. He never sat anywhere else in the shop, and he has… nice memories there. Drinks and conversations and arrangements. Aziraphale making silly faces when lost in the fumes of wine, Aziraphale sinking in an armchair with a book while Crowley pretended to be asleep just so he could watch him. Aziraphale putting a blanket over him when his sleeping act became really convincing. 

“Definitely.” Aziraphale nods. “I miss my armchair. And – and I think I should prepare a smaller collection of books to bring here.”

Crowley frowns. “As if you cannot make the library as big as you want.” 

Aziraphale pinches his face. “This is your house too.”

Crowley forces his features to settle into a scowl, and uses a finger to push the glasses even higher up his nose. “Mmh.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds like a plea. Crowley doesn’t know what to do with Aziraphale’s guilt. He forgave him roughly three days after he left, but he never told him properly. He may not blame him anymore, but the anger persists, clawing at his ribs and fighting to come out. Anger and love and longing all mixed together; he thinks he’s never been more of a demon than he is right now. 

“I want the throne.” Deflecting. That’s good. Safe, even. “And my fancy globe, the statue you hate, the plants and my car. That’s it.” 

Aziraphale blinks at him. Sometimes Crowley sees in his eyes how much he wants to talk, but he never does. Crowley won’t ever talk first again, so. “The throne,” he deadpans after a moment. “I hate the throne more than the statue.” 

It makes Crowley huff a laugh. He stretches his leg, resting his foot on the leg of the chair where Aziraphale is sitting. “It matches the cottage core aesthetic pretty well, actually.” 

Aziraphale hides his smile in his tea, rolling his eyes. Fondly, Crowley wants to think. “We’ll put it in the studio, together with your globe. The lighting is better there, so the plants will be there as well. Perhaps… perhaps with the books?” 

Crowley imagines it. It’s embarrassing how quickly his mind can come up with a picture of a room bathed in golden, not at all dissimilar to the bookshop, full of tomes and cups of tea and dust particles, where his plants find a way to grow their leaves among the pages, and that ridiculous chair of his actually fits, somehow, and his globe on the desk ties everything together. “Sure.” He clears his throat. “That works.” 

“I think it’ll look really nice.” Aziraphale continues, way more enthusiastic. “I’d like to paint the walls a warm yellow. And the library should be mahogany to match the desk. And – would the plants be okay with curtains?” 

Crowley doesn’t know if Aziraphale is aware that he, too, is picturing another, smaller version of the bookshop. The place has been more of a home to them both than they probably realise. “Well, not always. They’ll need light during the day.” He’ll need to rotate them to soak up most of the lighting, actually. And – “Ah, and the mister. You don’t want water particles on your precious books, I assume.” 

The shattering of the dream doesn’t come, much to Crowley’s surprise. “Nothing a miracle cannot fix.” A wave of a hand, like it isn’t a big deal. “The books won’t get wet if I don’t want them to.” 

Crowley’s pretty sure Aziraphale did not want his books to burn, but they did anyway. Aziraphale seems so – sure, is the thing. There’s a weird, determined glint in his eyes he’s only seen seconds before averting an Apocalypse. He doesn’t want to dim it. “Alright.”

“Splendid!” Aziraphale wiggles. Gosh, it’s been a while since he’s been the cause of a wiggle. “I’ll work in the studio, you can get started in the bedroom.” 

Crowley doesn’t fall off the chair, but it’s a near thing. “The bedroom.”

“Well, you’ll be the one to use it, afterall.” Aziraphale is already on the move, light as a feather. “Please, do choose whatever you like best.” 

Ah, there it comes. The shattering. It was only delayed. 

It wasn’t really a dream, though. More like – a fantasy. He’s got plenty of them. “I don’t need much.” He finds himself saying. “I can sleep on the ceiling.”

Aziraphale stops mid-motion, hands hovering on the sink where he was washing his cup. “But you don’t have to,” his voice is soft. “After all those years in the car, you –” His words trails off, because he abandons both cup and sink, and walks over to where Crowley is still sitting. Featherlight, his fingers land on Crowley’s forearm. The touch is tentative, fleeting, over before Crowley can even think of screaming stay. “Choose whatever you like best.” The words are the same, but laced with something close to hope. Aziraphale’s eyes are bluer today. Crowley can’t remember when he last saw them up close like this. 

Behind the glasses, he squeezes his own shut. He nods. 

He doesn’t open them again until he’s sure Aziraphale is out of the room. He doesn’t need to think about how he felt Aziraphale linger. 

🌳🌳🌳

On the last day of January, the house is done. 

They have a dark green sofa now, matching the new cupboards in the kitchen. The armchairs from the bookshop fit perfectly well. The fireplace is new and working, and Aziraphale insisted on a Persian rug for the ‘atmosphere’, even if it makes Crowley sneeze. 

The studio is Crowley’s favourite room, for quite obvious reasons. It’s a miniature bookshop. There are shelves on all the walls that miraculously fit all of Aziraphale’s books – asking him to choose was too difficult of a task, especially after he left them all once already. Aziraphale didn’t exactly say this, but Crowley understood. It only took one snap to fit them all, and the smile he got after was – yeah. It made the nights spent in his bedroom less aching. 

He did not choose the bed he wanted, because that doesn’t exist. The bed he wants is one he shares with Aziraphale. In its absence, he picked something comfortable enough, better than the Bentley seats but somehow less welcoming than the settee in the studio. The sheets are dark blue and there is a vintage abat-jour on one of the nightstands, because no one can say Crowley is not an optimist. He calls himself a fool instead, but when he retires at night and leaves the little lamp on, he feels something stirring in his chest. 

Aziraphale is just down the hallway, sitting at the desk – in Crowley’s throne, actually, which is a vision that is burned behind his eyelids forever –, and Crowley is laying in bed, watching the ceiling. They’re close, closer than they’ve been in years. 

And Crowley is not – sad. He sees Aziraphale every day, he gets to make his tea in the morning and sit with him while he reads and walk with him to the village nearby and back. They live together properly, and spend more time together now than they ever did before. 

At the end of the day, Crowley is still alone. But if he closes his eyes now and forces himself to fall asleep, he’ll see Aziraphale in the morning. It’s better than he ever thought he’ll get. 

Also, he’s not sleeping in his car. That too is an improvement. 

So, Crowley is not sad. He sighs, glares at the ceiling, and shuts his eyes forcefully. 

The door opens with a creak. “Crowley?”
He bolts upright fast enough to give himself whiplash. 

Aziraphale stands there, right next to the door, eyes wide and a steaming mug in hand. “I could hear you tossing from the other room and thought, well.” He eyes the mug, somewhat awkwardly. “It’s a special herbal mix. Very soothing.”

Was he tossing? Loud enough for the angel to hear? He should have made himself pass out. He stares at Aziraphale, who’s staring right back at him, in his nightclothes and half covered by dark blue sheets and – ah. The glasses are on the nightstand. 

It isn’t – it isn’t a big deal. “Uh, sure. You didn’t have to,” he blurts out, scrubbing a hand on the duvet. It isn’t a big deal, because Aziraphale saw him without glasses plenty of times before. 

Yeah. Before. 

“I – I thought it could help you. If you want.” Aziraphale takes one step inside, and it shouldn’t have the effect it has on Crowley. His stomach flips, his hands start sweating. Aziraphale in this room is – is too much for his muzzy brain to process. He wants to reach out and perch the glasses on his nose, but that would make this a big deal. 

Quickly, Aziraphale deposits the cup of tea on the nightstand. If his eyes linger on the frilly abat jour, he doesn’t comment on it. “The sheets are a very nice colour,” he says instead. “Anything other than black is refreshing.”

“Very high thread count.” Crowley keeps scrubbing his hand up and down the duvet. “Arabian cotton and everything.” 

Aziraphale hums, looking around. Gosh, Crowley even kept the lacy curtains. Fluffy pillows, soft sheets, a lamp found only in elderly women’s rooms and lacy curtains. He really cannot be any more obvious. “This room is – not what I expected.” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “It’s nice.”

Crowley grimaces. “Well, thanks.”

For some reason, it makes Aziraphale giggle. “Oh, not like that. I just – I expected more gloom.” 

The only glimpse of Crowley’s home decor Aziraphale ever got was the single night they spent at his flat after their first go at Armageddon. And his flat was – gloomy, definitely. It was an embassy of Hell, afterall, and he couldn’t go and put a memory foam mattress on the bed. He spent most of his time in the car, anyway. And he always liked the bookshop better. 

Crowley swallows hard. “Figured a little less gloom fits retirement better.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes are curious now, his gaze soft when he meets Crowley’s. “I agree.” His tone is soft. “But I’ll admit the throne is more comfortable than it looks.”

Despite himself, Crowley smiles. Aziraphale is in his bedroom, but not in his bed, and he’s not staying, but he brought him tea. Apparently he’s destined to live his existence between buts. “I told you so. Didn’t expect you to outright steal it.” 

“You stole my settee.” Aziraphale shoots back, still smiling. “Besides, living together means nothing can be stolen.” 

Crowley blinks hard. “Let’s add that to the words of wisdom.” 

Aziraphale giggles again. They’re silent for a moment afterwards. The ugly thing inside Crowley’s chest is screaming stay.

Aziraphale’s hands flutter in the air for a moment, as if he doesn’t really know what to do with them. “Well, I’ll let you rest now.” He says finally. His smile is still there, even though it’s different now. Crowley thinks it’s a little more frail around the edges, but he’s always been more hopeful whenever the glasses come off. “Goodnight, Crowley. I’ll be in the studio if you need me.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes are warm. Crowley keeps his own fixed on him, shoves the ugly thing back in as deep as it gets. “Night.” 

The tea is warm. It’s a little pungent and a lot floral, and he isn’t sure he likes it. He drinks it all, and keeps the mug close to his chest when it’s done until there is no warmth left to soak up. 

The little lamp stays on all night.

ii. stuck in an endless February 

February starts off with grey clouds and plenty of rain. And with a renewed passion for baking, apparently. 

Crowley is sitting on the kitchen table, legs dangling in front of him as he watches the way Aziraphale’s back and shoulders move as he whisks and whisks and whisks. It feels like he’s done nothing but whisking all day long. 

“Are you done?” Crowley asks after another full minute of whisking, and simply because vanishing the whisk into Mount Vesuvius feels a bit too much even for him. 

Aziraphale hums, not turning around. “Not quite. I need it to be a bit more airy.”

“What’s it anyway?”  

It’s not like Crowley does not appreciate Aziraphale’s baking. It’s just that – he doesn’t eat sweets, and he hates getting that sugary-sticky feeling on his fingers, and his nose cannot stand the smell of cinnamon and he’s really transcendentally bored. 

The first few days of February were spent in the sitting room, with Crowley buried under two blankets on the sofa and Aziraphale reading in the armchair, while the storms outside raged on. It was maybe more boring than sitting in the kitchen while Aziraphale bakes, but it was – it was good. Crowley could close his eyes and be lulled to sleep by the rain and Aziraphale soft humming and he knew that when he opened them again he’d still have the angel close, smiling softly or ridiculously waving him hello from his chair. 

But then Aziraphale had to remember about his quarantine pastime and start spending all his time in the kitchen. 

“It’s a chocolate mousse.” Aziraphale turns his head to the side, his wrist still working overtime. “A very dark chocolate mousse.” 

Crowley’s interest is tickled. He hops down the table, striding over to Aziraphale to peek over his shoulder. “That’s… dark.” He takes a sniff, inner snake taking over. “Smells dark even.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale chuckles. “It should be ready in two shakes.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, Crowley watching quietly and trying to make sense of the itch he feels in his brain. “Fuck off.” A thunder booms outside. “You hate dark chocolate.”

Aziraphale likes his dessert sweet. Sickeningly so. Vanilla must be fresh, caramel should be anything but salted, strawberries are consumed only in the form of a gelée. It makes Crowley sick. It has made Crowley threaten a pastry chef to put more apricot jam in the damn croissant, more than once. He does not like dark chocolate. 

“You don’t,” Aziraphale tells him, dipping a finger into his fluffy concoction. “And you’re ever so polite – oh, I think this is it.”

Crowley takes a few seconds to acknowledge the fact that the bowl is now tilted towards him. He should taste it. That’s what he should do, because Aziraphale wants him to, and he’s good at doing what Aziraphale wants him to do – with some notable exceptions. Aziraphale wiggles the bowl encouragingly, and their shoulders bump together as Crowley does his best not to flinch at the touch.
He’s just – he’s unused to having Aziraphale like this. Close and smiley and doing things for him. The months of distance and the years of familiarity bleed between them, pulling Crowley closer and far away with every breath. 

“I – I assure you you’ll like this better than the rest.” Aziraphale says quietly, carefully as Crowley doesn’t move. “I apologise for subjecting you to cinnamon rolls and orange scones.”

He’s not wrong either. Crowley doesn’t like sweets, but he can do with rich textures and almost bitter aftertastes. It’s like Aziraphale has developed this habit to deposit at his feet all the facts about Crowley he has filed away. Crowley wonders if this is his twisted and roundabout way of atonement. As if he needs it. As if Crowley did not stop the world from ending for him and wouldn’t do it again. As if he didn’t agree to move in with him after ten seconds of hesitation. 

As if he doesn’t know – as if he doesn’t know.  

So Crowley takes a breath, and dips a finger in. The middle one, of course. He brings it to his lips and looks everywhere but into Aziraphale’s eyes. 

The chocolate is rich, dark enough to be almost sour, airy and light as a cloud and yet heavy on his tongue. Aziraphale holds a breath in, waiting for judgement. “Do you like it?”

Crowley loves it, actually. Loves him, but that’s nothing new. This is the type of love that is all-consuming, a love that burns bridges and envelops them completely. It’s happened once already, and Crowley won’t let it burn them again, or this quiet life they share. 

“It’s… good.” He says then. “Surprisingly.” 

Aziraphale nods, clearly pleased and trying to hide it. “Thank you. High praise.” 

“The orange scones weren’t so bad, by the way.” Crowley tells him, allowing himself another taste.

Aziraphale passes him a spoon with a roll of his eyes. “I know they ended up on the bottom of the Vesuvius.”

“They did not!” Crowley gapes. “Those were the snickerdoodles!”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Aziraphale says, the pout making a rather dramatic appearance. “It was some of my best work.”

Crowley pushes a spoonful of chocolate mousse into his mouth. “Heavily disagreeing.”

Aziraphale digs into the mousse with another spoon, only picking up the tiniest bit of chocolate. “How… rich.” He says around a grimace. “I should experiment with more flavours.”

Crowley tries to muffle a snort. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh, face creased as he pushes himself through another spoonful. “I was thinking about the garden.” Master at changing the topic. “What is something one can do in a garden in February?”

Crowley, for his part, is enjoying this dark creation more than he should. He thinks about having a bigger spoon, and cleans out a quarter of a bowl with one gulp. “Why are you asking me? You were the gardener.”

He likes seeing the tip of Aziraphale’s ears going pink. Sheer embarrassment, he knows it very well. “Well, I used to have a friend who helped me out with my disguise.” Aziraphale puts his spoon in the sink, abandoning his ruse. “Not sure what happened to them.”

The Dowling years are one of the four stretches of time in Crowley’s long existence when the world did not seem as heavy. Those eleven years of living in Aziraphale’s pocket and miracling healthy flower pots left and right are up there with the four years of peace between Armageddons, the life he’s living now and – and Greece. Three months in Athens while the Acropolis was being built and accommodations were few and the stationary angel and demon found themselves sharing a house. Not a bed, never that, but a house and a table and wines in the evenings. Aziraphale had been called back to Heaven after three months, for his next assignment, and Crowley had wandered around the peninsula until the sight of grapes didn’t hurt anymore. 

Crowley shakes himself out of it. He got it all back in the end. “He actually knows more about potted plants, to be honest.” he shrugs. “But I did research something, actually.”

He did not spend days on the sofa doing absolutely nothing, afterall. Aziraphale’s eyes widen with surprise. “What did you find out?” 

“It must be cleaned out,” much like the chocolate bowl, actually. “Y’know, remove the dead things, the leaves, the weeds – whatever.” He scrapes up the last bit of mousse. “Then you choose what you want to plant and prepare the beds for it, prune the trees and fertilize, yadda yadda. Boring stuff.”

Aziraphale considers it, gazing out the window. “With this rain? That sounds difficult.”

Just in time, a thunder cuts through the air. “It won’t rain forever.” Crowley comments. He tips the now polished bowl in Aziraphale’s direction, gaze lingering on his pleased smile for a beat too long. “There’s a garden centre not too far away, I was thinking of visiting.” 

Aziraphale lights up. He always gets like this when the garden is mentioned. Crowley finds it adorable but, then again, it’s a moot point by now. “When?” 

“Eh, whenever the rain stops.” Crowley inhales. His next words come out without his brain’s permission, spurred on by the glint in Aziraphale’s baby blues and the pink lingering in his cheeks. “You can come if you want to.”

And then the light is off. 

Not in the house, they did too many miracles for that, but in Aziraphale’s face. The glint in his eyes is gone, the pinkness in his cheeks as well, and he – he closes off. He still smiles at Crowley, something frail and awful, and he’s still soft spoken as before. “I’ll – I guess I’ll think about it. Thank you.” It sounds the opposite of thankful. “Well! I need to clean up this mess now.”

Crowley is being dismissed. He knows this, he feels this, and he’s – what has he done, actually? “I can do it,” he says cautiously. “You cooked, I –”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale’s tone is clipped. Crowley is too confused to be annoyed by it. “You can go back to relaxing.” 

And Crowley – he ends up back on the sofa, somehow. He doesn’t really know why. 

Aziraphale comes back after a moment, sending him a smile before settling down in his armchair. They don’t talk again. The storm is still raging on.

Crowley throws the blanket over his head, and does his damn best not to scream. 

🌳🌳🌳

“Why would someone get mad at me if I told them you can come if you want to?”

The garden centre employee definitely has something better to do. She eyes the items in Crowley’s little cart with a raised eyebrow and starts scanning them. “Cash or card?”

“No, really, what’s wrong with that?” He fishes out a sleek black card. “Isn’t it a normal thing to say?”

“Did you say you can come if you want to? As in, these exact words?” The voice comes from the person behind him in the line. Pink hair, nose ring, hot pink nails and a fake purple fur coat. Truly the person he’d want advice from about something like this. 

Still. The cashier is not cooperating, and he’s not about to drive to London to visit the lesbians from the coffee shop. “Yeah.”

“One hundred and twenty pounds.” The cashier announces – and, shit, one hundred and twenty pounds? For garden stuff?

The card lands on the little machine with a ping. “Man, that is like – horrible. What the fuck? So condescending.” Pink Hair says as Crowley moves his cart out of the way. “No shit he got mad at you.”

Crowley doesn’t know why this person with an American Valley accent and lashes long enough to fan over her cheekbones is talking to him, but he’ll take it. “It wasn’t condescending. It was an invitation.”

“That was a fuckass invitation, then.” She’s buying a single cactus. When she starts walking towards the exit, Crowley follows. “Nothing screams uh whatever, I don’t give a fuck if you come or not like that shit you pulled.”

“I - you - what?” Crowley almost trips over his stupid cart. “He doesn’t need a written invitation! We’ve known each other for millenia!”

“Even worse!” There’s suddenly a very pink nail in his face. “That’s how relationships die, baby. That man wants you to want him!”

Crowley laughs. He may be a step into hysteria. “I do nothing but want him.”

“Then tell him.” Pink hair tosses said hair back. “It’s Valentine’s Day week and you told him you’d tolerate his presence. Nice job.”

“I did not - that’s not what happened.” It’s absolutely not. Crowley made an innocent invitation, Aziraphale decided to throw a fit over nothing. He knows Crowley wants him everywhere, it’s so painfully obvious he can’t not know, and he even stopped making the dark chocolate thingy in some sort of petty revenge – “Fuck.”

“That’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?”

“No, fuck, not that. I –“ He cards a hand through his hair. “He baked me something and I didn’t say thank you.”

“What?” Pink hair screeches. “Oh my god, you’re horrible.” 

“Fuck.” Crowley breathes out. “I sent his snickerdoodles into a volcano.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Pink Hair has to say this to his back, because Crowley is already dragging his stupid cart full of soil and compost to the Bentley. 

🌳🌳🌳

There is an apology on his tongue and snickerdoodles on the passenger seat of his car. Crowley expects to find Aziraphale in the kitchen, but he’s not there. He’s not in the living room either, but he spots a cloud of familiar hair behind the windows. 

Aziraphale stands in the garden, in the middle of weeds and dead branches, face tilted up to soak in the feeble sun rays like the sunflower he is. 

The air is chilly despite the sun. The sweets are still in his car, and when he gets close enough to be heard, he says, “Did you seriously need an invitation?” 

Aziraphale jumps. He brings a hand to his chest like a startled maiden, turning back to Crowley with wide eyes. “When did you get back?”

“Should I have written you a note? Serenaded you?” Crowley presses on, because Pink Hair might have gotten more under his skin than he previously thought. “Did you actually get mad at me for that?”

“I – what are you talking about?” Aziraphale’s face is pinched in confusion rather than hurt. “Where is this even coming from?”

Which is actually the million dollar question. Where is this even coming from? Aziraphale still – still smiles at him like nothing’s wrong, still makes him that herbal tea when he doesn’t actually ask, still sits with him at night. “You – your face does this thingy, this melty thing, and your eyes – do you know they change colours?” He doesn’t know why he’s still speaking. “They’re gray now. Even outside, even with the sun.” He takes a breath, cards a hand through his hair. “You’re mad, and I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Aziraphale says cautiously. “I didn’t do anything. It’s – everything is fine.”

“Is it?” Crowley laughs. “Right, I’m just imagining things.”

He’s definitely blowing things out of proportion. There’s a voice in the back of his mind urging him to shut his stupid mouth, the thing inside his chest burning up with the need to wipe the confusion off of Aziraphale’s face. He doesn’t listen to any of them. “Why didn’t you just come if you wanted you?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “This conversation doesn’t make any sense.” He crosses his arms, starts walking backwards. Away. “I’ll be in the studio if you –”

Crowley doesn’t let him. “What? You wanted me to ask you to come with me properly? Now?” 

It was bound to happen. Historically, pushing things down never works. Water will always flow and whatever. It was never about the damn garden centre and this – this whole thing between them, the house and the bloody tea and even the lacy curtains in Crowley’s bedroom, it was bound to burn. Crowley had been careful, this time. It doesn’t matter anyway. 

Aziraphale’s face falls, like Crowley knew it would. “Do – do you seriously want to do this outside?” 

It’s not the reply Crowley expected. He frowns. “Stop answering questions with other questions.” 

Aziraphale exhales. He uncrosses his arms, wrings his hands together, and crosses them again. He’s gearing up for battle, right in front of Crowley, and he thinks he might be sick. 

They really should be past this. 

“I do not know where the line is.” Aziraphale blurts out. He’s looking all over, voice all high and thready, like – like he used to when talking to them. “I know what I did, I know what happened, and I do not know whether – whether I’ll do something one day and you’ll just run away.” He looks at Crowley, finally. He should have kept looking away, actually. “So yes, I need you to ask me now.”

The sun has gone hiding behind a cloud. Seems fitting. “What the fuck,” Crowley forces out. “Run away? Me? I – I moved into your house!”

“I thought it would be our house.” Aziraphale’s voice is even, stripped of anything soft. 

They’ve had this conversation before, in different words, in different clothes and timezones; they are always having the same conversation. “It is. I picked out the damn sofa.” Crowley is tired of always dancing around it. “How can you not know I have forgiven you?” 

“Have you?” Aziraphale almost takes one step forward before changing his mind. “You never talk to me. We talk about the weather and – and about creaky stairs and missing cups.” 

Crowley takes a step back. “I did my fair bit of talking already.”

Always, always the same conversation.

Aziraphale nods and looks away. “So did I.” He sniffs, lifts his chin up. “Truth is, I still have no idea how to come back from this. How I get my – friend back.” 

You can’t, Crowley thinks. That line has been blurred already, burned by something ugly and wanting and vicious, and whatever they were before doesn’t really exist anymore. It’s a thought pushed so far back Crowley’s head that now that it comes to the surface it almost gives him whiplash. 

Crowley from before didn’t know what it felt like to let his longings spill free and force them back down. He didn’t know what it felt to be left by the only one who mattered. He didn’t know the way those now bitten red lips tasted. “You think I know something?” 

“Then I don’t know what else to say,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley now knows what it’s like to hold Aziraphale’s hand while the world is ending. What it’s like to find out there was a house bought with him in mind. What it’s like to have Aziraphale come back and stay for good. “I say we need a bottle of red.”

It takes Aziraphale by surprise. Crowley almost snorts at the way his eyebrows take on a life of their own. “A bottle of red,” he deadpans. “I think that is a really bad idea.”

“Very on brand for us then.” He snaps his fingers, and the kitchen table suddenly appears in the middle of a garden, almost knocking Aziraphale off of his feet. “You’ll have to provide the wine.”

Aziraphale drags a hand over his face. He looks all of his six millennia old, and Crowley feels the weight of it down his very bones. He shakes his head the tiniest bit, and waves a hand to produce two glasses and a bottle of Pinot. He sighs, long suffering and exhausted. “Let’s have a toast.”

🌳🌳🌳

The first bottle is over embarrassingly quick. Aziraphale chooses a Barolo for the second one, not even bothering with a question. Crowley holds his glass out and lets him pour. 

This, at least, is known territory: getting sloshed on a random weekday with bottles too expensive to consume at this rate.

They’ve never done this outside in February in a bare garden. The sun is almost completely gone now, and by the time the second bottle is halfway done dusk has been settling in. It’s cold. It’s really bloody cold, and whoever said alcohol warms you up was actually lying. 

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath, his first words since sitting down. 

Crowley eyes the tiny ball of lit up angelic energy with a raised eyebrow. “Fancy.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “I can’t do much about the cold.” 

Crowley mulls it over. “I could, but I could also set the garden on fire.”

“I’ll pass.” Aziraphale fills another glass. “Thank you for offering.” 

He reclines in his chair, not minding the way the hard wood messes with his lower back. “Stop thanking me.”

“Mh?” The angel-made light casts Azirphale’s features in gold and pink and brings out his eyes somewhat unfairly. “Why? It’s polite.”

“Fuck polite.” Crowley reaches for the bottle, and takes a sip directly from it to really sell his point. “I talk about the weather? You act like a waiter.” 

Azirphale huffs. “You ate all my mousse.”

“You made it for me.” Crowley points at Aziraphale with an accusing finger. “You didn’t even like it.”

Aziraphale sighs. They’ve had enough to drink to make reality a bit blurred around the edges. Still, he can see the way Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and the cold, his wispy curls sticking out in all directions, the sheen of his lips. Beautiful, he thinks, and bites his cheek not to say. He puts the bottle back on the table. 

“I was trying to be nice.”

Crowley stills. He sets aside his glasses, and glares. “Fuck nice.”

“I know,” Aziraphale concedes. “But I was. I like being nice. I was only ever – I only wanted it to be nice. Here. There.” 

“Right.” Crowley says, looking away. “I never asked you to –“

“I had to try.” Aziraphale’s voice trembles. Crowley shuts his eyes. “I had to stop it, to make it right. I only ever wanted it to be nice.”

“You couldn’t - fuck, Aziraphale.” He tries, damn him, he really tries to keep his voice even. “How many times did I tell you?” 

Aziraphale reaches for the bottle, ditching the glass as well. “I wanted to prove you wrong, I think. I - I wanted it to be nice for you, too.”

What can Crowley say? They’ve been here before. He called Aziraphale an idiot, berated him for being this naive. He tried to show him, drenched with rain and despair, looking out to a massacre from an Arc. He still knew Aziraphale would try, every time, no matter how much he managed to change him. 

He began to love him for all the reasons he should have hated him, after all. “You came back.”

“I did.” Aziraphale splays a hand on the table. His eyes are such a weird shade of gray in this light: closer to a stormy sea than a cloud, but not quite the same. One of a kind. “You knew I would, didn’t you?” 

“Course.” Crowley answers. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Aziraphale pouts his bottom lip. “What… you’re saying?”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “I know you. Still. Don’t play nice with me, I’m not them.”

The beat of silence feels oppressive. There are no birds singing or raindrops falling to be distracted by. “I never thought you were.”

“Come on-“

“No.” Aziraphale says. “I never thought you were.”

Crowley shrugs and looks away. Aziraphale’s gaze is too piercing. “Stop being afraid I could be, then.”

“I don’t - oh, bugger all this.” He makes a gesture, his wine sloshing dangerously in his glass. “Have you seriously forgiven me?”

Crowley laughs. Such gigantic, ridiculous idiocy. “Yes,” he says, dragging the vowels. “I still think you were wrong. I’m still mad. It doesn’t mean I haven’t.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. “This wine is rather good, isn’t it?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley grumbles. “Don’t.”

“The 2005 harvest was on everyone’s mouth, but really –”

“Aziraphale.”

“- such a body, and the fruity undertones –”

“Were you mad at me?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale slaps a hand over his mouth. “No!”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

“I was sad.” Aziraphale says reluctantly. Crowley doesn’t respond, merely raises his other eyebrow in a silent question. Aziraphale rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath. “I felt I was being dismissed.”

“Dismissed,” Crowley replies flatly. “Are you out of your mind?”

Aziraphale ignores it. “As in my presence was an afterthought. Not really… wanted.”

Crowley is so well acquainted with repression that he manages not to scream. Instead, he breathes out through his nose, gets up, circles his chair twice, and sits back down, sprawling even more than he did before. It should be impossible, but it’s a talent of his. “Tomorrow,” he grits out. “Garden centre. You pick out the flowers, because, bless it, I know you want flowers, I pick out the rest.” 

Aziraphale’s lips twitch in the way they do when he gets exactly what he wants but doesn’t want to be obnoxious about it. “I didn’t-“

Crowley holds up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t ever think of something that dumb again.”  He reaches for the bottle, groaning as he finds it empty. Aziraphale clears his throat, and Crowley’s glass refills by itself. “Thanks.”

“Thank you.” 

Night has set fully by now. It’s really fucking cold outside, and Crowley’s arse is frozen on the chair, but there’s something warm and tight sitting at the base of his stomach, and he doesn’t want to let it go yet.

“Why do I feel like we’ve talked more tonight than we did in, say, the past century?” Aziraphale doesn’t look at him when he asks, but his hand is outstretched on the table, almost reaching. 

Crowley is still too sober to grasp it. “Mmh.” He downs his glass. “This is good, by the way.”

Aziraphale giggles. “We should head back inside.” 

They really should. Crowley eyes the ball of angelic energy still casting his angel in golden and says, “I’ve got snickerdoodles in the car,” instead.

Aziraphale snorts. It’s ugly and unexpected and makes Crowley laugh so hard he almost loses the glass. “I beg your pardon?”

“I felt bad I didn’t thank you for the dark thingy. And you were all mad.” Crowley stops to take a breath. “Do you know how hard it is to find those monstrosities in Sussex?”

Aziraphale is still laughing. He’s panting and breathless and pink, warmer than any blanket. Crowley lets his face be as ridiculous as it dares to. “You are ridiculous.” 

“I was trying to be nice,” Crowley mocks, making Aziraphale laugh more quietly as he hides behind a hand. “D’you want them?”

“I’d hate to waste them,” Aziraphale replies, still grinning. “After all your troubles.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Arsehole.” 

It makes Aziraphale let out a snorty laugh that quickly turns into a wheeze. Crowley doesn’t manage to get up for another five minutes. 

🌳🌳🌳

It’s late when he heads to bed. Much later than he usually does. Late enough to make him check the time. 

It’s two hours past midnight, officially Valentine’s Day. 

He glances at the door. Aziraphale had lingered outside a bit after saying goodnight, on the cusp of something. (Aren’t they always on the cusp of saying something?)

He took Crowley’s hand, squeezed it once and thanked him for tonight before disappearing down the hallway. 

Crowley fists his hand, digs his fingernails into his palms. In the dark of the bedroom, he whispers to himself. “Next year.”

Demons don’t take vows, but this feels dangerously close to one. 

iii. winds of march bring me back to you

It was Aziraphale’s decision to skip miracles in the garden. 

Truly, Crowley doesn’t really understand why the angel gets borderline neurotic whenever the garden is in question. But the sight of Aziraphale in his gardener attire – wide-brimmed hat, tartan wellies, large brown gloves and, somehow, a plastic green apron – is stupidly endearing, so he lets it go. 

“There you go, my dear.” Aziraphale is crouched down under the early March sun, patting the soil with a gloved-covered hand. “You’ll be a wonderful home for our little lilies, won’t you?” 

Crowley lets out a long exhale. “Are you going to do that for every bulb we plant?”

Aziraphale doesn’t look up from the soil. “You won’t pay attention to any grumpy visitor, and you will keep being moist and perfect for the little seedlings.”

“Bulbs, Aziraphale, they’re bulbs.” Crowley deposits said basket of bulbs next to Aziraphale, and crouches down next to him. “I was thinking of putting your gladioli next to the lilies, since they both need light and well drained soil.” 

“They are not my gladioli,” Aziraphale quips. “But I trust you, Crowley. I just want them to grow.”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “They will if they know what’s good for them.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Aziraphale tells the bulbs. “You are already perfect.” 

The task is relatively easy. The soil is new and fresh, and it is easy to dig the trowel in and move it around. Crowley digs the hole, Aziraphale places the bulb in it and waves goodbye, and Crowley refills the hole with soil and firms it down. It’s – it’s a little underwhelming, to be honest. 

It’s easy, too easy, like there is some trick Crowley is missing and is just waiting to bite him in the arse. 

“Spit it out, Crowley.” Aziraphale says after the fourth bulb is safely deposited in the ground. 

“Uh?” Crowley digs another hole, glaring at the way the soil almost yields itself for him. 

“You’ve been huffing and puffing ever since we started. Bye-bye, dear.” Aziraphale tells the bulb, and tilts his head to look at Crowley properly. “Is this boring to you?” 

Crowley mulls it over. The task is repetitive, pretty dull, and not very exciting. “No,” he decides. Aziraphale has been humming an old song under his breath the whole time, and digging is somewhat satisfying, and they’re close enough for Crowley to sniff the bergamot of Aziraphale’s cologne. “Not boring, exactly.”

Aziraphale hums. “Too relaxing for your liking?” 

“Easy,” Crowley fesses up. “It’s easy, and it’s suspicious.”

It makes Aziraphale breathe out a laugh. “Suspicious? Crowley, they’re seeds.”

“Bulbs.” Crowley corrects, digging with a bit more force than before. “And yeah, suspicious. This is almost impossible to fuck up.” Aziraphale places the first of the lilies in the hole, and Crowley glares at it, too. Wouldn’t be fair to only keep the gladioli in check, after all. “And, like, what if we’re messing up spectacularly? And we’ll know in, what, three months? I will lose my mind.”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply instantly, watching Crowley carefully as he keeps shoving the trowel in the soil. “Whyever so?”

“Waste of time!” Crowley throws his free hand up. “We’re spending all this time planting these little tossers and we can’t even be sure they’ll bloom. What – what’s the point?” He shakes his head, the stupid hat Aziraphale made him wear almost falling down. He may not be cut out for gardening: too much patience needed, too much time to wait, too little short-term rewards. 

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment. They manage to plant half of the lilies before he speaks up again. “Well, if they don’t bloom, which they will, we’ll just have to plant them again.”

Crowley scoffs. “Real fun.”

“The ground will always be here.” Aziraphale muses, his fingers gently trailing over the freshly moved soil. “Even if we make mistakes, Earth will always give us another chance.” He smiles at Crowley, soft and knowing. “Time will pass anyway. Might as well spend it waiting for something beautiful.” 

Crowley drops the trowel. “That’s –” He trails off, not really knowing where to go with that. He spent his whole damn existence waiting for something beautiful, who is now right in front of him, and yet he is still waiting. He’s done anything but wait for all eternity. He shouldn’t have to wait for flowers, too. “Let’s just keep going.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, eyes searching, but nods anyway. “Of course.”

The ground looks just like it did before they began when the last bulb has been planted, like they’ve never been here at all. It’s hard to feel accomplished when Crowley has to wait months for any type of result, but Aziraphale claps his hands, delighted, and it’s a little easier to lift the weight of gloom from his shoulders.

“Grow well, my darlings.” He chirps with one last pat at the soil. “Crowley here and I put a lot of effort into planting you. You’ll repay us, won’t you? I am sure you will.”

Crowley’s lips twitch. “Ominous.”

“Encouraging.” Aziraphale gets up, dusting the dirt off of his gloves. “Now, I believe you’ll like our next task way more.”
Crowley, the one who actually researched and came up with the list of tasks, frowns. “Because I’ll use a cutty thing and eliminate dead ends?” 

Aziraphale stares at him. “Because pruning trees will give you the short term satisfaction you crave and miss in flowers.” 

Huh. Aziraphale seems to be in a mood for words of wisdom, today. Wordlessly, he picks out the cutting shears, cheating just a second to conjure up an identical copy he passes to Aziraphale. “I’ll take the apricot, you take the pear.” 

Aziraphale wiggles. “Good plan!” 

The trees in the back of the garden have been a… discovery. Not a pleasant one, since Crowley declared them dead on arrival and Aziraphale insisted they were just dormant, and even bolted inside and upstairs to retrieve his Big Book of Botany to prove Crowley wrong – which he was, and that is never pleasant. He does not hold a grudge against the pear and apricot tree, but chopping off some branches will be… pleasant indeed.

Crowley’s own Big Book of Botany – Google – said to remove dead, damaged, or diseased branches. He takes a second to inspect the apparently dormant apricot tree in front of him. “Aziraphale?” 

He hears Aziraphale stopping his own cutting. “Yes?”

“What do I do if all the branches look dead, damaged and diseased?”

“They are not –” Aziraphale huffs, and his feet stomps on the ground as he hurries over to where Crowley is still standing, shears dangling from his hand. “Seriously? They do not all look dead.”

Crowley points at a branch hanging low on the right side of the tree. “What’s the difference between this one–” He points at another one that has grown close enough to his neighbour to cross over it in a weird, tangly way. “And that one?” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth. Closes it abruptly. Opens it back up again. Shuts it with a snap, teeth clicking together. “Well. They do not look the same.”

“Don’t they?” Crowley presses. “Were you just cutting branches based on feeling?” 

“No!” Aziraphale’s nose turns pink. Crowley keeps staring at him. “Maybe?” 

Aziraphale was right; this whole pruning trees business is giving him much more satisfaction than the bulbs. “You may have just killed plenty of healthy branches.” He says around a grin. “You are a monster.” 

“Very funny,” Aziraphale walks over to the apricot tree and cuts off the low hanging branch. “Apologies, dear friend. We’ll just cut off your weird looking branches.”

Crowley is enjoying this way too much. “So you decide what’s weird and what isn’t?” 

Another cut. “Yes.” Crowley’s answering snort gets ignored. “And you’re welcome to join me or just stand there watching.” 

Shaking his head, Crowley strolls up to Aziraphale and hesitantly cuts one of the dead-er looking branches. “I don’t think we are cut out for this gardening business.” 

“Perhaps not.” Aziraphale pauses his cutting to send Crowley a real smile. “But it is rather fun, isn’t it?” 

Crowley’s aching cheeks actually agree. “Meh. It’s not as bad as digging holes.”

“I’ll take it.” 

Part of Crowley still thinks that, come summer, the bulbs will still be buried deep in the soil and the tree will be well and truly dead, but the part of him that cannot stop smiling at the ridiculous wide-brimmed hat working alongside him feels like it might indeed work. 

If anything, Aziraphale’s low hummed melodies keep him company for the rest of the afternoon.

🌳🌳🌳

The humming continues.

It’s not something Crowley didn’t know about Aziraphale – he’s been around him enough to know he gets this very specific look in his eyes when he listens to something he likes, all dreamy and gentle. He knows he sometimes fancies himself an orchestra director, especially when Debussy is on. He knows he took his old phonograph with him and that he has a collection of vinyls hidden somewhere on the many bookshelves. 

Aziraphale loves music. It’s a fact, something imprinted on his very nature: angels love music, angels sing hymns and melodies, angels have the perfect voice. Aziraphale loves music in a more human way, having ditched the celestial harmonies for Bach and Mozart ever since he allowed himself to attend concert halls, or before even, whenever Crowley caught him bobbing his head along the melodies of flutes and lutes. 

Crowley knows Aziraphale loves music. He didn’t know he loved songs. 

What Aziraphale hums under his breath are songs. Proper songs, all produced in the last century, songs Crowley can actually recognize for the most part, though not exactly his style. Not bepop, strictly speaking, but still something very far from Schubert. 

He was humming What a Wonderful World as they were pruning trees. Crowley realised it after just a few minutes, and whipped his head too fast: he dropped his scissors and Aziraphale stopped humming immediately, switching to a sonata Crowley heard and forgot about before. 

He thought he was a coincidence, a little slip his obsessive mind probably overexaggerated. 

Then it happened again. 

Nina Simone as he was brewing his tea. Frank Sinatra as he was rearranging the bookshelves. Morris Albert as he watered the freshly planted bulbs. He doesn’t sing, not fully, just hums the melodies under his breath in the softest voice, and stops immediately whenever Crowley notices – no matter how quietly he notices, even something inconsequential as an eyebrow raising is enough.

It has been driving Crowley crazy. 

Aziraphale has never hidden any of his indulgences from Crowley. Heavens, he’s the one who introduced him to food and subsequently spent centuries hearing about rare delicacies and brilliant steaming techniques and remarkable use of citruses and whatever else tickled Aziraphale’s fancy at the time. He walked with Aziraphale to endless tailoring appointments, watched him select the finest silk and softest cotton, masked his amusement with a careful blank face as he fretted over waistcoats with missing buttons. 

He knows Aziraphale indulges, he loves how Aziraphale indulges and, sure, he makes a little fun of him sometimes but never in an actual, mean way. He adores the way Aziraphale takes the world and its pleasures and makes it his own; he spent an existence watching him do so, and he doesn’t want to stop now. 

Why does Aziraphale stop, then? Crowley refuses to believe he’s embarrassed about the singing. He watched the angel do magic, for Someone’s sake. If there was ever room for embarrassment in their relationship, it was all taken up by magic tricks. 

Why would he ever be embarrassed about singing? Not even singing, he would have to open his mouth for that. Perhaps he doesn’t want to admit he knows more about modern music than he wants Crowley to know. And, sure, Crowley would definitely make fun of him for it, but who cares? It would only last a minute, and Aziraphale would probably say something funnier and meaner back, and they could go about their days, now filled with an angelic voice belting Louis Armstrong. 

Crowley wants that. It may be neurotic of him, but he can’t stand the thought of not having peeled every single one of Aziraphale’s layers back. Things have been better, lately, after their… talk. Aziraphale giggles and touches Crowley’s arm every time he passes him, and squeezes his hand when he says goodnight. They drive together around the County, and they argue in restaurants about the sogginess of fish and chips and the state of global warming. Crowley lets Aziraphale water his plants in the studio, and tells him all about the misdeeds of the monstera and drinks in every smile, every touch, and almost wishes for nothing more. 

Things are better. Good. So why the sudden hiding? 

It all comes to a head on a random rainy afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary for West Sussex. Ordinarily enough, Crowley wakes up on the sofa sometimes in the early afternoon with a groan and a grumble, eyes immediately shooting over Aziraphale’s armchair. He’s not exactly surprised to see it empty, but it still stings a little. 

He gets up, ignoring the way his bones pop and snap, and begrudgingly drags himself upstairs. He has half a mind to convince Aziraphale to drive around a bit, just to do something together, and his mouth is already open when he reaches the studio, and hears it. 

ABBA. That’s – that’s the melody he’s hearing. That is definitely bloody ABBA. 

Aziraphale is where he expected him to be, in the studio, mister in hand, watering his plants while humming an ABBA song under his breath. It’s too much. It’s – he can’t see this. Not ABBA. 

Crowley bolts downstairs, grabs the car keys and his glasses while yelling a vague, “See you later!”, and bolts. 

🌳🌳🌳

He’s back two hours later. 

A round trip to London should have taken more than two hours, but he didn’t have an angel in the passenger seat yelling about pedestrians, so two hours it was. 

Aziraphale is waiting for him in the foyer. “You’re back.”

Crowley tries not to bristle at the wonder in Aziraphale’s tone. He thrusts a paper bag in Aziraphale’s hands. “Eccles cake.”

“Have you been to London?” Aziraphale says, quiet and uncertain. “I would have loved to –”

“Upstairs.” Crowley tilts his head in the staircase direction, going up without glancing backwards. The other bag in his hands dangles along and hits his leg with every step. “Come on!”

Aziraphale doesn’t follow immediately. Crowley uses the intermission to arrange his findings and berate himself for what he’s about to do, and even gets the time for a little private scream. 

The smell of coffee reaches him before Aziraphale does. “Six shots,” he says, balancing the cup in one hand and the little serving of Eccles cakes in the other. “Since you were feeling so nostalgic.” 

What a little bastard. “Got you something.” 

Aziraphale keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “And sweet treats are always lovely, but –”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says then, a bit more urgent. “I got you something else.”

While the coffee woman wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Crowley, her partner was definitely more excited. She insisted to chat away for a bit about how Muriel is holding up in the bookshop next door, how beautiful her life is now that she is not a renter anymore, how South Downs are treating the two of them, not deterred by Crowley’s monosyllables. She also had everything he was looking for, and she saved her obvious suspicions for herself, which was a bonus in his eyes, and granted her an extra something in the till she won’t discover until closing time. 

He put all the records on the settee. He’s still unsure about this whole thing, but he also needed to do something before losing his mind completely – though one could argue this is neurotic enough to certify a mind loss. There is ABBA, of course, and Louis Armstrong, Edith Piaf, Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone. All Aziraphale’s favourites, apparently. 

Aziraphale who just stares at the display, eyes wide and scared and cheeks so very pink.

“Paid a visit to your blonde friend.” Crowley mutters under his breath, just to fill the silence. He fiddles with an invisible thread on his jumper. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring, gaze dancing between the records and Crowley. He opens his mouth once, then abruptly closes it. Swallowing hard, Crowley pathetically pats the floor where he’s sitting down in front of the settee. “Go on, take a look.” 

To be fair, he expects Aziraphale to bolt. Mumble something incoherent, send him a tight smile and lock himself somewhere until they both forget about it.
Aziraphale takes a breath. He sits down beside him, carefully, and traces the cover of Voulez-vous with a finger. “Oh, Crowley.”

And his face does the Thing. That melty thing that is as annoying as it is adorable and utterly irresistible. “Mmmh. Don’t.” 

“No, I – I do not know what to say.” He looks at him then, a glint of fear mixed in with something hopeful. “Why?”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs. Then, because he can never leave well enough alone, he adds: “Why’d you hide it?”

Aziraphale hesitates. “I did not.”

Crowley merely rolls his eyes. “Well, not on purpose.” Aziraphale relents. “I – I wasn’t actively trying to hide it.” 

“You jump and run away like some kind of spooked squirrel every time I notice.” Crowley deadpans.

“I do not –” Aziraphale pauses. “A squirrel, seriously?”

“You’ve got the cheeks for it.” 

Aziraphale lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “There are things I only do when I’m alone.” 

Crowley tries really, really hard not to think about what kind of things Aziraphale gets up to in his alone time, and does a piss poor job at it. He ignores the burning in his cheeks. “You did magic in front of me without an ounce of embarrassment.”

“Magic is not embarrassing,” Aziraphale replies. “And it wasn’t a matter of embarrassment.”

Crowley scrunches his nose. “You’re losing me here.” 

Aziraphale shoots him one last glance, almost pleading, before focusing all his attention on the records, staring down at them like they hold the secrets of the universe. “When I first heard something modern and, well, pleasant to my ears, I wanted to tell you, but we weren’t talking to each other at the time.”

Crowley shifts, somewhat uncomfortably. There have been one too many instances in the past where they just stopped talking to each other. He hums, waiting for Aziraphale to go on. 

Aziraphale nods to himself, squares his shoulders. “You see, it was… hard for me not to talk to you, that time. Harder than any other time before the most recent one.” A rueful smile in Edith Piaf’s direction. “Are you familiar with the human saying ‘coping mechanism’?”

“It’s not a saying, Aziraphale, it’s –” Crowley cuts himself off. “Yeah. Yes, I am.” One could say he invented coping when an angel of the Lord first refused to visit a tavern with him, actually. 

“I believe – No, I know I missed you quite terribly, and listening to those songs and imagining what you would say to me helped. So whenever I sang, I missed you a little less.” Aziraphale laughs, something wet and earnest. “And it’s ridiculous now, because you are right here, so whenever you make your presence known I stop.” 

Aziraphale softens then, shoulders dropping like he’s exhaling for the first time in a year. Crowley stays very still. “And you noticed, of course you noticed.” He turns finally, looking straight at Crowley, and it’s all so blue. “Thank you.” 

It’s been building for a while, Crowley thinks. Perhaps ever since Aziraphale showed him a cottage with broken windows and missing steps and told him he bought it for him as well. Or ever since Aziraphale terrorised the entire staff in the garden centre to get the best bulbs possible. Before all of this, on a random afternoon last October, when the now former Supreme Archangel found him in a London alley and asked him to save the world, again. 

He’s just lying to himself. This has been building since two immortal beings stood on a wall and witnessed the first ever rain. What is now pattering against the window is not the first rain, nor will it be the last. But for the first time, Crowley lets his arms do what they’ve longed to do forever, and lunges forward to wrap Aziraphale in a hug. 

The angle is a bit awkward, sitting on a floor beside one another, and he cannot properly hold Aziraphale like he imagined, but it’s enough. If Aziraphale is surprised or taken aback, Crowley has no way to know, because he only gets a gasp and a death grip around his shoulders in response, like Aziraphale needs this too, needs it even more. 

It’s – it’s so warm, and wonderful, and he wonders how much of an idiot he has to be to not have had this for a thousand years already. He allows himself to tilt his face to the side, breathing into Aziraphale’s neck once, and it’s a mistake, because now he won’t be able to smell anything else, ever again. 

Aziraphale exhales, long and shaky, and tightens his grip around Crowley’s shoulders, keeping him there. As if he doesn’t know Crowley has never been someplace better. “Thank you,” he whispers in Crowley’s ear, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his tongue so as not to let a sound out. 

“Don’t.” His mouth is so close to Aziraphale’s neck that when he speaks, he actually grazes it. “I always notice.” I’m always looking at you, he wants to add. I will always look at you. You never have to ask. Instead, he tilts his head, so that his cheek is now resting on the side of Aziraphale’s head. “Go put one of these on.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers. He gives Crowley one last squeeze before drawing back. “I won’t sing, though.”

Crowley knows his eyes are doing their own thing right now, and, for a second, thinks about snapping his glasses in place. Then Aziraphale fixes his own glassy eyes on him, and he’s so close and clear and pink and blue and golden, and Crowley’s fingers stay put. “Why not?”

“Well,” Aziraphale clears his throat, fixes his already perfect waistcoat. “I am not some kind of circus animal you can pay to perform.”

Crowley barks a laugh. “Right, you need a fake moustache for that.” 

Aziraphale gasps, giggles hidden behind his hand. He’s so close still Crowley feels the air moving on his face. He regrets asking him to put a record on, if it means him moving away. 

Eventually, it happens. Aziraphale smiles once more, soft as anything, and gets up to go over to the gramophone he insists on calling a phonograph, and chooses good old Frank. 

Crowley watches him as he closes his eyes as a warm voice fills the air, and watches him as he brings a hand to his chest and listens with his whole body. He keeps watching him, never getting his fill. 

One day, he might ask him to dance. He hopes Aziraphale does it first. 

🌳🌳🌳

It’s the first day of Spring when Aziraphale sings in front of him for the first time. 

It happens in the garden. The pruning is done – or, they hope it’s done correctly and they didn’t just kill perfectly healthy trees, but it is still done. The patch of soil where the bulbs rest underground has been watered, and Crowley takes a moment to let his inner snake out, dropping his head back and basking in the first Spring sun. 

Before he closed his eyes, Aziraphale was walking somewhere near, mumbling quiet encouragement to his sleeping flowers. He doesn’t open his eyes when he hears him, but he feels him much closer than he thought. 

“Birds flying high, you know how I feel.” It starts soft. So soft Crowley would have trouble making out the words if he weren’t something inhuman. “Sun in the sky, you know how I feel.” 

Crowley digs his fingernails into his palms and keeps his big mouth shut. Still a spooked squirrel and everything. 

“Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel.” 

It’s beautiful. Of course it is. Not because he’s an angel, but because he’s Aziraphale. His singing voice is deeper than his normal one, so human in his slight raspiness it chokes Crowley up. 

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me.” 

He wonders if he could ask Aziraphale to sing for him always. Even celestial harmonies when he runs out of songs he likes. He’d listen to him sing the telephone book, if such a thing still exists. If he could fall asleep every night with his soft voice in his ears, if there is a lullaby he could sing just for him. For now, he keeps his eyes and mouth shut, and listens, listens, listens. 

“And I’m feeling good.” 

It’s the first day of Spring. Something different blooms, while an angel sings in a garden, and a demon listens. 

Chapter Text

iv. are we just April fools?

The glitter is just about everywhere. Aziraphale should have expected it, actually. He did expect it, because he may be a fool but he is not that much of a fool, but then a week passed and he thought he was safe. 

At least, Crowley is smiling. Laughing, actually, proper snickers Aziraphale only ever heard through the fumes of alcohol before, hunched down on himself and failing to catch his breath. 

It almost makes the glitter in his nose worth it. Almost. “You are going to regret this.”

“That is what – oh your face – what you get if you live with a demon.” Crowley wipes the tears under his eyes. His grin is wide and free and it stirs something so pleasant in Aziraphale’s chest he forgets about the glitter. Almost. “Gosh. That worked a charm.”

“In my kettle. You are evil.” Aziraphale wipes a useless hand on his face, effectively smearing more glitter than removing it. And really, seeing Crowley happy is the loveliest thing, but glitter?

“We are an entire week into April and, last I checked, we’ve never been children.”

“Boring,” Crowley singsongs. “Just because you couldn’t come up with something –”

“I did not know I had to!”

“- does not mean I couldn’t.” Crowley clicks his tongue, smug as anything. “You’ve got a little something...” He reaches forward and sweeps a hand in Aziraphale’s direction, removing the  evidence of his crime. 

Aziraphale’s cheek tingles where it thought it was about to be touched. “That is the least you could do.” He clears his throat, finally clicking his kettle on. “Do you think the grass is coming along nicely?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Already changing the topic?”

Aziraphale turns back on his heels and focuses on his cup of tea. He swirls his spoon once, twice, and then hears the clicking of shoes striding over to where he’s standing. “Yes, the grass is coming along nicely.” 

He dips his chin to his chest, schooling his wide grin into something more manageable. “Very well.” 

“Anything else in your Big Dumb Book?” 

Aziraphale ignores him. He touches his bottom lip with a finger, mulling it over. It’s been a busy week. 

They planted their vegetable garden: potatoes, sweet peas, radishes, carrots, parsnips and spinach. According to the Book, they are easy and hardy enough to be manageable for beginners. It is not yet clear what they’ll actually do with them, but Aziraphale figures that cooking must not be that different from baking. 

They sowed more flowers, too. Aziraphale wished for hydrangeas, yearning for colour. After a while, he managed to coax a wish out of Crowley as well – he chose sunflowers. Aziraphale wanted to kiss him quite desperately for it. It’s – it’s really not a novelty. 

They fertilized the grass, clearing out any remaining weeds, and took to watering it regularly, together with the newly planted items. Aziraphale is pretty sure he spotted a clover, just that morning. 

“I believe we are right on track.” He says, finally. “We could do something for berries, I believe, if you want to.” 

Crowley mulls it over, rolling his lips in. “Dunno. What do you want?”

Oh, what a question. He already has it. A life with Crowley, a garden growing, a room full of books. He doesn’t need anything else. 

Wanting more has always been his fatal flaw: he wants lips when he has hands he can hold, he wants to taste when he can feed, he wants Crowley when he’s right in front of him, golden eyes blinking expectantly. He swallows twice. “Nothing more,” he replies. “I’m perfectly content.”

Crowley’s nose is starting to freckle from the sun. These human bodies and all the secrets they still hide. “Are you sure?” Said nose scrunches up. “You’ve gone all pouty for a minute there.”

“It’s the glitter.” Aziraphale shoots back. “I still feel it under my tongue.” 

It gets Crowley to crack a smile. “Do you?” 

Aziraphale loves him something terrible. He gets lost in it, sometimes. Especially at night, when Crowley lounges on the settee and doesn’t see Aziraphale watching him, imagining. He daydreams about another kind of existence, in which everything is the same but their hugs can linger and their kisses are plural and real. 

“Oh, do I?” Aziraphale hushes his thoughts. “Very funny.”

“Yes.” Crowley takes a step, crosses his arms on his chest. “So, a break from gardening?”

Aziraphale blows on his tea. “I guess so. I –” He pauses, taking a sip and feeling incredibly silly.

Crowley doesn’t drop it. “You what?”

This thing between them is still new and frail, familiar and uncharted territory at the same time, and Aziraphale still feels quite unsteady at times. Crowley has always been infinitely braver and way more adaptable. He takes another sip, shivering at the too-hot liquid sliding down his throat. “I was thinking about Brighton.” 

Crowley narrows his eyes and pursues his lips. “Brighton.”

Aziraphale’s ears are heating up. He can blame it on the scorching hot tea. “You know, take a stroll on the boardwalk, see the sights. It is a – a rather beautiful day.”

Aziraphale waits for a reaction, then promptly panics as the fleeting hurt look Crowley poorly conceals with a fake cough. “Right. You need the car?” It’s more of a litany of grumbling rather than a question.

Aziraphale, unmoored, decides to yell a resolute, “No!”, which makes Crowley frown harder, if possible. 

“You want to walk to bloody Brighton?”

“No!” Another yell. Aziraphale snaps his mouth shuts, exhales through flared nostrils, and starts again. “I thought we could take a stroll on the boardwalk, and we could see the sights, since it is a rather beautiful day.” 

Crowley’s face goes through something very complicated. He sways in place, crossing and uncrossing his arms repeatedly as his features struggle to settle into a somewhat neutral state. “Ah – sure. Sure.” 

“Sure,” Aziraphale echoes. “Really?”

“Really.” It is getting terribly embarrassing. “I’ll just – I’ll be – why didn’t you just ask?”

Aziraphale clutches a hand to his chest. “I just did!”

Crowley stops himself with a snarl, snapping his fingers and dressing himself in his usual attire, abandoning the more relaxed, soft looking henley he’s recently taken to wear inside the house. Aziraphale misses it – and his eyes – immediately. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“I need to check if the glitter is all gone,” Aziraphale calls back, anxiously watching Crowley’s retreating back. “And it’s your fault!”

Crowley doesn’t reply, only slamming the door in response, but Aziraphale is pretty sure he can hear a faint snort from behind it. 

What a strange creature. He climbs the stairs with a spring in his step and a dreamy sigh leaving his lips. 

Truth is, he doesn’t look at himself in a mirror all that often. He is self-aware enough to define himself as pretty vain, but not in a traditional sense. He likes silk and fine cottons and citrusy-smelling cologne and manicures, but he doesn’t linger in front of mirrors longer than necessary for a clean shave. He loves being put together, how a nicely pressed waistcoat feels on his body and under his hands, the feel of a comb in his hair, but he won’t spend hours looking at himself in a mirror. He’s old enough to know his corporation perfectly well. 

Which is why he is surprised to see that looking back at him. There is still some glitter in his hair – as he should have known, that fiend –, silvery-sparkly under the blueish light of the bathroom. He combs through it, almost in a daze, not able to drag his eyes away from the man-shaped being in his mirror. He’s happy, cheeks pink and lips shiny, the creases around his eyes deeper, the lines on his forehead all smoothed out. He looks younger. 

His hair is longer, actually. He hasn’t been to his barber ever since they moved, and it shows. He wonders why Crowley didn’t mention it, or why he hasn’t noticed up until today. It isn’t particularly noticeable: he still has short, white tufts that are virtually unmanageable, but are now coiling around his finger with more ease. He doesn’t – he doesn’t hate it. He wonders what that means. 

Instinctively, the hand in his hair drops to his bare neck. It seemed silly to keep wearing a bow-tie around the house while Crowley looked so relaxed, so he just stopped. He still wears his shirt and velvety waistcoat, but his collar is free. Sometimes, when they work outside, he ditches the velvet as well. Not that Crowley comments on any of it. 

Outside the house, he looks the same, bow-tie and everything. It is not unlikely to putting on a uniform, a safe armour from all the centuries he dreaded the moment he’d have to wear a real one. 

He doesn’t have to, now. He will never have to.

He waves a hand, and puts on his usual coat. Beige and safe and old and perfect, still, like everything else he’s wearing. His collar stays free. He couldn’t explain why, really. Only that, inside this house, he feels freer than he’s ever felt, and he wants to keep the freedom within himself. 

He shakes his head. Having Crowley by his side is the biggest, most lovely reminder of said freedom. He taps his bare neck with trembling fingers, and decides that one more reminder won’t hurt. 

I always notice, Crowley’s voice says inside his head. Perhaps, this time, he’ll even say something about it. 

🫧🫧🫧

The boardwalk isn’t as busy as Aziraphale expected. It’s probably because it is a weekday in April, but maybe a certain demon next to him waved his hand in a pretty suspicious way and Aziraphale felt a zip of electricity in his spine that the pleasant breeze cannot justify. 

“Tell me,” he says, hands clasped behind his back. “Did Brighton turn into a non-touristy destination overnight?”

Crowley mumbles something, fixing his glasses with a nervous finger. “Dunno what you’re on about.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I’ll admit it is nice to be able to walk freely.” He’s always loved Brighton, but he’s always loathed the hordes of tourists crowding up the streets. He hasn’t been back in quite some time. 

“Good,” Crowley replies, still mumbling, clearly trying to chew back a pleased smile. Who knows what he’s done, exactly.

He hasn’t mentioned Aziraphale’s state of… dishabille. His eyes lingered on the bare skin of Aziraphale’s neck, though, always noticing, always looking, even when he thinks the dark lenses hide him well. 

Aziraphale didn’t expect him to say anything in particular. He didn’t do this for him to say something at all. He doesn’t even know why he cares, or why he’s being so silly over nothing.

(He knows. He knows.) 

Aziraphale shakes his head. The sun is still out, albeit a bit more frail, surrounded by clouds brought over by the sea. Oh, the sea. How he missed it. 

He’s lived by plenty of bodies of water in his long existence, yet very rarely by the sea. There was Greece, sweet and ambrosial and filled with Crowley, and there was the Land of Uz, terrifying and full of question, and there is the cottage now, theirs and final and so lovely. 

“Want to take a walk down there?” Crowley’s question takes him by surprise. He tilts his head downwards, one lock of hair flopping down on his forehead. His hair is longer now as well. “There’s no sand and no people. Win-win.”

Aziraphale laughs quietly. “We could go up the Pier, see the Arcade. You like amusement parks.”

“Wrong,” Crowley waves a finger in his face. “I like seeing humans losing money on the games and vomiting after the rides.” 

“Yes, you positively hate rides that go very fast and games you can use your otherworldly intelligence to cheat on.” Aziraphale says, his smile teasing around the edges. 

“Shut up.” Crowley squirms a bit. “Let’s head down.”

Aziraphale likes the pebbled beaches. Sand gets too hot and haunts every empty space, the natural equivalent to glitter. Pebbles may hurt delicate feet, but his are not, and the little rocks can be quite pretty in all their shapes and colours. Such a childish pastime, perhaps, but one Aziraphale enjoys: he keeps his collection of pebbles in a hollowed out book, a copy of Robinson Crusoe he dropped on the shore on one of his excursions and ruined irreparably.

“We should take more walks at the beach, now that it’s spring.” Aziraphale comments, keeping his eyes downwards. Searching. “Back home, I mean.”

Besides him, Crowley hums. “When it’s not pissing down, sure.” 

“April showers are notorious, after all.” 

“It’s England.” Crowley quips. “It showers all year.” 

Aziraphale cannot find anything to counter that, so he just shrugs. He keeps looking, though pebbles are looking a bit bleak. It is a bit late in the day for any good finds, he would know that, but still he searches. 

“What is it you’re doing?” 

He gasps at Crowley’s voice, suddenly much closer. “Good Lord.” He massages his chest. “I am trying not to have a heart attack.”

Crowley tilts his head, getting even closer. “You know what I meant. You’re acting like a bloodhound.”

Aziraphale feels heat creeping up his neck. Damn his choice of going bare. “Oh, it’s silly.” He waves a hand, starts to walk a bit more briskly. “Pay no mind to it.”

“Oh, come on.” There are fingers on his wrist. Icy and long, circling his whole wrist. Hands like a pianist, Aziraphale always thought. “We’ve been through this. Just tell me.”

Aziraphale stares at the fingers for a beat longer, until they release him. Unconsciously, he goes to straighten his bow-tie, flushing more as he only finds skin. Crowley is looking at him, eyebrows raised over the glasses, that soft looking curl still resting on his forehead. “Pebbles,” he croaks out. Months of closeness have done irreparable damages to his ability in keeping secrets from Crowley. “I was looking for pebbles. Pretty ones. I – I rather like collecting them, as silly as it sounds.”

Crowley’s glasses slide down his nose. Not much, just enough for Aziraphale to catch a glimpse of amber, curious and alight and soft, so very soft. Aziraphale feels himself blushing terribly. “I didn’t know that.”

“It never came up.” Aziraphale hurries out. “But it’s nothing serious, just a silly –”

“Alright, new rule.” Crowley puts the dark lenses back in place, nodding twice. “The word silly is now verboten. Says who, you’ll ask, me, I answer. Now. Pebbles. What makes them pretty for your standards?” 

Aziraphale fell in love so many times. All of them with the same person, mind you, but every time feels like an entirely new feeling. The first time he was conscious about it there were bombs falling down the skies and books saved from ruins, but there have been so many times before where he convinced himself the bubbly, itching feeling pooling in his stomach was nothing out of the ordinary. In Rome, in front of oysters, gazing at a throat bobbing up and down and black robes swirling in the heated wind of the summer. In Greece, between hasty goodnights and awkward good mornings, in a house shared without the bliss of domesticity. In Uz, on a rock in the middle of the desert, when Aziraphale had thought perhaps I’m not so alone, perhaps you  really are my friend. Oh, Lord may forgive him, it happened in the Garden the first time, when someone told him he did something right for once, and it happened to be a demon. His demon, his best friend, his Crowley. 

He falls in love again on Brighton Beach. Right this second, over pebbles of all things. “The colour.” He has a lot of experience in pushing the bubbles down, lovely as they are. “And the shape.” He keeps them close to his chest, never outside. “I – I like when they’re smooth, and maybe shiny, almost glass like. And they can be purple or light pink or – oh, I’m rambling. Forgive me.” 

It feels different this time. The bubbles fight back, an eruption of giddiness and, frankly, adoration coming up his throat, spilling onto his every word. Happiness laced with freedom. 

Crowley’s answering smile – that lopsided thing that wants to be a smirk but is far too soft for it – makes everything worse. Or better. His heart definitely screams better. “Got it. Whoever wins buys dinner.”

Aziraphale giggles. Oh, dear. “We never technically buy — oh, fine. If you insist.”

“I insist.”

Brighton has somehow just gotten much more vibrant. Aziraphale’s heart shares that with the city. 

🫧🫧🫧

“I won!” 

Aziraphale fixes Crowley with a look. “Yes, this very important competition you chose to create.” 

The pebbles clatter from Crowley’s hand to Aziraphale’s handkerchief. “Last I checked, seven is way more than four.” He clicks his tongue. “Loser.”

Aziraphale laughs, despite himself, shaking his head. “The all black ones do not count!”

“You never said that!”

They’re sitting on a bench facing the beach, miraculously free, the pebbles spread out between them. The bustling of life at the nearby Royal Pier is loud, not enough to be distracting, and the sun is starting to set. The light casts Crowley in golden and yellow, and Aziraphale is sure his eyes would be blazing, if he could see them. He wants to see him on the beach near the cottage, and leave the damn lenses on the kitchen counter.

“I said colours,” Aziraphale tells him. “Black is not a colour.”

Crowley waves to himself – not that Aziraphale needs the reminder.  “I disagree.”

“Oh, I know.”

Seagulls are bothering the other people on the boardwalk enjoying a snack as the sun lowers itself further on the horizon. It’s getting a bit chilly, as the England weather never lets one forget it is still April, after all. There are clouds coming in and a faint smell of rain in the air. Aziraphale thinks the day will end with another shower. “Crowley?” He says, small and quiet. There’s a pebble in his hand, smooth and a pretty shade violet. He clutches it tighter. “Thank you for indulging me.”

Crowley lets out a long hiss. His mouth thins out, and he says nothing. There’s a gust of wind stronger than a normal breeze, and Aziraphale covers his neck with a hand. “I didn’t – don’t say indulge,” he murmurs finally. 

Aziraphale is too in love to stand this kind of conversation. “It’s alright,” he breathes out. “I didn’t mean to say anything, I assure you. I’m just afraid, sometimes.” Damned bubbles threatening to come up, damned golden light making Crowley’s copper strand look ablaze, and damned his words for spilling out. 

Crowley frowns, and swiftly lowers his sunglasses. Mindlessly, Aziraphale waves a hand, and those pretty eyes stay hidden from anyone else. “Still? Do we – do we need to get drunk again?” 

Aziraphale closes his own eyes. “No, not like that.” It’s easier, not looking at Crowley, Taking a dive and hoping he’ll be caught, trusting Crowley to always catch him. “You’ve always been so – active. Out and about, always on the move, never still.” There was a car driving through fire on the first night he knew he was in love. “I know walking on the beach is not your ideal pastime, that’s all.” 

Sometimes, at night, he wonders why Crowley agreed to live with an old fuddy-duddy like him. Aziraphale who thinks the epitome of excitement is a twist at the end of a good thriller, whose most exciting adventures happen in the privacy of his own imagination. Crowley is quick-witted and thrilling and could be wherever he pleases, and yet he chooses to stay with him. Those are the nights when he can’t help but think, he wants me, still.  The nights where he convinces himself that, one of these days, Crowley will try and kiss him again and Aziraphale will finally make it right, make it oh-so-good. 

It all goes away in the morning. The light of day has always been detrimental to his bravery. 

Crowley has been silent for a while. He watches the sea and the sun as it disappears, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His eyes are closed now, as well. Aziraphale is already looking back at him when he opens them again. “You nitwit.”

It startles a surprised huff out of Aziraphale. “Now, there is no need to –”

“Yes, there is.” Crowley shifts to face him properly, almost knocking the pebbles off of the bench. One of his dark brows is quirked up to the maximum. “I’d rather spend time with you over anything, and you still don’t get it.”

Still. Still still still. He wants me, still. Aziraphale feels the need to give in, to erase all boundaries, lean closer and make it right. His skin feels on fire, the weight of his longing heavy enough to make him drown. He takes a breath, clutches the pebble tighter. “Oh,” he breathes. “I – I see.”

He’ll spend another night berating himself. Nothing new on that front. Crowley scoffs. “Do you? Because I –”

“I do. And it’s the same for me, obviously.” He swallows, twice, clears his throat. “I don’t call anyone my best friend, do you know that?”

He’s good at aiming for levity. Crowley is good at taking an out. He smiles, a quick lift of the mouth. “That I do know.” 

Aziraphale smiles back, and things are good. “It’s getting darker. We should – I wish to see if that delightful Peruvian place is still here, even though it has been quite a while.”

He brushes invisible particles off of his waistcoat, moves to get up. “Wait –” Icy cold grip on his wrist. Again. Twice in a day, and it’s too much for his corporation. Instinctively, out of his control, he covers Crowley’s fingers with his own, much warmer ones. 

Crowley lets himself be pulled up, wobbling a bit on unsteady feet. He snatches a pebble from their little spread, a smaller one in a gorgeous shade of blue, one of the findings Aziraphale envies him greatly. Crowley lets out a low, throaty sound, and drops the pebble in the breast pocket of Aziraphale’s jacket. 

Aziraphale’s heart stops. Or starts beating fast enough to make the pulses fuse together in a constant, echoing scream inside his chest. How is it that what ends his battered corporation after all this time is a little, sea-made rock? 

“Don’t – don’t say a word.”

Aziraphale doubts he would be able to, but nods nonetheless. Crowley grumbles something more, perhaps a Let’s go , because the next thing Aziraphale knows, he’s being dragged away, presumably towards dinner, by a hand still curled around his wrist. 

Oh, dear. 

He did say he’s always loved Brighton.

🫧🫧🫧

There is definitely something weird in the smile that graces Crowley’s face as he aggressively pulls weeds out of the flower beds. And in the litany of very, very bad words escaping his mouth at every pull. 

Aziraphale finds it both endearing and mildly worrying. He shakes his head, and keeps watering the lawn. The Book is very precise about watering: not too much to make the soil damp, not too little to keep it dry enough to crack. Aziraphale does hope he’s doing it right. Crowley will never agree to plant something again if the gladioli and lilies don’t make an appearance come summer, and he did enjoy the sowing so much. He longs for summer. 

“Cocksucking mother of shite –”

Well, someone else is having a little less fun. Aziraphale puts down the watercan, and strides over to where Crowley is kneeling down. “Such language.”

Crowley hisses, very much cat-like, and sucks his thumb into his mouth. Aziraphale politely averts his gaze (for his own sake). “One of the fuckers has thorns. What kind of weed – fucking fuckers.” The incriminated weed is promptly incinerated with a glare. “I win, you bastard.”

Aziraphale grimaces, more at the fact that he finds the display more endearing than worrying. “Now, whatever is the matter?” 

He holds out a hand, waiting. He’s done this many times in the past, whenever Crowley allowed him to. Angels can heal little wounds with just a thought, demons cannot. He didn’t believe he could heal a demon, in the beginning, but couldn’t stand the sight of Crowley bleeding right in front of him. He touched his face for the first time on the Arc, and the wound glowed and sizzled, but closed immediately. 

In hindsight, he thinks he fell in love there as well. 

“It’s nothing,” Crowley tells him, a stubborn frown between his brows. “Just a pinch.”

“You’re bleeding,” Aziraphale points out. “Let me help. It’ll only take a second.”

Crowley is always reticent about this particular thing. It’s pride, perhaps, or some kind of misplaced embarrassment, Aziraphale never really asked. He prodded and poked until, eventually, Crowley gave in every time. 

This time too, after a bit of huffing, Crowley puts his hand in Aziraphale’s waiting palm. It is just a little pinch, barely bleeding by the time Aziraphale puts his other hand on top. “This will sting a little,” he says, as always. It’s over soon, a little bit of golden and sizzling later. 

Crowley scrunches his nose, examining his thumb as he frees it from Aziraphale’s hold. “Thanks.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “You’re welcome.” He tilts his head, pointing at the discarded gloves nearby. “I told you you should use protection.”

The answering groan can be heard from the moon. “Yeah, yeah, you told me so, congratulations.”

“I did, thank you.” He sighs, eyeing the clouds rolling in from the North. “I better stop with the watering. Seems like the weather has different plans.”

“Is the bow-tie gone forever?” Crowley asks the question very fast, tripping on his words, tilting his head downwards. 

Aziraphale gapes for a moment, and doesn’t choke on air out of sheer power of will. “No. No, of course not.”

“Cool.” They both grimace at the same time. “Was just wondering, y’know?”

Aziraphale nods, rather dazed. He gets up, starts to walk away, but he doesn’t get very far. Aziraphale has been unsealed, cracked open actually, and it is all that pebble’s fault, and he doesn’t want not to say anything, because Crowley always notices him and being noticed out loud is making the fizzling around his heart that much louder. “I like not wearing it at home – more than I expected to, and I wanted to try it outside as well.” Crowley is looking up at him, eyes wide, like he, too, did not expect a real answer. That makes two of them. “So I did, but I don’t think I liked it very much. I felt much too – dishabille.” 

“Déshabillé,” Crowley supplies, then winces. “Sorry – I mean, you do you. Whatever you like. It didn’t look – you looked good. Yeah.” 

Aziraphale’s knees feel a bit weak. His smile blossoms out of his own volition. “Oh. Thank you.” 

“Mmh.” Crowley waves his hands around. The red on his cheeks is actually very fetching. “I’ll best get back to, you know, the little motherfuckers.”

“Language,” Aziraphale protests weakly. “I’ll pop in the village and get us something for lunch, if you don’t mind?” 

Crowley nods, already turning back to the weeds, wearing gloves this time. Aziraphale tries very hard not to do a little leprechaun jump as he walks away. 

🫧🫧🫧

The last week of April brings thunderstorms with it. Aziraphale stands in front of the window in the studio, eyes wide as he takes in the lighting storm outside. He finds a weird kind of comfort in storms, knowing they always pass in the end. A particular loud thunder rattles the window, and he jumps a little. He’s alone, Crowley having gone to bed a few minutes earlier, and he wraps a blanket around his shoulders more securely.

Mindlessly, he checks the time on his watch. He grins to himself - any minute now. 

Another loud thunder marks exactly fifteen minutes past eleven. Aziraphale sighs. If his calculations are correct, in five seconds exactly -

“What the fuck - Aziraphale! In my pillow? You’re - you’re sick!”

Aziraphale giggles. This is what Crowley gets for living with a rogue angel. 

v. on a weekend in May

Aziraphale spots it one early morning. 

The first sprout. The gladioli, he believes, given the leaves. Among the newly born greens, a little gem, a tiny thing, so frail and so alive and a miracle if Aziraphale has ever seen one. 

He’s crying before he realises what’s happening. He doesn’t even bother wiping his cheeks. “Hello there, little one,” he murmurs instead, tenderly stroking the little bud. “You’re our first, do you know that?”

The garden is alive. Their garden exists and is thriving and will bloom soon enough. He has been so focused on the tasks he didn’t stop to actually look: the grass is green, the lilies have sprouted as well, the hydrangeas are full of new leaves and Crowley’s sunflowers have come out the ground, green little things full of tiny leaves. The trees – oh, they didn’t kill them after all. The apricot looks verdant and full, the pear a little behind but still almost ready. 

It’s spring, and their garden is pulsing, green with life. Eden, Aziraphale thinks. This must be why life began in a garden. 

“Where the Heavens are you?” Crowley’s voice calls him from somewhere behind him. “Made you tea and everything.”

It only makes Aziraphale cry more. Crowley’s footsteps get louder as he doesn’t reply. “Seriously, what’s up with you - are you crying? Why are you crying? It’s not even nine in the morning.” 

“It’s –“ Aziraphale hiccups, choking on a bit-back sob as Crowley kneels down beside him. “The little sprout.”

“The… sprout,” Crowley says cautiously. “You do realise that it’s not our first one?” He conjures a handkerchief out of thin air and hastily presses into Aziraphale’s hands. “We had a whole bottle when the first green thingies appeared, remember?”

Aziraphale sniffles, dabbing his face quite uselessly. “But we planted these first, and now they’re blooming!”

“Well, technically –”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale laughs, a brittle sound. “It seems like I’m having a moment.” 

Crowley nods, very serious. “Not dramatic at all.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but at least the steady flow of tears has slowed down for the moment. “Me, dramatic? Perish the thought.”

Crowley snorts as he rubs a hand up and down Aziraphale’s back. The touch is soft, tentative, marked by two twink pink spots on Crowley’s cheeks. “There, now. You’ve done enough watering for the day.”

Aziraphale takes a breath, deep and slow. He inhales the smell of grass and a faint, lingering whiff of petrichor. He gently pets the green bud, fingers shaking lightly. “It’s beautiful here. And we made it.” 

As if on cue, a bird lands on Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. It’s small and round, red belly puffed out as it chirps happily, completely unbothered by Aziraphale’s gasp and Crowley’s low grumbling about princesses and clichés. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale’s question goes unanswered as the robin pecks his palm twice before flying away, clearly disappointed at the lack of food he finds there. “My apologies, little friend.” 

“Don’t.” Crowley tells him, very seriously. “Don’t even think about it.” 

Aziraphale isn’t thinking about anything. 

Maybe. 

“It was adorable,” he starts, carefully. “And it was clearly looking for something to eat.” 

There is space for some birdhouses, hidden from dangerous eyes in the branches of the trees. And they wouldn’t require much work, just a few seedlings left around and perhaps some water, just to freshen up a little come summer. 

“No,” Crowley says, crossing his arms. “I know what you’re doing. I know, and stop.”

“But –”

“Birds shit everywhere. Just picture it – all over your precious little green thingies, bird shit everywhere. And they eat your fruits and leave holes in them and they will get to the peas as well.” Crowley’s jaw is set, teeth grinding together concerningly. “No birds.” 

He has a point, actually. He does know about Crowley’s misadventures with ducks and animals in general, to be honest (let’s just say both horses and Crowley were glad when automobiles were invented). Aziraphale mulls it over, worrying his bottom lip, hands wringing together. When put like that, it seems like an awful idea indeed. They’ve barely grasped the concept of keeping a garden alive, after all. 

The life. It’s what Aziraphale adores: the garden pulses beneath his feet, alive with love and care and novelty, and in every new shade of green there is a part of himself and a part of Crowley, their two long, long lives finding a place to rest and grow. With every sprout and every new leaf, Aziraphale feels more love flowing through his veins, a steady hum, a constant flow. 

His eyes find Crowley’s, and he offers him a real smile. “No birds,” he agrees quietly. “But it doesn’t mean I’ll actively send them away.” 

“Obviously not,” Crowley huffs. “Who do you think I am?”

The best of them, Aziraphale thinks. The very best of any being that has ever existed and will ever exist. He doesn’t want Crowley to run for the hills so early on such a pretty morning, so he says, “A very nice demon.” 

“No. Nah. Shut up,” the retort comes immediately, not without some more pink splotching the apples of his cheeks. “Let’s get you inside before a butterfly lands on your nose and you start pouting about housing insects next.”

Aziraphale eyes the outstretched hand being offered to him, and already mourns the moment when he’ll have to drop it. He squeezes it instead, lips stretching as the bubbles underneath his skin tingle all over. “How about we steal five more minutes?” 

Crowley exhales slowly. There is a glint of something new in that golden gaze, something Aziraphale doesn’t want to name. He cannot get it wrong again. But then Crowley nods, and pulls Aziraphale’s hand closer. “Alright.” 

How wonderful it is, this old battered body of his, and how deeply it feels a simple touch: warm in his bones, electric on his skin. The ghost of pressure on his lips.

🫧🫧🫧

It isn’t Aziraphale’s fault animals are drawn to him, or his surroundings, after all. He’s an angel; it is part of his job description. 

So, Crowley can grumble and moan all he wants, but it is not Aziraphale’s fault that birds start coming in the garden to bathe in the morning dew or feast on the breadcrumbs serendipitously fallen out of Aziraphale’s sandwich. 

It is not Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley gets woken up by chirping before the sun is even up, but it is rather a countereffect of living in the countryside. It’s Spring! Nature has woken up. It is a rather beautiful thing. 

It is most definitely not Aziraphale’s fault that one of the little birdies shows up injured on their doorstep. 

He isn’t even there when it happens. He’s sitting in the kitchen and thoroughly enjoying the meeting between Anna Karenina and Count Vronskij when Crowley barges in, all wide eyes and messy hair. 

“Come,” he hisses, yanking Aziraphale away. Seriously, he barely manages to put his bookmark in. 

Barely outside, Crowley forces him to kneel down, frantically pointing at a little black something on the ground. “Do something. You can’t – can’t leave it like that.”

“Where is this all coming fr–” Aziraphale abruptly cuts himself off as he hears a faint chirp coming from the bundle on the ground. “Oh. Poor dear.”

Aziraphale gathers the bird in his hands, stroking the soft feathers with a light finger. “A broken wing, it seems,” he whispers. “And a lot of fear.”

“Do something then.” Crowley urges him, hand buried into his own hair, tugging at the strands, probably just as distressed as the tiny visitor. 

Aziraphale has the sudden urge to gather him up in his arms and never let him go again. Perhaps not sudden, but overwhelming all the same. “Of course, dear.” He lets a tiny bout of divinity flow from his fingertips, the gold of it engulfing the bird. It whimpers, low and distressed, but it’s over soon. When Aziraphale opens up his palms, the bird pecks him twice before unfurling his wings and flying away. He smiles, soft and grateful. “Well, I didn’t expect a thank you.” 

“Good,” Crowley murmurs, getting up. “Listen, I –”

“That was so nice of you,” Aziraphale starts, fondness bleeding into the caution. “You saved a life.” 

Aziraphale knows Crowley better than anyone, he likes to think. He knows he has to mask his desire to take care of him under the guise of a newfound baking passion, he knows how Crowley’s lips twitch when he’s containing a smile or how his nose scrunches up when he’s trying to control his features and force them into his usual scowl. He knows nice and kind are forbidden words in this household, but he also knows that, for all his grumbling, Crowley’s eyes light up whenever he’s called some variation of good. He may fool anyone else, but he cannot fool Aziraphale. The quirk of a brow, a blink too quick – Crowley enjoys it. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t dare say the words otherwise, if he knew they’d bring the tell-tale frown and the barely-there quiver of a bottom lip. If he knew Crowley would be hurt by it. “What’s wrong?” He stands up, offers a hand. Crowley steps back. 

“Nothing. Nothing, I –” and Aziraphale has read many, many things in his life, most of them in Crowley’s eyes, but fear? Fear has never been there. Not even once. “I’ll be back. Soon, okay? I’ll come back. Just –” 

He doesn’t add anything else. Aziraphale stands there, frozen between the greens, as Crowley slams the door and goes away. 

🫧🫧🫧

He does come back. 

Not soon by any means – at least, not soon by Aziraphale’s standards. The sun is already setting outside. They were supposed to go to the village together in the afternoon. 

He doesn’t even pretend to be doing something by the time Crowley walks in through the front door. 

“I picked up dinner,” he says in lieu of a greeting – or an explanation. “Indian. That spicy naan thing you like.” He doesn’t even try to look at Aziraphale as he drops the car keys and the glasses in his usual bowl, or as he struts through the hallway to deposit the bags in the kitchen. Aziraphale follows him without a word. 

“I know, I know it’s kind of late, I just – I was driving, and no one else was on the road, you know? Just lost track of time.” He still doesn’t spare a glance for Aziraphale as he opens the cabinet to retrieve two glasses. “I was thinking we could pop open the Merlot? Dunno if it goes well with the food, but when have we ever cared about that, eh?”

Aziraphale sits down at the table. “You said you’d always rather spend time with me.”

It is not what he intended to say at all. He hates his mouth, the traitor, and the tone of his voice, brittle and petulant and terribly afraid. 

Crowley drops a glass. Aziraphale miracles the mess away with a stiff gesture. “No, no, listen–” 

“Something happened, and you ran.” Aziraphale traces a vein on the wood of the table. He clears his throat. “I would really like for you to talk to me, instead. And I understand how that must sound a bit hypocritical coming from me, but I know now why you’re always telling me to spit it out.” There. That’s what he spent all afternoon rehearsing. His voice doesn’t even shake (much). 

The silent stretches between them. The house is the only one talking, with its creaks and pops that have become white noise in the past five months. Crowley’s arms coil all around himself, squeezing his ribs as if to hold himself together. 

“And you will tell me.” Aziraphale marches on. “Since, as you also remind me often, I am very annoying.”

It gets something out of Crowley. Not a laugh, not quite yet, but a huff of breath not too far from it. “You’re not – of course I want to be here. I meant it.” 

Aziraphale nods. He believes him. At the very least, he wants to, and he’s trying. 

Crowley lifts his chin, but still refuses to look in Aziraphale’s direction. “I needed a minute, alright? No, not what I meant, I – shit. Alright.” He cards a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands like they can offer him some sense of direction. 

Aziraphale would really like to rescue him. “Why don’t you take a seat?” 

Crowley ignores him, opting to start pacing in a small, tight circle instead. “We are free agents, whatever that means. No bosses, no - no assignments, no more of that, and that’s good. That's great.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale is somewhat both curious and worried about this conversation. “Is this new information?”

“And, like, if something were to happen, we’d be on our own. You and me.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.” All this time, it’s everything Aziraphale ever longed for, even when he didn’t have words for it. “Are you… regretting it now?”

“What?” Finally, Crowley looks at him. Lost and panicked and mirroring the mess inside Aziraphale’s chest. “No, are you out of your mind?”

“Then what are you saying?” Aziraphale snaps. “You are not making any sense! What am I supposed to think?”

“It was that stupid bird!” 

After the outburst, Crowley slumps against the counter. Even the house is silent now, no more cracks, no more pops, just the sound of the heavy breaths they both do not need to take.

All the noise is now trapped inside Aziraphale. He’s not used to yelling, not here at least. He keeps exhaling, long and slow, waiting for something; an explanation, perhaps, or for the buzzing in his ears to just stop. 

“I couldn’t do anything.” Something comes in the form of Crowley’s barely audible whisper. “Would have just watched it die. If – if something happened to you, I would just watch.”

Somehow, the words make their way past Aziraphale’s mouth. “No.” Of all the idiotic things – “That has never once happened.”

Crowley’s eyes are blazing – not in the way Aziraphale adores; pools of molten lava ready to burn the side of a hill. “I didn’t mean – just, we can’t go back and ask for a new corporation if something goes wrong. And I thought… I’ll snap my fingers and fix it, right? But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

Crowley is panting. As if the words have forced themselves out of his throat with violence. “I didn’t know I couldn’t.” 

Aziraphale did. Well, not in as many words, but demons aren’t meant to heal someone else. No matter how kind, nice, lovely they are: they cannot mend someone’s broken bones, stop a heart from bleeding out. 

But it doesn’t mean they can’t save one. At least, one specific demon can. He has already, many, many times over the centuries. He took one look at an angel on a wall and gave him his first ever – and only, really – friend, never asking for anything in return. He loves wine and all things dark and fast and gluing coins to sidewalks and Aziraphale wouldn't be himself if it wasn’t for him. 

Crowley has been his companion, his… other half, in more ways than the one he now longs for, for as long as the Earth has been going in circles around the Sun. He saved Aziraphale more times than he has fingers and feathers to count, never once because he had to. He may not be able to stop a bleeding, but boy does he know how to make a heart beat. 

And Aziraphale’s heart is furious, bringing more chaos to the cacophony inside him, furiously fluttering against a ribcage too small to handle it; CrowleyCrowleyCrowley, it’s spelling it out, like every single other atom of energy, holy and human, Aziraphale is made of. 

Finally, his body makes the decision for him. He stands up and crowds as close to Crowley as possible, slotting his head in the spot between Crowley’s neck and shoulder that seems to be made for him. He squeezes his arms around his middle, a futile attempt to keep the hurt inside. 

For all their wild gesticulating from before, Crowley’s hands stills immediately. Aziraphale feels them hovering in the air just above his back, feels the way Crowley is vibrating under him, and merely squeezes him harder. In the end, between a choked off noise and certainly-not-a-sniffle, Crowley gets the message, and squeezes back. 

“Forgive me for borrowing your own words, but you nitwit,” Aziraphale whispers in the small space between his lips and Crowley’s skin. “Have you suddenly forgotten everything that has happened in, say, the entire history of the world?” 

Crowley makes a sound devoid of vocals, but doesn’t move. Aziraphale takes it as an invitation to go on. “You rescued me plenty of times. I never once had to.”

“Debatable,” Crowley protests weakly, still very much holding on for dear life. “There was that – you went to Hell in my body and…”

“I wasn’t done.” Aziraphale pulls back the slightest bit, enough to look at Crowley properly. “You never had to stop me from bleeding because you never once let me bleed first.”

Crowley makes a sound full of vocals this time, y included, vehemently shaking his head. “Alright Jane Austen, that wasn’t my point –”

“My point is –” Aziraphale grips Crowley’s biceps, and forces himself not to get lost in that mess of yellow and blown pupils. “I know that you want – that you are a protector. But you do not have to worry about such things anymore.” He tilts his head, pointing at the window. “The worst thing that can happen here is a thunderstorm killing all the sweet peas.”

“Don’t – don’t jinx us, for Someone’s sake.” Crowley protests feebly, still managing a small glare. “Next thing we know there’s an asteroid or – or something catches on fire, or…”

“And we’ll be there.” Aziraphale cuts him off again, eager to stop the spiral. “You won’t have to do all the work.”

For Aziraphale, Crowley’s rescues have always been one of the demon’s little quirks. He did know he liked to swoop in and be the hero, saw him breaking into a church with a fedora to fight off Nazi double agents and driving through hellfire to get to an Army base at the end of the world. 

He thought he liked it; he had no idea he needed it. 

“You managed the past six thousand years just fine,” he tells him gently. His hands stay on his arms, no matter how much they itch to cradle that barely quivering chin. “You do not need to do anything more. I’m here for the rest.” 

Crowley’s chest rises and falls rapidly, grazing Aziraphale’s own with his every breath. His voice is terribly small when he says, “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale promises, vows. “Yes.”

Crowley nods, still vibrating slightly. Some strands of hair have fallen down his forehead, giving him a look that’s almost boyish. Aziraphale positively adores it. 

“Next time you have a crisis, please refrain from a dramatic exit.” He teases lightly, squeezing his arms once more before regretfully stepping back. 

Crowley sputters. “Dramatic? You were crying over a sprout the other day.” 

“And I embraced it.” He fixes his waistcoat with hands that are more stable than what he feels like – flayed open, bursting at the seams. He wonders how much longer he’ll be able to keep the bubbles in. “Now, I think I was promised some spicy naan.” 

A normal dinner. Crowley’s lingering embarrassment fades as the glasses are filled and the naan is consumed, and the bubbles settle themselves as they sit on opposite sides of the table. Close enough for a toast, far enough for their fingers not to brush as they reach for the bottle. Aziraphale’s lips still itch for that line of skin they almost grazed, his nostrils still filled with Crowley’s cologne – something earthy and spicy, almost smokey in his undertones. 

He breathes in the smoke long after Crowley goes to bed, after a murmured thanks and a waved off apology, and thinks it may be more pleasant than the flowers. 

🫧🫧🫧

It seems like the world – or specifically Crowley – is against the relationship between Anna Karenina and Aziraphale. 

He’s upstairs, comfortable enough on the throne he used to despise, one finger between his teeth as the passion between the Count and the heroine boils to an unbearable degree, and he’s just getting to his favourite part when – “Aziraphale! Come downstairs!”

“Drat,” he murmurs, ruefully eyeing his bookmark. Perhaps he’ll blame his habit of getting lost in a good book for his sudden hearing loss –

“I know you heard me! Put the book down, you’ve read it a hundred times!”

“Merely fifty!” Aziraphale yells back, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh, bother.”

He gets downstairs with a frown and an itching desire to get back to his Anna. “Now, this better be good, Vronskij was about to – whatever happened to you?” 

There are leaves in Crowley’s hair, and twigs as well. A smear of dirt under his cheeks, a splotch of red on his nose. “Apricot,” he merely says, walking towards said tree without a glance backwards. 

Puzzled, Aziraphale follows him closely, waving a hand to remove the twigs at least. “Did you get into a fight with the apricot?”

Crowley scoffs. “Aren’t you a little comedian?” Crowley comes to an abrupt stop, almost making Aziraphale trip and fall against his back. He swirls around, waving a finger in Aziraphale’s face. “I don’t want to hear a single word starting with ‘n’ or ‘k’ come out of your mouth. Understood?”

Aziraphale softens immediately. His heart starts beating faster at the prospect of witnessing whatever adorable thing Crowley has done now. He nods, like a practiced liar. “Understood.” He even throws in a mock salute, just to make Crowley roll his eyes.

Aziraphale spots the change as soon as the apricot comes into his line of view, and has to bite his bottom lip as hard as he can not to break Crowley’s only rule. “Oh,” he lets out. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Nuh-uh.” Crowley snarls, the red splotch on his nose migrating to his cheeks. “Not a word . You’ll be the one to handle it.” 

The birdhouse sits on a lower, sturdy branch. Small, box-shaped and made of light wood, with a tiny sloped roof that looks like a miniature of their own house. Aziraphale can see part of twigs and broken out branches spilling out of the entrance hole, clearly hastily shoved inside by a very inexperienced birdkeeper. 

“You’ll handle the water and seeds and whatnot,” Crowley continues, arms crossed and eyes focused anywhere but the little house. “I just put it there. You do the rest – shit included. Especially shit included.”

I love you, Aziraphale thinks. He doesn’t think his heart can survive falling in love once a month; it was barely holding up when this happened once a century. “I – I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank Someone,” Crowley murmurs, a nervous hand scratching his neck. “You can move it, ‘f you want. Put it higher or somewhere else, I don’t know.”

“It’s perfect.” Aziraphale says quietly. “Thank you.”

“Mmh.” Crowley’s lips twitch, and he rolls them in to keep them in check. “You’ll have to deal with bird shit, dunno why you’re thanking me.” 

And really, how can Aziraphale cope with something like this? His eyes are glassy and close to spilling over as he tells Crowley, “You’re so kind.”

It’s worth it even as Crowley practically sprints away. “One rule!” He yells as he goes. “You had one rule!” 

Aziraphale laughs, wobbly and bright, and loves him even more. 

vi. baby, you’re the end of June

Aziraphale’s watercolours haven’t been used in half a century at the very least. 

It’s a miracle – literally – he managed to revive them enough to capture the beauty that is a blooming garden in June. 

Their garden!

The first timid lily bloomed on the last day of May, earlier than expected, a beautiful bright yellow with a splash of red on the inside. Aziraphale likes to think of it as an omen. 

The gladioli started blooming soon after, and somehow, one week into June, the garden is bursting with colours. The hydrangeas have grown into a beautiful purplish-blue, the gladioli are a mix of pale oranges and baby pink, the rest of the lilies have bloomed in yellows and whites. 

Aziraphale has to miracle more greens on his palette to get all the different leaves right: the sweet peas, the carrot leaves peeking out, the spinach, the baby apricots hanging from the branches, not quite ripe yet. 

They’re still waiting for the sunflowers, but the Book says it won’t be long now. It’ll be even prettier next month. 

For now, he dips his brush into red, and touches up the figure picking the apricots. 

“Just because you’re painting me doesn’t mean I’m doing it.” 

Crowley lounges next to him, sprawled on one of the sunbeds he didn’t want to buy. His t-shirt is a red so dark it may as well be black, but Aziraphale appreciates the novelty all the same - and the small strip of pale skin visible between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his jeans. 

He averts his gaze, lowering his sunhat to cover up his flush, and sits a bit straighter on his chair. “I know you just don’t want to get close to the darlings.”

The birdhouse works a charm. Their current visitors are a little family of robins, mother and three birdies as far as Aziraphale can see. Crowley still pretends he doesn’t like them. He lolls his head to the side, frowning at the canvas in front of Aziraphale. “Where are you putting yourself?”

Aziraphale scrunches his nose. “I haven’t decided yet.” He dips his brush in water. “It seems a bit narcissistic, painting my own self.”

“Seems realistic to me,” Crowley mumbles. “If I have to pick fruits I don’t eat, you might as well be there.”

It sounds awfully sweet. Aziraphale beams at him, even more as Crowley flushes and stubbornly closes his eyes. “I mean. Picking the fruits you do eat. You know. Like - the carrots.”

Aziraphale nods, a bit amused. “And the peas. The spinach as well.” Speaking off, the green in his painting is a little bit off. “I really need to pick up a good recipe book.”

Crowley hums, sinking deeper into his sunbed. “I once spent two years or something tempting a chef in London to do a show where he just constantly yelled at people.” He clicks his tongue. “Absolute hit. Even got a commendation for it.”

“So clever.” Aziraphale says flatly. “What about the people he yelled at?”

“Yelled back if they were smart.”

The next time Aziraphale has to dip the brush in water, he lets the excess drop on Crowley’s nose. It startles a laugh out of him, and Aziraphale smiles. 

It’s a nice afternoon. 

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the bees are buzzing. Aziraphale puts some more blue in the hydrangeas on the canvas, and he loses himself in the rhythm of the brush-strokes. 

He’s always liked painting: it’s not as satisfying as reading, but just as relaxing, and a good way to turn off his usually overheated brain. 

Sometimes, before, when these hobbies of his were confined to the solitude of the bookshop, he used to think about what the other Agents of Heaven would say had they ever saw him doing these kind of things. They already thought he went too native, and perhaps they were right, as he’s now realizing. He’s been more of Earth than of Heaven for far longer than he’s been ready to admit it to himself. 

“You should paint yourself,” Crowley breaks the silence. “Won’t look right otherwise wise.”

Crowley has called him many things over the years, but never once made him feel like he was ever lacking something. He brought him chocolates when he opened the bookshop, did magic with him without (much) question, told him which watercolours worked best and which to avoid. Crowley’s support has always been a steady constant, a warm blanket he got so used to he took for granted. He hopes he can now begin to give even a fraction of it back. 

“If you insist.” 

The next time he dips his brush, is to mix his primary colours until the beige looks right. 

🫧🫧🫧

Perhaps it's seeing Aziraphale create something, perhaps it’s the warm weather waking up the snake in him, but Crowley is a demon on a mission, and the mission is cooking. 

Against all expectations, Crowley enjoyed harvesting the vegetables. Greatly. 

He spent hours digging into the ground, smearing mud all over his face and elegant hands, retrieving the peas with quick fingers and the carrots with a steady grip, doing a lot of damage to Aziraphale’s mental state. 

And when all the vegetables were neatly arranged in the most adorable wicker basket, Crowley decided to further victimize Aziraphale’s nerves by taking control of the kitchen and deciding to cook something. 

For him. 

Because he wanted to try something new, Aziraphale, you get your birds and books and whatever, I need a hobby as well. 

Aziraphale couldn’t do much but nod encouragingly and wait with bated breath for Crowley’s first ever culinary creation. 

He started easy enough, serving Aziraphale a simple omelette with fresh spinach, a side of peas and the most beautiful, expectant, hopeful little smile on his face. 

The first bite was shockingly, devastatingly bad. Aziraphale gathered up all his bravery and tried to remember every lie he ever told in the past six millenia to prepare himself for the most important one of his existence, took another bite and said, “Scrumptious!”

Crowley beamed, quickly trying to school his features into a much more debonair smirk, but the damage was already done. Aziraphale had seen. 

He ate every bite. He tried to miracle his tastebuds somewhere in the ether, but it didn’t work. This must be the Almighty punishing him for all the ruckus he caused up there. 

Anyway. Crowley is still on a mission. 

Every day he presents Aziraphale with some kind of monstrosity, and every day Aziraphale lies and watches the glint in Crowley’s eyes grow brighter. 

He’s a horrible creature. A wretched angel and a terrible friend, and when - not if - Crowley finds out, he’ll throw a fit. 

Just - he is bound to get better, isn’t he? How many times can someone burn eggs before noticing the smell? How many peas does someone have to watch shrink into nothingness before realising there’s something wrong? And the carrots - the poor carrots, somehow perpetually soggy and bitter at the same time. 

He’s murdering the vegetables. He’s committing unfathomable crimes in their kitchen. 

He looks so adorable doing it and Aziraphale cannot bring himself to stop it. He will endure the murders if it means to see Crowley hide such a pleased smile behind his glass. 

Today, he presents Aziraphale with mashed sweet peas with roasted carrots on top and a quiche on the side. Aziraphale sends a quick prayer Upstairs and begs for mercy. “Thank you so much.”

“Tad ambitious, this one.” Crowley says, clearly excited. “I think I got the peeling right this time.”

Sweet God. “I’m sure you did.” He puts some of the peas and a piece of carrot on his fork. The peeling is definitely not right. “Are you sure you don’t wish to, uhm, sample it?”

Crowley, as always, shakes his head. “Nah, you go ahead.”

That’s the crux of the matter. Crowley doesn’t try anything. Ever. Which is why, Aziraphale suspects, he does not know what salt is. Or how terrifyingly bad the damage he does to these vegetables and Aziraphale’s tastebuds is. 

This first bite might be, shockingly enough, the worst of them all. The peas taste like dirt, which is almost impressive, considering they are literally called sweet peas. The carrots are - he doesn’t know what they are, but they are not carrots. 

But the quiche is what makes him break. After enduring all of those horrors, what sends him over the edge is a runny quiche, of all things. 

He recovers quickly, quicker than any natural being possibly could, but not quick enough for the eyes of a demon who watches him as close as a guard dog. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Aziraphale says, filling his mouth with another forkful and swallowing before his tastebuds can experience the horror. “This is very good.”

“Your eye twitched.” Crowley says, frown deepening dangerously. “Why did it twitch?”

“It did not.” Aziraphale laughs. It sounds manic to his own ears. 

Crowley frowns, leans forward on the table as his hair almost flops into Aziraphale’s plate. “You did it again.”

“No,” Aziraphale stuffs his mouth again. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Horrifyingly, Crowley does stop, only to snatch the fork out of Aziraphale’s hand and put it into his own mouth. 

Aziraphale can only watch as Crowley’s face goes through surprise, disgust, horror and similar expressions in the span of seconds, and as the plate in front of him disappears presumably into Mount Vesuvius. 

He doesn’t say anything. He awaits judgement wringing his hands and pouting his bottom lip. 

“Were they all like that?” Crowley asks after a moment, voice icily calm. 

Aziraphale deflects. “Like what?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “God-fucking-awful.”

Aziraphale grimaces. It’s just a moment, and he can’t help it. “You - it’s just because you don’t taste them, you are not used to dosing seasoning or the right texture or -“

“And you never thought of, perhaps, telling me?” Crowley's eyes grow comically wide. “You’ve been eating that shit for two weeks, and you didn’t think, oh, maybe Crowley needs to know how much he sucks?”

“I would never talk like that,” Aziraphale quips. “And, really, you’re selling yourself short.”

Crowley scoffs. “Oh, am I?” 

He isn't. Most definitely. “It could have been worse.”

“Ah yes. You could have died of food poisoning.”

“Now, that’s not -“ Aziraphale did suspect it once, when Crowley first used spices. His glare is telling him Crowley probably knows too now. “You were so happy!” 

Crowley drags his hands over his face, scrubbing quite harshly. “What happened to constructive criticism?”

“Da Vinci once told you you could work on your chiaroscuro and you never picked up a pencil again.” Does Crowley think he would have endured all of that if he had other options? “You were so hopeful, and got so happy every time I tried something, and I couldn’t - I didn’t want you to stop.” 

Aziraphale feels even worse as he watches Crowley going through another, wider range of emotions, settling on something that looks both soft and sad at the same time. “I am so sorry,” says the most horrible friend to ever grace this planet. “I was only trying to keep you happy. And I was - I am sure you’ll get better, you are much too clever not to.”

“You’re sorry,” Crowley murmurs. “You just spent two weeks consuming monstrosities and you’re sorry.”

Suddenly, while Aziraphale is still frantically scanning his brain for something else to add, Crowley snorts. It quickly evolves into a wheezing laugh, the kind that comes out only when he’s drunk and has him clutch his stomach and everything. He laughs and laughs, wiping tears from his eyes and slapping his thighs, hiding more snorts behind a hand. 

Aziraphale, deeply confused, giggles as well. “Is everything alright?”

“You polished the plate every single time.” Crowley pants. “What the fuck? Did you remove your tastebuds?”

“I tried,” Aziraphale admits, quite ashamed. “It didn’t work.”

It only makes Crowley laugh harder. “You are not real.” He brushes off an errand tear. “Every last bite!”

Aziraphale smiles, still very confused. “I apologise?”

“No, you’re -“ Crowley smiles, suddenly terribly soft. “You’re an angel.”

It’s been months. Close to a year, all things considered, since Aziraphale has last been called angel. It’s merely a blink in the grand scheme of things, and yet the little world has the same effect of an earthquake underground.

Aziraphale quickly looks away, eyes traitorously glassy, and does his best to not ruin the moment of the levity. 

It’s just - he missed it. Terribly. He never thought he would, because he never went without it first, but then he came back, and Crowley would only call him by his name and he figured it was good enough. 

And it was, it has been, until now. Now the dam is open, and Aziraphale never wants to hear his name come out of Crowley’s mouth again, if he can help it. 

He clears his throat. “I try,” he says. “I’m not very good, most times.”

Crowley is still smiling. “Don’t think so.”

Oh, his poor nerves. This is seriously too much. He’ll do something irreparable if Crowley keeps giving him those eyes. “We can save it.”

Crowley looks taken aback. “What?”

“Your cooking!” Aziraphale claps way-too-excitedly. “Yes, I’ll help with the textures, and the seasoning, and the taste, and-“

“Alright, I get it.” Crowley holds up his hands. “You want to play royal taste tester?”

Aziraphale wants to smack him. And kiss him senseless, but at least the smacking lets him focus on the matter at hand. “Do you want to let me help?”

Crowley taps his fingers on the table. There’s a bit of pink lingering on his cheeks, a dried tear on his lashes. He gnaws at his bottom lip, Aziraphale mimicking the gesture. “Alright. But –“ he cuts Aziraphale’s delighted whoopie off, “- if it sucks, you’ll tell me.”

The tastebuds rejoice. “I swear.” 

Crowley nods, tilts his head towards the counter. “Wanna see if we can still save some carrots?”

Aziraphale’s stomach grumbles with joy and expectation. He sends a quick thanks to the Almighty, and sets off to be the best taste tester the Earth has ever seen. 

🫧🫧🫧

“This was absolutely scrumptious.” 

The green salad with grilled brie and apricots is everything Aziraphale thought it would be. Sweet and summery and delicious, the perfect lunch for the heat wave that has been plaguing the South Downs for the past few days. 

He waves his lacy fan as he sips his icy lemonade, as Crowley lifts his head from the table just to tell him, “I can’t believe grilling the fruit worked.”

“I told you to listen to the book.”

Crowley groans. “Don’t tell me I told you so. ‘S too bloody hot for it.”

Aziraphale keeps fanning himself. “You should wear linen.” He points at his own cream shirt. “Beautiful and breathable.”

Crowley bangs his forehead against the table. “Shut up.”

Aziraphale tuts and turns the fanning in Crowley’s direction. “This is England, dear. The heat won’t last forever.”

“This is global warming, angel.”

Aziraphale’s heart does a little jump at the moniker. It is still not as habitual as it was before, and Crowley still sounds somewhat uncertain at times, but hearing it is enough to send Aziraphale’s system into overdrive. 

“Know what we should do?” Crowley suddenly decides. “Beach. Water. Cold water, swim.” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Has the heat made you forget about verbs and adverbs?”

“Come on,” Crowley stretches the vowels longer than necessary. “Wanna come or not?”

Oh dear. Aziraphale promptly flushes. “I don’t know.” 

Of course he wants to, if anything, just to spend time with Crowley. He’s ashamed to even think about the reason why he’s debating saying no, but he’s afraid his cracked open heart cannot stand the sight of Crowley’s skin and manage to fight the urge to touch. 

Good Lord. He’s become a pervert. “It’s been a while for me. I haven’t really swam since Rome.” He says instead. 

It’s feeble when it comes to excuses, especially since the adversary is Crowley. “So what? You can just soak. Or not, who cares? It’s like riding a bicycle anyway.” 

Aziraphale lightly scrapes the fork against the empty plate. “My skin is very fair. I could burn.” 

“Your skin doesn’t do anything you don’t want to.” Crowley retorts. “Come on, what is it? Is it because you only own some kind of ridiculous piece from the 60s?”

Aziraphale does, actually. It’s light blue and striped and perfectly preserved. “Would that be an issue?”

“What? When have I said – I will make fun of you a little, just because.” The frown dissipates, and Aziraphale is helpless against the way fondness bleeds into the golden. “You can wear and do whatever you want. Can we just go?”

It’s cruel, really. Crowley rarely asks for anything, even now, but he’s still terribly good at tempting Aziraphale with just one look. He’d been hopeless since the start of this conversation. “Fine.” 

He just hopes his body remembers the art of repression. 

🫧🫧🫧

It does not. 

He hasn’t seen that much skin since – ever, probably. 

Definitely Rome at the very least. 

And Crowley’s body is a study in lean lines and sinewy limbs, pale skin freckled by the sun, a smattering of red hair on a thin chest. His hair is long enough to cover his eyes when wet, and he has to throw his head back to see, letting Aziraphale’s eyes drink in the long lines of his neck. 

Aziraphale wants to bite him. All over. Preferably when dry. 

He clutches his book tighter, knuckles turning white. They are alone on the beach, clearly a demonic miracle, and Aziraphale feels too seen, even in his modest swimwear. He drags a finger along his sweaty collar and curses himself for not having an updated wardrobe. 

“Not coming in, Mrs. Lansbury?” Crowley calls from the water. “It’s very refreshing!”

“I’m sure it is.” Aziraphale holds up his book. “I’m good where I am.”

Crowley shrugs, and dives right back in the water. Aziraphale exhales slowly, in and out, recalling a breathing exercise he once learned in Nepal. 

It doesn’t work. His skin is burning, not because of the sun, itching with the need to get closer, closer, closer. He hasn’t read a single word in twenty minutes, there is sweat pooling at his temples and on the small of his back, and he is losing his mind. 

Perhaps a cold dip will do him good. (He’s hopeless.) He hates sweating, after all. (He doesn’t have an ounce of shame.) He needs to clear his mind. (He should go home and sit alone in a corner.)

Before he changes his mind, he sets aside both book and sunhat on his towel, next to Crowley’s glasses and shirt. (Good Lord.) He squares his shoulder and lifts his chin, hurrying into the water before Crowley can stop splashing around and notice him, and dives in headfirst as soon as he can. 

For a second, he only thinks about how much he missed the sea. The coldness hits his bones, and he forgets about everything else waiting for him above the surface; there is no noise here, just peace and cold and weightlessness. 

He resurfaces only as his lungs start to burn. 

“Well, hello there.” He startles as he’s taking a deep breath, hurrying to brush back his damp, too long curls. 

“Hello,” he tells Crowley, looking down at his hands threading the water. “Very refreshing indeed.” 

“Mmh.” Crowley floats a bit closer. Aziraphale sees their legs underneath the water, blurry and ridiculous looking, and feels an awkward laugh rising up his throat. 

“Too refreshing?” Crowley asks. 

“No, no.” He lets a wave bring him the tiniest bit closer. He’s already lost all hope. “Just perfect.”

“Perfect,” Crowley echoes. “Your eyes are so blue.” 

Aziraphale feels his heartbeat stutter in his chest then pick back up at double speed. “Oh?”

“Here, I mean. In the sea. Obviously.” Crowley says, an edge to his voice. “They change colours outside.” 

“Do they?” Aziraphale asks, drifting closer. Closer closer closer. The lulling motion of the sea has hypnotized him, blinded him to danger. 

“Yeah.” Crowley says, only a hand’s breadth apart. “Grey and blue and brown too, sometimes. Green when you’re in the garden.” 

Aziraphale swallows, eyes studying the shade of Crowley’s eyes. More vibrant here, the pupils a bit dilated, more cat than snake. “Yours are a very pretty shade.”

“No, they’re not.” A scoff, something small and derisive. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Golden, when the sun hits them right.” He lifts his hand, drops it back again with a little splash. “As it’s doing right now.”

They are close enough that Aziraphale hears Crowley swallowing hard. He mimics him. There are goosebumps on his arms, bubbles in his bloodstream. 

Crowley needs to erase the last boundary. They’re close, on the precipice of something more , even Aziraphale isn’t that oblivious to miss it.  But he won’t move first, because Crowley is braver, and knows what Aziraphale needs before he even does, and will always come to his rescue. 

“Angel.”

It sounds like a plea. Aziraphale lets his eyes flicker down to Crowley’s lips for a second, before flicking back up. 

“C’mere?”

Aziraphale lets out a sound. Might be a laugh, might be sob. “Here?”

Crowley licks his lips. “You want - do you?”

“Desperately.” A wave brings them closer still, Crowley’s shaky exhale landing on his nose. He can count every dark eyelash. 

Crowley nods, blinking very rapidly. “You’ll have to be the one – I can’t –”

Aziraphale has never wasted a second chance. He isn’t about to start now when Crowley needs him. 

He applies the barest hint of pressure on Crowley’s waist, inviting him closer. The remaining distance disappears. Their fronts brush together, wet skin against damp fabric. Aziraphale hears Crowley’s sharp inhale, watches as his eyes drift close and almost feels the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. 

This is how it should have gone. This is how it goes. 

Aziraphale licks his lips, heart hammering against his breastbone. He lifts his hand from Crowley’s waist, fitting his palm to his jaw – finally. Thumb resting next to Crowley’s ear, his fingers cup his head, disappearing into the longer copper strands. 

Lifting up his chin, tilting his head to the side, Aziraphale parts his lips and presses his mouth to Crowley’s. 

A single, gentle kiss. A question asked. 

Crowley answers. 

There’s a rush of warm breath against his cheek, a sound low in the back of his throat. The point of Crowley’s nose draws a line up the side of Aziraphale’s, before his lips part and he takes Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his own. 

A proper kiss. A real one. 

Aziraphale returns the kiss, heat radiating throughout his fingertips. He tilts his head to the other side, gliding his lips across Crowley’s without breaking the kiss. Never breaking the kiss. 

Crowley follows him, head turning in the opposite direction, and the kiss deepens. 

A real kiss, a good one. 

They share a breath, from Crowley’s mouth into Aziraphale’s, and there’s a hand on his neck and another on his back now, urging him closer. Aziraphale strokes his thumb against the cheekbones, feeling a wetness there too warm to be seawater. It’s alright. He’s sure he tastes like salt as well. 

Crowley must be tasting him now, as he sweeps his tongue inside. Aziraphale makes a low, unthinking sound, and feels the fingers on the base of his neck tighten. 

He licks into Crowley’s mouth, tasting the velvet smooth wetness, salt and a hint of smoke and a sweetness that could only be Crowley. His sweet, lovely Crowley, making pretty sounds into his mouth, digging his fingers in the small of his back, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. 

The air they don’t need forces them apart. Just a breath, just enough to inhale. Aziraphale doesn’t even open his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t stop.” Crowley murmurs, pleads. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I never want to.”

“Thank Someone.” 

They take a moment to share a laugh, a bit shaky, a lot disbelieving. Aziraphale lets Crowley pull him in again, their lips slotting together again, easier this time, no less intense. 

No less than everything, the very meaning of the Universe right under Aziraphale’s fingertips, sighing in his mouth. 

Crowley pulls back first this time, only to rest their foreheads together. “I was right.”

Aziraphale just wants to kiss him again. Kiss him always. He lets himself breath for a second, coiling a finger around a longer red strand. “What?” 

“Get them wet, staring into each other’s eyes.” Crowley laughs, pulls Aziraphale close until their chests are flush, water splashing around them. “Vavoom.”

Aziraphale lets all the bubbles out. The giggles are loud and probably ridiculous, but he can press them into Crowley’s cheek first, and on his lips later. 

One perfect, fabulous kiss.

They’re alright. 

Chapter Text

vii. It was the fourth of July, you and I were fireworks

What comes after a first kiss? 

Crowley’s fantasies always stop there. Very tastefully, very carefully fading to black the moment fantasy Aziraphale’s lips touch his own. It may be embarrassing, pathetic even, but it’s true: movies don’t usually go on after the big – capital letter and everything – Kiss, and books he doesn’t read. Real life went completely up into flames after his big Kiss, so that doesn’t help either. 

Except, that certainly wasn’t his big Kiss if this is what kissing feels like. 

Aziraphale is everywhere. Beneath his fingers, inside his mouth, in his hair, inside his bones. Crowley was meant to live here, in the land between kisses filled with disbelieving laughs and breathy sighs, on a pebbled beach at night with saltwater itching on his skin and angel under him. 

On one in-between, approximately a hundred kisses after that first, saltwater tasting one, Aziraphale asks: “What time is it?”

Crowley opens his eyes. It’s dark outside. He can see Aziraphale’s bitten red lips and flushed cheeks solely because there is a full moon and snake eyes in his sockets. The darkness doesn’t help with the haziness in his mind. He still feels like he should be dreaming. 

He cards a hand through Aziraphale’s curls, crisp and dry under the touch, flattened out by the sea and the air. It’s real. He’s real, flawed and breathless and smiling up at Crowley in that sweet way of his, the way Crowley had been certain he would only see again in his fantasies. 

What comes after a first kiss?

Crowley doesn’t know, but he can give Aziraphale another one. 

Aziraphale lets out a string of giggles, and Crowley kisses them as well, drinking them up one by one as he feels his own lips stretch into a smile as well, an instinctual response to his favourite sound. 

“I asked you a question,” Aziraphale laughs around a kiss, pressing his lips to Crowley’s cheek just to put some distance between their mouths. Crowley doesn’t pout about it, obviously. “Is it past midnight?”

“How would I know?” Crowley replies, voice hoarser than he thought. “I think I miracled my watch and everything somewhere in Finland by the time you – mmh.”

“I kissed you. We kissed each other.” Aziraphale laughs again, covering his mouth this time. 

Gosh, he’s going to want to use his words, isn’t he? Crowley can’t do that right now – probably never, but certainly not right now. He regrettably moves his hand away from the salty curls to circle his wrist, freeing Aziraphale’s mouth for yet another kiss. 

Aziraphale kisses him back immediately, which doesn’t help the whole haziness situation, and wraps his arms around Crowley’s middle, bringing them closer still and – see? No words. Infinitely better. 

But then Aziraphale talks again, though he softens it by thumbing Crowley’s cheekbones and keeping his mouth close enough to feel their lips brushing against one another. “We have been here for hours.” 

And Crowley wants to stay. He wants to spend all night here, the entirety of July, perhaps the rest of Summer as well. He’s got the sea to freshen up in and Aziraphale to kiss to his heart's content. This must be Eden, but an even better, sweeter version. This is what Eden would have looked like if Aziraphale fell in love with him as well. 

But who cares? Aziraphale is here now, holding him now, having spent hours kissing him now. The thought makes him giddy enough to laugh as he remembers to reply. “Yeah,” he says, a bit breathless. “Is that alright?”

“It’s perfect.” Aziraphale smiles, bloody beams at him and the moon should actually be ashamed. “Just –”

“Are you cold? Uncomfortable?” Crowley snaps his fingers, swiftly putting a plush pillow under Aziraphale and a blanket over them. “Better?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale giggles again, dropping a kiss on Crowley’s forehead. “I wasn’t cold, I was merely trying to suggest going back home.”

Crowley might need to calm down a bit. “Yes. Home.” 

He doesn’t make any move to actually start the journey back to the cottage. If anything, he sprawls himself further onto Aziraphale, sneaking his arms around his back and righting Aziraphale’s still damp… beachwear as he’s at it. He sighs, and the pillow beneath Aziraphale becomes a proper beach bed, big enough for the two of them. 

From his place hidden in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, he feels the breathy laugh before he hears it. “Well, then. That’s my answer.”

There’s now a heavier blanket over Crowley, and dreamt-of arms wrapped around his back, and he was wrong before. This must be Eden: the sound of the waves crashing in, steady and rhythmic, the citrus and sandalwood he’s breathing on Aziraphale’s skin, the warmth beneath and all around him. Eden has never been this warm, this – this safe. 

It hits him, then. This isn’t Eden. It has never been, could never be. This is something God could have never come up with, something they created. Him and the angel, his angel, fate and dogmas be damned. He’s the one who’s holding Aziraphale, he’s the one who gets to kiss him, who gets to grow a garden with him and learn how to cook for him and love him – he is, not them. Never them. He shivers a bit, nuzzling closer still. 

Aziraphale still isn’t done with his words, apparently. “I just – I really wish to kiss you in the garden. And in the kitchen. And – the studio, if you’ll let me.”

“If I –” Crowley lifts his head at the catch in Aziraphale’s voice. “If I’ll let you?”

Aziraphale nods, a bit frantic. “Yes, I – I’ve been wishing for that ever since we moved in.” He chuckles, eyes glassy, and Crowley could actually die. “Is that too forward of me?”

Crowley opens his mouth, snaps it shut immediately after. He gapes for a moment, wondering just how many signs he missed in the past few months – or rather, how many signs he purposefully ignored for the sake of safety, and mentally prepares an adequate punishment for himself. “I’m literally using you as a human pillow,” he says finally. “No, you are not being too forward, angel.” 

“I missed that.” Aziraphale ducks his head, tucking his chin against his chest. Crowley wants to bite him. “I – I missed you. I know I told you already, but –” 

“I know.” Regrettably, Crowley’s right hand has to leave its rightful place among the softness of Aziraphale back to land on a still sun-warmed cheek. “Hey. I know, me too.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, leans into the touch with his eyes cold. Crowley didn’t mean to withhold the little moniker as a punishment – except he did, at first, when Aziraphale first left and the two syllables filled his tongue with a taste akin to battery acid. Then Aziraphale came back, and Crowley still loved him, because he never once stopped, but sometimes a demon is just a demon, and he wanted Aziraphale to feel that hurt as well. 

He was feeling it already, just as much. Crowley didn’t know. Or better, he wanted to pretend he didn’t know, and wanted to play the abandoned, discarded anti-hero once more and, yes, he wanted Aziraphale to feel guilty for it. 

Such an idiot. Here, in Aziraphale’s arms, it’s easier to forget about it all. Still, he lowers his head to press his lips on Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, as sincere as it gets. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Aziraphale replies, the cheeks Crowley’s kissing dimpling as he smiles. “I understand. I would never blame you for my own fears.”

“Fears?” Crowley’s head shoots up again, eyebrows drawing in together. “What fears?” 

It may be dark, but an advantage of holding your whole world in your hands is feeling it when he flushes. He thumbs at the much warmer skin as Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip. “I – you see, for a while I believed you didn’t want… me, us, anymore.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Are you serious?” Satan below, what has he done?

“Don’t be distressed.” Aziraphale shushes him. “It was a fear of mine after… Well, everything. But then you’d do something and I would think, he wants me still, and I would convince myself it was merely wishful thinking.” He grins, the madman, supernova-like. “I am very good at overthinking.” 

“You – angel.” Crowley huffs, torn between disbelief and annoyance. “You nutter.” 

“Why thank you.”

“No, you –” That was never Crowley’s intention. Sure, he was being petty and annoying and probably awful at times, but his love? Aziraphale should have always felt it, never once doubted it. Loving him is a fundamental part of Crowley, something he could never be without, something not even a millennia of hurt would ever take away. He lets out a sound, which is most definitely not a whimper, and kisses Aziraphale once more for all that he has. “Never stopped. Not once. I never will.” 

Aziraphale tightens his hold around his back, brings them even closer. “I know that now. I feel it.” Crowley exhales, part relief and part eagerness, pawing at Aziraphale’s stupid swimsuit like he could get away with sending it into an active volcano. “You have to know, me too. I never once stopped, not once, not even when –”

Crowley cuts him off. It’s a nice new trick, this whole kissing business. He does it once more for the sake of it, and he realises he’ll never get his fill. He could let his lips slide against Aziraphale spit-slicked ones for eternity and still want more after it. Eventually, his useless lungs start to burn, and he draws back. “Can we stay here a bit longer?”

Aziraphale is nodding before the question has even left his mouth. “Of course.” He slides down the miracled bed, settling in. Crowley follows him, reclaiming his previous spot. “It is rather nice out here. All these stars.”

Crowley isn’t looking at the stars. He keeps his eyes closed, not caring for anything going on in the world, content enough to keep breathing in, breathing out, drowning his senses in Aziraphale. 

What comes after a first kiss?

Crowley doesn’t know, but this is certainly good enough.

🌻🌻🌻

The sunflowers still haven’t bloomed. Crowley is trying not to be too annoying about it, but it’s hard when right next to them, Aziraphale’s hydrangeas are purple and blue and loudly beautiful. 

“The book says mid to late July,” Aziraphale says, quite obnoxiously turning a page on said book. “Fret not, darling. They’ll come around.”

“Yeah, yeah, you say that.” Crowley cuts off yet another yellow leaf. “ Your flowers are blooming like anything.” 

Aziraphale tuts. “All the flowers in this garden are mine and yours.” He closes the book, abandoning it on the sunbed to crouch down next to Crowley. He wraps a hand around Crowley’s elbow, the thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of it. “Just have a little bit more patience.” 

Crowley grumbles. “I’m not patient.”

“I know.” Aziraphale laughs. “But you can be if you really put your mind to it.”

Crowley wants to kiss him. He always wants to kiss him: when Aziraphale laughs, when he pouts, when he licks his lips after sipping his wine, when he sighs as he reads something good on whatever book he’s currently on. Always, Crowley is not kidding. He would gladly forget all of his other daily activities just to spend the whole day kissing Aziraphale.

Which would be too insane even for him, so he refrains. He’s been trying to limit himself: a kiss whenever Aziraphale eats something he made (both for good luck and as a thank you) a kiss every time he gives Crowley a glass of something. It’s reasonable. Perfectly acceptable. 

Oh, and a kiss goodnight and a kiss good morning. 

Because he and Aziraphale still don’t share the bedroom. Which is fine. Dandy even. 

It’s not like – alright, seven months ago, all he wished for was for the bedroom to be theirs. He even kept the frilly lacy curtains and the abat-jour in a bout of wishful thinking, but right now? Now that he knows what it’s like to be kissed back, to hear Aziraphale’s little sighs as Crowley grips his waist just so, to taste and smell and touch the angel? The bed is an overthought. 

He doesn’t need anything else, at all. He’s already got more than he could ever possibly imagine. 

He wishes the stupid flowers would bloom. 

And maybe, sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night and really aches to bury his face in Aziraphale’s chest, but he’s working on it. He can do that when they lounge outside, on the sunbed he was idiotic enough not to want, as Aziraphale reads and pretends he doesn’t know Crowley is perfectly awake, breathing him in and soaking in the sun and the closeness. If he’s very, very lucky, he ends up with a hand in his hair, the touch still a bit tentative, but surer ever since it made him fall asleep for real for the first time.

And maybe, sometimes, he wishes there would be no tentativeness whatsoever. He wants to lean into Aziraphale’s space without taking two deep breaths first, he wants Aziraphale to press his lips whenever he wants without waiting for a nod first, and he really, really wants to ask him to come to bed with him. Not for – well, not only for – maybe? Not yet. Just to sleep. 

He’s working on it. He didn’t say it’s going well. 

At least he can still tilt his head, nodding imperceptibly, and wait for Aziraphale to grant the silent request. He does, his clever angel, sweet and lingering and faintly sugary. “How were the pancakes this morning?”

“Splendid.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale sighs. “A bit dry. But!” He hurries to grasp Crowley’s hand before he can do something drastic like chopping off all of the sunflowers. “Infinitely better than the last batch.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Crowley huffs. “The last batch burned.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Yes, well. As I said, miles better.” 

If his whole kitchen fiasco wasn’t the thing that actually convinced him that Aziraphale cared for him more than he fooled himself into thinking he did, he would have probably miracled himself somewhere in Iceland to sleep the century off. “I’ll get there,” he says, freeing his own hand to deal with the yellow leaves that survived the first purge. “I won’t be beaten by eggs, of all things.”

“You are getting there.” Aziraphale tells him gently. “And your eggs are excellent now.”

That brightens him up. He stops with the cutting and searches Aziraphale’s face for any sign of deceit. “Yeah?” 

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale nods, very seriously. “We might even try and tackle cooked vegetables by the end of the week.” 

“Are you sure?” Crowley is certain the carrots shake every time he gets near them after whatever he’s done to them. 

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale lowers the cutting shears again. “Now, I do believe there are no more leaves to prune.”

Crowley chooses to glare at the sunflowers instead. The old habit has never once failed him after all, even if he has to wait until Aziraphale is out of the house to get a proper screaming session in, and he needs a screaming session. He’s experiencing reciprocation, and that calls for a lot of yelling, just to elaborate whatever happened to him in the past week.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale coos, suddenly very softly. “Stop thinking about whatever it’s making you pull that face.” 

Crowley tries to rearrange his features into something more neutral. “Erm–”

“Everything you planted has grown beautifully, and you’ll be a wonderful cook in no time.” 

Aziraphale is smiling, all serene and comforting, and Crowley, who was honestly thinking about screaming about the fact that this angel wants him back, lets himself be petted without an ounce of guilt. “Mmyeah. Sure.” 

“I promise you.” Aziraphale keeps stroking his hair, and Crowley debates whether making himself look sadder than he is is too morally corrupt of a thing to do when Aziraphale asks him, “What do you want to do now?” 

Crowley knows that tone. He tilts his head, lifts one corner of his mouth. “What do you want to do?” 

Aziraphale ducks his head, clearly pleased, looking up at Crowley through his lashes as he keeps toying with his hair. If Crowley were a lesser demon, they would not leave this particular spot on the grass for two business days at least, but he is well versed in the art of repression. He just waits for the request he knows is coming, hoping the angel doesn’t spot the twitching of his left eye. “I was thinking,” he starts, trying to distract Crowley even more with the flutter-flutter of his eyes. “Would you – well, would you like to have dinner with me? As in, properly.” 

Crowley’s whole face stretches into a smile. He really can’t help it. “Properly?” 

“Yes, properly. In a proper restaurant and everything.” Aziraphale sighs, nodding to himself as he sort of resolutely takes hold of Crowley’s hand. “ Properly .” 

There have been taverns with plates made out of clay and the finest china in Versailles, and everything Crowley has ever wanted has always been to hold Aziraphale’s hand over the table. “Will you wear a bow-tie?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” He waits then, all hopeful and wide-eyed, like he doesn’t know there is no other answer but yes. Always, always yes. 

“Of course I would like to.” Just because he can, he gives Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze. “Nothing better than to sit and watch you eat and then end up paying a bill I didn’t contribute to.” 

“You are horrible.” Aziraphale tells him around a giggle. He makes a show of standing up and stomping off, tampered down but the pretty pink on his cheeks. “I’ll expect you at the front door at six sharp!”

Crowley shakes his head. Maybe, just maybe, wanting more is justified this time. 

🌻🌻🌻

It happens as they wait for dessert. 

Crowley ordered one too, something Aziraphale assured him it’s dark and chocolate-y, but he already knows he’ll only have half of it at best, ending up scooching the plate over to Aziraphale just to see him debate with himself for a second before digging in. It’s a dance he’s familiar with.

What he is decidedly less familiar with is the dim ambience, the candle-lit table, the clock not ticking over his head. He isn’t going to have to squirrel away this memory for decades to come, he doesn’t have to grieve over the sight of Aziraphale’s soft features painted gold by the flickering flames before the night is even over. He gets to enjoy him. 

“Angel,” he says, apropos of nothing. He doesn’t even know how to continue the sentence, if he’ll continue the sentence, but he needed to let it out somehow. All this fizzling feeling in his chest, all these bubbles in his veins he didn’t even know he was capable of producing. 

And then it happens. Aziraphale puts his right hand on the table, palm up. An invitation, clear as day. Crowley takes it before one of them can change their mind. 

“Yes?”

Aziraphale’s hand is a bit clammy underneath his own colder one, his fingers squeezing Crowley’s ones with the force of someone afraid of letting go. Crowley can feel the cold metal of Aziraphale’s ring against his skin – such an idiocy, but his fantasies never once took that into consideration. It’s real, and different, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek hard so as not to lose his dignity completely. “I forgot,” he lies, since there was no sentence to even forget. 

Aziraphale snorts at that, slapping his free hand over his face, and the sight sends Crowley into a fit of wheezing laughter that turns more than a few heads into the restaurant. 

He knows what they must look from the outside, and whatever these humans are thinking is probably right. They are insane, and they are together, and none of the people in this room can even begin to understand what it means to them. 

Fuck a whole duck, it is a damn nice night.

When the dessert comes, he doesn’t leave a bite on the plate. 

🌻🌻🌻

It’s raining. Not unusual for July, even less for England, but it had been a while. 

Another heatwave, not as brutal as the one in June, but still relentless. They’ve got the beach, thankfully; Crowley doesn’t even like swimming and saltwater all that much, but the chilliness has offered a nice respite from the sun, Aziraphale’s skin began to darken into a nice shade of gold ever since he started wearing swimwear made in the last decade, and it’s easier to get closer in the waves. 

Crowley lays in bed, and almost curses the rain for ruining his chances of a beach day tomorrow and for probably ruining their flowers. The rain is always stronger after a heatwave, punishing and noisy enough to keep him up. The thunder and lighting do not help either. 

He sighs, and turns again. The sheets feel oddly sticky, the air in the room humid despite the cooling temperature outside, all because Crowley refuses to open the window and let more noise in. Groaning, he shifts on his belly and buries his head in the pillow. 

It’s a damn good pillow, memory foam and everything, and yet it feels like a rock. “Fuck this,” he mumbles, reaching for the other, identical pillow. 

He ends up on his back, both pillows on the floor, glaring at the ceiling. “Fuck this,” he repeats with more feeling. 

He knows exactly why he can’t sleep. He thinks that if he asks the rain why he’s been tossing and turning for ages it’ll know as well. Even the flowers outside probably know. 

He glares at the ceiling some more before getting up, in a rare bout of bravery and energy. Things are almost perfect now, what’s one more question? Aziraphale has asked all the questions lately. Kissing and hand holding and whatever else Crowley has only dreamed of. He needs to do something. 

He just needs to get his brain and mouth to cooperate and let out seven words. He’s uttered so many useless words in his life, what’s seven more? He saved the whole of humanity, twice, for Someone’s sake. He will do it, and he’ll do it now.

The roaring thunder outside breaking up the skies as he opens the bedroom door is a bit ominous, but he ignores it. He knows Aziraphale is not in the studio because he doesn’t like the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, and he takes the stairs two at a time, shutting out every thought. He doesn’t need thoughts, he needs action. 

Aziraphale is exactly where he expects him to be: in his armchair, wrapped in a cardigan, book in his hands, and already looking at him. “Is the storm keeping you up?” 

Crowley nods. His mouth decides to desert him when it matters the most, the traitor, and stays shut.

“Do you want a cup of something?” Aziraphale asks, closing his book. He nods at the cup on the coffee table at his feet. “I just made something for myself.”

“Anna Karenina?” Not the words he meant to let out. Not at all. 

“I finished it. Finally.” Aziraphale pats the book cover with gentle focus. “I’m tackling War and Peace now.” 

“Been on a Russian kick lately.” Crowley could kick himself instead. 

“Yes, well, I’ve been neglecting Russian Literature during the past few years.” Aziraphale scrunches up his nose. “Are you sure I can’t do something for you?” 

Crowley nods. Shakes his head. Almost slaps himself across the face before thinking better of it. “Uhm,” he starts, inhaling long and slow. “Mmyeah.”  

“Yes? What is it?” Aziraphale looks at him, clearly expectant and awfully patient, and Crowley, the being who once created the Milky Way, can only think of stomping over to the sofa and plopping down on it, face first. 

“I’ll sit here,” he says, muffled by the pillows. “You can… tell me about War and Peace.”

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, but he hears Aziraphale clicking his tongue and huffing a laugh. “Do you want me to bore you to sleep?” 

“No. No!” He looks up then, sees the way Aziraphale’s bitchy eyebrow is raised, and decides not to give his clearly disastrous plan another go. He buries his face in the pillows once more. “Maybe.” 

“Well, you’re in luck.” The pages rustle under Aziraphale’s fingers. “We have a lot of characters.”

Crowley groans just as a louder thunder rattles the window. Even Mother Nature is calling him an idiot, and she would be right. 

Still. Aziraphale has a very good voice, and there really are a lot of characters, and falling asleep is easier here. 

When he wakes up in the morning, his ankles are in an angel’s lap and being stroked with a gentle touch. Crowley hides his smile in the pillows, and waits for Aziraphale to be done with his book as he pretends to be asleep just a little while longer. 

From what he could see in his little peak, the sun is shining again. Take that, Mother Nature. Not that much of an idiot, is he? 

viii. August sipped away like a bottle of wine 

“They’re late.”

“Crowley, dear, it’s August 3rd.”

“And what does that mean?” Crowley leans forward to examine the yellow blooms closely. “Late.”

Aziraphale sighs. He’s loving the sunflowers just as much as Crowley thought he would. “They are beautiful.” 

Reluctantly, Crowley agrees. These little fuckers have pained him more than any other plant he ever cared for and he was sure they were never going to show up, perpetually staying hidden in the green shrubs until it was inevitably time to cut them off for the winter. 

And then they decided to bloom in August. Little shits. 

“I believe they’ll be the last of the flowers this year.” Aziraphale says. “The rest of them are already starting to wilt.”

“The gladioli will keep.” Crowley keeps examining the flowers, certain he’ll find at least a flaw. “The hydrangeas may be the first to fall, the lilies too. But the gladioli can live another few weeks, I reckon.”

Aziraphale is silent for a long beat. “I will miss them this winter.”

Crowley pauses, twirling around to assess the pout and the big, kicked-puppy eyes. “Angel,” he whispers, the sunflowers momentarily forgotten. “They’ll bloom again. And – we can plant more. Something that blooms in spring, maybe.” Aziraphale isn’t the only one with a Big Botany Book. Crowley has Google and a lot of free time to research, and he already put in an order at the garden centre for hyacinth and daffodil bulbs, highly anticipating the look on Aziraphale’s face come next April. 

Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “I know you don’t like flowers very much.” 

“You do,” Crowley shrugs. “And I like –” His words trail off, the cowards. 

Aziraphale tilts his head, his grin bigger and awfully knowing. “Well, then I think we should plant more vegetables. And maybe add some more plants in the studio.” 

Reciprocation. It’s fine, he’s handling it well. “Ah.” He coughs, which doesn’t do anything to cover up his flush. “I mean, cool. Sure. If you promise not to coddle them.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “That is not coddling.”

“You sing to them.” Crowley crosses his arms, resists the urge to stomp his foot. He sings to the plants more than he ever sings to him, that’s for sure. “The monstera is starting to get some ideas.” 

“Ideas.” Aziraphale echoes. His face is doing that thing that makes Crowley squirm in place a little bit. He absolutely hates how Aziraphale is able to do these things to him with a raised brow and a head tilt, and it only got worse now that they’re - kissing. 

Speaking of. It’s been a rather kiss-less morning, since Crowley stormed out of the house after finally spotting the yellow blooms moments after waking up. He scrunches up his face, slowly lifting a hand to graze it over Aziraphale’s cheek. 

He leans forward, just halfway, waiting for Aziraphale to meet him there. 

His lips are soft, always - morning, night, in between. That, at least, his dreams got right. 

He couldn’t have known that the skin beneath his fingers would be soft as well, or that the fabric of the shirt his other hand is resting on would be smooth, crisp and cool to the touch, or that the faint smell of bergamot he’d come to associate with the angel would be that much stronger up close. 

He couldn’t have imagined how Aziraphale would make a little sound in the back of his throat before drawing Crowley closer and parting his lips, or how the taste of tea would be overshadowed by something sweeter and so Aziraphale-like it always makes Crowley sigh and beg for another taste.

He doesn’t have to beg. Aziraphale hums, like Crowley’s doing something right, and tilts his head to lean more into his touch before pressing one last peck to Crowley’s bottom lip and drawing back. 

“Good morning.” Crowley whispers, keeping his thumb where it’s wanted, against Aziraphale’s cheekbone. 

Aziraphale blinks. “I thought you forgot today.”

Crowley snorts. He really can’t help it. “Never. Believe me, never. The fuckers distracted me.”

“Our pretty sunflowers.” Aziraphale corrects with a smile. “Now, what do you say about breakfast before I go?”

“Go?” He doesn’t really mean to yell it. He clears his throat. “I mean, where?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “The farmers' market, silly.” 

Ah. The bane of Crowley’s existence. Once a week Aziraphale will leave him alone for an entire morning to go buy things from the villagers who grow them. “Do you have to?”

“I’ve been skipping it lately, since someone has been distracting me.” Aziraphale gives him a peck on the cheek, then takes a step back. “I kind of want to go. I would love for you to come with me, obviously.”

Crowley lets the hand that’s been holding Aziraphale’s face fall limply at his side. “Urgh.” 

He has been with Aziraphale to the market, obviously, especially at first to… assess the crowd. 

Therein lies the problem. The crowd. 

There are so many people, behind the stands, in front of the stands, in the middle of the stands. Bloody everywhere, it drives Crowley crazy. He knows it’s a crazy comparison, and he would never tell Aziraphale, but the hallways of Hell are not that dissimilar to rush hour in the village’s farmers' market. 

“I know you hate it,” Aziraphale adds when Crowley takes too much time to reply. “You want to stay here and tend to the apricots.”

The apricots do need to be picked, actually, and if Aziraphale isn’t here he could cheat and use a miracle for the higher branches. “I don’t hate it,” he tells him belatedly. Aziraphale merely quirks an eyebrow. “Fine,” he huffs. “Last time someone brought a whole cow – who does that?”

“That would be Mrs Glendale. She makes the blue veined cheese you like.” Crowley frowns. Aziraphale sighs. “The moldy stuff.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Listen.” Aziraphale crowds him up a bit, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I don’t mind going alone. I prefer you being here and happy.”

Crowley chews on the inside of his cheek. He wants to go with Aziraphale, of course he does, but he also wants to tend to the apricots and some of the vegetables who have been acting up and he longs for a good screaming session. He looks down to Aziraphale’s pretty face, going a bit crossed-eyed given their proximity. “Are you sure?”

Aziraphale nods. “I’ll be back for lunch with your cheese.”

Crowley tips forward enough to kiss him again. And if he squeezes his waist a bit tighter and lets the kiss linger for longer than strictly necessary, it’s no one else’s business. 

Aziraphale breaks it with a giggle. “I will still have breakfast with you before leaving.”

Crowley grins. “I forgot.”

🌻🌻🌻

Yeah, he regrets it. 

The cheating miracle means that he's done with the apricots in two minutes. He checks on the pears, which appear to be on track with what Aziraphale’s dumb book says in terms of ripening, yells at the carrots and compliments the radish and the peas, harvesting a few for lunch. Aziraphale may like something fresh. 

Aziraphale, who’s been gone for less than an hour and who Crowley already misses. 

He flops down on the grass, glaring at the lilies. “You know, y’should fight to stay alive a little longer.” The blooms don’t even shake a tiny bit. All Aziraphale’s fault. “He’s watered you every day since you were bulbs. Be grateful.”

The gladioli look a bit perkier. “And you, don’t you dare let him down. He’ll be happier if you last two more weeks, and that’s what you’ll do. Capeesh?” 

Not even a tiny tremble. Crowley groans, and wonders if the plants inside have been irreparably corrupted or if they still recognize their master. 

They do. Partially. 

He doesn’t know what Aziraphale tells them exactly, but back in London one glare from Crowley meant ground falling out of the vases and the smell of terror in the air. Now, he’s lucky if he gets one leaf to shake. “Traitors. All of you.” 

He sighs, sitting down on the desk where Crime and Punishment sits still open. Crowley puts Aziraphale’s bookmark in it, smiling lightly. He really is on a Russian kick. “Yeah, I know,” he says to the room. “I get it. He’s just - yeah. I would fold as well. Did, actually.” 

And it’s only been an hour. He should have just gone with Aziraphale and endured the damn cow - he’s been through worse, much worse, and he may have actually got to hold Aziraphale’s hand this time. He is such an idiot. “Don’t look at me like that,” he points a finger to the spider plant. “I’ll put bleach in your mister.” 

After another round of threatening and another round of checks in the garden, he ends up at the kitchen, counting the lines on the wooden table. 

It’s pathetic, he’s aware. 

it’s just - it’s different now. He used to spend decades, even centuries away from Aziraphale, and while it was miserable, he survived: hoarded the memories like a dragon and smelled lemons and oranges hoping to get the right one eventually. He survived, he managed to squeeze a visit to Aziraphale again, and started to count down the days to the next one. 

Now, though, he’s gotten used to the closeness. He can look behind him and see Aziraphale safe in their home, on their sofa, in their garden. He kisses him for hours and holds his hand over tables and spends every single day with him, and it still isn’t enough. 

It can’t be enough. They have – millennia to make up for. What are months to his existence? Between a blink and another he’s found himself going from brushing fingers while passing a bottle to each other and trying to act casual about it to tasting Aziraphale first thing in the morning. In the grand scheme of things, he’s had Aziraphale for less than a blink. 

To be fair, a morning is even less than a blink. “What a loser.” Yes, he’s now talking to himself. The morning alone is going great. 

He can always take a nap, at least. Sleeping it off has always helped with the whole missing Aziraphale thing: great distraction, makes the time pass faster, always makes him feel better. He really needs to pick up a new hobby. 

For now he just shrugs, sprawling further into his chair and closing his eyes, not even bothering with the ceiling. 

It starts with a single crick. The house assessing itself, which is normal for old buildings and a sound Crowley is by now used to. Except that it’s loud. Louder than it has ever been, and it doesn’t stop once Crowley snaps his fingers and barks a general shut up to the ceiling, but merely turns into a series of even louder pops. He snaps his fingers again, and the house shakes for a moment before settling. “Good house.” Crowley mumbles, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes again. 

Thus begins the chirping. Aziraphale’s little darlings, the creatures working overtime to ruin the vegetables and Crowley’s life. Being fed seeds and fresh water by a literal angel means that their cries are the happiest, most enthusiastic and loudest in the whole animal world. He cannot send them into a black hole. That Aziraphale would never forgive. “Can you at least shut up naturally?” He yells out of the window. The chirping stops. He exhales, only getting to the third letter in thanks before it starts again, and way louder. The fuckers called their friends. 

“Fine.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and plasters himself on the ceiling. 

Of course, the moment he starts to get a bit comfortable is the moment he hears keys turning in the front door, and he panics. He at least hopes the fall wasn’t loud enough to -

“Good Lord, are you alright?”

- loud enough to worry Aziraphale. “Yep, yep, fine.”

“You are on the floor.” Aziraphale drops his bags, hurrying over to help Crowley to his feet. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“Checking the - wood.” Crowley gives him his widest grin. “You’re back.”

Aziraphale, clearly unimpressed, frowns. “Were you sleeping on the ceiling?” 

“Nah.” His cheeks are starting to hurt. “How was the market?”

Aziraphale gives him a long look, head to toe, and brushes something off of his shirt. “Alright.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to frown. “Just alright?”

It’s not like Aziraphale not to wax poetic about how round the peaches were or how smelly the cheeses or whatever else. He found the cow cute, bless his heart. 

Aziraphale goes to pick up his bags, depositing them on the table as he starts to empty them. “It’s silly.” 

Crowley tuts, snatching an apple from his hands. “What did I say about that word?”

Aziraphale hums, but keeps putting things away without really looking at Crowley. “Well, they didn’t have your cheese, for starters.”

“Ah. Tragic.” Crowley says, biting back a smile. He might be a little too relieved to focus on Aziraphale’s pout.

“The cow was back!” Aziraphale perks up a little. “She’s still extremely adorable. And with child this time.”

“Terrific.” He actually doesn’t regret not going anymore. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale nods, pretty oblivious. “I actually turned around to tell you about it before remembering I was alone.” 

Crowley drops the apple. “Angel-“

“And I must have looked so ridiculous that Mrs. Glendale’s nephew gave me ricotta for free, which I don’t even like but I couldn’t tell him, could I?” Aziraphale continues, putting the eggs away like they personally victimised him. “And that was before he told me they didn’t have blue cheese. And don’t even get me started on the lack of strawberries.”

“Angel.” Crowley tells him again. “I missed you too.”

Aziraphale closes the fridge, finally stopping his assault on the eggs. “I know it’s ridiculous-“

“Shut up.”

It’s all it takes. 

He blinks and he has an armful of angel, squeezing his middle hard enough to knock the air out of him, and his own arms react before his poor brain can even begin to process the facts. 

“We are ridiculous.” Aziraphale says, and the breath against his neck reawakens Crowley’s synapses.

With his cheek pressed against soft curls, he asks, “Do you care?”

Aziraphale hums. He stays where he is for a long while, not that Crowley is complaining. His brain is releasing things into his bloodstream it’s never released before. “No,” Aziraphale replies finally. “I really don’t.”

“Good.” Crowley mumbles. “I was on the ceiling, by the way.”

“I knew it.” Aziraphale whispers back. “It is a bit weird, dear.” 

“Yeah, well. I didn’t cry over moldy cheese.” 

Aziraphale pinches his side. “Mean.”

Crowley lets himself smile fully for once. “I’ll make you a deal.” 

He feels Aziraphale giggle against his shoulder. “Should I make a deal with a demon?”

Crowley ignores it. “I’ll come with you to the market every other week, if you keep any live animal away from me by any means necessary.”

“Deal.” Aziraphale replies, finally relaxing. “Perhaps we’ll get better, eventually.”

Crowley thinks it’ll take a century, more or less. “Yeah, sure.” 

Aziraphale takes a breath before drawing back. “I did get the red you liked last month.” He goes to open the right cabinet, balancing two glasses in one hand. “Would you like -“ 

“Yes.” Crowley is already out of the house, and Aziraphale only laughs as he follows him. 

He really never wants to get better. Whatever that means. 

🌻🌻🌻

There is no cow, and thankfully there are no chickens either. If the ethereal energy he feels swirling in the air is at fault, he really doesn’t care. “Way less people than I remember.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale thrills. “It’s August. Humans are on holiday.”

Crowley stops in his tracks. He feels his face stretch into a grin. “Angel,” he coos, delighted. “Did you get rid of the humans for little old me?”

Aziraphale flushes, walking straight ahead of him. “Hurry up, dear.” 

Crowley cackles. “What was it? A mysterious virus spreading through the village like the plague? A stomach ache? Incontinence?” 

Aziraphale swirls around in a flurry of beige and pink. “You’re horrible.” He promptly plants a kiss on Crowley’s lips, right in the middle of the town square, which he knows he’s bound to fire some neurons inside Crowley’s head. “I do believe I said to hurry up.” 

Crowley follows him, of course. Even though that was a low blow. 

He perks up a little as he watches Aziraphale bitch about strawberries or the lack thereof, and he cracks a grin as he sniffs a lemon before putting it down with a deadly, “No, thank you.” 

He refrains from any comment, though he’s pretty sure the furtive smile Aziraphale keeps sending his way means the angel already knows what he’s thinking. 

The smells grow stronger as they get closer to the offending stand, miraculously cow-less.

“Mrs. Glendale!” Aziraphale greets the old woman behind the stall with a megawatt smile. 

“Good morning, Mr. Fell.” The woman replies, somehow unscathed by the power of the smile. “We have your cheese this week. Lucas is just about to be done with all the unloading.”

“How splendid!” Aziraphale claps his hands and then, horrifyingly enough, drags Crowley closer by his elbow. “It’s for… my Anthony here, actually.”  

My Anthony. Crowley cannot force his mouth to cooperate, so he just nods dumbly, the hand on his elbow burning. My Anthony. 

The woman says something, and she sounds happy enough, and then he can see he’s talking to him, but he cannot reply. Cannot even listen. 

Is he? His Anthony? He’d like to be. He doesn’t know if he already is, even though he's always been Aziraphale’s, but to be his, properly and – and wholly, that he’d like. The farmers' market is not the place to have this kind of thoughts. He feels on fire, flayed open by two single words, and he wants to ask Aziraphale if he means it. If he could be his Aziraphale in every way, if he could put his hands and mouth on him and take, grab, bite even, if the thoughts he’s been carefully putting in a box in the back of his mind can come out, if Aziraphale could teach him everything he likes, if he wants to –

Something hurts. Aziraphale is squeezing his elbow painfully hard. “He’s not a man of many words,” he’s saying. Then quieter, just for him. “Are you quite alright?”

Then again, of all the places that box in his mind could have bursted open, the farmers' market isn’t a good place. “Yeah,” he whispers back. He coughs, trying to find his way back into his corporation. “Yes. Just – take whatever you want, alright?” 

Aziraphale frowns for a second, the micro-expression of someone who’s known him for millennia and knows exactly if things are right or wrong, even if he can’t imagine why. “Fine. I’ll be quick,” he says, then goes to retract his hand. 

And, no. Not now, not when Crowley is feeling – like this. He puts Aziraphale’s hand in the crook of his elbow, gives it a squeeze. “Take your time, angel,” he croaks, and ignores the way the woman smiles at them. He only stares at Aziraphale. 

He knows the angel wants to see his eyes. It’s why he wears the glasses, after all. Aziraphale stares at him, too, for a moment longer than what’s polite, and nods briefly before refocusing on the woman. 

He doesn’t drop his hand. He’ll want to talk about this, Satan knows he will force the words out of Crowley, soon if not today, but he doesn’t drop his hand, and he called him my Anthony. 

Crowley just needs to ask a question. Just once more. 

🌻🌻🌻

It’s quiet in the house when they come back. The birds aren’t singing, sensing the storm threatening on the horizon, and the house has been silent ever since Crowley told it to be. 

Aziraphale doesn’t waste any time. The door has barely closed behind them when he asks, “What happened?” 

Crowley takes off his glasses, places them in the designated bowl. His hands are shaking slightly, which is an understatement to his general state. If two words can do this to him, he doesn’t want to imagine what three – “You said my Anthony, back there.”

Aziraphale blinks. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly isn’t this. “I – I apologise. I didn’t –”

“Did you mean it?” Crowley presses. “Because it wasn’t – I wasn’t –”

“You looked like you were about to bolt.” Aziraphale swallows. Crowley follows the movement of his throat with his eyes. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”

He shakes his head. A few locks of hair fall down onto his eyes, and he brushes them back with a nervous hand. “I liked it.” It’s a secret, not his deepest one. “Did you – do you want to?”

Aziraphale takes a step back. His head touches the wall, and he doesn’t drop his gaze. “Want to? I thought I’ve been clear on that point.”

Maybe he has. Maybe Crowley has spent so much time being told no that he can’t hear the yes. “So, could I say, my Aziraphale?” He thinks his heart is beating so fast Aziraphale might be able to see it under his shirt. “To – to the humans, to the bloody birds. To you.”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “I would love to.” 

That word again, love. Love Crowley isn’t supposed to feel, love he always felt, but only ever for the being in front of him. “Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale is already nodding. “Please.”

It’s different, this kiss. Crowley can tell the moment their lips meet. Perhaps it’s his fault, perhaps it’s the way Aziraphale stays pressed against the wall, only pulling Crowley closer. But it is. 

He’s careful, always, but his hands roam, his touches linger, his chest presses up against Aziraphale’s. 

He wishes there was something softer than his hand behind Aziraphale’s head. He wishes to be doing this on the sofa, on the settee, on the bed – speaking of, what is this thing they’re doing?
He feels like he has to know. Because Aziraphale’s tongue is wet, and his sounds are breathy and high pitched, and his hands are on Crowley’s back, in his hair, on his neck, and Crowley needs to know. 

Only, it’s difficult not to get distracted. He loses himself for a moment or two. Aziraphale’s lips are soft, always, but sure as well, and he’s running a hand against Crowley’s jaw, coaxing it open the way he likes. He tastes like tea and oranges and Aziraphale, and Crowley grabs a fistful of curls, pulling him closer still, always closer. Aziraphale groans against his mouth, a sound new and as old as the world at the same time, and time stops. 

Crowley stops as well, drawing back, panting. “Angel,” he croaks, nothing else on his mind. 

Aziraphale is flushed – eyes glassy, hair all messy, lips shiny, cherry red. The hand on his jaw moves up, touches his nose, his cheek, his lips. Crowley is so distracted by the wet sheen of his mouth and the stars in his eyes that he misses the first few times Aziraphale says his name. “Sorry. Sorry, what?”

“I don’t want to stop.” He punctuates the sentence by tightening the hold he has on Crowley’s waist. “I never wish to make you – to make you anything less than happy.” 

“What the fuck?” Crowley murmurs. “You think… this doesn’t?” 

“You have to tell me,” Aziraphale adds, pleads almost. “I do want to be yours, and I want you to be mine, and I have to know if you mean the same thing.”

Crowley stares. Stares and stares and stares, words dancing around in his brain, on the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale’s eyes are shining, and he’s, God, he’s waiting for Crowley to say something. And Crowley has been waiting to say this for so long he stopped trying to remember when it started. Eight months, seven words, six thousand years. “Will you come to bed with me?” 

Aziraphale says yes. 

🌻🌻🌻

One thing Crowley is starting to realise about himself is that whenever he gets what he wants, he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

He thinks it’s because he’s not really used to: he got a house with Aziraphale, and managed to make him think he wanted to run away on month two; he got to kiss him, and then proceeded to find out he managed make him think he didn’t want him anymore; he gets him in his bedroom now, and can only sit down awkwardly beside him, mouth snapped shut and back ramrod straight. 

He needs the angel’s help for this… next part. Whatever comes next, he can’t be the one to initiate. His mind is running too fast, his breath is too short. He’ll manage to ruin this before it even starts. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale takes his hand first. He gently pries the fist open, toying with the fingers. “You’ve got such nice hands,” he says, out of the blue. “Like a pianist. I’ve always thought so.”

He doesn’t think he’ll survive this, actually. “I need you to tell me what to do.” Which wasn’t how he pictured this ever going, but now that he’s found himself able to talk, he needs to keep going. “I’m serious. You need to – to call the shots, or whatever, or… this will be a shitshow.” 

“I don’t even know what this is yet,” Aziraphale replies, a bit coyly. 

And Crowley loves him, more than anyone has ever loved anyone else, but he needs him to get this. “No, listen. You – you’re my first, and only. Saw you on that bloody Wall and it was all over, and I’m not – this is not a complaint.” He keeps his gaze steady on the floor. Aziraphale’s hand has stopped playing with his own. “But I only ever wanted you, which means – you know what that means. Don’t make me say it.” He hears Aziraphale make a sound, but he barrels on before his brain decides to shut down again. “And I know you – you know things. The Guineas club, Oscar Wilde, whatever. I know you know, and I’m not – shit, I’m not saying you shouldn’t. You’re perfect.” He chokes a bit on the word, but he might as well finish this now that he’s started it. “Just, what I’m saying is, help me out here, alright?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He sits perfectly still, and Crowley cannot even feel him breathe. He knows he’ll be able to read his thoughts if he forces himself to look at him, or at least how he’s feeling, but he can’t. He keeps looking down at the cracks in the wooden floor, almost waiting for judgement. 

Finally, Aziraphale exhales, long and shaky. “You’ve got many things wrong.”

It almost sounds like a badly held-in laugh. Startled, Crowley turns to look at him. “What?”

Aziraphale is smiling. It’s small and a bit uncertain, but it’s there. “Crowley, darling. I don’t quite know where to start, but I will say, very affectionately of course, that you do not need my help.”

Crowley just scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Listen –”

“I did. I listened, though I should have paid more attention before.” Aziraphale brings the hand he’s still loosely holding to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. “The gentlemen at the club, dear old Oscar, they were all very brave. I found myself almost envious, at times, of how hard they fought for – for love. And yes, they did want to… show me things.” 

Crowley feels like choking a bit. He nods, scooting a bit closer to Aziraphale, just to remind himself that he’s here now. 

Aziraphale gets a splash of pink on his cheeks, but keeps smiling gently, holding Crowley’s hand to his chest. His heart is beating very fast. “But I couldn’t bring myself to ever cross that line. Not with them, not with anyone. Do you know why?”

Feeling even more unmoored, Crowley shakes his head. Without thinking, he stills Aziraphale’s bouncing knee with his free hand, squeezing gently to ground himself. Maybe to ground them both. 

“My thoughts were not my own.” Aziraphale tells him quietly, like a secret. “I could only picture red and golden and black. It wouldn’t have been fair to any of them, or to myself or – or to you. I should have told you before, sooner, that I only ever wanted you, too.” 

And Crowley feels – he feels too much. There is too much joy in a body that wasn’t meant to house any, too much love in a soul built to forget about it entirely, and he doesn’t know what to do with all of this. “Angel,” he says, because that is always a safe bet. “Angel.” His angel, who he got terribly wrong, who always surprises him, who wants him back. His angel, no one else’s: the electric zip in his spine at the thought is definitely demonic, and can’t be helped, but the stutter in his chest as Aziraphale presses another kiss onto his knuckles is not. That’s something closer to human.

“So, just to wrap this up, I want to tell you: you’re my first and only, too, even if I did take a little longer to understand that.” Aziraphale leans forward and presses their foreheads together. “But I read a lot on the subject at hand, if it helps.”

Crowley barks a laugh. The joy is spilling out, filling all the cracks in the floors and between his fingers and landing on Aziraphale too, who giggles with him until he ends up lying sideways on the bed, bringing Crowley with him. Always following. 

“I didn’t read shit,” Crowley whispers in the space between them. “But I did watch some things.”

“So uncouth.” Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “I do hope you’re a visual learner.”

Crowley groans, muffling his chuckles in the comforter. When he quiets down, he finds Aziraphale looking at him like – like he looks at Aziraphale, and the weight of reciprocation almost knocks the breath out of him. 

He’s still not sure about what to do with this kind of gift, but he figures stroking Aziraphale’s butter-soft cheek is always a good idea. “I think,” he starts, pushing himself closer. “I think I’ll start by kissing you again.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers circle his wrist and keep it where it is as he nuzzles his palm. “I never asked you to stop to begin with.” 

🌻🌻🌻

In the end, it isn’t the out-of-body experience Crowley expected (and feared, a little bit). 

He has never felt more in tune with his corporation, actually. And it’s – it’s really good. 

He likes feeling all that skin, all that warmth. He likes how different their bodies look, these old bags of bones he never felt particular attachment to, but now that Aziraphale’s is in his arms he can only call, “Gorgeous.” He likes how Aziraphale giggles at that, breathy and joyful, and tells him, “Just as you are.” 

He loves replacing his fingers with his lips, finding the places he can bite and taste, discovering where Aziraphale is ticklish and where it feels oh so good, do that again. He loves watching pale skin bloom under his teeth, a red-hot sign reading ‘Crowley was there’, and he loves when Aziraphale pushes him into the mattress and plants a wet kiss onto a perfect spot on his neck, and says, “You were having too much fun with that.”

When it becomes too much, and nearly not enough, the sounds he’s making get away from him, and Aziraphale looks up from his spot on Crowley's stomach. “I – I think I want to be done with the amuse bouche.”

“Do not start with the food metaphors,” Crowley hisses. “Not when your mouth is inches away from my –”

Aziraphale slaps him on his upper thigh. Very lightly, barely a tap, but Crowley still has to bite his tongue and file that away for later. “May I proceed to the first course?”

Crowley scrubs a hand over his face, his muffled groan giving way to a wheezing laughter. “You – I cannot believe I’m this attracted to you.” 

Aziraphale kisses his hipbone, sending him a winning smile. He’s so beautiful – all mussed up, flushed and naked in Crowley’s sheets, the dark blue bringing out his sky bright eyes, the sun filtering in from the lacy curtains painting him in the softest light. He loves him like this: brave and confident, happily settled in his freedom, everything Crowley needs. He props himself up on his elbows, taking a moment to card a hand through the curls. “You may. Angel, you – do everything you want, I’m y-yours.” He’s not sure if the stutter is due to nerves or his still panting breath, but it doesn’t matter because Aziraphale nods anyway and tells him he’s his as well. 

Belonging – a tricky thing for a demon like Crowley and, as he’s starting to realise, for an angel like Aziraphale: not really of Hell, not really of Heaven, too otherworldly to be fully of Earth. But of each other’s? It works. It works perfectly. 

He’s never belonged anywhere more than he does in this bed, with Aziraphale’s careful and tentative mouth on him. He’ll have time to be embarrassed by the sounds he’s making later, but now he’s too focused on gripping the sheets tight enough to tear them and to keep his hips absolutely still, since he doesn’t want to skip to dessert so soon. 

He’ll have time to be mad about the food metaphors later as well. There is too much heat now, wetness and velvet he feels down to his bones, and Aziraphale is making tiny little sounds like he’s the one enjoying this, like he’s not actively trying to murder him. Crowley forces himself to keep his eyes open, to not miss a second of this, even when they start to sting with unshed tears and burning want. “Angel,” he croaks out, voice grave and strange, and pleads again when Aziraphale hollows his cheeks and looks up at him instead of – of – “Angel, Jes – Heaven – shit, wait, come back here.” 

Aziraphale complies, dropping a kiss on Crowley’s chest as he goes. “I like that.” He says, breathless and shining. “Do you –”

“Fuck.” Crowley brings him down into a kiss, tasting salt and himself and losing his mind. “Fuck, fuck, I need to –” He paws at Aziraphale, trying to reach down before a shaky hand covers his. 

“Do you want to –” Aziraphale flushes, pushing himself up to straddle Crowley properly, bringing him up with him. “I’d like to feel you, if you’re amenable.”

Crowley throws his head back, looks at the ceiling and counts to ten and backwards. “Amenable,” he mutters. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Like this, this first time.” Aziraphale continues, definitely amused now, sitting properly in Crowley’s lap. “But there are a lot of other things I want to try.”

“Consider my diary cleared.” Crowley drops his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder, whimpering as he feels his hair being petted. 

“Don’t be nervous.” Aziraphale whispers. “I feel like we’re doing pretty well, all things considered.” 

And, weirdly, that helps. It really shouldn’t make Crowley’s breath come easier, but it does. It may be the ‘we’ of it all, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. It’s enough to lay Aziraphale down, kiss promises into his skin and fumble through the next steps, making him laugh when he gets it wrong, making him moan and plead and beg when he finally understands. 

Crowley knows next time will be better – smoother, longer, surer. But he also knows that it will never feel like this again. His hips are moving, not in any rhythm that can be called such, yet Aziraphale still looks at him like he’s a Starmaker. He holds him closer, meets his movements, tells him he’s doing so well. There are tears in his eyes, and Crowley kisses them as well. 

He feels it when the end approaches, in the tightness in his stomach and in the trembling in his legs, and it’s imperative to make Aziraphale fall apart first. He reaches down, oil overflowing from his fingertips, and drinks every sound directly from the source, following him right after. 

Always following, after all. 

It’s quiet afterwards. Wet and sticky, messier than he ever thought it would be. He banishes away the discomfort with a thought. “Thank you.” Aziraphale murmurs into his hair. Crowley can’t really be asked to move, so he just mumbles something into Aziraphale’s neck, and stays. 

It wasn’t really cinematic or – or acrobatic , or fireworks worthy. It was perfect. “You’re perfect,” he feels the urge to tell Aziraphale, lifting his head just enough to do so. 

“I am not,” Aziraphale replies. He looks younger with curls messed up enough to fall down his forehead. “But I’m yours.” 

“My angel.” Crowley slurs, nosing Aziraphale’s cheek. “Stay.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale sniffs with the hint of a laugh. “I was not expecting this to be a touch and go kind of thing.”

“No, no.” Crowley snorts. He kisses Aziraphale’s temple, keeps his lips there. “I mean, always. In the night. Read or draw or whatever it is that you do at night – do it here. In the bed, with me.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes, tilting his head to look at Crowley in the eyes. “I think I would like that very much.” 

So, what if Crowley’s original plan went a bit sideways? Let the record show it went miles better than originally planned. He is a winner. He seals it with a kiss before laying on his side, his head on Aziraphale’s pillow and a hand on his stomach. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, shuffling closer. “Crowley?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I feel – I feel rather… unlocked.” Aziraphale whispers with an excited giggle. “I can’t stop thinking about how that felt.” 

Crowley is still vibrating. “Really fucking good,” he nods, very seriously.

“I already want to do that again.” Aziraphale confesses. “I want to keep you here for a week.” 

There are certain perks to being a demon: great hair, immunity to colds and hepatitis, immortality, and, apparently, great stamina. He grins, rolling on top of Aziraphale again. “Well, I cancelled all my other plans.” 

Aziraphale laughs, and meets him halfway. 

ix. how you held me in your arms that September night 

Summer doesn’t want to end this year. Crowley agrees. 

It’s dragging on its final days into September, with balmy nights to let the windows open and warm days to have, apparently, picnics on the beach. 

Unfortunately for him, Crowley will do just about anything if Aziraphale pouts, and given the recent developments, he added a whole lot of new skills to his repertoire, which means Crowley is done for. 

The pebbles digging into his arse are not better than all the seagulls he had to miraculously fight off, and the wind is making sure he eats at least half of his hair and of Aziraphale’s. 

“Isn’t this perfect, dearest?” Aziraphale says, the words vibrating in Crowley’s chest as well where it’s pressed against Aziraphale’s back. 

“Mmmyeah.” Crowley has to grumble, spluttering out some hair - red or white, he doesn’t even care. “Just peachy.”

“More wine?” Aziraphale moves to retrieve the bottle from the basket he prepared, and Crowley tightens the hold he has around him. 

“Nope.” 

“Are you sure?” Crowley throws a leg on him as well. “I see.” 

“You’re making me sit down on rocks, at least do me the favour of staying still.” Crowley grumbles, shifting in place. “And don’t get me started on the bloody birds.”

Aziraphale chuckles, playing with the hem of Crowley’s shirt. He clears his throat twice, clearly squirming in place a little bit. “Angel?” Crowley tries, craning his neck to get a glimpse of his face. He manages to see a very pink nose. “You okay? Should I-“

“Why do birds suddenly appear every time you’re near?”

Crowley sucks in a tiny breath. Oh, now he starts singing. As if Crowley isn’t already gone beyond human and non-human understanding. 

“Just like me, they long to be,” Aziraphale has the nerve to turn around, Crowley’s arms having gone slack, to face him properly with a little smile. “Close to you.”

Crowley makes a noise with too little vowels to be a word. He inhales. “1970. Who taught you that song in 1970?”

Aziraphale chuckles, coy as everything, and shifts back in his previous position. “Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?”

“That’s a bit on the nose,” Crowley comments, words more breath than sound. “But seriously, who taught you that?” 

“No one did,” Aziraphale huffs. “And you’re truly a terrible audience.” 

“Oi!” Crowley snaps and passes the conjured-up wine glass to Aziraphale's waiting hand. “Is this why you sing to the plants and not to me?”

“Clearly.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. The beach is deserted, as it’s bound to be whenever it sees the two of them approaching. The sea is darker than it has been in the past months, the waves louder and bigger too, effectively trying to put an end to a Summer who never wants to leave.

Crowley never liked Summer. Humans smell when they sweat, the humidity frizzles his hair, the storms are at their worst after days plagued by heatwaves. He likes the half seasons the best, when the cold isn’t bitter enough to bite and the warmth is pleasant to bask in. 

Yet, if he were asked to choose right now, he’d wish for this Summer to never leave. “Angel?” He tightens his arms once again, holding on like the balmy evenings in early September. 

“Yes, darling?” Aziraphale’s hair tickles Crowley’s nose whenever he moves, so much that Crowley got used to it and trained himself not to sneeze anymore. 

He’s known loss all of his existence. He’s known he could lose everything and be fine, save from one single being, and then lost him too and survived anyway. Maybe that’s because some part of him knew he didn’t really lose him, maybe because he’s always been too much of an optimist. In any case, he’s here now, with said being in his arms, and he knows he was wrong before: losing this, he’d never survive. “‘M glad you – we’re here.” He says directly into Aziraphale’s ear. It doesn’t matter that they’re alone; he wants the words to be just for him, not even the wind should take them away. “Love you.”

Aziraphale said it first, and says it plenty. He threw it in casually after that first night, held Crowley as he tried to put the pieces back together, and started dropping it in every conversation: after a cup of tea, when being offered the first ripened pear from their tree, as Crowley is on his knees by the kitchen table. 

Crowley can’t. He’s jealous of the words, selfish to a fault. He whispers them in their bed, onto Aziraphale’s skin, every night as he falls asleep, when no one else can risk hearing them. They’re his, and Aziraphale’s, and even the birds can mind their damn business. 

Aziraphale exhales, shuddery and sweet, and melts further on Crowley’s chest. “I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says it plenty, and always says it back. “Thank you for being here with me.” 

Crowley could tell him the truth, that there has never been another place he’s ever wanted to be, but it would be redundant. Aziraphale knows it, and still thanks him for it, because there is no one else who understands the difference between wanting and needing like he does. Aziraphale knows Crowley needs this, them , in a way that goes beyond wanting now. 

He’s been wanting for countless lifetimes. Right now, he can drop his head and close his eyes as he breathes in from his favourite spot in Aziraphale’s neck, and wait for the moment they’ll need to go home. He never has to want again. 

🌻🌻🌻

It’s weird to see the garden flower-less. 

Crowley got used to the splashes of pink and yellow and purple among the green, to the bees buzzing around them. Fall is coming, and flowers must be cut if they are to survive the winter. 

Crowley thinks there is a metaphor in there, somewhere, but he’s been unpacking way too much recently and he’ll leave that one in a box. Aziraphale just cradled the cuttings close to his chest and spent two hours alone in the studio to mourn the loss. Crowley could only watch and put the kettle on. 

Now two weeks flower-less, it’s time to start planting more. Crowley still can’t believe the things he does for the angel, but he’s here on the grass staring at his delivery of hyacinth and daffodil bulbs. Aziraphale didn’t join him for the very muddy affair of getting a new flowerbed ready for planting, the little opportunist. He said something about how he needed to finish a thing and disappeared inside all morning. Crowley doubts he’ll want to miss saying bye-bye to his darling little seedlings, and he knows he has to get up and go look for him. 

That doesn’t mean he’ll do it without some grumbling. “Angel?” He calls as soon as he steps foot into the house. “Are you coming down before the next Ice Age?”

“In your bedroom!” Aziraphale still says your bedroom, every time, despite the fact that it very much is his bedroom as well, now. Something about not actually sleeping there and semantics. Crowley has a lot more dirty jokes to go through to convince Aziraphale to drop the adjective. 

After a beat of waiting, Crowley realises Aziraphale is not coming down. “Are you serious? Are you going to make me come upstairs?”

“You usually don’t complain about that!” 

Well, he never said Aziraphale hasn’t got jokes as well. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

Crowley hears a stomp above his head. “Will you stop yelling and just come up already?" 

“You usually don’t complain about yelling!”

He takes the steps two at a time, because he’s going into their now shared bedroom with a bed with dark green sheets and a very light tartan pattern and lacy curtains and an abat-jour who’s always on, and he’d take three steps at a time if he actually listened to himself. 

He finds Aziraphale kneeling on the bed, of all things, in his socks and rolled-up sleeves. “There you are,” he says. “I wanted to show you my newest project.”

Crowley is already watching. “You –” he breathes out, hurrying up next to him. “Oh, you didn’t.”

It’s a picture. Well, no, it’s not. It’s a frame hung on the wall where the bedpost is pressed against, a wooden frame that looks the kind of vintage Aziraphale likes and the kind of brand new Crowley prefers. There isn’t a painting inside, but flowers. 

Their flowers, the lilies and gladioli, the sunflowers and the hydrangeas, pressed and dried and artfully arranged inside the frame, a little memory garden only a sentimentalist like Aziraphale could come up with. “Do you like it?” Aziraphale asks, somewhere beside him. “I never done something like this before, but Crowley, they were our firsts. I could not just throw them away.”

Crowley wished for this Summer to last forever. Aziraphale found a way to make it true: there is a metaphor in putting their first flowers in a room that has been filled with firsts, too, but Crowley is feeling way too much to unpack that one right now. “You sap,” he murmurs around the lump in his throat. “Pressed flowers. Should have known you’d do this with all your books.”

Aziraphale chuckles, clearly pleased. “I do read them, I’ll have you know.” He claps his hands. “Now, should we tackle the hyacinths? I heard they can be quite stubborn. Or perhaps we start with the daffodils, since they’re easy and –”

Crowley has a different kind of tackling in mind. Aziraphale yelps as Crowley pushes him down on the mattress, rolling himself on top of him as well. “No more gardening for the day.”

Aziraphale giggles into the kiss, pawing at Crowley’s chest ineffectively. “Get off of me. We have seedlings to attend to.”

“They’re bulbs, Aziraphale, bulbs.” Crowley drags his lips from Aziraphale’s cheek to his neck. “They’ll stay put for a day. Now stop talking.”

Aziraphale hums, controlling the next kiss with a hand in Crowley’s hair. “So, you do like it, yes?” 

“Yes,” Crowley says empathically, immediately needing to put that hinge of doubt out of Aziraphale’s tone. “It’s beautiful, you’re beautiful, now can we please – you know?” 

“So suave.” Aziraphale smiles. It’s the kind of smile past Crowley would have hoarded away for the colder months like a squirrel preparing for Winter. Present Crowley kisses it off of his face. 

Maybe next year, this will all feel like less of a miracle. 

🌻🌻🌻

“Come on, try one bite.”

Crowley presses his lips into a thin line, shaking his head. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, you’re such a child.”

“They are sweet and slippery and eurgh. No, nope, thanks.” Crowley has recently found out he hates pears with a passion. Seriously, they are way worse than the snickerdoodles, and that’s saying something: too sweet and too moist and too… pear-y. Yeah. 

Of course, it means Aziraphale is on a mission to make sure Crowley starts liking pears. The reason? “I love pears. I cannot stand the thought of you hating them.” The actual reason? “Oh, you don’t like this? Well, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Look at that crust!” So, the pear tarts and the tarte tatin made with pears and the baked pears with orange juice and chocolate drizzle have all found their way into Aziraphale’s stomach. All’s well that ends well. 

Almost. “I promise you I will hate it, angel.” Crowley actually pleads. “Can't you just eat it yourself?”

“But this one is different!” Aziraphale wields the spoon in front of Crowley’s face like someone who never gave away a flaming sword. “It has dark chocolate and spices. And dates! And no eggs. And the pears are poached which means –”

“Angel.” Crowley stills the spoon. “I hate pears.” 

Aziraphale pouts his bottom lip, turns the puppy eyes up a notch. “Please?” 

Crowley stomps his foot. Actually gives the wooden floor a half hearted kick. “I hate you,” he says, then puts the bloody spoon in his mouth. 

Holy fucking shit. He knows Aziraphale sees it immediately in the way his little smile turns smug as anything. He’s done it again. “Is it good?” He asks, the little shit. 

“Fuck you,” Crowley mumbles around a mouthful of spicy chocolate. “You put cardamom in this?”

Aziraphale hums, feeding Crowley another spoonful. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

Crowley groans, then snorts, then greedily accepts another bite. “I really hate you.” 

Aziraphale’s grin is pleased and absolutely delighted. “I love you, too.”

Crowley has no choice but to forget about fucking pears for a moment and press him against the counter, ignoring the spoon as it rattles onto the ground and letting Aziraphale taste his pears on his tongue, when the unthinkable happens. 

The doorbell rings. Crowley didn’t even know they had a doorbell.

He pulls back, shoulders rising to his ears. “Who’s that?” 

Aziraphale frowns, looking behind his shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. Let me just –”

And Crowley, for some reason, digs his nails into Aziraphale’s biceps, letting out a sound he once swore he never would make outside of the bedroom, too close to a whimper to be dignified.

“It’s surely nothing,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “The wards are in place, remember?”

Crowley remembers. Nothing of Heaven and nothing of Hell can come close, or try at the very least. It’s probably some annoying human looking for a way to annoy someone else on a Sunday ending up on their doorsteps, but – but. No one knocks on their door. No one rings their doorbell. This house is – it’s private, and it’s theirs, and Crowley is too selfish to open it to anyone else. 

He blinks twice, hard, and nods. “No, yeah. I know. Just… annoying.” 

Aziraphale nods, gently pushing a new pair of gold rimmed glasses onto Crowley’s nose as he runs a placating hand down his back. “Let’s go deal with it then.”

Crowley makes sure to keep a hand on Aziraphale as they open the door, and to send a frisson of demonic energy into the air just as a precaution. 

Two humans greet them from the other side. One woman, one man, wearing matching grins and holding a dish with one hand each. Gosh. “Hello neighbours!” They chirp in unison. 

“Um. Hello!” Aziraphale, ever polite, offers them a smile as he sends an inquisitive glance in Crowley’s direction. He just grunts something in response and plasters himself closer to Aziraphale. “Do you need something?”

“We’re here to introduce ourselves.” The woman says. She has bright blond hair and a Northern accent, and a voice more suited to a drill sergeant than a welcome dish bearing woman wearing khakis. “We just moved here. We’re neighbours!” 

“There are no other houses down this street.” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow. 

It makes the couple laugh, for some reason. Aziraphale sends him another glance, polite smile frozen on his face. “We’re a couple streets over. Yours is the first house we encountered.” the man says this time. He’s wearing khakis as well and tragically reminds Crowley of Aziraphale’s former boss who shan’t be named. By the way Aziraphale finds his arm and squeezes, he’s thinking the same exact thing. 

“How… serendipitous.” Aziraphale lets out a painfully fake laugh. “You shouldn’t have bothered with a… dish.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little thing.” The woman takes the initiative and thrusts the covered plate in their direction, and they somehow end up holding the dish with one hand each. Just great. “I’m Margaret, and this is Philip. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr…”

“Fell.” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s arm. “I’m Mr. Fell, and this is my Anthony.” 

Crowley has to ignore the gooey feeling in his chest for a moment. “I go by Crowley.” He’s not about to get on a first name basis with two strangers who knocked on his sacred door. He should have actually taken a page from Aziraphale’s book and never come up with a human first name to begin with, but, on the other hand, hearing Aziraphale say my Anthony out loud is – well, he cannot think about what that is. Aziraphale won’t forgive him if he scandalises the present company. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well, of course.” It has been a while since Crowley has borne witness to an overly polite, painfully fake Aziraphale in action. The sight almost makes him grin.

“You have such a lovely house!” The woman claps her hands, eyes dancing up and down. “I love the exposed bricks.” 

“That roof will be good for the snow.” The man says, for some reason. Crowley only raises his left eyebrow to join the right one. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale lets out a brittle laugh. “Well, we are all hoping for a White Christmas.”

The couple laughs again. Crowley has to take Aziraphale out of this Heaven Spending Review meeting disguised as a neighbourly pleasantry yesterday. “Right, folks, this has been fun.” He takes a step back, bringing both Aziraphale and the stupid dish with him. “Goodbye–”

“Wait! We haven’t invited you to tea yet!” The man has a hand on their door, and Aziraphale must feel the smell of impending incineration in the air, since he squeezes Crowley’s arms tighter. “Tea?” 

“Our place, two streets over down that way.” The woman points at somewhere in the distance, still half yelling. “It would be terribly impolite not to.”

“No, seriously, it’s perfectly fine.” Aziraphale hurries out. “Have a nice–”

“We could come back tomorrow.” The man continues, hand still on the bloody door. “Or the next day, whenever you’re free.” 

“No!” Crowley and Aziraphale say in unison. Between this and the plate, the bad influence is already doing too much. “I mean, no, there is no need.” The angel adds, placatingly. “It’s just – you see, we are in the middle of –”

“Or we could do dinner if –”

“No!” Crowley is the one to yell this time. “Really, goodby-”

“Alright! Tea is fine,” Aziraphale, horrifically, rushes out. The couple cheers. What the fuck? “Your place tomorrow works. Have a nice night.”

The door is finally slapped in the humans faces, with no regard for the man’s hand. Crowley snaps, and the dish disappears. “What did you do?”

“Where did you send that?” Aziraphale shoots back, running a nervous hand through his hair. 

“Kilauea.” That one burns, Vesuvius does not. “Again, what did you do?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide, definitely panicky, and he’s pacing in really tight circles. “I know the type, Crowley. They won’t take no for an answer, they’ll just come back, and come back, until you bristle and say yes just to stop them from coming back.” Aziraphale laughs, just on the left side of manic. “You just need to rip the bandaid off.” 

“Rip the –” Crowley echoes. “I’m a demon. I’m a literal demon who can turn into a huge snake and you thought the solution to send annoying humans away was saying yes ?”

“You–” Aziraphale stops. He pinches the bridge of his nose, doing – he’s doing breathing exercise. Alright. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You didn’t think of that.”

“Stop the echo.” Aziraphale snaps. He moans immediately, rushing over to Crowley. He slips off his glasses, hooking them in the V of his shirt. “I’m terribly sorry.”

It’s a bit too much whiplash. “Let’s – let’s take a breath for a moment.”

Apparently, Aziraphale takes a breath like someone on Broadway warming up before Defying Gravity. He manages to keep a straight face for three lip trills. “Alright Elphaba, come here.”

“I’m – I’ve always thought of myself more of a Glinda.” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s neck. “I’ve always loathed that musical.”

“You like ABBA but draw the line at anti-fascism allegories?” Crowley allows himself a grin, swiftly avoiding Aziraphale’s pinch. 

“I wanted Glinda and Elphaba to end up together.” Aziraphale whines. “And don’t you dare mention the coherence of a narrative, I know.”

“Old sap.” Crowley runs a hand through his curls, the other one rubbing circles on his back. “I can still turn into a big snake and pop by to visit the Khakis monsters.”

Aziraphale hums, unmoving. “We could do some sort of… reconnaissance. A mission.”

Crowley draws back. “A mission.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looks very serious. “Maybe they’re nice and I can do a little blessing over their household. And if they are… not nice, you can gift them a little demonic treat.” 

Crowley blinks. “You – my plan is easier. And quicker.” Aziraphale keeps staring at him, and his bottom lip inches out. “Are you serious?” 

“I panicked!” Crowley only stands still as the angel’s face returns to the previous hiding spot against his neck. “They reminded me of annoying customers and he looked like –“ 

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale shudders. “Yes. And now –“

“Aziraphale. Angel. Wait.” Crowley squishes his cheeks between his palms. “Who cares?” 

Aziraphale blinks. He tries to say something, but it comes out muffled and more akin to a typical Crowley’s noise. His cheeks are very squishy. 

“I mean, here.” He lets go of a cheek to snap. “Suburban Nightmares just forgot all about meeting their 'neighbours',” he says, making sure to make the quotation marks audible. Aziraphale likes that kind of thing. 

He smiles, if a little small. “Oh. That was easier.” 

Crowley thumbs his cheekbone. “If you’re right and they’re back tomorrow, boom. Giant snake. Vavoom.”

“That’s - thank you.” The kiss is short and sweet, Aziraphale letting out a breath as their lips meet. “Apologies for the little… well…”

“Meltdown?” Crowley grins. “I admit it was a nice change of pace, not being the meltdown--ee.” 

“We’re a team.” Aziraphale whispers. “Aren’t we?”

“That’s my line.” 

Aziraphale exhales with a smile. “Well, speaking of melting things, we left the fudge on the counter.”

His pears! Not – not his pears, he still hates them. His cardamom and cinnamon and whatever else Aziraphale put in the thing. Not to mention the other thing going on the counter they kind of left behind. “Oh, no.” Crowley waves a hand. “I wonder who could have put the fudge on the bed.”

“On the little tray? You know I hate leaving a mess on the –" Aziraphale cuts himself off. Crowley wants to bite one of those very pink cheeks. “You know what, I am not finishing that sentence.” 

“Your first sensible decision of the day.”

“The second one.” Aziraphale quips, dragging Crowley upstairs by the elbow. 

They’ve barely halfway up the stairs when Aziraphale picks him up without missing a step, giggling as Crowley yelps and clinches his limbs around his neck and waist, never abandoning his role as meltdown–ee for long. 

🌻🌻🌻

The fuckers come back the next day. 

Unfortunately for Crowley, it turns out Aziraphale is right most of the time. 

When the doorbell rings this time, Crowley is ready. He cracks his fingers and twists his neck, unlocking his jaw with a snap. “Let’s see if I remember how it’s done.”

“You better,” Aziraphale tells him as he smooths down his waistcoat. “Oh, but I’m rather excited to hold you this way.”

Crowley splutters something out and decides to turn into a giant snake immediately. 

Ah, it’s been a while. 

He always forgets how different things are in this state. So much more - intense. He smells everything, from the dust hiding underneath the sofa to the bergamot aftershave Aziraphale keeps in the bathroom upstairs, and he starts to realise a little fallacy in his otherwise perfectly devious, perfectly easy plan. 

“Oh, look at you.” Aziraphale coos, crouching down to let Crowley coil around his arm. “You are certainly very pretty.”

Aziraphale is so soft. He always is, but now Crowley is resting on a velvety shoulder and can put his snout in a warm neck and flicker his tongue to taste such sweetness – he is losing his focus already. He forgot how distracting the world is as a snake. 

And Aziraphale, sweet soft and warm Aziraphale, is petting his scales lightly and cooing as he does. “You’re sweeter like this, aren’t you? Look at this little nose.”

Crowley kind of wants him to boop his nose, and his perfect angel who always reads his mind boops his nose with a little sound. This is the best day of his life. 

The doorbell rings again, and they both startle. See? Distraction. He shakes his head, coils his tail around Aziraphale’s bicep and thinks very hard about the mission ahead. 

“Let’s do this, my darling.” Aziraphale is not helping with the whole focusing business. He flickers his tongue on his neck, making him giggle. He has such a pretty laugh. 

The woman outside does not. She’s even louder than he remembers, and he smells really bad, and he just wants to put his head into Aziraphale’s shirt. And wait, now that he thinks about it –

“It’s very nice to meet you.” Aziraphale is saying, tapping Crowley’s tail. “I’m Mr. Fell, and this is my Anthony.”

Right! The plan. Obediently, Crowley lifts his head and hisses, fangs and everything, right in Wotsisname’s face. Aziraphale will be pretty proud of him, but he’s always pretty everything. Very pretty. Very nice… smelling. 

“Oh, he’s very protective!” The woman exclaims. “Such a beautiful specimen. Do you have more?”

Aziraphale stiffens under him. His smell turns a bit sour. Just for that, Crowley hisses again, this time aiming the fangs at the fake drill sergeant, who merely smiles. What?

“Oh, no, just me and him. He – he can be very scary.” Aziraphale tells them, petting Crowley’s head. 

Wotsisname laughs. “I think it’s cute. Look at how much he wants to be petted.”

Right. Focus. He needs to focus. For his next trick, he lets a bit of demonic essence out. His fangs grow longer, his scales start glowing, the whole shebang. The idiot giggles. “Oh, is he hungry?” 

“Very.” Aziraphale hurries out. “He only eats live things, and starts feeling peckish as soon as he smells blood.” 

So smart, his angel. If only these two weren’t nutters. “Fascinating!” Idiot number one claps. “You should bring him over for –“

“Bye!” Aziraphale barks out, closing the door in their faces. Crowley loves him so much. He waves a hand, juggling Crowley along. “There, they forgot,” he whispers, hurrying away from the door. “It didn’t work!”

Panic doesn’t smell nice. The angel shouldn’t be panicking over two - shit. The plan. He takes one last big sniff and turns back into his usual form, falling to the floor in a mess of noodle limbs. 

“You should have warned me,” Aziraphale helps him to his feet, wisely choosing not to comment on the way Crowley leans on him like a muppet. With a sigh, he relocates them on the sofa, mostly dragging Crowley with him. 

“I did the whole thing. The fangs and the – big demonic energy.” Crowley mumbles, clawing at the velvet on Aziraphale’s stomach. It’s a lingering side effect of the snake form. “Bloody nutters.”

“You did amazing, darling. Very menacing.” Aziraphale is petting his head exactly like before, and Crowley leans into the touch. “But I believe we need to bring out the big guns, as the youth says.”

“Who do you talk to that’s so young?” Crowley cheers half heartedly as he manages to unbutton the waistcoat, sniffing as he finds more buttons underneath it. “And what are the big guns?”

“We go to them first, say yes when they inevitably invite us inside, and then behave so abominably they have to kick us out.” 

Crowley lifts his head, almost hitting Aziraphale as he sways into his space. “You’d do that with me?”

“I stopped God’s plan with you.” Aziraphale waves a hand. “We can stop two humans.” 

“No, I mean – we can be rude and annoying together?” Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s cheek, smashing his whole face onto it in the process. “Thank you.”

“We’ve always been, I should think.” Aziraphale considers, seemingly unpreoccupied with the state of the demon half on top of him. “Just ask anyone who ever met us.” 

“Don’t want to ask anyone.” Crowley rearranges himself so that his face is smashed into Aziraphale’s stomach. “Nice plan. I’ll be my worst.”

Aziraphale hums, and resumes the petting for a precious moment. “Uh.” His fingers still, Crowley does not whine. “We could also make sure they just cannot see the house anymore.” 

It’s reasonable, and perfectly doable. It’s something he knows they can do, having hidden from prying eyes a whole archangel once upon a time, and it’s definitely a less time consuming plan, with a way higher probability of success. 

“No.” Crowley wiggles a finger in Aziraphale’s face. “You said abominably. I want to see it.”

Aziraphale mulls it over for a while. “Oh, alright then. We have a plan B, at least.”

“That’s the spirit.” Crowley smashes his face against him once again, enjoying the petting. 

He makes a mental note not to let another century pass before he occupies his snake form again, given the side effects. 

Well. When in Rome. “Can I turn into a snake and take a nap on you?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale chirps. “I loved feeling your scales. So shiny.”

“Shiny,” Crowley mumbles, before putting his newly formed snout inside Aziraphale’s shirt, and passing out for a good few hours. 

🌻🌻🌻

The fuckers living room is just as tacky as Crowley feared. 

He sprawls on the chair they offered him, a leg thrown over Aziraphale’s left thigh and a hand around his shoulders. He puts a scone into his mouth, swallowing without chewing. “Terrific scones, Margaret.” 

Aziraphale, sitting like a lady in waiting next to him, coughs politely. “Not as good as mine.”

Crowley is having the time of his life. Aziraphale is abominable: he called the curtains evidently vintage, said the chairs reminded him of 19th Century carriages and complimented Wotsisname on his wig, all in less than an hour. Crowley wants to ravish him on this recently renovated floor. 

“Never as good as you.” Crowley leans in to plant a kiss on Aziraphale’s neck, knowing the breathy laugh he gets in response is real. 

“Aren’t you two cozy?” Margaret’s left eye has grown progressively more twitchy. They’re tough, Crowley will give that to them, but even the sturdiest of doors falls down if hit repeatedly. 

“How – how did you meet, gentlemen?” Wotsisname's hand shakes a bit where it’s holding a cup of tea. “We’re big allies, by the way.”

Crowley snorts. “Are you?”

“We met in a BDSM club,” Aziraphale jumps in, placid like a mountain lake. Crowley almost falls out of his chair. “We fought over the same cage.”

Seriously, who does Aziraphale talk to? 

“Ah.” The man looks like he’s regretting every single one of his life decisions. “Peculiar.” 

Margaret is coughing into her fist. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who blows him a kiss. “Took one look at him and I was gone,” Crowley finds himself saying. “Wanted him to lock me up immediately.” 

“My love,” Aziraphale murmurs, way more earnest than the situation calls for. “I assure you, the feeling was very mutual.”

“It’s all very – modern.” Margaret comments, mostly forgotten. 

“No, it’s the oldest art in the world.” Aziraphale shoots back, grimacing when he takes a tiny bite of the offered scone. “Interesting flavour. Were they meant to be savoury?”

“Would you look at the time?” Margaret stands abruptly, sending some scones toppling to the ground. “I have to put the – the turkey in the oven.” The eye is fully twitching by now. Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale with awe. 

He stands, brushing invisible crumbs off of his trousers. He takes Crowley’s hand and sends him a winning smile. “I have to put something in the oven as well.” He winks. “Or, I have to preheat the oven. We still haven’t decided.”

Wotsisname starts coughing loudly. Margaret hurries to the front door, wringing it open. “It’s been a – an interesting tea, gentlemen.” 

“Definitely,” Crowley croaks out. “Thanks for the scones. Do you want some tips on how to properly preheat an oven?”

“He’s an expert!” Aziraphale chirps happily before the door is slammed shut in their faces. “Wahoo!”

Crowley lets out a string of consonants, picks him up bridal style and doesn’t let him down until their front door is locked behind them.

🌻🌻🌻

They don’t even make it to the bed. 

Crowley is missing a shoe and a sock, his shirt hanging open at the sides, trousers pushed down to the middle of his thighs by Aziraphale’s impatient hands. 

Above him, Aziraphale is in a similar state, missing the bow-tie and the waistcoat, neck and collarbone marked by Crowley’s teeth and hips grounding down insistently.

“A BDSM club,” Crowley pants. “You are out of your mind.” 

“Did you, ah, did you like it?” Aziraphale’s hips stutter as Crowley sinks his teeth into a tendon on the side of his neck. “I spent last night thinking about it.” 

“Made them regret ever moving here.” Crowley manages to kick his trousers off, hooking his legs behind Aziraphale’s back to get a better leverage. “Magnificient. Incredible work. Would like to – shit, shit – do it again.” 

Aziraphale drops his forehead onto Crowley’s shoulder. “I had so much fun. It may be bad, but –" 

“No. Not bad, never.” His legs are quivering now, the knot in his stomach rising up to his throat. “You’re good. Y’re so good.” 

Aziraphale pants into his mouth, smiling too widely to kiss him properly. “I love you.” 

“Shit,” Crowley hisses. “Still - we’re still in our bloody pants.” 

Aziraphale laughs, loud and beautiful and bright, and it’s that, more than the suddenly slick hand trailing southwards, that does Crowley in. Aziraphale laughs in his ear, tells him, “You bring out something new in me, and I never want you to stop,” and Crowley digs his nails into Aziraphale’s sides and his teeth into his shoulders, arching his back nearly off of the sofa. 

“Angel,” he urges on, his senses coming back slowly. “Come on, let me see you.” 

Aziraphale nods, straddling Crowley’s thigh properly. He always makes the prettiest sounds, all Crowley’s new favourite noises, but his very favourite one comes right after Crowley whispers an I love you somewhere on his skin, high pitched and breathy, muffled against Crowley’s temple. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, waving away the mess. Aziraphale snaps and frees the both of them of their remaining clothes, draping a blanket over their quivering bodies. Crowley grins. “And very frisky tonight.”

Aziraphale huffs. “You inspire me.” He brushes some hair off of his forehead before tracing a line on Crowley’s cheek. “I meant it. I had fun today.”

“You were amazing.” Crowley pulls him down, resting his chin on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “I wanted to ravish you on that awful chair.” 

“Did you really?”

“Really really.” Crowley promises, snorting as Aziraphale wiggles happily. “Bitchy bastard. Nice wig, he said.”

Aziraphale giggles as he traces circles on Crowley’s sides. “You know, this won’t happen with every human we encounter.” 

“It won’t?” Crowley pouts. “Not even the snake bit?” 

Aziraphale hums, seemingly mulling it over for a moment. “I mean, everything changed so fast over the last few months, and now I want to – to keep you to myself.” He says the last bit quietly, barely a whisper, as if he isn’t voicing the dark thought that has been swirling around in Crowley’s head ever since their doorbell first rang. “Just for a little while.”

“Want to keep you to myself always,” Crowley replies, equally quiet. “Always wanted to.” 

“We did save the world, twice might I add.” Aziraphale cranes his neck, and Crowley’s world turns pink and blue and golden. 

“What I’m hearing is, let us be selfish.” Crowley pecks Aziraphale’s forehead, lingering in the moment. He doesn’t need to rush anymore. The clock above his head has finally stopped ticking. 

“Let us be just us.” Aziraphale stays where he is, eyes fluttering closed. “Rest now, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Crowley believes him. He closes his eyes, knowing whatever he dreams doesn’t matter anymore. Aziraphale is real, in his arms, with real lips and real kisses and real words he tells him every single day. 

His. 

Chapter Text

x. blinded by the lights of October skies 

Autumn is a fascinating time of the year, Aziraphale has always thought. 

The colours, for example: all the yellow and red, the hint of purple, the warm shades of brown. He likes the bitterness of the cold in the mornings and the nights, how it sneaked up on him this year. The warmth of September dissipated in a storm in early October, and days on the beach had to be abruptly switched for strolls around the village with a hot drink in hand, linen and cotton replaced by wool and flannel. 

He’s always preferred cooler months, a creature of soft comforts as he is. Cold calls for hot chocolates, rich wines, heavy fabrics draped around shoulders, kettle always whistling. This year, cold also means mornings spent in bed, hidden under the covers, Crowley wrapped around him to keep the warmth in; days spent preparing the garden for the harsher months, wrapping up the most tender of plants with frost blankets, planting onions and and daffodils for spring, removing brown leaves and dead ends and rewarding each other with a warm soak at the end; nights in front of the oven waiting for a pie to cook, mincing meats and chopping vegetables and welcoming the heat coming off of the stoves instead of cursing it, finishing a bottle on the sofa as the conversation turns idler and idler. 

Cold means comfort, closeness. Aziraphale is finding out he craves closeness more than anything, now that he’s got a taste of it. 

Sometimes, he curses the years spent in solitude between pages and ink, the decades he spent pushing his wants at the farthest back corner in his mind. Other times, he looks at Crowley sleeping beside him, the twitch of his brow, the light snoring filling the room, and thinks that, in the end, he ended up where he was supposed to be nonetheless. 

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t mourn everything that he’s lost. Centuries of longing and decades of distance and so many years of hurt. 

“What’s with the face?” 

Crowley’s face is pink, hair a bit frizzy after his soak. He’s wrapped in Aziraphale’s bigger and softer bathrobe, making good use of all the things he swore he didn’t want. “I see the bathtub is not as much of a waste of space anymore.”

“Smug.” Crowley sighs as he climbs in the bed, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand to plant a delicate kiss on the knuckles. “What’s wrong? You look all… pouty.” 

Aziraphale laughs, a bit breathless. If Crowley’s love has been a blanket for as long as Aziraphale can recall, lately it’s more of a wave: like the dam has finally been cracked open, and all the pent up feelings have been steadily flowing off of him, into Aziraphale. It leaves him rather unmoored, at times. “I am not pouty.” Aziraphale relishes the small, almost chaste touches Crowley has started to give him – small pecks, fleeting taps, the almost absent minded circles he’s now tracing on the back of Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Are too.” Crowley lies back on the pillow, not dropping Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on. Still sad about the leaves falling?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. As if it’s a crime to shed a tear or two about the loss of greenery. “I suppose Autumn makes me a bit sentimental.” 

Crowley hums. “Terribly cliché.” 

Aziraphale follows him down, settling close enough to rest his head on a bony shoulder. “The year is ending, another one, and this one has been –”

“Long.” Crowley cuts him off. “Felt like twenty.”

Aziraphale mulls it over. “I suppose you’re right.” It is actually hard to believe they have been in this house for less than twelve months, that he’s been sleeping in this bed that already has the shape of him etched in the space next to Crowley for just a few weeks. “Years always seemed to go by in a blink to me.”

Crowley drops his hand only to scrape his fingers along Aziraphale’s forearm. “That’s because it took us six thousand years to hold hands and then like six months in the same place to shag.” 

Aziraphale gasps to cover up the surprised laugh bubbling out of him. “You’re horrible.” He slaps Crowley’s chest, letting himself smile as goose-like cackles fill the room. 

“I’m right,” Crowley wheezes, wiping a tear away. His eyes are bright, so bright, beloved golden filled with something new and sparkling. “Come on! January was yesterday and I didn’t even look at you! And now –” he trails off, shifting until he’s hovering over Aziraphale, fingers tracing a collarbone hidden by the fabric of the flannel sleep shirt he’s taken to wearing. “Now, you know.”

“Oh, I do know.” Aziraphale breathes out, melting further under the touch. 

And he does. He does know. Having Crowley this way has been unthinkable for the better part of six millenia, and whenever he ended up thinking about it, it was under the familiar habit of shame, thoughts hidden away so thoroughly not even he himself could access them most times. 

A few months, a home built together, and every wall tumbled down like dust, every feeling out in the open. He giggles now as the bubbles in his chest erupt in goosebumps over his skin. “Do you ever think about –” He trails off for a moment, distracted by the feel of Crowley’s slightly chapped lips on his skin. 

“About what?” Crowley asks, a murmur on his cheek. “Why are you even thinking right now?”

Aziraphale shares the sentiment. Just like feelings, however, his questions are freer now, bursting out of him without his consent most times, just because Crowley’s there and he may grumble about it, but always replies to him. So he stills his movements with two hands on his face, smoothing the frown he gets in response with a small peck, just because he can now. “Do you ever think about the time we lost?” 

Crowley makes a funny face at that – half angry, half exasperated, coated with a layer of mild amusement. “That is what you’re pouting about?”

“I’m not pouting.” 

Crowley groans. “Alright, alright.” He lays back down, waits as Aziraphale too rearranges himself to lay on his side and look at him properly. He taps Aziraphale’s bottom lip. “This is a pout.”

Aziraphale smiles, despite himself. “I don’t like you.”

Crowley hums, hiding his smile in the pillow for a moment. “I used to, y’know? Before. Thought about it all the time.” 

Aziraphale shifts, getting serious again. He mirrors Crowley as he wraps his arms around the pillow, wrapping his own ones around himself. “Before?”

“This.” Crowley raises a corner of his mouth. “The shagging.” He laughs as Aziraphale rolls his eyes, adding, softer, “The kissing.” 

Aziraphale accepts one now, even if the angle is a bit off and Crowley’s lips end up just a little bit off the goal. “And now?”

“Now you’re here,” Crowley replies with a little shrug. “I – I want to be here with you now . Not in the past.” 

Aziraphale feels himself beaming. Crowley’s sweetness still takes him by surprise, always has. It’s always been stored in the smallest of moments, even when they were apart: chocolate on the bookshop’s inauguration, crêpes in Paris, drawn-on moustaches in the back of an illegal theatre. It’s different now, just like everything else is, but it still makes Aziraphale’s breath itch, still makes his eyes burn a little. “I spent so much time missing you,” he whispers, blinking rapidly. “I never even told you. To think I could have – we could have –”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, don’t. Wouldn’t have been like this.” Reaching out, he cards a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, something he seems to like even more than having his own hair played with. “I didn’t know it would be like this , but I know now that it’s better than – than anything we could have had, before.”

One night, almost a century ago, Aziraphale almost asked Crowley to stay. He’d already put his hat back on, and he was already halfway out the door when Aziraphale got up and called his name, the word burning on his tongue. He knew then, by the way Crowley stopped and slightly opened his mouth, that the answer would have been yes. To whatever Aziraphale was about to ask. 

He did not ask anything. He bid him goodbye, and let a few salty tears burn down his cheek as the door closed and the silence came back. What about tomorrow? He’d thought then, alone in his armchair, finishing the wine they’d shared together. When they find out, what about then? 

“We weren’t free,” Aziraphale says slowly, something akin to relief relaxing his muscles. “Not like we are now.”

“Yeah.” Crowley nods, draws Aziraphale closer. “I like us better now.” 

Aziraphale exhales, letting himself be held here and now, in the home they built together. “I suppose you’re right.” Perhaps one day the years behind them will feel more like a journey than a loss. Aziraphale would like to think he’s getting there. 

“Always am.” Crowley presses a yawn on the top of his head. “Now let me take a nap and then I’ll remind you why we’re better now.” 

Aziraphale knows he won’t hear his beloved’s voice again til morning, at least. “Of course,” he tells him nonetheless, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’ll wait for you with bated breath.” 

Crowley yawns again. “You do that.” 

As Crowley dozes off, Aziraphale’s mind runs back to the past. He can’t help it, really – his thoughts are not his own most of the time. He focuses on the fondest memories, on all the times he knew Crowley’s love was there, just beyond his reach, and all the times his own love threatened to choke him in its quest to get out, and as he shivers, Crowley’s arms hold him closer, watching out for him even in his sleep, and Aziraphale understands – he’s being silly, isn’t he? Getting lost in the past is a useless pastime. 

He kisses Crowley’s chest, and thanks the years he spent falling in love with his best friend. Now, he gets to love him. 

🧣🧣🧣

“How come you never sleep?”

The question catches Aziraphale in the middle of a very thrilling passage of The Dispossessed. As Crowley pointed out a few weeks back, Aziraphale never really branched out in genres before and, now that he’s officially retired, he should. Science fiction seemed like a good place to start - if only his dearest darling would let him. “Why do you ask?”

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugs. “I never asked before.” 

Aziraphale turns a page, loudly, and sighs. “I don’t really have an answer, I just never got into the habit.”

He does have an answer, actually, but it’s long, and involves feelings, and he really wants to finish this chapter. 

He hears Crowley shifting on the sofa, and feels his foot nudging his left thigh. “You’re lying.”

Aziraphale inhales. “No.”

“Yes.” Crowley moves closer, throwing his legs over Aziraphale’s lap. “Come on, you’ll read tonight since you don’t sleep.” 

Very calmly, Aziraphale exhales and closes his book, placing it on the armrest. “I tried, but I did not like it. Can I go back to my book or do I need to entertain you?”

Crowley scrunches up his nose. “What do you mean you didn’t like it? What’s not to like?”

The first time Aziraphale tried sleeping he was still in Eden. Like most things back then, he saw Adam and Eve do it first, and got curious about it, so he tried. One night, on a branch hidden away by prying eyes, he tilted his head sideways and just… dozed off. The next morning, he found himself roughly woken up by a loud thud, only belatedly realising it was caused by his body hitting the ground below, hard. 

And it was not the most pleasant experience, but it wasn’t the worst. 

The next time he tried to sleep, he was older and wiser. Strange concept for a timeless being, but Aziraphale had lived a thousand years already, and had a less than ideal relationship with his peers and a friend he wasn’t supposed to have he refused to call such but somehow always listened to, and Crowley just found out about the virtues of sleep back then, and he seemed so enthusiastic, and food had been such a good idea. 

It didn’t work: he woke up in the early hours of the morning, tangled up in linen cloth drenched with sweat, his limbs heavy and tingling enough to hurt, throat dry and mouth filled with cotton. He could still hear the ringing of the Archangel’s voices in his ears, the disappointed tone of the Almighty, the overwhelmingly whiteness of Heaven leaving him with a headache he couldn’t manage to miracle away for the rest of the day. 

If that was a dream, he never wanted to do it again. 

Then the Apocalypse came: the first one, the one with witches and old ladies and wrong kids raised since birth, and a bone deep exhaustion came with it. He didn’t want to sleep in Crowley’s flat, not when the entirety of Heaven and Hell was still out for them, and resolved to keep guard all night, as he was always meant to do, after all. 

He couldn’t. Tiredness infiltrated itself into his very bones, shutting his brain down against his will. He doesn’t remember everything about that experience, but he does remember flashes of red and the smell of sulfur and a light bright enough to hurt his eyes, and he remembers the overwhelming feeling of failure. He’d woken up bolt upright on the sofa, and shed a few tears looking at Crowley snoring lightly on the other side. He forced his eyes open for the rest of the night, and for all the nights that followed. 

He’s still doing it. Still, he finds himself listening to Crowley’s breath, gazing at his chest rising softly, discarding a book to just look his fill. At least he doesn’t linger outside Crowley’s bedroom door like he used to, before, just to make sure everything was alright.

“I just didn’t like it.” He gets up, perhaps a bit too hastily. “I’m making a cup of tea.” 

It is only a matter of time, Aziraphale knows. He manages to click on the kettle before hearing Crowley’s socked feet making their way to the kitchen, and he sighs as he watches him leaning against the counter with his big, owlish eyes blinking up at him. “Everything's fine, darling.” 

Crowley hums. “Tell me about it?”

It’s softer, this question. Stripped of anything teasing. Aziraphale lowers his gaze, busying himself with tea making. “I told you already.” He chooses a brew with some cinnamon and ginger in it – aromatic with a bit of a bite. “I – I don’t have the nicest memories when it comes to sleep, that’s all.”

Wordlessly, Crowley swirls around to open a cabinet, pushing the jar of honey in Aziraphale’s direction. “Why?”

Aziraphale loves Crowley’s curiosity – loves everything about him, of course, but over their endless days he’s started to love the questions and the inquisitiveness more than he ever thought possible. He knows now questions and freedom taste the same on Crowley’s tongue, and vowed to himself never to deny him again. 

But – he doesn’t want to talk about this. And remember the light and the smell and the whiteness and – “I really don’t wish to talk about it.” 

He cannot stand the look on Crowley’s face, taken aback and tinted with hurt. He doesn’t even want him to see his hands shaking, so he plants a hurried kiss on the cheek and hides himself upstairs, trying to drown everything else with the taste of ginger.

🧣🧣🧣

Aziraphale laughs as soon as the door creaks open and Crowley barges into the room holding a little tray. “One of your little birdies told me some arsehole was annoying you.” 

Closing the book he didn’t even try reading, Aziraphale sighs and pats the empty space beside him on the settee. “I thought the birds had left for warmer shores by now.”

“This one’s late.” Crowley offers him a buttery biscuit, giving him a lopsided smile as Aziraphale accepts it. “These monstrosities are even more of a pain in the arse to find in October, by the way.” 

“You did not need to find me snickerdoodles,” Aziraphale giggles again as he licks a crumb off of his thumb. “I was trying to think of a way to apologise to you.” 

Crowley shakes his head, his now too long hair flopping down. He takes Aziraphale’s hand, kisses the knuckles. “I made you – uncomfortable.” He winces as he shifts closer. “Shouldn’t have done that.” 

It’s… not untrue. Still, Aziraphale uses his free hand to pick up another biscuit. It’s buttery and soft, the perfect amount of sweetness. He wonders what kind of demonic energy has been bestowed upon the poor baker. “I know I can talk to you about everything.” 

Crowley’s eyes do a complicated dance around Aziraphale’s face. “You don’t always want to.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs. “I just didn’t want to think about it.”

He had hours to think about why Crowley’s question affected him so, and why his immediate reaction was to flee, and how… wrong he was. He never likes to think about him being wrong, but sometimes needs must. Crowley squeezes his hand then, his smile softer than usual, warm in the way it only ever gets around Aziraphale, and he feels wrecked for leaving his side for even just a few hours. “I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper, just to make sure Crowley hasn’t forgotten since the morning. 

Crowley kisses him slowly, kisses him surely, says it back with a gentle thumb on his cheek, with long fingers stroking his neck. “Angel,” he murmurs, just the word, and Aziraphale has never felt safe, not really, not before coming here and knowing what it felt to be held by someone who loves him completely, who has loved him for longer than the word for it existed. 

“I only ever had nightmares,” he lets out all in one breath. “Whenever I tried it. And I woke up sweaty and, frankly, gross, and my throat was dry, my legs felt heavy, and it was all wretched .” 

Crowley keeps him close, but doesn’t push him further. Aziraphale feels his warm breath on his face, feels the way his forehead creases where it’s pressed against his own. “Didn’t have to tell me.” 

“I guess I wanted to, after all.” Aziraphale lets out a long exhale. He does feel good, now. “The snickerdoodles gave me a little push.”

Crowley snorts, lifts his head to look at Aziraphale properly. “Would you like to try again, sometimes?”

It takes Aziraphale by surprise. “I –”

“You just – angel, you love enjoying things. All kinds of things.” Crowley continues. “And sleep can be pretty decadent, actually.”

Aziraphale thought about it, sometimes. Watching Crowley stretch and roll into their fine cotton sheets, nestling deeper under the heavy duvet, sighing as he came to his senses in the morning – it all looked so nice . “I don’t think I’m able to.”

“Nah. Don’t think so. You’re a hedonist at heart.” Crowley grins, his fingers resuming soothing motions on his face and neck. “And I bet you’d love dreaming.”

Oh, Aziraphale supposes he would. He’s always found the concept ever so fascinating: creating new worlds beneath closed eyelids, seeing and feeling beautiful things even when the mind is shut off. It only makes his experience with sleep sting a little more. “I wouldn’t know,” he tells Crowley, a bit more quiet. “What if my corporation simply doesn’t allow it?”

“I’ll allow it.” Ever so stubborn when he finds himself a new mission, Crowley nods decisively. “You should worry about nothing. Just relax and – and let me help, alright? ‘F you want to, of course.” 

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip. He will say yes, eventually, he’s already aware of it. He’s been getting increasingly worse at saying no to Crowley - and he doesn’t ever want to, actually. 

This time, however - “Not tonight.” It’s not time yet. Too many dark clouds still swirling above Aziraphale’s head. 

Crowley’s face softens. “Whenever you want.” 

“Why do you even care? No, don’t be distressed, I didn’t mean it like that.” Aziraphale amends, bringing his hand to Crowley’s waist. “Why right now? You never… asked before.” 

Crowley sighs. “I should have, clearly.”

“Darling-“

“No, just -“ Crowley toys with a white blond curl, a habit that’s more for comfort than nervousness. “Sometimes I wake up and you’re there, watching out of the window, looking all… focused. I want-“ He exhales loudly, forcing the words out. “I want you happy always. And I want you to enjoy everything and worry for nothing.”

Aziraphale kisses him. He can’t not. He shifts Crowley’s chin with the tips of his fingers and kisses leisurely, unhurried, breaking it before it can become something else. “You’re lovely,” he tells him, “and I’m starting to think I’ve never known happiness before this cottage.”

“You - nnnh.” Crowley sputters. The tips of his ears redden. Aziraphale almost gives in to the impulse and bites them. “Me, too. You know that. Just - don’t want you to be bothered anymore. By anything.”

Aziraphale lets out a dreamy sigh. For all that Crowley insists that he’s made of knobby knees and crankiness, in Aziraphale’s eyes he puts every romantic hero he’s ever read about to shame. He is way more valiant, braver and kinder than anyone he’s ever known. This kind of love, Aziraphale thinks, doesn’t even exist Up There, and it’s his. He traces that long neck, those well-kissed lips with a finger, basks in the way Crowley’s breath audibly quickens. “I’ll try anything if it makes you happy.” The words burst from his mouth like champagne popping open. “Give me a little time.”

Crowley grins then, a proper smile escaping the usual schooling of his features into something he believes debonair, and lets go of Aziraphale’s face to slither even closer, effectively pouring himself half into Aziraphale’s lap. “Wonderful news angel,” he murmurs, picking up one of the frankly forgotten biscuits and pressing it onto Aziraphale’s lips. “We have all the time in the world.” Quieter then, with pink cheeks and a raised eyebrow, he adds. “Don’t we?”

“Of course we do,” Aziraphale reassures, as it’s his duty, making sure to let the tip of his tongue graze Crowley’s fingers as he takes the offered sweet. 

Those lovely cheeks grow even pinker. They don’t think about biscuits for a while. 

🧣🧣🧣

Crowley never really learned the art of subtlety. 

Oh, he believes himself to be suave and mysterious, but reality is different. Aziraphale has had a lot of time to learn all of his mannerisms: the way his canine teeth sink into his bottom lip when he thinks about something really hard, the way his eyebrows make a beeline for his forehead when he starts thinking of a plan, the way he taps his fingers against his leg whenever he wants to ask for something, but can’t. 

Crowley is not subtle. Aziraphale enjoys it immensely. ”I want to do something after dinner.”

Aziraphale has been waiting all day for Crowley to speak up, and it seems like tonight is the night. “We already are doing something after dinner, love,” he says, gesturing at the half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them. 

Crowley tilts his head, working his jaw. “Something else.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale hums, increasingly delighted. “Something that requires you to blush so nicely?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, blushing even more. “Something with you.” 

Aziraphale coos, burrowing further into Crowley’s side. “Tell me more.” 

Fingers tracing mindless lines on Aziraphale’s arm over his shirt, Crowley speaks quietly, like a secret. “Well, the bathtub is big enough for two.” The words are warm against his face, warmer than the wine in his stomach. “We could finish the wine there, if you’d like.” 

Aziraphale smiles, holding in a giggle. “I would absolutely love that.”

All week, Crowley has tried different methods to get Aziraphale as relaxed as possible before bed, in his newest quest in getting Aziraphale to sleep - without telling him outright, clearly. First, he tried hot chocolate under the covers after thoroughly tiring him out over the covers: delicious and incredibly comforting, and Aziraphale’s eyes welled up, love overflowing out of him, but that only managed to get him more… excited. 

Then, Crowley asked Aziraphale to read a book of his choice out loud, and promptly fell asleep one page in. Aziraphale spent that night holding in giggles and the next morning nursing a very, very cantankerous demon. 

He has already tried foot rubs and full body massages that clearly evolved into something less than relaxing, watching documentaries on the sofa that only launched Aziraphale into a deep dive on penguins (“ They are monogamous! And their feathers are waterproof! And did you know they have unique calls to identify each other in large colonies? ” “ Angel. Please. I’m begging you, pick another animal. ”), giving Aziraphale chamomile tea he insisted he liked as well - and ended up not-discreetly-at-all spitting it back in the mug when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t watching. 

Aziraphale should probably call him out on his disastrous attempts, and remind him of the time he asked, but… he doesn’t actually mind. Crowley is always attentive, of course, but he’s been so focused on him lately: Aziraphale has come to cherish the nights, since they now mean being utterly and completely spoiled by his favourite person. So what if Crowley’s attempts are clumsy and even a bit odd at times? It’s ever so endearing. 

Crowley is so endearing, so lovely, and always so full of hope. He lights up every single time Aziraphale says yes to one of his suggestions, and he can’t find it in himself to call him out and put that special light out. 

It’s not like he’s required to make particular sacrifices. There are way worse things to be subjected to than a scented bubble bath with one’s lover, after all. 

“Let’s go then,” Crowley says as he gets up. “The bath won’t run itself.”

Aziraphale does laugh, this time. “Yes, it will.”

“ Technicalities !”

Aziraphale feels even less inclined towards annoyance as he leans back against Crowley’s warmed up skin and sips up what’s left of his wine, breathing in the delightful smell of lavender bath salts. “The candles are a wonderful touch.” 

Crowley’s hands still for a moment where they’re digging and rubbing not-very-subtly-at-all on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Thanks. Figured you’d like the atmosphere.” 

“I do.” Aziraphale sighs dreamily. “I would have expected rose petals as well.” 

He feels Crowley squirming under him. “That – I thought you’d find them tacky, but –”

With a quiet chuckle, Aziraphale covers the ready to snap hand, and miracles the glasses away. “I was teasing you.” He shifts, mindful of the water, until he rests his head on Crowley’s collarbone, closing his eyes as he cranes his neck to plant a kiss on the first patch of skin he finds. “I only want you to relax as well.” 

“I am relaxed.” Crowley huffs, and Aziraphale would like to see the pout he can so clearly hear. “You’re onto me, aren’t you?”

“Since the very beginning.” Aziraphale wiggles. “Seriously, darling? Foot rubs?”

Crowley sinks further down, bringing Aziraphale with him and sloshing water everywhere. “I thought the documentary would work.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “I’m not mad.” It’s hard to be when the water is at the perfect temperature, the arms holding him are squeezing him just right, and the candles light up the bathroom with a pinkish-golden hue that reminds him of a pretty sunrise. “I feel quite… cherished, despite your hidden agenda.”

“Wasn’t hidden very well.” Crowley mutters as he mouths at his pulse point. “It’s fine if you’re happy.” 

“I am.” Exceptionally so. It may have something to do with the mouth on his throat, but it mostly has to do with all the care Crowley put in his devious plan. “I have had the – ah – most perfect evenings lately. Thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley’s fingers spider walk across Aziraphale’s belly as he nuzzles a spot behind his ear. “My pleasure. Seriously.” Aziraphale shivers as the tip of Crowley’s nose travels along his cheekbone. “I think this is my new hobby.” 

He swallows, tips his head further back. “Spoiling me?” 

“Nuh-uh.” Crowley tugs him further back against his chest, arms squeezing him even tighter. “Cherishing the angel I, er, love.” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks promptly flush pink. “Oh, dear.” An exhale so dreamy it makes his eyelids flutter close. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Crowley doesn’t stop. Fingers trace circles on his belly and chest, lips find every spot on his neck he likes, and his eyes stay closed throughout.

And it might be the closeness, or it might be the demonically warmed water and the rhythmic, soothing sound of it sloshing around, it might even be the lingering smell in the air of comfort and familiarity. Still, Aziraphale’s eyes stay closed, and his breaths start slowing down and he absolutely cannot believe Crowley is about to win. 

“I cannot believe it worked,” he says as soon as he – wakes up , he’ll be damned. He rubs his eyes, frowning at the feeling of flannel on his sleeves and, amazingly enough, he finds himself dry and dressed, in his bed, propped up against the usual sea of pillows. Good Lord. Did he sleep through all of that ? “What time is it?” 

“Good morning to you, angel.” Crowley grins. His eyes glow in the dark, and his grin is big enough to be seen as well. He props himself up on an elbow, fixing a pillow behind Aziraphale’s head. “Just past three in the morning. You slept a few hours.” 

Aziraphale hums, stretches the tingle out of his legs. His throat is dry, and his limbs heavy. “I am not sure I liked it.” He scrunches up his nose. “My head feels all cottony.”
“That’s the point.” Out of nowhere, Crowley hands him a glass of water. “You looked peaceful. No nightmares in sight.” 

Aziraphale sips his water, considering. The process of falling asleep has been an absolute marvel, and he would gladly do that again – perhaps with less water involved, terribly at risk for some accidental drowning. And waking up to his favourite shade of yellow gazing down at him so fondly is terribly nice as well. He is still not so sure about the actual sleeping part, or about the heavy feeling in his legs. He smiles at Crowley. He’s sure about him, at the very least. “You were there. I liked that.” 

Crowley ducks his chin against his – still very much naked, much to Aziraphale’s delight – chest. “Well, what I’m hearing is – I was right.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “You won, perhaps. I don’t know about right.” 

Crowley lets out one of his ridiculous honking laughs, and Aziraphale realises Crowley must be very, very tired: it’s in the unguarded smiles, in the glassy eyes, in the yawns he masks with heavy inhales. He must have stayed awake as Aziraphale rested and, truly, how could he ever thought Crowley wouldn’t keep guard over him, wouldn’t keep a close ear to monitor his breathing and an even closer eye to catalogue every twitch in his face? Two peas in a pod , he thinks, and bites back a giggle. They are truly terrible at this whole sleeping together business, the literal part at least.

He lifts a hand to trace a puffy golden eye, sighing as it closes instinctively. “How exhausted are you, my love?”

Crowley shakes his head. Whatever he’s about to say gets swallowed in a yawn, and Aziraphale makes the executive decision to cut his celebrations short. It’s easy enough, since Crowley already has one eye shut and lays back on the pillows with just a tiny shove needed as encouragement. “Enjoy the winner’s rest, now.”

“Ah. I won.” Crowley says, well, slurs from his starfish position in the sea of pillows. Somehow, he manages to throw one of his arms across Aziraphale’s chest, fingers tightening in his sleep shirt. “You were wrong, I was right.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” Crowley is already half asleep, but his lips still curl up at the endearment. Aziraphale carefully presses a kiss on his forehead, and lays back on his back, crossing his arms on top of Crowley's still-grasping hand. 

He blinks at the ceiling, and considers. He doesn’t think he will take to sleep like Crowley, probably ever. The annoyance left in his corporation is considerably less noticeable than it was in the past, but still enough to make him prefer a good reading session during nighttime to the peaceful slumber Crowley described. 

Sometimes, however, he thinks it’ll be nice to close his eyes and just… let go. Trust Crowley to be there when he wakes. Trust him to make sure they’d always be safe. Trust the closeness they built to keep the bad memories at bay. And, fine, it’ll be nice to see Crowley’s eyes glow in victory as well – nothing makes Aziraphale happier, these days, than seeing Crowley bask in his joy, fully and unguarded, finally free.

Gently, he untangles Crowley’s fingers from his shirt to twine their fingers instead, keeping them close to his beating heart.

When Aziraphale dreams for the first time, he’ll dream of Crowley. 

xi. November flush and your flannel cure

“Have you ever thought about how useless November is?” 

Aziraphale hums, fixes his scarf over his cold-bitten nose. “I’m thinking that it’s definitely chilly.”

Crowley rakes up a new bunch of dead leaves, depositing them in the composting bin Aziraphale is dutifully holding up for him with a growl. “I’ve got frozen bollocks. This is not chilly .” 

A flick of a wrist later, Crowley is grousing and wearing an angelically crafted deep red beanie. “My hair, angel.”

“Oh, hush. You look very handsome.” Aziraphale couldn’t stand the sight of Crowley’s poor ears, nearly turning purple in the cold. He’ll miracle a nice scarf on him at the next moment of distraction. “You were saying, about the month?”

“Ah, right. Useless.” Crowley turns back to the leaves, beanie firmly in place. “I’m saying, October has Halloween–”

“You didn’t want to do anything for Halloween because you said it was too americanised .” Aziraphale cuts him off with a pout, recalling all the pumpkin-themed recipes he had to shelve for next year. 

“Not the point,” Crowley mumbles. “Anyway. October has a point, December has Christmas and all the fuss, and I could say something for every month, but November? Nada . Nichts .” 

Aziraphale mulls it over. “Well, your transatlantic enemies have a wonderful celebration of gratitude that takes place in November,” he says, his tone measured. He bites his cheek not to laugh outright at Crowley’s disgruntled expression.

“We don’t live there , do we?” The final batch of fallen leaves are deposited with a huff and a snarl. “Here, in jolly old England, November is useless.” 

Aziraphale does betray himself with a little chuckle. “ Remember remember, the fifth of November …” 

The rake falls to the ground with a dull thud. Crowley grabs Aziraphale by his perfectly pressed cashmere scarf and pushes him towards the pear tree, shutting his mouth with a kiss. 

With a muffled out giggle, Aziraphale wraps his arms under Crowley’s puffer jacket – angelically crafted as well – pulling him even closer as he’s pushed against the tree trunk. 

Crowley is panting when they separate, lips hovering over Aziraphale’s. “Nice way of shutting you up.” 

Aziraphale toys with the newly and very slyly miracled matching red scarf on Crowley’s neck. “Still rude, but I’m not complaining.” 

Crowley runs the tip of his chilly nose against Aziraphale’s cheek, too distracted to care about the scarf. “I was trying to say something.”

Aziraphale seals their mouth together again, just because Crowley’s lips warm him more than any scarf or glove ever could, and it is a pretty cold morning. Perhaps, also because he’s known something was up with Crowley ever since he got up that morning and insisted on bringing Aziraphale breakfast in bed with a pretty red flush blooming from his neck and canine teeth sinking into his bottom lip periodically, and Aziraphale enjoys teasing him way more than what’s sensible. 

He breaks the kiss just as it starts getting interesting. “Is this your roundabout way of asking me something?” 

Crowley sputters. “Don’t – don’t talk to me about roundabout ways of doing things.” 

Aziraphale has nothing to counter that, so he just waits, resting his head against the trunk and blinking owlishly up at Crowley, who’s keeping up with his annoyed act, greatly betrayed by the infinite tenderness in his eyes. 

It’s a heady feeling – being adored, and allowing it. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. 

“I was thinking…” Crowley starts finally, terribly quiet. “About a little trip. For, um, for the two of us.” 

Aziraphale lets out a surprised sound. “A trip?”

“I thought about everything!” Crowley lets out hurriedly. “I ordered some fancy humidity sensors for the plants upstairs that have timers and – and a water pump and – self watering pots , that’s what they’re called. And the garden will be fine five days without us, since we got rid of the dead leaves and covered the tender thingies and – it shouldn’t frost, but even if it does –” 

Aziraphale stills him, feeling a bit breathless himself. Of course Crowley thought of his questions before he could even start to consider them. “Darling, slow down.”

“And the house will probably get cold, but I’ll warm it up again in an instant." Crowley marches on, showing no signs of slowing down. “I miracled away all the dust already, and it wouldn’t dare to–” 

For lack of any other option, Aziraphale has to kiss Crowley again. Just to let the poor dear breathe, you see? He keeps it short and sweet, drawing back after a moment. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

Crowley takes a deep breath, puffing his cheeks and exhaling slowly, just like Aziraphale taught him. He does it twice before speaking up again. “Last month,” he confesses, the warmth on his cheeks matching the one blooming in Aziraphale’s belly. “I, um, you were painting that picture of Italy, I think?”

Aziraphale nods. It was raining, and Crowley was busy replanting one of the monstera upstairs, so he brought out his watercolours again, and painted by memory instead of capturing the grays out of the window. Somehow, for no particular reason, he painted Rome: the cobbled streets, the Colosseo in its proper glory, the sky so blue it rivaled the Greek Sea. The experience left him craving a serving of oysters and the sight of Crowley in a tunic. 

“It was very… pretty.” Crowley continues, Aziraphale blushing at the praise. “And I thought, we saw the whole world together, didn’t we?”

Unbidden, Aziraphale feels tears welling up in his eyes. The stretch of the past behind them feels like a warm hug today: he sees Crowley sticking his tongue out and fake gagging after that first oyster at Petronius’, he sees Crowley posing as a pirate on the way to the New Continent, he sees Crowley giving children loaves of bread during the French Revolution when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking. He recalls a hand on the small of his back as they witness a human sacrifice on an Aztec altar, gone before gratitude could even begin to form. He remembers a touch on the back of his hand after getting a reprimand for healing too much during the Great Pestilence. He’s never forgotten the way their feet tangled and tripped over one another during a late autumn grape stomping experience, how Crowley miracled their tunic clean before Aziraphale could stop him, how he mourned the lack of a tangible memory from that experience and the shame that came with it. 

A tear escapes without him doing much about it, but Crowley kisses it before it can drop to the ground. Aziraphale smiles at the sight of his constant companion, his tenderness new and old at the same time. “We did.”

“Not like this, though.” Crowley gestures at the scant space between them. “Not like…us.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales. “You old sap .” His legs nearly give out at the thought of Crowley spending all morning trying to ask him to go on a romantic trip with him, and he’s thankfully well versed in the art of playing the swooning maiden. Crowley, of course, catches him promptly and surely, wrapping his arms around his waist as Aziraphale throws his own wool-covered ones around his neck. “Of course I want to.” 

“Ah.” Crowley squeezes him tighter for a second. “That’s cool then.” 

Aziraphale snorts, nose sinking even deeper into Crowley’s scarf. “Where are you taking me?” 

He’s getting excited already. He has to admit, Crowley has been having the most delightful ideas: strolling around a city he knows like the back of his hand, while getting to hold the companion he wished for since the beginning of Time, is a dream he didn’t even know he had until five minutes ago, approximately, but he now cannot seem to let go.  

“It’s kind of a surprise,” Crowley mumbles, terribly shy. Aziraphale smiles as he feels his throat moving on a harsh swallow. “But, uh, it involves the car and a train, because you like…trains.” 

Paris. Aziraphale feels it in his bones, but doesn’t say it, afraid to ruin Crowley’s surprise. He feels like crying again, a little bit, so he lets a couple of tears fall in the privacy of Crowley’s neck. Crowley, who unlocked centuries of repression in the form of the most thoughtful, romantic gifts one could ever come up with, who puts every hero in Aziraphale’s book to utter shame. “I cannot believe you’re mine.” 

“No, no,” Crowley says – whines really, his vocal chords valiantly trying to express whatever he’s feeling with a drawn out, consonant-only sound. He draws back, frantically wiping away fat tears from Aziraphale’s cheeks. “It’s not much, I promise, no need for dramatics.”

“I decide what calls for dramatics.” Aziraphale sniffs, smiling rather too broadly to seem properly haughty. “You organising a romantic trip to, erm, to wherever you’re taking me is worth a few theatricals, I’d say.”

“You’d say,” Crowley sighs, head slightly dropping. “You already know where I’m taking you, don’t you?”

Aziraphale blinks up at him. “Possibly.” He pushes himself closer, closing the infinitesimal distance. “You can always try to make me forget about it until we leave.”

It works. It always works, because as much as he wants Crowley all for himself, all the time, Crowley wants him right back, and that is a miracle he won’t ever, ever get used to. Crowley picks him up, not with finesse but with purpose, and strides over to the house with a hurry that makes Aziraphale shriek with laughter. 

Thank Someone the birdhouse is currently empty. 

🧣🧣🧣

Paris is totally different from Aziraphale’s last visit, yet its charm remains the same. The sun is setting over Notre Dame, in the feeble way sunlight fights through on cloudy days in late Fall, and paints the hotel room pink and yellow. The curtains are light and airy, like the wooden floor and the bed frame, the linens creamy and cloud-like, and it’s all so beautiful, all so perfect in a quiet, comfortable way that mirrors their home, in a way. 

Aziraphale adores it. 

“It’s no Ritz, I suppose,” Crowley is saying from behind him. “But the view is nice. And it’s smaller, but apparently these boutique hotels are very hot right now, and they have a name I thought you’d like.”

Aziraphale takes his eyes off of the view to turn around in Crowley’s arms. “I do. It’s twee.” 

“Twee.” Crowley mouths. “I won’t comment on that.” 

Aziraphale reaches to cradle Crowley’s face between his hands, guiding him south into a proper kiss. “It’s perfect, and I adore it.” He tells him as his lips trails down, pressing onto a quivering chin. “I adore you.”

“Ditto,” Crowley swallows audibly. “We, uhm, we have dinner reservations.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale doesn’t lift his head, focusing his ministrations on Crowley’s neck, hands toying with the first button of his shirt. “Where?”

“Some, uh, some place that does French and Japanese things.” Crowley scrambles to undo Aziraphale’s bow-tie, eager to not be left behind. “I can move it to tomorrow.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale finishes with the buttons, pushes Crowley down the bed. “If you think that I won’t walk with you hand in hand in Paris at every chance I get, you’re severely mistaken.”

“Then I’ll - wait,” Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale finds himself devoid of his clothes, straddling an equally déshabillé Crowley. “Sorry. Cheating, I know, but needs must.”

Aziraphale laughs, stroking the wiry hair on Crowley’s chest, delighted as he watches goosebumps rise on the pale skin. There isn’t an inch of Crowley’s skin he hasn’t explored by now, and yet the view of all the planes and angles he’s loved so thoroughly is still enchanting. “I’ll indulge in you plenty later, when we have more time.” He keeps his touch light, barely there on Crowley’s ribs, drinking in the sounds it draws out of him. “Now I’m afraid we must go at the speed you seem to favour.”

He’s so beautiful like this - flushed and panting and grinning madly as he shifts Aziraphale to lay on his side, following him in seconds. “What a pity,” his voice catches in his throat as

Aziraphale takes him in hand, and Crowley scrambles to reciprocate. “I can’t - for Go - Someone’s sake, I can’t believe we’re shagging in Paris.” 

Their laughs mingle in the space between their lips, smaller by the second. “I’d say we… we’re making love.” Aziraphale huffs, his free hand grabbing Crowley’s thigh, fingers digging in.

“Yes, you - unbelievable. Everything is.” Crowley’s breath is hot on Aziraphale’s face, his lips stretching in a beautiful smile as they press on Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’re unbelievable, angel. All pretty and - and gorgeous and mine.”

Aziraphale nods, and he quickens the movement of his arm. Both the sound and the nails digging between his shoulder blades are quite rewarding, and as Crowley matches the speed and sinks his teeth into his neck, the tension becomes almost unbearable. 

This is the part Aziraphale likes the most - the building, the ache at the bottom of his stomach that spreads all throughout his body, down to his toes and fingertips. The way Crowley squirms and sweats, close as well as his breathing devolves into gasping. 

“Crowley, darling - darling…”

“I’m here, angel. Let go sweetheart, I’m here, I love you, let go.”

In the end, they come apart together, muffling their groans against each other’s mouth and laughing breathlessly as the effervescence of the high slowly leaves their body. Aziraphale recovers first, and drops a kiss on Crowley’s sweaty forehead. “Sweetheart?”

Crowley curls further into him, runs a loving hand all over his side. “Felt like branching out. You don’t like it?”

“On the contrary.” He breathes out, definitely dreamily, feeling his face warming up. “I liked it a lot.” 

“Good.” Crowley presses a kiss on Aziraphale’s collarbone, and several more on his face only to make him blush more. He sits up as he succeeds and takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, only to plant more kisses on each knuckles. “You sure you still want to go out?”

Though the threads count of the sheets and the view on top of him is more than enticing, Aziraphale nods and sits up well, sparing a miracle to clean their mess before the staff has the chance to encounter it. “Very sure.” 

The sun has settled outside. Aziraphale desperately wants to see Crowley under the Parisian lamp-posts and kiss him across a candle-lit table. “I can’t wait to see the place you picked. Japanese, you said?”

Quite chuffed, Crowley nods and runs a hand through his hair before helping Aziraphale to his feet and snapping matching bathrobes on their still-flushed bodies. “We should freshen up before dinner.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.” Aziraphale pats the patch of skin the robe doesn’t cover on Crowley’s chest. “I do not want to be late.”

He pads barefoot to the bathroom, giggling as a sputtering Crowley follows him all the way into the shower. 

🧣🧣🧣

Demonically crafted or not, the weather holds up for all three of the days of their stay. 

Three perfect sunny autumn days, chilly enough to put a scarf on but not too cold to make strolling around impossible. And stroll around they do. 

They skip all the overcrowded, touristy areas, and do a terrible job at pretending to be locals.

They lose a morning in the Latin Quarter, comparing the newest architecture with the older one still standing and the one that lives on in their memories. They eat at a bustling local market, Aziraphale gushing over the roasted chestnuts and Crowley gushing over him and the cheap wine that is, apparently, strong enough to be almost good. 

He finds a gift for Crowley in a shop close to the Opéra - sunglasses in the model he favors in recent years, with gold accent instead of silver and the most adorable little snake coiled around the temples. They’re perfect, and Crowley laughs and calls them ridiculous and immediately puts them on, and gives him a kiss so ridiculous a young passerby whistles and asks if they want a picture. Aziraphale can’t wait to put it on his nightstand. 

They watch The Marriage of Figaro at the Opéra, the best theatre experience of Aziraphale’s existence if not the best production he’s seen, and get pleasantly tipsy at a nearby bar afterwards, their affections growing increasingly more public as the bottles pile up and they criticise the flaws in the first tenor performance a bit too loudly. 

Aziraphale tries a chocolatier on the Île Saint-Louis, and wears Crowley down until he takes a sample as well, but he swears Aziraphale’s mousse is better. He’s definitely happier with the moldy cheese he finds a few shops down, and convinces Aziraphale to bring a piece back home on the condition that the smell is miraculously kept at bay. 

Crowley names every tree along the tree-lined trail that cuts through the 12th Arrondissement, and Aziraphale doesn’t believe him, since naked trees look all the same, and he gets an even longer rant in reply. They end up at the Bastille Square, and take a few moments to soak it in. Aziraphale laughs when Crowley suggests crêpes for dinner, and when he kisses him over the table he tastes sugar and syrup. 

They last one hour in Montmartre - too many people fighting for a place on the hill and too many artists that want to paint Crowley’s beautiful hair for Aziraphale’s liking. He drags a giggly demon off the beaten road, and finds themselves strolling along Villa Léandre, a charming little street filled with houses that look more English than French and makes him miss home a tiny bit more. Crowley is still laughing about the diabolical way in which Aziraphale sent a case of pencils rolling down the hill, and he has to shut him up with a piece of croque monsieur he never asked for. 

The area gets slightly more tolerable in the afternoon as a wine festival is set up: the cheese selection is delectable, the reds are good enough to take a bottle home with them, and there are fairy lights Crowley kisses him under, short and sweet and surrounded by the whistling laughter of the same artists Aziraphale quite rudely judged earlier. He makes sure they all find extra tips at the end of the day - but does not retrieve the pencils. 

Their last night is spent on the balcony in their hotel room, snug as bugs in matching robes and wool socks, braving the cold for the sake of sentimentalism. Crowley doesn't last as long as Aziraphale, professing his undying love for him but also his need to warm up before his bollocks fall off, and Aziraphale tuts and tells him he’ll only be a minute more. 

He misses home, he thinks as he watches the stars over Paris. There are a few, way less visible than in the South Downs: he misses the stars, and the silence outside, and their routine made up of comforts and quietness. 

Then again, the Parisian days have been… beautiful. He wants to go back to every city they’ve ever visited and feel the thrill of holding Crowley’s hand in front of everyone again. The freedom he found during this trip did not make the hurt still lingering in the past vanish, but it did make it softer. Putting a coat of sugar on a slice of lemon. 

The window behind slides open. “It feels weird to go to bed without you.” Crowley doesn’t really look at him, but holds out his hand regardless. 

Aziraphale takes it and squeezes it once. “I’m coming, love. I was just saying goodbye to Paris.”

“We can come back.” Crowley says around a yawn. “Whenever we want to.”

Isn’t that a marvel? “Let’s go to bed for now.” 

Whatever they want, whenever they want, for the rest of eternity. And Paris will always be here. 

Aziraphale closes the window, and follows Crowley where it’s warm. 

🧣🧣🧣

They split up as soon as they get home – Crowley heading for the plants upstairs, Aziraphale for the garden. 

Largely, it looks just like how it did five days ago. There are a few more dead leaves on the grass, and the ground is not frozen but it’s definitely cold. The protection stayed in place, making sure their more tender blooms are protected against the bitterness of the cold. 

No thunderstorm destroyed anything, no wild animals decided to steal anything in the vegetable garden. Aziraphale twirls around, breathing in the clean air: he’s gone and become a countryside man, one that has enough of cars and buses after a few days and longs to go back to the sound of nature and dew drops in the mornings – not many dew drops in November, but the point still stands. 

He’s missed home. 

“All good up here, nobody died!” Crowley calls from the window upstairs. He hasn’t even taken his scarf off. “Not that anyone would dare, but the things worked.” 

Aziraphale breathes out a sigh of relief. “It all seems fine down here as well.”

“Are those leaves I see?” Crowley shouts, dangling dangerously out of the open window. 

“You cannot be mad at the leaves for dying.” Aziraphale tuts. “And seriously, it’s all perfectly tidy. Nothing to report –”

The words have barely left his mouth when he hears a scratching noise coming from the birdhouse. “Er,” he calls out. “ Almost nothing to report.” 

“What?” Crowley keeps yelling, upper body basically hanging out of the open window. “Don’t move, I’m coming down.”

Unfortunately, Aziraphale has already put his – regrettably metaphorical – investigation hat on, and when the hat is on, he cannot be stopped. He squares his shoulder, and tiptoes over to the wooden structure. “What do we have here?” 

“I said don’t move!” He hears Crowley hollering somewhere behind him, but keeps ignoring him.

He waves a hand in the air and produces a flashlight, peering inside the little hole. 

“When I tell you don’t move, I’m coming down , I mean don’t move, I’m coming down!” Crowley stomps over. He puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulder, cheeks pressed together to peer inside as well. “Can’t see shit.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Which is why I was looking first – oh!”

“ Oh ? Oh what?” Crowley bodily – and rather rudely – pushes Aziraphale sideways, taking a proper look inside. “What are you – oh. Oh, fuck.”

Aziraphale hastily shoves Crowley away – much less rudely – easing open the little door he usually uses to push seeds and weeds inside, sparing a fleeting thought for the care and details his beloved put into building the thing. Beloved who could stop sputtering out profanities and let Aziraphale work in peace, but beloved nonetheless. “Oh, Good Lord. How did you get in there?” 

“No, angel. Don’t ask it any questions.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, focused on the bundle of fur and dirt curling up against the wool of his coat, immediately hiding the little nose in the cashmere of his scarf. “That’s Italian, actually,” he mumbles to the little intruder, scrunching up his nose, but allows it nonetheless. “Crowley, it’s a tiny cat.”

“I can see that.” Crowley pushes out. “And you’re holding the tiny cat.” 

“What am I supposed to do? Drop it?” Aziraphale trails a finger on the fur – he thinks he sees some brown and white specks under all the dirt, and he hears the tiniest, faintest purr. “We should find a doctor.”

“A veterinarian,” Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. “And leave it there, right? Leave the intruder with someone else.” 

Bless his tender heart, Crowley has never done well with animals historically. If one ignores the… incident with the St. James ducks and the various… unpleasant encounters with horses before the invention of the automobiles, the many bee stings Aziraphale had to miracle away this summer and the two instances of birds, well, ruining his perfectly coiffed hair remain as painful reminders of the incompatibility. Aziraphale doesn’t get it: Crowley is respectful, if a bit cold, and has never laid a hand on a living creature. Yet, the animal kingdom has chosen to ignore this, opting to actually fight the poor demon at every chance it gets. 

So, ignoring the purrs and tiny meows coming from the bundle on his arm, Aziraphale sighs and says, “Yes. We can leave the kitten somewhere safe and warm.”

“Which is not our house.” Crowley’s eyes are wide and a bit glassy. “Right?” 

The kitten meows again. Aziraphale is pretty sure his left eye twitches. “Right.” 

Crowley breaths out, beams at Aziraphale before pressing a kiss on his forehead, both of his cheeks and finally his lips. “Let’s get this over with so that we can properly relax, eh?”
Aziraphale nods. He pets the tiny head, who looks up at him with wide, yellowish eyes, and tries very, very hard not to think about the words meant to be. 

🧣🧣🧣

Aziraphale has never been to a veterinarian office before, but it didn’t expect it to look quite like… this. With dogs on leashes at various degrees of distress, an older gentleman carrying a cage full of chickens and a frazzled looking woman crying out at the sight of them. 

“Welcome to the countryside,” Crowley mutters through his teeth. “That one has hens in a cage.”

“I can see that,” Aziraphale corrects him, equally quiet. “Why is that one screaming at us?”

A younger, tinier human leaps up from another chair, running over to Aziraphale and Crowley, who promptly puts his arm in front of both Aziraphale and the kitten – they both meow. “You found him! Mum, that’s Dewey!” 

Aziraphale frowns. “Actually, my name is A–” He shuts up as Crowley squeezes his waist with a shake of his head. “She means the cat, angel.”

That makes much more sense. The other woman, the mother Aziraphale supposes, runs up as well, snatching the kitten out of Aziraphale’s arm with a definite lack of finesse. “Oh, praise the Lord. Where have you been, you rascal?” 

Crowley clicks his tongue. “Our birdhouse,” he says, clipped. He notices Aziraphale’s empty and flailing hands, and laces their fingers together. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

At that, the woman drops the kitten in the hands of his son, and promptly sweeps up the both of them in a pretty invasive hug. “Where are my manners? Dear God. Thank you, thank you so much.” 

Crowley sputters something as he’s let go, while Aziraphale fixes his tie with a tight smile. “I assume the kitten is yours, Mrs…?”

“Oh, call me Debra, please.” She pats the kitten’s head, who’s now taken to licking up the child’s hand quite thoroughly. “He’s the only one who survived in his litter. We’ve been looking all over for him, this was our last option. His poor mother has been wailing nonstop since this morning.” 

“You too, Mum.” The child adds, grinning toothlessly at Aziraphale and Crowley. “Thank you so much for saving Dewey.” 

“I wouldn’t call it saving ,” Aziraphale starts, but it’s cut off by Crowley again. “He did everything. A proper angel, this one.”

Aziraphale has to crack a smile at the cheekiness, and lets himself be tugged a little closer. “How serendipitous to find you here then.”

“It’s a miracle,” the woman declares, and Crowley lets out a throaty sound. Aziraphale holds in a giggle. “Please, let me do something for you in return. We have a farm a bit far back, eggs and milk and cheese – whatever you want, please.”

Aziraphale is feeling a bit unmoored. The kindness is coming off this woman in waves, and he can tell she’s a genuinely good soul even without angelic powers. But his arms are feeling strangely empty, and the only thing he wants to do now is curl up with Crowley on their sofa and breathe for a moment. To think, he hasn’t even checked the state of the furnace yet. 

Crowley watches him for a moment before speaking. “Nah, we’re good. Just our daily good deed, eh?” 

The woman asks if they’re absolutely sure, and keeps the thank yous coming, but Aziraphale stops listening at some point, only focused on the hand laced in his own, squeezing rhythmically, leading him out, guiding him home. 

🧣🧣🧣

Furnace checked and house warmed up, they end up on the sofa, with steaming cups of tea at Aziraphale’s request and wearing their nightwear at Crowley’s insistence. 

“What a day,” Aziraphale comments, nuzzling into Crowley’s soft flannel shirt. “And it’s barely midday.”

Crowley hums, keeps playing with his hair. “We can get you a kitten, if you want one.” 

Aziraphale fiddles with the buttons he can reach. “Darling, I didn’t want to keep the cat.”

“Liar,” Crowley mumbles. “Your eyes got all shiny. You were sad, at the vet. I know you – you pictured somehow convincing me and coming home with it.”

Aziraphale’s finger briefly grazes over the wiry hair on Crowley’s chest, before he decides he needs to look into Crowley’s eyes and lifts his head up. He cups Crowley’s face, drawing him in for a brief kiss. “Perhaps I was already a bit fond of the little fellow. He had yellow eyes, you see?” He smiles at the gratifying blush blooming on Crowley’s nose. “But come to think of it, the whole thing would have been terribly impractical – books knocked over, plants disturbed, hair everywhere.”

Crowley twists his mouth as if the next words actually pains him. “But – you’d have been happy.” 

“No, darling, because you’d have been terribly cranky.” Another kiss, softer this time, swallowing up a vocal-only noise. “You’re more important to me than any hypothetical pet.” 

Having said his piece, he resumes his previous position, closing his eyes against the warm fabric. He reunited a family today – that’s a perfectly fine deed. Sure, he was saddened for a moment at the loss of a what if, but if there is one thing he’s learned over the years is that things happen for a reason. Maybe, in a few months or in a few years, they’ll have a house full of pets of any kind, even chickens outside. But for now, what they need is each other, their garden, their house full of books. Nothing else, certainly not Aziraphale’s penchant for tiny creatures, is enough to disturb that peace. 

Crowley’s lips settle on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Love you more than anything, y’know that, right? And I-“

Aziraphale waits, unmoving. Sometimes Crowley needs stillness to move forward. He won’t look at Aziraphale properly, he will scare himself into silence if they’re put face to face. So, Aziraphale waits right where he is, rubbing circles on Crowley’s chest and listening to the rabbiting of his heart. “I can’t believe you actually love me.” 

Aziraphale frowns. Of all the things he thought they were past - but Crowley isn’t done, and speaks again, faster but hushed. “Or that Paris was real, and we actually… held bloody hands in front of everyone. And this house - this house is ours, yours and mine, and I can see that in every corner. You - you’d think I’d have a heart attack daily.” 

Aziraphale holds him closer, squeezing his middle so tightly Crowley lets out a strangled noise caused by lack of oxygen rather than feelings, or perhaps a mix of both. “I’ve thought of that as well. Perhaps not in as many words, but it is a… strange feeling.” 

“Strange. Yeah, it’s like -“ the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest quickens underneath him. “I don’t know what it’s like, but I… I love it.” 

Aziraphale sniffles. “You said the big word twice in a few minutes. A new record.” He lifts his head again, his wobbly smile meeting Crowley’s equally shaky expression. Beautiful even like this, perhaps even more. They meet in the middle, foreheads touching, and maybe Aziraphale won’t say it enough to make up for all the times he didn’t say anything, but one more time won’t hurt. “I love you, my dearest one.” 

Crowley chuckles, breathless and giddy. “Thanks for hypothetically getting rid of hypothetical pets for me.” 

“Anytime.” Aziraphale giggles. “Thank you for taking me to the city of love during the most boring month of the year.” 

It’ll never be enough, this kind of closeness. Crowley lays him down on the sofa, settling on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he decides to doze for a moment, and Aziraphale wants to bottle this feeling and drink it up like ambrosia. 

In the absence of said possibility, he can always replicate it at every chance he gets. And never, ever leave words unsaid again. 

xii. back to December all the time

“What are your thoughts on Christmas decorations?” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow and stops idly scrolling on his phone – or pretending to, at least, dropping it carelessly on the sofa. “I don’t have any.”

Aziraphale hums into his cups of tea, merely raising an eyebrow in response. 

“Well,” Crowley adds after a moment. “For one, the Christ child was born in July.” 

“I know that,” Aziraphale was there as well, after all. “I was talking about aesthetics.”

“Aesthetics.” Crowley munches on the word like a cow working on a blade of grass. “You want a Christmas tree, angel?” 

Sighing, Aziraphale puts his cup on the coffee table. “I used to decorate the shop, back in London. For blending in.”

Partially. He never celebrated Christmas, for quite obvious reasons, but he still liked the… atmosphere. Red and green and gold everywhere, the garlands, the lights – it made everything warmer, somehow. 

“I remember,” Crowley says, softer now. “You had a garland outside and a tree inside.”

Crowley lingered more, in December. He used to tell him the decorations were a waste of time, but Aziraphale remembers how he used to trace a finger over the pine needles, how he fixed the crooked ornaments without being asked, how he sat with Aziraphale longer nursing a special eggnog. “I think you liked it, deep down.” 

Crowley smiles. There is no point in hiding anymore, after all. “Wouldn’t say I liked it, but it was–” He stops, flushing prettily as he scoots closer to Aziraphale. “The fairy lights made you look all… glowy. I liked watching you,” he says, terribly quiet, a secret just for Aziraphale, who has no choice but to kiss those blushing cheeks first, and the rest of his face afterwards. 

“Would you like one here?” Aziraphale asks while Crowley’s face is still in his hands. “A small one, I promise. With a nice little trick to make sure pine needles don’t fall down, obviously.”

Crowley nuzzles into Aziraphale’s palm, kissing it before pushing it down. “You have a plan already, don’t you?”

It’s ever so nice to be so known. “There may be a farm nearby, and they also offer hot chocolate.” 

“With alcohol in it?”

Aziraphale nods. “Clearly.”

There’s a small smile playing at Crowley’s lips, fond and knowing. “We’ll go tomorrow. If-“ He holds up a finger, cutting off Aziraphale’s whoop of delight– “you promise we’ll actually get something small.” 

Aziraphale promptly links their pinkies together. “I promise. But only if you want to.” 

Crowley just shrugs. “Angel, you could tell me you want to put up fairy lights on the toilet and I’d probably say yes.” He drops a peck on Aziraphale’s knuckles before retrieving his discarded phone and tapping away on it. “Just want you to be happy. I’d draw the line at, like, live laugh love signs.” 

Blissfully unaware of whatever it is that Crowley’s talking about, Aziraphale wiggles happily as he curls against Crowley’s side. He already has the perfect place in mind for the little tree - right there to the left of the coffee table, near the window, so that he’ll see both the garden and the tree when sitting on the sofa. 

And now that he thinks about it, fairy lights would be lovely. Not on the toilet, clearly, but perhaps on the ceiling in their bedroom, like tiny stars. Crowley would like them, he thinks, and Aziraphale would like the way they’d make his eyes twinkle and glitter even more. 

In the studio as well, a little something to put around the plants, lovely things that they are. They could add a red poinsettia to the family, too - they have the space, and Crowley will make sure it stays red throughout the whole year. 

And ornaments! They need something to put on the tree, something they bought together and not miracled here, just because it feels so much nicer - even when they’ll bicker about baubles and balls and Crowley will refuse to just pick one and Aziraphale will pick too many. 

How lovely it is, to be so predictable. How absolutely wonderful to know one another so deeply. He cranes his neck, pressing a kiss on the underside of Crowley’s jaw. He hums, still tapping on the infernal device, pausing only to drop an answering kiss in his hair. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and thinks about a tree decorated with black and red and white and beige. A little… unconventional, perhaps. But definitely theirs. 

🧣🧣🧣

“Angel. Light of my life. Sunshine on my darkest-“

“Shut it, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes are narrow, his bottom lip jutted out in a pensive pout. “This is an important decision.”

“They all look the same!” Crowley half-yells, making a few heads turn in their direction. He takes a breath, slow and deep. “They’re trees, angel. What’s - what’s the difference?”

Aziraphale’s gloved finger taps on his chin, perfectly timed with the stomping of his foot. “This one is slightly fuller on the top, this other one on the bottom.” 

There might be smoke coming out of Crowley’s ears - must be perspiration. He’s not used to wearing proper outerwear during Winter. “Who cares?”

“Oh, darling.” Aziraphale says serenely. “You usually care about top and bottom.” 

Crowley’s cheeks turn a fetching plum colour. He coughs and sputters, working his jaw through multiple rearrangements. “You’re a menace,” he hisses. “And I call you angel.”

“Among other things.” Aziraphale winks, and resumes his pacing around the two final trees. Crowley stomps behind him, still muttering nonsense and still fuming. “I can’t seem to choose,” Aziraphale lets out with a huff. “My pros and cons list is not helpful whatsoever.” 

“Your pros and cons - alright, alright. Want some help?” Crowley moves Aziraphale aside and crouches down, shuffling and swearing like a sailor, before picking up the tree as if it were a mere feather, balancing it over his shoulder. “I choose the fuller bottom,” he snarls, tongue clicking on the last syllable. “I’ll be in the parking lot.”

Aziraphale gulps once, twice, loosening the scarf around his neck. Thank the Heavens they agreed on a small tree, for starters - for Crowley’s back, of course, and for Aziraphale’s sake, since he can now picture with perfect clarity what it would be like to be the one tossed around, and he actually cannot believe they didn’t try that yet. Such an awful oversight. 

Gosh. He shields his eyes with a gloved hand - has the sun ever been this bright in December? Or the air this - stifling?

Removing his gloves as well, he trots after Crowley, finding him perched half on top of the Bentley as he fixes the tree to the roof. “There.” He barks as he pats the pines. “His Majesty here is ready for transportation.” His cheeks are red, his scarf discarded somewhere Aziraphale can’t possibly know about, and his hair all messy, just as they get when Aziraphale is the one to run his hands through. 

“Crowley.”

“I’m sorry, alright?” Crowley babbles, hopping down the car. “We’ve been here two hours, and I know how you get - I saw you spend an entire day deciding between blackberry and strawberry jam once, and my arse is freezing out here-“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, calmly enough for how much his blood is boiling. “Get in the backseat.”

Crowley’s face does several things in quick succession, the most notable being his eyebrows skyrocketing to his forehead. “I - ugh?” 

“Now, darling.” Aziraphale opens the door, pressing a purposeful thumb on Crowley’s exposed neck. “If you’d be so kind.”

In the end, he’s the one to practically shove Crowley into the car, after casting a privacy miracle and tapping the roof to apologise to the dear girl - the engine rumbles once, and Aziraphale assumes she doesn’t mind. 

Crowley lifts himself up on his elbow, shaking his head til his glasses fall off. “I don’t really understand what’s happening right now, but I would like to thank - oh, fuck-“ Aziraphale’s deft fingers have moved both puffer jacket and jumper out of the way, now focused on the belt and the fly. “I’d like to thank m-myself for not dying.”

“Lift your hips - there you go.” Aziraphale purrs, delighted by Crowley’s eagerness and spurred on by the feverish feeling underneath his skin. 

“Are you actually going to - ah, alright, shit, you are, you-“ the words eventually trail off, swallowed up by several lovely noises. Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s stomach to keep him from squirming too much, and raises a pointed eyebrow since his mouth is otherwise occupied. 

“Yeah, got it. Shit, shitshitshit, this can’t be real.” Crowley cards a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, tender even now, a grounding weight and nothing more. He hums in contentment, one of Crowley’s legs kicking out to the front seats. 

Crowley rarely lets him indulge like this - not because he particularly enjoys being the one in control, but because he can’t bear the thought of taking without giving. Even now, in the cramped space of the Bentley’s backseat, he’s trying to scramble upwards, to reach any inch of Aziraphale he can, and the babbling please coming out of his mouth has nothing to do with his own pleasure. 

Aziraphale lifts his head, replacing his mouth with his hand for a moment. “Will you let me appreciate you?” He asks, lashes fluttering in the way he knows Crowley likes best. “You can have your way with me after, at home. Preferably against a wall of your choice.” 

Crowley’s entire body jerks backwards, slamming against the fogged up window. “Any wall. Every wall. And then I - I’ll build new ones.”

Aziraphale smiles as he resumes his ministrations, humming with delight at the way Crowley’s muscles are infinitely more relaxed. He keeps a hand on his stomach, just to feel the barely-there softness of him, his panting breaths. 

He loves making Crowley fall apart - that’s his favourite part, every time. Not an ounce of aloofness in the way a few broken syllables making up his name leave his bitten-red mouth, nothing careful about the way his thighs spasm and tighten their hold around Aziraphale’s shoulders. And absolutely nothing hiding the golden in his irises that swallows up the white, that draws Aziraphale in like a magnet. 

He laces their fingers together as Crowley shakes apart, and Aziraphale savours every broken moan, every whisper of love hanging in the air - and every drop, of course. He’s not one to waste. 

He clears the fog on the window with a mindless miracle, pressing tender kisses to Crowley’s stomach before setting him to rights. 

He’s dragged up immediately for a kiss, much too tender for what they just did. Crowley’s face is flushed red, the apple of his cheek a delicious shade of purple. “Holy fucking shit.”

“You picked up the tree so effortlessly.” Aziraphale says wistfully. “It was ever so enticing.” 

“I’m - I’m putting the damn tree in a glass house and keeping it forever.” Crowley murmurs, kissing each of Aziraphale’s knuckles. Then, as a fish suddenly thrown out of the water, he squirms and shuffles until he manages to launch himself into the front seat, head first. 

“What on Earth are you doing?” Aziraphale asks to Crowley’s kicking feet, before they’re abruptly replaced by the back of his head. 

“Driving you home so we can - I can - against the wall. Walls, plural.” He throws an arm over the headrest of the passenger seat. “Hold on.”

Aziraphale’s laughter is almost louder than the Bentley’s tyres screeching. 

🧣🧣🧣

Aziraphale and Crowley’s Christmas tree is a bit peculiar. 

In a not so rare bout of romanticism, they ended up with matching carts back at the garden centre turned Christmas shopping centre, both of them having selected every single gray ornament the shop had to offer. 

After thoroughly dabbing at the corner of his eyes, Aziraphale decided to add some red and burgundy to his selection, while Crowley opted for white and golden. What followed was more dabbing, a kissing session in the middle of the shop only interrupted by a clerk politely clearing his throat, and an entire day spent decorating lazily between bouts of kissing (and maybe more) and glasses of wine. 

The end result is a bit of a mess: a small tree full to the brim with fairy lights, a bunch of balls and baubles going from deep red to rich golden and a whole lot of shades of gray. 

“It’s beautiful.” Aziraphale decides. 

Crowley nods, chin digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s very… us.” He tightens his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. “And you’re beautiful under these lights.”

Willing the butterflies in his stomach to behave, Aziraphale clears his throat. “The Christmas air is making you awfully romantic.”

“Nah, you’re always gorgeous. I just don’t tell you enough.” 

The bubbles have settled lately. Now, they’re just a pleasant champagne-like feeling surfacing every time Crowley says something devastating, just like this. He sighs, melting against Crowley’s chest as he tugs him back, tilting his head to give his lips more space. “Darling?”

“Mmh?”

Aziraphale has done this before. In a room full of near strangers, giddy with excitement and oblivious to the forces outside that were about to draw them apart. He’s taken Crowley’s hand before, leading him to a dancefloor even though he’s never been a dancer, and it went… wrong. 

There is no one outside now, only the pitter-patter of rain against the window. No one else is inside either, just the two of them. He wants a redo of this as well. “What would you say about a dance?” 

Crowley doesn’t reply, not at first. He stays where he is, pressed against Aziraphale’s back, and hides a few sniffles in his shoulder before snapping his fingers. 

As the music fills the air, Aziraphale’s are the eyes swelling up. “You old sap.” 

“Shut it.” Crowley whispers. He whirls him around, one arm squeezing his waist, the other one holding up Aziraphale’s hand. “I had that one ready.” 

“Oh, I bet.”

Angels don’t dance, but this particular demon doesn’t either. It’s pretty clear from the first foot stomps and the breathless giggles that follow that it’s best they stick to a loose sway. Aziraphale likes this better than a proper dance: more chances to kiss, more closeness. 

“There are no nightingales here, either.” He whispers. “Except for the song, of course.” 

“Maybe the nightingales are the friends we made along the way.” Crowley whispers back. “‘Cept we’re each other’s only friend, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about.” 

Aziraphale chuckles quietly. “Or perhaps we are the nightingales.” 

Crowley attempts a circle - they manage halfway before almost falling over their poor tree. He laughs as he straightens them both again. “Ah. That’s pretty convenient.” 

“Let’s just dance, for now.” Aziraphale brings their joined hands against his heart. “We’ll talk about nightingales later.”

“Can’t wait, angel.” Aziraphale closes his eyes as a kiss is pressed against his forehead. “Can’t wait.” 

🧣🧣🧣

It snows on Christmas Day. The effect a romantic demon has on the weather. 

They make love slowly, unhurried, Crowley whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he brings him to a shivering high. 

They have nowhere to go, afterwards, nothing at all to do. They while away the day as they do most days - kissing and laughing and attempting to cook a proper meal, Aziraphale reading out loud and bearing Crowley’s commentary, Crowley showing him all sorts of things on that infernal device of his. 

It’s a nice day. All the days are nice here. 

As the sun starts to set, he drags Crowley outside, with the excuse of never having kissed under the snow. 

“I don’t have a present for you,” he says after doing just that. “We don’t celebrate anything today, and there is no Earthly creation that could ever convey what you mean to me.” 

Crowley smiles, if a bit wobbily. “Well, thank fuck, it would have been way too embarrassing for me if you did have something.” He shivers a little, tightening the blanket around his shoulders. “And same, of course.” 

“I just-“ Aziraphale gestures at their snow-covered garden. “It’s been a full year of you and I, this home, and-“ 

“Let’s save the emotional speeches for New Year's, eh?” Crowley is still smiling as he starts rubbing his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms. “Whatever you want to tell me, me too. Just come back inside now, will you?”

“I want to vow something to you.” Aziraphale marches on, because he’s spent all night rehearsing in his head and he won’t ever let any words go unsaid ever again. “I want to vow that we’ll grow our garden together every year, and we’ll go to bed every night together, sharing a kiss, and that I’ll be there whenever you look for me. For - forever, and then a bit more.”

“Angel,” Crowley’s eyes are wide, brows drawn together. “What-“

“And it’s silly, I know. That whole thing isn’t for us - the rings, the suits, the - the officiant.” He takes Crowley's trembling face in his hands. “But I’ve always liked the idea of vows.”

“You-“ Crowley deflates like a balloon, noodle-like in Aziraphale’s arms. “You’re going to kill me one day. Vavoom, demon found dead. Cause of death excessive… angelicness, perhaps.” 

“Don’t even joke.” Aziraphale says quite seriously. “And you don’t have to say anything back, just-“ 

“No, no, no.” Crowley mumbles. He straightens up, takes Aziraphale’s hands in both of his. “I do. I have to say something back.” 

Aziraphale smiles, and waits. His heart is beating wildly, his skin feels warm even under the snow. He gives Crowley’s hands a squeeze - his first and only friend, his first and only love, who’s biting his lip and searching for words Aziraphale doesn’t really need to hear, but longs for nonetheless. There is something so special in putting those kind of words into the Universe, the reason why Aziraphale wanted to do it in the first place: let the wind carry them away, the roots underground absorb them. 

Let the Earth bear witness like it always has done. Let their love be one with the elements like it always has been. 

Finally, Crowley finds the words. He’s always been amazing at finding them. “I vow,” he starts, barely a whisper. “To learn how to cook better than a chef, to get you every book you could ever possibly want, and - and to never leave you alone. To always be there whenever you need me. Forever and - and then a bit more.” 

He gives Crowley’s hands another squeeze. “I always need you.”

Crowley kisses the tears off his cheeks. “And I always look for you.” 

They don’t say anything anymore for a while. The kisses they share tastes like salt and melted snow, like the red wine they’ve been sipping all day and the sugar of the crêpes they shared. 

They kiss with care, every brush of tongue another promise, every slide of lips another vow. 

Their garden sleeps, alive beneath their feet. Their house waits for them, warm and alight. 

Theirs. Everything around them, everything beneath them. The world, too. 

“I love you.” 

Crowley smiles, wide and beautiful. “Love you too.” 

Aziraphale, of course, smiles back. The only thing left to do is yet another kiss. 

And another. 

And another. 

Forever, and then a bit more. 

🧣🧣🧣

Did you find it, the love story? 

It was always there: in every flower, in every leaf, in every blade of grass. It was always waiting for them to find it, and find it they did. 

It’s up to you now: there’s a love story everywhere, really. Finding it is already half the fun.