Work Text:
A peek into the future:
Tired of sleep, Crowley’s eyes flutter open to the sight of an angel in his bed. Waking up is his least favourite part of slumber, but—just look at how nice it is to open his eyes to find Aziraphale beside him. How soft the morning light, sweeping across the angelic cheeks. How warm the hand laying loose over his heart.
In the six millenia he's known him, Crowley has never once seen Aziraphale asleep. He doesn’t know if the angel ever let himself relax like that while Heaven still had him under their thumb. Before Adam fixed Armageddon, Crowley was always unwilling to take his eyes off his angel, in case he missed any of those rare flashes where Aziraphale forgets everything for a while and loses himself in the moment. He used to be so tense in Crowley’s presence. Crowley never quite realized how much until now, looking at Aziraphale pressed against the pillow, breathing softly and slowly.
He reaches out to thumb away at the drool leaking from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale’s eyebrows tense slightly, and Crowley wonders what he’s fussing about in his dreams. Crowley feels his expression soften into something disgustingly fond. It’s fine, there's no one around to see it.
Crowley's never liked waking up—but he could certainly get used to mornings like this.
1800
Soho, London
The box of chocolates sits open on the little rococo coffee table, flowers in a vase out front. The chocolates Crowley brought him are the fancy kind, and Aziraphale can’t resist popping a few into his mouth before they head out for lunch.
“The place is just down the street. We’ll be back before your grand opening, angel,” Crowley reassures him, but of course they inevitably lose track of time and it’s already late in the afternoon when they’re walking back up to the door of his new bookshop.
“I meant to hold the grand opening promptly after lunch. It’s too late now, I suppose I’ll just have to settle in for an evening of quiet reading,” Aziraphale says. He lets a little accusation leak into his tone, but his expression is too light for it to hold any weight. Flowers, chocolates, lunch, Crowley. A whole shop of books to read. Aziraphale is having a wonderful day. Just this morning, the Archangel Gabriel even changed his mind about promoting him back Upstairs.
Crowley shoots him an incredulous look. “What are you looking at me for? I wasn’t the one who ordered extra pudding,” he scoffs, “and I swear, I’ve never met anyone who eats as slowly as you do.”
“Oh, but that pudding was simply excellent. It would have been a waste not to savour every bite.”
The corner of Crowley’s mouth curves into something resembling fondness. “It’s almost as if you wanted to be late.”
Aziraphale bites back his glee. “Nonsense. A grand opening is important for attracting potential customers.”
“I know you better than to think you want any customers getting their hands on your precious books.”
“Nobody can say I didn’t try, at least.”
They stop in front of the bookshop door. “Here we are,” Aziraphale says. “Well, Crowley, thank you for putting up with me. I’ve had a lovely time today.”
Crowley waves a dismissive hand in front of his face. “S’fine. I wanted to. It’s not putting up with you, you know. To take you out. I want to treat you well,” he says, trailing off into a mumble. He still can’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, even though his own are already shielded by sunglasses.
Aziraphale is not stupid. He knows what they’ve been leading up to this recent century, their every interaction gaining more and more of a flirtatious flavour. And who could forget the dashing rescue in Paris, and the crepes, the social invitations, the flowers.
How will he have me?—It’s something Aziraphale has wondered many times, staring at Crowley across the coffee table, the bustling town square, the ballroom full of dancing people. Will he touch? Will he taste? Will he hold me close, swaying like the humans do?
“Darling, look at me.” He rests his hand on Crowley’s arm just to enjoy the flush on his face. “I’d like to thank you for today. And for the flowers, and the chocolates. It was very sweet of you. It’s almost as if we’re… well. I’m sure you know. I really have been enjoying our time together very much. And I don’t want to seem too forward, but perhaps you would like to come inside with me to continue—”
—Over Crowley’s shoulder: a flash of light. It stops Aziraphale mid-sentence. A flicker of lightning deposits Gabriel on the sidewalk across the street, looking a little disgruntled. The Archangel hasn’t spotted them yet, choosing to spend some time patting down his suit and arranging his hair.
There’s this instance of sharp clarity, between one moment and the next. Crowley’s eyes are still fixed on him, open and expectant, even if obscured behind dark lenses. Gabriel across the street behind him, preoccupied with himself. Aziraphale is the only one with the complete picture, the whole forest, and he sees it going up in flames. His hopes for the new century—stricken out, quick as lightning. It’s time to wake up.
Heart like a sinking stone, Aziraphale knows what he must do. Shifting his hand on Crowley’s arm, he exchanges warm touch for firm grip. He pulls Crowley behind him, into the bookshop, and slams the doors closed. Hopes that Crowley will stay hidden and quiet. We were fools to even think we could dream like the humans do, Aziraphale thinks miserably. He leans on the handles and waits for Gabriel to cross the street.
“Hello, Gabriel!” Aziraphale raises his voice for Crowley's benefit, loud enough to hear from behind those doors. He manages a smile—small, tired and polite. “Has there been another change of plans?”
The plastic grin the Archangel greets him with has never been more grating. Aziraphale wishes, not for the first time, that he were assigned a boss less enthusiastic about in-person, face-to-face briefings.
Gabriel’s eyebrows raise condescendingly. “No, I’m afraid not. Lots of paperwork upstairs I have to get back to. A change in plans doesn’t just happen, you know? There’s a lot going on behind the scenes. This will only take a minute. It slipped my mind earlier, because of the sudden change, I'm sure you understand,” he says, pausing to build up anticipation. Aziraphale waits, staring. Gabriel clears his throat. “You have a new assignment. It’s a big one! Start off the new century with a bang, you know how it is.”
Aziraphale sighs, resigned, as Gabriel bumps a cheerful fist to his shoulder with a little more force than necessary. It really doesn’t take more than a minute for Gabriel to go over the details of the assignment. Soon enough, he’s gone in a flash of light, leaving Aziraphale with his back pressed to the double doors of the bookshop, heart pounding, urging them to stay closed. He stays there, unmoving for a whole hour, just in case.
When he finally deems it safe enough to open the doors, Crowley tumbles out, stumbling. His hands reach out like they want to grasp onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, but he stops just short.
Crowley looks Aziraphale up and down, scans the expression on his face. Whatever it is Crowley finds, it earns him a little unhappy frown. (And there goes the twinge in Aziraphale’s heart. He’s not sure when he’ll get to see a smile on that mouth again.) “Wh-”
Aziraphale shakes his head. Closes his eyes so the look on Crowley’s face won’t burn its image into the walls of his heart.
“I think you’d better go,” Aziraphale says. He nudges Crowley out the shop and onto the pavement, with a hand hovering at his back. Not daring to touch.
Crowley looks back at him. Opens his mouth. Thinks twice, and closes it. He settles on a short nod, and disappears into the crowd. Aziraphale makes sure not to watch him go.
The rest of the day is not particularly wonderful.
Aziraphale sits alone in his bookshop, flowers out front and chocolates on his lap. The rest of the flavours in the box are all a bit too bitter for his liking.
Crowley climbs into his bed and flops face first into his pillow, cursing Gabriel with every insult in his repertoire. Later, when he’s exhausted his aching heart, he’ll think about the lunch date and the conversation after, replaying it over and over again. What was Aziraphale about to say to him? What could have happened, if they hadn’t been interrupted? He can only dream about it now.
(Darling.)
(Look at me.)
(It’s almost as if we’re—)
(Perhaps you would like to come inside with me to continue—)
“—fraternizing?” Crowley spits, as sharply as the way the words hit him, in front of the pond at St James Park in 1862.
They fight, and avoid speaking with each other for several more decades, until the bombs start falling over London.
2019
Soho, London
Let's try again.
Evening is quiet. The scene begins at the doorway of the bookshop where an angel and a demon stand, lingering on the front step.
“Well,” says Aziraphale.
“Mm,” says Crowley.
The setup is perfect. The very first day of the rest of their lives. A lunch-turned-dinner date at the Ritz. Crowley pays the bill and walks him home under a sky tinged with sunset colours. No apocalypse, no heaven and hell, just the two of them, lingering at the doorway, like a shy couple waiting for a goodnight kiss.
Aziraphale tries to push through the knot in his throat.
“Crowley,” he begins, carefully, waiting for Crowley to turn his questioning glance towards him. “I just wanted to thank you.”
“Eh, no problem, you know that. You can get the bill next time. I’ll handle the reservation.”
“Oh, yes, that too,” Aziraphale says, “but what I meant was… thank you for, well.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands, an attempt to express something that hasn’t taken form in his own head quite yet.
It’s the dilemma of the artist. The poet’s life endeavour. How does one ever find the right words for something like this? They’ve been steeping in 6000 years of companionship, Crowley by his left shoulder, falling into step with him. The way they always meet again, and every time it feels more and more like coming home. How can anyone truly bind this formless feeling into a string of words?
The entire Arrangement was built on the basis of performing favours for each other, but it’s there in the little things too. Paying the bill, booking a reservation—it should be inconsequential for them both. Just a simple wave of the hand or a snap of the fingers, miracle for demonic miracle. But that’s not all it is, not the way they do it.
“Thank you, for being here with me,” is what he settles on. “And for staying, all this time.”
“Ah,” Crowley says. His brow is quirked in that way it gets when he notices Aziraphale trying to heap layers of meaning into the conversation. “Well, that’s. No problem either, really. I wouldn't just leave you.”
Crowley says this like a casual shrug, but Aziraphale knows he means it genuinely. It heartens him enough to continue.
“First of all, I’m sorry, for what I said at the bandstand. Fear blinded me, and my words were cruel. You must know none of it truly came from the heart,” Aziraphale says.
“No, yeah, I get it, I do. You don’t need to apologize.”
“I still regret ever saying those things. I’ll be better to you, my dear, I promise,” Aziraphale says. He takes a slow step closer to Crowley. The edge of a precipice.
“Yeah, I know that. Is… Is that all?” Crowley asks, watching Aziraphale carefully over the top of his sunglasses.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not quite.”
How do you let go? When you’ve held your worries so close to your chest for so long that it grew roots and dug itself a home in your heart? His fear—it’s a centuries-old stain that’s seeped into his skin. He’d always know it was there, even if he went around pretending otherwise.
“Darling,” Aziraphale begins. His hand lifts, reaching. It pauses in the air between them.
Crowley meets him halfway, reaching up to catch Aziraphale’s fingers in his own hand. “Yeah?” he says, voice a soft croak.
Aziraphale resists the urge to glance towards the clouds. Nobody’s watching anymore, he reminds himself. It’s only him now. Just him, with his human shaped heart rattling around in his human shaped body.
Still, there’s nothing quite so uniquely terrifying as the sudden freedom of choice.
He takes a deep breath. “As for the other thing, I—” Aziraphale stops, again, eyes wide. To put it into words is to give it shape. This thing between them they’ve never allowed themselves to define. Observe the space around it and study the effects of its push and pull. Don’t stare directly into the sun—that’s common sense.
A smile that lingers too long, a stare a bit too soft at the edges. Lunches that turn into dinner and drinks. Conversations that tumble on and on. Evidence is an ache in the heart.
Can he really, finally have this—this everything?
“I—”
But what if he says it and it sours in his mouth? What if something happens. What if he says it and the world cracks open.
“It's fine,” says Crowley, always swooping in at Aziraphale’s most helpless moments. He curls his fingers to shift the clasp of their hands into something more complete. “I know that too.”
Aziraphale feels a slow stroke along the knuckle of his thumb that renders him a bit breathless. “I think it’s still important for me to say it. Outright, for once.”
“Doesn’t have to be right now.”
How can this be enough, Aziraphale wonders, watching Crowley fold himself neatly away like he’s been doing for centuries, again and again. Even now. What could possibly make all this waiting worth it?
“Oh, but Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “I don’t want to go too slow for you.”
Aziraphale watches as several expressions fly across Crowley’s face. “But you’re not,” he finally says. His mouth continues to scramble for words.
Crowley gives up and brings their clasped hands to his chest, right over his heartbeat. Aziraphale can feel it thrumming against the back of his hand. It’s fast. It’s so fast. The human shaped heart in Crowley’s human shaped body. The one that matches Aziraphale’s, beat for beat.
“It’s you,” says Crowley. “It’s not too slow.”
“Oh,” says Aziraphale, quietly, baffled, in wonder. “And you’ll really have me? Still?”
“Any way you like. It's been like this for so long, it's not like I can just stop,” Crowley confesses, the whispered words hanging in the air.
Every particle of his body is quivering with feeling. Aziraphale moves forward, helplessly pulled in, and kisses Crowley on the corner of his mouth. The world doesn’t crack open, even though he feels like it should have.
“Nggk,” Crowley says, sounding rather strangled.
“Yes, me too,” Aziraphale agrees. Actions come easier than words do. “I’m sure we can figure it out together.”
“If you go any faster I might die,” Crowley explains, in the same lofty nonchalant tone he uses when Aziraphale catches him doing something rather nice that he needs excuses for. “Discorporate. Heart attack, you know. You’d be the death of me, angel.”
“Nasty business. Wouldn’t want that.” Aziraphale makes a face, biting down on his smile. “Rain check?”
“Right.”
“Well then.”
Aziraphale takes a step back. Hands still knotted between them like a string, connecting heart to heart. “How would you like to come in for a nightcap?” he asks, tugging.
The days following are a breath of fresh air. A slow, long-awaited exhale. They wine and dine with more frequency than ever before, although not out of any sense of urgency—they have lots of time.
No, the underlying cause sits in the curve of Aziraphale’s hopeful smile as he turns to Crowley, who’s getting ready to leave after a round of tipsy rambling and light bickering in the backroom of the bookshop. “Tomorrow?” he’ll say, a shy bat of his lashes for good measure. And so Crowley will produce one of his many incoherent noises in the back of his throat, and reply, “Yeah, same time. ‘Course,” and they will spend a few more moments just glancing at each other, drunk on the wine and the company and something new—light and hazy in the air—before they pull away. At the same time tomorrow, they rinse and repeat.
On Monday, they walk through Kew Gardens, Crowley hovering close by his shoulder. Aziraphale allows himself to lean back into it, a tad more than usual.
On Thursday, they sit at the bench across the duck pond in St James, Crowley sprawled over the space the way he does—knees, elbows thrown akimbo, body struggling to achieve vertical behaviour. Aziraphale scoots a little closer and shifts his leg to the side so it meets Crowley’s, a slight deviation from his usual poise. Upon contact, the fidgety motions of Crowley’s body suddenly fall still, and Aziraphale feels warm all over.
Like this, they inch forward tentatively, in small touches and furtive smiles.
Crowley has taken to sleeping regularly every night, complains he’s still recovering his energy from the events of the not-apocalypse. But he has nightmares now, too, and some days he’ll wake up in the middle of the dark and drive himself over to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He'll sit outside and stare at the clouded windows, until the angel notices and invites him in. Aziraphale soon takes to leaving the lights on in the front and checking out the windows for the Bentley.
“You can come in anytime you like,” chides Aziraphale, draping a blanket over Crowley on the chaise lounge in the backroom. “I promise I’ll never turn you away. Not anymore.”
“I was just being stupid,” mumbles Crowley. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
“You won’t bother me, Crowley. Not with this. And I— I still don’t quite have the words yet, but I am with you, on our own side now. Wholeheartedly.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale sighs frustratedly to hide his fond smile, and flicks a hand at him.
“Yeah, I got it,” says Crowley, successfully amused. The small grin he gives Aziraphale has a slightly giddy edge to it. “Can’t get rid of you.”
“Likewise,” says Aziraphale, rolling his eyes, but he moves his reading spot to the closest armchair and keeps watch over the sleeping demon all night.
It takes a while for them to settle. Aziraphale learns to catch himself every time he starts turning about to check if they’re being watched. Crowley still does that thing where he walks a circle all the way around Aziraphale, like a snake coiling around something precious, like he’s drawing a ward of protection around him. It’s always made them both feel safer.
They visit their usual haunts one by one down the list. The theatre, the museum, that cafe with the perfectly flaky raspberry tarts. It’s a way to personally see for themselves that the rest of their world is still standing, as well as a return to something comfortable, something familiar. No need for covert meetings anymore, but they still stand by the water, tossing corn at the ducks.
It’s Aziraphale who brings up the topic.
“How long do you think we have?” he asks, watching as a kernel bounces off the head of a particularly indignant duck. “Heaven and Hell will make their next move eventually. We don’t have forever.”
“We have enough,” Crowley says. “We’ll figure something out. It’s not like we have jobs to do anymore. We have time.”
Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “That we do.”
Crowley shrugs. His fingers reach out, nudge lightly at the back of Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale turns to beam at him softly.
He coughs, turning his head pointedly away. “You’ll have your bookshop and I’ll still have my flat, of course, but we could set up a safehouse elsewhere, or something like that. Would— would that make you feel more prepared?”
“Oh, yes, perhaps. It’s a decent idea.”
“We could look into some of your old books for protection spells. Draw up some defense wards. Both angelic and demonic.”
“Right. I do believe I own a few legitimate occult books. Perhaps we could ask Ms. Device too, the witch girl, do you remember her? We had a nice chat at the airbase. Invited us over for tea sometime, what a dear. She might have something that could help us.”
It’s easy enough to contact Anathema—they’d all exchanged numbers at the airbase after everything was over.
When Anathema invites them over to Tadfield, Aziraphale insists on bringing his own tea and snacks, delights in puttering around in the cute little kitchen at Jasmine Cottage. Crowley gets right down to business.
“So you’re a witch, right—”
“More of an occultist, really.”
“Sure, whatever. You’d know lots about witchcraft then, wouldn’t you? Human magic,” he says, tilting his head in that well-practiced challenging manner, “for protection. Spells, wards. Anything like that.”
Anathema’s eyes flash with interest. “Well, maybe. I might have to call my mother to check the family collection. What do you need it for?”
“We’re thinking about getting a place for ourselves. Somewhere else to go that isn’t the bookshop or my flat. Someplace safe that Above or Below hasn’t touched. Will not touch,” he says, baring his teeth as if to warn off anyone who might try to challenge that.
She nods. “I’ll look around. If I find anything relevant, I can send it to the bookshop.”
Crowley sits back, satisfied.
“And in return,” she continues, “you’ll stay and answer all the questions I have for you today.”
Crowley’s brows crinkle in annoyance but his resulting grin is sharp and impressed. “Well who am I to discourage humans from seeking knowledge. Not bad, Book Girl. I’ll even let you extend the deadline from ‘today’ to ‘indefinitely’. You have my phone number.”
While the witch and the demon shake hands over the coffee table, Newton bites into his biscuit and reassures himself that it’ll probably be fine.
The angel enters the room with his tray of tea.
“Don’t worry,” he tells Newt, “Crowley knows better than to make binding deals with humans after that whole mess in the 14th century.”
“Ugh, don’t even talk about the 14th century,” Crowley groans, and Anathema’s eyes light up dangerously.
“What do you think about the South Downs, my dear,” asks Aziraphale, quickly changing the subject. It won’t work on Anathema for long, but no harm in trying. “Brighton, perhaps? Or maybe somewhere towards the outskirts? Ooh, we could get a charming little cottage.”
“Like the one we’re sitting in right now? Got inspired, did you,” says Crowley, nodding approvingly. “I can start looking for places.”
Aziraphale beams. Crowley pops a sugar into his cup. “Oh, would you? I do appreciate it. It would be just perfect if it came with a little garden for your plants.”
“And a space big enough for your books. You can move some over from the bookshop. Some of the more special ones that you keep in the backroom’s backroom, maybe,” Crowley says. He ducks his head, staring at the tea as he swirls it around with a spoon. “Whatever you like, angel.”
“I’ll have to do inventory,” says Aziraphale, sounding very pleased.
“You guys are cute,” says Anathema, smiling over her teacup.
Crowley grimaces. Aziraphale grabs a cookie from the table and takes a bite, looking busy.
“So, like a holiday retreat?” Newt asks.
“It’s a safe house,” Crowley mutters. It’s not a no.
When they get back, Aziraphale starts digging out all the books he owns that were written by real witches. He stacks them all by his desk so he’ll have a pile to work through.
In the meantime, they continue to take it slow. Aziraphale will occasionally indulge in the flutter of fingers on Crowley’s waist, his cheek, down the front lapels of his jacket when they dress up to go to the opera. Crowley still reaches for Aziraphale like an unsure question, and Aziraphale reaches back like a careful answer, growing ever more certain.
He learns just how much of a leaner Crowley is—he leans into Aziraphale’s soft touches, leans on him when they sit, leans forward into Aziraphale’s steady straight posture.
In the bookshop, Aziraphale reads, whether the sign is flipped to open or not, researching and sketching out designs for protection wards they could use. Crowley lounges on the nearest armchair and steals sips of cocoa from the angel’s mug, with his sleek Mac in his lap, searching cottages for sale and pulling up every possible result, even ones that no human remembers posting online.
Every so often Crowley will throw out something like, “Balcony?” and Aziraphale will hum in consideration.
“No, I think not,” he says.
“Tudor style?”
“Up to you, dear.”
And when Crowley gets up to stretch his legs he knows to take Aziraphale’s cold and forgotten mug with him. When he returns, he makes his way to where Aziraphale sits, leaning his hip to make precise contact with the angel’s elbow. A simple wish to remain close. He knows how to turn the mug, newly filled with hot cocoa, so the winged handle meets Aziraphale’s fingers when he presses it close.
“Oh, thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale will say, and press a warm hand to the nearest spot he finds—the side of Crowley’s waist. He leans into it.
And Crowley can’t stop his own smile—happy and uncomplicated. The warmth from Aziraphale’s hand seeps through his clothes and into his skin.
Between the two of them, moving in doesn’t take all that long once they’ve found a place.
The Bentley miraculously accommodates an entire hoard of things in its trunk. It only takes them a few trips back and forth. They have a bit of an argument about Aziraphale’s classical records—he refuses to let them anywhere near the Bentley.
“It doesn’t take a fortnight to get to the cottage, angel. Your records will be just fine.”
“I am not risking it, Crowley. I’ve had some of these for almost a century now. I won’t let them be touched by your bebop.”
“Can’t believe you’re calling Queen bebop.”
They end up calling in Newt to bring in Dick Turpin to assist them. Crowley is offended on behalf of the Bentley for a week straight. (“I mean, have you seen his car?”) It never occurs to them that they could simply transport their things over with a quick snap of their fingers.
The final version of the protection wards Aziraphale drew up is a product of his own innovation, combining demonic and angelic symbols into a distinctly human procedure and structure. Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s sigils are weaved into the very center of it, bright and bold. After all, they have no reason to hide anymore.
With a final gesture, Aziraphale completes the ward, sighing with the feeling of the magic sinking into his skin and into the grounds of the cottage. They’re only settling in here for the summer, and returning to London when the weather gets colder, but these wards will last them much, much longer than that. This is the first truly safe place they’ve built for themselves, together. It feels like it could be a home.
They get drunk to celebrate.
The new furniture doesn’t arrive until Monday, so they shrug and sit on the floor, wine bottles scattered between them. They drink and talk and clink glasses together, evening dipping into night. Full of moonshine glow, laughing and smiling and bubbly on the inside.
At some point, Aziraphale pulls out his cards and coins and tries to do his magic tricks again, this time drunk. He easily tunes out the loud noises of protest from Crowley.
“Just, pick a coin,” Aziraphale insists, pink-cheeked and pouting. “Wait, I mean… a card. It’s the card that people pick, yes?”
Crowley glances out of the window like he might consider jumping out of it. He picks a card.
Aziraphale ends his trick with a flourish of cards and coins fluttering to the ground. Crowley highly doubts that’s how it was meant to be performed at all.
“Enough of this. Let’s do something else,” says Crowley, climbing to his feet. He holds his palms out for Aziraphale. “C’mon. Up, angel.”
Lifted suddenly onto his feet, the room starts to teeter to the side in his vision, and so does Aziraphale himself. Crowley scoops him upright immediately, instinctively, hands sliding up to Aziraphale’s shoulders.
“Oh, thank you,” says Aziraphale, wobbles even in his voice. “Where are we going, again?”
“Maybe you should sober up a little,” says Crowley. “s’not like you to get this drunk on just wine.”
They’re standing on a cliff when Aziraphale realizes he’s never seen Crowley fly.
Crowley looks so at ease here, feet bare and pants rolled up above his ankles. Sunglasses tucked away.
“Do you do this often?” Aziraphale asks.
Yellow-gold eyes glinting like firelight in the dark, hair loose and flowing with his every movement. There is something striking about the sight of Crowley surrounded by nature. Perhaps it would be even more obvious during the day, with light reflecting off his red hair contrasted against trees of deep green. Aziraphale wishes the sun would rise for just a moment so he could see it for himself.
“Not really,” Crowley says, peering over the edge to check if this cliff is up to his standards. “Haven’t let the wings out since… ehh, the 5th century, maybe?”
Aziraphale wasn’t the type to take nature walks these days. He’d had a much easier time of it when humans started building permanent housing and settling down in homes, with their air conditioning and clean floors and comfy sofas, all the creature comforts. But here with Crowley’s hand stretched out towards him, on a cliff space blanketed by trees under a shroud of stars, Aziraphale thinks it might not be so bad every once in a while.
“I’ll go first if you like,” Crowley says, retracting his hand after a moment. “Take as long as you need.”
With a cheeky quirk to his grin and a patter of feet, he leaps, wingless—taking Aziraphale’s heart to drop over the edge of the cliff with him.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps, cross as ever as he watches Crowley reemerge from the drop, shooting up into the sky with his wings now stretched out. “That was risky! Don’t scare me like that, you- you speed demon! Dare-devil!”
“Exactly,” Crowley says, grinning. “Come on up here! Any day now.”
Aziraphale huffs and extends his wings, giving a few slow, experimental flaps that lift him a bit off his feet. He hasn’t flown since—Eden, actually. All the other times he’s had his wings out after that were mainly for show. Be Not Afraid and all that.
“You’ll have to bear with me, I’m a bit out of practice. And still a bit sloshed.”
Flying, for them, is a bit of a strange thing. Their wings are not entirely on the physical plane so they manage it a bit differently than birds do. Aziraphale manages to keep it up for quite some time, soaring over a large distance of trees, but his wings feel a bit creaky, and he’s discovering that he isn’t great at keeping in a straight line.
“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” he calls out. “I’m still a little tipsy—I know you are too—and the wind is quite strong today.”
Crowley squints at him. What? he mouths, cupping behind his ears.
All this roaring wind between them. Aziraphale needs to get closer. He attempts an abrupt turn mid-flight, skirting close to a startled Crowley who smacks a wing into him. Aziraphale is too dazed to properly react. Before he can urge his wings to right themselves again, one of the taller trees clips it out of the air, and sends him tumbling. Gravity does the rest of the work.
“Aziraphale!”
Crowley tucks his wings in so he can dive down faster. He reaches for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale reaches back.
Just before hitting the ground, Crowley manages to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s body, clinging, one hand behind his head to use as cushioning. His wings snap open—Aziraphale has the feeling he’d wrap them around him too if he were able to make it in time.
They hit the ground hard and at an angle, sending them in a short roll across the forest floor. Aziraphale shuts his eyes to wait for the dizziness to fade away. And he opens them to the sight of Crowley hovering over him, wings stretched out as dark as the night at his back, with its twinkling twinkling stars. Aziraphale can’t seem to look away.
“Angel?” Crowley pleads, his voice small. His hand is still steady and soft against the back of Aziraphale’s head, keeping it away from the hard ground.
Something shifts in Aziraphale, that same sort of something that clicked into place that first time in 1941 when Crowley handed him a bag of books in the ruins of a church.
“Aziraphale, say something.”
Aziraphale can feel the words welling in his throat. Now would be the time to tell him, if only his breath wasn’t quite literally knocked out of him.
“Look, angel, I’m sorry I dragged you all the way out here to go flying. Drunk, in the middle of the night, in these crazy winds. What was I thinking, I know. Don’t drink and fly, lesson well learned. Now… please be okay?”
Aziraphale swallows, clears his throat. Reaches up to hold Crowley’s cheek. “Thank you for catching me, my dear.”
Crowley’s whole body exhales with relief.
“Of course, angel. I mean, what else was I even gonna do?” he says, and the resulting smile that spreads across Aziraphale's face is so warm it makes Crowley pink to his ears.
“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale breathes. “Let’s go home.”
“My dear Crowley.”
Aziraphale pauses in front of the window, staring through it into space. He shakes his head. “No, don't start with that. I might as well write him a letter.”
He shuffles his way to the sofa on the other side of the room.
“I have something important I've been wanting to confess to you for a very long time now, my darling beloved— No, is that too much?”
Aziraphale paces back to the window, wringing his hands.
“Good morning, Crowley. I love—”
He bites his lip. Perhaps too sudden?
“Shall I compare thee to a— No, no, no.”
Aziraphale sighs, and picks up his pacing again.
“You are my sunshine, and I want you to know that my feelings are true—”
“Angel?”
Aziraphale freezes.
“Was that Queen I just heard?” murmurs a confused Crowley, slouching against the doorframe, rubbing at his eyes. He's wearing black silk pyjamas and a head of messy red hair. It’s warm and adorable and Aziraphale’s heart is helpless at the sight.
“You could've just told me if you wanted to learn the lyrics, angel.”
“Ah.”
“Got any plans for today?”
“Oh, um,” Aziraphale flusters, “nothing much. Just staying in to read my newly acquired books, I suppose.”
Crowley shakes his head fondly. “You're going to run the local bookshops empty, angel. Anyway, I'll be inflicting the town with my demonic presence today. Need to look for gardening tools. Outdoor plants have a different sort of attitude. I'll keep an eye out for any nice restaurants and cafes you'd like.”
“Thank—” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley's already whirled away to get ready for his jaunt out to town.
“I'll bring you back something to nibble on,” calls Crowley on his way out. “I know you get peckish.”
“Oh, thank you,” says Aziraphale, and he's left blinking by himself in an empty cottage.
“Just gotta get out… Just gotta get right outta here…” sings Freddie Mercury as the Bentley peels out of the driveway.
“Bebop,” mutters Aziraphale. “What was I thinking.”
Crowley unconsciously hums along to the Queen song playing on his way back, a box of assorted pastries on the seat beside him. The weather at the moment is almost a Tadfield-level of perfect—the sky just the right saturation of blue, the clouds just the right amount of fluff.
It makes Crowley pause when he steps out of the Bentley. He looks up at their pretty little cottage with the soft angel in it, sunlight casting warmth all over everything, all sickening and picturesque and full of light. It reminds him of Eden.
The front door opens. Aziraphale steps out into the sun and waves hello with a gardening shovel in his grip.
Crowley had fostered a private worry that he's not suited for this—this idyllic passing of days. He's the Serpent in the Garden, the trouble who doesn't belong. Something would fall apart eventually; either Aziraphale would tire of him, or Crowley would just be awful to live with, or the day to day life would fill him with more boredom than he can hold in and it would seep through the cracks and drive Aziraphale crazy with it too. Then they’d fight and he’d go back to waiting years between each meeting with the angel. Something along those lines.
But right now Aziraphale is calling out his name, and the open door is waiting for him. Crowley finds that it feels just right to step forward into Aziraphale's waiting arms.
“Dear old Marge from that house around the corner hasn't done much gardening in a long time, so she was kind enough to donate her tools to us,” says Aziraphale.
“Oh yeah? Thanks, angel. I didn't find any in town today. But, here.”
Crowley thrusts the box of pastries into Aziraphale's hands, swapping it out for the gardening tools. Aziraphale regards it with his usual delight, and Crowley is rewarded with one of those beaming smiles he will never get tired of seeing.
“I'm glad you're back, Crowley. It's been a bit too quiet without you.”
“Thought you liked quiet.”
“I've rather grown to like having you around to be quiet with. I can't go too long without it anymore,” says Aziraphale, and it turns out to be just the right thing to make Crowley feel silly for ever worrying.
On the day Crowley finally hunkers down and starts work on the garden, Aziraphale knows to stay clear for the next few hours. He grabs a book, puts on some Schubert and shuts the door to drown out the incoherent yelling outside.
At some point in the afternoon, he gets up for a tea break and hears Crowley calling out “—And just maybe you’ll have the slightest chance of tasting this holy grail of fertilizer if you don’t disappoint me!” followed by the crinkly sound of Crowley shaking a packet of something. Aziraphale smiles to himself, stirring sugar into his tea. Sounds like Crowley’s listening to his suggestion of adding more positive reinforcement into his plant care routine.
Crowley comes in through the door at the end of the day—wild hair, rolled sleeves, covered in dirt. Bare toes wiggling soil onto the clean floor.
“What did you do?” Aziraphale asks, at a loss. “Get into a fight with the grass?”
“Eh, sort of.”
“And you lost?”
Crowley glares sullenly at him. “These are all new plants. I had to let them know how it’s all gonna go, alright? The first impression is the most important, especially in their formative years.”
Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him. Crowley moves a piece of hair away from his mouth, replacing it with a streak of dirt. Aziraphale lets the lurch of his stomach guide his hand forward to brush it away with his thumb. It’s so rare to see Crowley this careless and messy. He leaves his hand there, to feel the heat of Crowley’s face and the sharp intake of breath.
“You couldn’t at least wear some boots? Gloves?”
“Nghh… better for the plants to have skin-to-skin contact for maximum demonic effect,” Crowley mumbles. He frowns. “Skin-to-leaf? Skin to… whatever it is leaves are made out of.”
“If you say so, my dear. But please do take a bath. I doubt any amount of miracles is going to get all that dirt off of you.”
“But baths are boring,” Crowley complains.
“Then bring something along with you to occupy yourself.”
Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale blinks down at their entwined fingers, then up at a smugly grinning Crowley.
“Oh, alright,” he sighs. “You go ahead first and spray yourself down in the shower. Get the bath running. I’ll stay here and clean up the floor before I come in to join you.”
“This one’s the one you like, yeah?” says Crowley when Aziraphale enters the bathroom, dangling an empty packet of bath salts from his fingers. He’s already soaked in the tub, flower petals floating around him.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, dear.”
“And look what I have here, angel.” Crowley waves around a bright yellow rubber duck in his other hand.
“Just what you asked for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says, eyes twinkling, and they grin at each other for a bit.
“Pity the Archangel Michael isn’t here to see it.”
“Please, dear. I’m glad we are having our bath in privacy this time.”
Aziraphale strips down his layers of clothing, carefully folding them to the side. Crowley, ever the gentleman, waits until he’s tucked all his clothes away safely before spraying him in the chest with a stream of bath water, duck held in his hands like a gun.
“Look, it even shoots water,” he says, grinning slyly.
“I can see that,” says Aziraphale, unimpressed.
He watches the rubber duck warily as he climbs into the water, Crowley bringing his knees in close to make space for Aziraphale in the bathtub. Once he’s settled in so they're facing each other, Crowley shoots again, this time at the dip between his clavicles.
Aziraphale presses his lips together for more patience. “Honestly, Crowley. You behave like such a child sometimes.”
“You’re just jealous you don’t have a rubber duck as cool as this,” says Crowley, dipping the orange beak into the water to reload.
The third time, Crowley aims straight for his forehead.
“Oh, for—” Aziraphale huffs, wiping the water off his face. Then he grabs the rubber duck out of Crowley’s grip and flings it into the far corner of the bathroom.
Crowley looks on, gaping. “What did that duck ever do to you?”
“It knows what it did.”
Aziraphale only manages to hold his stern expression until the look on Crowley’s face drags the giggles out of his throat.
They soak in the warmth, talking to each other about nothing for an hour straight. Something about it feels honest, sitting in the water like this, face to face and knees to chest. Eventually, Aziraphale lets go of the miracle keeping the bath water warm, and reaches for the shampoo bottle.
“Come here, my dear,” Aziraphale gestures, scooting closer. “Let me wash your hair.”
Crowley bends his head obligingly, keeping still as Aziraphale squeezes shampoo onto his head and runs his fingers through the wet hair. They are quiet as they do this—only the sounds of fingers scratching foam into the scalp and the slosh of water around their bodies.
Aziraphale goes to swipe strands of red hair away from Crowley’s face, careful to keep the shampoo away from his eyes. This is when he notices that Crowley has his eyes shut, his face smooth and relaxed, completely trusting as he offers himself naked and blind and pliant under Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley, of all people.
Oh, he really does love me, Aziraphale wonders. There’s that feeling again, swelling in his chest and rising in his throat.
“Crowley.”
“Hm?”
Aziraphale already knows, certain to his bones, what it is that Crowley feels for him. He has known this for a long time. His voice isn’t working, speechless on the precipice again, but maybe… maybe that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be complicated, or hard. The words will come when they come.
Crowley peeks an eye open when he feels Aziraphale’s hands still their gentle motions. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Aziraphale’s watery smile.
“Done, are we? Well then. Your turn, angel.”
So Aziraphale leans his head into Crowley’s waiting hands. And shuts his eyes.
(Crowley cradles his head the same gentle way he does with his heart.
Just rest your eyes. I’ve got you, the thumb wiping away the bubbles on his brow assures him.
Look at how easy love can be, say the bony fingers weaved into his water-soft hair. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing in the world.)
“Is it alright if I join you for a bit?”
Crowley is already comfortably settled in, waves of hair splayed across the pillows, covers tucked up to his chin. He scoots over to his left and holds the covers open, an invitation.
“Thought you didn’t do the sleeping thing,” he comments, flicking his eyes over Aziraphale’s rumpled shirt and pants, missing the usual layers and bowtie on top. Even the top button is undone. It’s been centuries since he’s seen the angel look this casual.
Aziraphale climbs in and leans against the headboard. “I’ve brought a book.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Of course you have.”
“Would you like a bedtime story? I can even sing you a lullaby—what was that one you liked? Something about blood and brains.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Why would I ever do such a thing?” says Aziraphale, with such a pleased little smile that Crowley has to narrow his eyes at it. “Fall asleep however you like. I’ll be right here.”
Crowley slides his head under Aziraphale’s arms, crawling forward to plop himself onto the soft body waiting there. “Better,” he sighs, satisfied. “Like a pillow, but warmer.”
Aziraphale does a short wiggle to get comfortable. He cracks open his book and props it up on the closest available surface.
“Are you seriously using me as a bookstand?” whines Crowley, though his head stays obediently still.
“My arms may get tired, you see.”
Crowley scoffs. He might have more to say, but Aziraphale has freed one of his hands to card it through his hair, which never fails to make his mind go quiet.
Eventually, Crowley gives in. “Read to me, angel?” he asks.
“Of course, dear,” says Aziraphale. He clears his throat, and starts reading from the page he has open. “Of the terrible doubt of appearances, of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded…”
Crowley presses his ear to Aziraphale’s chest, feels the soothing rumble of his voice. He can almost hear that hum of angelic grace deep within. He closes his eyes and drifts.
“...I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave, but I walk or sit indifferent—”
“I am satisfied,” Crowley whispers imperceptibly, going off his memory.
Aziraphale pauses. “Hm?”
“He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me,” he finishes the poem.
“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales softly, and with a private smile, he carries on, “You said you don’t read.”
“I don’t,” Crowley mutters into his shirt.
Eventually, Aziraphale puts his book away and shuffles in close to Crowley, who automatically drapes his covers over Aziraphale like a dark wing, tucking the corner under his shoulder.
Their faces are so close; this is where a kiss would naturally go, if they were anyone else. But neither of them lean in. No pairs of lips inevitably drawing together like magnets. Just a stillness in the air, and the lovely simplicity of a gentle gaze, tracing the lines of the face most familiar to them.
Crowley snaps his fingers to turn the light off. They breathe together for a few moments. Aziraphale can’t recall a time where his mind has ever felt this calm, this settled.
Lying in bed curled towards each other, blanketed by the dark and tucked in by the warmth. Nature chitters outside and a lazy breeze flicks at the curtain. It feels like the safest place he can say it, unfold the words into open air so Crowley can receive them to keep safe in his heart.
And when he does finally let the words come, it’s like the easiest thing in the world.
“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. “I love you.”
He means it in the most human sense of the word, although nobody has ever loved another the way they have, for as long as they have. And maybe it’s not enough, in the same way calling each other ‘friend’ was never as much as it always felt, but maybe that’s alright. Let them wear it out. Let it settle in, seep into their skin like the verdant air that wafts from the garden and the scent of the sea in the southern breeze. For now, there will always be his best and oldest friend by his side, building safe places together with him, free from their previous fears, and that’s already more than Aziraphale has ever dared to hope for, right in the palm of his hand, lacing fingers together.
“Mhm,” Crowley says, voice thick. Aziraphale can see the smile in his glinting eyes, and the wetness gathering in the corner. “I know. Silly angel.”
And Aziraphale closes his eyes, feeling safe and loved.