Chapter Text
Everything had been going so well.
Crowley sped up his pace and darted through the constant flow of people in Trafalgar Square. It’d been a year he'd been living with Aziraphale, after Lilith kicked him out of her apartment in the throes of their blaring falling-out, and up until a week ago he could've sworn he wasn't a judgmental arsehole.
He'd never thought himself an homophobic prick, and when the subject had been broached by Aziraphale the night he moved in, Crowley'd said, " yes, and ?" and that had been the end of it, really.
Aziraphale was an amazing roommate, and Crowley enjoyed their time together aplenty. They'd settled into a routine of chats over wine and take-out in front of the telly, sometimes with Aziraphale just spearing a glance or two over the top of his book at whatever garish show Crowley had chosen. They’d even indulged in occasional dinners out in restaurants, or shared nights at plays at the National, where Crowley listened fondly to Aziraphale prattling on and on about this and that, and Shakespeare, of all things.
They'd even crossed the Channel one weekend because Aziraphale fancied some crepes and Crowley had been adamant that they have them in Paris.
It was so easy to spend time with him.
Crowley didn't know what he'd been expecting, really. Of course it couldn't last. Aziraphale had a life to live, and even though Crowley could say they were friends - there were no doubts there - eventually, he was going to find someone.
It was the angel's (never had a moniker been so accurate) right. Obviously.
He skirted around a knot of pedestrians in front of a bakery, and stopped dead in his tracks. Through the glass, he spotted a sinful piece of Sachertorte just sitting there, drawing his undivided attention. He'd learned over the past months that if there was anything that could make Aziraphale bend over backwards, it was a nice dessert. A swell of fondness exploded in his chest at the first sugar-caked memories of what had later become part of their regular food-driven outings. The decadent cake looked like a decent enough apology, coated all in chocolate. According to Aziraphale, chocolate was the perfect remedy for any quandary, and Crowley was betting his luck on it.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped into the Tube carrying a paper bag like a treasure, and rolling a bitter sorry in his tongue. His mistakes of the night before still played in his brain, and it'd been nagging him all day, preventing him from focusing on his work.
He'd been a real tosser to, (he couldn't even say his name) Gabriel fucking Archer, for absolutely no reason. Even thinking about him made Crowley want to rip things apart, so maybe, just maybe, he was indeed an arse to gay people who weren't his friends. Or, and this take was even worse, he was an homophobe, and the idea of seeing two men holding hands was where he drew the line. Which made absolutely no sense.
When he finally rocked up to his apartment building, he squared his shoulders and mentally prepared himself to admit to Aziraphale that he'd been an utter twat because his job had his patience running thin.
No way in Hell was he going to voice the reasons he'd unraveled a few minutes ago.
When it was clear he couldn't keep putting it off, or someone was going to accuse him of lurking around his own flat like some kind of creep, he stepped into the lift and went up.
Once at home, he tossed his keys on a nearby table and strolled into the living room.
Aziraphale was there, completely absorbed in what seemed an enthralling conversation with Gabriel, charming smiles falling easily from his mouth while the toss- Gabriel, softly kissed his knuckles.
Crowley felt his resolution evaporate into thin air, a sinking lead ball nestling in the pit of his stomach. Unwittingly, his hand clenched around the bag, channeling the sparks of the rant he felt about to burst out of him. The rustle snapped Aziraphale and Gabriel from their shared moment, and two pairs of eyes settled on his face. Thank god for his obliging shades.
“Oh, hello there, dear. I didn’t hear you come in,” Aziraphale said, his previously radiant smile slanting a little. “You almost missed us.”
Crowley saw a twitch in Gabriel’s jaw, before he extended a hand in Crowley’s direction, the smile on his face all teeth, making him look like a sharp-dressed shark. “Hello, Anthony, I think we started off on the wrong foot last night," he said with booming confidence. Crowley could hear his own internal screeching; he hated to be called Anthony. Poncy bastard .
It took Crowley the tick of a second to weigh the possibility of leaving him with his hand hanging in the air like a moron, before deciding that that level of pettiness would definitely leave him looking like a moron in Aziraphale’s eyes. And he certainly didn't want to risk that. “Hey. Gabriel, right?” he said, grasping the hand offered in a vice-like grip and being met in earnest. “Yeah. Sorry about yesterday. Work had me all fucked up.” He presented a grin that curled the corners of his mouth into something absurd.
“It’s fine, we've all been there," Gabriel said dismissively, taking Aziraphale’s hand in one of his and eliciting a wave of untamed ire in Crowley. “If you’ll excuse us, we were on our way out. There’s a play Aziraphale has been dying to see.”
“Ah, yeah, sure, ngh. Fine.” He placed his satchel on the floor. He could leave things as they were, having cleared the air enough to breath again…, or he could walk the last mile. Two heartbeats, a glance over at Aziraphale. Last mile it was. “Hey, Angel, can I talk to you for a sec? Won’t be long. Promise.”
Aziraphale left Gabriel tying his ridiculous purple scarf and went to Crowley, wringing his hands. "Is it something wrong?," he asked, still slightly apprehensive.
The fact that Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, felt uneasy talking to him made Crowley feel a bit out of sorts. He scraped his last shred of courage from the walls inside him and placed the bag on the counter. "No, no, I just... I wanted to say sorry to you too, Angel. I, er, I was an arse and I don't want you to think for a sec I'm not happy for you and eh..." He made some loop-like gesture towards the door.
"Gabriel," Aziraphale interjected.
"Right. Yeah. That." He shrugged, pushing the paper bag in Aziraphale's direction. "Hope you enjoy my apology."
Aziraphale opened the bag and his eyes twinkled with mirth, his lips curling in a soft smile. "Oh, Crowley, you shouldn't have."
"No, no, I insist. ‘S the least I can do, you know? I mean, we're friends, so… "
Aziraphale's smile dimmed. "Right. Thank you, dear boy."
A slab of silence fell over them, broken by Gabriel just when it was starting to smother Crowley's nerves. "C'mon, Aziraphale, it's getting late!"
"Ah, yes, yes. Terribly sorry, dearest," Aziraphale said. He turned to Crowley, "Would you be a dear and store this in the refrigerator?" He said apologetically, signaling the cake. "Gabriel and I are having dinner before the play… "
Crowley masked his disappointment with a feigned nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, sure. No problemo. Got you, Angel."
Aziraphale and Gabriel left, and Crowley stood in the middle of his flat feeling like a tit and wondering where the simmering rage pulsing in his veins was even coming from.
A few hours and movies later, with a carton of ice cream on the coffee table, and when it was clear Bridget Jones's problems weren't snagging his attention at all, he dug up his phone and texted Anathema.
'hey, u up? '
The reply took only a few seconds.
'yep . Sup? '
'can u talk rn ?'
'yeah. Just waiting for Newt to come home .'
Crowley then dialed, and waited far longer than he expected, given that they'd been just texting.
"That took a while," he said when she picked up. He took a spoon of ice cream and licked it clean.
"I should change my ringtone," Anathema said, the words working around the distinct crunch of some snack. "I always get too caught up. Anyway, what's wrong?"
"Nothin's wrong, why'd you think somethin's wrong?" Crowley scrunched up his nose. The twitchy edge was too obvious for Anathema to ignore it he was sure.
"Ah, I didn’t? But now I kinda do? What's got into you?"
Crowley sighed. "It's... nothing, really."
"So, you called me on a weekday, close to one in the morning because... nothing? I'm watching Queer Eye, dude."
"Didn't think I needed a reason to talk to my favourite cousin."
"Flattery will get you no-" Anathema pulled away from the phone. Crowley heard the distinctive muffle of the bar. " Oh, yes, yes! Pick the pretty one, the pretty one! Meh. Too late." Another shift of the phone. "Anyway, you were lying?"
"I wasn't! I'm just… "
"Spit it out, man."
Crowley groaned, and stretched on the couch. He hadn't thought this through, actually, so it was a bit difficult to fish the right words from the barrel of non-commital grunts and sardonic laughs that formed his usual language repertoire. How he could tell her he was a fucking prick?
"D'you think I'm awful?" he blurted out.
"Nah, I think you're pretty great. Why do you ask?"
"Ugh. Anny, I think I'm an homophobic twat."
A pause. "What?"
Crowley rolled on his stomach, gaze blindly following Mark Darcy on the telly. "It's just... You know Aziraphale right?"
"Your roommate, yeah. What about him?"
"Well, he's dating this wanker. Gabriel's the name."
"Is he awful? This Gabriel person, I mean.
"Yes. No. I don't know, really. Haven't even talked to him, but he seems like a tosser."
"And?"
"And the thing is, I thought I was super okay with Aziraphale having a boyfriend, but when he introduced him to me I was a right-on bastard." Crowley shifted position, tossing his legs over the back of the sofa, his head dangling over the side. "I've been seething the entire week they've been together, and today I saw them holding hands and I just wanted to run for the hills, you know?"
"Mmm."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
A crunch came through the line before Anathema answered. "I'm thinking, okay? It's not as if I have all the knowledge of the universe stashed in my purse."
"I'm saving that for the future," Crowley chuckled.
"Shut up. Look. Aziraphale has been your only friend for months, right?"
"Right."
"You two have shared a lot, and maybe this is you resenting the fact he's not there for you like he was before. Because of this Gabriel dude."
Crowley slithered into an even more uncomfortable position. "Mmm. Go on."
"And maybe that's why you hate him so much. But, baby, Aziraphale's still your friend. What you need to do is support him, and maybe find other people to connect with. Go out, find someone. Maybe not for a relationship but just to be friends. I bet that if you have more people in your life, you'll feel better about Aziraphale and Gabriel being an item."
"I think you're on to something here."
Crowley heard the thud of a door closing through the line. "Glad to be of service, and now I gotta go. Newt's here. But think about what I told you, okay? And call me if you need anything."
"Okay , yeah, yeah, you're right, Anny. Thanks a lot, and say hi to Newt from me. Ciao. "
A stifled laugh. "Will do. Bye, dork."
He turned off the telly.
Maybe Anathema was right. Only God knew why, but his cousin had a borderline-clairvoyant insight when it came to assessing other people's business. Crowley trusted her judgement more than anyone else's regarding people. He considered his situation, and the answers were there, glaringly obvious before him. Besides Aziraphale, his only contact with the outside world since Lillith had come in the form of coffee with a side of lurid office gossip with Beelz and Dagon, the co-workers he almost - almost - liked. He didn't do clubs, pubs, or any other place where you could find yourself among throngs of people. Perhaps he could do as Anathema advised and accept one of the weekly office-wide invitations from Hastur, the HR bloke, for some beers over fish and chips. That didn't sound too dreadful.
He was still considering his limited options, staring at a particularly alluring spot on the ceiling, when he heard the jingle of keys, some muffled voices, and the distinct sound of a door opening and shutting. For a long, grisly moment he thought he was going to see Gabriel strolling in beside Aziraphale, but soon it became evident that he was coming home alone.
"Hello, dear."
Something inside Crowley's gut fluttered oddly at his voice. "Hey, Angel, how was the play?"
"It was yet another historically inaccurate rendition of Hamlet." Aziraphale divested himself of his coat and hung it neatly near the door. "Not bad, really, but didn't exactly meet my expectations."
"Of course not, you fussy bastard," Crowley said with a smile. "God forbid people don't know what type of under linen was used in the 17th century!"
"Well, excuse me. I do have standards," Aziraphale said, primly.
"’Course you do."
Aziraphale walked to the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator contents, extracting the Sachertorte .
Crowley watched him grab a fork and begin attacking the container with eager hands. Aziraphale eating from a container. That was new. "I thought you had dinner just a few hours ago," he said.
Aziraphale's cheeks blushed pink, and he stopped with the fork mid-bite. "Ah, uhm, yes. But we got there late, so I had to cut back a little on the number of courses."
He looked almost guilty, as if Crowley had unearthed a big, uncomfortable secret. The way his grey-blue eyes dimmed tugged at the seams of Crowley's heart.
"Tell you what," Crowley said, trying to lift Aziraphale's sinking mood. "Come here with your container and I'll trade you some of this, er..." he glanced at the carton of ice cream still in front of him, "Chocomint, for a forkful of your torte."
Aziraphale made his way to the living room, smiling again. "Fine." He folded himself on the couch, and suddenly Crowley was too aware of the swath of contact from their knees up their thighs, and the heat radiating through Aziraphale's khakis and his own black joggers, almost searing his skin. He struggled to get hold of a thought, something, anything; his brain was muzzy as never before. This was absolutely bizarre. Aziraphale was looking at the ice cream, eyes under soft lids, while the moonlight seeping through the window painted a silvery strip over the bridge of his freckle-dusted nose. As in a trance, Crowley grabbed his spoon and scooped up a generous amount of ice cream, slowly offering it out.
The moment Aziraphale leaned forward and his lips closed around the spoon, Crowley felt a tingling sensation radiating from his fingertips and up his arms. A ripple of heat cracked through him as he watched Aziraphale moaning around the cool mouthful. Crowley thought he’d tackled the feeling of his cheeks warming up at those garbled noises, those whimpers at bites chock full of flavor, but now he found himself floundering. The trip and skip of his heart told him something was terribly different this time.
"Uhm. Absolutely sinful, my dear," Aziraphale said, finally. "The combination is superb. And I believe an exchange is in order."
Crowley struggled, forging through. "Didn't think you really wanted to share your morsel. It's alright if you don't."
"Nonsense. I gave you my word," and with that he took a piece of his cake and presented it to Crowley.
Crowley hesitated for the tick tick of a second on the clock, but he finally closed his lips around the offered piece. The chocolate exploded in his mouth, every space sparking with the sweetness of the apricot jam and the softness of the cake. Crowley felt a bit of icing dangling dangerously on his bottom lip and flicked his tongue, not to miss a thing.
He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes, so he wrenched them open once he’d swallowed.
Aziraphale was looking at him, a flush spreading from his cheeks in a mottle down his neck. His lips were parted, and he seemed a bit breathless, something Crowley couldn't quite name rising in the blue of his eyes.
Aziraphale sprung away, violently. "Look at the time! Better go to bed. Work day tomorrow. Sleep well, dear." He rushed to his room in a whirlwind of cream and shut the door with a loud bang.
What the fuck was tha t?
When Crowley finally went to bed, in a room partially lit by beams from the streetlights, he drifted off under the swish of passing cars and the muffled hubbub of a city that never rested. Shadows wove around the edges of his sleep-addled brain. He felt strong, soft hands skimming over his skin. Saw a sapphire spark of joy in soft eyes. Heard the rustle of the pages of old books. Smelled the tang of a sharp cologne. Tasted a deep, chocolate kiss, heavy on his tongue.
A moan in the empty space.
Crowley woke up, hard in his trousers, his hands clammy, and his rust-red hair falling in disarray over his pillow.
What an odd dream, indeed.