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1390
The first time the order came through, Crowley read the missive four times in increasingly embarrassed horror. Then he pushed it up his sleeve and stomped out of his lodgings.
He usually enjoyed the smells and sights of the City of London with a strange sort of pride. They’d almost made their own Hell, but then they’d made it much more interesting. Sweaty and dirty and disease-ridden, but bustling with things and people. One could buy mysterious meat from a cart on one corner, only to be kicked and robbed of it by a child of indeterminate age on the next. Hell had bad smells and dirt and torture, but with every demon built from the same stock, working towards the same goals, it all started to blur together. London, meanwhile, had a beautiful palace or church or garden for every single one of its disgusting, downtrodden hovels. No one could really appreciate how truly depressing a hovel was, until it was compared to a gold-filled church, replete with priests proselytising humility.
Today, however, Crowley did not pause for mysterious meat, and anyone who caught sight of a slim man wearing an expensive tunic, walking without protection, and thought him an easy target, suddenly found themselves with errands to run across the city. Crowley instead kept his head down, unnoticed, because the alternative was looking at the people. Every time he did that, he could feel the paper in his sleeve almost burning against his skin.
Eventually he made his way to a door that didn’t really exist, and through that, down some stairs that weren’t entirely there. The transition from London to Hell was seamless: no fancy portals or burning of the skin. Just a descent. Crowley always knew the exact moment he crossed from one to the other, however, because going Down, the smell improved. Sulphur masked shit, after all. He wondered if he ought to mention that to someone, because it didn’t exactly reflect well on Hell’s Interior Design Department that London had them beat.
That was not the purpose of this visit, however. He went down, sauntering past the souls of the damned queueing at the understaffed reception desks - noting the appearance of one bishop he recognised with a certain sense of satisfaction, not that the man had needed any help in damning himself - and into the back offices.
There, he found Hastur and Ligur and held out his orders to them.
‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘I like a good joke, me. But what are my actual orders?’
Hastur and Ligur leered at him. It wasn’t personal, it was just how they looked, but with these orders in his hand, Crowley suddenly wanted to shower. He was definitely being laughed at. He hoped.
‘Are you questioning your instructions?’ asked Hastur.
Crowley swallowed. ‘Not so much… questioning as… asking questions,’ he babbled, hoping nobody questioned that logic. ‘Look, I just don’t see how this sort of thing helps secure souls. It’s not a sin. They just think it is.’
‘Exactly,’ said Hastur.
‘If they think it’s a sin, they’ll be filled with guilt,’ said Ligur.
‘And if they’re filled with guilt, they’ll be closer to us.’ Both grinned at him.
‘Right,’ said Crowley. ‘Great. Good logic. Can’t I just, you know, tempt them to do it with each other? It’s all a bit… personal if it’s me. And wet.’
‘If you think that will do as good a job as a personal temptation,’ said Hastur. ‘If you think you can bring their guilt to the surface in the same way. If you’re confident you will get as many souls.’
‘After all,’ said Ligur, ‘you wouldn’t want to risk Our Master’s plan over a bit of squeamishness, would you?’
‘Yes, right, plan,’ said Crowley, heart sinking. ‘Of course. I’ll just go back up there and… get on with things, then. Nice seeing you. As always.’
They watched him go with matching not-really-smiles.
~*~
Four hours later, Crowley was in a favourite tavern of his, drinking with grim determination. He couldn’t help but people watch as he did, and was feeling all the more embarrassed for it. He watched as the man two tables over flirted with the woman bringing drinks, and she laughed and batted her eyes and leaned into say something to him. He watched the young lad exaggerating a recent experience. He watched the married couple argue and the young lovers court.
Nothing could make him imagine himself into any of those groups.
He was, he’d always thought, decent at his job. Sure, in the early days there’d been the odd misstep. (He hadn’t meant that thing with Cain to go as far as it did.) But now, nearly five and a half thousand years later, he understood people. And what he understood about people was that they tempted themselves most of the time. They just needed a little nudge. A nudge to make them angry, or to make them afraid, or guilty, or envious, or proud. And if a demon was really, properly creative, they could nudge many people at once. That was where the true art of it came in. Sometimes all the nudges in the world didn’t make a difference. An angry, afraid man could still do good deeds. That was free will. That was ineffability. That was what made it interesting. And knowing that was what made him good at temptation.
Lust was not his thing. Or at least, it never had been.
But now they wanted him to corrupt people. Biologically.
He supposed realistically speaking it wasn’t any different to the rest of them. Just a bit of tempting. He could pick someone, make them see him as whatever shape their wildest desires took, get it over with, induce some guilt, and be back here drinking and writing up his report, all in about fifteen minutes. It might take a bit longer if he committed to finding a priest or someone Hell would be impressed by, but the deed itself didn’t have to be dragged out.
But he didn’t want to do it. Oh, he knew that it was meant to be fun. It would have to be, or else no one would bother. And it wasn’t as if his body didn’t come with standard issue genitalia. It was just that he left them switched off. If Hell was going to expect this sort of temptation from him, that would have to change.
He gritted his teeth, then snapped his fingers and peered down between his legs. He hadn’t felt anything change. But maybe one didn’t, sitting drinking in a tavern. Maybe one had to find a willing partner first. He prodded his crotch with one figure but all he felt was uncomfortable. Looking up, he saw one of the men on the table next to his giving him a strange look for some reason and he invented an entirely new gesture to express his feelings about that. Then he took another mouthful of his ale to wash away the taste of the whole thing and scowled down at the orders from Hell. Under his glare, the paper wilted.
This, Crowley was certain, was all Aziraphale’s fault.
He was always banging on about love and joy and togetherness and marriage. He’d encourage the humans to romance each other. He’d smooth over arguments and remind them of love. And every so often, due to the Arrangement, Crowley had picked up some of those pleasant little miracles. This meant that Crowley now had what he knew to be Unrealistic Expectations About Sex. At least, he had Unrealistic Expectations About Sex for a demon who was going to have to do it to corrupt people. He considered going to find the angel to shout at him for making it sound wholesome and wonderful rather than sordid and dirty. That wouldn’t work, though, because Aziraphale would then argue back that it was wholesome and wonderful, and since Aziraphale had had sex and Crowley hadn’t, it was extremely hard to win those arguments.
(Aziraphale hadn’t wasted any time at all, if Crowley’s memory served him correctly. He’d had human friends from very early on. It had taken Crowley a couple of millennia to connect the dots between those “friends” and the angels general hedonism and realise what had been going on under his nose the whole time.)
(Why he’d asked once, when they were very, very drunk.)
(Don’t you? Aziraphale had asked, genuinely confused.)
(Crowley had struggled with that question for a number of years and had come back with a lot of answers as to why he didn’t. He was a demon, so humans didn’t like him. Slapping bits together seemed unpleasant. He had other hobbies. He didn’t really fancy anyone. All of these reasons, except the last one, were very true. Unfortunately, the lie told as part of the last one was a big one, and not something he could explain to Aziraphale for the obvious reasons.)
When it came down to it, if Crowley was going to have to have sex, he didn’t want the kind of sex that demons talked about - creeping into human’s minds and manipulating reality. He wanted the kind of sex Aziraphale talked about - all fun and loving for everyone involved. Or at very minimum, because Crowley was realistic about his chances of having a heavenly experience: he only wanted to have sex with someone who actually wanted to have sex with him, not someone who’d been persuaded by the sorts of means demons had available to them.
And at that Crowley shook himself. He was a tempter. It was what he did. He’d got the humans kicked out of Eden over an apple, for Satan’s sake. He could definitely find one of them who’d be willing to get on with it without magic or drugs being involved.
The serving woman appeared with more drinks and Crowley did his best to smile at her.
‘Er,’ he said. She stared at him. ‘Come here… often?’
A confused, yet frosty stare was the only reply.
‘I like… your hair,’ he tried.
‘Thank you, I’m sure, sir,’ she said, stiffly polite.
Crowley sighed and resumed sulking into his ale.
Then, all of a sudden, the tavern brightened. A fight that had been brewing in the corner dissipated into drunken song. The courting couple spontaneously kissed. The dirty corners were somehow less dirty. A rat which had been about to shit in someone’s food scurried away, although Crowley had to concede that last one might just be a coincidence.
He gestured for another drink as Aziraphale joined him. This time his smile felt more natural on his face.
Aziraphale, however, regarded him with some concern. ‘What nefarious things are you doing here?’ he demanded.
Crowley pointed to the tankard. ‘Drinking.’
‘Yes, but-’ Here Aziraphale frowned delicately. ‘This whole area is… is… emanating.’
‘It’s what?’
‘It’s emanating! It’s dark and angry for a hundred feet in all directions. Are you all right?’
‘Oh,’ said Crowley. He hadn’t been doing that on purpose. Or at least, he hadn’t been doing it consciously. He probably had been doing it on purpose. ‘I suppose I wanted to be left alone,’ he said. At least it explained the serving woman’s reaction.
‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, suddenly stiff. ‘Well then I’d best be getting-’
‘Not by you, angel! Sit down, please. Just got a job that I don’t much fancy. Have a drink with me, will you? Thwart my wiles. While you’re here, I can’t be wiling, can I?’
Aziraphale looked rather pleased in a way that made Crowley’s insides twist up, and as he accepted the tankard, their hands brushed. Something happened in the newly activated part of Crowley’s body and he jumped out of his skin.
‘When you put it like that,’ said Aziraphale contently, who hadn’t noticed Crowley’s surprise.
‘Exactly,’ said Crowley.
So that’s what that’s like, said his brain.
He decided maybe he’d keep his parts active for a bit, perhaps. Figure out how they worked. It would be useful. For business reasons.
~*~
Later, Crowley would write a report about his attempted seduction of sweet and innocent bar wench that was thwarted at the last moment by the Heavenly Host.
~*~
1581
Now Downstairs had realised that humans were a bit weird about sex, the seduction orders continued.
Crowley had not, however, spent millennia half-arsing and lying-about-how-much-he-was-half-arsing his job for nothing. Just because he didn’t really know how to go about having sex with a human, it didn’t mean he wasn’t a thoroughly effective demon full advancing the causes of Hell. Or at least, it didn’t mean that Hell didn’t think he wasn’t, which was much the same thing. The Spanish Inquisition had brought him years of peace, even if all the reports he wrote about it had to be done drunk to keep him from thinking too hard about it.
Still, eventually the peace had to end.
‘I don’t see how you can possibly have failed again,’ said Hastur one day, after a friendly Sheikh went entirely un-seduced. Crowley’s report discussed the man’s unfortunately beautiful wife and religious piety. Crowley’s report did not mention that Crowley hadn’t even bothered to leave the country to observe either.
‘Well, you know, humans are tricky like that,’ said Crowley.
‘Well I managed it just fine.’
‘You… what?’
‘If you cannot do simple temptations, we might decide you’re better suited to working at a desk, after all.’
‘... Right.’
It was time for desperate measures.
~*~
When Aziraphale opened the door of his lodgings, Crowley thrust the bottles he’d brought with him under Aziraphale’s nose.
‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Aziraphale inspected the bottles suspiciously. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, standing back to let Crowley enter.
Crowley had by this point exhausted every other option. Not that he had any other options. He’d just exhausted trying to think up some other options. There was just something supremely humiliating about begging an angel for help doing demonic work.
Possibly the only thing more humiliatingly awful than that, was begging an angel that he actually thought he might want to have sex with and was absolutely definitely in love with, for advice on how to seduce random humans to help damn their souls for an eternity. He did not have high hopes for this conversation.
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Aziraphale, in that blessedly benevolent way of his.
‘Shall we have a drink?’ suggested Crowley.
‘Crowley,’ replied Aziraphale, frowning.
‘All right, fine, I warned you. I need you to tell me how to find a human willing to have sex with me, and then how to persuade them to actually do it in the least unpleasant way possible for everyone involved. If I don’t manage at least one seduction, I’m going to get recalled back Down There.’
Aziraphale stared at him for a moment. ‘I think…’ he said delicately, ‘that we should have that drink.’
Crowey nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said.
They had finished three of Crowley’s bottles before Crowley felt sufficiently relaxed to fully explain the situation.
‘And you want… my help?’ said Aziraphale.
‘I have no idea what to do!’
‘Yes, but I’m an angel! We’re enemies! I can’t in good conscience help you with something like this.’
‘You can, just a little bit,’ said Crowley, who had expected and prepared for this bit. Aziraphale pretending they didn’t work together was done for the sake of his own “good conscience” and was practically part of the Arrangement. He topped up Aziraphale’s glass. ‘If I get pulled back to Hell they’ll replace me. If they replace me with someone like Hastur, then there won’t be any more of this-’ He gestured to the bottle, which was the best stuff he’d been able to get hold of. ‘There’ll be an enemy who’s coming for you with Hellfire and Damnation. An enemy who’s actually performing all those seductions I’ve been lying about. You won’t just have to start doing all of your job again, but you’ll have to start putting in overtime.’
Aziraphale pouted at him, clearly already completely persuaded but pretending not to be. ‘I just don’t see how I can help,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly not an expert. I know you think I am, but I really indulge only occasionally.’
‘You have sex all the time!’ argued Crowley.
‘But it’s not seduction,’ said Aziraphale. Then, belatedly, ‘And it’s not “all the time”.’
‘It’s more than me,’ muttered Crowley grimly. ‘Come on, angel. Help me out. How do you persuade someone to have sex with you?’
‘Well it’s just-’ Aziraphale wrung his hands. ‘I’ve never really considered it difficult, you see. Sometimes you meet someone who you get along with rather well, and it comes rather naturally.’
‘Natural for you,’ snapped Crowley miserably. ‘I should have known it’s just that everyone wants to have sex with you. Nobody wants to have sex with me.’ He realised what he’d said as soon as he finished speaking and snapped his mouth shut in horror.
‘Er,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I’ll get another bottle, shall I?’
Crowley was by that point inspecting the dregs in his glass rather intently. He was pretty certain his entire face was going to burn off, or possibly he was going to melt through the floorboards in sheer excruciation. Or both.
He held out his glass without looking at Aziraphale when the angel returned, and downed that and another two before he spoke again.
‘Look, where do you even start?’ he said.
Aziraphale sighed. ‘Honestly, I don’t set out to do it. It’s just a conversation with someone new. I might ask them if they’ve read anything good lately, or seen any nice theatre. Then if we like each other, we might end up friends. And then sometimes we… well. You know. That. And sometimes we don’t.’
‘Huh,’ muttered Crowley. He was now wondering what specifically was lacking about his own conversation that he and Aziraphale had never, you know, That.
He couldn’t ask, because there were only two possible answers. One: Aziraphale didn’t want to have sex with him. Two, more devastating: Aziraphale did, or might want to, but wasn’t going to, because Crowley was a demon.
‘Your lot have got it wrong, though, you know,’ said Aziraphale softly. ‘Sex doesn’t lead to guilt or damnation, not automatically. It can be rather lovely.’
‘Yes, well, I’m meant to induce the guilt as part of the deed,’ said Crowley.
Aziraphale sighed, rather sadly Crowley thought. ‘No wonder you don’t really like the sound of it,’ he said.
Crowley scowled, since Aziraphale was doing quite well at Inducing Guilt on his own accord and he really didn’t need it. ‘I like it just fine! I’m a demon. It’s what I do. It’s all part of the job. Seduce someone in an alley and make them hate themselves. I can’t think of anything better.’
‘Look,’ said Aziraphale. ‘What do you want me to do? I don’t have some magic words I use, Crowley. That’s not how humans are and you know it. They have free will. If someone likes you well enough, they’ll often be willing. How can I help you, really now?’
‘Well,’ said Crowley. He thought about it. ‘I know how to hold a conversation. How do you, you know, make it beyond that? You must have some advice!’
‘Ah, of course,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I suppose that bit isn’t immediately obvious, if one doesn’t have experience. Well, I suppose I - or they - might move closer-’ He suited this action by doing exactly that, seating next to Crowley rather than across from him. ‘And perhaps then I’d lean in,’ he added. ‘If I thought they seemed receptive.’ Crowley, whose throat had suddenly tightened, had leaned in before Aziraphale spoken again, not even consciously thinking. ‘Yes, exactly like that!’ Aziraphale agreed, beaming at Crowley from scant inches away.
‘I’m a natural, apparently,’ mumbled Crowley. This was the most torture he’d ever had to sit through in his incredibly long and incredibly torture-filled life. He wanted to live here.
‘Well, perhaps next you might take their hand-’
Crowley took Aziraphale’s. He was, after all, a demon, and a drunk one at that. He ran his fingers over Aziraphale’s knuckles lightly. He thought he could probably sit like this forever.
‘Oh, um, yes,’ agreed Aziraphale. His voice had just the tiniest hint of a shake in it. ‘But do be careful if you’re in public. This is where you have to remember what gender you’re wearing, or some people get tremendously angry about it.’
‘But suppose I was in private?’ said Crowley, feeling clever with himself.
‘Well, I suppose usually at this point I’d say something rather nice and then make my interest very clear. I’d rather not assume, after all.’
‘You mean like…’ He cast about for some words and immediately failed to think of anything beyond the ordinary. ‘Aziraphale, you look beautiful, do you want to go to bed with me?’
‘Um. Yes, that might work,’ said Aziraphale. He was blushing, and it was the best thing Crowley had ever seen. But then he appeared to shake himself, and returned to the conversation with a business-like briskness. ‘Sometimes the straight forward approach is the best. However, it might be safer to ask for a kiss, rather than straight to bed. And some people appreciate a little more romance, either in the asking, or in how you spend time with them before it comes down to, um, the deed itself. Although I suppose for a Hell-ordered seduction the romance probably isn’t a top priority.’
‘Do you like a little more romance?’ asked Crowley. He succeeded in shocking the blush back onto Aziraphale’s cheeks and was extremely happy to see it.
Aziraphale, however, seemed to finally realise Crowley was still holding his hand, and he pulled away. ‘Everyone likes romance,’ he insisted feebly. ‘I’ll lend you some poetry books.’
‘Thanks, Aziraphale,’ said Crowley, and he did mean it. He didn’t want to be demoted back to a desk in Hell. He made use of Aziraphale stepping away to stare down at his hand, still almost tingling from the prolonged contact.
‘I just-’ began Aziraphale, then he broke off.
‘What?’ Aziraphale made to shake his head. ‘Angel?’
‘I just- I wish you didn’t have to make it all so sordid,’ he said. ‘It should be rather joyful, really.’
Rubbing his fingers together, pretending he was still holding Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley found it hard to argue with that.
~*~
Later, in an inn, when Crowley had managed to engage a gentleman with rather pretty blue eyes in a pleasant conversation about St James’ Palace and the nearby park, set to soon host a pageant for the Queen that summer, he was feeling rather smugly that maybe there was hope for him yet. He was just settling himself in for suggesting they go have a nightcap in his rooms - vaguely remembering the whole gender thing - and he thought his new friend might actually agree with him. But then as he leaned forward, faking an interest he didn’t quite feel, suddenly all he could see was Aziraphale’s sad expression talking about joy, and he had to excuse himself.
He left the inn, irritated with himself and with Aziraphale, slipped a lady of negotiable affection a few coins to promise to tell anyone who asked that she’d had sex with a yellow-eyed man and she felt very bad about it, and went home to write a report on the subject.
~*~
1593
This time the orders were specific.
The King of Scotland, and likely future King of England, must be tempted. While Downstairs wouldn’t absolutely insist on sex, they had strongly implied he ought to try. Especially since these days he was rather good at it, at least according to his memos.
Crowley secured his way into the King’s chambers the easy way. He was, as far as everyone guarding the chambers was concerned, someone important’s cousin or something, and he had a very impressive title that he’d already half forgotten. He idly inspected the luxury of the chambers he’d been let into - gold and pewter cups, tapestries as wall hangings, thick rugs on the floor. It was a bit too fussy for his style, but the gulf between this and the single-roomed dwellings of many of the families of Scotland reminded him that no matter what he did, he could never beat humans at their own game.
Still. He had a temptation to carry out. Or a seduction. Or something.
‘Go and see who it is, Ezra!’ called a voice from the inner chambers.
Crowley was not about to be put off by another lackey. He was about to call out something very clever and interesting - so clever and interesting that he hadn’t even thought it up yet - when Aziraphale appeared at the door, wearing a light blue silk dressing gown over not very much else at all. Crowley could see his skin.
Not that he hadn’t seen it before - public bathing houses went in and out of fashion, after all - but it had been a while. The last time it had happened he hadn’t had genitalia that was functional. Now they were, and they had opinions about Aziraphale in a dressing gown. Opinions Crowley had to do his damndest to ignore.
Aziraphale turned a rather violent shade of puce.
‘Wh-’ Crowley gestured with his hands. Then, to give himself the space he needed, he snapped his fingers to stop time for everyone except himself and Aziraphale. ‘WHAT?’ he yelled. He was angry to be thwarted so obviously, he told himself. There was no other reason.
‘Hello,’ said Aziraphale weakly. ‘How nice to see you.’ Crowley just waved his hands angrily. ‘That’s really a rather lovely dress.’
Crowley’s anger immediately faded to something else altogether. ‘Well. I. Fancied a change.’
Aziraphale smiled in that way he did that was so intolerably genuine. ‘It looks extremely nice with your hair. Very dramatic. I’m sure that’s what you were aiming for, of course.’
‘Well if you’re here with His Majesty, apparently I’d have been better off switching to men’s clothes,’ said Crowley. He looked at the floor in despair. ‘How was this not in the briefing document?’ he hissed. ‘I know you don’t know what gender is but come on, a little bit of research!’
‘I don’t think His Majesty’s entirely closed to the possibility of women, if it helps,’ said Aziraphale, in a tone that suggested he was trying to be encouraging.
Crowley looked up, not very encouraged. ‘What are you doing up here, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Other than the obvious.’
‘I came up to speak to the Bishop of Edinburgh for a blessing,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I met His Majesty quite by chance and we had a nice conversation about the Bible. And, well, he invited me to stay for a bit.’
‘And suddenly you’re in his bedroom, in your undies, thinking “gosh how did this happen”?’ demanded Crowley.
Aziraphale gave him a look. ‘I know exactly how this happened,’ he said.
‘Hang on,’ said Crowley, remembering something. ‘Hang on. Isn’t he married? You can’t go sleeping with married people! You’re an angel! That’s one of the big ones. You’ve tempted him into sinning! You’ve-’ Crowley broke off, as a horrified realisation hit him. ‘You’ve done my job. Better than me. I didn’t even ask.’
‘I have not!’ Aziraphale insisted. ‘There’s no sinning involved!’
‘Come on, angel, sex might be fine but adultery is something else. How can you possibly say this isn’t a sin?’
Aziraphale glanced behind him as though hoping someone would appear and rescue him, but Crowley definitely wasn’t resuming time yet. ‘Her Majesty is also. Well, she’s a very nice lady. It’s not really adultery if all parties are happy with the arrangement.’
Crowley’s jaw dropped. Then he strode over to the door through which Aziraphale had walked. There, in a large, four-poster bed, lay a naked woman - heavily pregnant of all things - sleeping. Mid way through getting out of the bed was a man in a similar state of undress.
Next to him, Aziraphale had gone that red colour again. The pinkness went all the way down his neck and onto his chest and Crowley followed it with his eyes. Sparse white-blond hair emerged from the blue silk. He shouldn’t be staring. He shouldn’t be looking at all. Fortunately he was wearing dark glasses. Unfortunately he’d gone very still and forgotten to breathe or speak.
‘Look,’ said Aziraphale, interrupting his thoughts, ‘what temptation are you meant to be performing?’
Crowley gritted his teeth. ‘Does it really matter at this point?’
‘Well, if you’re still in trouble with Downstairs, I can- that is to say-’ He broke off. He wasn’t looking at Crowley now. ‘I’m already here, after all.’
Crowley’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline and his heart gave a huge leap. ‘You’re willing to-?’ His voice came out far, far, far more embarrassingly softly than he’d intended.
‘Nothing big! He’s a nice young man. Mostly.’
‘He’s not. He’s a king. None of them are nice.’
‘All right, fine. He’s a nice conversationalist. And this is a very pleasant castle with a good cook.’
Crowley’s lip twitched and Aziraphale gave him a repressive look. ‘I don’t really have a specific temptation to carry out,’ admitted Crowley at last. ‘It was just an order to get in here and work some evil influence.’
Aziraphale pursed his lips. ‘Oh! I know! He’s got this thing about witches! Your side likes witch trials. My side likes witch trials. I’ll prod him in that direction and everyone’s happy.’
‘Oh. Well. Yeah, that’ll do,’ said Crowley. He frowned thoughtfully. He could probably even write that he’d seduced the King and Queen at the same time to make it happen.
‘I’m not going to make anyone feel guilty for this, though,’ said Aziraphale, gesturing vaguely to the royal bedchamber behind him, brows furrowing as though he could read Crowley’s thoughts.
Crowley, who had immediately decided he’d rather get sent for an eternity of torture in the deepest, darkest pit than admit to Aziraphale he was planning to pinch the other’s romantic escapades as his own seductions, affected innocence. ‘Absolutely no need,’ he said. ‘Everyone loves witch trials, like you said.’
‘Hmm,’ said Aziraphale, who, like Crowley, didn’t actually much care for witch trials at all.
‘So. I’ll be off then,’ said Crowley awkwardly.
‘Yes, probably a good idea,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Are you staying in the city? I’ll pop in when I’m done and let you know what to put in your report.’
~*~
Years later, when Daemonologie, In Forme of a Dialogue, Divided into three Books: By the High and Mighty Prince, James was published, the sheer number of inaccuracies meant Crowley was able to write a follow up report claiming even more credit for his work.
~*~
Years after that, Aziraphale took credit for the King James Bible and Crowley marvelled again at just what the angel had managed to achieve in a few days. Maybe Downstairs was right about sex being a useful tool, after all.
~*~
1966
The wonderful thing about “seducing” the King and Queen of Scotland, was that it gave Crowley enough acclaim with Hell that his excuses for failing to seduce anyone else were accepted, until, to his relief, seduction fell out of fashion a few centuries later. Oh, there was still the standing order to corrupt by any means necessary, but he was no longer so specifically directed to have sex. His prodigious talents lay elsewhere, so he used them, and everyone was as happy as demonic beings cursed to a lifetime of bureaucracy and torment could be.
So the centuries passed, and with every year, things with Aziraphale got just a little bit more complicated, a little bit more wanting.
The latter half of the twentieth century was proving to be Crowley’s favourite time period in a very long time. Everything was colourful. Everyone was asking questions. Cars existed. Aziraphale was talking to him again. Admittedly the Holy Water question hung unanswered between them, but it was a huge improvement on not talking to him.
He was enjoying the clothes, too, and the loosening of social mores and expectations. He’d been to a CND march for reasons he did his best not to think too hard about. He’d tried LSD. He went to concerts whenever he could because this new music found its way inside of him in a way nothing before ever had. He told Downstairs it was a win for Hell because everyone was sinning more. Aziraphale told Upstairs it was a win for Heaven because everyone was loving more. They told each other it was a win for humanity because of both of those things, and that was probably the closest to the truth.
Still, some things never changed. He was getting a drink at a bar after seeing The Velvet Underground in New York and he’d attracted Attention, of the sort that for a human could be dangerous. For him was irritating. That was the problem with not really committing strongly to masculine fashion. It tended to mark one out.
The small gang of men loomed and threatened, and escalated from talking about him to talking to him. Crowley was just readying himself to send them somewhere undecided and unpleasant - the middle of the Hudson River, maybe - when a woman intervened.
‘Leave him alone! He’s done nothing to you!’
The men laughed, and one of them reached for her.
Sighing irritably, Crowley shoved her behind him and reached into each of the men to give them a glimpse of himself as he could be. Huge and scaley and dark and lurking, bearing down on them with anger, a thing that nightmares were made from.
One of them fainted. The others fled, one with a darkening stain on his jeans.
Crowley grinned after them without much humour, then turned to the woman who’d attempted to rescue him, ready to muddy her memory if needed. He was actually rather charmed. She could never have held her own, but still she’d stepped in. Very human of her. He might tell Aziraphale later, just to see his eyes light up about the Goodness In Humanity. Crowley truly lived for few things other than Aziraphale’s brightness.
He was expecting confusion from the human, and he got a bit of that, but she also exuded awe.
‘You’re one of them,’ she said, in a breathy voice.
Shit.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ he said cheerfully, but he didn’t think there was much point. Some humans were just a little bit psychic. They didn’t usually know it about themselves, until they got too close to something powerful, and then the truth itself burst through. Crowley was powerful, under his skin, and Being Seen unprepared was always off-putting. At least he could still erase her memory if he had to, but he’d have to be a bit more careful.
Then she reached up and touched his face and he froze on the spot.
‘What… are you doing?’
‘You are!’ she said. ‘You’re a demon.’
‘Surely that’s a reason to do what they did, rather than… this?’
She was practically caressing his cheek and she was definitely fluttering her eyelashes.
On the one hand, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but on the other hand it was fucking weird. This definitely wasn’t a reaction he’d ever received before. Usually there was more screaming.
‘Er,’ he said.
‘We serve the same master,’ she told him, pulling down her shirt to show him that she had an inverted pentagram tattoo.
‘Ah,’ he said, feeling like he was on slightly more familiar ground, even if the way she was leaning closer to him was confusing. ‘Satanism, right? Not very Satanic, is it? Rescuing queer looking blokes from being beaten up in bars.’
‘Must be fate that drew me to you,’ she said.
‘Right,’ he said weakly. It definitely wasn’t that. It was possibly those psychic powers of hers. Usually psychics drifted very much away from demons and other occult beings, and towards the angelic and the ethereal. It wasn’t impossible that a truly committed Satanist (or a truly weird one) would drift in the opposite direction.
So much for the Goodness In Humanity.
‘Should we get a drink?’ she asked.
Crowley hesitated. On the one hand, Satanists were embarrassing and weird at the very best of times, and he should get away before everything got awkward. On the other hand, Hastur had managed to spend some quality time with humans nearly six hundred years ago, and that rankled.
And it wasn’t as if Aziraphale was interested.
Maybe it couldn’t hurt to get a drink.
~*~
Later, he was drunk, and somehow in a bedroom of a tiny, grubby flat covered in posters of Baphomet and an inverted cross on one wall.It was tingling in the corner of his mind and giving him a very slight headache, meaning it had been properly blessed at one point before she’d acquired it and hung it upside down. This was one of the reasons, he vaguely remembered, that he avoided Satanists. There were many of them.
Still, this woman - Lou-something… Louise, maybe? - had made her intentions even more obvious as they’d had a few drinks. She seemed to like him because he was a demon, not in spite of it, and right now that felt like it was worth something. Nobody else had ever felt like that, especially not angelic book shop owners who he was definitely not thinking about at all.
‘So, er, nice pictures,’ he said.
Lou lunged at him.
So this is kissing, he thought faintly to himself a few moments later. It was wet. And squishy. After nearly six thousand years of wondering, he was, well, underwhelmed. He was definitely going to have some questions for Aziraphale when this was over.
She seemed to be enjoying herself though. He patted her shoulders vaguely, for lack of anything better to do with his hands. She put her hands in his hair, which was fine, he supposed.
Then she started to sort of bite him which was, at least, less wet than the previous.
Then she pulled back. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said.
‘Right,’ he said. He ran a hand through his hair to tidy it, wondering if this was actually happening or if he was hallucinating. He didn’t think he’d taken any drugs. If it was actually happening, then he was probably going to need to apply one or two small miracles to the region between his legs, because so far it wasn’t responding at all. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the still-a-real cross on the wall.
Lou reappeared. She was holding something behind her back as she approached Crowley. A lifetime of instincts flared up and he spread an awareness out through the room urgently, but whatever she was holding wasn’t holy.
Then she was in front of him and brandishing a knife in one hand.
‘Er,’ said Crowley.
‘Before we begin, we should say a prayer to our Dark Master,’ she said. ‘We can mingle our blood, demonic and human, on my Unholy Altar!’ she announced triumphantly. ‘And while we fuck we’ll scream his name!’
The knife glinted.
‘Ah,’ said Crowley. He suddenly felt very cold, and very alone.
He considered his options.
Option one was, of course, to go through with it. If he went with this option, they would have to have a very definite conversation about not screaming Satan’s name during the deed. Not that Satan would particularly care, but Crowley did. He felt quite strongly that his ex-friend and current boss’s boss’s boss should not be personally invoked when he lost his virginity. Especially since if anyone Downstairs found out about this, he’d never live it down.
Option two was to politely tell Lou that he’d never done this before and perhaps they could leave the Unholy Altar out of things for now and do something a bit more, well, traditional for his first time.
Both of those options somehow seemed even more mortifying than option three, which was to panic, snap his fingers, and immediately transport himself from a bedsit in New York to a book shop in Soho and raid the wine cellar.
When Aziraphale came downstairs, half an hour later, Crowley was half way through his second bottle from the cellar, which was actually something like his sixth bottle of the night.
‘Really, Crowley,’ said Aziraphale. ‘It’s half past six in the morning.’
‘Angel,’ slurred Crowley. ‘I have. Worked. It out. It’s because humans are… fucked up. FUCKED UP.’ He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. ‘How do you-? Why do you-?’
‘Maybe you should sober up.’
‘’S’only one AM in New York,’ said Crowley.
Aziraphale frowned. ‘Oh yes. How was your concert?’
‘Fine. Good. Singing’s fun.’ He smiled up at the angel. He liked his frown. ‘Your eyebrows are nice.’
‘All right,’ said Aziraphale slowly. ‘If that was fine, what happened?’
Crowley squinted. ‘I.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Noooo. Bad. Not telling.’
‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale sat down next to him, which had the instant effect of focussing Crowley’s attention. ‘What did you work out?’
‘How Hastur managed to... you know.’
‘What?’
‘You know. Ssssex.’
‘Oh.’
‘Met a woman.’ He gestured crudely with his hands. Or he would have done, if he’d had any coordination at all. As it was, he just sort of slapped the air and then his knees. ‘Not joy. Jus’ knives.’
Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Ah, yes, some people are rather into that,’ he said. ‘Not exactly first date material I would argue.’ Something in his voice was suddenly clipped and closed off and Crowley didn’t like it. He fell vaguely towards Aziraphale trying to express the question why but failing. Instead Aziraphale very neatly pushed him horizontal and covered him in a blanket. ‘Perhaps you should try and sober up.’
‘Ugh,’ muttered Crowley and pulled the blanket over his head.
~*~
Later, when he woke up and had to miracle away a hangover, Aziraphale was still being short with him even after he promised to replace the wine, and he didn’t really know why. All he did know was that he was definitely never, ever, ever, ever going anywhere alone with another Satanist.
~*~
The next year, he suddenly had in his possession a flask of Holy Water, and the memory of a gaze so disarmingly, terrifyingly honest that he had to go and get drunk for a week to even begin to process it.
(It’s been six thousand years, angel. What the fuck does too fast even mean?)
(Is it a promise?)
(Is it a rejection?)
(Perhaps it explained why Aziraphale had been cross about Crowley picking someone up in a bar, although Crowley thought that was a bloody cheek all things considered.)
1994
If Crowley hadn’t been planning to meet Lou, the most embarrassingly dedicated and unfortunately slightly psychic Satanist in New York, he certainly hadn’t been planning to meet Harry.
Harry was as tall as Crowley, with a friendly, smiley face and sparkling eyes, and dark hair and a beard. He was dressed a bit like a lumberjack when they met, but if Crowley had considered good fashion sense a deal-breaker, his inner life would have been a lot less filled with complex yearning. And besides, he met Harry in a garden centre, where looking like a lumberjack was probably acceptable.
They’d got talking over some shrubbery. Crowley didn’t have any outdoor space, but he liked to think one day he would. As such, during his regular trips to garden centres, he allowed himself time to covet, and to make a mental plan for the future. Harry on the other hand had a proper garden - he’d chosen his house solely for it, he told Crowley. They chatted about the fickle nature of peacock plants and mutually agreed that lawns were awful, and Harry described his greenhouse and Crowley described his plant room. And then they had a cup of tea in the cafe and talked about some slightly less gardeny things.
And then Harry asked him to dinner.
And Crowley said yes. He definitely hadn’t planned to.
It was just that it was exhausting sometimes, with Aziraphale.
Lonely, too.
He no longer doubted that there was something there, but he didn’t know what, and he didn’t know how slow was slow enough, and Hell might find him and kill him at any moment and Heaven might find Aziraphale and whisk him out of Crowley’s life. There wasn’t a moment of joy unaccompanied by fear, by sorrow, by wanting and waiting and holding back, and screaming into the void at the unfairness of it all. The fear alone he could have lived with (he had for millennia, after all), but that the fear was too much for Aziraphale was what was killing him. It's not the angel’s fault - Crowley can't blame him, and he’ll gladly beg for scraps at the table until Armaggeddon itself - and there's something almost expected about wanting a love he can't have. Demons aren't meant to be happy. But. It was heavy and big and awkward and he had nowhere else to turn. Even to acknowledge it could never be allowed.
Whereas going to dinner with a kind-eyed bloke called Harry who worked in a library and spent most of his meagre salary on mulch didn’t even register. It wasn’t love and passion and joy and wonder, but nor was it fear, nor was it exhaustion.
It was dinner.
Crowley could eat dinner. He could go back to Harry’s for a drink and to see the greenhouse. He even wanted to. Harry just thought he was a human, after all, so there was no reason to believe any knives would be sprung on him.
That was how he found himself kissing someone else. And he wasn’t even drunk.
It was better, actually. Still wet. Still squishy. But sort of pleasant. Nice to think that he’d made a friend, of sorts. Nice to have hands wrapped around him, making him feel warm, wanted, desirable, for the first time since he’d been cast out. Nice to feel that someone, somewhere, in the history of the world, was finally fond of him - attracted to him, even - just from meeting him, with no “but” required.
(Except for the “but he doesn’t know I’m a demon from hell”, but Crowley wasn’t thinking about that.)
‘Er,’ he said, when they took a bit of a break from kissing and he inspected his ruffled shirt and realised somewhere along the way he’d taken off his jacket. ‘Not to, um, make this weird, but I haven’t actually-’
‘Oh, right,’ said Harry, suddenly looking nervous.
The humans’ gender thing came to his rescue. ‘I only figured out I was, you know, recently,’ he said. ‘Before that it’s only been women. Wasn’t really doing it for me.’ The fact that this was almost true would have been funny if the memory of why didn’t make Crowley immediately want to die of embarrassment.
‘Oh, right,’ said Harry again. ‘We don’t have to-’
‘We could though,’ put in Crowley, who was feeling like if they didn’t he was definitely going to bottle it.
Harry smiled sort of softly, in a way that was familiar enough that Crowley’s stomach lurched. ‘Just let me know if you want to slow down,’ he said, a phrase which was like being stabbed.
Unwilling to deal with that, Crowley leaned forward to kiss him again.
Things progressed. Crowley didn’t even need a miracle to make his trousers start to feel tight. It just sort of happened on its own, without him even thinking about or being near Aziraphale, so that was unusual.
They had their shirts off when the phone rang. Harry mumbled to ignore it, so Crowley did.
The answerphone beeped on. ‘Harry, it’s mum,’ came a shaking voice. ‘There’s been an accident. Call me, please-’
Harry shot up and away from Crowley and snatched the phone. ‘Mum?’
Crowley listened to the panicked mumbles coming through the phone - your dad, and hospital, and car accident. As the conversation went on, he saw the way the colour drained from Harry’s face. He picked up his shirt and his waistcoat and pulled both on, before hunting around for his jacket. By the time Harry hung up, he’d located that and Harry’s shirt, which he handed over.
‘I- thanks, I-’ Harry was now swaying slightly.
‘You need to get to hospital, I think I heard,’ said Crowley.
‘Yeah, but- the time- look at the time- there’s no trains- Taxi! I’ll get a- I need money. I need-’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘They don’t know if he’ll make it,’ he mumbled. ‘Cash machine. Taxi.’
Crowley sighed. This was not his business. This was not his problem. This was just a thing that happened to humans, and it had happened to this specific human at this specific time.
Harry had picked up a sock and was looking at it like he didn’t know what it was.
‘Come on,’ said Crowley. ‘Put those on. I’ll drive you.’
‘I can’t ask- it’s Reading. Too far. Just- a lift to a cashpoint-’
‘That’s an hour’s drive,’ said Crowley. ‘Taxi’ll cost you three figures. Come on. Get your shoes on. We’re going.’
You’re going to owe me for this good deed, angel, he thought to himself.
Given the whole car accident thing, Crowley stuck to the speed limit. He did, however, miracle every traffic light and empty the roads of anything inconvenient. He also put Harry in a mild hypnotic stupor because, well, the man looked like he might vomit over the upholstery at any moment and there were limits to Crowey’s charity.
At the hospital, he stopped time, sidled in, located Harry’s father in surgery and patched up his lungs, pulling the blood and splintered bone from them. Not a full healing, but enough to make sure he’d make it through the night. Then he left the building and allowed time to resume, and spent the next three hours lurking around the entrance having a smoke. He’d technically given up years ago - miraculously quickly, in fact - but it gave him an excuse to not be inside. He didn’t like hospitals. They made his hands itch with all the things he could do, but also couldn’t. The occasional bit of healing would fly under the radar or be easy enough to excuse, but he couldn’t go and miracle a whole bloody hospital to wellness without attracting attention. Even Heaven wouldn’t allow that. Humans had to heal themselves, Aziraphale has miserably pointed out on more than one occasion.
Eventually Harry reappeared. There was still a pallor to his face, but he seemed to have steadied.
‘He’s stabilised,’ he said. ‘It was touch and go for a bit.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Crowley, and was surprised to find that he was. Humans got to you, like that. Made you care. That’s what Hastur and the others didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.
‘Look, I don’t want you to feel like you’ve got to hang around here all night. Can I get you a hotel? I’m staying here.’
‘Nah, it’s all right,’ said Crowley. ‘I’ll drive back.’
‘I don’t want you driving tired,’ said Harry, suddenly sharply, and Crowley was reminded that it had been a car accident.
‘Yeah, all right, I’ll get a hotel,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about paying. Do you need a lift tomorrow?’
‘No, I- I’m staying here for a bit.’
‘Of course. Go on. I’ll go and get some sleep. Your mum’ll be waiting.’ Some instinct he didn’t know he had made him reach out and pat Harry on the hand. ‘It’ll be all right.’ He imbued it with as much power as he dared and turned to go.
‘Anthony?’
‘Mm?’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said, breathing it almost like a prayer. ‘You’re an absolute angel.’
‘Oh. Well.’ Crowley shifted and bit his tongue rather forcefully. ‘Right. See you.’
~*~
He did drive home that night because, well, demon.
Angel rung in his ears, somewhere between a benediction and a poison, and he drowned it out in Freddie Mercury’s voice.
~*~
The next day he presented himself at the book shop and handed Aziraphale a report for head office, written in Aziraphale’s style on Heaven’s stationery - a skill he’d perfected some three hundred years before.
‘I picked one up last minute, so have a freebie,’ he said casually. ‘I was with a friend. He had a family accident.’
Then he went to make up a pot of tea - the old fashioned way because Aziraphale was fussy about miracles - while the angel read. He both did and didn’t hope Aziraphale could read between the lines to see that not only could Crowley totally have had sex, like the sexy and desirable demon that he was, but he threw it all away immediately to Do Good, and was now Doing Further Good by giving Aziraphale a beautifully formatted report about it. He didn’t have to do any of that and yet he had. Bringing Aziraphale’s attention to it was obnoxious but, well, a tiny, hidden, forbidden part of him needed that recognition.
‘Oh, Crowley,’ said Aziraphale, in that blindingly, embarrassingly sincere way he so often did, ‘how very kind.’
Crowley, busy with the tea pot, trying not to melt into the floor in the way he’d absolutely known he would, wondered why he continually punished himself by spending time with someone who complimented him. He risked a glance at Aziraphale to be hit by a high-beam smile of a wattage high enough that he had to look back at the tea because it was burning up his entire face.
‘Oh, shut up,’ he grumbled. ‘Where are your biscuits?’
Aziraphale pointed at a cupboard, and filed the report into his drawers, and then they sat down together for yet another long, lazy afternoon of being the best enemies they could be, and trying not to acknowledge anything more.
~*~
When Harry called up, a few days later, to say his dad was improving, Crowley could sense from the call that he’d been promoted to dashing romantic hero in Harry’s mind. That was a role he was only comfortable filling in a very limited capacity for one (1) highly specific angel, and not for a random human he’d been hoping for a bit of fun with and nothing more. So unfortunately, Harry had to be got rid of.
It turned out, the awkwardness of asking Aziraphale for advice on how to persuade someone to have sex with him was on a par with asking Azirpahale for advice on how to break up with someone without hurting their feelings too much because their father was still in hospital.
And one time, after the end of the world...
After the Ritz, Aziraphale insisted on seeing the book shop and practically dragged Crowley along with him. Crowley didn’t really need to be encouraged that enthusiastically, because something about the sight of Hellfire rippling over Aziraphale’s hands, even if he’d been occupying those hands at the time, had unsettled him right through to his core, and he was trying to think of good excuses to never let Aziraphale out of his sight again.
Fortunately, good excuses weren’t really needed when there was more champagne. They toasted the world again. They toasted the books and the Bentley. They toasted Adam and his friends and the weird witch with the book and her gormless looking boyfriend and Madam Tracy and even Shadwell, of all people, who had somehow been dragged into this ridiculous mess. They toasted each other and their freedom and the Ritz’s marvellous desert menu and the ducks in St James’s Park and the dolphins.
Eventually, Crowley fell asleep, sozzled and happy, having managed to suppress everything else underneath a vast number of bottles of incredible champagne.
The next day, Crowley didn’t even need to think of an excuse, because Aziraphale suggested a trip to Kew Gardens. They wandered together, Aziraphale peppering him with questions about plants in a way that was extremely excitable and even more charming. It left Crowley not flustered, exactly, but somehow drunk, despite not having had any alcohol that day. Then there was dinner and more drinks, and somehow back to the book shop.
The next day they went on a drive to the beach, and had ice lollies and candy floss and paddled in the water. And then dinner and back to the book shop. Crowley was starting to worry about when he’d get to water his plants, but not enough to actually leave Aziraphale.
The next day there was afternoon tea on a boat on the Thames.
Then it was a matinee at the Globe.
Crowley had assumed Aziraphale was simply feeling that same overwhelming relief at their survival. When Aziraphale suggested they “pop over to America” for a Rolling Stones gig however, Crowley realised he must be losing his mind.
‘They’re not really your sort of music, angel,’ he pointed out.
‘Well you like them,’ said Aziraphale, almost crossly. ‘I’m sure there must be something redeemable about them. Probably. I thought it’d be nice.’
They were sitting together on the battered sofa in the back of the book shop after another long day of enjoying life and not having any responsibilities.
‘We do so many things I like,’ continued Aziraphale. ‘I wanted to do something for you.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Crowley, trying to ignore the way Aziraphale saying “for you” made him felt like he’d been suddenly winded. ‘I like getting dinner.’
‘You barely eat!’
‘Getting dinner’s not about eating,’ said Crowley. Aziraphale shot him a look that was patently disbelieving. ‘Look it’s about- come on, you must know what it’s about. I know you like the food, but you wouldn’t go for that many courses that often if it was just you, by yourself.’
‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose so.’ Aziraphale gave him one of those little embarrassed smiles of his. ‘But - my dear - I do want us to do some things that you like. It doesn’t have to be music. Just something.’
Crowley swallowed. My dear was ringing in his ears. Aziraphale had started calling him that, these last few days. He pretended not to notice every time, because he didn’t want Aziraphale to stop, but it also, every time, meant he needed a moment to resume the conversation.
‘I did like Kew Gardens,’ he said at last, and Aziraphale’s smile became like the sun. Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d done to induce that, exactly, but he was willing to go to the ends of the Earth to figure it out so he could do it again.
Then Aziraphale leaned in, and Crowley copied him without even thinking about it. ‘Crowley, I- you mean rather a lot to me, darling, and-’ He took Crowley’s hand. ‘Well, I was thinking-’
A heavy weight of realisation dropped in Crowley’s stomach. ‘You’re doing the thing!’ he hissed without thinking, the knowledge of what was happening hitting him along with a panic he didn’t quite understand. ‘You’re- you’re- from- what you showed me-’
The pet names.
The compliments.
The dates.
‘What? I am not-’
‘You are! You told me how you- you- seduce people!’
‘This isn’t a seduction!’ insisted Aziraphale, who’d gone a stunning shade of violent pink.
‘This is how you told me you do it!’
‘Are you objecting?’
That stopped Crowley in his tracks momentarily. ‘Well, no. Not… at all. I just don’t… have a lot of experience with this. How am I supposed to react?’
‘Not by shouting at me!’ Aziraphale folded his arms.
Crowley considered this. ‘Yeah, that’s probably fair. Sorry about that. Bit of a panic. Please continue.’ Aziraphale hid his face behind his hands. Crowley leaned forward. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, now feeling like an absolute idiot. ‘I didn’t mean- I haven’t mucked it up- you haven’t changed your mind-?’ It didn’t seem like it should be possible to be both elated and terrified and yet he was, and it was manifesting in all sorts of interesting ways throughout his body, from weirdly rushed breathing, to a heart that was beating all over the place like it didn’t know what it was doing, to a stomach twisted in knots, to other areas of his body suddenly getting interested in the conversation. ‘I can try it out myself, if you want. I remember some poetry. You said you liked poetry. I’ll try and think of something. Let me fix it.’
At that at least, Aziraphale laughed and leaned back. ‘Crowley this isn’t a seduction,’ he said. ‘I love you.’
Crowley’s throat made a noise, quite without his direction, because he absolutely couldn’t have directed it to do anything if his life had depended on it.
‘I love you,’ Aziraphale repeated, which didn’t help anything, except making the glow inside of Crowley burn ever brighter. ‘This isn’t a seduction because I want us to- I want more, not just a pleasant evening. I want everything you’re willing to give. And I’m so sorry, my dear. I’ve known for a while. But things were- I couldn’t- But now I see. Now we’re free. I hope I haven’t- I hope it’s not too late?’
While Crowley was still absolutely not in control of any part of himself, something in the way Aziraphale’s voice shook, the way his eyes widened with a sudden fear that mirrored Crowley’s own, pierced through the dazed fog under which Crowley was blanketed. He grabbed forward, his limbs astoundingly heavy and uncoordinated, until he found a warm, vaguely human-shaped angel was in his hands. He didn’t have anything to say, but he could hold, and hold he did, burying his face into Aziraphale’s jacket. Then, there were arms around his back, stroking up and down his back, reassuringly tight in their grip.
For a long time, Crowley breathed into the jacket. Aziraphale smelled so much more from this close.
Suddenly, he remembered kissing, and how it actually could be quite pleasant, and at that point he pulled back long enough to take in Aziraphale’s beaming smile, and then launched himself at Aziraphale’s face.
‘My goodness,’ said Aziraphale, some minutes later, into his mouth, when they paused for a moment to get their bearings and discover that yes, the rest of the world was still there.
‘Mmm,’ agreed Crowley. He was aware he was still holding Aziraphale in something of a death grip, and he risked loosening his hold ever so slightly.
The angel did not run. Instead he reached up to cup Crowley’s face in both of his hands. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, and for a moment he looked almost lost, ‘I took so long to see.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Crowley.
‘I don’t know that that’s true,’ said Aziraphale. There was a sudden anguish in his eyes and for a moment had Crowley speechless, wanting to do anything he could to get rid of it. ‘I said some things, in my fear, that-’
‘You’re forgiven,’ interrupted Crowley, and pushed forward to kiss him again, marvelling at the impossibility of Aziraphale seeking absolution from him, and not certain he even knew how to offer it.
When he pulled back, Aziraphale’s lips wobbled ever-so-slightly and it was a stab to the heart to realise it wasn’t enough. ‘Crowley-’
‘All right, hold on, give me a sec, let me try and do it properly for you.’ He shut his eyes and remembered. He remembered the bandstand and the I don’t even like you and the thousands of years of you’re a demon and we’re enemies, and every little stab at his heart over the years.
Then he remembered the other angels gagging Aziraphale, binding his hands, ordering him into the Hellfire like he was nothing.
‘Nope, still forgiven,’ he said.
‘Oh, Crowley,’ said Aziraphale again, but this time with less sadness and more love, and Crowley would never get tired of hearing his name spoken like that.
‘We were both scared,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I asked you to run away to space with me.’
‘I wanted to go, really.’ It didn’t feel entirely true, but it didn’t feel entirely false either. And now Aziraphale was gripping Crowley tightly enough that it seemed like maybe he too didn’t quite believe what was happening.
Crowley kissed him again, because, well, it was starting to feel almost natural, and it was definitely feeling enjoyable in a way it hadn’t before.
‘So,’ said Crowley eventually, when they parted again to look at each other more and he found he was warm and practically panting. Aziraphale’s eyes were dark and lingering in a way that did all kinds of things to his heart, and Aziraphale’s hands were still roaming, just a little. Crowley’s trousers were incredibly uncomfortably tight all of a sudden, and it felt brilliant. ‘So.’ He licked his lips. ‘Full agreement on the wanting more. Wanting everything. Boyfriends. Dating. Husbands. Living together. I’m all in. Let’s do it. Tomorrow. Right now. Always. Anything you want-’ He cut himself off abruptly with a shake of his head. ‘Tell me if I’m going too fast-’
‘You’re not,’ interrupted Aziraphale. His grip on Crowley tightened momentarily. He beamed again. It was Crowley’s new favourite sight in the entire universe, and he basked in it for a moment before returning to his original thought.
‘But just a question. When you said “not just a pleasant evening”, did that, er, preclude the pleasantness I think you might have been implying? Because it is evening. And I’d like- to try-’
His other new favourite sight was the flush of Aziraphale’s cheeks. ‘Not necessarily, but I know you haven’t- I didn’t want to rush you-’
‘Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?’ interrupted Crowley in a desperate hiss, trying not to sound too pained and almost definitely failing.
‘Darling,’ said Aziraphale again, ‘I love you. You’re wonderful. I… seem to have forgotten all of my poetry-’ He broke off momentarily, with a slight frown. ‘I think the line was: you look beautiful, do you want to go to bed with me?’
Crowley felt a smile stretch across his face. ‘You remembered that, at least,’ he said, almost daring himself to tease.
‘Somewhat hard to forget, when I very nearly threw it all in and answered you,’ replied Aziraphale, stunning Crowley into another silence until he remembered he’d been asked a question.
‘Yes, angel, I really, really do,’ he managed at last, voice dry. ‘I’ve only been waiting six thousand years, after all.’
Aziraphale kissed him again, ever-so-softly, and smiled. ‘I’m very glad,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Wait a moment: how long?’
‘Oh, shut up and get on with it and we can talk about that later,’ muttered Crowley, his face heating up. He definitely hadn’t meant to quantify it in millennia. But then Aziraphale’s hands tightened ever so slightly and he gave him another kiss, and suddenly it didn’t seem that embarrassing at all. In fact, everything seemed rather wonderful.