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Aziraphale eyed the clock wistfully.
10 more minutes before he could close up shop, and finally get to the hot chocolate that was singing to him from the backroom. Perhaps, even string up a few more fairy lights. One of the corners of the bookshop could stand to look more festive.
Oh, and he still had a few presents he needed to wrap. He knew, how naughty of him, to wait until the very last second. It was only... There was always so much to do, especially when one insisted on decorating their place of business until it resembled a burgled Christmas shop. And their home. And quite possibly their car.
Yes, Aziraphale knew the dangers of wrapping a garland around the steering wheel. Yes, he had already been plenty scolded by that police officer who had happened to walk by his parked car. Yes... he had even removed the garland. After a few days, of course, when the need to use his car for his weekly shopping had outweighed his desire to festivise everything in his life. He had tried to be brave, of course, but nobody could survive on bread and butter for longer than a few days.
Not very festive, was it, a buttered toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner?
8 more minutes now. Oh, he simply could not wait. Perhaps he could close the bookshop a tad earlier. Of course, no self-respecting person would be out shopping today. Everyone would have bought any present they had planned to acquire long ago, would have even wrapped and tucked them safely underneath the Christmas tree.
Yes, he assured himself, as he inched towards the door. Yes, of course, he could lock up, oh, 7 minutes before his official closing time. No harm-
The bell above the door chimed. And if that wasn't infuriating enough, there was a voice, too.
"Are you still open?" someone asked, and Aziraphale was glaring at thin air, before he had to force himself to face the reason for all that was wrong and wicked in this world.
The newcomer, he refused to call them a customer, because- Well, because Aziraphale did not have customers. And if he did, they would surely know better than to try and wiggle themselves into his shop 6 minutes before closing time. The stranger was smiling at him, something hopeful and yet startlingly smug dancing high above cheekbones that could cut.
He looked vaguely familiar. Also, incredibly attractive. Aziraphale ignored both of those revelations.
"No," Aziraphale said. And closed the door.
Or, tried to. He would never actually slam a door in someone's face, he had been raised better than that. Instead, he gently nudged it, hoping that his companion had also been raised well enough to know the meaning behind the gesture.
No such luck. The smile on the, gorgeous, stranger turned a smidge more hopeful. A lot more smug, too.
"It says here you close at 4. It's not 4 yet."
The man pressed a bright screen to Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale blinked. Not because he didn't recognise the phone for what it was, goodness, he wasn't that old. But the man truly should have been blinded by his screen a long ago, or, at the very least, should be blindly tumbling towards complete darkness as they spoke.
A few more seconds for his eyes to adjust, and there it was. The working hours of his bookshop. Also, there, neatly tucked into the corner, the current time. 3:58.
He had always known that adding his business to the 'internet' would be his downfall. Oh, but Maggie had insisted, and she did have good ideas. Usually.
It was his own fault. He had trusted his friend, and here he was, paying for his kindness. He moved away from the door.
"How may I help you?"
The phrase was one he had uttered plenty of times before. The tone of his voice, hostile and sharp, was perfectly familiar on his tongue, too.
"Do you sell books?" the stranger asked, while weaving himself through rows and rows of mysterious objects he apparently could not recognise. He was dressed in black, skin-tight trousers and a t-shirt. Clothes, Aziraphale told himself, he had only just noticed.
Maybe he should turn down the heat, he mused. That would surely drive the man away.
Oh, but he wasn't that cruel. Plus, and this was important, he could never leave a custo- a stranger, alone, in his bookshop while he tinkered with the thermostat.
The man was staring at him. The man was expecting an answer. Aziraphale waved a hand to all the books that surrounded them both.
"Of course not," and yet his mouth said, entirely on instinct.
It was the stranger's turn to blink at him. The smugness flickering, before it was back in full force.
"Yeah, I can see now." The man shrugged, facing all the books that were apparently not for sale. "Not much of a collection, is it? Barely a few scraps of paper, really."
He was being taunted. Aziraphale was intelligent enough to know he was being taunted.
He stood perfectly still.
"I mean-" The stranger ran a finger over the leaning tower of Jeffrey Archer books. "What even is there to sell me?"
The tower turned into a puddle. And yes, it might have been a pile of already below subpar quality thrillers, written by a below subpar quality human, but... Oh, that was it. That was exactly it.
"Listen here, mister," Aziraphale hissed, finger raised. He didn't prod the man, as he would rather not spend the holidays in orange, but it was a very near thing. "In my possession, I have plenty of splendid books. Original copies by authors you have not even heard of."
"Crowley," the man said simply. Frankly, he looked like overzealous bookshop owners yelled at him every day.
Aziraphale would not be surprised if that was the case. Still, he deflated slightly.
"Well. Yes. Aleister Crowley, too, I suppose."
He turned to the occult section. Perhaps it should have been expected. The stranger was dressed in all black and had the sort of dangerous quality to him that Aziraphale desperately tried not to notice.
The other man cocked his head to the side, something amused shining behind the shades he was wearing. In winter. Aziraphale wasn’t even surprised at this point.
Well, at least all he would need to sacrifice to the altar of this strange man would be an occult book. And then he could return to the hot chocolate calling for him and the string of fairy lights he had purchased, just today. Not a bad deal with the devil, as far as he was concerned.
"No. Anthony Crowley."
Something itchy wiggled underneath Aziraphale's skin, and it took him a moment to realise it was shame. And after all the fuss he had made, about how extensive his catalogue was...
He hoped his pout was not obvious, as he admitted quietly, "I'm afraid we don't carry this author."
The man laughed at him. Head thrown back, flushed throat on display. His hand on his stomach as if he had learnt how to human from old movies.
Aziraphale did not find it attractive in the slightest.
"Why, my dear fellow, that is-"
That was as far as his grumble could go, before the stranger was stepping forward, so close that it would have made Aziraphale's heart flutter, if it wasn't too busy dancing the gavotte in his chest instead.
"My name," the man said, pointing at himself. A clarification that, frankly, Aziraphale found useful. "Anthony Crowley. My parents didn't hate me enough to call me Aleister. Though it was a very near thing, lemme tell you."
Aziraphale deflated unnoticeably, or at least, he hoped that he hadn’t been too obvious. No point in giving the other man yet another reason to laugh at him. Even if he did have a very pretty laugh. Very pretty smile. Pretty everything, really, and-
"Aziraphale," he squeaked, eager to drown the voice in his head, reminding him that the man didn't have to buy a book. They could come to an... Arrangement as it were. Oh, Lord. "My name. It is. Aziraphale."
The other man, Crowley, blinked at him. There was a strangely amused curve to his lips that Aziraphale found perplexing. And also very tempt-
"I know," the man said cryptically, and continued to smile at him.
What did that even mean? How did the man know his name? Aziraphale was certain they had never met, he would have remembered his... everything.
Oh, no. Was the man a serial killer? With his leather trousers and his propensity to barge into people's perfectly innocent places of business, 2 minutes before they could close? And his suspicious name? Was that even his name? Of course, it wasn't! No self-respecting parent would ever name their child after a renowned occultist.
Aziraphale had let a criminal inside his shop. Again.
He shifted towards the door slightly. Crowley raised a finger towards the Heavens. Was that a threat?
"A. Z. Fell. That's the name of your bookshop. Thought it might be something like that."
Ah... Okay. Well, that explained some things.
At least, that meant Aziraphale had got his daily overthinking attack out of the way and could enjoy the rest of the evening in peace. He nodded, mostly to himself.
"How can I help?" Aziraphale asked again, tone almost polite.
Crowley smiled, reminding him of how attractive he really was. Also, very, very familiar.
"I need a book for a child," the other man said, no further elaboration. How old was the child? What did the child like? Whose child was it, was Crowley married?
"I don't sell children's books," Aziraphale noted, an entirely different objection. Too much of a habit to break, just because of a pretty face.
The other man raised an eyebrow. "I can see three books just from where I'm standing. Four, if we don't mind Warlock finding out about some things a few years earlier than he should."
"That doesn't mean I would sell-" Aziraphale started to say, before the man's words caught up to him. "What sort of name is Warlock?"
At least, that proved it. They must be related.
Crowley shrugged. He did not appear to realise how unhinged of a name it was. Perhaps because he had been the one to curse the poor child with it?
"Petty mother. Absent father. Recipe for a name like that."
Aziraphale tried not to react, which, he was starting to suspect was what the other man wanted him to. He also tried to ignore the sense of vindication at having guessed that his customer was up to no good. Who bought presents so close to Christmas, anyway?
But no. That poor child. Barely a footnote in his father's life. Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his heart soften. For the child, not the man in front of him.
"What does young Warlock enjoy?" he asked, already trying to think of what he could offer a child. He held no expectations that the father would provide him any useful information.
As expected, Crowley shrugged, mouth in a severe line.
Not as expected, he said, "Dinosaurs. Anything big and spiky, if you want his wish list. Something at least vaguely educational, if you want mine."
Well. Hm. Aziraphale could work with that. He tried to ignore the fact that some of his annoyance had seeped away, as he gestured to the children’s section, a few shelves really, of his bookshop.
The other man followed after him. There was something about the way he moved, the distinct swing of his hips that Aziraphale tried to valiantly ignore...
"Listen, dear fellow," he started, just as Crowley crouched before the first shelf. He looked surprisingly nimble, or would have, to anyone who would notice that type of thing. A category of people, which Aziraphale was assuredly not part of. It took a few seconds for the air to return to his lungs. The other man surely noticed. Oh, dear. "Have we been introduced before?"
An eyebrow hovered over the shaded glasses.
"Don't think I have ever been asked that. Especially not by someone who looks like you," the man said, a smirk and a wink in tow.
Was he flirting? Was the man, buying a gift for his child, flirting with Aziraphale?
He stared. There really was something so awfully familiar to the cut of those cheekbones.
"Someone who looks like me?"
Crowley sighed, swaying slightly. Even in a crouch, he managed to move like liquid and Aziraphale shifted closer. Not because he was worried the man would fall, of course not. He simply refused to spend his precious holiday time gathering droplets of him off the floor.
"No, angel, we have never been introduced." And then before Aziraphale had managed to respond to any part of that statement, Crowley asked, "Now, do you want to help me with the book or would you rather we spend the whole night together, chatting?"
And Aziraphale knew what the appropriate answer to that question was. He also knew what his conscience would say about having a man with a child, and possibly a wife, spend the night at his bookshop. He knew that well, thank you very much.
Yet it took him a few long moments to suggest, "Perhaps you can tell me the books the child already has, for me to determine the perfect gift?"
His voice wavered. A fact, he really hoped the other man would be kind enough to ignore.
Fortunately, Crowley did not mention it. Unfortunately, it was because he was contemplating Aziraphale's question. And, oh, but how hard was it to remember how many books your child owned on the subject they were most passionate about?
Absent father, indeed.
"Don't think there are any," Crowley finally said, straightening up. An even worse answer than Aziraphale had expected, and he opened his mouth- "He only got into dinosaurs after we went to the museum yesterday. Was all about pirates last week."
Okay. Well. That was slightly better. At least it explained why the man had waited until the last possible moment to-
Crowley wasn't finished.
"Got a whole room filled with presents for that child. Honestly, might as well not buy him anything. Hell knows what he'll be obsessed with tomorrow." He snorted, head rolling towards Aziraphale, clearly looking for shared camaraderie. "Probably talk about angels and demons next."
But Aziraphale was far too horrified to pay attention. That poor child. Not only forgotten by his father until the very last moment, but left without a gift? During the most magical time of the year?
No. Absolutely not. Aziraphale would not stand idly by and let this happen. Even if it meant having this infuriatingly gorgeous man in his shop for a little while longer.
"May I?" he asked, already stepping forward. His voice a little steely, he knew.
Crowley quickly took a step back, confused and somewhat pink in the cheeks. Good! Let him be ashamed, it was what he deserved. Trying to wiggle out of buying his son a present like something... wiggly.
For shame.
"I am certain I have a few tomes which would be suitable for a child," Aziraphale noted evenly, scanning the shelf.
It had been quite a while since he had been to this part of his shop. He very rarely had any customers, not if he could help it, and certainly never children. But surely, surely his past self had been kind enough to prepare for such an event, as unlikely as it was.
"Listen, I was wondering," Crowley started, and Aziraphale almost startled. So lost in thought, and the familiar lull of the books around him, he had almost forgotten this stranger in his shop. It did not help that the man's presence was not... as jarring to him as most people's usually was.
"Sorry," Crowley mumbled, hand coming to rub at his neck. His fingers were long, and strangely graceful. He was also leaning against a shelf. Tall, and strangely graceful.
"Yes?" Aziraphale asked. Tried not to notice the way his voice quivered. He had just bent down to pick a book from the bottom shelf, an altogether tricky affair for someone his age. And obviously the cause of his shortness of breath. Nothing to do with the way this strange man was looming next to him.
"I wanted to ask if you are free?" Crowley asked, words wrapped tightly around a single breath. He didn't even have the nifty excuse of bending down. No, that was entirely him.
"This evening?" Aziraphale's voice and one raised eyebrow made it more than clear what the answer to such a question would be. Crowley hurried to shake his head.
"This week. Whichever day, don't mind, really. As long as- as long as you are free."
Only Aziraphale's tightly pursed lips stopped him from scoffing. Was Crowley asking him out? Was the man, buying a gift for his child, asking Aziraphale out?
"It's Christmas," Aziraphale said, as if that was answer enough. Because it was, wasn't it? Certainly, it should have been deterrent enough for that, gorgeous, man's flirting.
Crowley opened his mouth. "Well, it's-"
"I was planning on decorating," Aziraphale hurried to note. Far too aware of what the man had been about to say, and not at all interested in hearing it. Especially not from him. "There is a severe lack of Christmas lights around here, which requires immediate intervention."
Aziraphale didn't wave a hand at the corner in question. It was more than obvious which part of the shop he meant. The other man still looked around, mouth turning slack around the edges. As if it was only now that he was noticing Aziraphale's... No, not obsession. Not really. One could not be obsessed with a holiday. Aziraphale's fascination, instead.
"You much of a Christmas person, then?" the other man asked, voice lilting in a way that did not suit such a mundane question. Aziraphale tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore that teasing smirk too, the eyes twinkling under glasses, a touch too dark.
With varying degrees of success.
"Isn't everyone?" he asked, his own words soaked in a tease, too light to be mocking.
This was a man, he reminded himself, buying a present for his child. He ought to be careful.
Crowley took a few moments to answer.
"Not me, not really," he sounded hesitant, almost guilty. He looked cute when he was flustered.
That wasn't a thought Aziraphale was allowed to have. Perhaps it was why he let himself reveal far more than usual, especially about this topic. Especially around strangers.
"I think the holidays are wonderful. A time of unity and love, an excuse for families to gather around and share some joy." He shrugged, cutting himself short. But not before adding, almost shy, "A spot of brightness, in the darkest of days."
And it was, wasn't it? The meaning of Christmas. Unity and love.
Oh, he suddenly felt awful, having acted the way that he had. So what if the man had left it to the last possible moment to purchase his child a gift? It was the thought that counted, after all.
He chanced a glance towards Crowley, mollified and desperately hopeful that it wouldn't show. Yet, the moment his gaze landed on bright amber eyes, he forgot the cause for his worries, the fact that he had been worried at all. Anything, really, but the way that heated gaze felt, caressing his skin.
The other man had lifted his glasses at some point during Aziraphale's short monologue. Had perched them on top of his flaming hair. And there was something stunned in his expression, wonder but of the kind one was only meant to catch glimpses of. Anything more and it would prove to be too enchanting, far too distracting.
"I-" Aziraphale said, a desperate bid to fill up the thumping void between them. He lifted the book he had plucked off the shelf, as if 6 millennia ago. "I'm afraid this is the only book about dinosaurs I have in stock. It is also quite outdated, I don't believe it even makes a mention of them having feathers."
Crowley's eyes, because he could see his eyes now, widened. He was doing something with his mouth that Aziraphale would rather not focus on.
"Oh. Sure. Yeah, that's fine," the other man said, sounding decidedly not fine. His cheeks were flushed.
In an uncharacteristic need to sell a book, Aziraphale turned to a different shelf. Reached down and placed the book haphazardly next to the board books, in an even more alarming departure from his usual self.
"I might have something here for your son," he noted, careful not to oversell it. It wasn't the boy's current obsession, and surely, it would be better if Crowley was to try his luck at any other bookshops on the high street...
Yet the idea of letting that poor child go without a present, on Christmas. Of Aziraphale turning his back on him- That did not bear thinking about.
"No, it's fine. Really," Crowley was insisting, but Aziraphale had already found what he was looking for. "Also, he is my godson."
Aziraphale almost dropped the book. Which would have been devastating enough, he was sure, even if he wasn’t holding one of his most priceless possessions.
"I thought you said your child?"
It wasn't an accusation. Really, it wasn't.
"Said 'a child'." Crowley must have seen the flush on Aziraphale's cheeks, and worst of all, must have interpreted it right, because he added, without being prompted, "No children. No partner either, if you were wondering."
Aziraphale had been.
"I was not." Aziraphale all but shoved the, fragile, first edition, book into the other man's chest. "Would you like this book or not?"
Crowley's head dipped down, his eyes wide and slightly glassy. As if eager to find out what a 'book' was. He looked so adorably curious, that Aziraphale forgot to be annoyed for a few seconds.
He had no idea why he was annoyed, actually. The man, who was buying a book for his godson, had done nothing wrong. In fact, Aziraphale was starting to heavily suspect. The gorgeous, strangely familiar and vocally unattached man. He had been flirting with him. He had asked him out.
Granted, it was Christmas, the timing couldn't possibly be worse. But Aziraphale appreciated it still.
He took the book back. Crowley made a strangled noise, which Aziraphale paid no mind to. He had a plan. Better than that, he had a book, one that Crowley was interested in.
"Of course," he said slyly, shifting back. Just to see if Crowley would lean forward. He did. "It is a very rare book. One of my childhood favourites even. It was the first edition published in English."
None of that was a lie. The book in his hands, The Little Prince, was one he had treasured all his childhood. Somewhere, inaccessible to anyone but him, he even had a first edition, in French. It was the reason he had spent years attempting to learn a language that did not want to be learnt.
Aziraphale glanced at the book again, waiting for that familiar ache in his heart, which often accompanied the decision to part with one of his books. It was not there. He was happy instead, happy that someone else would get to hold this precious thing in their hands. Learn its lessons, marvel at its art. And, well, if that person was the godson of the most gorgeous man he had ever met... What would be the harm in that?
So deep into his scheming ways, he missed the way Crowley stiffened beside him. Only noticed when the other man pulled back slightly, cheeks flushed.
"You sure that's for sale? Seems far too precious for you to part with."
His voice was careful, almost hesitant. As if he knew, what the book meant to Aziraphale. How unlikely he was to put himself in a situation such as this.
"Call it a Christmas miracle," Aziraphale said with a smile. No need for the other man to know the evil of his ways. Not evil. No. The slight underhandedness of his ways.
He opened his mouth, the suggestion of an Arrangement dancing on his tongue. Surely, it would be fine. Aziraphale was almost certain the man had asked him out. He just needed to- Do it again.
Crowley was faster, "Let me give you something in return."
And, oh, but this was better, wasn't it? Aziraphale wouldn't even have to ask. Eyelashes fluttering, mouth tingling ever so slightly, he leant forward. Bridging the gap so rudely established by the other man. Waited. Patiently eager and not as obvious as the hammering in his heart, he hoped.
Crowley's smile was slight, as he placed a palm on Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale's breath danced on his lips, to the familiar beat of the Christmas Waltz. This was going to happen. Aziraphale was going to kiss a stranger in his shop. A gorgeous, unattached, strangely familiar stranger.
A Christmas miracle indeed.
And then Crowley left. Just, squeezed his shoulder, smile trembling slightly at the corners, and he- Left.
If Aziraphale was less prone to censoring himself, he would have said something rather crude. As it was, he simply watched as the other man crossed the road. Fussed, ever so slightly, even as frustrated as he was, at the fact Crowley did not even attempt to watch out for cars. Even briefly considered locking the doors and going upstairs when Crowley disappeared behind the door of the florist opposite him. A slightly petty affair that he certainly wasn't above.
And yet, he hesitated. When he would have otherwise hurried to lock the door, lest unsavoury characters, or worse, customers, walk in... He waited.
Moments later, Crowley was coming back. There went Aziraphale's chance for some quiet solitude. He felt like he ought to be a bit more disappointed at that.
"Hi," the other man said, slightly breathless. Aziraphale had watched him run across the road, both ways. He still had to scold himself for wishing for a different reason behind that husky voice. "Brought you something."
It was only then that Aziraphale noticed the potted plant, gently cradled against Crowley's chest. It was tall. Unusually black, the leaves – a peculiar shape, and it made Aziraphale blink. He wasn't sure he had ever seen a plant like this one, not that he had much experience with anything growing from the ground that would not end up in a stew.
Art by TheIneffableAuthor
"Did you steal this?" he asked, instead of the million other questions crowding his mouth.
Crowley flushed, even more than before, his jaw loosening.
"Steal?" he spluttered. It was unfairly adorable. "'Course I- What, you think I just walked into the conveniently unlocked flower shop and came out with a plant?"
Aziraphale said nothing. He had yet to hear a clear denial.
"No, angel, I did not steal the plant. My shop. My Tacca chantrieri." Crowley hesitated. "Your Tacca chantrieri. Black bat flower. If you'd have it?"
Aziraphale glanced at the flower again. It had been aptly named, he supposed. The petals, black and large, reminded him of wings beating against a dark sky. There were even whisker-like growths sprouting from the dark flowers.
But something else had caught his attention. Crowley's shop. Right across his own bookshop. That peculiar, and strangely warm familiarity he had felt all night.
"We haven't been introduced, you mentioned," he said, not a question. Didn't much expect an answer either.
Which was fortunate for him, as one was not forthcoming. The other man flushed, cheeks clashing alluringly with his flaming hair. But even then, his smile was sharp, a touch too devious for the lie he had been caught in.
"We haven't. Never formally introduced." Crowley shrugged and- Fine. The not-lie he had been caught in, then.
It was Aziraphale's turn to feel embarrassment tickle his neck. He could only hope he wasn't as obvious as his new old acquaintance.
"And you would- This is for me?"
Nobody had ever given him a plant before. Partially, because nobody he knew would be cruel enough to sentence an innocent plant to a slow and painful death. But also because, ever since he had been a child, all he had ever received for Christmas had been books. Which was never, would never be, a problem. He treasured books in a way he had thought he would never get to experience in any other capacity.
Yet, here this strange man was, sharing a part of his world with Aziraphale, minutes after he had said he did not much care for the holiday. Shattering all of his assumptions into fine dust.
Crowley nodded, a simple jerk of the head. His smile still sharp, his eyes still sparkling. Aziraphale could still sense his hesitation. In the way he cradled the plant, one arm slung protectively around the pot. The set of his shoulders, slouched almost indecently not long ago, now nothing less than a strict line of anxiety.
Aziraphale had met him almost an hour ago. He could still tell.
"You would need to come visit," Aziraphale said. Desire creeping into his voice, desire he had hoped would remain hidden. And yet Crowley was staring at him, a bloodhound with the first sniff of dinner. It seemed he could tell too, even after merely an hour. "I'm not much of a gardener. I'm afraid I will murder the poor thing."
"You won't, it's not very fussy. As long as you keep it somewhere warm and shaded, it would-" Crowley trailed off. Aziraphale was giving him a look, he was sure. He hadn't meant to, but he was. "I mean, of course. Gotta make sure it thrives, would be terrible if it doesn't survive."
"Quite."
Aziraphale smiled. Perhaps next time Crowley visited, purely in a professional capacity, of course, he could do so around lunch time. And Aziraphale would be forced to close the shop, it would be so terribly rude if he did not. Why, they could grab something to eat too, after Crowley had ensured that no unnecessary deaths had occurred in the bookshop. They could even have a walk in the park, perhaps even-
"Come to think of it, 'm not sure you are getting a good deal here," Crowley said, rudely interrupting Aziraphale's daydreams. Which was for the best, maybe, since he should probably verify the man was interested, before planning their first date.
It was only then that he focused on the other man's words. No. No, that wasn't acceptable. He wanted this flower.
"What you have proposed is quite sufficient, my dear. Please don't trouble yourself," he said instead, because it was far too early to show that level of desperation.
But Crowley simply shook his head. Still shifted closer, until their chests would be touching, if not for the flower gently slotted between them.
"I think I could offer you..." Amber eyes flickered over Aziraphale's face. So close that they were, he could feel Crowley's warm breath ghost over his lips. An almost caress. "More?"
Well. Goodness, it seemed like Aziraphale could start planning that first date after all.
Just as long as he did not perish from all the blood rushing to his cheeks.
In a move so uncharacteristic for Aziraphale, it would have concerned him, if he wasn't so preoccupied, he lost all control over his mouth.
He tried to say, "That's not necessary", because it was true, Crowley didn't need to. This gorgeous flower, well-taken care of and obviously treasured. Plucked straight out of the other man's realm. It would be more than enough.
He tried to say, "Yes, please, if you'd be so amenable", because Crowley was lovely and stunning and very clearly unhinged in a way Aziraphale found himself drawn to. And because Aziraphale wanted. And he was not often in the business of denying himself.
He even opened his mouth to say something silly and far too affection-riddled for the amount of time they had spent together.
"The pot," was what actually tumbled out of his lips.
Crowley blinked at him. Aziraphale blinked right back. He, too, was shocked at this development.
"Could you- On that shelf over there-" Aziraphale tilted his head to the shelf in question, unwilling to relinquish the sight of those rosy cheeks and soft lips for even a moment. "It's only, I would be quite remiss if something were to happen to the flower. Not before I have had the chance to do so."
Crowley laughed. It was unclear whether it was at Aziraphale's terrible joke, or at the situation. Maybe it wasn't mocking at all, Aziraphale wondered, as the man turned to him once again. His gaze soft, mouth open and breath thin. Shivering, ever so slightly, every time their chests slid together. Maybe there was a different reason for the joy, encased in those golden eyes.
Centuries, millennia later, it was Aziraphale who broke the silence.
"May I?" he asked, palm curling over a sharp jaw, thumb brushing against an even sharper cheekbone. Waited, anxious and still, even though the other man had done nothing to make him doubt-
Sure enough, Crowley was nodding, lips twisting into a grin. Stepping closer, leaning down. And the way that sharp amusement tasted? Aziraphale had never enjoyed anything quite as sweet.
For all his flirting, or what Aziraphale could now admit to himself had been flirting, Crowley seemed delightfully shy in their kiss. Nothing more than a tame slide of lips, the ghost of a touch. The other man's arms hovering a respectable distance away, the only contact between them- their heaving chests.
Aziraphale didn't want respectable.
Crowley's gasp, as Aziraphale arranged his arms around his own waist was almost as delicious as his smile had been. So was the way his fingers sank into soft sides, driven by instinct and the same desire, currently roaring in Aziraphale's veins. And then Aziraphale was being tugged closer, or maybe he was the one leaning in, and his own fingers were dancing over a thin t-shirt, rubbing against tense shoulder blades.
The kiss didn’t change. Just as tame, just as wonderfully gentle.
It was making Aziraphale lose his mind a little.
"Was that sufficient?" Crowley gasped out, voice unfairly sharp even as he was fighting for breath. Aziraphale, less coherent and unwilling to show it, simply blinked at him. "Would you need more, in exchange for that precious book of yours?"
Aziraphale told himself that the flush on his cheeks was simply a remnant of the best kiss he had received ever since... Ever, most probably.
"Don't be so crass, my dear," he admonished, or tried to. It came out incredibly fond.
"I could, you know. Could get the Tacca chantrieri all wrapped up in a ribbon, pretty bow on the pot. Make it all festive for Christmas."
Crowley was grinning. He knew exactly what he was doing, the horrible tease. With his flushed lips and quivering chest, he did not make the sinful picture he thought he did, Aziraphale was sure.
Or maybe he did. It was hard to tell, with this gorgeous non-stranger wrapped so tightly around him.
What Aziraphale chose to focus on was also quite different.
"It is Christmas," he pointed out, petulant. He didn't want this plant, his Black bat flower, taken from him.
Crowley stared.
"Angel, it's December 20th." And when Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, when Crowley, the man who had known him for an hour, sensed exactly where this conversation was going- Crowley leant forward, lips brushing against Aziraphale's forehead. "Or, if you'd prefer, I can offer something else?"
Aziraphale tipped his head back with a grin, expectant.
After all, it didn't have to be strictly Christmas, for one to receive their Christmas gift.