Chapter Text
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
We've known each other forever-
I can hardly remember not knowing you
It's hard to remember the days before you
I don't even know if there were any
-David Guterson
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives
This should have been the best moment of Crowley's fucked up millennia lasting life.
This should have been a moment of revelation, the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment his dreams finally came true.
We just tend to forget that nightmares are dreams, too.
~oOo~
Sometime Earlier that Day
"You're staring, dear."
Crowley was startled from his...well, staring, by Aziraphale noticing.
It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last, either. Was he going to humiliate himself by spending the rest of his life as a damn pine tree in sunglasses, following this angel around like a lovesick puppy just for the pleasure of revelling in his company and watching him eat and smile and drink through dark lenses that would thankfully hide his ridiculous heart eyes?
No.
Yes.
Well.
Ok.
Damn.
He was smitten. Damn, was he smitten. He was deep, deep in the smit.
Fuck.
They were at the Ritz, the afternoon sun was casting her light through the windows and bathed them both in a warm glow that illuminated the angel's features.
Everything seemed normal. Aziraphale was eating (in an unnecessarily sexual way, might be added), as per usual.
Crowley sat next to him, watching under the protection of his dark sunglasses (in a necessarily dreamy way, considering he was looking at Aziraphale), as per usual.
Not so usual was the fact that they had averted Armageddon mere hours ago, and had broken ties with their respective headquarters even fewer hours ago, practically quitting their jobs by escaping their trials.
Not so usual was that they sat here as free supernatural beings, discharged of all their former duties, released from all restrictions and free to do as they pleased.
Well. In theory, anyway.
Aziraphale was looking at him, eyebrows raised questioningly, waiting for Crowley's reply.
What would have pleased Crowley to do was lunge forward, grab the angel's face and kiss him until he forgot he'd even asked anything. What Crowley did do though was to think hard about what to reply, as close to the truth as possible, but without revealing too much.
He had experience with that. A lot.
Because he never lied to Aziraphale. Crowley took pride in being quite an honest demon in general, but he'd never ever lied to Aziraphale, ever.
Correction, he had lied to Aziraphale. Just once.
No, wait. Twice. But he had admitted to that lie, so it didn't really count anymore. I'm a demon, I lied.
The other time had been 1862.
I don't need you, he'd said.
That had been a lie, obviously.
Did that one count? When your lie was so obvious that the other couldn't possibly mistake it for truth?
Anyway, so he had lied to Aziraphale once, more or less. No need to make a habit of it, though.
What Crowley skillfully chose to ignore was that there might have been one more exception, one teeny-tiny detail that didn't really matter that much at all. Small matter, insignificant, minuscule.
It was just that Crowley had been deeply, undeniably, irrefutably in love with his best friend for...well, let's say the actually-really-not-at-all-that-long period of six thousand years, perhaps.
He couldn't even say that he'd sauntered vaguely downwards. Falling in love with Aziraphale had been more like being thrown head-first into a solid wall of bricks.
Sudden. Hard. And painful ever since.
Not that it was all bad. He rather liked loving Aziraphale.
Sure, it had been strange at first, confusing, irritating even. A demon was not exactly designed to feel such fuzzy warm things when he looked at...anyone, anything, and certainly not angels. But he'd become rather used to it, having had quite a bit of time to do so, time which his decorative heart had seen fit to use as an opportunity to find out how much deeper it could fall in love with said angel every day that passed.
So no, loving wasn't all that bad - at least not since after the first couple of decades when Crowley had constantly been afraid that feeling those clearly forbidden things might lead to him burning alive from the inside out or something similarly dreadful and permanently annihilating.
It was more the hiding it that felt surprisingly similar to torture. Good for him that demons tended to be rather used to that, too.
"Ngk", he said now, because he wouldn't add another lie to the wonderfully short list, and avoiding the truth didn't count. "Was just lost in thoughts."
No need to mention those had been decidedly angel-centred thoughts. Thoughts about how to turn No-longer-Heaven-bound-angels into Very-permanently-Crowley-bound angels, to be precise.
"What did you think about?"
"Just the future", he said evasively, continuing his skilful dance around topics that called for a careful approach. "Yours. And mine", he dared to add, jumping over the word our, but Aziraphale seemed to read it in his tone anyway, rewarding Crowley with a rosy blush creeping up his cheeks and a smile spreading across his face as he lowered his eyes back to the dish in front of him.
And there was the feeling again, the one that had been making an appearance on various occasions, too numerous to count, yet to his great embarrassment (and complete lack of resistance), Crowley was sure to remember every single one.
It was like a warm bulb of light buzzing in his chest, something nice and bright and beautiful and decidedly undemonic. Something that was as pleasant as it was torturous. Something he had never dared to name for the simple reason that he was painfully aware of what it would sound like.
Letters, arranged in the wrong (or right) order, could be something surprisingly dangerous. They formed syllables a demonic tongue would never risk wrapping around, should never care to taste when spoken aloud.
Crowley had never been a friend of four-letter words.
This one in particular. It was too close to him, too omnipresent, too clingy.
He'd known it to be his constant companion over the decades, always there in the back of his mind, trying to claw its way out of the drawer he tried to lock it into, always managing to send its inextinguishable glow through the cracks of its jail.
He wouldn't be able to keep it at bay forever. He knew that, too. One more perfectly good reason why The Feeling must remain nameless. Everything else was going to be his ruin. (It probably would be, either way.)
"Oh", said Aziraphale, decidedly concentrated on cutting his sea bass filet. "And what were your concrete thoughts on that, dear boy?"
He said it like someone who tried a little too hard to sound casual, casting a fleeting glance at the demon before hurriedly returning to the food.
"Dunno." Crowley was torn between joy about the angel's barely concealed interest in the matter of their future and the desperate (and tragically unsuccessful) search for something uncompromising to reply. "I guess we can do anything we want."
He swallowed, hoping Aziraphale hadn't noticed his throat tightening around the words. Crowley could certainly think of a couple of things he'd want-
"I suppose so."
The angel took another bite and closed his eyes, humming around the fork.
Crowley swallowed again even though he wasn't eating anything, his throat unnaturally dry.
"How about a walk through St. James's Park once you've finished?", he suggested in order to gather himself. (Pathetic, really. After all this time, one would think he'd learned to get his shit together. In his defence, the sexiness of Aziraphale's eating was slightly uncalled for.)
The angel smiled at him again and Crowley's stupid heart jumped in his chest.
"Not very foresighted plans", Aziraphale smiled fondly, softening the hint of a teasing sparkle in his eyes. "But that sure would be lovely, dear."
Good. A walk in the Park. That was good. Well-known territory, so to speak (literally and figuratively speaking). He could work with that.
The air would help him calm down and he liked visiting the ducks.
Normal stuff they did.
Normal friendship stuff.
Normal Crowley-and-Aziraphale-stuff.
Maybe he would accidentally drown one again to make Aziraphale smile when he let it pop back up with an indignant quack.
Maybe he would even accidentally brush their fingers together while they walked.
Maybe.
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
We say we're friends
We play pretend
You're more to me
We're everything
~oOo~oOo~oOo~
The world seemed to be against him today.
He'd counted on the air outside to clear his head, rip him out of the pathetically soppy daze he'd been wafting in over dinner- nothing unusual as of itself, although it had felt slightly different today, more intense, more meaningful, more -
Just more more. Because for the first time, dreams of the future might actually have a future.
But they were in public, for fuck's sake. He had controlled this for centuries, he had to be a master controller by now.
He would have no problem keeping up the cool and indifferent facade he knew to radiate so very well, he told himself (you know, like a liar).
No one would notice that underneath, he was slowly melting away into a puddle of demonic goo with every glance he dared to cast at the angel, especially not the angel.
But the evening breeze was warm and soft and lovely and Aziraphale was warm and soft and lovely and the air smelled like leaves and growth and life and Aziraphale's hair looked white and soft like a marshmallow and- stop it, Crowley, you're losing it.
Thank someone the Bentley was parked around the next corner, otherwise, someone would probably have had to mop him up before they got there.
"Ride home?", he asked as the relieving sight of his beloved car finally came into view.
Aziraphale graced him with a smile and Crowley growled at something inside him that wanted to coo.
"Thank you, dear."
Crowley had thought the drive home (he wouldn't think too hard on the meaning of that terminology, no, he wouldn't) would finally do the trick and bring him back to his senses, but found that everything was distracting today.
He couldn't focus on the road, and that he knew he didn't actually have to was no help, either - the Bentley would navigate them safely through the crowded streets of Central London at the truly unholy speed of 90 MPH for sure- she wouldn't dare get a scratch, not if she knew what was good for her.
And Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat with his hands neatly folded in front of his belly.
How was a demon supposed to think about anything but how much he wanted to reach over and thread his own fingers with those angelic ones?
The cream-coloured coat was tightly wrapped around Aziraphale's shoulders, falling open at the front, and Crowley remembered the way it had swayed gently against Aziraphale's softly curved body when they walked side by side through the park.
How was he supposed to think about anything but how much he wanted that coat off? (Along with pretty much everything else?)
~oOo~
Far too soon and also not nearly soon enough, the Bentley came to a halt in the parking space directly in front of A.Z. Fell & Co. that was always miraculously empty when it needed to be.
Aziraphale didn't move immediately, contemplating if he could dare to invite the demon into the bookshop for a glass of wine. (Or a bottle. Or fifteen.)
He wasn't really expecting Crowley to decline (he hardly ever did, and the angel skilfully ignored the surge of smug pride it ignited), but they had spent the whole day together - from the relieved meeting on a bench in St. James', still wearing each other's body, over dinner at the Ritz and the following wonderful but taxing walk to the Bentley - they seemed hardly able to let the other out of sight (and all the more keen not to let it show).
They could not be blamed, after everything that had happened during the last couple of hours, especially after nothing at all had happened in the 6000 years prior.
But they were still them. They didn't do...things. They didn't just...be friends. Or whatever term you might assign to a being that had been your only constant for millennia, that was supposed to be your hereditary enemy yet had come to be your closest trustee, the one person you wanted to be around all the time and for whom the word friend didn't seem grand enough anymore, even though even that seemed too much when spoken aloud.
Or maybe they did...actually, do all the things you did with a kind-of-more-than-friend.
They just never talked about it. They never showed it.
They certainly never asked for it.
Aziraphale didn't want to appear greedy - not a good look on an angel, whatsoever.
But Aziraphale had never been particularly good at denying himself things, usually. He liked to indulge, he liked to savour. Yet, he had become an expert in denying himself the one thing he had always wanted the most. Perhaps that was why he started to search pleasure in the taste of sushi and crème brulée, the feeling of smooth cashmere and fluffy cushions.
He couldn't taste and touch him, so he found replacements- replacements that would never measure up, but helped him to stay sane, helped not to lose control every time Crowley lay sprawled across his sofa, every time he rolled up his sleeves, every time he took off his glasses, every time his shirt moved when he walked to reveal a stripe of smooth skin and a shadow in the juncture of his hipbone.
Aziraphale silently patted himself on the back for not jumping the demon as soon as he moved or smiled, quite proud of his self-restraint when all he wanted was to beg for permission to look and touch - and judged by the gazes of passing humans, he wasn't the only one.
He could hardly blame them (or himself, really), with Crowley sauntering down London's streets like sex on a stick, from the sway of his slinky hips to the roots of his red hair attractive in a way that should surely be illegal in several states.
Not that there was a written rule about it anywhere or something, Thou Shalt Not Have Warm And Fussy Feelings For Demons (no matter how gorgeous they look in black).
It was more like a natural assumption, a truth universally acknowledged as Miss Austen would say, that anything alike was simply unthinkable and, therefore must not be spoken about, written down or even just thought of.
Good for Aziraphale, for if there had been, they would have had to make an addition, just for him: But Thou Art Going To Anyway.
Oh bugger, he'd been lost in thoughts. How long had he been sitting there, parked in front of the shop without any sign he was going to get out of the car? Five minutes? Ten? Too long.
He'd really preoccupied Crowley's time, patience and good will enough, at least for today. He shouldn't ask for more. He shouldn't even want more in the first place.
He felt his cheeks heating up as he opened his mouth to bid Crowley farewell, perhaps ask if he would like to come around tomorrow if he felt especially daring, but the demon got ahead of him.
"Nightcap?", he asked, eyeing Aziraphale's profile with raised eyebrows- and oh, was that hope on his face? No, why should it, don't be daft, Aziraphale.
"I could miracle some really nice Chateau Neuf I've stored back at my flat", Crowley said, looking at him expectantly, and Aziraphale was weak, he was so terribly weak.
"Oh, I'd like that. Even though you don't have to tempt me with wine, dear", he said, unsure where the sudden surge of boldness came from. "The pleasure of your company is temptation enough."
And for a second there, Aziraphale felt like a breath of air was rippling his angelic aura, like the fleeting trace of a prayer that wasn't quite directed at him but somehow tickled along his senses ever so softly.
Then let me tempt you, it whispered to him. Let me be with you every day, just like this. Let me indulge you, let me give you everything you want, everything you could wish for. Let me love you, please, please, please just..
It was over before he was sure he hadn't just imagined the whole thing, ripped from his grasp and vanishing into thin air by Crowley clearing his throat.
"Ngk", the demon said, far less eloquent, also far less dangerous than what Aziraphale had just fantasized about hearing.
It got another smile out of the angel, anyway.