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They'd agreed on Crowley's flat, since there was considerably more space to move around there and less in the way of books, ornaments, antiques and stray tins of biscuits risking a calamitous fall should things become rambunctious.
There was also the matter of any necessary extensions being easier to manage, rather than in the bookshop, where Aziraphale had already been surreptitiously adding the odd extra room, bookshelf and reading nook since nineteen-twenty-six.
'Absolutely straining at the seams,' Crowley would joke, with one of those easy smiles that was meant to tease but Aziraphale would find himself thinking about for the rest of the day. Crowley knows perfectly well that space is all relative, and that they don't have to limit themselves to a single dimension. There is no 'running out of space,' not really. But he will admit that the bookshop is becoming a little…Escher-like in places.
It had been Aziraphale's idea originally, an idle thought that had become a genuine worry over the months.
It was partly to reassure himself that if the worst happened, if the very worst happened, then he wouldn't be so horribly rusty, that he wouldn't panic like he had in the past, at the thought of words and plans and preparations not being enough in the end.
He'd imagined that Crowley would be difficult to convince, but instead the demon had simply watched him from behind opaque lenses, the stretch of his neck moving almost imperceptibly in a nod that seemed more directed at the nature of the request than at him.
He'd agreed.
They'd set a date and a time.
It had seemed important not to rush into the thing, and Aziraphale had appreciated the chance to prepare, to fortify himself for it. Which means he can't help the small frisson of excitement when he finally rings the bell to Crowley's flat at 4pm on a warm Saturday in June.
The door swings in with a casualness that Aziraphale imagines isn't entirely honest. But anything he might say stalls in his throat.
Crowley had dressed in advance for the occasion.
He's wearing a pair of soft, loose-fitting, jersey trousers with an elasticated waistband that sits on his hips in an indecisive sort of way. They draw attention to the length of his torso, which isn't helped by the top, which someone might class as a t-shirt if it had more sleeves and was a touch longer. It barely reaches Crowley's navel and it's clear he has tried his very best to remember to put hip bones in the right places. Aziraphale notices that, and then resolutely stops noticing for his own sanity. Crowley's feet are also bare, and it suddenly feels like a long time since Aziraphale had seen them. How strange that that should be the thing that shakes him. There's something so oddly vulnerable about them.
"Aziraphale, come on in then."
"You've dressed already," he manages, finally. A little embarrassed about how distracted he'd found himself.
"Had some things in my wardrobe…think it's been a few decades since I wore them last but they'll do." He offers a wave down his body, the casual swing of it not quite a performance.
Aziraphale, whose wardrobe changes at what Crowley might cheekily describe as a glacial pace, had nothing that would fit half as well. The closest thing to appropriate would probably be a swimming costume he'd purchased in the nineteen twenties, which he'd worn once and felt terribly self-conscious in.
"I'll admit, I was going to take your lead," Aziraphale says as he hangs up his coat on the rack next to the door. He suspects it wasn't there yesterday, and won't be there the day after. He really should make a point of visiting more often, perhaps Crowley could be convinced to let it stay?
"Something you can easily move in, usually. Which means no catches, no metal edges, no seams that are going to rip."
Aziraphale has seen people jogging past the shop so he has some idea of the athletic and sports clothing people currently like to wear. It just never felt entirely him. But it makes perfect sense to match Crowley's loose fit if they're to be…to be jousting in a physical sort of way together.
He can't pretend he's not a little nervous. Aziraphale hasn't seriously fought for millennia, and has rarely picked up a human weapon as anything but a bit of a show, or for appearances' sake. The one time he'd wrestled he'd had to hold back considerably for the poor man putting his all into it. Which of course wouldn't be quite as necessary with Crowley.
He worries that he will be rusty…but he worries more that it will come far too easily to him. He was a guardian, he was built for this and part of guarding has always been defending.
Crowley has already moved the few pieces of furniture he had back against the walls, the space around them now larger than the original dimensions of the room. Aziraphale can see London from the windows, though he knows for certain that London cannot see them.
A simple snap of his fingers has him dressed in his own comfortable, cream sports trousers and a pale blue t-shirt with a wide collar, tucked in with little regard for fashion. He'd chosen to wear socks rather than have bare feet, and he wonders briefly if he'd subconsciously chosen the contrast as some sort of habit. But they match his outfit, so he keeps them.
"It's been a long time since I've done this seriously," he admits, and Crowley must know him well enough to hear the hint of nerves.
"We're not doing it seriously today, Aziraphale," he says gently, one foot tapping at the floor to change its texture from smooth and hard to something softer, something that would absorb impact. Which makes it all feel a little more real.
"No, no, of course not. I just wanted to make sure–" Aziraphale stops, uncertain exactly how he wants to phrase that.
"To make sure we both remember how to defend ourselves?" Crowley offers.
"When necessary," Aziraphale agrees. His hands hover, as if he wants to instinctively tug his waistcoat down. He finds only the thin fabric of his t-shirt and smooths that down instead.
Though 'and how to defend each other' is a second but no less important part of that sentence. Because it feels as if they'd been caught unawares too often already. Watching Crowley draw his glasses off and set them on the desk, Aziraphale feels as if perhaps he'd heard it anyway.
"If you want to stop at any time–"
Aziraphale lifts his hands and gestures back at Crowley.
"Oh, of course, the same is absolutely true. I have no intention of doing you any real harm."
Crowley's neck rocks briefly, the twist of his mouth amused.
"Eh, I think a little bit of harm might be unavoidable. A few bruises to the corporation, a speckle of red on the mat."
Aziraphale can't help but picture the way that too much in the way of enthusiasm or force might leave colour across Crowley's skin. At how shocking it would be to be responsible for it, however mutual it might be. They'd both avoided altercations for so long, and now they are all but throwing themselves into it.
It's for a good cause. Though that doesn't make it any less–
"Sword for you then?" Crowley asks.
"I imagined we'd be starting with something a little less lethal?" Aziraphale says, but he follows him to the middle of the room, feeling the give of the floor and wondering if either of them will be sent down to it today. The physicality of the thought surprises him.
"Were you planning to use anything else if you find you have the need to?"
"No, I suppose not," Aziraphale admits. "What about you, I don't think I've ever seen you do much more than hold a weapon for show, do you have a–" He doesn't want to say favourite, since that's clearly wrong. "Preference?" he finishes.
"I'll counter you today," Crowley decides. He holds a hand out sideways and there's the brief shiver of demonic power before what looks like a spear settles into it. It has an elongated sharpened blade with two prongs and a snake motif curling back from the head.
It suits him, though that seems an almost unkind thing to think. But Aziraphale can't deny the comparison, the spear is a long, thin weapon with a flexible shaft, biting at the tip and fast if you know how to use it.
"No shield?" Aziraphale wonders.
"Demons don't use shields." Crowley seems more amused than anything else and Aziraphale is tempted to remind him that demons don't but Crowley very much would. Crowley is smart enough to know how to survive, to bend around what's expected and what's assumed.
Something of that must show on his face. Because Crowley curls an arm around the spear and leans into it, the glossy rust of his hair a counterpoint to the shine of the blade secured to the spear's tip.
"It won't be me," he says quietly, as if to remind him, to shake the thought from Aziraphale's head. "You know it won't be me, angel, never would be."
"No," Aziraphale says. "And it would never be me that came for you. No matter what."
The moment hangs, the quiet certainty of it.
And then Crowley spreads his bare feet on the floor, which is now undoubtedly a mat of some sort, and hefts the spear in his left hand.
"Shall we start?"
Aziraphale allows himself one brief moment of nerves, watching his oldest friend, the lean, flexible and undoubtedly strange angles of him facing him, not over a battlefield but with some of the same intent. He has no wish to genuinely injure him, but he's aware that he could.
Their corporations can be such strange meaty things.
He raises the sword he's holding, it's not flaming of course, which might not only do Crowley an injury but scorch the interior. For all that they're sparring with each other today, Aziraphale is still a guest, and that would be dreadfully rude.
Crowley angles the spear outwards a little, now holding it with both hands, his grip easy like it hasn't been seven hundred years since he'd last held one.
Aziraphale remembers the castle, remembers the conversation on the wall as the ladders were flung against the battlements, Crowley complaining at the waste of it all.
They test each other, Crowley making amused noises when Aziraphale deflects the first few jabs and swings. They're not offered with any great force but they're still solid. His own testing thrusts are turned aside as well. There is a quiet patience to his serpent, and his smile feels indulgent.
"You're going easy on me," Aziraphale accuses, and he's honestly not sure whether the fact warms or irritates him.
"I'm feeling out your moves," Crowley counters, using the end of the spear to tip his sword downwards an inch. "Judging the right time to slip in under your guard."
"You're a liar."
"Don't lie to you as a rule." It's a reminder, softer than it has any business being.
Aziraphale angles the sword upwards, the blade of the spear passing across Crowley's face, pieces of his reflection flashing in the metal.
"If you don't put your back into it, you're going to lose." Crowley offers the words with a smile as sharp as any weapon Aziraphale might conjure from the ether.
"If I put my back into it I'm going to send you through a wall." Aziraphale finds that the honesty of it thrills him just a little.
"Difficult to have a strong foundation if you can't stay on your feet." The words are barely out before the spear rotates back the way it had come, impossibly fast between Crowley's fingers, and Aziraphale knows it's going to hit him on his trailing ankle, the one Crowley had been coaxing into a state of relaxation with his quiet, familiar slouch.
-
Aziraphale has always been aware of the distance between them, the necessary understanding that their service to two opposing powers made any genuine connection impossible. That understanding had crumbled over the years, until it was a wall that many things had grown through, but he realises that he had always been aware of it, and had been careful to maintain that distance. He'd known that they shouldn't touch.
Crowley, on the other hand, had spun an orbit around him for centuries, appearing at his elbow, passing cups of wine over his shoulder, sliding around his back in a twisting dance of indulgence and temptation and flirtation. Crowley had been weaving in and out of his personal space since the beginning without once touching him.
He was more aware of Aziraphale's form and its position at any given time than anyone in existence.
The weakness should have been obvious, but he's been dismissing their careful, measured distance for so long that it had become a habit. One that Crowley was more than willing to take advantage of.
-
Aziraphale barely gets a hand down in time and he still feels the brief snapping ring of wood to the outside of his knee, which he had turned outwards to protect his stance.
He hisses at the contact, feeling the bright burst of pain that is the immediate protest of his corporation. He can't remember the last time a sensation felt so visceral. Perhaps he had become a little complacent about the human lives they'd made a point of leading.
Nonetheless, he'd stopped the blow from taking his feet out from under him.
Crowley smiles, head tipping from side to side, one eyebrow slowly lifting in something quietly delighted and not a little proud.
"Not bad," he says.
Aziraphale won't pretend he isn't surprised that Crowley seems to have decided to take this seriously. He had asked for exactly that after all. He may be a tad rusty but Aziraphale had been more than passable at this once upon a time. Though he'd by no means consider fighting a first resort, he's aware that the forces of both heaven and hell may not give them a choice in the matter.
"Come on then," Crowley urges, retrieving the spear so he can set it back against the floor, leaning on the haft and inclining his head.
Aziraphale has to wonder if Crowley had been made to take part in any drills for the inevitable war at Armageddon. He certainly doesn't feel rusty. Aziraphale often finds notifications in his heavenly missives, and strongly worded suggestions that he should show up to keep his skills fresh. Though none of them so far have constituted a direct order, so he'd mostly chosen to ignore them. The uniform was itchy anyway.
At least the athletic wear he'd furnished himself with was soft. The mats make solid noises as he takes a step, thrusting forward to the short sword's extension without overbalancing himself.
Crowley doesn't deflect this one, he simply weaves into the space the sword is not going to be in. He's going to be tricky, that much is certain. The might of heaven is not an over-exaggeration. But adjustments and changes to an angel's form are frowned upon. Crowley, in comparison, is more shifting and liquid in his movements, as if the parts of him fit together in only the most basic of ways, prone to clattering out of alignment and allowing him to twist and bend and be things that a human being is most certainly not.
He's still thinking about it when Crowley attacks. He raises his sword once and then twice to deflect a blow that swings one way and the other. He takes a step back with each, before remembering that you should never let the person you're fighting dictate your position if you can help it.
He puts a little more effort into his third deflect, bracing forward into it, and Crowley visibly shudders back a step. He's not off-balance for more than a fraction of a second, bare feet shifting on the mat– though Aziraphale is not expecting one of them to come down on his own, squashing his toes in a way that makes him 'hmmph' in offended surprise. He's effectively pinned in place until he uses the hilt of the sword to hook into the spear's haft and use their momentum to send Crowley to the side.
The demon is laughing at him as he leans on the spear again.
"Less predictable maybe, Aziraphale? Demons may not be smart but they know all these moves."
"I'm warming up," Aziraphale says simply.
Crowley laughs at his tone, before nodding down to where he grips the sword, eyebrow raising. He opens his mouth again, no doubt to make a further judgement.
Aziraphale can't help but agree that he's not nearly being spontaneous enough, so he lunges and is gratified to watch surprise briefly fall across Crowley's face, before he has the spear up to take a hard blow to the middle of it. Perhaps too hard, because the spear haft cracks in half, tiny splinters of wood raining down and Aziraphale is briefly off-balance. Crowley backs up holding both pieces and Aziraphale barely gets out of the way of the instinctive slash given from the side. He hears his t-shirt tear and feels the momentary snag. He doesn't feel it bite into the skin underneath though.
Crowley is watching him from the middle of the room, holding the broken halves of the spear with an amused expression on his face.
"Not bad, angel."
The weapon is lifted and held where it broke. Aziraphale watches a demonic miracle knit the wood back together again.
If they'd been testing each other before in a way that was playful, the next series of movements are careful but intent. They are wielding real weapons after all. Crowley's spear has less bladed area than Aziraphale's sword but it's sharp and it will do Aziraphale a considerable amount of mischief should it land anywhere meaty. Any sword in Aziraphale's hand, even without a spread of heavenly fire, is quite capable of taking a limb from Crowley, should he be inattentive for but a moment.
Though Aziraphale has faith that he will not.
He finds that there are more situations where he has faith in Crowley than he knows what to do with and perhaps that should have told him something.
Crowley's next attack with the spear is half swing and half stab. Aziraphale expects it to be a feint and only puts half his energy into blocking it, to avoid leaving himself open to any unexpected attack from the side. It doesn't come that time but he does exactly the same for the next move and the next. He can't relax though, because Crowley is advancing with each block, the strain of wood meeting steel loud enough to ring through the room, the haft of Crowley's spear jagged with notches. Aziraphale suspects another block will crack the thing in half again. He wonders if he should press the advantage when that happens, because Crowley must know, he must see it.
Instead they both retreat, and Crowley adjusts and repairs his weapon again.
It doesn't feel like a loss, there's a quiet satisfaction to the way Crowley smiles at him, as if he's happy with something.
Aziraphale wonders if it's his refusal to let himself be anything but competent. He knows why they're doing this, after all. They're protecting themselves and each other. Learning the tricks the other side might raise against them.
"First one down to the mat?" Aziraphale suggests.
He has the pleasure to watch Crowley's expression move from cautious to delighted.
"Sounds good to me."
Aziraphale is aware that they've both been playing, and that he may have to bring more than his strength to bear if he wants to win– and he does. He loves Crowley dearly but part of him needs to know that he can protect him, if necessary, in all the ways he was originally designed to and some that he wasn't.
If heaven or hell are going to come for them then he needs to know that he will be ready.
When Crowley attacks this time it's fast. The deflect is instinctive and it's still almost too slow. The spear darts past him and punches into the floor, only to jerk its way out again and almost take his ear off when it whistles past. The attacks may be quick but there's less power behind them than before. Crowley is hoping to overwhelm him. They'd agreed beforehand that there would be no shapeshifting, but Aziraphale knows perfectly well that Crowley is naturally a collection of angular beads on a very forgiving spine. He doesn't need any other shape but his own.
The spear comes down again and he deflects, but he knows that he can't keep defending or he'll be pressed back whether he likes it or not.
He's hesitant to put any more of his strength to bear, to rely on might rather than intelligence. But he knows that's exactly what Crowley's pushing for.
He lets the sword slide under the next spear attack, traps half the length of it under his arm long enough to leave a thin slice across Crowley's left side. He sways back out of range with a long hiss, the skin split open, red welling gently from the slice.
"First hit goes to me." Aziraphale would pretend that he isn't slightly winded by the effort but he knows Crowley is far too observant.
He knows it's only surface damage, and that Crowley's pout is entirely designed to make him feel guilty.
It's working too, the absolute fiend.
Their pause is brief, expressions quietly contemplative as they edge around each other in vague, hazy semi-circle. London may be unaware behind the window's glass but the late sun pulls shadows across Crowley's chest and throat, causes the briefest twitching contraction in his eye–
Aziraphale moves in that patch of sunlight, a little faster than his body might, under normal circumstances. The sword swings up and across and Crowley's spear takes it crooked, almost unprepared, they end up pushing against each other, wrists locked, feet braced, Aziraphale's arms take the strain effortlessly, muscles filling the soft cotton of his shirt. It only takes a second for Crowley to acknowledge that he will not win a battle of force and he pivots, dragging the sharp blade of the spear down.
Aziraphale feels it catch on the material of his t-shirt, the blue fabric at his side rent open and apart. The brief stinging pain tells him that not just cloth has been damaged.
He had expected Crowley to be wearing a serious face, a little uncertain perhaps with the small patch of red growing on his shirt.
But instead Crowley is breathing through a laugh, his expression some hazy adoration. He's leaning close enough that Aziraphale can smell him, the flare of scales and expensive cologne and sharp, bitter coffee. It's so familiar and so well-loved that he can't help smiling back, even though they're both wearing small wounds from the fight so far.
He is quite capable of bending the rules too.
"Think fast, my love."
Crowley's serpent eyes swell, quick and bright, yellow-gold stretching from corner to corner.
"You what?"
Aziraphale jerks his sword back and brings it down on the badly braced spear, sending it slamming downwards and Crowley barely pedals back in time, making a noise that's half shocked affront and half unwilling laughter.
"You absolute–"
Aziraphale surges in again, feeling oddly free, the pull and clench of his muscles under fabric comfortable in a way they haven't been for a long time.
"Pay attention, darling."
Crowley's shocked protest cuts off abruptly as they come together again. Aziraphale's sword hitting the blade of his spear and scraping a long line down it, leaving them panting against each other, little dots of red on the mat, Aziraphale's neck and chest are sweaty, Crowley's hair tumbled into his face.
No, it would never be Crowley who came for him, because Aziraphale could never have this with anyone else. He would never trust anyone else to turn a fight into an argument, then into a dance, and then into something which feels a lot like love.
He's barely thought it before one of Crowley's hands circles his wrist, holds him still so he can lean in, the warmth of them close in a way they've never been, weapons locked and pinned between them, and then Crowley is kissing him. It's a quiet, reckless, desperate thing, pressure to his mouth over and over as if his demon is waiting for him to pull away, or to cry foul, or to do anything but kiss him back, with something approaching pure joy.
And then just when Crowley relaxes into it, Aziraphale smiles into the kiss, grasps the demon at shoulder and waist and sends him down to the mat in a sputtering crash of limbs.
Crowley is still laughing when Aziraphale grasps both sides of his face and kisses him again.
He does not dispute the win.