Archive of Our Own

"Can you see them yet?" Aziraphale rose up onto his toes and tried to peer over the crowd that surrounded them.

"Can't see a bloody thing with these contacts in," Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale risked a glance at the bright yellow of his friend's irises before looking away. It wouldn't do to be caught staring. "And we probably won't recognise them anyway. Anathema wouldn't tell me what costumes they were doing, since we missed yesterday."

"I know she enjoys being enigmatic, but it's not particularly helpful in all this." Aziraphale gestured at the horde of fans, many of them dressed, as he and Crowley both were, in Starfleet uniforms of various eras. Others had gone for more complicated costumes; he spotted at least three Borg drones, a whole crew of Klingons and a pair of Hirogen hunters.

"All right, scanning for known life forms." Crowley pulled a 3D-printed tricorder from his bag, cleverly fashioned to surround his smartphone. He tapped out a message, frowning at the screen as the reply came through. "They're down by the transporter photo op. Have you got your map?"

"I think it's over that way?" Aziraphale pointed, trying to reconcile the floor plan with the roiling mass of people. "If we can get through this crowd."

"Easy. C'mon." Crowley shoved the 'tricorder' back in his bag and seized Aziraphale's hand instead. "So we don't lose each other," he explained.

"Very…very sensible." Aziraphale's palms were suddenly sweating, his fingers threatening to slip from Crowley's as his best friend began to weave his way through the crowd, towing Aziraphale behind him.

It meant nothing, of course. Of course. It was just a practical way of making sure they stayed together as they forced their way across the convention hall. Just because Aziraphale had spent a significant amount of their twenty-year friendship fantasising about holding Crowley's hand—among other things, admittedly—didn't mean it was anything more than that.

They'd met at a convention like this, what seemed like an age ago now, just after Enterprise had been cancelled and it seemed that Star Trek as a franchise would be over. They'd formed a little group, the seven of them—Aziraphale, Crowley and Agnes, Anathema and Newt, Tracy and Shadwell—travelling from all across the country to meet up at whatever conventions took their fancy, exchanging emails and texts and, these days, Discord messages in between.

It was the best group of friends Aziraphale had ever had, but there was no denying who was his favourite.

He and Crowley had gravitated towards each other from the start. Older than Ana and Newt—who'd only been students those first few years—but younger than the other three. Both gay men, both living in London, they'd quickly gone from strangers to virtually inseparable, meeting after work and at weekends, debating warp mechanics or interplanetary diplomacy over a glass of wine at the pub, or a whole bottle on Aziraphale's sofa.

The fact that Aziraphale had been desperately and irrevocably in love with Crowley since about three hours into their acquaintance was something he had never revealed to any of the others, and never planned to. He valued Crowley's friendship far too much to risk ruining it with unwanted advances. The secret would accompany him to his grave, which might be closer than he'd thought, with how fast his pulse was beating as Crowley's hand gripped his.

Crowley honestly didn't know what had possessed him.

Well, that was a lie. He absolutely did know what had possessed him, and it was a two-decades-long crush on his best friend. His best friend whose hand he was now holding as they pushed past a scantily-clad woman who must have spent a fortune on green body paint.

Blame the lack of sleep. They'd planned to arrive for dinner and the welcome party last night, but the M25 had had other ideas and they'd been trapped in London until late evening, eventually getting to Birmingham sometime after one in the morning. Crowley had been too tired from the drive to even be disappointed that his well-worn fantasy from every con—that the hotel had been overbooked, twin rooms sold out and the two of them forced to share a bed—had once again failed to come true. He'd collapsed into one of the two queen beds, lulled quickly to sleep by the sound of Aziraphale's breathing across the room.

Most people slept better in their own beds, but Crowley always slept extraordinarily well at conventions.

Still, he'd needed to get up early to apply all the make-up, to wrangle the yellow contacts and fill his hair with enough gel to turn the red strands dark. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had risen a whole hour later, needing only to style the hair he'd already dyed a darker blond than his natural colour and put on some eye makeup and lipstick.

Okay, maybe it was the lipstick that had done it. Crowley's brain was scrambled. He still wasn't sure why Aziraphale had chosen to cosplay Tasha Yar, of all the myriad characters available to him. He only knew that his best friend looked unfairly hot in the yellow uniform and subtle makeup.

"Oh, is that them?" Aziraphale's voice shook Crowley from his reverie. "Hurry up, my dear."

It was their friends, as it turned out, queueing to have their photos taken at a very convincing transporter stage.

"We were going to wait for you," Newt explained, looking far too nervous for the command red of his Riker costume, "but Ana wants to go to the Women in Trek panel in an hour and the line just kept growing…"

"We'll still meet you for lunch after." Anathema had curled her dark hair, managing such a convincing Deanna Troi that people were taking pictures. "If I can't convince Kate Mulgrew to run away with me."

"Hey!"

"Don't worry, sweetie, I'll check if she's open to a threesome."

"Speaking of threesomes…" Tracy looped an arm into Shadwell's. They, too, always came in matching costumes, although his Odo paled in comparison to her Lwaxana, orange hair piled high on her head, blue skirts swirling around her feet. "We've arranged to meet a man dressed as Quark after lunch. Don't wait up for us."

Agnes gave them an enigmatic smile that completely suited her Guinan costume. "I also have things to do. You boys have fun, now."

This was how Crowley preferred it, really, just him and Aziraphale, alone together even with several hundred people around them. They never ran out of things to talk about, and despite the length of the queue it seemed like no time at all before they were at the front of it.

There was never any question about getting separate photos. The east wall of Crowley's flat, otherwise a minimalist grey, was a parade of photos of the two of them from events and conventions over the years. In some of them they flanked actors from the show, in others they stood awkwardly in front of a green screen, a set picture superimposed behind them.

This convention—unimaginatively called 'TrekCon'—was unusual in that it had real replica set pieces for the photos. It had been billed as an 'immersive experience', although mostly so far they'd only been immersed in the smell of other people's sweat under their heavy cosplays. But the transporter set was quite good.

"Where would you like to go?" Aziraphale asked as they climbed on to the stage, putting their feet over the marked spots.

"Dunno. Risa? Good drinks, bet they'd even have a library for you." Crowley fixed a smile on his face and looked at the photographer, who looked vaguely familiar. But then, after so many cons, the guy had probably taken their photo about a dozen times.

The light flashed, brighter than a normal camera. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut instinctively, a wave of nausea hitting him.

"What was that?"

Aziraphale swayed on his mark, the room momentarily swimming around him as the spots in his eyes faded away.

"Sorry about that, mon capitan." The photographer—Aziraphale was sure he almost recognised him, although he clearly wasn't that big a fan if he didn't know his Tasha Yars from his Picards—didn't look away from his camera. "It has to be bright, for the beaming effect. Photos will be printed out at the desk outside the door, video clip will be emailed to the address on the ticket. Next!"

Still somewhat disorientated, Aziraphale reached for Crowley, and they helped each other off the stage as somebody dressed as the Gorn moved in behind them.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"I'll be fine." Crowley let go of his arm as they exited the room and queued again for their photos. "Just felt a bit weird there for a second."

"Yes." Aziraphale took his copy of their photo from a harassed-looking volunteer, looking down at the image of Crowley rather than the real thing. He could still feel the shape of Crowley's fingers clutching his arm, and he wasn't sure he could keep his feelings from showing on his face.

The picture had been taken before the bright lights for the video clip had disoriented them so, it seemed, as they were both still smiling at the camera. Crowley, as always, looked wonderful even with the inhuman skin tone and the eyes that matched the yellow of their uniforms. Aziraphale's own costume was nowhere near as impressive, but since he'd originally been planning to reprise one of his older cosplays, changing his mind only after Crowley had mentioned he was going to be Data, it couldn't be helped.

He hadn't told Crowley this, of course. Hadn't mentioned that Anathema and Newt and Tracy and Shadwell always came in couples costumes, and that this way it felt a little bit like they had too.

Aziraphale put the photo carefully in his bag before they moved on. The hall seemed even more crowded as they worked their way to where they'd agreed to meet the others for lunch. Several times, Crowley had to push past knots of people—Aziraphale following in his wake although sadly without the hand-holding—and once Aziraphale was knocked by a passing Romulan into a couple who had apparently forgotten they were in a very public place. He'd had to grab the young lady's arm to stop from toppling completely, apologising profusely all the while, but barely distracting her from her canoodling.

"It's absolute madness in here," Crowley complained to their friends when they eventually found them. Anathema gave up her chair, perching on Newt's lap instead. Crowley waved Aziraphale into the now-empty seat, and leant on the back, his breath ruffling Aziraphale's hair.

"We're going to have to go soon, to meet our Quark." Tracy handed them each a paper cup; black coffee for Crowley, tea for Aziraphale. It was awful tea, but at this point Aziraphale didn't care.

"Stay safe, you two." Crowley turned to Anathema. "No luck with Kate Mulgrew?"

"Sadly not. What do you two have planned for this afternoon?"

Aziraphale pulled out his programme, letting Crowley read it over his shoulder. "I think we were planning on the captain's chair photo op, and then the astronomy panel, and then see which lines are shortest for autographs. You?"

"I wanted to check out the Artist's Alley, but we can meet you for the panel?"

They split up again soon after, plans made to meet for dinner, with the exception of Tracy and Shadwell who they would see the next day. The captain's chair photo op was less involved than the transporter, and only suitable for one person at a time. Aziraphale went first, sitting primly upright for his photo, then lingering to watch Crowley sprawl in the chair like he owned the place, all long limbs and easy confidence.

Aziraphale ran a finger under the collar of his uniform, suddenly uneasy with the way it sat, or perhaps it was just too hot under the lights the photographers were using. When Crowley suggested they go outside for some fresh air before the panel, he agreed immediately, but the cooler air did little to dispel his discomfort. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Crowley was pacing, as he often did, the sunlight bringing out the red in his darkened hair, making him seem more himself again. Aziraphale found himself unable to look away from the swing of his friend's hips, the outline of his arse in the tight jumpsuit, the fit at the front of his own becoming more precarious with each of Crowley's sharp half-turns.

"Do you think we'll need to queue for the panel?" he asked, mainly to distract himself. While he was far from immune from less than respectable thoughts about his friend, he usually managed to keep them in check when they were actually together.

"Shouldn't think so. It's supposed to be quite science-y, probably won't attract the same sort of crowds as the actor talks. But I could do with a trip to the loo first."

The crowd had thinned somewhat when they went back inside, at least enough that they managed to make it to the gents' without any more physical encounters. Aziraphale watched the crowd flow past him as he waited for Crowley, trying to focus on the costumes instead of the prickling heat that seemed to be taking over more of his body.

A Trill, complete with spots that quite obviously went all the way down. A person dressed as a giant pile of Tribbles. Countless Vulcans and Bajorans. An Andorian.

The next pair that caught what little of Aziraphale's attention he had to spare were human, not in any cosplay he could recognise. It was the colour of the taller one's hair that caught his eye, a vivid red that made him do a double take at first, before he remembered that Crowley's was dark today. He did look awfully like Crowley though, although Aziraphale had never seen his friend dressed in white and gold. His companion, a blond, bearded man in rather a lot of leather, was mostly hidden by the crowd, but he too seemed almost…

"Right, ready to go?"

Aziraphale's train of thought returned from its rapid detour as Crowley reappeared beside him, and he forced a smile onto his face. If he mentioned feeling slightly odd, he was sure Crowley would insist on accompanying him back to the hotel room, and Crowley had been looking forward to this panel for weeks. He wouldn't be missing it on Aziraphale's account.

This wasn't Aziraphale's scene, Crowley knew. Get him started on how Starfleet's diplomacy worked—or didn't—and he'd talk for hours, but the hard science left him cold. Crowley should have insisted he do something fun while the talk was going on, but he was ultimately just too selfish. He'd been feeling odd all morning, and Aziraphale's presence always made him calmer.

He'd been wrong about the popularity of the panel; the two of them were right in the back corner, several rows away from Anathema, Newt and Agnes, who shot them apologetic looks. Normally, Crowley would have been more annoyed, but he was finding it difficult to concentrate anyway. His eyes kept wandering to his right, to the way Aziraphale's hand rested on his thigh, fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric.

Crowley knew something was wrong. He'd been an avid Aziraphale-watcher for the last two decades, after all; he could recognise even the most subtle signs of discomfort. He also knew that Aziraphale would deny it if he asked, so he kept quiet and tried to listen to the talk.

He was nearly succeeding when the hand on Aziraphale's thigh suddenly moved to his. It rested gently, just above his knee, warmth emanating from it, and Crowley couldn't stop looking at it, at the smoothly curved fingernails, the broad fingers.

It took eighty-three seconds for Aziraphale to notice what he'd done. Even over the speakers, Crowley heard the sharp intake of breath, the whispered 'sorry' as the hand was taken away, leaving him cold and wanting.

For the next five minutes, Crowley didn't hear a word of what was happening on stage over the wild thudding of his heart. What did it mean? They'd sat next to each other at hundreds of bloody talks, and this had never happened. He didn't dare look properly at Aziraphale, sneaking rapid glances at him instead. Was his face pinker than usual? His posture more rigid? He was staring straight ahead, apparently absorbed in the panel, but then on one of his glances Crowley caught Aziraphale glancing back at him. They both looked away again, but even that split second of eye contact had heat running down Crowley's spine.

And then Aziraphale's hand returned, higher up Crowley's thigh. Crowley couldn't stifle an embarrassing little moan, but it seemed that nobody had heard. At least, nobody looked at him, not even Aziraphale, but then the hand on his thigh squeezed gently.

The rest of the panel passed in a blur, astronomy unimportant in comparison to the slow upwards creep of Aziraphale's hand. Crowley hardly dared to breathe, in case it startled Aziraphale away, couldn't look in case this all turned out to be some sort of hallucination that burst like a bubble when examined too closely. He sat back in his uncomfortable plastic chair and stared blankly at the stage as heat spread from that single point of contact to the rest of his body.

The sudden burst of applause at the end of the panel broke the spell. Crowley joined in without thinking, and after a moment the hand on his thigh rose to clap as well, leaving the skin tingling.

People started to move around them, the volume in the room rising as discussions began. Crowley's stomach filled with flying insects of all descriptions as he realised that they would have to talk to each other now, and he had no idea how.

"We should, er, go and find the others?" he ventured, which was what he would have said had that not just happened, and not because he particularly wanted to go and find their friends.

"We should," Aziraphale agreed. "But…"

"But?"

"Perhaps we should, ah, talk? In private?" Aziraphale worried at the buttons of his waistcoat when he was nervous; his fingers rose and then fell away again when they found only the flat fabric of his uniform. It was easier to watch his hands than it was his face, which was set in a neutral mask, giving little away.

"We could…go up to the room?"

"Yes."

The convention hall was too crowded for any conversation that couldn't be shouted above the din. This time, it was Aziraphale who found Crowley's hand to anchor them together as they wove through the crowd.

The rest of the hotel was less crowded, if still busy with people taking breaks from the crush, but neither of them even suggested letting go. It felt natural, to have their fingers entwined like this, something familiar and entirely new all at once.

Their room was on the sixth floor, but they were not lucky enough to have the lift to themselves. They spent most of the ascent pressed against the wall, hands linked together, staying out of the way of a group of rowdy teenagers. Two—a boy dressed in a later Deep Space Nine-era command uniform, a goatee drawn in what appeared to be eyeliner on his chin, and a girl dressed as Major Kira—were happily arguing about whether his cosplay meant that he was the Messiah and should be obeyed, while their companions—one in Science blue, the other Engineering gold—tried to drown them out by singing Jerusalem.

Thankfully, they alighted on the fourth floor. Unfortunately, their single remaining companion—a young man in an old-fashioned raincoat, his hair some indeterminate colour between red and blond—seemed determined to tell them all about his vintage yellow Citroën 2CV. For once, Crowley really wasn't in the mood to talk classic cars, and something about the young man set his teeth on edge, like something twisted just out of true.

It wasn't until they reached their door that Aziraphale finally let go of his hand, and then only so he could find the keycard in his bag and unlock the door, ushering Crowley in before following.

The room suddenly seemed oppressively small, the beds too close together, the air baking hot. Crowley's Starfleet uniform was too tight, too itchy, the weird feeling he'd been having since lunchtime now almost overwhelming.

"I… So…" Aziraphale wrung his hands, eyes looking everywhere but at Crowley. There was sweat beading on his brow, a sheen of it at his throat. Crowley found himself wondering what it would taste like, what noise Aziraphale would make if he pressed his tongue there. His cock, already interested from the hand that had been slowly approaching it earlier, stiffened further in his trousers.

"Talk?" Crowley's mouth was dry, his tongue too large to fit behind his teeth. "You…"

"Yes."

"Yes? Yes what?"

"Yes we should…we should talk. With words." Aziraphale took a deep breath, and then another. "I feel…odd."

"Odd." Crowley paced across the room; four steps this way, four steps the other. "Hot. Itchy."

"Sort of…tingly, yes."

"Inexplicably and unbearably aroused?"

"Ah." Air in through his nose, out through his mouth, and then Aziraphale finally looked at Crowley. "I wouldn't…wouldn't go as far as inexplicably."

Crowley stopped his pacing. "Oh?"

"You…ah…" Aziraphale's throat bobbed as he swallowed and Crowley stared at it in fascination. "That jumpsuit is…"

Crowley's legs moved before his brain could catch up, two strides carrying him to Aziraphale, a third backing him up against the door. They weren't quite touching, but Crowley could feel the heat radiating from him, hear his sharp intake of breath, smell his cologne as he leant in. This close, he could see that Aziraphale wasn't actually very good at applying his eye makeup, could see the clumps in his mascara, and it was making him mad with want.

"Your hand." Crowley's voice came out raspy and low. "Was on my thigh."

Aziraphale licked his red-stained lips. "Yes."

"Aziraphale…"

"Yes."

Crowley had spent a completely normal amount of time imagining their first kiss. It would be a soft thing, as quiet as it was monumental, late one evening in the dim lamplight of Aziraphale's flat. They'd be halfway through a bottle of something far too expensive for the complete lack of occasion, halfway through an argument where the outcome was a distant second to the joy of the debate. Aziraphale would lean forward to refill Crowley's glass and, instead of saying thank you like he'd done a thousand times before, Crowley would kiss him. Aziraphale would laugh, breathlessly, and take his hand, and they'd resume their argument while smiling so hard their faces hurt.

This was not that kiss.

This was messy and frantic and hungry, mouths and bodies colliding, hands grabbing. Crowley licked into Aziraphale's mouth like it held the cure for whatever bizarre ailment had overtaken them, but all it did was make his need more urgent. He pressed closer, feeling the hot line of Aziraphale's erection through their layers of Spandex, relishing the helpless little moan that fell from Aziraphale's mouth into his own.

Crowley pulled away just to look at him, starry-eyed and pink-cheeked, lipstick smudged around his mouth and some of Crowley's own metallic makeup smeared on his jaw.

"I want you," Crowley confessed, bracketing Aziraphale in with his arms and leaning in again to taste that sheen of sweat at his throat. "Wanted you for so fucking long."

"This is…oh…" Aziraphale's head fell back against the door, baring his neck for Crowley's hungry mouth. "Something strange is going on."

"Yeah." Crowley took Aziraphale's earlobe between his teeth, feeling the shiver that ran through his friend's body as he tugged. "Naked Now kind of strange."

"We…we shouldn't…we can't…" Despite his words, Aziraphale's hand—the soft, broad hand that had rested on Crowley's thigh and rewired his brain—curled around the back of Crowley's neck, playing with the zip at the back of his jumpsuit.

"Can. If you want." Crowley rolled his hips forwards, making sure the bulge in his jumpsuit was as obvious as possible. "I am fully functional after all."

"That's not the line." Aziraphale's hand slid slowly down Crowley's spine, pulling the zip along with it. "How fully?"

"In every way, of course. I am programmed in multiple techniques, a broad variety of pleasuring."

"Oh, you jewel!" Aziraphale pushed away from the door, walking Crowley towards the nearest bed as he pushed the jumpsuit down his shoulders. "That's exactly what I hoped."

They stumbled through the last few steps, laughing into each other's mouths, pulling at clothes. The back of Crowley's legs hit the bed, his jumpsuit tangled around his thighs, and as he sat down on the edge Aziraphale knelt on the floor in front of him.

There was nothing Crowley could do but sit there and stare as Aziraphale removed his boots for him and pulled the jumpsuit away. He was breathtakingly beautiful, as dishevelled as he was. Crowley had been much less successful in his attempts at removing Aziraphale's uniform, only getting the zip halfway down his back before losing track of what he was doing, and now the fabric hung loosely, exposing a sliver of collarbone that made Crowley's teeth ache with the need to bite it.

"Look at you, you're gorgeous," he murmured, reaching out to card his fingers through Aziraphale's hair.

"You're hardly awful to look at yourself." Aziraphale looked him up and down appreciatively, eyes lingering on the bulge barely concealed by his black boxer briefs. "Anthony…"

Aziraphale never called him Anthony. Nobody did, apart from his parents. The first time they'd met, he'd introduced himself as Crowley and Aziraphale had never once questioned it, never once got it wrong. Which was probably for the best, since the sound of his name in that low, approving rumble was doing all sorts of things to him. Things that were apparently visible through the thin fabric of his underwear, judging by the smug look on Aziraphale's face.

Crowley lifted his hips for Aziraphale to remove his pants entirely and toss them across the room; neither of them were looking to see where they landed. Aziraphale was staring hungrily at his newly-exposed prize, and Crowley was watching him as he licked his lips and leant in.

Aziraphale's mouth was hot and wet, lips red-smeared and glistening as they stretched around Crowley's cock, and Crowley couldn't tear his eyes away from the picture they made together. His hands in Aziraphale's hair, Aziraphale's wide eyes looking at up him, the fabric slowly slipping from his shoulders as they found a glorious rhythm.

It shouldn't really have been a surprise, just how good Aziraphale was at this. They'd been friends for twenty years, after all, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale hadn't been chastely waiting all that time. None of his relationships had lasted very long—a fact that Crowley had outwardly commiserated and inwardly celebrated—but Aziraphale was hardly a blushing virgin. If there were two things that Crowley knew about him, they were that he never turned down an indulgence, and that if he was going to do something, he was going to do it properly, whether that be putting together a cosplay, learning to bake, or sucking Crowley's soul out through his cock.

A task he was accomplishing with a speed that would have been embarrassing, were Crowley not too turned on to care. Every suck, every lick, every bob of Aziraphale's head, every gentle squeeze of his hand around Crowley's tightening bollocks , every press of a perfect tongue against the sensitive spot under the crown…the pressure built beneath Crowley's skin, hot and urgent, driving him quickly to the brink of orgasm. He opened his mouth to warn Aziraphale, half taken with the idea of pulling out and letting his spend coat the other man's face, half desperate to grind himself as deep into Aziraphale's throat as possible when he came and—

BANG!

Aziraphale almost didn't stop when the door flew open.

Crowley was close; Aziraphale could feel his cock, twitching and leaking against his tongue, feel his thighs tensing. He wanted it so very badly, the hot, salty rush of it down his throat, was so turned on he thought he might come himself from the sheer, giddy pleasure of it all. Whatever it was that was now heating his blood to boiling point and directing it all to his groin, it had silenced the part of him that would have cared about being found like this.

"The fuck?" It was Crowley's tone as much as the hand in Aziraphale's hair that made him pull off, and even then he found it hard to turn away to see who had disturbed them. Crowley's prick was standing stiffly to attention, shiny with saliva, rosy with smudges of Aziraphale's lipstick, still so very tempting.

"This can not be happening," said Crowley, except that it wasn't Crowley. After twenty years, Aziraphale was attuned to the sound of his voice, could pick it out of a crowd, and it was unmistakably Crowley's voice…but it wasn't coming from above him.

He turned around.

For a second, his brain insisted there must be a mirror on the back of the door, though there hadn't been one there before. But then logic caught up; the Aziraphale that he locked eyes with was standing up, still fully dressed although his makeup was also a smudged mess. Clearly he and the Crowley standing beside him had not had to share the lift. And—Aziraphale's eyes drifted downwards—they were just as clearly affected by whatever strange malady had overtaken him and Crowley.

"You can't be us," his Crowley said. "We're us."

"Well, we woke up in this room this morning—" the other Aziraphale began.

"So did we."

"Found Ana and the others—"

"Yep."

"Had our photo taken at the—"

"Transporter—"

"Skipped lunch because I was feeling nauseous—"

"So did—wait. No. We had lunch with the others, didn't we, angel?" Crowley's hand landed on his bare shoulder, sending another wave of heat through him despite everything. The pet name was new, too, and thrilling.

"Yes." It was difficult to focus on the conversation, on anything but the pulsing need between his legs, but the sooner they solved this problem the sooner he could go back to getting his face spectacularly fucked. "It seems, then, that the transporter shoot is the pertinent event."

"Are you telling me," the other Crowley said, "that you're some sort of…transporter clones?"

"He's saying you're the transporter clone," his Crowley snapped. "Jay."

"Crowley!" Both Crowleys—and the other Aziraphale—looked at him. "This is hardly our only problem at this moment."

The other Aziraphale nodded. "The sex pollen."

"Oh for fuck's sake—"

"Anthony." Aziraphale turned away from the other them and looked up at his Crowley, at the yellow eyes that weren't really so different from his usual golden brown. "I was rather enjoying what we were doing. I'd rather get back to that than argue with our other selves."

"Ngk." Crowley stared at him for a moment, then reached out and ran a thumb over Aziraphale's lower lip. His arousal had hardly dulled, but it flared again at Crowley's touch, even brighter and more insistent than before. "So. What? We just…get back to it and let them…do whatever on the other bed?"

Talking would be difficult with Crowley's thumb in his mouth; Aziraphale reluctantly let it slip away. "We could. Or…" He glanced to the side, where they were being mostly ignored by their counterparts, who were starting to resume their own amorous activities. Aziraphale couldn't help but be arrested by the sight, his own cock throbbing in sympathy as the other Crowley reached between the other Aziraphale's legs. "Or, well, they're just us, really. Just you…and me…and these beds seem like they'd be easy to push together…"

"How, in twenty years, have I not noticed how much of a kinky bastard you are?" Crowley leant down and kissed him, brief but filthy. "Oi! Jay! Angel!"

The other them broke apart. "Now wait a minute—" the other Crowley objected.

"Executive decision. He called me Anthony and I nearly came in my pants, not giving that up now. And you're the transporter clone."

"Darling…" Aziraphale reminded him gently.

"Right, sorry. Foursome?"

The other Crowley opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but the other Aziraphale leant in to whisper urgently in his ear, his hand caressing Crowley's—Jay's—chest. Whatever it was he said—and Aziraphale had a pretty good idea what it might be—it worked.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's…"

"Splendid." Aziraphale got to his feet and stepped closer, reaching out a hand for Jay to take. "It seems we have rather a head start in the clothes department; let's get the two of you caught up, shall we?"

"Depending on how we want to do this, we'll need some sort of lubrication," Aziraphale's doppelgänger pointed out as Crowley—Anthony—came up behind him and started to unzip his jumpsuit. "I'm not sure I—we—have anything suitable."

"Er. I maybe have some in my bag," Jay confessed. "Just…in case of emergencies."

"Oh?" Aziraphale found Anthony's eyes, though he didn't stop undressing Jay. "What sort of emergency were you envisaging?"

The flush on Anthony's cheeks was visible even through the layer of makeup. "Just. Y'know. In case." He hid his face in Angel's neck. "Been packing some for the last…nineteen years or so."

"Ah. Well." That was something to discuss later, Aziraphale decided, when the blood had stopped bubbling in his veins.

Any initial reluctance on Jay's part disappeared as soon as Aziraphale's hands found his skin; soon there were four yellow and black uniforms strewn across the room, four bodies on the hastily shoved together beds.

They spoke between kisses, hands never empty of somebody else's flesh, debating the merits of various positions as easily as they debated the merits of Into Darkness. It might have been hours or might have been seconds, time no longer seemed to have much meaning, but eventually Aziraphale found himself face down in the pillows, two thick fingers pressed inside him.

"This is how we like it," Angel lectured the two Crowleys, twisting his fingers expertly and making Aziraphale whine. It was an angle he could never have achieved on his own, the touch both familiar and strange, and he canted his hips in a wordless plea for more.

"Fuck." Crowley's voice, impossible to know if it was Anthony or Jay. More hands slid along his spine, another tugged at his hair. There was the wet sound of an enthusiastic kiss above him, a low groan, but Aziraphale couldn't tell if one of the Crowleys was kissing Angel, or if they were absorbed with each other.

A hand caressed his arse, and then a finger pushed in alongside Angel's, following his guidance to curl in against Aziraphale's prostate.

"Just like that," Angel purred, dragging his own fingers out. "Why don't you take over for me, darling? Anthony there is looking awfully lonely."

"My pleasure." The single long finger returned, quickly becoming two and then three as Jay found a rhythm.

Beside them, the mattress dipped and shifted as Angel and Anthony did whatever it was they were doing; Aziraphale turned his head to see, but could only catch a glimpse of Anthony's hair, hear his groans.

"You want to watch?" Jay's free hand skimmed up his side. "It's a good show. Come on, let's turn you over."

Aziraphale rolled onto his side, Jay immediately pressing up behind him, his cock a burning brand on Aziraphale's lower back, his mouth latching on to Aziraphale's shoulder, working a bruise into the skin as they both watched their counterparts.

Anthony was on his back, perpendicular to Aziraphale, knees bent almost to his chest, making little desperate sounds as Angel lay between his legs and licked greedily at his arsehole. Aziraphale's stomach clenched and a wave of heat rolled through him; jealousy and arousal warring for pride of place. But with whatever strange phenomenon had overtaken them, with Jay's hand curling around his cock, lust was a clear winner.

"Anthony."

Anthony's head tipped back, golden eyes half-lidded, and he reached up, across the mattress, for Aziraphale's hand, dragging it towards him to press a kiss onto the back of it. His lips were warm, soft, and Aziraphale squirmed closer so he could slide his fingers between them, letting Anthony suck greedily on them. Aziraphale groaned, hips rocking forwards into Jay's hand

"Yes." Jay worked him faster, ground into the crease of his arse. "You want him? I know he wants you. Wanted you for so fucking long… Fuck, Aziraphale, I wish we could just do this all night, but I don't think we'll last. Time to move this along, yeah?"

"Ah. Yes." Aziraphale withdrew his fingers, let them linger on Anthony's face. "Do you agree, my dear?"

Anthony squirmed on Angel's tongue, whimpering, but he reached again for Aziraphale and Aziraphale went, turning onto his hands and knees and crawling over until their mouths met. The angle was ridiculous, the kiss uncoordinated, but Anthony's hands fisted in his hair anyway, keeping him there until they were both breathless.

"Now, where were we?"

"Last I remember, that pretty mouth of yours was around my cock."

"How could I forget?" Aziraphale inched forward on all fours, working his way down Anthony's body with his mouth, pausing to suck a nipple into his mouth, to lick at the puddle of liquid leaking from Anthony's straining cock, forcing Anthony's legs apart to accommodate him. Anthony responded in kind, as much as he could, running his hands over Aziraphale's skin, rearing up to bite at his belly as it passed.

Up close now, Aziraphale had a spectacular view of Anthony's hole, twitching helplessly around Angel's tongue. His doppelgänger's eyes were closed in pleasure, and he was making satisfied little noises that sounded odd to Aziraphale's ears, being much more used to making them himself. Aziraphale knew himself—and, by extension, Angel—well enough to know that he'd get lost in this, would eat Anthony out until his tongue was sore, given half a chance. And he was half tempted to let him, to watch Anthony writhe and wail his way through it, might have done just that had Anthony not chosen that particular moment to take the head of Aziraphale's cock into his mouth.

"Oh God," Aziraphale gasped, barely restraining the urge to shove all the way into that wet warmth. Angel looked up at that, eyes crinkling with amusement, and after one last performative lick he pulled away, leaving Anthony trembling.

It wasn't like Aziraphale had ever thought about kissing himself. He was perfectly happy with how he looked, but he was far from his own type. And yet, he found himself kissing Angel without a single thought, licking the taste of Anthony's skin from his double's tongue, echoing those pleased little hums as Anthony relentlessly sucked down his cock.

"Ohfuckohfuckohfuck." Jay's voice was rough and breathless, accompanied by the wet sound of his hand flying over his cock.

Aziraphale broke the kiss. "You'd best…"

"Yes." Angel left a parting nip on Anthony's inner thigh, then moved away as Aziraphale bent his head.

Anthony's cock was a familiar weight in his mouth now, if slightly more awkward at this angle, and Aziraphale tongued at the head of it greedily, licking into the slit for more of the salt-sweet taste.

For a while, he lost track of the other two, occupied entirely with the push and pull of Anthony's mouth and cock, filling him and engulfing him, rough and dirty and perfect. Anthony's hands gripped his hips, encouraging him to fuck into his mouth in time with the bobbing of his own head between Anthony's legs.

Then another pair of hands, identical to the first, came to rest on his arse.

"Still want this?" Jay murmured, spreading him open, rubbing a thumb over his rim. Aziraphale couldn't reply, could only moan loudly around his mouthful of cock and press back against him, hoping Jay would take it as enthusiastic consent.

"He wants it." Helpful, really, to have somebody who knew exactly what you were thinking, to speak for you when you couldn't speak yourself. Angel's fingers trailed up Aziraphale's spine, making him shiver, his cock twitching in Anthony's mouth. "Fuck him, darling."

Jay needed no more encouragement, the blunt tip of his cock quickly replacing his thumb, pressing just enough to have Aziraphale desperate for more, wanting to push back and impale himself on it, but held in place by three pairs of hands. All he could do was take Anthony deeper into his throat and wait for Jay to move.

The breach, when it finally came, was nearly enough to have him collapsing on top of Anthony; only that delightful plethora of hands held him up. Jay worked his way in slowly, grunting with each sharp little thrust, while Angel muttered quiet encouragement.

Aziraphale sucked mindlessly on Anthony's cock, no longer able to focus on the quality of blowjob he knew he was capable of giving, overwhelmed by the dual sensations of Jay's cock and Anthony's mouth, the hands that gripped his arse and hips and rocked him between the two points of bliss.

"Open your eyes," his own voice ordered, and Aziraphale obeyed without a thought, just in time to watch as Angel hoisted Anthony's leg in the air and shoved into him. The view, the familiar shape of his own cock being swallowed greedily by Anthony's arse, was nearly enough to send Aziraphale over the edge. By some miracle, some devilry, he held on, unwilling to let this be over yet.

Everything turned into a blur of sensation, hot and wet and delicious. Jay fucking into him, grinding mercilessly against the sensitive spot inside him, pushing his cock into Anthony's throat with each stroke. Angel's hands in his hair, his counterpart's hips driving Anthony's cock into his own mouth, matching his rhythm to Jay's so that Aziraphale swayed between them.

He knew he was vocal during sex—he could hear Angel groaning and grunting and talking nonsense above him—but now he was moaning nearly constantly, whimpering around his thick mouthful, keening at a particularly well-aimed thrust. His throat ached from the strain of it, from the way Anthony's cock filled it again and again; his whole body ached from the need to come, his fingers clutching desperately at the bed sheets, his toes curling against Jay's knees.

When the end came, it did so as a chain reaction, violent and devastating. Aziraphale first, the simmering heat that had been building inside him for hours finally boiling over. Anthony followed almost immediately after him, swallowing down the rush of Aziraphale's spend as he pulsed hot into his mouth. Jay and Angel at what must have been the same time, caught in the clenching heat of Aziraphale and Anthony's bodies, still managing to keep Aziraphale on his knees as they all shuddered through the quakes.

Aziraphale had always been greedy; while Anthony let his cock slip from his mouth, while Jay and Angel carefully pulled out, Aziraphale licked Anthony's cock clean, letting it start to soften in his mouth before letting go.

"'Zir'ph'l…" Anthony's voice was hoarse, slurred. Well-fucked. Beautiful. "That was…a thing."

"Yes." Aziraphale's own voice was ruined, rasping painfully at his throat. He pressed his lips against the top of Anthony's thigh, another against his balls, making him whine. Hunger gnawed at him again, unsatisfied even now.

Aziraphale knew what it was he wanted, and he saw no reason he shouldn't have it. He rose to his knees and shuffled forwards, giving Anthony a little room to recover his breath. Angel must have read his intentions, because he shoved Anthony's knees up to his chest before Aziraphale bent back down.

"What're'you…oh fuck."

Aziraphale hummed in satisfaction as his tongue found its mark, licking up the droplets of Angel's spend, pushing into Anthony's loose and open hole. Not as deep as he'd like, like this, but enough to have Anthony turning the air blue and writhing under him.

Angel and Jay were kissing next to them, loud and enthusiastic, and against all odds Aziraphale could feel the heat building in him again, the blood already flowing back to his spent cock. With considerable effort, he sat back up, looking down to see Anthony's prick stiffening again too, Angel and Jay already rutting against each other.

"This is madness," he groaned, collapsing on the bed beside Anthony and immediately finding his mouth.

"Yeah," Anthony agreed, panting against his lips. "But we're going to do it anyway."

They carried on, finding a second climax together, a third, tumbling into sleep in a tangled pile with hands and mouths still occupied. In the rooms around them, couples and trios and other groups did the same; Anathema and Newt, Tracy, Shadwell and their companion, a red haired man in white and his leather-clad blonde companion, others who hadn't been spared a thought by the foursome in room 668.

Downstairs, in the convention hall, in the transporter room set, the dark-haired photographer packed away his camera, every movement echoing in the now empty hall. He laughed to himself, snapped his fingers, and disappeared in a flash of light.

The early morning light filtering through inadequate hotel curtains dragged Crowley from the depths of sleep. He tried to ignore it, turning his back to the window, letting the comfortable sound of Aziraphale's snores lull him back towards slumber.

It took a few minutes to register that there was only one person breathing beside him, when he'd fallen asleep to three, so tangled together he hardly knew where he started and somebody else began.

They'd all still been there, sometime in the middle of the night when he'd woken up to go for a piss and to take out his contact lenses. He'd stumbled back to the bed and instantly been enveloped in the warm mass of limbs.

He wasn't touching Aziraphale now, though by the sound of it they were still closer together than was necessary in the massive makeshift bed. Trying not to disturb his friend, Crowley carefully turned over and opened his eyes to look.

Aziraphale was on his back, still very, very naked. At some point in the night he must have pulled the covers over himself and then pushed them away again, as they were tangled around his legs, preserving absolutely none of his modesty. He was filthy, still; whatever madness had overtaken them hadn't freed them from its grip until exhaustion had claimed them, and some of the previous night's activities had been…messy. Not to mention the shimmer of metallic makeup that had started the day on Crowley's face and ended it between Aziraphale's thighs, over his chest, across his cheeks.

The heat that rose in Crowley had nothing to do with yesterday's insanity, and he shoved it down guiltily, dragging his eyes back up to Aziraphale's face and away from the thick cock that lay limply against a thigh with the imprint of Crowley's teeth. Not that Aziraphale's face was much safer, as far as Crowley's own cock was concerned; there were still traces of smeared lipstick around his mouth, his eye makeup forming rings around his eyes, a bruise on his jaw that Crowley vividly recalled leaving.

He must have made a noise, failed to choke back a groan, because the snoring stopped and Aziraphale began to stir. He reached out to either side, his brow furrowing sleepily when his hands came up empty.

"It's just the two of us, angel." The need to touch him was almost overwhelming, but Crowley held back. "I think it's over."

"Ah." Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open and immediately sought him out, crinkling into a sleepy smile. "Good morning, my dear. Do you…"

"Remember it all? Yeah." The memories of the night before were confusing, but some of them were from two perspectives at once; whatever had happened to their doppelgängers' bodies, they weren't lost completely. "Look, Aziraphale, about yesterday. We can just…pretend it didn't happen, yeah? We were drugged, or something, obviously."

Aziraphale blinked at him for a moment. "Are you saying that because you regret it? Or because you think that I might?"

"I…" Crowley stopped, suddenly realising that any answer he gave would be wrong. People didn't look at you like that the morning after if they regretted it. "You're my best friend. I don't want this to ruin that."

"It won't." Aziraphale spread his hand out on the mattress between them, palm up. "If we don't want it to."

Crowley didn't hesitate; his hand found Aziraphale's, their fingers curling tightly around each other.

"So, we're doing this? Us? Being a couple?"

"Just the two of us, yes. Not that last night wasn't delightful, but it's hardly practical for everyday."

Crowley snorted. "Last night was nuts. A transporter malfunction, from a cardboard background? What the fuck?"

"I expect we'll never know." Aziraphale rolled over to face him, hooking an ankle over Crowley's leg. "Hello."

"Hi." The sappy smile refused to leave Crowley's face. "So, d'you think Deanna ever took advantage of having two Rikers around?"

"You're absurd." Aziraphale pulled him closer and kissed him, slow and sweet. "And I'm disgusting. I think a shower is in order, before we meet the others for breakfast."

Crowley's lingering look this time was free of guilt, if not from lust. "Probably. I'll let you get on with it."

"And if I need some assistance?"

"Ngk."

The hotel shower was a tight fit for two grown men, but they were willing to be friendly. More than. Crowley let his hands roam under the flimsy pretence of soaping Aziraphale up, washing away the traces of the night before more incidentally than intentionally. Aziraphale's thick fingers massaged the last traces of gel from Crowley's hair and turned his spine to jelly, leaving him helpless—and unwilling—to resist when Aziraphale pushed him back against the cold tile wall and kissed him hungrily.

All thoughts of cleanliness fled, along with thoughts of breakfast, their friends, or anything else that wasn't Aziraphale's hand, knuckles brushing against Crowley's belly as it wrapped around both of them at once, stroked them slowly but surely. The kiss dissolved into pants and moans pressed against each others' mouths as each pass of Aziraphale's hand drove them towards their climax.

Compared to the debauchery of the night before, a handjob in the shower should have seemed mundane, but instead it felt like…exploring a strange new world. One that they'd traverse together.