Chapter 1: One
Summary:
Maggie ambushes Crowley with an idea to get him out of his creative slump by having him meet with a lyricist. Crowley has Opinions™ but not the strength to put up a fight...
Chapter Text
Anthony J. Crowley regretted many things in his life.
That time he’d shaved his head in 1995 because he’d been utterly convinced his punk phase was just around the corner (one look in the mirror had been enough to shatter his punk-rock dreams on the spot). That other time in 2002 when he’d broken his arm and he’d thought mixing Talisker and hospital-grade pain meds would be a great idea. Most of his relationships, if you could even call them that (you definitely couldn’t).
But in that moment, with sunlight unceremoniously shining on his face and Maggie’s cheery voice ringing in his ears, there was nothing he regretted more than giving his manager the keys to his sorry excuse for a flat.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”
Crowley groaned and rolled over to bury his head under the pillow. “Go away, Mags.”
As a general rule, Crowley refused to learn any lessons from his past mistakes, steering clear of anything even remotely resembling a teachable moment. But, no matter how much he applied himself (for all his teachers had said about him back in the day), there was one thing he unfortunately had learned. Namely, that life was better if one wasn’t awake for most of it. Sleeping his troubles away, that was the kind of goal he liked to set for himself, what kept him occupied on a daily basis.
Naturally, to be even only mildly successful at it, he would need to sleep for the next century or so, but Anthony J. Crowley didn’t concern himself with petty details.
He also wasn’t ready to be conscious yet.
“Sorry, but no,” Maggie insisted. “It’s a glorious day out there and I have great news!”
Had it come from any other person, such a grand declaration may have stirred something in him. Something like optimism, or maybe just vague curiosity. But his manager, well… she had the tendency to exaggerate. Leave it to Maggie to act like the tiniest sliver of a maybe-possibly-good thing was nothing short than a bloody blessing.
So no, Crowley had no intention of waking up to hear what she had to say. Yes, it could be something about his pathetic career as a failed musician, but there was just as much of a chance of it being about a pigeon that had escaped a gruesome death by the skin of its teeth on Maggie’s way to work. Which was far more likely at this point, as well as the reason Crowley burrowed deeper under the covers and drawled a muffled: “Leave me alone!”
Crowley regretted it instantly (see? He just couldn’t help it). In the close quarters of his little cocoon of blankets, his morning breath hit him like a punch in the gut. It smelled like something died in his mouth, for fuck’s sake. That bloody pigeon, for example. His career. His will to live. Take your pick.
He was trying to decide if he’d rather die by toxic fumes or toxic positivity, when Maggie made up his mind for him by snatching away his pillow, leaving him once again at the mercy of the morning sun.
“Give it back,” he grumbled, keeping his eyes closed as he frantically waved his arms in a pathetic attempt to grab it back.
Something hot and cup-shaped was shoved in his hand instead.
“Here’s your coffee,” Maggie announced, before placing something else in his left hand. “And here are your sunglasses.”
“I hate you,” Crowley complained, voice still rough with sleep and general malaise.
The trouble with not having a reason to live was that nothing really mattered, which meant there was nothing worth fighting for. Not even his pity-parties.
So he huffed and puffed, but still caved, pulling himself in what could possibly be described as an upright position, but only if you were feeling particularly generous. He put his sunglasses on (a fashion statement turned into a crutch), and only when he’d gulped down half of his coffee did he deign to open his eyes and look at Maggie.
The first thing that occurred to him was that his stupid Mayfair studio flat looked even tinier with another person in it. The second, that that was a perfectly reasonable explanation not to invite anyone over ever again (not that he did or had, to be fair). Third, that only an idiot would pay so much money for such a cramped little flat, and only because he was too stubborn to leave Mayfair and finally accept the consequences of his Fall from grace.
Although it hadn’t been a fall per se, more of a saunter vaguely downwards from fame to… anonymity, almost-bankruptcy, and self-loathing.
Despite his efforts to block any and all information from the outside world, Crowley couldn’t help but notice that Maggie looked genuinely excited, a beaming smile plastered on her face and an honest-to-God twinkle in her eye.
As Crowley looked at her, brimming with enthusiasm in the middle of his flat, he was also reminded of another thing, the reason he still kept her on as his manager in spite of everything. It wasn’t just the fact that Maggie was good at her job and knew more about music than most of those big shot arseholes working in the industry. Truth was, he just couldn’t bring himself to fire her and destroy whatever hope she still held out for him. And maybe, just maybe, Crowley wasn’t ready for her to give up on him just yet.
“You have two minutes,” he grumbled.
Maggie’s smile became downright blinding. “Okay, so, I have an idea.”
Crowley grunted. Of course she’d worked herself into a frenzy about a bloody idea. So no record labels were miraculously asking for him. Figured. At this point, he’d have said yes to Celebrity Big Brother too. (This was a lie. They had asked a few years back, when he still had some kind of attachment to his dignity, and he’d said no, told them to fuck off for good measure. Burning bridges was another specialty of his – too bad he couldn’t pursue a career in that.)
“I know you have been working on new songs–”
The mother of all scoffs rattled in his chest. “They’re not songs. They’re… concepts of songs.” Bars he’d written down just to get them out of his head. No lyrics to speak of, and not for lack of trying.
In the past, er, three-to-eight years, Crowley had resigned himself to the fact that words didn’t come to him anymore. While the random chorus or bridge would randomly take shape in his head, whether he was drowsing in bed or nervously rapping his fingers on any available surface, lyrics were no more than a horrible tangle of blurry letters. No matter how hard he tried to focus, Crowley could never seem to reach them.
Which wasn’t surprising in the slightest, considering he had nothing left to say.
“Exactly. So…,” Maggie continued, practically vibrating out of her skin. “I have found you a lyricist.”
Crowley paused. Blinked. Then: “No, you haven’t.” He didn’t need a lyricist, he needed… well, something that was not a lyricist.
“Yes, I have, and he’s good!” she went on undeterred. “I made him listen to one of your new songs–”
“Not songs.”
“–almost songs, and he came up with lyrics!”
“Absolutely not.” Not a chance in Hell. Or Heaven. Or anywhere really. Crowley wrote his own songs, he always had, even when he’d played with Hastur and the others. Urgh, better not think about that.
Maggie fished a folded paper out of her purse. “Here, I have it. I told him all about you–”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did!” she shot back cheerfully. “To make sure it’d be consistent with your usual themes, you know…”
“Oh, come on, Mags,” he groaned. At this point, he didn’t have themes, only issues. The unresolved kind, to be specific.
Crowley tried to resist her as much as possible, pretending there was no paper currently poking him in the forehead, but she just wouldn’t accept no for an answer.
“Jesus, fuck! Give it here!” Crowley burst out, taking the paper from her hands and ignoring her impromptu victory dance. For fuck’s sake.
He skimmed the lyrics, barely taking in what he was reading, fully intending to tear the blessed thing into pieces and forget this morning ever happened.
But something… something did happen, for lack of a better word.
Crowley immediately understood which one of his not-songs the lyrics were meant to go with just by reading every other word.
So he groused and reluctantly went back to the top to read it properly, frowning as he went.
It takes only the smallest of tastes
for my hunger to rage.
I’m half agony
half ache.
Push me down on my knees
have me begging for bliss.
Oh, honey,
over feed me your fire,
over indulge me all night.
It’s never too much (Never too much)
It’s never enough (Never enough).
“Is this…” Crowley let his voice trail off, then tried again. “Is this song about sucking dick?” he squawked.
Maggie’s grin could have lit up the entirety of London during a blackout. “I think so, but I’m no expert, so… What do you think?”
Crowley tore his eyes away from the lyrics – which were admittedly kind of good, bless it all – and looked up at her.
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” he hissed. “I don’t know if you remember, but being outed as someone who likes to suck dick from time to time is what ruined my career in the first place!”
Okay, fine, Maggie wasn’t the only one who tended to blow things out of proportion. But yes, those paparazzi pictures of him drunkenly snogging that random guy’s face back in the late Noughties had definitely been a contributing factor to his demise. Sure, Crowley had also angered the wrong higher-ups, what with him leaving the band and asking too many stupid questions, but that’s the trouble with fame, isn’t it? The more famous you are, the more you’re surrounded by awful people. Powerful people. People who liked to treat others as their pastime. People you should never, under any circumstance, question in any way.
Crowley’s tendency to question authorities, combined with him being possibly bi in a world that staunchly refused to acknowledge the existence of anything of the sort, had done the trick. He remembered those stupid photos plastered on every tabloid, and the scandal that followed soon after when he’d been photographed with a woman and everyone had accused him of trying to convince the world he wasn’t gay. Then his second solo album had flopped, and the ones that came after that still had a better chance of being used as frisbees to be chased around the park by drooly dogs than anything else (not that anyone listened to actual discs anymore).
“Yes, but listen!” Maggie pressed on. “That was almost twenty years ago. It’s different now, you could lean into it! Make a song, go viral on TikTok, and va-voom! You’re back!”
Crowley gaped at her, eyes flaring behind his sunglasses. “Go viral on TikTok? Are you trying to kill me, woman?!” Him. Anthony J. Crowley. Viral on TikTok. What next? A tv ad for a hemorrhoid ointment?
Maggie crossed her arms, stern now. “You spend the whole day on that thing. I follow you, and I see all of your reposts.”
Crowley scoffed, embarrassed. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do.”
Well, fine. It made that rotting thing he did every day much more enjoyable, and if he tried to go viral and failed spectacularly at it (which he no doubt would), he would have to give it up. Which was not on.
“Please,” Maggie continued, switching back to her usual sweet demeanour. “I know you think the lyrics are good. Just meet him! Az is a good one, I swear.”
Crowley genuinely felt like crying. “I don’t want to meet anyone named Ass.”
“Please, please, please!” Maggie joined her hands in prayer. “I said you’d meet him in an hour at a coffee shop in Soho.”
The world stopped, then began spinning in the opposite direction.
“You– WOT!” No, no, no. Absolutely not. Not a chance in Heaven.
“You have plenty of time to take a shower and brush your teeth!” Maggie insisted. “Humour me, please.”
Crowley leapt out of bed wearing only sweatpants and his many tattoos. “I said no, Maggie!” he thundered. “Forget it! There is no way – listen to me, no way– I’m going to meet this Ass-bloke! In fact, I’m not being dramatic when I say that I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill than–”
“You really do spend too much time on TikTok,” she chimed in, not even slightly worried about his outburst.
“Forget it, I said! ‘S not gonna happen. Never. You might as well let it go now.” And that was the end of it. “You know full well that when I make up my mind, nothing – and I mean nothing – will ever make me change it!”
An hour later, to no one’s surprise, including the man himself, Crowley was sitting in a coffee shop in Soho waiting for this Ass-guy to show up.
He’d been muttering curses for almost an hour now, stopping only to speak with the surly looking woman behind the counter and ask her for death. She’d said they’d run all out of death for the day and that he would have to make do with coffee. So he’d ordered a double espresso, gulped it down to calm his nerves (which fell under the definition of ‘counterintuitive’), and was now sitting half-slumped at a corner table with his legs crossed, picturing the bloke he’d soon tell to fuck right off so he could go back to Maggie and swear to her that he gave it a fair try.
He was probably someone like Crowley – a pretentious, incurable arshole, that is – but younger. They were all younger these days. Someone with too many rings. Probably an earring too. Just one, of course. A cool haircut, maybe a mullet, and a moustache. Wearing second-hand clothes that were more expensive than new ones. You know the type.
The thought of that stupid moustache was enough to make Crowley sneer as he kept staring at the door, drumming his fingers on the table and waiting for the man to materialise in front of him. Ideally sooner rather than later. He desperately wanted to go back to bed and doomscroll himself into a stupor.
To add insult to injury, the day was way too sunny for his taste. Ugh. Crowley just wasn’t made to thrive in this kind of weather. It was completely at odds not only with his mood but also his style, which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a rockstar’s funeral.
The man coming through the door right now, on the other hand, seemed to be a clear-sky and sun-shining kind of guy. He was impossibly blonde, round around the middle, all decked in tans and creams, with a bow tie around his neck and a kind smile on his face. Very cutesy. Very demure. He also looked two seconds away from hosting a children’s program about books or some shite. With a yellow puppet as his sidekick.
Dreadful stuff, really.
Crowley’s gaze idly followed the guy as he approached the counter to greet the unfriendly woman. They seemed to know each other. Crowley felt a little betrayed when she unexpectedly smiled at him, but he had no time to dwell on his disappointment, because the man suddenly turned and looked straight at him.
Crowley’s breath hitched, and he quickly tore his gaze away, hissing out a string of consonant-heavy curses through his teeth.
What the ever-loving fuck was that?
Did he just… bloody Hell. He’d completely forgotten how to act around people, hadn’t he? You couldn’t just stare at strangers like that! It was rude, and– well, he usually approved of rudeness in every shape or form, but in this particular instance–
“Excuse me?” a soft, prim voice asked somewhere in his vicinity. “Are you Anthony J. Crowley?”
Crowley turned towards the voice and, sure enough, bow-tie-guy was standing right next to him with a tight smile on his face. And Crowley must have really forgotten how people behaved, out in the real world, because he had no idea why this frothy-cappuccino of a man was talking to him. Had he come up to Crowley to ask him why he’d been staring at him just a few seconds ago? What happened to politely ignoring the weirdos around you?
Wait a second. How did bow-tie-guy even know his name? He didn’t look like someone who would recognise a washed-up rockstar out and about.
“Er, yes,” Crowley grumbled when he realised he’d been silent for too long. He draped an arm over the back of his chair and pushed his sunglasses on his nose to make sure they were still there.
“Oh, splendid.” The man smiled a bit awkwardly and gingerly took a seat across from Crowley. “Maggie told me I’d find you here.”
Time stopped for a second as Crowley’s brain struggled to make sense of what was going on. Then he huffed out a laugh and shook his head.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself.
“I’m sorry?” the stranger inquired with the same bizarre inflection he’d used so far. He was sporting a bewildered look on his face too, which irked Crowley even more.
“You’re telling me that your guy couldn’t even show up on his own? That he’s sent… who are you? His manager?” Crowley asked, irritated. Anyone hiring someone wearing a bow tie as their manager certainly couldn’t be trusted, and it had recently come to his attention that he knew something about untrustworthy managers.
The frothy-cappuccino-shaped-like-a-man seemed puzzled, the polite smile faltering. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Crowley slammed the piece of paper Maggie had given him a mere hour ago down on the table. “The poor sod that wrote this,” he hissed through his teeth.
The stranger leaned forward to inspect the crumpled page, understanding finally dawning on him. “That would be me,” he said. “The poor sod you were mentioning, I mean.”
“No, you’re not,” Crowley retorted, as easy as anything.
The man straightened and clasped his hands in front of him. “Yes, I rather think I am,” he countered a touch defensively.
Crowley couldn’t believe his ears.
“You wrote these lyrics,” he repeated just to make sure he’d understood correctly. “The lyrics about sucking dick. You wrote them.”
The stranger wrinkled his nose, a blush appearing on his rounded cheeks. “Well, it’s actually meant to be an exploration of taste and touch as a way to connect with another person, as well as a metaphor for–”
“Sucking dick,” Crowley completed for him.
“Mmh,” the man hummed noncommittally, lips pursed in both annoyance and embarrassment.
Crowley could not, for the life of him, replace the young, moustached bloke haunting his bitter musings with the soft late 40s, early 50s looking man sitting in front of him.
He looked down at the lyrics. The lyrics responsible for his presence here, in this God-forsaken coffee shop. The lyrics he’d read just an hour ago. The lyrics that had been written especially for him. Those lyrics. Written for him. By this man.
No, the two things – the man and the lyrics – could not coexist. Simple as that. It was like trying to make two pieces from two different jigsaw puzzles fit together. Pointless and also kind of embarrassing for everyone involved.
“Well, have you ever done it before?” Crowley asked, belligerent.
The man frowned, hands disappearing under the table. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have any past experience?” he insisted, enunciating every syllable.
The stranger floundered for a second. “To be perfectly honest,” he finally managed to utter, glancing away from Crowley, “I fail to see the pertinence of this line of questioning.”
The man was completely cuckoo. What a surprise. It might have been a long time since Crowley had last interviewed for a job, but he could swear questions were a crucial part of the process.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, “you don’t have any experience and you’re trying to convince me it doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that,” the stranger clarified, growing more agitated by the second, eyes flicking everywhere but Crowley’s direction.
“So you do have previous experience…?” The man only gave him the smallest of nods, doing everything in his power to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “Any references to speak of? Someone I could call and–”
The stranger’s awkward yet polite demeanour shattered into a million pieces. “How dare you!” he burst out, scrambling to get back on his feet. He was blushing all over the place, eyes flashing with barely contained anger.
“Where are you going?” Crowley asked him, dumbfounded.
“I’m leaving!” the stranger announced haughtily. “I won’t stand here to be– to be– to be bombarded with such intrusive questions!”
Crowley’s mouth fell open in shock. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“At least do me the courtesy of not playing the fool,” the man accused him. “Maggie said you’d be prickly, but this–”
“She said what?” Crowley shot back, before remembering he didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going on. “Did Maggie put you up to this? Is this a joke?”
“Wouldn’t I like to know!” the stranger huffed, hands clenched into fists at his side. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from thinking he looked like a disgruntled, beige M&M.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He could already feel a headache brewing behind his eyes.
“Don’t look so surprised!” the man cried out. “You’ve just asked me for, what, my past partners’ numbers so you could call them and inquire about my previous experience in su–” He cut himself short and blushed even more. “In giving them pleasure using my mouth,” he amended.
Crowley blinked. Paused. Blinked some more. Then, dismayed, went back through their conversation to try and understand what could have possibly gone so wrong. At which point, he opened his mouth to explain that he’d asked no such thing.
Except that what came out of it instead was more cackle and less explanation.
Against all of his expectations for the day, Crowley laughed like he hadn’t done in a very long time, slapping his knee and desperately trying to catch his breath, until he had tears streaming down his face and an unfamiliar ache in his abs and sides.
“Well, I’m glad you find harassment amusing,” the stranger said coldly, pink still dusting his cheeks.
Crowley tried to get his bearings. “Hng. Jesus. I– I meant previous experience in writing lyrics,” he wheezed. Why would the man even think he was being asked about his previous experience in sucking dick?
The stranger raised a finger, all signs pointing to him mustering all of his indignation to tell Crowley off. He puffed up his chest, wore the most petulant expression Crowley had ever seen in his sorry life, and… deflated before he could utter a single word.
“Oh. That makes more sense,” the man admitted, visibly embarrassed. He wrung his hands and glanced around, not knowing what to do.
Crowley took pity on him, something he’d no doubt regret later (how does the saying go? No good deed goes unpunished? Whoever had come up with it had done so with Crowley in mind). “Take a seat,” he said. “Ass, right?”
The stranger, who was in the process of sitting back down, jumped to his feet once more. “Excuse me?” he said, voice inexplicably deeper than a few seconds ago. Which was… a choice.
“Maggie said your name is Ass?”
Fine. It was most definitely not Ass, but something that sounded enough like it, so… plausible deniability, right?
The man rolled his eyes and huffed. “It’s Aziraphale. Not Azi and certainly not Az.”
Crowley squinted at him through his sunglasses. “Aziraphale,” he repeated. His parents must have not liked him all that much.
“You got that right.” Then he added under his breath, “For once.”
Far from feeling offended, Crowley grinned in response. As it turned out, the human cappuccino wasn’t all froth and no bark. “Will you sit down, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale looked him up and down, then seemingly made up his mind and took a seat in a somewhat lofty manner. A kind smile suddenly bloomed on his lips, which would have been worrying had the grumpy woman not appeared beside their table to place a chamomile tea in front of Aziraphale and reveal herself as the smile’s intended recipient.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Quite alright, Nina. Thank you,” Aziraphale reassured her.
Nina glared at Crowley as if to threaten him with bodily harm if he dared hurt Aziraphale. When Crowley raised his hands in exasperated surrender, she retreated behind the counter.
This would teach him to get out of bed in the morning, Crowley thought sullenly.
When he was sure he had Crowley’s attention, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I have minimal experience in writing lyrics,” he said, all business now. “But I am a bit of a writer.”
“What does that mean?”
“I do ghostwriting, mainly. And some original work too.”
“Like what?”
“Poetry. Novels… that sort of thing,” he explained, before adding: “Not very successfully, to be fair.”
He seemed embarrassed, almost afraid he was going to be judged for it. He clearly had no idea that the only thing Crowley was doing successfully these days was being a certified loser.
And it wasn’t– Well, it wasn’t terrible to have someone look at him like he was a regular arsehole as opposed to a monumentally pathetic one. After such a long drought, the unexpected spark of self-esteem went straight to Crowley’s head, because the next thing he did was not thanking Aziraphale for his time so he could go back to rot in the depressing sanctity of his studio flat.
“What did Maggie say to you?”
Aziraphale shrugged and took a sip of his chamomile. “That you were having some issues with your lyrics.”
“And…?” How had Maggie even found him if he didn’t have any past experience? Crowley vaguely knew she had other clients, jingle writers, local artists and some such, but he still couldn’t see how Aziraphale fit into it.
“She made me listen to some of your, er, excerpts, and I offered–”
“You offered?” he squawked.
“Yes, I mean… some of them were quite intriguing, and I felt inspired, so to speak.” Aziraphale fussed with his cup. “It’s not my preferred genre, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Which would be… what? Chamber music?” Church choirs? White noise? Celestial harmonies?
“I like classical music, yes,” Aziraphale confirmed with a little smile. “The more temperamental the composer the better. I also don’t mind something more modern, like jazz. But none of that be-bop nonsense.”
The disdain Aziraphale had managed to infuse into the word be-bop made Crowley chuckle. “What do you know about rock?” he asked, trying to block out the fact that he was actually interviewing this guy. Granted, out of a strange sense of fascination more than an actual interest in hiring him as his lyricist (had Maggie even talked to him about compensation?), but still…
“Not much, really,” Aziraphale admitted candidly. “I listened to some of your previous work, though. To make sure the lyrics sounded like you.”
For the first time since the man had sat down in front of him, Crowley was the one to avert his eyes, feigning a sudden interest in a random menu board on the wall. It was a stupid reaction, no doubt about that, but the idea that this stranger had listened to his music made his skin prickle with anxiety.
Crowley writhed in his seat, pretending he was just trying to find a more comfortable position (great practice for that haemorrhoid ointment ad he would soon be forced to star in if he didn’t want to actually go bankrupt).
“Did you–” Crowley began and stopped, horrified by how shrill he’d just sounded. “Ngk. What did you think?”
“As I said, rock isn’t really my genre,” Aziraphale said. “It was…”
Awful? Pathetic? Rubbish? A crime against his saintly ears?
Crowley was barely breathing. Why did he even care about what this literal stranger thought of his music?
“...very angry,” Aziraphale said. “But kind of philosophical and hopeful at the same time. And sensual too, of course. Also unexpectedly romantic at times.”
Crowley, who was side-eyeing the man in an attempt to look nonchalant, whipped his head towards him. “Romantic?” he groused, as if Aziraphale had just disrespected his entire lineage (actually, he was quite welcome to do that. Crowley couldn’t stand those wankers).
Aziraphale gave him a little bashful smile. “Yes, that’s the impression I got.”
“There’s no romance in my music,” Crowley protested.
“There’s quite a lot of yearning though. Longing too.”
“Yeah, for sex . It’s horny, not romantic.”
Aziraphale arched his eyebrows and shrugged again. “Yearning for connection seems… quite romantic to me.”
Crowley scoffed. “Says the man who wrote a song about sucking dick.”
This made Aziraphale bristle and blush in equal measure. “To be quite honest with you, I’m starting to regret it.”
“Why? ‘S good,” Crowley said in a sudden bout of sincerity.
Aziraphale’s frown was quickly replaced by a beaming smile. “Is it really?”
“Y-yeah,” came Crowley’s startled reply. The gratitude radiating from the man was… kind of unnerving.
“Oh, thank you. I’m really glad you liked it,” Aziraphale said, chuckling a little.
Crowley grumbled something in response, embarrassed by his own embarrassment at being thanked for something as trivial as a compliment. Besides, he hadn’t even meant it like that. It was a simple fact. The lyrics were good. The music, though? Not so much.
That particular thought sobered him up real quick.
Yes, he liked the lyrics, but he didn’t even have a complete song to pair them with. Just a verse and a chorus. And even if he did, what was he supposed to do? One song would hardly resurrect his career, would it? And he certainly couldn’t work with a man he didn’t know – a man he clearly had nothing whatsoever in common with – when he could barely get out of bed in the morning, no matter how peculiar and interesting Aziraphale seemed.
He just couldn’t.
Exhaustion washed over him, the air suddenly thicker and harder to breathe.
“Listen,” Crowley began, making a show of being quite taken with his empty coffee cup. “I don’t know what Maggie told you, but I can’t exactly hire anyone at the moment. Besides, I’m not in the right headspace to work on anything. Honestly, I’m starting to think I may never work on music again, so…” He shrugged as if it was no big deal, because it wasn’t. He’d had months – years – to come to terms with it and it was fine . Completely fine. He’d had a good run, and five solo records weren’t that bad of a legacy.
Aziraphale pursed his lips in a little pout. “Oh.”
He’d sounded very disappointed, which was a relief. Disappointed was miles better than grateful. Disappointment Crowley could deal with, he was used to it, but gratitude? Nope, no way.
“Sorry,” he muttered, surprised to find that, for once, he really meant it.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. “Maggie told me it was a long shot anyway. It’s just a shame about that nice cottage on the Isle of Skye,” he said with a wistful sigh, heedless of Crowley’s confusion. “I was sort of looking forward to it.”
Well, Aziraphale had certainly lost him there.
“Wot?”
“It’s just that it’s been such a long time since I could afford to take a vacation,” Aziraphale explained, or at least he thought that’s what he was doing. “It’s one of the main reasons I said yes.”
“What are you on about?” What cottage? And what had the Isle of Skye got to do with any of this?
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “Maggie said we’d be going to Scotland to work on your music…?” he said, letting his voice trail off.
“No, she didn’t.” Were they even talking about the same Maggie?
Aziraphale huffed, slightly irritated now. “Yes, she did. She said she’d take care of all travel and accommodation expenses. She even sent me pictures.”
He fished an ancient smartphone out of his coat pocket and clumsily tapped his finger (yes, singular) on the screen until he found what he was looking for. When he did, he turned the phone towards Crowley. And, sure enough, there was a picture of a lonely cottage in what definitely looked like Scotland.
“She said a client of hers had agreed to put it at your disposal,” Aziraphale added warily. “Did you really not know anything?”
Crowley tore his eyes from the picture, mind still reeling from the preposterous idea that he’d somehow agree to a Scottish getaway with a complete stranger, and to write new music no less.
“Oh, she is way out of order,” he hissed, indignation simmering under his skin.
“Well,” Aziraphale chimed in. “She seemed worried about you, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I do mind it, thank you very much.” He was quite welcome to mind his own blasted business.
Aziraphale snorted. “Either way, no harm done. You said no, and I’m saying goodbye to you and my free vacation. It’s tickety-boo!”
Crowley stopped what he was doing – taking out his phone to call Maggie so he could tear her a new one and possibly fire her – and glared at him. “It’s definitely something.” He wouldn’t know about tickety-boo, specifically.
There was no way, absolutely no way, he was going to Scotland to write songs with a human cappuccino in a bow tie.
None at all.
And if the following Monday found him grumpily slumped on a train headed to Edinburgh, while Aziraphale sat in front of him reading a book… well.
No one was less surprised than Crowley himself.
Chapter 2: Two
Summary:
Upon their arrival on the Isle of Skye, Crowley does his best impression of a cactus (he's very good at it). While Aziraphale is anything but impressed, he tries to help and his unsolicited advice gets turned against him...
Notes:
Hello! 💜 First of all, thank you so much for all your nice comments on the first chapter! I don't think I've ever gotten such a warm welcome before, I'm very grateful.
Here's the second chapter, where our boys arrive at their destination and do what they do best (being mistaken for an old married couple).
CWs for this chapter: none. I'll just take the opportunity to remind everyone that Crowley *is* going through a rough patch, but would never even think about hurting himself. (Also, Aziraphale watches too many detective shows.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After an entire day spent travelling with one Anthony J. Crowley, Aziraphale Eastgate was strongly reconsidering how in need of that long-awaited vacation he really was. Early signs suggested that he would soon need a vacation from the vacation.
Yes, the view all around him was simply breathtaking. Skye was a moody riot of dark greens, and browns and blues magnificently gilded by the last rays of the setting sun. The air was crisp yet pleasant, with the wind carrying the briny smell of the glittering sea in the distance, as well as the heather and the rich, dark soil stretching all around the cottage, a lovely renovated building with white walls and a pitched roof of charcoal grey tiles.
It was oh so easy to picture himself taking long walks down the winding, desolate paths, stopping here and there to read a handful of pages from one of the many books he’d brought with him (all Scotland-related, of course) and letting his silly fantasies run wild, maybe plot a new novel about a red-headed Scottish fellow and his tormented relationship with a refined, blonde-haired Englishman. Given the right circumstances, he might even fit in a little light brooding (Aziraphale wasn’t usually one to brood, but it did seem like the right thing to do while in Scotland).
Yes, it sounded perfect.
On paper.
Except Aziraphale wasn’t alone in this blissful, moody, romanticist heaven, and whatever energy he’d used to block this particular piece of information from manifesting in his mind – first on the train from King’s Cross to Edinburgh, then on the one from Edinburgh to Inverness, and again on the coach from Inverness to Skye – was starting to wear dangerously thin.
On account of, amongst other things, that rumbling, gnashing background noise that had been Aziraphale’s trusty travel companion throughout the entire journey. A never ending string of muttered curses and expletives, random consonants and grunts that had been droning in his ears for hours.
As far as travel soundtracks went, Aziraphale found it to be forgettable at best, terribly vexing at worst. Which was ironic considering that the source of that constant, relentless muttering was – had been? – a Mercury Prize-winning rockstar.
Sure, rock was not and would never be Aziraphale’s genre of choice, but even he could recognise the merits of a good rock song when he heard one, and this? This was most definitely not it.
If he had to find a silver lining in all of this – which was no easy feat at this point – Aziraphale would reluctantly admit that the man’s relentlessness was quite remarkable, commendable even, were it not applied to being an utter nuisance. Too bad they didn’t dole out prizes for that, or Crowley would have definitely won one, considering his muttering had never ceased. Not even for a second, not even when he’d been asleep.
In fact, during their twelve-hour long journey, Crowley had complained so much and so often that Aziraphale had frequently wondered whether he was just all talk or if he’d actually be capable of doing something rash. On their way to Edinburgh, for example, Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised to look up from his book, take a peek out the window and see Crowley just randomly jumping off the moving train.
Aziraphale wasn’t proud of it, and he certainly wouldn’t confess to it to a living soul, but he had reason to believe that if he hadn’t been too absorbed in his novel to commit grievous bodily harm, he would have thrown the man over himself just to get a little bit of reprieve.
Even now, as the young woman who had driven them to the cottage was unloading their luggage with Aziraphale’s help, Crowley was still complaining about… well, everything. The cold, the young woman’s ‘sorry excuse for a car’ (his words, not Aziraphale’s), Aziraphale’s many unnecessary suitcases compared to his tiny black carry-on (which looked extremely sleek and expensive, as well as suspiciously light for a month-long trip), the seagulls, the sky, about Aziraphale being ‘too bright’ (whatever that meant), the humidity, the cottage being so secluded – which, according to Crowley, made it the perfect spot for a gruesome murder.
“Don’t go giving me any ideas,” Aziraphale whispered under his breath. He could feel the kind smile he’d plastered on his face for the young woman’s sake finally turning sour.
Luckily, she didn’t seem scandalised by his foray into fantasy crime. “I’d be grateful if you could refrain from killing your husband inside the cottage. It’d be a bitch to clean, and Shax… let’s just say we would never hear the end of it,” she said to Aziraphale as she closed the boot of the car. “If you do it outside, though, I’ll help you dispose of the body. Come to The Quarry and ask for Pepper.”
Aziraphale was just about to tell her that Anthony J. Crowley was not his husband (and thank God for that or he’d have to say goodbye to peaceful train journeys, and he did so love the train), when a squawk made them both swivel their heads to Crowley, who was haphazardly slumped on the wooden bench next to the front door, his face scrunched up in pure, undiluted affront.
If the last twelve hours had taught Aziraphale anything, it was to recognise the tell-tale signs of Crowley finding something else to whine about.
“You didn’t tell me your husband would be joining us,” Crowley hissed, pronouncing the word husband like he would a curse.
It was impossible to tell if he really thought Aziraphale had a surprise husband he’d asked to tag along without consulting Crowley first, or if he was merely jumping at the opportunity to complain some more.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid the husband in question is you,” he said, before turning to tip Pepper, who was quite understandably itching to leave.
“The ol’ ball and chain,” Pepper quipped as she pocketed the money.
Aziraphale chuckled. Talk about preposterous ideas! The thought of being married was already quite ridiculous on its own (Aziraphale could hardly see himself sharing his space with another person for so long), add Crowley to the mix and it became almost comical.
Aziraphale Eastgate, married to such an insufferable individual. A lanky man with slinky hips, a preference for tight black clothes, sunglasses even when the sun wasn’t shining and a face tattoo. A man who, during their journey, had not been able to bring himself to make even a whiff of polite chit-chat – with Aziraphale or anyone else – but had somehow found the time to make multiple visits to the loo just to style his hair, which was now so full of product it could probably withstand a hurricane. A man whose fancy suitcase – if Aziraphale had guessed correctly, and he was sure he had – contained more hair products than garments. At this point, he would not have been surprised to discover that Crowley had packed a styling iron but not a proper overcoat.
A little something called intellectual honesty (as if he didn’t have his hands full with nuisances already!) could have probably compelled Aziraphale to admit that the man was also strikingly handsome, in a prickly sort of way, and that he’d caught himself checking him out more than once. But was a sight for sore eyes worth having sore ears?
Crowley watched with contempt as Pepper climbed in her car and backed out of the driveway as if the devil was on her tail. Then he turned to aim his displeasure at Aziraphale, who was busy juggling his many bags, all mismatched and in varying states of disrepair (but still perfectly serviceable, despite Crowley’s biting remarks about them).
Crowley didn’t volunteer to help, just as he hadn’t every other time Aziraphale had had to move them from one means of transport to another.
Well, alright. To be fair Crowley had offered to help exactly once, but he’d also been complaining quite loudly about Aziraphale having no sense of space optimization, which in turn had pushed Aziraphale to claim, and multiple times at that, that he was entirely capable of taking care of them himself.
Now, if Crowley’s focused attention and constant squirming were anything to go by, he seemed to be looking forward to seeing Aziraphale struggle, perhaps hoping to prove the previously mentioned claims as unfounded. (A little voice inside Aziraphale’s head dared to suggest that if only he’d admitted that he’d gone a little overboard with his packing, Crowley would have personally taken all of his bags inside – complaining the whole time, of course, but he’d do it.)
“Just so we’re clear,” Crowley snarled when Aziraphale’s luggage had finally been moved near the front stoop, “I wouldn’t marry you even if you were the last person on Earth.” Only then did he get up from the bench to retrieve his carry-on, which looked like something a spy would pack for a weekend of murder and gravity-defying acrobatics.
“Well, that’s a relief.” The snark he heard in his own voice made Aziraphale flinch. He would not give the man the satisfaction of turning him into a sourpuss!
The few words they had exchanged on their way to Skye had done little to enlighten Aziraphale as to how Maggie had finally managed to sell Crowley on this trip to Scotland. And yet, the fact that they were still virtually strangers didn’t stop Aziraphale from being one hundred percent certain that Crowley had somehow decided to push all of his buttons and then some to get him to bail out first, so he could go back to London with a clean conscience.
Yes, if nothing else, it was quite clear that the man had several issues to sort out.
Crowley pouted as he fished a bunch of keys out of his pocket to open the door, which just about proved that he’d dallied outside just to annoy Aziraphale and relish in his clumsiness (or perhaps wait for him to cave, the little, nagging voice suggested again).
“Aw, why? Mr. Bow Tie doesn’t like bad boys?”
Oh, but he really was insufferable.
“I’m quite sure there’s an age limit to the concept of bad boys,” Aziraphale replied tartly, because having issues was no justification for bad manners. “Past a certain age, they’re just cranky old men, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine with me,” Crowley retorted, unbothered (or at least no more bothered than usual). “‘S not like I ever wanted to marry a foam-rubber mattress of a man anyway.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to issue a scathing retort, but in the end he decided that it just wasn’t worth it. He staunchly refused to stoop to Crowley’s level. The man’s dedication to being an intolerable man-child had nothing to do with him.
So he gathered the dregs of his patience and followed Crowley inside the cottage, which was more modern and luxurious than the outside initially led to believe.
“With a mouth like that, I’m surprised you need help with your lyrics.”
Very well. He could allow himself one small step down, he reasoned with himself. There were many more to go before he would catch up to Crowley anyway.
“Shut up. We both know you’re here to scrounge a vacation off me,” Crowley barked as he disappeared down the hallway, rolling his suitcase around like a drunken bee who had lost its way and was getting increasingly alarmed about it.
The rolling stopped all of a sudden.
“Look! Tartan couches!” Crowley cried out. “For a second there I thought there were more of you.”
Aziraphale tried to grab all of his bags at once, failed, then scrambled to go after Crowley while clumsily holding three, two in each hand and one under his left arm. (Maybe practicality wasn’t his forte, but you certainly couldn’t expect him to survive an entire month without his comforts, alright?)
“I’m not scrounging anything!” he pointed out as he took a left and entered the living room only to stop with a start.
Even he was surprised to see two modern-looking, beige tartan couches and one matching armchair. Aziraphale was also not happy to report that his luggage fit the colour scheme to a T.
“You’re paying me for my services,” he added hastily, tearing his eyes away from the unfortunate choice of décor.
Crowley came to a stop on his way to the next room and turned to look at Aziraphale, who was standing between the couches and struggling to prevent the bag tucked under his arm from slipping from his grasp.
“Yep,” Crowley said, obnoxiously popping the ‘p’. “There’s four of you now. Can you think of a less appealing family reunion?” With his hip cocked and his lips curling up on one side, Crowley was oozing self-satisfaction.
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. He really didn’t care for rudeness. Or poor attempts at ruffling his feathers. Or sexy rascals.
“Yes, I can. It involves you and three coat racks. Black, of course. Though I’m expecting at least some manners from them.”
An undecipherable emotion flickered across Crowley’s face. Shame? Surprise? Pride? Amusement? Aziraphale couldn’t decide, and the sunglasses weren’t helping. It lasted only a second, then Crowley reverted to his abrasive self.
“You know what? ‘S fine! You’ll do your thing and I’ll do mine!” he shouted, dashing to the next room.
Aziraphale made to follow him, but he was forced to stay back when one of his bags suddenly plopped to the floor. It took him a second to realise that it wasn’t the one he still held under his arm, but the suitcase in his left hand, and that he technically hadn’t dropped it. No, the handle was still in his hand, only it wasn’t attached to the rest of it anymore.
“Oh, bother.”
“Bagsy bedroom!” came Crowley’s triumphant voice from somewhere in the cottage.
Exasperation finally got the better of Aziraphale, pushing him to abandon his luggage and go look for Crowley. It was becoming abundantly clear that the man couldn’t be trusted on his own.
Sure enough, Crowley was in the bedroom, a spacious room with a king-sized bed and a bathtub right in front of it. In what was possibly a bid to claim the room as his own, Crowley was already gleefully hanging all of his three garments in the wardrobe.
Aziraphale had never seen him so bouncy, which would have been a nice change of pace had he not had an inkling of what could have possibly put Crowley in such a good mood all of a sudden.
“Surely, there must be another one…” Aziraphale mumbled as he left Crowley to his devices, determined to explore the rest of the cottage to find the second bedroom.
On the other side of the entrance hallway, he found a fully stocked kitchen, a wine cellar, the laundry, the little recording studio Maggie had mentioned in passing, a large bathroom and an attic crammed with bits and bobs (quite a lot of antlers, for some reason), but nothing that could pass for a second bedroom.
Resigned, Aziraphale went back to the living room, throwing a disconsolate look at the suitcase handle he was still holding in his hand. Things were not coming up roses…
Crowley was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug grin on his lips.
“Seems like you’re gonna have to sleep on one of those couches,” he gloated. “Feels almost incestuous, if you ask me. Cannibalistic. Couch on couch action.”
Aziraphale grimaced, but made a valiant effort to come across as unruffled. “You’re intolerable.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Crowley said, grin turning positively devilish. “I’m just getting started.”
Crowley hovered around in order, apparently, to get some more taunting out of his system as Aziraphale laboriously arranged his luggage in the more secluded corner of the living room and borrowed everything he needed from the linen cupboard to turn the biggest couch into a makeshift bed.
As soon as Crowley got tired of teasing him – which took longer than Aziraphale would have liked (if he could apply his relentlessness to creating new music, he’d become the Stephen King of the rocking world) – he locked himself in his bedroom to do only God knew what.
Aziraphale didn’t see him at dinner that night, which was a shame.
You see, ungenerous as it may have been, he was really counting on Crowley to show up and see the delicious meal Aziraphale had prepared for himself using the supplies he’d found in the kitchen. In the little fantasy he’d concocted, Crowley would then turn green with envy and realise he’d been acting like an out-and-out scoundrel. At that point, Aziraphale would reveal that he’d actually made enough for two, magnanimously offering it to Crowley, thus taking the first step towards an eventual truce.
But, alas, Aziraphale was left to enjoy his dinner in peace with only his copy of Outlander to keep him company, while Crowley’s share of the meal lay unclaimed in the fridge.
The next morning, Crowley was still nowhere to be seen. After a breakfast of tea and shortbread, Aziraphale lingered in the kitchen, waiting to see if the man would come out of hiding. Despite what that demon might think of his motivations, Aziraphale was there to work and he wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon. He was a professional, after all.
When it finally became clear that Crowley wouldn’t show his face, Aziraphale decided to make the most of his day by exploring their immediate surroundings and the village nearby.
He took a long, leisurely stroll into town, and had lunch in a very nice restaurant overlooking the stormy grey sea. He then located The Quarry, the pub Pepper had mentioned, and visited a second-hand clothing store run by a young man named Warlock. After that, he made a stop at a bakery to buy fresh pastries and bread, and another one at the cutest little bookstore set inside an old fishing boat. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t buy anything, but by the time he said goodbye to Muriel and set out for the cottage, he was the not-entirely-proud owner of two new books: a second-hand volume about the legends of the island and a collection of love poems written by a local woman.
That evening, Aziraphale dined alone for the second day in a row.
Unlike someone else (not naming any names), he had no intention of complaining about being granted some peace and quiet. Aside from the awkwardness of being shunned by the man who had supposedly hired him to write for him, Aziraphale didn’t mind it all that much.
Since he didn’t feel like cooking, or even particularly peckish (truth be told, only a few pastries had made it home), he grilled a slice of bread with butter and herbs, and tried the black pudding he’d found in the pantry, washing it all down with more tea.
When he went to the loo to take a quick shower and prepare for bed, he searched the room for any sign of Crowley’s presence, and was stunned to realise there weren’t any. Not a trace of the many hair products he was sure Crowley had brought along, no fancy shampoo in the shower, not even a toothbrush next to his.
That thought gave Aziraphale pause, making him blush in its absolute foolishness.
Was he really expecting to see their toothbrushes just standing there, side by side? As if they knew each other? As if they were friends? Why, they were barely acquaintances! Reluctant colleagues more than anything else.
Aziraphale shook his head, letting those silly musings scatter away, and he threw a reproachful look at his own reflection. There was a teeny-tiny chance that he’d let this whole idea of taking a vacation with a handsome stranger go to his head. Aziraphale was a writer after all, he couldn’t help but collect tropes and weave storylines in his everyday life. This was a good reminder that fantasy and reality were two very different, frequently non-communicating domains.
Besides, he’d already established that he wouldn’t complain about any of this. Beggars can’t be choosers, as the saying goes. So the handsome man had turned out to be a cantankerous grouch. No harm done, really. Aziraphale had been dying for a change of scenery, far from the hustle and bustle of London, and this was exactly what he needed, what he’d longed for. Peace and quiet with a beautiful view. What more could he ask for?
Somewhat comforted by the soundness of his reasoning, he went to bed thinking he’d promptly fall asleep as he’d done the night before, except this time he wasn’t as tired and the couch didn’t seem all that comfy anymore. So he read for a while, then tossed and turned, trying not to focus too intently on the eerie noises coming from the windows – the howling of the wind, the rustling on the moors, the roaring of the sea…
All of a sudden, the cottage felt too spooky for his tastes, and his thoughts took a dramatic turn. What if Crowley had waited for him to go out so he could leave the cottage and the island without being noticed?
But no, that didn’t make any sense. Why go to all the trouble of travelling to Scotland only to return home the next day? Would the man really go to such lengths only to spite him? Aziraphale was inclined to say yes, but it still seemed too elaborate a ruse for such a disappointing outcome.
Then another, scarier thought popped into Aziraphale’s head unbidden. What if something had happened to Crowley? Maggie hadn’t said anything specific about him, only that he was going through a rough patch. But what if he was worse off than Maggie thought? Were rockstars as volatile and impulsive as people said they were? (I mean, that face tattoo sort of spoke for itself…)
Aziraphale stared at the ceiling with wide eyes as his mind presented him with a collection of increasingly bleaker explanations. At one point, he got up to go to the kitchen, where he made sure all knives were accounted for. He also went to check the wine cellar for good measure. The shelves were still fully stocked, no empty spots between the bottles, the thin film of dust covering them still untouched and undisturbed.
Giving himself a pat on the back for that clever observation regarding the dust (a Clue if he ever saw one), Aziraphale spent some time reading the labels of fancy wines and whiskeys before remembering why he’d gone down there in the first place.
Goodness, but he was easily distracted…
As he made his way back to the living room, he thought about taking a peek inside Crowley’s bedroom, just to make sure he was safe and sound. He came so far as to stop in front of his door, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Deep down Aziraphale knew he was overthinking it and that nothing was afoot. No, Crowley was just avoiding him because he clearly didn’t want to be there. Simple as that. There was no reason to go concocting such outlandish scenarios, he decided.
Keeping that firmly in mind, Aziraphale went back to bed, and after some more tossing and turning he finally fell asleep.
The next morning Aziraphale was sitting at the kitchen table, working on his computer, when a noise startled him in his seat.
He turned to see Crowley trudging into the room, wearing black sweatpants and a somewhat satanically-themed faded t-shirt with Black Sabbath written on it. His look could only be described as dishevelled. The stubble on his cheeks seemed well on its way to become a proper beard, and his hair was all stiff and mussed-up.
Aziraphale knew that he ought to feel at least some sense of relief at seeing the man out and about, but he couldn’t help but notice how scruffy he looked, how different from the Crowley he’d met at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death.
True, the man had behaved just as poorly during their first meeting at Nina’s coffee shop, but Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he’d been well-dressed and put-together.
At the moment, he also had the sneaking suspicion that if he could see Crowley’s eyes – still hidden behind his sunglasses – relief would be the very last thing to wash over him.
“I’m back,” Crowley croaked.
“Yes, I can see that.” Aziraphale removed his reading glasses to take a better look at him, then bit his tongue to stop himself from asking Crowley if he was alright. He clearly wasn’t. “There’s coffee in the last cupboard on the right,” he said instead.
Crowley muttered something unintelligible (Aziraphale wouldn’t go so far as to interpret it as a thank you) and proceeded to prepare himself some coffee. When he was done, he leaned against the counter to sip his drink, eyes supposedly aimed at Aziraphale.
“What is that?” Crowley asked, nodding towards Aziraphale’s laptop.
Aziraphale frowned. “It’s a portable computer, of course.” What a ridiculous question.
Crowley made a face. “Did you steal it from a museum?”
Well, he certainly hadn’t lost his sharp tongue, Aziraphale reasoned, so he must not be feeling that poorly after all.
“It’s still perfectly functional,” Aziraphale replied with a little sniff.
“Yeah, I’m sure it is… if you still send your mail via carrier pigeon.”
“I personally don’t subscribe to the idea that new is always better, as consumerism would lead us to believe. As a matter of fact, consumerism is nothing less than a con, and I want no part of it,” Aziraphale explained primly. “Do you know what planned obsolescence is?”
Crowley scrunched his face in mock sympathy. “The term scientists have come up with to describe your puberty?”
Aziraphale gaped at him for far longer than he’d have liked, his brain struggling to process such an insolent remark. And when he did manage to recover, he was equally startled by the pointedness of his own reply.
“I think I liked you better when you were asleep.”
Crowley’s sudden laugh caught Aziraphale off guard. “Is that how you like your men then? Horizontal and unresponsive?”
“I like my men mild and well-mannered.” Aziraphale had no idea why he’d said it. It wasn’t even remotely true.
“Boring.”
“Boring is good. Safe.”
“Boring is boring,” Crowley retorted, as he slipped a hand under his satanic t-shirt to idly scratch at his chest.
The lazy gesture had the unexpected result of making Aziraphale aware of a couple of things that he hadn’t initially acknowledged. Namely, the tattoos covering Crowley’s half-naked arms and peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. Having googled the man (for purely professional reasons, it goes without saying), Aziraphale knew Crowley’s torso was also covered in them. He remembered a raven, vines, a surprising amount of flowers, and a big snake coiling around his shoulders.
It would have been easier to remember how crossed he was supposed to be right now had his eyes not wandered to whatever Crowley’s hand was currently doing under his t-shirt, his traitorous mind trying to remember which tattoo was located where.
With slightly more effort than Aziraphale would have deemed ideal, he finally managed to tear his gaze away and put his glasses back on, focus shifting to his computer. Having spent fifty-one years as a fussy introvert on this planet, Aziraphale had got ‘ignoring annoying people’ down to a fine art. How hard could it be to ignore one more?
“What you doing?” Crowley piped up again.
“Writing,” Aziraphale replied tartly.
“Writing what?”
“A memoir.”
“Yours? What is it, three pages long?”
“Oh, shush!”
Alright, fine. Aziraphale wasn’t too proud to admit that this ignoring thing wasn’t going so swimmingly, but he’d make it work. So he grabbed the open notebook lying next to his computer and flicked through it just to have something to do with his hands.
“I told you I’m a ghostwriter,” he continued, voice as neutral as possible. “It’s the story of a medium who doubled as a dominatrix.”
“Oooh, is it saucy then?”
“It’s a memoir, not erotica,” Aziraphale scoffed. “It’s not supposed to be saucy .” Only it was very saucy. Madame Tracy was not one to mince her words when it came to her professional exploits.
Crowley took a sip of his coffee and sucked his teeth. “What would you know about erotica?”
“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly… a little too quickly. He regretted it immediately.
Crowley didn’t miss it, of course, nor the blush that Aziraphale could feel inexorably creeping up his cheeks.
“Satan have mercy, you write erotica, don’t you?” Crowley asked, sounding very pleased with himself.
Aziraphale kept thumbing through his notes for absolutely no reason at all. “You’re more than welcome to shut up now.”
“Should have led with that the other day, I’d have hired you on the spot.”
“Liar.”
“Oh, come on. Would I lie to you?”
Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from glaring at him. “I don’t even know you.”
“Yet you came all this way to spend a whole month with me.”
“I came here to work with you and spend time by myself.”
“And now you’re two-timing me with a dominatrix.” Was he pouting?
“A former dominatrix,” Aziraphale inexplicably felt the need to point out, as if that changed anything. “Also, if you’re ready to work on something, I’ll gladly drop everything and assist you.”
Crowley’s face fell. “I don’t need you to assist me,” he hissed, seemingly offended by the implication.
Aziraphale chanced another glance at him over the rim of his spectacles. “So why did you agree to this?”
“I didn’t,” Crowley muttered. He straightened his back and gulped down his coffee, clearly ready to flee. “I just stopped resisting.”
His voice was brimming with so much dejection that Aziraphale found himself incapable of holding onto his irritation any longer. Yes, the man was undeniably rude, and yes, he clearly didn’t want anything to do with Aziraphale, but he still was a human being and he was quite obviously going through something. And while Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around how Crowley was feeling (what did he know about rockstars after all?), he could definitely extend his sympathies to him.
“You know,” Aziraphale began gingerly, “when I get writer’s block, rather than pushing myself to write, I go out and look for inspiration.”
“Nyeah, good for you,” Crowley snarled and turned his back to him to wash his mug in the sink, which happened to be filled with the spoils of Aziraphale’s past meals. “Could have looked for inspiration while you washed the dishes. Ugh. Look at this mess.”
Aziraphale pretended he hadn’t heard him, and was grateful Crowley couldn’t see how red he’d just turned. You could say that chores weren’t exactly his cup of tea.
He cleared his throat. “So… Where do you get your inspiration from?”
“If I had any inspiration I wouldn’t be here washing a stranger’s dishes, would I?” Crowley barked over his shoulder.
If Aziraphale still had any doubts about why Crowley was acting this way, they were swiftly quashed by the venom sizzling in his tired voice. Crowley was angry, scared, helpless. Which, again, didn’t excuse the rudeness, or even explain it (honestly, all that fuss for some cups and plates…), but it did offer Aziraphale some insight.
Before their meeting at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, Aziraphale had had no idea who Anthony J. Crowley was. Maybe he’d always been rude and cantankerous, Aziraphale had no way to know for sure. But he could recognise fear when he saw it.
“Very well. So where did you get your inspiration from?” he amended, much to Crowley’s annoyance.
“Why do you care?” he spat, turning off the tap to grab a tea towel. Apparently, relentlessness wasn’t Crowley’s only secret power – the man was also obsessed with tidiness.
“I’m just making conversation,” Aziraphale said haughtily. “It’s that thing where two or more people talk to each other to exchange information,” he added, voice as dry as the plates Crowley was putting away. “I ask a question and you give me an answer. Then you do the same. I can show you the ropes, if you like.”
Crowley whipped around to look at him. “You think you’re being clever, don’t you?”
“I don’t know about clever, I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“You could start by shutting your blessed mouth.”
“Can’t make conversation with my mouth shut, now, can I?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.” They were finally getting somewhere. “So, where did you get your inspiration from?” See? No one said they couldn’t both be mulish.
Crowley rolled his eyes and shrugged, looking for all the world like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Lots of things,” he drawled as he kept tidying up the kitchen in a fit of annoyance. “My life. What was going on in the world. Books, movies… My dreams, sometimes. Other people’s music.”
Aziraphale perked up. “Oh, what kind of books?”
Crowley stopped scrubbing the counter to scoff. “Your erotica novels.”
“They’re actually novellas, you know.”
“I just skimmed them,” he lied.
“Well, I brought some books with me. A whole bag of them, to be precise. You’re more than welcome to borrow them as long as you promise to handle them with care.”
Crowley let out a sound that, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, barely qualified as human. “I’m not going to read your stupid books,” he spat, as if Aziraphale had just suggested he took a stroll into town, stark naked and with bells hanging on his privates.
“Why don’t you listen to some music, then?” Aziraphale pressed on, because it was much better than thinking about Crowley’s privates jingling in the wind. He knew the man made music, but that seemed a bit much.
“Don’t tell me you have a dusty gramophone in one of those battered old bags of yours…”
“I wish, but no.” It was safe and sound at home. “I thought I saw an audio system in the living room though? Under the tv?”
Crowley didn’t deign to answer, and as soon as he was done cleaning the kitchen (doing a remarkable job at that), he turned around and left.
Aziraphale sighed and let his shoulders fall. Well… at least he’d given it a try. Oh, but he truly hoped Crowley wouldn’t go back into hiding. What was he doing in that bedroom all day? Had he even eaten anything in the past two days? Could he take care of himself or–
A harsh sound suddenly boomed all over the cottage, making Aziraphale jump from his seat in alarm. Someone was quite literally screaming at him to wake up, take a brush and put on a little make-up.
“Good Lord…” he whispered to himself, rushing to the living room to identify the source of such ear-splitting chaos.
Crowley was tinkering with his phone by the stereo, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Look!” he screamed over the music raging all around them. Aziraphale was certainly no expert, but it felt like the sound system was connected to the entire house, music coming at him from every direction. “You were right! I already feel more inspired!”
Aziraphale walked up to him to turn the volume down and bring some much needed relief to his poor ears. Was this what he deserved for trying to help the man?
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?” Aziraphale reprimanded him. If Crowley insisted on acting like a child, Aziraphale would treat him like one. On this note, he shot him a withering look and made to leave.
Crowley didn’t even wait for Aziraphale to walk away before turning the volume back up. “No.”
Aziraphale reached forward and turned it down again. Crowley thwarted his efforts immediately. They kept at it for some time, with the song alternately screaming and fading out around them, for way longer than any sane person would have deemed appropriate for two grown adults.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even a good song! Beethoven he could have lived with, but this? If he’d wanted Bible verses shouted at him, he’d still be going to mass every Sunday.
Aziraphale was the first to give up. “You’re a menace!” he cried out, hands clenched into fists by his sides.
“In need of inspiration ‘s what I am!” Crowley shouted at the top of his lungs. Judging by the grin on his lips, he was having the time of his life. “As you said!” Oh, he was practically gloating, the demon.
“Can’t you do it without all this racket?” Aziraphale could feel his eardrums begging for mercy.
“No!” Crowley flashed him a smile. “But you’re welcome to move that clunky piece of junk you were working on somewhere else!”
“I need power to use my computer!”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Aziraphale thought about moving the laptop with its bulky old charger and the taped extension cable that only worked if you angled it just right, and he knew he was done for. Considering it had taken him fifteen minutes just to set it all up in the kitchen, he had no hope of doing it again outside, provided he could find a functioning socket.
“You are terribly rude!”
“Thank you!”
“It’s not a compliment!”
“It is to me!”
“For Heaven’s sake, stop this hullabaloo!”
Crowley let out a laugh, equal parts demonic and joyful. “They’re actually called System of a Down!”
Aziraphale angrily pointed a finger at him. “You’re impossible!”
“Stop it! You’re making me blush!”
It was like arguing with a rubber wall. “Very well! Suit yourself!” he finally gave up and went back to the kitchen, resigning himself to work from there, at least for the time being.
Aziraphale closed the sliding glass doors, took out his phone, opened the Spotify account he never used (Maggie insisted they share it) and searched for some proper music. Then he turned up the volume and let Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 10 (the second movement) blare out. It wasn’t nearly enough to smother Crowley’s song, but it was something.
Crowley slid the doors open and peeked his head in the kitchen. “Look at us! Just two lonely men looking for inspiration!”
“Come back when you’re ready to write some music!” Aziraphale scolded him.
Crowley moved in time with the awful cacophony of screams and strings ringing around the kitchen and slowly retreated into the living room. Was he… dancing? “Sorry, too inspired to hear you!”
Aziraphale closed his eyes on a deep sigh.
Two days down, twenty-eight to go.
Notes:
I looked for cottages on Skye and the first one I found actually has beige tartan couches lol. I couldn't not include them.
The songs mentioned are:
- Chop Suey! by System of a Down
- Shostakovich's Symphony No. 10, 2nd Movement (Allegro) (with many grateful thanks to GaiasEyes for the great suggestion!)Prayer circle for Aziraphale's eardrums Y/Y?
Chapter 3: Three
Summary:
Crowley keeps it up with his acoustic warfare, but his thoughts are getting away from him. For his part, Aziraphale proves himself to be much tougher than he looks. A challenge is issued.
Notes:
Hello and happy Monday (I guess?) 💜
Back to Crowley's POV this week with more silliness! Thank you to all of you reading/kudosing/commenting as we go 💜
CWs: this chapter contains the *worst* of Crowley's dark humour. As I said before, he's a melodramatic bitch and the thought of hurting himself will never even cross his mind (he loves to torture himself in more creative, roundabout ways).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The only downside to tormenting Aziraphale, Crowley discovered, was that he couldn’t do it while remaining comfortably holed up in his bedroom. And with the blessed cottage practically being in the Middle of Nowhere, Scotland, there were no people around he could easily outsource his dirty work to.
No, short of delegating to a seagull, the true harbingers of Hell, Crowley was stuck doing all the heavy lifting himself.
Now, if he were to suddenly develop an appreciation for honesty (highly unlikely), Crowley would admit that, despite all of his many grievances, he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty all that much. In fact, he’d be straight up lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying himself to at least some degree.
There was something exhilarating about creeping out of his bedroom at the arse crack of dawn to drape himself over the armchair in the living room, connect his phone to the state of the art sound system Maggie’s client had splurged on and mercilessly blast Aziraphale with his song of choice for the day.
It was almost a shame, really. The man always looked so peaceful, all soft and bundled up on the tartan sofa, in a triumph of beige on beige on beige. With his lips gently parted, and that upturned nose perpetually stuck in the air giving him a haughty air even in his sleep.
The morning after Chop Suey!, Crowley went all out with Papa Roach’s Last Resort, which startled Aziraphale awake so forcefully he almost feared he’d give the man a heart attack.
Aziraphale sat bolt upright, pale blonde curls flattened on one side, hands flailing around, eyes first flaring in panic, then narrowing with understanding.
“You absolute demon!” he shouted to make himself heard over Jacoby Shaddix screaming all around them. “The sun’s not even up yet!”
Crowley propped a leg on the armrest, aiming for as insouciant as possible. “‘S never too early for inspiration!”
“Go back to bed!”
Oh, Aziraphale’s surrender was just around the corner, Crowley could practically taste it, sweet and delicious, on the tip of his tongue. “Do you know you have thirty minutes?” he said in a sing-songy voice.
“For what?”
“Thirty, thirty!”
“I said, for wh– you know what? Nevermind!” Aziraphale let out an exasperated grunt and frantically felt about the sofa cushions for his phone. “You’re going to regret this!”
Crowley had never been threatened by the real life version of an angry cherub in an altarpiece before, and now that he had he would hardly describe it as scary. The impression was further reinforced by Aziraphale’s threats turning out to be empty, as the man didn’t seem to be able to turn on his phone (of course Aziraphale was one of those ancient beings who still turned it off before bed). The man’s stubbornness valiantly outlasted his dignity before Aziraphale resigned himself to the fact that the battery was probably dead.
“Oh, bugger.”
“What was it going to be?” Crowley taunted him. “Mahler? Beethoven?”
Aziraphale huffed. “If you really must know, I was going to call the authorities!” He threw the covers to the side and stood up, gracing Crowley with an unobstructed view of his flannel pyjamas. Tartan, naturally. As were the old-fashioned slippers he hastily wore on his feet.
Crowley was suddenly overcome by the weird impression that something was out of place, and it took him a while to trace it back to the little V of naked skin on Aziraphale’s neck.
For the first time since they’d first seen each other, he wasn’t wearing a bow tie.
Which was a completely normal thing to notice, thank you very much.
Crowley cleared his throat and licked his lips. “To do what?”
“To report a nuisance!” Aziraphale shouted as he dutifully fluffed up the pillows and folded the sheets.
“Ha! That brings me back!” Crowley shouted, glad to be able to think about something other than naked necks and stupid bow ties. “That’s what my mom and dad did when they went to register my birth!”
This was a lie. The only thing his mom had done was unloading him to his grandpa, while his dad was so far out of the picture he might as well have not existed at all. Not that Crowley had any intention of sharing this particular piece of information with Aziraphale. At the cost of sounding like a dramatic bitch, he’d rather chew his own arm off.
As soon as he was finished tidying up the sofa, Aziraphale pulled on his dressing gown, regaled Crowley with a withering glare and quickly proceeded to stomp to the kitchen in a huff.
It suddenly occurred to Crowley that an angry cherub wasn’t the right image. No, the man was a close enough approximation of what Winnie the Pooh would look like after fifty, grueling years spent in a capitalistic society. The only thing Aziraphale was missing was a nightcap. Also, unlike his bear counterpart, he was unfortunately wearing trousers and, supposedly, pants.
(Unfortunately?)
“Where are you going?” Crowley called out, idly wondering if Aziraphale’s thighs were as plush as they seemed for absolutely no reason at all.
“To make myself some tea!” came the man’s angry response as he disappeared in the hallway and the kitchen beyond.
“I’ll take a coffee! Black, no sugar!”
“You can make it yourself, you beast!”
Crowley took his plan to send Aziraphale packing very, very seriously. So much so that he now spent the better part of his days carefully curating his Smash-Aziraphale’s-Eardrums playlist, which included all kinds of rock, punk and metal songs spanning seven decades. Papa Roach were followed by Death by Rock and Roll by The Pretty Reckless, Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution by AC/DC (Aziraphale had so much to say about the premise of the song, Crowley half-expected him to pull out a podium and improvise a whole bloody conference), Metallica’s Die, Die My Darling, and Heart’s Barracuda (“I really wish you were one!” Aziraphale cried out).
Naturally, Crowley wasn’t so unsophisticated as to put all of his eggs in one basket. He knew that if he really wanted to succeed, he needed to attack Aziraphale on multiple fronts. And while he still hadn’t found the courage to hit him when it would probably hurt most – namely, the books Aziraphale had strewn all over the cottage – he was doing his best to employ his demonic wiles in the kitchen, specifically the fridge, where poor, guileless, trusting Aziraphale always stored his leftovers.
As it turned out, they were both creatures of habit: Aziraphale unfailingly labelled the food containers as ‘Property of A.Z. Fell’, which wasn’t even his actual name, and Crowley just as systematically emptied them with gleeful abandon when their rightful owner was out for a stroll or fast asleep in the living room.
The man’s cooking was nothing to write home about, but no matter! It was the inherent pettiness of the affront that actually sustained Crowley, not the food itself. To the point that he was even willing to go against his every instinct by leaving the empty, dirty containers on the counter instead of washing them and putting them away, just so Aziraphale could find the smoking gun and pale at his undeniable wickedness.
The first time it happened, Aziraphale complained to him at length, chastising him for his disgraceful lack of manners, much to Crowley’s utter delight. But Aziraphale must have quickly realised that his reprimands weren’t achieving the desired effect, because he stopped scolding Crowley altogether and resorted to a silent protest instead, channelling his disdain in the labels he used to mark the containers, which were getting bigger by the day. At this rate, he’d soon have to find a way to cram a whole bloody billboard inside the fridge.
This went on for several days, until, on the morning of the ninth day, Crowley really believed that his hard work had finally paid off, that he’d finally broken down Aziraphale’s resistance, paving the way for himself to win this war of attrition he’d single-handedly started between them. (And no, that icy shiver that went through him at the thought wasn’t fear or, Satan forbid, disappointment.)
Aziraphale cracked his eyes open to the first bars of I Wanna Be Sedated by Ramones, but instead of cursing Crowley and leaping off the sofa as he usually did, he lay there in silence, hands primly folded on his chest and eyes staring up at the ceiling, like a man contemplating the meaning of life.
Midway through the song, Aziraphale reached a hand to the floor to pick up the notebook and pen he always kept close (if inspiration struck in the middle of the night, Crowley supposed). Then he put on his ridiculous reading glasses, flipped the pages to a blank one and started jotting down only Satan knew what.
Considering how polite and proper Aziraphale was, it was probably a handwritten confession to Crowley’s murder, so the nice police officers of the island wouldn’t have to rack their brains to solve the heinous crime. It went without saying that Aziraphale would probably be granted extenuating circumstances.
When the song ended and started back again (Crowley knew a thing or two about infernal loops, after all), Aziraphale held up his notebook, which simply read: ‘6’.
“Six?” With any luck (definitely luck), it was the time his coach left for Inverness that afternoon.
“Out of ten!” Aziraphale screamed, but seemed otherwise unbothered as he slowly got back on his feet to start his day after Crowley’s rude wake-up call. “Good tempo, sloppy lyrics!” he clarified.
Crowley, who was already dreading– no, savouring the moment Aziraphale would announce his immediate departure for the mainland, lost his train of thought and let out an indignant croak. “Are you calling the Ramones sloppy?!” he screeched.
“As a matter of fact, I am!” Aziraphale confirmed. It was so weird to see him shout while acting so chill. Did Crowley break him? Like… in a non-metaphorical way? “They are quite repetitive, and the last part? With that unpleasant ba-bam business? Now, that’s just lazy writing!”
Crowley gaped at him. “You’re such a pompous prick!”
“Doesn’t make me any less right!” Aziraphale retorted on his way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
The Ramones were still playing when Aziraphale came back to the living room to hand Crowley his coffee, which was quite suspicious.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have!” Crowley shouted over the music.
“Don’t mention it!”
“Did you spit in it?!” It certainly didn’t hurt to ask.
“Of course!”
Impressed rather than offended, Crowley found himself laughing, an embarrassing occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent. Either pettiness brought out the best in him or he was having several nervous breakdowns in a row.
Or, you know, both.
“I’m going to the village for some peace and quiet!” Aziraphale announced, daintily sipping his tea. “I’m also all out of shortbread! You’re welcome to remain here and wage a war against your hearing in peace!”
Well, you couldn’t say the man didn’t know how to wield his sarcasm like a flaming sword.
Annoyed by Aziraphale’s laid-back reaction, Crowley decided it was time to take drastic measures to make sure all of his hard work wouldn’t go to waste. Which is why he dashed to the bedroom to get dressed.
By the time Aziraphale was ready to leave, Crowley was waiting for him by the door.
They stared each other down from the opposite ends of the hallway. Aziraphale in his tan trench coat and light tartan scarf, a fedora in his hands, Crowley in his usual black attire. Aziraphale gave him a slow once-over, a weird gleam in his eyes that could be either appreciation or straight-up disdain. (Or, again, both.)
Crowley disconnected his phone from the sound system with a dramatic tap, and the Ramones stopped haunting the cottage, replaced by an eerie silence.
“You’ve got something to say?” he asked Aziraphale with a shrug. He didn’t mind being ogled (he could always use it against Aziraphale later), but he wasn’t exactly positive he’d read the situation correctly.
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Are you coming with me or trying to stop me from leaving?”
Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Why would I get dressed just to keep you from leaving?” He inexplicably pictured himself tackling the man to the ground and thought Aziraphale would be the very definition of a soft place to fall, before hastily pushing the thought away. Those consecutive early mornings had clearly done a number on his already worn-out brain.
“You’re not seriously thinking of going out like that, are you?”
“Why? Not dapper enough for your ladyship?”
Aziraphale glared at him. “It’s cold, you’re going to catch your death.”
“Here’s hoping.” Crowley crossed his fingers with a sly grin, and Aziraphale’s face fell immediately.
“You’re quite welcome to stop with that nonsense at once. Your dreadful songs are enough. Go fetch your coat.”
“What even are you? A Downton Abbey governess reincarnated in a marshmallow?” Hell’s sake, he just hated to be told what to do, the heat creeping up his neck most assuredly a sign of the imminent explosion of his head.
“I’m an adult man who’s mastered the fine art of dressing according to the seasons.”
Crowley leaned against the door. “Really?”
“Really,” Aziraphale confirmed with a little sniff.
“So what do you wear in the summer? Shorts? Short-sleeved shirts? Oh! Wait– Those stripy vintage swimsuits?”
If looks could kill, Crowley would be long gone by now. He couldn’t help but think that, all things considered, there were probably much worse ways to go.
“Go on and fetch your coat,” Aziraphale repeated in a low, deep voice, something he did when he was extremely annoyed. Where a normal person’s voice would climb higher in anger, Aziraphale’s just went lower. It never failed to send a shiver down Crowley’s spine, but who was keeping track of such trifles? Not him, that’s for sure.
Crowley crossed his arms in a defensive stance. “Just so you know, I don’t have an overcoat. And you,” he said, leaning towards Aziraphale, “can’t tell me what to do.”
Aziraphale seemed ready to put his foot down, but the seconds slowly ticked by and, in the end, he merely shrugged and put on his hat. “Very well, suit yourself. Keys?”
Crowley silently dangled them in front of him before opening the front door and gesturing for Aziraphale to go first.
“I sincerely hope you’re not going to slam the door behind me as soon I’m out,” Aziraphale warned him as he stepped out.
Crowley followed, the door clicking shut behind them both. “What would be the fun in that?”
The icy wind that cut right through him practically froze him on the stoop.
Well, fuck. Aziraphale was right about the cold, Crowley understood that much. He was also hyper-aware of Aziraphale’s disapproving gaze boring into him, greedily waiting for him to come out and admit that he was, in fact, freezing his bollocks off. Unfortunately for Aziraphale’s ‘I told you so’, Crowley would rather go and live the rest of his life with the seagulls than fess up to it.
So he kept his mouth shut, thanked whoever had invented sunglasses – and not for the first time either – and followed Aziraphale first down the driveway, then on the road, hands tucked in his ridiculously small pockets.
It didn’t take him long to reevaluate all of his life choices.
“Are you alright?” Aziraphale inquired after a while.
“Nyeah.”
“You shouldn’t be strutting like that in the middle of the road.”
“Why? Am I titillating you?” Crowley shot back, exaggerating his signature stride. “You use that word a lot, don’t you? In your titillating erotica.”
Aziraphale didn’t take the bait; Crowley couldn’t deny the man really had the patience of a saint.
“Because you could be hit by a passing car.” His grey-blue eyes darkened in a mix of alarm and warning. “Don’t you dare say you’re trying to get hit on purpose, please.”
“What cars?” Crowley threw his arms open and twirled in the middle of the road. “There’s no one here.”
“This place is full of tourists,” Aziraphale chided.
“Are the tourists in the room with us right now?”
It wasn’t a good joke, just another symptom of his terminally-online status, Crowley could admit that, but there was no reason for Aziraphale to look so serious.
“This is the great outdoors, Crowley,” he remarked slowly.
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, shoulders hunched up to his ears. Trust a bloody writer to be so literal. “Is it? I don’t see any signs.”
“Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?”
“Other than you?”
Crowley turned to Aziraphale at the same moment Aziraphale was turning to him, and they held each other’s gaze for a split second too long before they both looked away with a shiver. Fucking embarrassing, ugh.
“I spoke to Maggie on the phone yesterday,” Aziraphale continued. “She says you’re not taking her calls.”
“So?” Yes, he was avoiding her as he had every right to after she had basically ambushed him with this stupid trip. Crowley had stopped resisting her, true, but it didn’t mean he had forgiven her.
“I think she’s worried about you,” Aziraphale said, clearly trying to appeal to Crowley’s common sense. Alas, Crowley had run out of it some time ago. Plus, he had no intention of being scolded by a man he barely knew.
“She’s my manager, she’s supposed to do what I tell her. Not the other way around,” he grumbled.
Aziraphale didn’t look convinced. “A manager is supposed to manage you, aren’t they? It actually comes from the Italian word maneggiare, which means to handle–”
Crowley scoffed and quickened his pace to leave Aziraphale and his stupid arguments behind. “You can spare me the etymology lesson,” he barked over his shoulder. “She just needs to accept the fact that I’m done. Career over. Kaputt.”
This whole fiasco was on her and no one else, Crowley was adamant about that. Maggie still held out hope for him, and that was the whole crux of the matter, wasn’t it? She believed he still had something to give, but she was wrong. Whatever talent he’d once had, it was all drained up by now, and the spark he’d once felt inside, that thing burning brightly inside his chest and making his skin prickle with the need to create, had been snuffed out years ago.
Nowadays, the only thing making him feel like that was heartburn. And, occasionally, whiskey.
“Have you ever thought about doing anything else?” came Aziraphale’s voice from a few steps behind him.
Crowley shrugged without turning to look at him. “No,” he lied. He certainly could have left it at that – it’s not like he owed Aziraphale any information about himself – but he felt somehow compelled to add, “When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronomer. Or a spy. Bit too late for that now, though.” He kicked a pebble and watched it bounce ahead of him. “I’ll just be stuck doing something I hate just so I can pay the bills.”
Aziraphale snorted and, when he spoke, his voice was laced with both sympathy and bitterness. “You and the rest of us too.”
That unsettled him more than Crowley cared to admit. “Okay, easy there, commie,” he deadpanned, earning himself a glare.
Yes, maybe he was a washed-up rockstar who had no idea how most people lived. Big deal. It didn’t make it any less depressing. Just add pretentious and out of touch to his long list of stellar qualities – at this point, he didn’t give a single fuck about it.
“Have you ever thought about doing anything else?” Crowley retorted, thinking back to Aziraphale’s slight embarrassment when he’d mentioned his work at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death.
“Not really. Writing is the only thing I can do reasonably well.” A pause. “As long as I do it for other people.”
“No money in erotica, then?” See how he liked to have his life choices questioned by a man who knew nothing about him.
“No money in all kinds of publishing, I’m afraid. Unless you’re a big name.”
Crowley chanced a glance at him and realised they were back to walking side by side. Aziraphale’s cheeks and upturned nose were red from the cold, eyes flitting here and there, as if they couldn’t decide on what to admire. He looked and sounded resigned, but not defeated. Like he’d accepted his ambitions would never go anywhere and was at peace with that.
The thought made Crowley’s stomach churn uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he heard himself say as they crested the gently sloping hill they were walking on.
“For what?” There was a little smile dancing on Aziraphale’s lips. “The piteous state of the publishing industry?”
“Nyeah, s’pose.”
“It’s quite fine. I’ve gotten used t–” Aziraphale cut himself off as something further down the road came into view, catching his attention. “Goodness! Are those Highland cows?”
Not waiting for an answer, Aziraphale dashed forward to approach the hairy beasts lazily grazing by the side of the road.
Crowley came to a halt and followed him with his gaze, appalled by his reaction. Was a grown man supposed to act like that because of some bloody cows?
It wasn’t an act, though. Aziraphale’s enthusiasm was as baffling as it was palpable, Crowley knew that much, even though he couldn’t quite identify the feeling swirling in his stomach. He was tempted to call it nausea, but maybe it was just his body going into the first stage of hypothermia. (Would you look at that? Some stages he could still get.)
Crowley seriously considered going back to the cottage to avoid whatever was happening. He tried to will himself to turn back and leave Aziraphale to his bewildering passions… but to no avail. His feet were rooted to the spot.
“Fuck.”
When Crowley caught up with him, Aziraphale was chatting with the blonde woman who was supposedly looking after the cows, and petting one of them with a truly confusing amount of enthusiasm. He’d even removed his hat, leaving Crowley wondering if it was out of respect.
“Crowley, look!” Aziraphale said, beckoning him forward until Crowley’s nose was filled with the overpowering stench of the animals. “Aren’t they absolutely magnificent?”
“They’re cows,” Crowley countered, still annoyed.
“Yes! Oh, such gentle creatures they are.”
“Yeah, I guess…”
The herdswoman threw Crowley a surprised look, which either meant she’d recognised him or that she was shocked by his scarce interest in cattle. Most likely the latter.
Aziraphale took out his phone and handed it to Crowley. “Take a picture, please.”
“Of what?” Crowley accepted the phone for lack of better things to do.
“Of me and this nice lady right here, of course,” Aziraphale explained, gesturing towards the cow he was still petting. “She’s fifteen and her name is Judith.”
Crowley huffed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m out here taking pictures of cattle.”
“Do you need me to open the camera app for you?”
“I know how to open a blessed camera,” he snapped. Fine, he was still here, but he drew the line at having Aziraphale explain to him how technology worked. Would a seagull teach a fish how to swim? Doubt it.
“Very well.”
Aziraphale leaned his head toward the cow – Judith, Crowley’s brain suggested quite unhelpfully – which somehow understood the assignment and stopped chewing so Crowley could take the picture. The thought was so bizarre he actually wondered if the cold was compromising his brain functions.
He shook his head, aimed the camera at the improbable duo and snapped a picture. “Here,” he said, handing the phone back to Aziraphale. “Took your best angle.”
Aziraphale’s smile disappeared as soon as he looked at the screen. “But I’m not even in the frame!”
“Exactly, you have no angles. You’re all curves.” A whole collection of them. And quite remarkable too.
Aziraphale looked just about ready to deliver the mother of all scoldings. “Is it me or…?”
Crowley frowned. “Or what?”
“Smells like sour grapes in here, does it not?”
“Hng. I could swear it was cow dung.” Sour grapes!
“If you say so,” Aziraphale replied primly. “Now, will you take–”
“Yes! Yes, Jesus– Here, I’ll use my phone so you won’t have to explain to your friends that those weird pixels are actually supposed to be your face.” Aziraphale’s smartphone could be easily displayed in a museum next to his blasted laptop, which looked just about as portable as an aircraft carrier.
Aziraphale’s irritated scowl melted into a smile. “Oh. That’s very kind of you.” And there it was again, gratitude coming off of him in waves – simply unacceptable was what it was.
Crowley gnashed his teeth together. “Shut up, or you’re sleeping with the cows tonight.” Kind. What a load of bollocks.
“Doesn’t sound so bad, if I’m honest. They probably have better taste in music than you,” Aziraphale muttered as he posed for the picture with a beatific smile.
“Look who’s talking!” Crowley retorted. “You don’t even know what an electric guitar is.”
“I’m no expert, but I rather think the name speaks for itself.”
“Maybe, but do you know what it sounds like?”
“You’ve been educating me on the matter for the past week, if I’m not mistaken. And believe me, I wish I was.”
The herdswoman’s unexpected giggle made them both turn towards her, putting an end to their bickering.
Once the picture had been taken and Crowley had managed to convince Aziraphale that he had no interest in being immortalised next to a cow, no matter how shaggy and majestic it was, they said goodbye to the flustered herdswoman and her charges, and resumed their walk toward the village.
“Give me your number,” Crowley muttered, raising Aziraphale’s suspicions.
“Why?”
“So I can send you the picture.”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Do you promise you won’t use it for nefarious purposes?”
“No.” What nefarious purposes would those be? Spamming him with links to TikTok videos? Infecting his stupid device so it would play the Ramones non-stop? (Such a great idea, too bad Crowley had no hacking skills to speak of.)
“You’d have made a good lawyer, you know,” Aziraphale remarked out of the blue.
Crowley scoffed. “What are you on about? I’d have made a terrible lawyer.”
“Probably, yes. But I can totally see you pestering the defendant until they find themselves confessing without meaning too.”
“You watch too much telly.”
“Not really. Only detective stories.” Aziraphale smiled to himself. “I’d have loved to be a detective. Still do. Investigating and looking for clues… How exciting!”
Crowley, who still hadn’t recovered from the whole cow debacle, wisely decided to ignore the blessed twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes.
“You like Columbo, don’t you?” Of course he did, he dressed like the lieutenant’s long-lost British cousin. “And Miss Marple, I wager.”
“And what if I do?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised you entertain pastimes from centuries that don’t start with 18.”
“Because your pastimes are much better, I assume.”
“Not really. I’m on TikTok most of the time.”
Crowley knew it was an embarrassing confession to make, but as far as he was concerned the horror dawning on Aziraphale’s face was unwarranted. The man even stopped in his tracks and remained stock still as he processed the news.
“B-but why?” Aziraphale mumbled, fidgeting with his hands.
“No need to look so shocked. Everyone’s on it.” Well, fifty-year old men not so much, but he knew he wasn’t the only one on the blessed thing.
“And you think that’s a good enough reason to use it yourself?”
“Yeah…? ‘S just, you know… addicting, ‘s all.”
Aziraphale’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Isn’t that the point?”
“I guess.” He shrugged. “Don’t stress, okay? No need to fall for the usual scaremongering from the media. It is what it is.” Besides, it gave him something to do while rotting in bed when the alternative was staring at the ceiling or the bare walls of his shitty little flat. No, there were definitely much worse things to have stuck in your head than TikTok trends. Thoughts about your life, for example, and how spectacularly it had gone down the drain.
“I know I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d be grateful if you could abstain from recreational drugs when I’m with you.”
Satan have mercy! Was he really stuck on an island with a man who referred to a social media platform as a recreational drug?
Crowley suddenly decided he was never going to forgive Maggie for putting him in this situation.
Ever.
After a morning of grumpily following Aziraphale from one shop to the next, and a whole of two hours of him gushing about the most adorable second-hand bookstore, while simultaneously fretting about how he wasn’t, under any circumstances, supposed to go back to it and – God forbid! – be allowed to buy any more books, Crowley let himself be dragged to the quaintest little pub for lunch.
He made a point of grumbling and acting as put-upon as humanly possible, which then reminded him that he was supposed to be the one annoying Aziraphale, and not the other way around. Wasn’t that the whole reason for this stupid trip to the village? How on Earth had he ended up here, holding a bag containing enough shortbread for a small army? Had the cold really thwarted his wiles so thoroughly?
No, Crowley needed to do something about it, and quickly too. Regroup and plan his next move, possibly in a warmer place, where Aziraphale’s cheeks would stop looking so red and biteable.
…did he just?
No.
Absolutely not.
On the plus side, The Quarry was a nice enough pub, with exposed beams on the ceiling, old wooden tables, yellowed pictures on the walls and the kind of dim lighting Crowley preferred.
The downside? It was run by bloody kids, one of them being the girl with the deadly stare who had driven them to the cottage on the day of their arrival. The other three were all boys – a bespectacled one manning the register, another called Brian working in the kitchen (Crowley knew his name solely because it had been shouted multiple times since they’d come in), and a third one, with light brown curls and keen eyes, who was currently waiting for Crowley and Aziraphale to make up their mind about what they wanted to eat, notepad and pen in hand.
“I’ll take the onion soup with garlic bread, please,” Aziraphale decided after reading the menu with a focus usually reserved for managing nuclear codes.
Crowley huffed. “Snogging’s off the table then,” he groused.
Aziraphale didn’t deign to answer.
The kid scribbled something, then looked up again. “And for your husband?”
Crowley bristled. Once could be considered an honest mistake, twice was being a dick. “I’m not his bloody husband.”
The kid shrugged. “Sure.”
“He’ll have the beef stew. Thank you, Adam,” Aziraphale said, because of course he knew everyone by name. He turned to Crowley and added: “You’ll like it.” Which was somehow even worse than the kid believing they were married to each other.
It made him feel exposed, like a curtain had just been ripped from all around him, leaving him stark naked and vulnerable under prying eyes.
“So now you know my likes and dislikes, don’t you?” Crowley said, and if he choked a little bit on the words, well, Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s what I ordered when I had lunch here a few days ago,” Aziraphale explained. “I asked the nice young man in the kitchen for the recipe, and he was kind enough to share it with me. Then I tried it at home, stored the leftovers in the fridge as I always do, and, you won’t believe this, but by the following evening someone had eaten them all.” This was delivered with a pointed glare, which was not totally unwarranted.
Crowley grimaced and further slumped in his seat. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?”
“Pretending to know me. ‘S embarrassing.”
“For me or for you?”
“Yes.”
The waiter had left during their squabble without either of them noticing, an awkward silence descending over their table. Crowley made sure his sunglasses were still in place, then cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
“You should wear a scarf when you go out,” Aziraphale said after a little while. “You’re going to ruin your voice, and you’re coughing already.”
“If I wanted to be blamed for all the bad things that happen to me, I’d call my mother.” These days, Crowley was perfectly capable of doing all the blaming himself. And everything else too if he so much as stopped to consider that his current predicament was of his own making. “Besides, shouldn’t you want me to ruin my voice?”
Aziraphale chuckled, the idea seemingly laughable. “Why would I want that?”
“So I’ll stop bothering you.”
“You let the music do the bothering for you. In fact, I wouldn’t mind hearing your singing voice, you know. I honestly don’t understand why you never use any of your songs.”
Crowley scoffed. He may have liked to irritate the man, but he wasn’t a bloody sadist. “Nobody wants to hear me sing.”
“I do.” The way Aziraphale said it, matter-of-fact and straightforward, like it’d be ridiculous to think otherwise, made Crowley’s heart skip a beat.
“Shut up.” Had the pub suddenly gotten too warm? What was that tingling in his fingers? Was it too much to hope for imminent death? Were spontaneous lobotomies a thing? No, nothing good in life was ever free.
Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and smoothed his hands over his light brown jumper. That’s what he always wore, Crowley realised. Sturdy trousers in a thousand shades of beige and tan, and soft jumpers over cream, white or light blue shirts, different bow ties completing each outfit. He looked soft and gentle, like a mild autumn morning.
The thought was enough to make Crowley wonder if you could get frostbite in your brain, because there was no other explanation for his neurons misfiring so badly.
Ridiculous comparisons aside (a mild autumn morning– what the actual fuck!) Crowley absolutely didn’t follow Aziraphale’s hands as they journeyed down to his belly, thank you for asking.
“Well, I do,” Aziraphale said primly, heedless of Crowley’s inner turmoil.
“Well,” Crowley parroted him back in a desperate attempt to somehow make up for his wayward thoughts, “I’m not singing. Glad to disappoint.”
“There’s still time…”
Crowley’s jaw fell to another dimension entirely. “There’s no time at all. It’s been, what, ten days already?”
“Nine,” Aziraphale supplied. “We still have plenty of time to get some work done.”
“No, we don’t.” Besides, it wasn’t a matter of time, so much as… approximately everything else.
“Am I to understand that twenty days aren’t enough to write new songs?”
Oh, Aziraphale knew exactly what he was doing. Crowley may not be a sadist, but the jury was still out on Aziraphale. Whatever he was hiding under all those layers of harmless politeness was anything but meekness. Or autumn mornings. Or curves for days. Or other things Crowley had absolutely no interest in thinking about.
“I’m saying I won’t.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
“Call your doctor then, ‘cause there’s something wrong with your ears. It happens, with old age and everything.”
“And rude housemates too. I’ll forward you the bill.” Aziraphale lifted his chin and threw a casual look around. He pursed his lips, readied his next attack. “You know, I once wrote a book in under two weeks…” he said with calculated nonchalance.
Crowley was not going to bite. He just wasn’t. In fact, he could go aeons without biting anything, whether it’d be red stained cheeks or clumsily crafted baits. “Good for you,” he hissed through gritted teeth, looking anywhere but Aziraphale’s direction.
It might be time to admit that his faculties tended to go a little bit fuzzy around the edges every time he stared too long at the man. Aziraphale really was too bright to look at.
“I could totally write lyrics for… well, let’s say one to five songs, in twenty days,” Aziraphale insisted.
Crowley jerked his head towards him. “Like Hell you can.”
“Oh, I rather think I can.” The bastard was smiling. For such a sunshine-y sort of person, he really was exceptionally stubborn. If Crowley’s nerves were a piano, Aziraphale was proving himself to be a bloody virtuoso.
“Have you ever been introduced to the concept of getting to the point?”
Aziraphale blinked slowly. A white knight savouring the moment before he threw down the gauntlet. “Let’s bet on it.”
There it was. For fuck’s sake.
“Absolutely not.” Before and during his career in the music industry, Crowley had sampled all the vices known to humankind: alcohol, drugs, high self-esteem and so on and so forth. Gambling was the only notable exception and he planned to keep it that way.
Aziraphale didn’t seem to be sharing the sentiment. “We agree on a theme–”
“I said no.”
“Could be anything. The four seasons, like Vivaldi–”
“Fucking Vivaldi?” It’d be less cruel to just bludgeon him to death!
“The nine circles of Hell, then.”
“Derivative.” As well as done before by everyone and their illiterate granny.
“The seven deadly sins?” Aziraphale marched on, because, apparently, Crowley was having lunch with a genius, a veritable well of ideas. “We already have one for gluttony… sort of.”
“What? The song about sucking dick?” Also, who the Hell was we in this creepy little scenario?
Aziraphale blushed, and this time Crowley was sure the cold had nothing to do with it. “I told you, it’s an exploration of taste and–”
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a flying fuck.” About Aziraphale’s awful apple-red cheeks and his even more awful ideas. “I’m not going to write new music. Just forget it. Jesus Christ. What is it that you don’t understand about ‘my career is over’?”
Crowley’s words seemed to have only a minimal effect on Aziraphale, who was not going to take the hint any time soon. Crowley probably shouldn’t have bemoaned Aziraphale’s poor hearing after the week-long war he’d personally waged against it, which made it all the more infuriating.
“They don’t have to be good, you know. No one will have to listen to them except for me and you. They could be terrible for all I care.”
Crowley could feel his heart rattling around his chest like a rusty old piece of junk, whose purpose still had to be ascertained, trying to start up after years of disuse.
“Why would I do that?” Why would he write horrible songs for a man he didn’t know? Well, not for him as in dedicated to him , but for him as in– Fuck, why was he even justifying himself to the demented voice inside his own head?
“Because as soon as you have those seven songs, I’ll leave you alone.”
Line, hook and sinker.
Fuck.
“I’ll pack my things and you’ll be free to return to London,” Aziraphale continued. “Which, if I inferred correctly, is what you want.”
“Not happening.”
Aziraphale raised his hands and huffed. “Fine. You didn’t strike me as the type to pass up on the chance of getting rid of me, but I was clearly mistaken.”
“There are easier ways to get rid of you.” He just needed to come up with them first.
“Oh, but I’m stubborn. I may look soft but my head is made of lead–”
“You should get that checked too,” Crowley muttered, talking over him. “Better yet, book a complete check-up, you may never know–”
“–simply put,” Aziraphale went on undeterred, “I’ll weather your terrible music selection until the very last day… unless you stop me.”
“Is that an invitation to off you?” he squawked. “Wait, don’t tell me! Are you going to haunt the island and solve your own murder afterwards?” Ghostwriter would sure get a whole new meaning.
“No, it’s an invitation to write new music. Terrible music. Uninspired music. Awful music. For the sole purpose of sending me back home.”
“No.”
Aziraphale sat back, hands folded in his lap. “Well, I didn’t realise you’d grown so fond of me.”
“I didn’t!” Crowley protested, more high-pitched than he’d have liked.
“No need to make such a big fuss about it, you know.” Such a smug bastard. “It is what it sounds like, and there’s no reason to feel ashamed.”
How many times did Crowley have to tell him to go get his hearing checked?
He breathed in, trying to regain some sort of composure. ”Don’t believe, not even for a second, that I don’t know what you’re doing.” Oh, he knew alright. And, judging by the steely glint in his eyes, Aziraphale knew Crowley knew. He also knew that Crowley knowing wouldn’t change a thing. A right mess, ‘s what it was.
“Be that as it may–” Aziraphale continued.
“Let me stop you right there. I don’t like you.” Didn’t hurt to reiterate it one more time.
Crowley felt the tension coursing through him rising along with Aziraphale’s pale blonde eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m bloody sure,” he spat. “You’re just projecting.”
Aziraphale stuttered, then gaped at him, the smug smile promptly wiped from his face and replaced by a horrified frown. It was all Crowley could do not to gloat like a maniac.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you look at me.” I mean, unless it was less ogling and more disdain like he’d first suspected. As they say, fake it till you make it. Or, you know, die.
“Excuse me? I don’t look at you at all… not if I can help it, at least,” Aziraphale lied, his ears turning very pink. And wasn’t it fun? Putting all that colour on Aziraphale’s face?
“Yeah, right.” Crowley propped an elbow on the back of his chair and shrugged like he’d never lost his cool in his entire life.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Aziraphale said petulantly. “You like me. Not the other way around.”
“No, you got that wrong. You like me.”
“Certainly not. That’s preposterous.”
“I’ll tell you what’s prepos–”
Aziraphale didn’t let him finish. “Are we doing this or not?”
“You know what? Fine!” he thundered, flinging his hands up in the air as exasperation finally got the better of him. “I’ll write your stupid songs, and you’ll be sorry you ever asked!”
A blink of an eye, that’s all it took for Aziraphale’s irritation to vanish, quickly replaced by the brightest of smiles. Crowley had to stifle the urge to dive under the table to escape whatever that was.
Luckily, a diversion was coming in the shape of an annoying kid bringing their lunch.
“Oh, look!” Aziraphale cried out in excitement. “Food’s here.”
Saved by an onion soup, Crowley thought glumly.
No, this month couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Notes:
The songs mentioned in this chapter are:
- Last Resort by Papa Roach
- Death by Rock and Roll by Pretty Reckless
- Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution by AC/DC
- Die, Die My Darling by Metallica
- Barracuda by Heart
- I Wanna Be Sedated by RamonesIs Aziraphale under the impression that TikTok is an *actual* drug? Well...
Chapter 4: Four
Summary:
Crowley gets acquainted with the consequences of his own actions, goes through the mortifying ordeal of being cared for and is attacked by a jumper in the process. Meanwhile, Aziraphale does some baking and gets himself into a little spot of trouble.
Notes:
Hello, hello, hello, and happy Monday with this chonky boi of a chapter 🤯
Re: future chapters. I'm currently putting the finishing touches to chapter 10, which fought me like hell. Anyway, it's not going to be the last one. I think we're looking at 12 chapters. I'll update the chapter count when I know more.
Thank you as always for the support 💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke up the following day to a beat that was considerably slower than usual.
He kept his eyes closed as the bars trickled into his ears, letting them dispel the last traces of sleep from his brain.
The song was as macabre as Crowley’s previous selections, but it lacked their rage, which probably made it more unsettling than anything Aziraphale had heard up until that point. Surprisingly enough, part of the lyrics was in French, which Aziraphale couldn’t deny was a nice touch. Having suffered at the hands of a very stern French teacher – unfortunately, he wasn’t going to forget Monsieur Rossignol anytime soon – Aziraphale could totally make the connection between the French language and being a psychopath.
When the song ended and looped back to the beginning, Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, picked up his notebook and scribbled his verdict on a blank page (a surprising eight point five out of ten) before turning it towards Crowley.
The demon – because, at this point, he couldn’t be considered any differently – was slumped into the armchair as usual. With his head propped against one armrest and his legs hooked on the other, you’d think the man hadn’t fully grasped the concept of sitting yet, which was quite astounding, considering he was probably just a little shy of fifty.
Aziraphale had never seen anyone his own age do that to an innocent armchair before. It was most undignified, and not at all endearing or – God forbid – alluring. It certainly didn’t inspire any tantalising images, so to speak.
Trying to refrain himself from conjuring up such, er, tantalising images, Aziraphale pursed his lips to properly project his disapproval (and nothing else), while waiting for Crowley to say something cutting, or possibly marvel at Aziraphale’s generous rating.
But Crowley didn’t move at all. He just stared at Aziraphale through those infuriating dark glasses. Phone lying on his chest, one arm dangling limply to the floor, the other resting on his forehead.
He was sleeping, Aziraphale realised all of a sudden. It was the slow rise and fall of his chest that gave it away.
Baffled, Aziraphale hastily got back on his feet to place the notebook on the coffee table. He put on his trusty sheepskin slippers and stepped towards the armchair until he was practically above Crowley, confirming that, yes, he was most certainly asleep. And if his red nose and parted lips were anything to go by, he wasn’t feeling really well.
“You beast,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. He’d warned him about going out without an overcoat, but did he listen? Of course not! And later, when they’d left the pub after lunch, Aziraphale had pestered him to borrow his scarf, a suggestion that had been met with sheer indignation and ridicule, as if Aziraphale had volunteered to share his pants right there on the street.
Oh, but Crowley could be such a child sometimes!
“That’ll teach you,” Aziraphale whispered with a defiant – yet pointless – lift of his chin. He hesitated only for a second before picking up the blanket folded on the nearest sofa to carefully drape it over Crowley’s sleeping form.
The man didn’t even stir.
Aziraphale shook his head and retreated into the kitchen to get a start on his breakfast.
The first thing he noticed was the drawing pinned to the fridge with a highland cow magnet. It was the self-portrait that Aziraphale had personally taped on the leftovers from last night’s dinner. Since verbal warnings weren’t doing the trick, Aziraphale had decided to try with a more, let’s say, iconographic approach. (Honestly, if he had to pretend to be territorial with his food to get Crowley to eat semi-regularly meals, he was fine with that.)
The container was unsurprisingly resting on the kitchen counter, empty and still dirty, while the portrait had been thoroughly vandalised. Portrait-Aziraphale now sported a handlebar moustache, a monocle and a pair of curled horns, with the text Spectacular, gimme 14 of them right now inexplicably inscribed in the bubble hovering over his head. Honestly, the man had the habit of saying the weirdest things…
Crowley’s talents clearly lay elsewhere, that much was obvious.
Aziraphale scoffed, then brewed himself a cup of tea and nibbled on some shortbread as he decided what to do with Crowley’s masterpiece. Although, now that he really thought about it, it was more of a joint effort.
That particular realisation posed even more challenging questions. If it was any indication of the fruits that a possible collaboration between the two of them might bear, it was… well. Grotesque at best, apocalyptically bad at worst.
Tea in hand, Aziraphale left the kitchen and crossed the hallway, stopping on the threshold of the living room to look at Crowley.
It was safe to say that Aziraphale had never laid eyes on a sleeping rockstar before, let alone one being soothed by an improbable lullaby about a French-speaking psycho killer. He had dated an oboist when he was younger, but even though Henry and Crowley were technically both musicians, he could hardly find any similarities between the two of them.
Crowley was prickly, intolerable, prone to fits of annoyance for the smallest of things. But it wasn’t hard to see through the cactus-like exterior, Aziraphale didn’t think. For some reason, he felt comfortable around Crowley. Like, for all their differences, there was also a deeper, shared similarity. Not that Aziraphale could put his finger on what that similarity was supposed to be.
Either way, life truly was unpredictable sometimes, Aziraphale mused as he let his gaze roam to the bedroom door, which had been left ajar and was showing a glimpse of the perfectly made bed beyond it.
Aziraphale frowned, almost startled by the sight, and glanced back at Crowley. Was the man so obsessed with tidiness that he’d made the bed before coming to the living room to wake Aziraphale up, only to promptly fall asleep on the armchair immediately after?
Aziraphale seriously considered popping his head around the door, maybe seizing his chance to look for that blasted tick tock Crowley was supposedly on all the time, so he could unceremoniously flush it down the toilet. Back at the pub, while Crowley was at the register with Wensleydale to pay for their meal (they’d nearly come to blows over who was supposed to settle the bill), Aziraphale had asked Pepper if it was true that everyone was on the damn drug nowadays, and she’d confirmed it with a little, indignant shrug.
While Aziraphale knew he had no right to make decisions for other people, especially full grown adults he didn’t know all that much (not to mention, at all), he didn’t like how nonchalant they all were about it. Add it to the fact that Crowley wasn’t having the best of times, and… well, you could say it made for a pretty concerning picture.
And yet, just as that second night in the cottage, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to trespass into Crowley’s bedroom and go through his personal effects. Having grown up with six siblings, Aziraphale knew firsthand how awful it was to have people rifle through his things without permission. No matter how apprehensive he was about the whole thing, it just didn’t feel right to cross that boundary.
So he kept sipping his tea as he took Crowley in, all curled up in the armchair. It was sort of jarring (yes, let’s go with jarring and ignore all the other things it could be) to see him so uncharacteristically silent and soft. No sharp words being spoken through his teeth, not a trace of a frown or a grimace…
Wait . What if Crowley hadn’t slept at all? Yesterday, he had stomped away the moment they’d stepped back into the cottage. Aziraphale had just assumed he’d gone back to his bedroom, but what if he hadn’t? What if Aziraphale hadn’t heard a peep from him as he worked on Madame Tracy’s memoir not because Crowley was entertaining himself with that tick tock rubbish, but because he was busy in the recording studio?
Snooping around Crowley’s bedroom was out of the question… but the studio? That was fair game, Aziraphale decided.
Taking his tea and leaving the shortbread behind – the last thing he needed was for Crowley to go on a spiel about crumbs – Aziraphale made his way to the little recording studio he’d located upon their arrival, tucked at the back of the cottage.
It was a small, cosy room, with the recording space separated from the control room by a thick glass pane. The control side was crowded with equipment whose function Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to guess. The other featured a puzzling array of instruments and objects, including what he recognised as an amplifier, wind chimes, honest-to-God whips, and a surprising amount of make-up brushes. Maggie had mentioned something about her client being a notable name in Ace-Em-Ar, whatever that meant. Aziraphale had stopped keeping up with new genres of music a long time ago. Things were getting too complicated for his taste.
But what really caught his attention was the open black laptop on the mixing console and the seven sheets of paper pinned to the corkboard on the far wall of the control room.
They were all numbered and titled as follows:
- Lust
- Gluttony (song about sucking dick!!!) – to be completed
- Greed
- Sloth (this one featured a terrible drawing of what was probably supposed to be a sloth, the animal, dangling from a very detailed tree)
- Wrath!!!
- Envy
- Pride
There were more scribbles on the page dedicated to Wrath, but Crowley had crossed them all out, some more than once, in what looked like consecutive fits of rage (which showed, at the very least, a remarkable dedication for sticking to the theme).
Despite feeling quite foolish about it, Aziraphale smiled to himself. Maybe they would get nowhere, but it was still something, and if it kept Crowley away from those awful drugs, then good. Not that he felt some kind of duty to help the man, but– well, this wasn’t exactly true, was it? Aziraphale did want to help. While this wasn’t a rare occurrence for him, he had to admit that he usually didn’t feel quite as invested, not to mention persistent.
He turned off the lights and went back to the kitchen with a new spring in his step.
Since Crowley was beginning to stir in the armchair (that position couldn’t be comfortable to anyone in possession of a spine), Aziraphale prepared a second cup of tea. He sweetened it with a liberal amount of honey, then stepped into the living room to place it on the coffee table next to his notebook.
Crowley jerked awake with a surprised grunt, raising his head in alarm until the black pools of his sunglasses were aimed at Aziraphale.
“Never heard of a demon falling asleep on the job,” Aziraphale said conversationally. “That song about sloth is going to be writing itself.”
Crowley drawled something that couldn’t be traced back to any known language, before croaking out a confused: “Wod?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and tried very hard not to think about how adorable he looked, all drowsy and mussed-up, because men like Crowley should never be anything of the sort. It’d make them too dangerous.
“Drink your tea. I’ve put honey in it, it’ll do wonders for your throat.”
“You know whad else would do wonders for my dhroad?”
“I’d rather not know, thank you.”
“Prude.”
“Hardly.” He was a published erotica writer, for Heaven’s sake. “We should buy you some proper clothes the next time we pop into the village.”
“Absoludely nod,” Crowley sputtered as he straightened to what, according to him, probably constituted a sitting position.
“Fine. Then you’ll wear mine. I’ve got plenty of warm pullovers you can borrow.” It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, and Aziraphale, who prided himself on being a very reasonable man, wasn’t surprised to hear it come out of his mouth. What he wasn’t expecting was the little thrill that went through him at the idea of Crowley wearing his clothes.
He flinched and took a step backwards, suddenly embarrassed by his overactive imagination.
For his part, Crowley took a mouthful of tea with a dramatic, disgusted grimace. “Dhis sucks, ‘s doo sweed.” This unsurprisingly didn’t stop him from drinking it again… and again. “I’d radher die dhan wear your clodhes. I may be ad rock boddom, but–”
“You’re a rock bottom?” Aziraphale cut him off, all sweet innocence with a pinch of nerves. “How interesting. Is there a queer rock subculture I should know about?”
Crowley stilled. His shoulders fell, his eyebrows shot upwards and his mouth opened in shock. Aziraphale, who was quite pleased with himself for redirecting his embarrassment elsewhere and getting the man to shut up (though one probably shouldn’t gloat when facing a sick opponent), quickly regretted it, because Crowley did something unprecedented.
He pushed his sunglasses on his head and looked straight at Aziraphale, and his eyes…
Well, his eyes were of the lightest brown Aziraphale had ever seen – the colour of amber, or finely aged whiskey – as well as surrounded by laugh lines that had the surprising effect of softening his very angular, very sharp features. And what had he just thought about him being too dangerous?
Aziraphale felt parched as well as painfully aware that he was blinking way more than strictly necessary, an unnamed feeling tugging at his stomach with surprising insistence. He remembered Crowley’s accusations from the previous day, of how Aziraphale supposedly looked at him, and his cheeks heated up in response.
“Do you really wanna know?” Crowley asked, a challenge plain to see in his uncovered eyes.
“Yes,” Aziraphale heard himself say a bit breathlessly, before scrambling to take it back. “I– I mean, no, of course not.” He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath and tightened his hold on the tea cup – which, in defiance of every single law of physics, seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. “It– It was just a silly joke, I didn’t mean to– I assure I don’t– In fact, it would be most rude of me to–”
Something else caught Crowley’s attention right there and then, saving Aziraphale from disgracing himself any further. He reached forward to take Aziraphale’s notebook from the coffee table. “Eighd poind five? For Psycho Killer?”
Aziraphale nodded eagerly, grateful for the unexpected diversion. “It’s– well, it’s certainly better than what I’ve heard so far,” he stammered, feeling the need to put as many words as possible between himself and his previous blunder. “I found it quite unpredictable at times. A-and it has an almost dramatic quality to it, which I appreciate. You see, I’m what you may call a stage enthusiast and–” he cut himself off with a shudder. Good Lord, why was he still talking? “So, yes… eight point five.”
Crowley’s whole face lit up, which was possibly even worse than Aziraphale making an objectively poor play on rock bottom and subsequently working himself into a tizzy. “Ha! I knew you’d like dhad one.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “I thought the point was being annoying?”
Crowley shrugged, grimaced and put his sunglasses back on his nose in the blink of an eye, then pretended Aziraphale hadn’t spoken at all.
Mindful of his own personal shortcomings (not to mention relieved to be granted some respite from Crowley’s unshielded eyes), Aziraphale took pity on him and steered the conversation elsewhere.
“So, did you get any work done yesterday?”
“No,” Crowley bit back immediately. He grumbled something into his cup of tea. “Don’d call id work. I hade working.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He already knew he wasn’t going to get anything else out of him. “Go take a shower, it’ll do you good. I’m going to leave a few warm clothes out for you, then I’ll go to the village to buy something to ease your symptoms.”
“Ugh. You’re so unaddractive righd now,” Crowley complained.
Aziraphale smiled, feeling decidedly more sure-footed than just a few minutes ago. “Am I to understand that there are moments when you do find me attractive?”
Crowley’s lips curled up in a sneer, but the man was blushing like anything. “I don’d like you.”
“So you keep saying,” Aziraphale retorted without batting an eye, which only resulted in Crowley getting even more restless.
“Because id’s drue!”
“Of course.”
“Don’d look so scepd– scepd– unconvinced.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” A pause, and then, “What do you think of a nice bone broth for lunch?”
“I dhink you should leave me alone.”
Aziraphale ignored him. “Chicken and maybe a few spices to open up your nose, what do you say?”
When Crowley’s only response was a weak whine-snarl hybrid, Aziraphale decided he’d won that round.
It was hard to say what made Crowley feel worse. The blasted cold he’d caught, or Aziraphale tirelessly fussing over him like a bloody mother hen.
Heedless of his own personal dilemmas, the day went by in a blur of reprimands and grandmotherly advice, with Crowley being subjected to all sorts of demeaning and humiliating practices, such as: being forced to wear a light blue woolly jumper that completely clashed with his impeccable sense of style; having lunch while actually sitting at the kitchen table, with Aziraphale operating heavy machinery next to him (i.e. working on his computer) and frequently glaring at him to make sure he was, in fact, eating; steam inhalation, because who didn’t want to be bent over a steaming bowl of minty stuff while the man you were currently trying to get rid of was enlightening you on the importance of soothing and opening up one’s nasal passages?
Crowley thought it’d be a good idea to make an unfortunate joke about other passages Aziraphale could help him soothe and open up, hoping against all hope that the man would be outraged enough to leave him alone, but that only spurred a thirty-minute long tirade about the dangers of a sore throat, especially to a singer, which was not what Crowley had meant (and he had a feeling they both knew that).
Any way you sliced it, it was a downright sorry business. And since it’s always been known that desperate times call for desperate measures, Crowley decided that the only possible way to salvage the situation was to steer this sinking ship towards what he personally perceived as the opposite direction of all this fussing – namely, horniness.
Maybe, if he could find a way to remind Aziraphale that he wasn’t a sad, snotty old man with a cold, but rather a sex machine just waiting to reload (erm), Aziraphale would finally stop fretting and go back to ogling him like he’d done before (now, to be absolutely fair, when it came to horniness, Crowley had been out of business for a while, but he was now almost positive Aziraphale had been ogling him).
In order to put his fiendish plan into action, he came up with the brilliant idea of striding into the kitchen, where the man was working on that piece of junk that was his computer, half-naked.
All things considered, Crowley did manage to get a strong reaction out of the man, albeit not the one he was hoping for.
There were no heated glances, hitching breaths or darkening eyes.
No, upon seeing him completely shirtless, with his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, Aziraphale immediately erupted in a fit of huffy, self-righteous rage that was enough to almost – almost, no need to panic about the sorry state of his horny-radar – convince Crowley that Aziraphale didn’t like him at all. Not that way, at least.
“Good Lord! Have you completely lost your mind?” Aziraphale burst out, frowning like mad and scrambling to get back on his feet.
Crowley leaned against the kitchen counter in what he hoped looked like a close enough approximation of a sexy pose, and not, say, a dying man collapsing against the nearest available surface.
“No, just my shird,” he drawled as a shiver ran down his spine, making goosebumps bloom all over his arms and chest. There were much worse occupational hazards, Crowley thought. He could definitely stand being a little cold for the sake of looking extremely hot.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, was seething effortlessly, and when a poorly-timed coughing fit practically bent Crowley in two, he lost it.
“Go get dressed at once, you silly man!”
And that’s how Crowley was quite literally thrown out of the kitchen and forced to retreat to the bedroom. At that point, shaking like a leaf, he could only put his shirt and jumper back on, which he did hastily and grumpily, but with a sigh of relief.
Despite his best efforts, the only win Crowley scored that day was going to bed without Aziraphale insisting he should tuck him in. Not that the man offered, thank Satan and all of his minions, but the way things were going, it wasn’t so far out of the realm of possibility.
When Crowley woke up the next day, after a surprisingly long and restful sleep, the sun was already shining through the blinds of the only window in the bedroom, though it thankfully spared the bed where he was still snuggling.
Not quite understanding what he was doing, he buried his nose in the jumper he’d fallen asleep in and took a long, deep, calming breath.
Two things occurred to him in quick succession. First, that his nose seemed to be back on song. Second, that whatever he was smelling was Aziraphale.
As soon as that particular piece of information dawned on him, Crowley sat bolt upright and took off the jumper so quickly you’d think it was crawling with fire ants, tossing it across the bed with a disgruntled grimace.
Then, much to his great disappointment, he realised he already missed the feel of the soft wool against his naked arms. Trust Aziraphale to find the only woolly jumper on the face of the Earth that didn’t prickle the life out of you.
Crowley watched it warily, half-expecting a sudden attack from the garment now lying limply at the end of the bed.
When it became clear that the jumper wouldn’t magically move and that there were no more embarrassing realisations scheduled for the immediate future, he reached for it again, solely because – he told himself and almost believed it too – he wanted to know where it came from.
Unsurprisingly, the original label had completely faded, but there was another one with Aziraphale’s full name embroidered on it instead. The discovery was both shocking and not shocking at the same time. Because of course Aziraphale was so old-fashioned as to embroider his name on all of his clothes. The man clearly liked to wear his things to death. Everything he owned wasn’t vintage so much as ancient, and between his ridiculous phone and equally ridiculous laptop he seemed of the idea that things shouldn’t be discarded until they fell completely apart.
Crowley should have branded him as stingy and moved on with his life. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable, safe thought to have about a man – let’s make it clear one more time – he didn’t like. Not even slightly.
And yet, as he brushed his fingers on the wool, he couldn’t help but think that it had been Aziraphale’s care that had made it so soft. He’d bought a prickly light blue jumper from some long forgotten family-owned store in a dark London alley, and he’d worn it so often it had become as soft as a cloud.
It was so easy to picture a younger version of Aziraphale entering the shop accompanied by the jingle of the bell over the door, and maybe greeting the owner by name. He could see Aziraphale talking to them, making polite chit-chat before perusing the new arrivals. Maybe he’d find the jumper on his own, or maybe the owner would show it to him, making some inane comment about the colour complimenting his eyes. Aziraphale would take the advice to heart, of course. He’d buy the jumper, and then proceed to wear it a truly staggering amount of times, until the prickly wool would finally turn soft and yielding.
It wasn’t just well-worn or well-used. It was also well-loved.
Something stilled inside of him, as Crowley wondered: did he also qualify as an old thing that Aziraphale liked to take care of? As a broken, useless thing to be mended and fixed and whipped back into shape?
The question hung in the air, ridiculous, offensive and soothing all at once. Crowley certainly didn’t need to be fixed by a literal stranger who knew next to nothing about him, no matter how nice it was to be mollycoddled for once in his life, and at the ripe age of forty-nine no less. Although it wasn’t nice so much as all sorts of unpleasant and awful and… well…
Seconds ticked by, until the feeling settling over Crowley became too uncomfortable to bear.
He made a retching sound to ward off any more silly epiphanies, then took his phone, connected it to the audio system, and furiously scrolled through his Spotify account for a song that would set the mood for the day.
He skipped the second playlist he’d made – the unofficial one, which consisted of songs Aziraphale could potentially like (for no particular reason, of course) – and went back to the original one. He picked Basket Case by Green Day and turned up the volume to the maximum, until the cottage was practically shaking with it. (Crowley silently thanked whoever Maggie’s client was for sparing no expense.)
When he emerged from the bedroom, sunglasses in place and hair fixed as best as he could, Aziraphale was pottering around in the kitchen.
The picture Crowley was presented with was already unsettling enough on its own – it also didn’t help that he couldn’t remember the last time he had consistently woken up in a place he shared with someone else – but a few elements concurred to bring it from unsettling to downright disturbing.
Starting with the dark green apron Aziraphale was wearing, which proudly announced ‘I Fuck Better Than I Cook’, as well as the fact that the man was baking . Crowley didn’t know what, exactly, but the smell wafting in from the kitchen was sweet and delicious.
Aziraphale noticed him through the open doors before Crowley could reveal his presence with the proper flair or, even better, go back the way he’d come from.
“Ah, good, there you are!” Aziraphale shouted over the music.
“Everything you do literally offends me,” Crowley complained in a normal tone, because his mouth was dry and his throat was still sore, and the last thing he needed right now was for his voice to come out as agitating and grating as he knew it would.
Aziraphale furrowed his brow and walked towards him as he stirred something in a bowl. “I beg your pardon? I can’t hear you!”
“I said, everything you do literally off–”
“Sorry!” Aziraphale cried out with a little shake of his head.
With an irritated grunt, Crowley whipped out his phone and turned down the volume. “I said, everything you do literally offends me.”
“Ah, good. That makes much more sense. I thought you were asking me to be friends with you.” Aziraphale snorted as if he found the idea extremely amusing. (Crowley wasn’t even remotely offended, thank you.) “Seems like you’re feeling better.”
“I was, until I saw you with that blasted thing on,” Crowley grumbled, waving his hand in the general direction of the apron.
Aziraphale looked down and almost winced in pain. “Ah, yes, quite unfortunate.”
“‘S it yours?”
It was meant to be teasing, but the sudden idea that the apron could, in fact, belong to Aziraphale made Crowley feel cold in a way that had nothing to do with either temperature or illness. Because it was the kind of thing a partner gives you as a joke, wasn’t it? And he’d never– Well, he never thought Aziraphale could– Except for that husband thing, and it’s not like Aziraphale had outright denied it, so could it be that– But maybe not– Unless…?
Aziraphale was too busy with his baking to notice Crowley’s mind had gone down a very confusing rabbit hole.
“There’s no need to be rude, you know,” he scolded him as he proceeded to move the dough from the bowl to the floured surface of the kitchen counter. “It’s the only one I could find lying around.”
Then, much to Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale unbuttoned his cuff links, rolled up his shirt sleeves and started kneading the dough with the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing.
Crowley decided that whatever was happening to his insides couldn’t be good. They were melting, sizzling and twisting and– Bloody Hell, was he having a seizure?
“Ngk,” he let out intelligently.
“What was that?”
Aziraphale kept kneading the blessed thing like– And the pale blonde hair on his forearms was–
Funnily enough, the word forearms lit up in Crowley’s brain like a garish, flashing, multicoloured neon sign. And don’t even get him started on those thick fingers digging into–
Crowley wisely decided to avert his eyes from Aziraphale’s hands. Too bad they landed on the apron instead, which then reminded him of what was written on it, and he couldn’t help but ask himself… did Aziraphale fuck better than he cooked?
“N-nothing,” Crowley wheezed out, stumbling to the nearest chair to sit down before he could do something stupid, such as fainting like a delicate maiden overcome by her own emotions. He took his head in his hands and cursed the moment he’d decided to leave the relative peace of the bedroom – a real case of out of the frying pan into the fire… or the oven, more like.
“Are you alright?” came Aziraphale’s worried voice.
“‘M fine.” Crowley had no intention of looking up. It was too dangerous.
“Your cold seems better…”
“Myeah.”
“But you’re a bit paler than usual. Are you shaking?”
“I said I’m fine,” he snarled through his teeth.
Was he, though? Sitting in a kitchen that wasn’t his own with his head spinning because he saw the lovechild of Winnie the Pooh and the Fairy Godmother knead some dough? While wearing a soft jumper that smelled like him?
When he spoke next, Aziraphale’s voice was closer and lower, which meant not only that he’d stepped away from the counter, but that he was also getting angry. “I sincerely hope you did without that TikTok nonsense last night…”
Crowley looked up, trying to convince himself that he had nothing to worry about, not with his sunglasses still on. And if he shuddered the moment his gaze met Aziraphale’s, to the point of caving and giving him a straight answer, it was neither here nor there.
“N-no, I fell asleep right away.” That minty stuff had really done a number on his poor sinuses.
Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded, seemingly satisfied with Crowley’s answer. “Very good.”
And the warm feeling currently spreading in Crowley’s chest and somewhere further down below…? That was just him being hot. Strictly temperature-wise this time, of course. It had nothing to do with Aziraphale practically standing over him in an apron that made promises the man definitely couldn’t keep, and exuding a confusing mixture of sternness and something else that Crowley didn’t really want to think about. Not now, not ever.
He did the best he could to return Aziraphale’s gaze and act as unaffected as possible, while simultaneously going through all the ridiculous things he’d compared the man to since they’d first met – a frothy cappuccino, a foam-mattress, a cherub, Winnie the Pooh, the Fairy Godmother – to remind himself that he was not attracted to him.
And yet, the more he did that, the more he wondered if the months of abstinence (fine… years) had permanently screwed something deep inside of him. Crowley usually went for people like himself, arrogant arseholes of all genders who acted like they were doing him a favour by giving him the time of day in the first place. It was how he liked it, what made him feel safe.
This, on the other hand, was uncharted territory, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Crowley was just about to say something biting to prove to Aziraphale – and even more so to himself – that he was not attracted to him, not even at gunpoint, when the bell rang, defusing whatever tension was mounting between them.
They both startled, turning towards the hallway in unison.
“Oh dear. Are we expecting someone?” Aziraphale inquired, looking for all the world like a 1950s housewife caught with rollers still in her hair by the arrival of an uninvited guest.
Crowley leapt to his feet as if electrocuted. “I’ll get it,” he muttered, practically speeding to the hallway to open the door just so he could get away from Aziraphale and his stupid flour-dusted forearms.
When he did get the door, he found himself staring at the kid from the pub instead, the one with the knowing gaze and the light-brown curls. Alan or something. He was wearing a beige uniform of some sort.
“What?” Crowley barked.
“Delivery for you, Mr. Crowley,” Andy announced, nodding toward the big box in front of him, which Crowley had somehow missed despite it being half as tall as the kid. Probably because he had a forearm or two stuck in his eye. “I can help you carry it inside,” the kid offered and, without waiting for an answer, he moved to pick up the box.
Crowley’s brain finally caught up, and he launched forward to stop him. “Be careful!” he snapped. “My guitar’s in there!”
Alex stopped to blink at him, uneasiness creeping over Crowley as a result.
“So it is you.”
Crowley scoffed. “Thanks for the reminder, kid.” Honestly, he didn’t need to be reminded that he was, in fact, himself. Way to ruin someone’s day…
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Toddler, then.”
“You’re Anthony J. Crowley,” Amos insisted. “I’m a great fan of your solo work.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, and his hands were categorically not trembling with what were probably just the aftershocks of a light earthquake only he’d felt. “What do you want? Damages?”
The kid didn’t seem perturbed by his open hostility. “Me and the others, we play together sometimes.”
“Yeah, ‘s what happens when you’re a toddler. But congrats on having friends, keep ‘em close.”
“At the pub, I mean. You should come by.”
“I’d rather jump off a cliff.”
“Well, if you change your mind–”
“I most definitely won’t.”
“You know where to find us.” Axel touched his hand to his cap before turning around to go back to his car, which he apparently shared with the girl, and leave.
Crowley waited for him to disappear with a sneer on his face, then proceeded to haul the box inside the cottage as carefully as possible. It was voluminous rather than heavy but it still was a bit of a struggle to bring it up the steps.
When he finally managed to close the door behind him, he glanced up and saw Aziraphale peering at him from the end of the hallway.
“What is that?” he asked, those disturbing forearms still shamefully on display. Honestly, was there anything worse than being hit with unexpected – and unrequested – pornography?
Crowley cursed under his breath, trying with all his might to stop his eyes from wandering towards the man and his stupid apron. “‘S my guitar,” he grumbled, because that’s what happened when he was busy ignoring Aziraphale’s existence – he inadvertently resorted to honesty.
Point was, if he really was to write new songs – or rather attempt to – he needed his lucky guitar. Now, to be fair, his black Gibson LP Custom, which Crowley had nicknamed Bentley, had run out of luck some time ago, just like her owner, but she still gave him some measure of comfort.
Aziraphale seemed to take the news as a win, at least judging by how brightly he was smiling. It felt like the roof had suddenly opened up to let the sun shine directly on him.
“Don’t look so smug,” Crowley scolded him. It didn’t mean anything.
“I don’t.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Open it.”
Crowley huffed, irritated. “I don’t need an audience.” Especially considering that when he’d called Maggie to instruct her to get Bentley out of storage and send her to him pronto, he’d also asked her to include a couple of books by a certain author in that same package (in a know thy enemy kind of spirit, of course), and there was literally no way he’d let said author know. “You can go back to terrorising that dough.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale relented, seemingly untouched by Crowley’s gruffness. “Come back later if you want some Chelsea buns. But I’m warning you, you’ll have to ask for them… nicely.” This said, he straightened his apron and went back to the kitchen, gracing Crowley with a glimpse of two very different buns that–
No . He wasn’t, under any circumstance, going to go there. Crowley was perfectly fine right where he was. Never been better, really.
Once Aziraphale was gone, Crowley quickly unpacked Bentley and he was proud to say that his baby was still as cool and sleek as ever. “Did you miss me?” he all but purred, cradling the guitar to his chest. He then proceeded to shove the books under his jumper, and he took shelter in the recording studio, where there were no buns or forearms threatening to melt his brain into a fiery puddle of goo.
While it definitely couldn’t compete with the ones he’d recorded his albums in, the space was functional enough. Besides, there was no guarantee he’d actually be recording anything in it that wasn’t him whining or gnashing his teeth into a mic. Maybe there was a niche market for that? I mean, if feet pics were all the rage, why not? He’d have to ask Maggie about it…
After that, the day went by quite uneventfully, if you didn’t count the long, never ending concert of colourful curses and expletives Crowley uttered against the blasted software he was using to make up for the fact that he had no instruments at hand except for his guitar; the half-assed song inspired by Wrath that was starting to take shape despite his very best intentions, and Aziraphale showing up every now and then to bring him food, tea or cold medicine like a fussy butler waiting on his emo superhero charge while he’s wasting away in a fancy cave.
One thing was for sure, Crowley didn’t remember it being so fucking hard to actually write a bloody song, not to mention rage-inducing. Oh, he’d spent plenty of time wallowing in the limbo that was trying to write and compose when you have zero good ideas to work with, but it had always been a rather sad affair, something of a pity-party, nothing to do with the fury that he could feel simmering under the surface of his skin right now.
Crowley had always been of the idea that his more smashing-prone colleagues – whether they were used to vent their anger on instruments, hotels or dressing rooms – were idiots, but now, for the first time in his life, he was starting to understand what could possibly get someone to completely lose one’s mind and attempt to break something, anything, to avoid breaking oneself.
Despite his tendency to catastrophize, the thought of leaving the recording studio and facing Aziraphale was much worse, so he pushed and pushed himself until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
When he finally left the studio, sunglasses in place and books safely stored in a cabinet full of wires and cables, Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.
“Can’t believe something’s going right for a change,” Crowley muttered to himself as he contemplated the empty, silent cottage with something more akin to unease than relief.
He clucked his tongue and went to the kitchen to steal a Chelsea bun, because the day he’d ask for something nicely he’d know the end was near. Only then did he notice the note left on the fridge, right next to Aziraphale’s vandalised portrait:
Crowley,
I’ll be back by 8.
Do not touch my buns.
A.
There was so much wrong with it, Crowley didn’t even know where to start to pinpoint the worst part. The line about the buns was a pretty strong contender, quickly followed by Aziraphale feeling the need to keep him posted on his movements.
It’d have been a pretty embarrassing moment for Aziraphale, who was quite welcome to go straight to Hell without Crowley giving two shits about it (yeah, right), if it wasn’t for a very minor detail.
Aziraphale said he’d be back by eight and, according to the clock mounted on the wall, he was already forty-five minutes late.
That creeping sense of unease hardened and settled over Crowley’s chest before he could understand what to do with it. Why was Aziraphale late? Why go to all the trouble to tell him he’d be back by eight only to then take his blessed time? Something was up, Crowley could feel it in his buns– I mean bones.
What if something had happened to Aziraphale on his way home? What if he’d been run over by the oodles of tourists supposedly roaming the island? What if he’d been kidnapped by a particularly affectionate highland cow?
Crowley took out his phone and dialled Aziraphale’s number, cringing to Alpha Centauri and back as he did so. The photo he’d taken of Aziraphale and the cow flashed on his screen, but the call went straight to voicemail.
Aziraphale’s cheery voice boomed in his ears, which did nothing to assuage Crowley’s anxiety.
You’ve reached Aziraphale Eastgate. Unfortunately, I am unable to come to the phone right now. However, if you leave a message and your contact information, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Toodle-oo.
The man had the staggering capacity of sounding like an AI from the 1800s. Who even said toodle-oo in this day and age?
Crowley couldn’t help but swear under his breath. Then he looked outside the window, saw how dark it was, and quickly made up his mind.
He rushed to the bedroom to put on his black blazer, the tan scarf Aziraphale had lent him along with the pale blue jumper, and he hurried back to the door.
As soon as he opened it and realised how cold it was this late at night, Crowley cursed all the saints he could remember at the drop of a hat (they were, surprisingly, a lot) and went back for a blanket to drape over his shoulders like a cloak. Suffice it to say, whatever dignity he still had left was long gone by now.
He tossed the sunglasses on the coffee table, turned on the flashlight in his phone and finally ventured outside.
You know what? He’d been wrong before, there was no such thing as rock bottom. In fact, there was no bottom at all, because if this misadventure had taught him anything, it was that you could always keep digging and find new, humiliating lows to brighten up your day.
If someone had told him two weeks ago that he’d be roaming the Scottish moors dressed like a wayfarer from bygone times to look for a nuisance in a bow tie who unironically used toodle-oo to say goodbye, he’d have suggested an immediate psych evaluation. Well, actually, he’d suggest it now too, for himself in this case.
Crowley ground his teeth together, shining the light in front of him as he retraced the path he’d taken with Aziraphale a couple of days before, calling his name every now and then (which, all things considered, was the most embarrassing part of this whole fiasco).
Crowley wouldn’t have been able to tell if it took him five, ten or fifty minutes, but in the end he saw something by the side of the road and quickened his steps until he was face to face with Aziraphale, who was sitting on a low stone wall, raising a hand and blinking furiously at the light so unceremoniously shoved in his face.
“Crowley?”
Great, Crowley thought, secretly overcome with relief. Crisis averted. Thank Satan he’d kept his cool.
“Have you gone mad?!” he heard himself asking, not very calmly if he was being totally honest, in the shrillest, threadiest voice he’d ever used in his entire life. “What were you thinking?!”
Aziraphale drew back, touching a hand to his stupid fedora as if afraid the wind was going to sweep it away. “If you don’t stop flinging your arms around, you’re going to hit me!” Perhaps not the wind, then.
“Well, maybe I should!” Crowley all but screamed, taking in the utter farce of a picture in front of him. “What the Hell are you even doing out here?!” He frantically waved his hands around to encompass the absolute nothingness surrounding them.
Aziraphale huffed. “Will you please calm down? This is simply uncalled for.”
“No,” Crowley bit back. Calming down suggested he wasn’t calm to begin with, which was not the case, as he was calm personified. “Maggie forgot to mention that you’re mad as a hatter!”
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders to affect an air of nonchalance. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
“Don’t talk to me about blowing,” Crowley hissed, threatening Aziraphale with his flashlight. “Where’s that prehistoric phone of yours? I tried calling you!”
To be slightly less unfair than usual, Crowley was most definitely aware that he was overreacting, but try as he might, he couldn’t will his heart to slow the fuck down. That useless piece of meat and muscle was eagerly drumming in his chest with apprehensive abandon.
“I’m afraid the battery’s dead,” Aziraphale tried to explain, having at least the good sense of looking sheepish.
“Next time, try using a phone that doesn’t need a starting handle!”
Aziraphale ignored him. “I sprained my ankle on my way home. I thought I could suck it up and keep going, but it hurts too much, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Crowley stilled, the fight going out of him at once. He pinched his nose and tried to control his breathing. Hell’s sake. “So you thought you’d sit here and do what? Wait for a shaggy cow to come save you?”
“Of course not!” Aziraphale retorted, annoyed, embarrassed and – Crowley just realised it – with his face a little drawn and paler than usual. “I was hoping a car would pass,” he said softly.
Crowley closed his eyes on a sigh and sat himself on the wall next to Aziraphale to get his bearings. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the thing rattling in his chest was fear. Which it wasn’t, of course.
Whatever it was, it was making his knees feel weird. Good news was, when you had overcooked noodles for legs, you couldn’t sprain anything. Bad news was, said noodles would barely get him home.
Anyway, first things first.
“D’you think you can walk if I help you?” he asked, finally turning to Aziraphale. “Or would you rather I called someone from the village?”
Aziraphale seemed to consider his options as he smoothed his hands over his thighs. Crowley looked away – in the long list of things that could make matters even worse, Aziraphale’s thighs were quite up there, if he was honest.
“I think I can walk,” Aziraphale decided after a while. “I’m positive it’s not that bad. I reckon it’ll be fine with a little ice and rest.”
“If you had stayed here any longer, you would have turned into an icicle and taken your final rest alright.” But Crowley wasn’t scared at all. This was just his totally-not-misplaced anger talking.
“How dramatic.”
Crowley glared at him, then stood up and gestured towards him. “Can you stand?”
Aziraphale huffed and puffed, but in the end he managed to get back to his feet, wincing just a little. Crowley had an inkling he was putting on a brave face, and he didn’t like the thought one bit.
“I’m going to put my hands on you,” he heard himself say, just as a heads-up.
Aziraphale’s lips parted on a soft sigh. “Oh.” He looked around, surprised. “Here?”
“Yes, here.” Honestly, what kind of stupid question was that? “I’m gonna put one arm around your waist, and hold your han– I mean, your wrist with the other, okay? For balance, nothing more.” Such a nice, neutral piece of anatomy, the wrist. Much superior to the common hand and its many symbolic meanings. “Here, take the flashlight.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated, this time sounding more disappointed than anything. “Of course.”
“Why are you making that face? Were you expecting to be carted around like a bloody bride?”
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “Of course not!” Ah, yes, here was the bitchy side Crowley had gotten used to. “Wouldn’t want to snap those twigs you have for arms.” Well, almost gotten used to.
“That’s a lot of cheek coming from someone who was going to spend the night on a wall in the middle of nowhere,” Crowley snarled as he draped one end of the blanket over Aziraphale’s shoulders to cover them both. He then snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and held him tight as the man adjusted his position so they were practically joined at the hip.
For his part, Aziraphale put an arm over Crowley’s shoulders, under the blanket, and aimed the flashlight at the road with the other.
They set off for the cottage by silent, yet mutual agreement, taking small, slow steps that became more brisk and confident with each passing second.
And this was okay, really. More than okay. Crowley had lost count of how many times he’d rescued soft, plump men in bow ties from being mauled to death by an angry herd of highland werecows. This definitely wasn’t at risk of awakening something in him, not at all. It was not as though he was now breathing in the familiar smell of Aziraphale straight from the source. Sweet, citrusy and fresh, with the slightest hint of sweat. He didn’t even care about it! In fact, he was having a completely normal time.
Aziraphale thought it’d be a good moment to make conversation. “How has the writing been go–”
“Shut up.”
If the search for Aziraphale could have lasted either ten or fifty minutes, the walk to the cottage seemed to go on for six thousand years, and the silence wasn’t helping. So much so that when the house finally came into view, Crowley felt the sudden urge to cry in relief.
He ushered Aziraphale inside with all the care he could muster. Then and only then did he allow himself to breathe.
Notes:
Songs featured in this chapter:
- Psycho Killer by Talking Heads
- Basket Case by Green DayThis is Crowley's guitar, nicknamed Bentley because of course. It's black and it's cool and that's everything I know about it. (My search history is two seconds away from featuring the question "How does music work?")
Next chapter will pick it up right where we left off, so it may come a bit sooner than Monday. We'll see! 💜
Chapter 5: Five
Summary:
In the aftermath of Aziraphale’s little mishap, he and Crowley finally manage to talk. Far from feeling shaken by this development, Crowley spends the next day avoiding Aziraphale and doing some light reading, which leads to surprising new discoveries about himself (and his cottage-mate too).
Notes:
I promised, so here's chapter 5 a little earlier than planned 💜 Thank you all for reading/kudosing/commenting!
(I really need you guys (gn) to suspend your disbelief about how good those lyrics are. Do it for Aziraphale! 🙏)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale wasn’t completely oblivious.
He knew that he had a history of doing things that seemed perfectly reasonable in the moment and yet completely silly, if not downright reckless, with hindsight.
Honestly, he could take his pick.
There was that one time he’d dropped out of uni to go to magic camp and pursue a career as a professional magician; none of his friends had believed his intentions and had been all quite surprised to discover that Aziraphale had been dead serious about the whole thing. His passion for literature knew no bounds, he’d reasoned with himself, he certainly didn’t need a degree to prove it. So he’d dropped out to follow his dreams, and he’d soldiered on for almost a year before accepting the fact that not only the fine art of prestidigitation was sadly disappearing (how apt), but he also wasn’t particularly good at it, or even at all.
The Marvellous Mr. Fell had officially hung up his silk top hat after a vicious little girl had called him a slur during a birthday party Aziraphale had been forced to say yes to if he wanted to afford groceries for the week.
That wasn’t the only time he’d put whims over reason, of course. His quest to treat himself and unlearn the self-sacrificing tendencies that had been quite effectively drilled into him at home, courtesy of a very Catholic upbringing, often landed him into trouble. Like that time he had the brilliant idea of buying an Oscar Wilde first edition, for example. A poor financial decision that had left him ghost-writing day and night for almost two months just to make sure he’d be able to keep a roof over his head.
And how could he forget his little mésaventure back in 2006? He’d been caught wandering around Paris without an ID as he was on his way to get some crêpes from his favourite bistrot. So distraught he’d been at the idea that he wouldn’t be able to treat himself after looking forward to it for so long, that he’d tried to seduce the gendarme to get out of it. It was a miracle he hadn’t been arrested.
All this to say, Aziraphale knew that he had a tendency to act rashly, and he was also quite familiar with the ensuing feeling, that very specific mix of embarrassment, shame and self-righteousness that always spread inside of him when such things occurred.
Which is why he had no problem recognising it now as he sat on the sofa that doubled as his bed. He was in his pyjamas, still pink after the hot shower he’d taken, a bag of frozen peas placed on his right ankle and Crowley punctuating his disapproval by slamming every single cabinet in the kitchen in his pursuit to prepare some tea.
So, yes, Aziraphale could maybe, possibly admit that he’d acted a touch recklessly, but he still maintained that there was no need to make such a big fuss about it. It was only a sprain, nothing to alert the press about.
Besides, nothing had happened.
Crowley, who clearly didn’t agree with him, stomped into the living room with a cup of tea that he proceeded to shove in Aziraphale’s hands, miraculously avoiding any spillage. It felt like being approached by a live, angry wire. Except, in this instance, the prospect of electrocution wasn’t quite as unpleasant, because it would have involved some measure of contact and– well .
“Drink,” Crowley commanded, amber eyes flashing in barely contained anger. At this rate, Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised to see actual smoke coming out of his ears.
“Oh, thank you,” he stammered, still taken aback by his own musings and Crowley’s very specific brand of disgruntled helpfulness. “Why don’t you sit d–”
Crowley cut him off immediately. “You can shut it right there, mister. After tonight, you’ve lost every right to tell me what to do!” he barked. “Not that you ever had any to begin with. Coming back from the village in pitch darkness, and without a functioning phone to speak of–”
Ignoring the knot in his throat, Aziraphale tuned him out (he’d become very skilled at that in the last few days) and took a sip of his tea, which was too weak for his taste. Any other day and he’d have scolded himself for being so rude, but Crowley had been spewing the same thing over and over again since they’d stepped back into the cottage, growing increasingly more agitated, so it wasn’t as though Aziraphale needed to actually listen to know what he was saying.
Crowley was practically vibrating out of his skin, and with his dark glasses lying forgotten on the coffee table, there was nothing shielding Aziraphale from the frantic nervousness plainly betrayed by his expressive eyes.
This left him looking away whenever Crowley’s attention was focused on him and furtively following him with his gaze as the man stalked around the living room, waving his hands around and looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. He then disappeared into the kitchen, where he slammed more cabinets, only to come back a few minutes later with an expensive bottle of wine and a corkscrew, still complaining about Aziraphale having no instincts of self-preservation whatsoever.
Crowley threw himself in the armchair as he tried to operate the corkscrew, not very successfully as far as Aziraphale could tell.
“What even is the point of having a phone that doesn’t wor– this sodding corkscrew! Jesus– Fuck – You could have died!” Crowley burst out, still trembling with rage and exasperation.
Aziraphale tore his eyes from the bottle and glanced up at Crowley’s face, only to be reminded of the reason he was trying to avoid it in the first place. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Crowley whipped his head up, practically seething. “Dramatic ? You could have literally died!”
Aziraphale pursed his lips, cheeks heating in shame. “Oh, pish posh! I rather think a car would have passed sooner or later…” he mumbled into his tea.
“And what if it hadn’t?” Crowley all but screeched, voice climbing even higher. “You’d have spent the night outside, alone, in the dark, and it’s fucking cold out there!”
It suddenly occurred to Aziraphale, not without a certain degree of fascination, that rage wasn’t the only emotion shining in Crowley’s eyes at the moment. No, there was also… ridiculous as it may sound, Aziraphale was almost positive that that was fear . The realisation made his face prickle with a truly uncomfortable amount of shame.
“And yet I am perfectly fine,” he heard himself say, trying to sound calm and collected, for his sake as much as Crowley’s.
In the meantime, the man kept venting his anger on the unlucky wine bottle – a very nice Sicilian red, if Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken.
“Nyeah, no thanks to you.”
“You are quite right.”
“No!” Crowley spat. “I am the one who’s quite right, not y–” He abruptly cut himself off with a distrustful grimace, Aziraphale’s words finally registering. “Wait a second. I’m wot now?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, hoping to come off as mature and nonchalant rather than embarrassed and tetchy. “You are right,” he repeated, because he could definitely be the bigger person here. “I got lost in my book and I thought I could come back later than usual, but I didn’t take into account how treacherous the road would be in the dark, and I completely disregarded the state of my phone, and… well, if it wasn’t for you, I would now have an awful night ahead of me.” Yes, good, very mature. “I still think I wouldn’t have done anything as dramatic as dying, but… nevertheless, you’re right.”
Crowley winced and finally managed to uncork the bottle with a loud pop. “I don’t like it.” He wasted no time before taking a long swig of wine straight from the bottle, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. A wine of that caliber was meant to be savoured, not gulped down like that.
“What?”
“When you admit I’m right like that. It’s too easy, almost like you’re saying it only to shut me up.”
That certainly factored in Aziraphale’s decision to put his pride aside and admit his wrongs, but Crowley didn’t need to know that. “Well, your trust issues notwithstanding, you were right.”
“I was right,” Crowley echoed.
“Yes, you were.”
“And you were wrong.”
“And I was wrong.” All things considered, it was something of a foregone conclusion.
“And I… was right.”
Aziraphale scoffed. “I think we’ve already established it.”
“Doesn’t hurt to repeat it.”
“Speak for yourself.” His pride was already having quite the night.
“You’re lucky you got a sprained ankle.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, or I’d have made you do something embarrassing. Like a little dance. To apologise properly.”
Now wasn’t a good time to wonder why the first thing that came to Aziraphale’s mind was him giving Crowley a lap dance– although, to be absolutely fair, there should never be a good time for that.
“W-well,” Aziraphale blabbed, thoroughly and undeniably betrayed by his own mind. “That would have been hardly dignified. Besides, I only know one dance.”
Crowley took another long sip from the bottle and slumped further into the armchair, a pensive look levelled at Aziraphale, who decided to take it as a sign he was finally relaxing.
“Let me guess,” Crowley drawled, with the attitude of a petulant prince being fed grapes by his oiled, muscled servants, “is it the Chicken Dance?”
And it was too much all of a sudden.
Crowley still wearing Aziraphale’s jumper, too large on his thin frame. His whiskey-coloured eyes left in plain sight. His limbs artfully arranged on the armchair…
No, Aziraphale had to do something about it, and quickly too. Which is why he wisely decided to edit the jumper out of the picture entirely.
Unfortunately, the situation only went from bad to worse, as he was now picturing the man half-naked, with those slinky hips and–
Another blink, and the mental image changed once more to account for Crowley’s tattoos.
Aziraphale’s mouth went dry.
He cleared his throat. “The gavotte, actually.”
“Bloody Hell, that’s even worse than the Chicken Dance.”
This almost managed to distract Aziraphale from the havoc currently being wreaked on his poor brain. “Why, are you familiar with the gavotte?”
“‘Course not.”
Aziraphale would have loved to say he wasn’t disappointed to hear that, but even he couldn’t stand to lie so blatantly to himself. “So how can you say it’s worse?” he asked once he’d managed to push past his dismay.
“Just a hunch.” Crowley shrugged and drank.
Despite his best intentions, Aziraphale found himself following the elegant line of his throat and was almost positive the faint sizzling he could hear was coming from the frozen peas currently being melted by the heat radiating off his skin. Right about now, the idea of being left on that wall, out in the cold, didn’t sound so bad. Melting certainly wouldn’t be at the top of his current concerns, that’s for sure.
“Well,” Aziraphale croaked, “thank you for rescuing me.”
Crowley snorted. “I didn’t rescue you.”
“Wasn’t I dying just a few minutes ago?”
“Urgh, stop talking.”
“You’re very rude.”
“That’s no way to thank the person who saved your life.”
“You don’t know what consistency is, do you?”
“Never heard of it. Sounds awful.”
“May I at least have a glass of wine?”
“No.”
The moment Aziraphale resolutely placed his cup of tea on the coffee table and braced his hands on the couch as if to stand, Crowley leapt to his feet with a murderous glare and lightning quick reflexes that were admittedly quite impressive for someone his age.
“Don’t you dare move,” he all but growled. “You’re a bloody menace, for fuck’s sake.”
Aziraphale flinched at the unnecessary swearing. “I’m perfectly capable of pouring myself a glass of wine, thank you very much,” he said pointedly, before adding, “Like, you know, a proper adult,” for good measure.
Crowley tipped his head back and groaned, arms once again waving around. Someone should probably study the man as a possible source of renewable energy. “Why would anyone want to be a proper adult? ‘S boring.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips as he watched Crowley round the sofa and dash into the kitchen, coming back only moments later with two wine glasses and twice as many complaints.
Crowley placed the glasses on the table with a sneer, which wasn’t as menacing now that Aziraphale could see his eyes, and poured wine into both of them with more flair than expected. He then pushed one towards him, and when he realised Aziraphale couldn’t really reach out to take it himself, he huffed and puffed like a tea kettle ready to explode and stood up to hand it to him.
“Happy?” Crowley asked him with mock deference.
“Quite. Are you?”
“Pssh. Happy? What am I, twelve?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Happiness wasn’t only a children’s prerogative.
Crowley scoffed before slouching back on the armchair and taking a sip of wine. Aziraphale was pleased to say that the glass made the picture slightly less debauched than it was just a few minutes ago. (This was a huge lie, as the use of proper glassware increased the debauchery exponentially.)
“You know what, maybe you’re right. Wasn’t happy when I was twelve either.”
Aziraphale felt his lofty expression soften into something more indulgent. He held his tongue lest he should say something he oughtn’t. One thing was for certain, Crowley could be extremely confusing at times.
“Neither was I,” is what Aziraphale finally settled on.
Crowley gave a little shrug. “At least we got wine now. ‘S probably what they mean when they say things get better.”
“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but point out. It was too bleak a prospect to even entertain. “But wine is nice.”
“Nyeah. This one’s volcanic. Seemed fitting, what with you almost making my head explode and all.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale perked up, conveniently glossing over the second part of Crowley’s statement. “Are you a wine connoisseur then?”
“Wish you would use normal words for a change,” he muttered. “But no, I just dated one a few years back, a fancy sommelier.” He took a thoughtful sip, then grimaced. “We didn’t actually date. Dunno why I said that. She’d cut my balls off if she heard me.” A pause. “Actually, she’d cut my balls off regardless. She despised me.”
Something in Aziraphale’s expression must have telegraphed a certain measure of surprise, because Crowley grinned – a sharp, jagged thing devoid of any amusement – and further melted into the cushions. He was exuding a baffling mix of triumph and disappointment.
“You thought I was lying like everyone else, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and shook his head, suddenly confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That face you just made. You thought I was gay, pretending to be bi only to save face and career and–”
Aziraphale’s train of thought came to a crashing stop. “I was not!” The idea was so laughable, so utterly preposterous, that he almost sprung up from the sofa, catching himself only when a stab of pain reminded him of his current predicament.
“Will you sit still?!” Crowley snapped, wriggling on the armchair, he supposed, for the sole purpose of diffusing the tension coursing through him.
Aziraphale, who was trying to ignore the dull ache in his ankle and avoid spilling any wine on the sofa, momentarily lost his patience. “You are quite welcome to stop fussing over me.”
“That’s rich coming from Mr. Fussy McFusserson!”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to issue a chastising retort (which wasn’t easy, when you were quite obviously in the wrong), but he somehow convinced himself to close it before he could utter a single word. He could be the bigger person, he knew he could. As a matter of fact, he wanted to.
“I was just surprised that you’d dated – or not-dated, whatever that meant – someone who would want to cut your– well, you know.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow, totally unimpressed by his attempt at modesty. “Balls.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“There’s no need.”
“Just say it. You’re a grown man. You’ve got a pair too, I imagine. The literal kind. As for the metaphorical ones…” He gave Aziraphale a slow once-over that made his skin heat for no reason at all. “Jury’s still out on those.”
“I’d rather not say, thank you.” Honestly, balls were the last thing Aziraphale should be thinking about right now. His body’s reactions were already hard enough to predict and control as it was without introducing highly suggestive terms to the conversation. “So you slept with a sommelier,” he heard himself say, redirecting the spotlight elsewhere. “Though it’d be more correct to call her a sommelière.” Monsieur Rossignol would be proud.
Crowley snorted. “More like shagged,” he muttered absentmindedly before gulping down more wine and smacking his lips. Which were thin, but kind of nice, now slightly stained red by the wine. “So… you really don’t know why my career went down the drain.”
For the record, Aziraphale was categorically not looking at Crowley to commit to memory the shape of his mouth or the bob of his throat when he swallowed. Not at all. He just blinked and shook his head as he thought completely unrelated, purely innocent thoughts. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“You didn’t even google me?” Crowley sounded sceptical and even slightly offended, and for good reason too.
Aziraphale had googled him alright, but he’d been, well… let’s say, too distracted by the visual section of the results to do a proper deep dive on him. “Maggie might have mentioned something… about you coming out and–”
“I never came out,” Crowley clarified with a little snarl that had no bite to it. “I’ve been… outed, I guess.”
“I’m really sorry.” Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to imagine what it meant to go through that sort of thing under the scrutiny of the public eye, especially considering he’d personally encountered his fair share of difficulties even while being a nobody.
“Nyeah, it sucked.”
Aziraphale licked his lips and gathered his courage. “May I ask you what happened?” Whatever emotion crossed Crowley’s eyes almost managed to convince Aziraphale that he’d said the wrong thing. “Only if you feel comfortable, of course.”
Crowley scoffed and somehow propped his leg on the back of the armchair, striking an anatomy-defying pose. “Never felt comfortable in my entire life.”
“I wonder why,” Aziraphale said under his breath, taking in the improbable collection of limbs, angles, elbows and knees that was Anthony J. Crowley.
Silence slowly settled over them as they both went back to sip their wine, the wind howling outside and Aziraphale’s question hanging in the air, still unanswered.
Any other day and he’d have probably berated himself for putting his foot in his mouth. Only he didn’t feel awkward, not exactly. He was just a tad disappointed, even though he could scarcely explain why. There was a part of him that truly believed that opening up would do Crowley some good, and another that was just dying with selfish curiosity.
Because the man was fascinating. Occasionally rude, yes, but after the evening’s events Aziraphale was positive it was more of a façade, a coping mechanism, than anything. For all of Crowley’s pretensions about how irritating he found Aziraphale’s presence, the man still had come looking for him, and he was still here when he could have just as easily disappeared into his bedroom.
Crowley’s voice shook him out of his musings.
“I just got on the wrong side of the wrong people,” he said quietly, his bitter-laced voice barely disturbing the silence around them. “Or the right people, I guess. Back then, the music industry was owned and controlled by a handful of producers, big sharks in a very small pond, you could say. Probably still is. If you made an enemy out of one, you could pretty much kiss your career goodbye. They were rivals on paper, but slight one of ‘em, and they were all ready to back each other. That’s what you’d call class awareness gone wrong.”
“What did you do?” Aziraphale asked softly, not wanting to call any attention to the fact that they were actually talking for once.
Crowley shrugged. “What didn’t I do, more like. I didn’t play the game well enough. Or rather… I realised too late that a game was being played.” He dragged a hand through his hair, only occasionally looking in Aziraphale’s direction. “I was part of a band. Don’t Lick The Walls we were called– yes, I know, don’t say anything. I know it’s fucking stupid, I didn’t choose it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Aziraphale protested, even though he certainly had Opinions.
“You didn’t have to, I see you making those judgy little faces.”
“I don’t make judgy little faces.”
“You do. It’s, like, ninety percent of your facial expressions.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to make a properly caustic retort, but Crowley warded him off with an exasperated huff. “I’ll admit that, in this instance, you’d be right. Don’t Lick The Walls, for fuck’s sake– Jesus . Anyway, my manager at the time came up to me with an offer to be part of this new band that had recently lost its frontman. They already had a contract with a record label and everything. I just needed to play nice, write, sing and be pretty. It was supposed to be my big break, and it was, for a time. It certainly put me out there.”
“But…” Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from prompting.
“But the others were wankers. Couldn’t write a song to save their life, and they were– fuck. Whichever way you put it, they were bloody awful. I ended up doing the bulk of the work. We released three albums over seven years, achieved moderate success, then I got tired of working my arse off for those suckers and decided to go solo.”
“They didn’t take it well, I wager.”
“You could say that. It turned very ugly, very fast. The band broke up and I got strong-armed into a contract with the same producer. He had a lot riding on us, and since I had signed with DLTW for at least four albums, he threatened to sue me for breach of contract. I followed my manager’s advice, and I said yes. Told myself I could put out one more album for this arsehole and then leave to do my own thing. Except the sodding bastard didn’t want to let me go. He had all these demands…”
Crowley’s tone sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. “What kind of demands?”
“He told me what kind of songs to write according to what he thought was popular at the time. He controlled everything I did. Told me who to work with, which collaborations were fine and which weren’t, which parties I was supposed to attend, which bigwigs I was meant to be schmoozing… I tried to play nice at the beginning, but the longer it went on, the harder it became. I thought I’d be stuck with him for, like, two years tops, but what do you know, two just turned into four. Then I started asking too many questions, mistook orders for mere suggestions, and, in the end, I wasn’t good enough to be worth the hassle. Not anymore anyway. I pushed too much and I got blacklisted as a result. No one would touch me after that, and the few who tried quickly found out that I wasn’t worth it.” His lips curled up in a venomous sort of smile.
Aziraphale sighed. “What about your manager? It wasn’t Maggie, was it?”
“Nah. I hired her four years ago, after my second manager dropped me. The first one, Gabriel, was in cahoots with the big shot producer I mentioned. Helping him more than him, that tosser. It took me an embarrassing amount of time to accept the fact that he didn’t give a shit about me.”
Aziraphale, who had had his fair share of awful Gabriels growing up, could definitely relate.
“Didn’t you have anyone in your corner?” Surely, he must have had friends, right? Family. Partners. Someone he could rely on.
“Pssh, no. It was just me. My life revolved around my music because I had made it that way. Didn’t have anything else outside of it. No one else.”
And now he didn’t have that either, Aziraphale supposed, which certainly explained Crowley’s perpetually bad mood. “It sounds–”
“Utterly pathetic?”
“Lonely.”
Crowley huffed out a rueful little laugh. “Nah. I’ve always been fine on my own.” He bit his lip, lost in his thoughts. “If you think about it, what really fucked me over was hanging around with the wrong crowd in the first place. I gave them my time, my best work and I didn’t think to save anything for myself. So…” He shrugged again, eyes flicking to Aziraphale. “It is what it is. A big fucking mess of my own making.”
Aziraphale tried to school his expression into something that wouldn’t betray how genuinely sorry he felt for him. “I think you’re being too harsh on yourself.”
Crowley snorted. “Right. You’re alone on that one.”
This was probably a gross exaggeration, Aziraphale thought, as he was sure Maggie of all people would never think anything of the sort. “You know,” he said tentatively. “There are plenty of worthy people out there that never get their chance to shine.”
Crowley snorted. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? In a ‘don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened’ sort of horseshit?”
“No. I mean… I’m not sure.” Maybe? “What I was trying to say is, you shouldn’t let other people dictate if you’re worthy or not.”
“Right,” Crowley drawled, clearly unconvinced.
Aziraphale didn’t like it. He didn’t like the defeated slump of Crowley’s shoulders, or the downward arch of his mouth. He knew what it felt like to work his way up only to be met with hurdle after hurdle, to scratch at the gilded doors of Success without ever making any headway. Aziraphale had made his peace with it a long time ago. Or rather, he’d taught himself how to cope with it. It was an uphill battle, one that entailed no such thing as a definitive win, where setbacks were a normal occurrence, but still… he knew how to fight it. He knew he would have to get his gratification elsewhere, and that it wasn’t about him not being good enough.
Simply put, the world wasn’t the one they’d grown up in anymore. It had become too harsh, too merciless, too cynical. The price one had to pay to come out on top was too high.
Only he’d never known success like Crowley’s, and he didn’t know what it felt like to achieve it only to have it taken away like that. So, no, he couldn’t blame Crowley for believing he’d fallen further down than when he’d started.
“What about the gay thing you were mentioning?” Aziraphale heard himself ask.
“Heh, that was just the cherry on top,” Crowley said, waving his wine glass around. “It was after my first solo album came out. Got caught snogging a bloke and it made the headlines. The powers that be apparently decided it was worthy of breaking news.” He shook his head and repositioned his legs on the padded arm of the armchair. “A few months later I was papped again, this time in a compromising position with a woman, so the people who were angry with me for being gay accused me of trying to cover up the previous story and pretending to be straight, and the few who were happy about me being gay, hailing me as some kind of queer icon, were calling me a traitor or something. It was a whole thing.”
Aziraphale let out a long sigh. “I’m really sorry. That sounds infuriating. Considering how far we’ve come, it really is a shame how bi people are still treated, even within the community.”
“Nyeah.” Crowley snorted. “And you know what’s even more hysterical? I don’t even think I’m bi.”
“No?” Aziraphale realised his mistake. “I’m terribly sorry, I shouldn't have assumed.”
“‘S okay, I thought of myself as bi for a while. Honestly, I’m not that big on labels, but I’d say pan works better for me. Shagged all kinds of people.” He seemed to consider this, brows almost comically furrowed. “Did I just come out to you?”
Aziraphale smiled. “I think so.” He told himself the warm, pleasant feeling currently spreading in his chest was to be exclusively attributed to the wine in his belly and nothing else. “It makes sense.”
“It does?”
“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, making a show of putting on his bitchy air. “With a personality like yours, it’s better to cast as wide a net as possible. Still slim pickings, I’m afraid, but beggars can’t be choosers. Mother Nature wanted to give your love life a fighting chance.”
Crowley stilled. And blinked. Then burst out laughing, surprising himself more than Aziraphale, who looked like the very definition of smug. It was nice, making Crowley laugh.
“You truly are a bastard,” Crowley accused him when’d calmed down, but there was no heat in his words, only something dangerously resembling appreciation, the lines around his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“How dare you,” Aziraphale scoffed in mock outrage. “I’m nothing if not an upstanding citizen.”
“Nyeah, a right angel you are.”
Aziraphale took a dainty little sip of wine, eyebrows arched. “Takes one to know one.”
“I’m no angel.”
“No, you’re a demon. But all demons were angels once.”
It seemed to Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t know if he ought to be offended or exhilarated by the implication. “Are you seriously calling me an angel?”
“In a way. Same original stock. No need to be angry about it, though. Unless it helps you write that song about Wrath.”
“‘S too late for that.”
“Because you already have it?”
Crowley returned Aziraphale’s beaming smile with a horrified grimace. “Care to explain why that was your first thought?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Crowley drew a squiggly line in the air by waving his wine glass around. “What makes you think I didn’t throw in the towel?”
“Oh. I have my reasons.”
“Right,” he deadpanned, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Can I listen to it?”
“Savannah, slow down.”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Who’s Savannah? Is that the title?”
“Nothing, nevermind.”
“Oh, come on! I certainly can’t write lyrics for a song you won’t let me listen to.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but technically I didn’t ask you to write any lyrics. And that’s not how it works. Music and lyrics are supposed to go hand in hand, they should– you know what, let’s just leave it at that.”
“But it’s what we’re here to do, aren’t we?”
“No, you’re here to take a free vacation, and I’m here to– honestly, I’ve no idea why I’m here.”
Aziraphale knew the only thing he needed was to make his eyes look bigger and sparklier than usual. It was his secret weapon. “Please?”
There, done.
Crowley let out what was probably the most dramatic huff Aziraphale had ever heard in his life. “You’re so annoying,” he whined, but his twitching hands belied something more than irritation.
“That’s precisely the reason you should annoy me right back with an angry song. You’re good at that.”
“You didn’t even rate Basket Case this morning,” Crowley complained, in a rather transparent attempt at derailing the conversation.
“It felt too personal to rate.”
“Personal for who?”
“For you.”
“Basket Case?”
“Yes. Isn’t it about a melodramatic fool who can’t stop whining? About nothing and everything all at once, if I’m not mistaken.”
Crowley glared at him, lips twitching in a grin that was doing its absolute best to disguise itself as a grimace. “Fuck’s sake. You really are a bastard.”
“You might have mentioned that, yes,” Aziraphale retorted with a beatific smile.
It took some more convincing, but in the end Crowley gave up (he always did, Aziraphale realised).
“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth, taking out his phone. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s not really… wrathful.”
“How so?”
Crowley shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, as he browsed through his phone. “I was thinking that–” He cut himself off and muttered something Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to decipher. “I dunno. It doesn’t sound angry, and it’s rough, so…” he let his voice trail off as two red spots slowly bloomed in his cheeks.
Aziraphale gave him a little smile even though Crowley was looking anywhere but in his direction. “Come on, let’s hear it.”
“Urgh.”
Crowley tapped some more on his phone, until Aziraphale heard the tell-tale click of the sound system being connected to his device. He had never looked forward to hearing what came after that ominous click . Never, not even once… until now.
As the first bars of the song began playing in the silence of the cottage, Aziraphale noticed how Crowley was practically squirming in his seat and felt something akin to fondness swirling in his chest at the sight, as well as the sudden urge to reassure him.
Since he couldn’t very well do anything so deeply embarrassing, he decided to close his eyes to give Crowley some privacy and himself a much needed reprieve from the emotional rollercoaster he was apparently still riding.
It was a rough demo, no doubt about that, and though it was much more subdued than Aziraphale was expecting, with an almost mournful quality to it, no one could deny the anger slowly dripping from every note. It wasn’t a raging sort of anger, but something harsher, colder, and all the more wrathful precisely because of it.
The phantom ache that had gripped Aziraphale’s chest when Crowley had told him about the end of his career came back tenfold, accompanied by an uncomfortable restlessness humming over his skin throughout the whole song.
Crowley cut it off as soon as it was over, bringing Aziraphale back to himself with a little start. He opened his eyes and looked at him, even though Crowley was still avoiding his eyes with laser-like focus.
“Can I listen to it again?” Aziraphale heard himself ask.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Fuuuuck.”
With an angry tap, the song resumed playing. This time Aziraphale didn’t close his eyes and, as he looked at Crowley, it suddenly occurred to him that he ’d been the one to string all those notes together and turn them into music. That he’d done so in a couple of days, all alone in a recording booth with no one’s help but his own.
“That’s really impressive.” The words left his mouth before Aziraphale could stop them.
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious, it’s–”
“Complete shite?”
“Haunting.”
Crowley’s face fell immediately, the snark replaced by something else that not even the man himself seemed capable of identifying. If pressed, Aziraphale would have called it hope.
“What’s it about?” Aziraphale asked him.
“Nothing. I told you– I can hear the music, but the words are a blur.”
“What were you thinking about when you were writing it?”
Another whine, then, “About how peaceful my life would be without you.”
Aziraphale didn’t let himself be deterred. “And…?”
“Fuck, I dunno.” Crowley took a deep, annoyed breath, and dragged a hand through his hair. “When I was younger, I always thought I’d burn through my career, do everything I wanted the way I wanted to do it, and that I’d go out with a bang. Like a proper rockstar. Finish it all off with a little bow. A final album, maybe a farewell tour of some sort. I thought I’d go out on my own terms.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “But I didn’t. Someone took that decision from me instead and I didn’t go out with a bang.”
Aziraphale curled his lips in a rueful smile. “You went out with a whimper.”
“I went out with a whimper,” Crowley confirmed in a whisper, more sad than angry now, nursing his glass of wine with a frown on his face.
Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring at him, genuinely taken aback by the feelings currently crammed in his chest and the man who had put them there with this rough demo of a song despite thinking himself a failed musician. There was so much Aziraphale wanted to say – the awe he was dying to express, the lyrics he was hitching to write to turn Crowley’s notes into words, the solace he desperately wanted to bring him – but he knew it wasn’t the right moment. Crowley was still too raw, too vulnerable.
So, what Aziraphale said instead was, “I think this calls for another bottle of wine, don’t you think?”
“It’s so bad you feel like drinking?”
“Actually, it’s so good I feel like celebrating,” Aziraphale amended for him.
“Somehow,” Crowley muttered as he got back on his feet, “that’s even worse.”
It’s a truth universally acknowledged (quite the opposite, really) that extraordinary amounts of alcohol can better your outlook on life and the people around you, and considerably so.
Getting sloshed with Aziraphale proved this to Crowley beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Under the influence of some really expensive wine (it’s probably worth mentioning that Maggie hadn’t said a word about helping themselves to the cellar and its fancy contents, but that was a problem for future Crowley to deal with), Aziraphale’s personality didn’t seem as irritating anymore.
In fact, fully-plastered-Crowley couldn’t help but notice how the alcohol seemed to optimise the man’s dimples every time he smiled, the slight upturn of his nose, the colour in his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes, which expertly toed the line between innocence and mischief.
Through a Rioja–, Chianti– and Cabernet Sauvignon-induced haze, Aziraphale came across as a brilliant conversationalist. The man could rave about anything and everything for hours on end, and Crowley, who usually hated talking to people on account of most people being boring as Heaven, found himself equally in the mood for drivelling about a variety of topics, such as the evil nature of seagulls, the fundamental snobbishness of the Western canon, the downfall of tailoring as a form of art, French soups, and traces of performance-enhancing drugs being found in bananas, which launched a very interesting detour on what that meant for gorillas and their nests, cancel culture, the rise of fascism and the undeniable superiority of crêpes over waffles.
Yes, these were gifts the alcohol magnanimously bestowed on Crowley, because there could be no other explanation for his sudden (as well as strictly temporary) change of heart about Aziraphale. None that made sense, at least. It definitely had nothing to do with the man’s reaction to hearing Crowley’s awful song for the first time, or the soft voice he’d spoken with, or the way he’d blushed when Crowley had accused him of thinking him a liar.
The only thing more irrelevant than all of the above was the ice-cold fear that had gripped Crowley the moment he’d suspected something had happened to him, and the subsequent relief that had washed over him when everything had turned out for the best, and no thanks to Aziraphale.
And if they laughed and drank and ate the last of the Chelsea buns (which were all half-burned, proving once again that: one, Aziraphale was only a mediocre cook and baker at best; two, that while Crowley was working in the recording studio, Aziraphale had brought him the best buns of the lot, probably in a poor attempt at hiding how bad he was at this whole baking thing), and then fell asleep in the living room (Aziraphale lying on the sofa, Crowley nestled on the armchair) it could only be chalked up to the boundless magical properties of alcohol, bringing people together since the beginning of time. Amen.
The same could be said for what happened next, at precisely four in the morning, when Crowley woke up with the worst hangover in recent years and his spine protesting the uncomfortable position he’d held for so long.
Now, the average, uninformed person may think that the reason Crowley made sure Aziraphale was still tucked in was that he had somehow forgotten that whatever had transpired the previous night was due exclusively to the alcohol they’d both introduced into their fifty-something-year-old bodies.
On the other hand, it was precisely the alcohol still raging in his bloodstream that pushed him to replace the now-melted bag of peas on Aziraphale’s ankle with a bag of frozen vegetable soup (the man was so out of it, he didn’t even stir) and to drag the office chair from the recording studio to the living room, just in case Aziraphale still couldn’t walk properly in the morning (solely because he had no intention of getting up just to accompany a grown man to the loo). And if before going back to bed he stopped by the kitchen to do the dishes and clean the mess Aziraphale had left after his Chelsea buns adventure, well, that was only to show him what it meant to be a considerate flatmate. Cottage-mate. Whatever.
Crowley was so confident about the airtight reasoning behind his actions that he spent the entirety of the following day holed up in his bedroom, just for old time’s sake. He forwent his usual, rude wake-up call, and resurfaced only when he heard Aziraphale leave the house around lunchtime. (He was very proud of himself for suppressing the urge to run after him and make sure his ankle was okay. Aziraphale could take care of himself, he certainly didn’t need a babysitter.)
Since the coast was clear, Crowley took the opportunity to shower and eat the sandwich Aziraphale had naively left unattended on the kitchen counter (honestly, it was a wonder people weren’t robbing the man left and right), along with a note informing him he’d gone out to read in the back garden.
Ignoring the relief he felt upon discovering that Aziraphale wasn’t that far away, he retreated to the recording studio, where he retrieved the books he’d asked Maggie to send him along with Bentley.
Crowley wasn’t exactly a literature or even a book marketing expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he did know that the very tasteful, old-timey covers didn’t exactly scream erotica. It was what paperback mass-produced book covers would have looked like in the late 1800s, with fake marble paper and cheap gold lettering.
The first was titled When In Rome, and while Crowley thought it would be something along the lines of Roman Holidays but with porn, it turned out to be set in Ancient Rome. Which was definitely a choice if he ever saw one.
He began skimming it with the abysmal expectations one has for an erotic novella written by someone who can’t even bring himself to utter the word balls out loud.
To his great dismay and surprise, he ended up reading the whole thing with rapt attention, eating up every word like a man starved. Not only did he develop a ridiculous attachment to the main characters, he also blushed at the sex scenes and gasped out loud at a particularly racy one involving oysters of all things (Crowley fucking hated oysters with a passion), to the point of pondering the ethical ramifications of wanking while sitting on the floor of a stranger’s recording booth (he didn’t, by the way. He sneaked into the bathroom – easier to clean and everything).
“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley muttered to himself a bit breathlessly, deciding to risk stumbling into Aziraphale (he didn’t) to move things to the bedroom, where he somehow felt the need to open the photo he’d taken of Aziraphale and Judith The Cow to try and reconcile what he’d just read with the soft man smiling in the picture.
Lucky for him, Crowley was still too hungover to properly assess the consequences of his own actions, otherwise he’d never have cracked open the second novella.
Set during the French revolution, this one featured a lengthy author’s note warning the reader about the many liberties he’d taken regarding the historical accuracy of the events, while also providing a surprisingly long list of non fiction books for those who wanted to learn more about it.
As far as Crowley was concerned, the pedantic nature of the disclaimer didn’t bode well for the success of Cuffs of Lace and Iron, and yet he once again changed his mind as soon as it became clear that the whole reason behind the historical inaccuracies was to let the two protagonists fuck multiple times in a cell inside the Bastille. Most baffling thing of all, skillfully woven between the sex and the objectively creative ways one could use shackles for recreational purposes, there was a fierce criticism about classism, with clear references to current political events.
Crowley couldn’t say what made him hornier, whether the sex or the political commentary. Probably the lethal combination of the two. Either way, he decided to make use of the bathtub inexplicably set in the bedroom for the sole purpose of having a second wank (in his defence, no one installs a bathtub in their bedroom because of their high standards of cleanliness).
Who knew historical porn would do it for him, huh? Probably something about the fantasy of it, Crowley reasoned, the escapism. It certainly had nothing to do with the author of said historical porn.
In fact, Crowley hadn’t even thought about him once . Could barely remember his face, if he was being honest with himself.
And it was precisely in the name of sheer honesty and undeniable self-awareness that Crowley spent the rest of the day burrowed under the covers, re-reading both novellas to make sure his first reactions weren’t a fluke (they weren’t, as attested by the little pile of used tissues slowly growing by the side of the bed. Suffice it to say, said pile was inversely proportional to his willingness to look himself in the eye. He didn’t even know his body could still do that that many times).
Evening turned into night as Crowley listened for movement in the living room, waiting for Aziraphale to fall asleep. When he was positive the man was gone for the world, he sneaked out of the bedroom and slithered into the kitchen to eat whatever leftovers Aziraphale had stored in the fridge (a meatloaf with broccoli and mashed potatoes that wasn’t half bad) like the skiver, wicked version of a bloody brownie.
As he lingered in the kitchen to do the dishes (shut up) and prepare himself a cup of tea with honey (no, seriously, don’t even look at him), he noticed a new slip of paper pinned to the fridge that he had initially missed.
He went to take a closer look, and the first few lines were enough to understand what he was looking at.
Lyrics.
For his song about Wrath.
Crowley read the whole thing with a lump slowly forming in his throat.
When he got to the end, he went back to the beginning and he read it again. And again. The ending especially made him ache with something he couldn’t quite define.
It’s only wrathful whispers in my ear
seething softly and quietly raging.
I’m going gently into the night,
to an end nowhere in sight.
You’ve fucked me over
so tenderly
so tenderly
so tenderly
I didn't even get to scream.
A furious whimper
it’s all you've made of me
it’s all that’s left of me.
He recognised the inexplicable feeling taking up residence in his chest as the same disorientation he’d felt when Maggie had shown him the lyrics for the song about sucking dick. The stark, bewildering impression that Aziraphale had somehow reached into his head, rifled through the admittedly pathetic contents of his brain and managed to pluck out words and images that not even Crowley knew were hiding in there.
It made no sense. When writing songs, music and lyrics were supposed to take shape at the same time, inextricably linked together. Except Crowley hadn’t been able to do that for some time now.
So it was nothing short of shocking, not to mention downright uncomfortable, to have someone he didn’t know and who didn’t know him understand him on such a visceral, meaningful level. In a way he didn’t even understand himself.
But Aziraphale had done it. Twice.
He’d heard a half-arsed song, and he’d come back with… fuck. He’d come back with bloody poetry. And, on top of it all, it didn’t even feel like reading words written by someone else. Not, it felt like reading something Crowley himself could have written if only he remembered how to string two sentences together.
It was overwhelming. Scary. Intoxicating.
“Fuck,” he whispered in the eerie stillness of the kitchen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
When he was sure he wouldn’t have a full-on breakdown, he unpinned the lyrics from the fridge with a hand that wasn’t trembling at all. He picked up his tea with extra honey (again, don’t look at him) and he went back to the studio.
To record something with words, for once.
Notes:
Only song mentioned here is:
- Basket Case by Green Day.Have the best of weekends 💜
Chapter 6: Six
Summary:
It's a new day in the cottage. Aziraphale wonders, out loud, if Crowley's song of the day is inspired to real life-events. He's totally not offended by his answer, which is why he decides to escalate their little war. Crowley gets his revenge thanks to a 2D version of himself. In the meantime, they also talk.
Notes:
Hello! 💜
This week we're going to earn our title song, Growing on Me by The Darkness, which pretty much sums up Crowley's state of mind.
I would also like to point out that Aziraphale's ankle makes a miraculous recovery for the purpose of the story 🪄
Thank you so much to all of you reading/kudosing/commenting along the way and for sticking with me while I make these two idiots simmer 💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning found Crowley sprawled on what he had come to think as his armchair, wearing a white cable knit jumper Aziraphale had lent him (after the, er, activities of the previous day, he couldn’t really look at the pale blue one without feeling judged anymore).
With his sunglasses firmly in place, a cup of bitter black coffee in his hands and a leg bouncing in time with the song currently blaring in the living room, Crowley kept his gaze trained on Aziraphale, who was sitting on the sofa still in his pyjamas, sipping his tea and reading an old newspaper, those ridiculous round spectacles of his perched on his nose.
For someone who’d spent the last two weeks sleeping on the sofa, Aziraphale sure acted like a stuck-up posh bastard, much better suited to the upstairs bedrooms of Downton Abbey than a modern Scottish cottage. The old-timey vibes were so strong that Crowley wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that he was reading about the sinking of the Titanic or a certain archduke being assassinated in Sarajevo.
The fact that Aziraphale had already been awake when Crowley had emerged from the bedroom had done nothing to spare the man from Crowley’s musical selection for the day.
Today’s offering (read: torture device) was Growing on Me by The Darkness, in the hopes that Justin Hawkins’ high-pitched wails would put a strain on Aziraphale’s patience.
The good news was that Aziraphale’s ankle seemed to be doing much better, and that he had asked no questions about the whereabouts of his lyrics, or the reason why Crowley had been MIA for a whole day. He certainly hadn’t hinted at Crowley possibly singing throughout the night, which meant the recording booth was perfectly soundproof (very good to know).
The bad news, on the other hand (can’t have the good news without the bad one, now, can we?), was that Aziraphale seemed completely unbothered by Crowley’s very pointed attempts at noise pollution.
No, he just kept reading his newspaper, occasionally murmuring something to himself – probably lamenting the sorry state of the Austro-Hungarian empire or wondering if he ought to grow a pair of side-whiskers – and moving his head to the beat of the song.
Infuriating was what it was. There was no other way to put it. How dare he sit there, all prim and proper, with his stupid flannel pyjamas, and his embarrassing white curls, and his nose and his eyes and his lips and his… urgh.
Some people, Crowley mused, were born for the sole purpose of making you go bonkers with irritation. Yes, that was it.
Just as the song started its third repetition, Aziraphale pursed his lips and arched an eyebrow with what Crowley felt was very deliberate slowness, eyes never lifting from the newspaper – another bad omen, no doubt.
Then Aziraphale opened his mouth and lined up a collection of words so ludicrous that Crowley found himself floundering for an answer far longer than he’d ever like to admit.
“So,” Aziraphale began, putting on an air of indifference, “shall I ask you why you’ve chosen this particular song?”
The moment Crowley’s brain came back online, he let out a horrified gurgle. “Hng– What– What do you mean?”
“Is this song about me?”
Crowley didn’t know if it was even physically possible, but he was pretty sure he’d just felt all of his blood leave his face. “‘Course not,” he scoffed. “Unless you personally know the band…” Granted, he knew nothing about Aziraphale’s personal life, but he would still say with reasonable confidence that it was highly improbable.
Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, come now. You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t.” In fact, Crowley had never known anything in his entire life, and he was quite proud of it too.
Aziraphale threw him a pointed glare over the newspaper. “Mmh,” was the only thing he said.
Crowley sneered in response, drowning his irritability in a hearty gulp of hot coffee. As far as he was concerned, Aziraphale could hum his way to an entirely different galaxy and he still wouldn’t have given a single, blessed fuck about it. Not only that, Aziraphale was quite welcome to pack his bags and leave at his earliest convenience.
So unflinchingly sure he was of his disinterest for Aziraphale’s hypothetical travel plans, that he kept telling himself how much he didn’t care, mentally jotting it down and underlining it dozens of times for emphasis. Right. And just when Aziraphale’s silence had stretched long enough for Crowley to think he was in the clear, Aziraphale decided to have another go at disrupting his fragile, peaceful morning.
“So, am I to understand that you’ve chosen this song for no particular reason?”
“‘Course.” It was a good song, catchy, as well as liable to bother people whose eardrums weren’t acquainted with rock music. You didn’t need a reason to listen to it. (Awful things, reasons. Best left alone, if you asked him.)
“It’s just that I can’t help but notice that there may be some, let’s say, similarities between the meaning of the song and our… well, our budding friendship, so to speak,” Aziraphale remarked with what Crowley could admit was admirable poise. Or at least, he’d have been ready to admit it, had he not been too busy preventing his brain from imploding on itself.
“B-budding wot?” Crowley repeated, aghast.
“You heard me.”
“There is nothing budding between us.” The mere thought of something other than vague aversion existing between them was laughable. He’d chosen Growing on Me because– Fine, maybe he hadn’t exactly thought the whole thing through, but this by no means meant that– Shit.
“If you say so.”
“And here I thought media literacy was your thing…” he shot back, doing some inner twisting and turning in a desperate attempt at coming up with something to say.
At this, Aziraphale finally decided to put aside his newspaper and give Crowley his full attention. The man looked nothing if not on the brink of taking great offence at whatever Crowley was about to say (he himself had no idea).
“...what with you being a writer and all.”
“Pardon me, but I fail to see what media literacy has to do with anything.”
“It has to do with the fact that this song is about–” Something growing? A fern? A pile of trash? Fuck.
And then, a stroke of genius.
Crowley perked up and flashed him a triumphant smile. “It’s about pimples.”
Aziraphale threw him a withering look. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, and you’d know if you listened to it carefully.” Crowley began listing all the evidence in his favour, cherry picking lines like it was his new purpose in life, “I can’t get rid of you, quite self-explanatory. I want to touch you, but I’m afraid of the consequences – everyone knows the last thing you should do with a pimple is touch it. And notice how it says I can’t get you off my head, and not out of my head, because the pimple grows on the outside. On you.” Oh, to be a pimple on Aziraphale’s soft, round face. “And again, I don’t want anyone to know that you’re attached to me, because no one wants to show off their pimples now, do they?”
Aziraphale tilted his head to the side and levelled Crowley with a stern glare, looking every inch like a disappointed English teacher. It felt like being back in school, an experience Crowley didn’t particularly wish to go through again. Only he couldn’t remember ever having a teacher that looked so, er… stimulating?
“Thank you for this impromptu lesson in hermeneutics,” Aziraphale deadpanned.
“No problem. Glad to be of service.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Don’t take it personally. You can still be the pimple, if you like.”
“On you?”
“Pssh, why not?” Crowley shrugged, relief making him lose his grip on the conversation. “I’ll even let you choose where.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips in a thoughtful expression and let his eyes slowly drag over Crowley. “Maybe I’ll go for the backside.”
“Ngk.”
“So you’ll know what it feels like to have curves in that general area.”
Crowley, who was in the process of taking a swig of his coffee just to do something that wasn’t staring at Aziraphale like a blessed ninny, sealed his lips against the coughing fit that suddenly overcame him, saving the living room’s furniture from an unscheduled restyle at the risk of drowning himself with his breakfast.
“Is something the matter?” Aziraphale inquired as he went back to his newspaper with feigned detachment.
“B-bastard,” Crowley wheezed out.
Okay, fine. Maybe he deserved it… just a little bit. But Crowley didn’t feel guilty or anything, busy as he was contemplating the many negative meanings of the word stimulating.
In fact, what he said a few minutes later as he squirmed in his seat was totally unrelated, “Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?”
Even though Aziraphale continued to flaunt his indifference, gaze stubbornly fixed on the latest news about the Spanish flu epidemic, there was no mistaking the glimmer of interest in his downcast eyes. Crowley couldn’t quite conceal a victorious smirk.
“Here or at the village?” Aziraphale asked with calculated indifference.
“What would you prefer?”
“The village.”
“The village, then.” And then, for good measure, “My treat.”
“Mmh,” Aziraphale hummed as he slowly flipped the pages. “Temptation accomplished, albeit barely so.”
Crowley’s smirk turned into a full-on grin. “That’s me. Scraping through doing the bare minimum.”
“Aren’t you a beacon for all of us?”
“You’re welcome to scream it from the rooftops.”
“No, thank you. It appears my balance is not what it used to be.” This said, and quite loftily as well, Aziraphale folded the newspaper, removed his spectacles and got back on his feet. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be ready in fifteen to twenty minutes.”
Crowley snorted. “I’ll be sure to check my schedule.” What was he supposed to do with that kind of information? Time him?
“Splendid,” Aziraphale concluded, with the air of someone who’d never once successfully detected sarcasm in his entire life.
Crowley watched him disappear into the hallway, letting his gaze slide downwards not to check on the man’s generous backside and thighs, as some of you mistrustful gits might think, but to confirm that Aziraphale’s ankle was indeed in ‘tip-top conditions’, as previously stated by the man himself (it goes without saying that Crowley would never have used those words).
As soon as he heard the bathroom door close and the water running, Crowley opened his Spotify account and randomly tapped around to select a song that wouldn’t let Aziraphale think he secretly harboured positive feelings for him. He settled on What’s Up? by 4 Non-Blondes, because he felt it perfectly encapsulated what was going on in his brain at present.
Time passed as he kept doom scrolling on TikTok with the audio off, vibing with whatever song came on in shuffle mode (he’d be fine as long as he couldn’t be accused of sending secret messages via music like a thirteen year old girl on MySpace circa 2005). He was so entranced by the videos playing one after the other that he didn’t hear Aziraphale padding back into the living room.
When Crowley looked up, he did a double take and his breath suddenly thickened in his throat.
The first thing he did was say a silent prayer for whoever had invented sunglasses, quickly followed by his brain independently deciding to teleport him to an ancient roman restaurant, where a plump man in a white toga was trying to convince his grumpy table companion to sneak into certain private baths despite the late hour. The third thing that happened was his heart going into overdrive.
“Oh, you’re still here,” said a blissfully unaware Aziraphale, who wasn’t wearing a toga (that would have been objectively worrying for their sanity), but a white towel wrapped around his waist and another one draped over his shoulders. Not a toga, yes, but close enough according to Crowley’s overactive fantasy, as proved by the single glance it had taken to trigger the memory of the scene from Aziraphale’s novella.
Not only was Aziraphale dripping wet (Satan help him), there was also a lot of skin on display, certainly much more than Crowley was used to. With drops of water dotting his soft, naked chest, dusted with blond, downy hair, and his cheeks made pink by the heat of the shower, not to mention his wet curls looking darker than usual, Aziraphale was… he was… fuck. He really was all curves, and while the Night of the Ankle Incident had enlightened Crowley as to what they felt like under his hands through a staggering amount of layers, this was different.
This was… Jesus, fuck.
Crowley desperately wanted to pick one of the delicious folds of his flesh and just tuck himself in it and hide there for the rest of his–
I mean, no, he didn’t want anything of the sort. That would have been life-endingly embarrassing. Obviously. Much like reasons, curves were also a terrible thing. People literally died on them. Crashing into them. Face-first. Preferably with their mouths wide open. Erm.
“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, pointedly not looking in Crowley’s direction. “I forgot my clothes are all here. Hope you don’t mind, it’ll only take a jiffy.”
That’s when it hit Crowley, who was busy hyperventilating and mentally compiling a list of things to help take his mind off of whatever his eyes were looking at (pimples were the first item on it, with the word jiffy being a close second).
It was the slight curl of Aziraphale’s lips as he rummaged through his threadbare suitcases that gave it away.
The man had done it on purpose. He’d seen Crowley’s denial about the stupid song and decided to raise him his… well, his blessed tits. Aziraphale was trying to seduce him, or at the very least coax Crowley into admitting that he did have some weird feelings-slash-urges for him (which he didn’t). And then maybe laugh in his face or something along those lines.
How dare he, Crowley thought angrily, conveniently forgetting that he’d tried to do the very same thing just a few days before, when he’d strode into the kitchen with his top off (there was definitely something to be said about their flirting skills).
“Are you alright there, dear boy?” came Aziraphale’s smug voice as Sheer Heart Attack by Queen played in the background.
Crowley, whose mouth was gaping (and also as dry as his sex life had been in the past, er, three-to-five years), blinked in the relative privacy afforded to him by his sunglasses for several seconds before his brain decided to start functioning again.
“Dear… wot?”
Aziraphale straightened up with clean clothes in hand, apparently unaffected by the tension Crowley could feel crackling in the air. He looked like a cloud. A soft, delicious, plush cloud that was quick to open its mouth and clarify, “Dear boy.”
“No,” came Crowley’s biting retort.
“Oh? Do you prefer dear girl? Or something more gender neutral? I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Then you should put your tits away,” Crowley muttered through his teeth, even though he knew full well that despite the tangled mess of emotions he was currently grappling with, discomfort wasn’t one of them.
“What was that?”
No, he wouldn’t give Aziraphale the satisfaction of seeing him so perturbed. And if the man thought Crowley was going to just let him roam the Isle of Skye with his beige corduroys and his piss-poor seductions unchecked, then he had another thing coming. Two could play this game, and Crowley had never seen a low he couldn’t stoop to with effortless ease.
Sauntering vaguely downwards, that was what he did best.
So, you know, game on.
“What about this?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, showing him his latest find.
Crowley glanced up from the row of black jackets he was inspecting only for his face to scrunch up in sheer disgust. “Absolutely not,” he squawked.
“Whyever not? It’s a black jumper.”
“It’s a Christmas jumper.”
“But it’s black.”
“With bells on it.”
“Thought you’d appreciate its vexing potential,” Aziraphale countered, shaking the jumper to make the bells jingle and hopefully prove his point. He could swear he saw Crowley’s eyes flashing menacingly even behind his sunglasses.
“Put it back.”
Aziraphale pouted, which made Crowley bristle even more. “I said, put. It. Back.”
Despite being of the idea that Crowley secretly liked it, Aziraphale resigned himself to replace the jumper on one of the many racks of the little second-hand store they’d stopped into before their lunch at The Quarry.
A more self-aware man would have probably questioned this newfound pliability. And, yes, alright. In the sanctity of his own brain, Aziraphale could admit that no new clothes meant Crowley wearing his, and seeing Crowley in his clothes gave him a not-so-secret thrill, even though he didn’t particularly care to explore the reasons behind such a primal reaction.
Primarily because, deep down, he already knew why. He just didn’t want to stare at that why too openly. Otherwise he would have had to admit that their styles couldn’t be more different if they tried, to the point that anyone seeing Crowley wearing an oversized jumper in a light colour would immediately understand who was the legitimate owner of that particular garment. This, in turn, allowed for a couple of possible scenarios, with the most plausible one being that they were friends who were used to sharing clothes. Or partners, of course. That was for the eye of the beholder to determine.
As for the reason why Aziraphale liked this idea? Why, it just gave him the upper hand in this little seduction challenge they had going on. Which, coupled with Aziraphale’s little stunt that morning, put him squarely in the lead.
Yes, walking around half-nude wouldn’t win Aziraphale any awards for subtlety, but there was nothing for it – sometimes the most straightforward of methods was also the most efficient, fineness be damned.
Ridiculous competitions and secret thrills aside, Crowley still needed some warmer clothes, and ideally a coat, and Warlock’s little shop, which Aziraphale had already gone to a couple of times during his trips to the village, seemed to be the perfect place to find some.
Crowley and the young man behind the till had a similar style – lots of tattoos, an overabundance of black, chains, buckles and the like. Moreover, despite his limited knowledge of the modern musical scene, Aziraphale was positive that the posters plastering the walls depicted singers and bands Crowley would be familiar with. Even the song unobtrusively playing in the background fit the general atmosphere.
A surreptitious look at Warlock’s attire for the day left Aziraphale wondering if Crowley would be open to wearing eyeliner. He’d have to ask. (Or not, what with it being a bizarre thing to ask your unwilling co-worker. But ideally speaking… perhaps.)
The reprimand of his annoying inner voice didn’t stop Aziraphale from picturing the man with make-up on or idly thinking about the plot of that Victorian vampire romance he’d been toying with for a while.
The moment he caught himself doing it, he felt his face heat up and he scrambled to derail his musings towards something less dangerous.
Deciding that putting some physical distance between them would be just the ticket to banish such silly thoughts from his overactive mind, Aziraphale wandered around the shop, stopping to browse the shoes and accessories selection, until the limited space brought him back by Crowley’s side (he did try, you miscreants).
“Why is the kid staring at me?” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth as he inspected a black turtleneck.
Aziraphale glanced in Warlock’s direction. Indeed, the young man’s gaze was trained on Crowley, even though he seemed to be warring with himself to divert it elsewhere. (Aziraphale could definitely relate.)
“He seems to be quite captivated by you,” he remarked.
Crowley scoffed. “Shut up.”
“Probably a fan. He told me he plays with Adam and the others at The Quarry.” This earned him an irritated glance.
“Do you make conversation with everyone you meet?”
“Yes. That’s politeness for you. I can illustrate ho–”
“Spare me.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but let his eyes drape over the man’s sharp profile. His aquiline nose, his cheekbones, his chin, what little of his honey-coloured eyes he could see behind the sunglasses, the little snake next to his ear, his clean shaven cheeks (which was good news, because it meant Crowley cared enough to shave, but also bad news, because Aziraphale was dying to see him with a full beard), and his hair, so incredibly red but for a few silver strands here and there.
Now, just picture him with slightly longer hair, and maybe a well-fitted Victorian suit hugging his–
Goodness.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and moved his attention to the black turtleneck (were beatnik vampires a thing?), which looked nice, but rather impractical for the current weather. (He was beginning to sense a pattern here – everything pointed to Crowley taking his pursuit of coolness a little too literally.)
“That’s not warm enough,” Aziraphale heard himself say, which was objectively better than asking Crowley if he’d ever considered growing his hair and/or acquiring vintage attire.
As if sensing the direction of Aziraphale’s traitorous thought process, Crowley turned to him with a devilish grin. “But I’d look hot in it.”
Aziraphale squared his shoulders and lifted his chin defiantly. “That remains to be seen.”
“I could show you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Why?” Crowley leaned forward with a mischievous tilt of his head. “Worried you’re going to feel too warm, angel?”
At the angel, Aziraphale almost tripped on his feet while standing absolutely still. Thankfully, his balance wasn’t that bad yet. And to think he’d been doing such a good job of not thinking about Crowley (mockingly) calling him sweetheart that first day at the cottage!
“That’s not how it works, you know,” he rushed to say. On the contrary, it was precisely how it worked, and Aziraphale was hoping his face wasn’t betraying him too spectacularly right now. “Besides, if that were the case, I should probably be the one wearing it, since you’re the one who runs cold all the time.”
Crowley’s impudent smirk fell into a grimace. “This is not your colour. You’d look… all wrong.”
“I think I could pull it off,” Aziraphale insisted.
“Well, too bad this only comes in my size then.” He looked smug and triumphant and also a little bit relieved. “You’re going to have to look for some other cheap trick if you want to fluster me.”
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, catching a glimpse of weakness he could definitely exploit. “Is that what I’d do to you in a black turtleneck?” he inquired with a beaming smile.
Crowley seemed to realise his mistake, because he blushed and spluttered some nonsense before shrugging… repeatedly. “Black turtlenecks don’t do it for me.”
“What does, then?”
“Do you really think I’ll spill all my secrets just like that?”
“It was worth a try. You see, I can be very persuasive,” Aziraphale said innocently. He was really good at it, if he could say so himself. He only needed to gaze at his victim with his big, blue, sparkly eyes, and then bat his eyelashes looking for all the world like a lost puppy. “I’m what you’d call a sweet-talker.”
Despite his annoyance, Crowley couldn’t quite avert his eyes. “Feel free to shut your mouth any time.”
Aziraphale didn’t. “I’m also a good judge of character when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing being…”
“Preferences of a certain nature.”
“Being an erotica writer and all,” Crowley added sceptically. “Kink literacy.”
“As it were.”
“So what is it that does it for you? Lace and frills? Gladiator sandals? Handcuffs?”
Aziraphale furrowed his brows. He couldn’t help but wonder if Crowley had googled him and his books. He knew one could obtain excerpts on the Internet. Maybe Crowley had found them…?
Either way, when it came to weaknesses regarding all matters of seduction, Aziraphale felt that he could definitely show his hand, as he was confident Crowley couldn’t really exploit any of his little fixations to get back at him.
“I’m partial to braces,” he revealed. “And sleeve garters.”
Crowley decided to nominate himself for the Most Mature Middle Aged Man Award by making a retching sound that was simply uncalled for. “Figures. Where do you even buy sleeve garters? Museum bookshops? Antique stores?”
“I’m sure you could find out.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“And mine was a rhetorical answer,” Aziraphale retorted.
Crowley scoffed and went back to browsing while pulling ridiculous faces to supposedly mock Aziraphale until the search for new clothes finally managed to grab his attention.
He flicked through the available options quickly and with overt disdain, like he couldn’t be bothered with it, but the way he made sure of giving everything a fair chance told Aziraphale a very different story.
After a few minutes, he picked a black fisherman’s jumper and moved to the outerwear section, checking out a long black coat that definitely looked promising.
“You know,” he began absentmindedly. “Maybe you’re onto something. I just remembered I once shagged a banker who wore sock garters, and they were easily the best thing about them. Not that they had much competition. They were a wanker.” He paused, before uttering a very inspired, “Wanker banker,” and giggling delightedly under his breath.
It was that laugh, the genuine amusement he could hear in it, that stopped Aziraphale from hitching up one of his trousers legs and taking a sledgehammer to Crowley’s newfound good mood by showing him why his socks never slipped down (he had standards, you see).
“I’m also partial to a form-fitting white t-shirt,” Crowley went on. “They look good on everyone, whether you’re showing off tits or biceps or both.”
“And I to a nicely tailored suit.”
Crowley snorted. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised by how predictable you are.”
“I’m quite sure you’ve just contradicted yourself there.”
“Whatever.”
“I like men with eyeliner,” Aziraphale offered, just to test the waters and maybe lay a little trap, so to speak.
Crowley stilled with a black puffer jacket in mid-air. “You’re only just saying it.”
“Oh, no. I assure you I’m quite serious.” Aziraphale stopped short of informing Crowley of the location of the nearest make-up store, but it was a close thing.
“You said you like your men mild and well-mannered,” Crowley argued irritably. “Mild and well-mannered men don’t wear eyeliner.”
“That seems like a gross oversimplification.”
“I’ll tell you what’s gross–”
“Don’t bother.”
“You’re lying, angel,” Crowley insisted with a little sneer.
“I’m not.” But he did shiver at that angel. Again. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had a pet name for him, if it could even be considered that. “Besides, no one says people can’t change their mind.”
For example, Aziraphale had no particular inclinations for mild and well-mannered men, and, truth be told, he’d never had any (which made this a terrible example, he was aware of it. But, you see, Aziraphale felt it was important to put it out there that maybe this sort of thing wasn’t so much set in stone as fluid, and if one happened to say one liked mild and well-mannered men maybe one could also change their mind without admitting to straight-up lying).
The hint he’d just dropped was so vague, Aziraphale was actually surprised when it produced the desired effect in the form of a slightly too direct question.
“Have you ever changed your mind?” Crowley asked him with a shrug.
Aziraphale hoped he wasn’t blushing. “How do you mean?”
“Like…” He let out a huff of exasperation. “Have you ever been attracted to something you’d never cared for before?”
“Such as…?”
“I dunno. Tattoos. Or… knobbly knees,” Crowley muttered. Then, realising what he’d said, he picked up a black double-breasted overcoat and scurried away with a barely audible, “I’m going to try this on.”
“The fitting room is the other way,” Aziraphale offered, giddy with delight.
Crowley turned back. “I knew that,” he hissed through his teeth.
Aziraphale followed him, bestowing a kind smile towards Warlock as they passed.
Then he almost collided with Crowley’s back when the man stopped dead in his tracks, the fitting room’s curtain held aside.
“Jesus– fuck!” Crowley leaned back, turning the black pools of his sunglasses towards Warlock. “A little heads-up would have been nice!”
The young man’s face turned extraordinarily pink with embarrassment as he choked out, “S-sorry?”
“What is the matter?” Aziraphale asked, uncomprehending, until Crowley stepped aside, revealing the poster on display in the fitting room.
It showed a red-headed man slumped upside-down on a sofa, legs stretched on the backrest and his head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat. His dark glasses were aimed at the camera, eyes peeking out above the rim. A black tank-top left his tattooed arms bare, one hand resting on his flat stomach, the other holding a cigarette to his mouth. AJC was written in the upper left corner.
“Good lord,” is what escaped Aziraphale’s mouth as soon as understanding dawned on him.
“I know,” Crowley muttered with a grimace. “It’s not even one of the good ones.”
“What do you mean? It’s a nice enough picture,” Aziraphale offered, wondering if the posters were also on sale.
Crowley turned to him, one eyebrow elegantly arched. “I meant the album.”
“Oh, right. Naturally. Of course.” He felt Crowley’s eyes poking his face like invisible, questing fingers and he couldn’t help but blush. A quick glance towards the mirror was all Aziraphale needed in terms of proof. “Bother it.”
For his part, Crowley looked nothing short of gleeful, a grin dancing on his lips as his whole body did that barely-upright slouchy thing it always did when he was relaxed.
“Wait, don’t tell me. A new fetish just dropped,” Crowley teased him. “What is it? The tattoos?” He pointed to them on the poster like an obnoxious weatherman predicting catastrophe for Aziraphale’s dignity.
“I don’t–”
“Or the arms?” Crowley continued, relishing every second of it. “Twigs you’ve called them, if I’m not mistaken.”
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and pursed his lips. “You’re quite welcome to stop this nonsense.”
“Ohhh, come on, angel. I won’t tell. I can be very discreet.”
“Can you?” Aziraphale countered, chancing another glance at the poster, as if his mouth wasn’t as dry as sand already.
“It’ll be our little secret.”
Such a foul fiend he was, Aziraphale mused, trying to shake himself out of this silly stupor. There was nothing for it, he’d have to talk his way out of it. “Actually, now that I’m older and wiser, I’m certainly more inclined to favour personality traits as opposed to physical ones.”
“Sure you are.”
Aziraphale made a valiant attempt at ignoring him. “I like kindness, for example.”
Crowley literally whined. “I don’t think you understand the spirit of this conversation. Kindness doesn’t count. You’re supposed to say ‘slinky hips’ or ‘long fingers’. Can do a lot of interesting things with a full set of long fingers.” He waved them in front of him to prove his point. “Kindness? Not so much.”
Aziraphale did his best to dodge said point and keep a clear head. “I just think we’re old enough to be moved by something other than physical appearance, don’t you?”
“‘M not that old,” Crowley muttered as he removed the overcoat from its hanger, reminding Aziraphale of the reason why they were standing in the fitting room in the first place. “So, what else gets you hot and bothered? If you’re going to say proper manners I’m going to head-butt myself,” he threatened, gesturing to the poster.
“You’re insufferable.” Crowley certainly had a knack for bothering him alright.
“I can be even more insufferable if that’s what scratches your itch, you know.”
“How generous of you.” And then, just to steer the conversation away from less than ideal shores, Aziraphale added, “If you really must know, I like passionate people. People who can hold a conversation. People who make me laugh and challenge me without looking down on me.”
Crowley bared his teeth with barely concealed disdain and proceeded to remove his black blazer to try on the overcoat. “I like a good g-string.”
“You do?” Aziraphale asked intelligently, too taken by the sight of Crowley in that long elegant coat to come up with a more brilliant response.
“Not really,” Crowley continued, looking at himself from various angles. “You know what? Maybe I don’t know what I like. I used to think I liked rude people, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
The preposterousness of the statement finally managed to pull Aziraphale out of the raging inferno currently encroaching on his sanity. “Rude people?”
“Myeah. When you shag people who don’t like you, you never have to wonder where you stand with them. You don’t ask yourself if you could be more, and you definitely don’t tie yourself in knots wondering what you are. ‘Cause you already know you’re nothing. I appreciate that, ‘s all.”
To his great dismay, Aziraphale realised he didn’t know what to say. Even worse, his first urge was to hug the man, which, as far as stupid ideas went, definitely took the cake. (He’d kill for some comfort cake right now.)
What did Crowley mean by that? He had mentioned a short-tempered sommelière and, most recently, a wanker banker, but maybe he’d been exaggerating…? Was it a euphemism for something else?
He focused his attention back on Crowley, who was still preening in front of the mirror (Aziraphale didn’t even have the guts to call him out on his peacocking – he did look very fetching in that overcoat).
Try as he might, Aziraphale’s curiosity got the better of him. “Do you like to be treated… badly?”
Crowley shrugged. “Nyeah. Maybe not like-like. But I prefer it. People who don’t like you can’t be arsed to pretend, you know. There are no pleasantries involved. What you see is what you get. And I bloody hate pleasantries, ‘s a big pet peeve of mine.” He clucked his tongue and finally removed both the overcoat and Aziraphale’s cable knit sweater to try on the fisherman’s jumper over his dark grey long-sleeved shirt. He had to flick off his sunglasses in the process and he handed them to Aziraphale without a second thought. “It also makes for great sex.”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, more alarmed than he’d care to admit at the revelation. “If you like to be treated badly during sex there are safe ways to do that without falling into bed with rude people who don’t deserve your time.”
Crowley snorted from inside the jumper he was currently sliding over his head. “Life is not a novel,” was his muffled response.
“But there are certain practices that requi–”
“I don’t do practices. I’m not an English bellend in lace cuffs who’s popped over the channel for a stroll along the Seine because the whole revolution-terror thingy has just happened to slip my mind.”
Aziraphale drew back, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’. It was his turn to be utterly delighted. “You did read my novella!”
The blush that took over Crowley’s cheeks didn’t creep up his face so much as it shot from his neck like a gravity-defying avalanche. Crowley grabbed his sunglasses from Aziraphale’s grasp and quickly pushed them on his nose.
“Shut up. Had to confirm that you’re a halfway decent writer, didn’t I?”
Aziraphale smiled. “So… am I?”
“Are you wot?”
“A halfway decent writer.”
“You have your moments, I s’pose.”
Something suddenly occurred to Aziraphale. “Is that why I didn’t see you yesterday?” The mere idea of Crowley spending an entire day holed up in his bedroom reading his erotic novellas was enough to convince Aziraphale to reign in his enthusiasm lest he ended up playing himself like a sucker.
Crowley turned to him, even more horrified by the implication than Aziraphale was. “I was working in the studio. Don’t go getting too big for those fancy little boots of yours, angel.”
Aziraphale wisely decided to gloss over that second part. “And here I thought you didn’t like to consider it work.”
“Urgh. Why are you so pedantic?”
“I’m a Virgo moon.”
“Wot?”
“I’ve been told that’s relevant.” At least according to Madame Tracy.
“Don’t tell me you’re a horoscope junkie.”
“Hardly.”
“Eyeliner and crystal balls, is it?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it, you fiend.” Their conversations, Aziraphale realised, were the very definition of ‘everything you say can and will be used against you’. “I like people who are on the same side as me of what I think is stupid,” he clarified in a bout of inspiration. “That’s the only thing that makes me feel less alone.”
“Do you?” Crowley asked somewhat too eagerly.
“Do I what?”
“Feel alone.”
Aziraphale stammered a bit. He warred with his first instinct, which was to deny everything. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he sternly reminded himself.
“I– I do. In a ‘nobody thinks the way I do’ sort of way more than ‘I don’t have anyone to go to the theatre with’. Sometimes one just feels the need to know there are like-minded people out there, if you catch my drift.”
“I think I do,” Crowley murmured. “Hopefully, some of them are wearing eyeliner and sleeve garters,” he said as if to offer some measure of comfort.
“Do you feel alone?”
“Not really.” A thoughtful pause. “Well, sometimes. Yes. Maybe…?”
Aziraphale tried his best to ignore the dull ache suddenly squeezing his chest. “You said you weren’t.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I lie a lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“‘S alright. Honesty’s overrated, anyway.”
“I meant for the other thing.”
Crowley shrugged. “Heh. I’m hardly good company, am I?”
“You can be when you’re not actively trying to smash my eardrums. In fact, young Warlock could teach you a thing or two about listening to music at the proper volume.”
Crowley scoffed and replaced the fisherman’s jumper with Aziraphale’s white sweater (which did nothing for Aziraphale, thank you for asking). “Nice try buttering me up, but I’m not going to wear eyeliner and sleeve garters just to please your ladyship.”
“I’ll say,” Aziraphale agreed with a remarkable amount of contempt. “You’d need a dress shirt for that at the very least.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You’d wear sleeve garters on one of those shirts of yours?”
“They’re called henleys. And sure, why not?”
“Are you going to wear them?”
“Of course not. It was just… you know, a hypothetical.”
“Right. Well, I’m feeling quite not-hypothetically peckish. Should we get a wiggle on?”
Crowley looked nothing short of outraged. “A wot? Definitely not.”
Notes:
The songs mentioned in this chapter:
- Growing on Me by The Darkness
- What's Up? by 4 Non-Blondes
- Sheer Heart Attack by Queen (I feel like I deserve some sort of prize for waiting this far to throw in some Queen)I really have to stick to the schedule until I'm done writing this, but can I point you all to a new story by beerok23, titled The Grass is Always Greener, which is full of Christmas cheer, idiocy and silliness?
Chapter 7: Seven
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale go out to lunch in the midst of their little seduction challenge. The afternoon proves more fruitful than expected.
Notes:
Hello, hello, hello with this beast of a chapter that fought me like hell!
Please consider this my early Christmas gift for you all (if you celebrate it of course, if not, a regular gift) instead of further proof that brevity is not a gift of mine *sigh*Only one song mentioned this week, but it's an important one, so I'll leave this here: Should I Stay or Should I Go? by The Clash.
Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and/or a happy week! 💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crowley was by no means a culinary or even a neurological expert – in fact, you could almost say he would have gladly done without both an appetite and a brain – but even someone with his limited knowledge in both fields would know that a seafood platter shouldn’t have elicited such an enthusiastic reaction.
This general notion, whose accuracy was currently being tested within an inch of its life by the sounds coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth, did exactly fuck-all to lessen whatever Aziraphale was going through at the moment and the effects this was having on Crowley as a result. The concept of divine rapture came to mind, quickly followed by that of infernal torment. Two sides of the same coin, really.
A part of him, the one he would label as reasonable, couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t exaggerating things. Something about his nerves being already on edge after ten plus days in this living Hell– Heaven– whatever. After all, it wasn’t like he’d never seen Aziraphale eat before today (there had been that other time, always at The Quarry), only he didn’t remember it being so emotionally and physically… taxing.
Maybe onion soup and garlic bread couldn’t compete with mussels, langoustines and – Satan help him – oysters, because Aziraphale was single-handedly staging a veritable concert of delighted ooh ’s and aah ’s, the likes of which Crowley had never experienced in his pathetic excuse for a life (this coming from someone who used to perform in concerts and make people scream their heads off by simply walking on stage).
According to the rough calculations Crowley had done to determine who was leading their little, er– competition, he and Aziraphale were currently tied for first place (he never claimed to be good with numbers, alright?). Aziraphale may have gained the lead with his shameless after-shower ambush, but the poster at the thrift store had evened the field. And hadn’t it been utterly delicious to see him blush like that? Honestly, the mere thought of putting those pink spots in his rounded cheeks made Crowley want to gloat like a blessed fool (maybe it was more poster-Crowley’s doing than his own, but you know what? Sometimes the devil is not in the details. Besides, it wasn’t everyday something he’d done in the past came back to help him rather than haunt him).
Unfortunately, this tie-situation appeared to be fragile in more ways than one, as Aziraphale – prim and proper, fussy and bitchy, soft and tetchy Aziraphale – was proving to be quite the wily adversary.
Long story short, this was not what Crowley had envisioned when he’d agreed to order the platter of seafood for two. Agreed as in, he was trying really hard to frame it as a magnanimous concession he’d made to Aziraphale, rather than the inevitable consequence of him unleashing the full force of his puppy eyes on him. (No man in his fifties should ever be allowed to pout. Ever. Thank you.)
I wasn’t born yesterday, Crowley thought glumly. He knew this pitiful attack on his psyche had less to do with Aziraphale’s love for seafood than his little dastard plan to secure first place in their little competition (okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t a tie at all– happy?), and as painful as it was to admit it, everything pointed to Aziraphale coming out on top (ngk).
Being painfully aware of the risk he was facing, Crowley was keeping an almost paranoid eye on Aziraphale, greedily drinking him in as he looked out for any hint of foul play. (Rest assured that self-preservation was the only reason he was staring at the man so intently.)
“Mmmh, these langoustines are simply scrumptious,” Aziraphale announced with a happy wiggle, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. With a sigh of contentment, he shifted his gaze to Crowley and immediately furrowed his brows. “Aren’t you going to try the scallops?”
“N-no,” was Crowley’s reply, which came out hoarse enough to make him shudder in shame. He slouched against the back of the chair and crossed his legs a little too forcefully.
For fuck’s sake. Aziraphale theatrically enjoying food shouldn’t have been such a turn on for him– or any other dignity-loving person for that matter. No, it should have been embarrassing for Aziraphale, who was quite clearly playing it all up for a lark, heedless of the few other patrons scattered around the pub.
Indecent ‘s what it was. Utterly ridiculous.
Now he only needed his dusty, stale, mummified hormones to get the fucking memo and stop crushing his bloody soul. What were they waiting for? Perhaps they were too busy wondering what kind of noises Aziraphale would make during sex if food did this to him. Traitorous little fuckers. He should have picked a different seat, put the table between them as a barricade of sorts, made different life choices.
Well, it was too late now.
He grumbled something under his breath, casually stretched an arm over the table and started drumming his fingers on the surface as a little deflection technique while he tried to gather the necessary brain power to come up with a plan. Even a half-arsed one would do at this point.
“You didn’t even try the oysters,” Aziraphale argued, his dismay a little too genuine.
“‘S like eating sea boogers,” Crowley complained, trying with all his might to rain on Aziraphale’s sexy parade so his trousers could go back to being very tight as opposed to extremely tight.
“If you say so. Just don’t let me eat them all by myself.”
“Be my guest.”
Aziraphale smiled. “I already am, in a way,” he argued. “Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“Sure. Thanks for the reminder.” Hell knew ninety percent of his issues were self-induced anyway.
“Oh, but you must eat something.”
“‘M not hungry.” Fun fact: he couldn’t remember ever being this hungry in his entire life, but why go against the time-honoured tradition of not lingering on petty details, huh?
Aziraphale, who didn’t seem even remotely inclined to let him be, called Andy to the table to order a plate of fish and chips for Crowley and took the opportunity to send his warmest regards to the chef, because of course.
At least he wasn’t looking at him anymore.
A win is a win, Crowley told himself, as he metaphorically jumped at the chance to log out of the steamy, sea-scented air surrounding their table to scan the rest of the pub.
Despite his best intentions, his gaze wandered towards the little stage by the end of the main room, where two of the other kids were busy setting up their instruments. The girl (Pepper, supplied the not-at-all-Aziraphale-sounding voice inside his head) was teasing the bespectacled kid usually working the register (Wensleydale – Crowley knew this one because when he’d found out, he’d run straight to Aziraphale to tell him one of them was named after cheese). Whatever she said made them both burst out laughing.
Crowley wasn’t proud of it, but he felt a twinge of envy at their display of easy camaraderie. He’d never had that, not even with Don’t Lick The Walls. Especially not with them.
He remembered the snarky, passive-aggressive digs he’d exchanged with Hastur and Ligur, who probably thought Flash Bastard was his actual name and wouldn’t recognise a good joke even if it were to smash a guitar on their heads. Dagon wasn’t one for words, but she’d always made sure to flaunt her disdain for Crowley (as illustrated by the staggering amount of teeth she’d bare whenever he addressed her). And Beez, well, you’d think that shagging Crowley’s old manager on the regular would have put them on the same side, or at least same-side-adjacent, but no .
An unpleasant feeling tugged at his chest, pushing him to tear his eyes away from the stage and back to Aziraphale, who was looking at him with a small, sympathetic smile playing on his lips.
Ugh, this was even worse than the seduction thingy!
Crowley grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive stance. “Wot?”
“I told you you should have ordered from the kids’ menu.”
Oh, but he could be such a smug bastard when he wanted. And he wanted to. A lot. “Saying ‘I told you so’,” scoffed Crowley, “I bet that’s what gets you off. Be honest.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips in a thoughtful expression. “I must admit that it does give me some measure of satisfaction.”
“Colour me shocked.” Crowley shrugged and shifted in his seat. “Must be exciting. For your partners, I mean. Nothing better than a good ‘I told you so’ to get the ol’ blood pumping.” Then, to his great annoyance, he kept talking. “Should have probably called them, as you suggested when we met.”
“Whatever for?” Aziraphale inquired, irritatingly unruffled.
“So I could ask them if in the throes of passion you’re as maddening as I imagine.”
Yes, this was exactly what he needed right now, to think about Aziraphale in the throes of passion while the man was sitting right next to him, providing him with an appropriately inappropriate soundtrack for his ill-fated fantasies, courtesy of seafood of all things. This rock bottom was getting more rocky and bottom-y (ngk) by the second, so really, what choice did Crowley have but to pick up his trusty, well-used shovel and dig himself into an even deeper hole?
“I bet you put on those little reading glasses and start pontificating, stark naked, on whatever isn’t up to your impossible standards.”
Aziraphale frowned imperiously. “Hardly.”
“And then you’d be all,” Crowley cleared his throat and put on the most ridiculous little voice, “‘Oh, my darling, wasn’t this simply scrummy?’”
“That’s laughable.” He at least had the decency of looking outraged. “I don’t go around calling just anyone darling.”
Crowley squawked. “That’s the laughable part?”
Aziraphale lifted his chin and squared his shoulders with another little wiggle. “Yes.”
“Good to know.” Good as in catastrophically bad. “With your extensive expertise, the song about Lust sure sounds promising,” Crowley muttered. “Just a heads-up, if you put the word ‘scrummy’ in my lyrics, I’m going to jump off a cliff and swim my way back to London immediately.” He’d die as soon as he left the shore, but it was still a better outcome than this.
“Oh?” Aziraphale’s eyes were glimmering. “Have you been working on another song then?”
Crowley groaned. “Hnnnnggg. Wh– I dunno. Maybe…?”
“I was thinking–”
“Worrying.”
“I was thinking,” Aziraphale persevered, “about what you said the other night, about music and lyrics going hand in hand.”
“You don’t always have to prove my point, you know?” Crowley shot back, now quite worried indeed.
“Maybe we should write this one together,” Aziraphale went on undeterred. He was like a stuffy, old-fashioned steamroller. “You write the notes, I supply the words.”
Crowley huffed in exasperation. “Can’t you just shut up and eat your food? Maybe read your bloody novel and leave me alone?” he complained, gesturing to the vintage-looking book Aziraphale had taken out of his trench coat and placed on the table as soon as they’d arrived at the pub.
“We are supposed to be working,” Aziraphale chided. “And those are poems.”
Crowley tipped his head back and huffed. Coincidentally, he, too, had a poem for the occasion, it went something like:
I
Am
Fucked
Did it count as a haiku?
“Aren’t you on vacation?” he whined. “Just relax. Look at me! I’m relaxing.”
Aziraphale was remarkably unimpressed. “I’m afraid you don’t know what relaxing even means.”
Crowley rolled his eyes at the irritating accuracy of the statement. “Irrelevant.”
Right then, Aziraphale decided to resort to what could only be described as strong-arm tactics – he hardened his stare, dropped his voice to a low, husky whisper and said only, “Crowley.”
And yes, fine. The last few days were proving quite mind-boggling in terms of what Crowley found or didn’t find attractive in another person. But nothing – nothing – could have prepared him for the whole bloody journey his body went through upon hearing his name pronounced like that . Whatever was coursing through his veins at the moment, Crowley quickly realised, could have convinced him to do anything.
He rubbed his eyes under his shades. “Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, knowing resistance was futile.
“Come, now.” If only Aziraphale knew how not-so-implausible a possibility it was right now. “You’ve been tapping the same rhythm on the table since we’ve arrived,” he said in his reasonable voice (Crowley hated his reasonable voice). “It’s not your lovely song about Wrath, and it doesn’t resemble anything I heard in Warlock’s shop that might have stuck in your head.”
“So…?” Hell’s sake, the man was too perceptive for his own good. Dare he say he would have actually made a half-decent detective? Roaming the island and fooling criminals with his suspiciously harmless appearance? The world should probably thank Someone he was using his powers for good.
“So, maybe it’s something new. Something we could work on together.”
“It won’t. Work, that is.” It just couldn’t. He couldn’t. He tried to remember the last time he’d written a song with someone else and came up empty.
“We can’t know for sure until we try, can we?”
“We can.”
“We cannot. I believe I’ve already proved I can think like you.”
Crowley flashed him a grin that came out more like a grimace. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t think at all.” If only it were even half-true.
“You’re the most neurotic person I know, Crowley.”
The casual mention of his name made Crowley’s cheeks heat like twin flames. Again. There was something supremely wrong about how intimate it felt. It was just his bloody name, for fuck’s sake.
“Why don’t you just smite me, huh?” Couldn’t hurt for Aziraphale to be more avenging angel and less angel of horny oysters and sinful dramatics, could it? “Put me out of my misery, and when I’ve been… smited? Smote…?”
“Smitten, I believe,” Aziraphale said, smiling like he knew something Crowley didn’t. “You’re being silly.”
“And you’re being impossible.”
Crowley tried to shake off his nerves by taking a swig of his beer, mentally composing the negative answer he would surely give Aziraphale as soon as he’d find his voice again. He took a deep, centering breath and threw another glance at the stage, where Avery had joined Pepper and Camembert, then he turned back to Aziraphale and lost all semblance of control over his stupid fucking mouth.
“Fine.”
Aziraphale beamed and sat up a little straighter, hands clasped on his chest like a Disney Princess who has just run into an adorable doe-eyed squirrel. “Splendid.”
“But you can’t say scrummy in my song,” Crowley warned again, finger wagging furiously.
“Of course.”
“And no sleeve garters either.”
“Do you think I go around putting pieces of myself in everything I ghost-write?” The thought made him chuckle for some reason. “I’m well aware that there’s a certain degree of separation here.” But did he put pieces of himself in the things he didn’t ghost-write? Crowley was scared by how much he wanted – no, needed – to know. “Would it be correct to assume that you’re working on the song about Lust, then?”
“Yep.” Of course he got that right too.
“What do you have in mind? Are we going for a more literal approach or…?”
“Don’t have the faintest idea what you’re banging on about.”
“I’m just saying that it could be interpreted in a number of different ways,” Aziraphale argued, squeezing lemon on his last oyster. “It could be lust for life, lust for love, lust for anything really. You could bend it whichever way you prefer.”
“Oh, can I?” Crowley shot back, thinking about other things he could bend as his eyes decided it was as good a time as any to be utterly fascinated by the workings of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“Well, of course. That’s the beauty of art.”
Crowley shrugged and forced himself to look away. “Nyeah, whatever,” he mumbled, shifting his gaze on the hustling and bustling still happening on stage, where the emo kid – who’d turned up Satan only knew from where – was now helping Gouda fix the drums, while Pepper was taking care of the keyboard.
There was definitely something to be said about being practically fifty and seeing kids half your age have experiences you’ve never had. After a beat of unsolicited self-examination, Crowley came to the conclusion that it was a bittersweet mix of depressing and uplifting. Depressing for obvious reasons (nothing worse than feeling like you’ve wasted years of your life by being a twat), and uplifting because… Not to be a bloody optimist or anything, but he was still here, wasn’t he? And who said he couldn’t try new things? Who was stopping him except for… well, him?
Without really meaning to, Crowley felt himself relax in his seat, a dull ache making itself known in his joints and muscles as soon as they released the tension they’d been unconsciously holding. Sometimes he forgot his shoulders weren’t supposed to brush his ears.
“I don’t want it to be… you know, dark,” Crowley heard himself say, voice uncharacteristically smooth and unhurried. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Aziraphale was listening – Crowley could feel his gentle gaze on him like a warm ray of sunshine.
“Lust usually has this… I dunno, wicked connotation. It goes with darkened rooms and– and long, steamy nights that lead you to perdition, with the twisted pleasure you take from doing things you know you shouldn’t.” He spread his arms a little, vision going a little unfocused at the edges as the image took over. “But what if… what if it’s actually something– something airy and bright. Not like a warm, dark bedroom, but like a patch of green grass bathed in sunlight.”
It was so easy to picture it. The gentle slope of a hill in the late afternoon. Or maybe a garden. The last rays of the sun gilding everything they touch. The soil slowly releasing the heat of the day. The leaves rustling in the breeze, and maybe… a chequered blanket spread on the grass and soft fingers brushing through his hair as the refrain that had been stuck in Crowley’s head for the last two days played unobtrusively in the background.
“What if it’s not about chasing a pleasure you know you shouldn’t, but the opposite,” Crowley continued, all but trapped in the fantasy. “A pleasure you know to be good, like– not sinful, you know what I mean? Something that saves you rather than ruins you. Could be expressed in the exact same way, with the same press of bodies, but it’s also different. It’s… almost, er, divine, I think.”
A shiver ran through him as he shook himself out of his reveries. He could still feel Aziraphale’s attention on him, which should have been enough to make him feel embarrassed, or even concerned. Historically, nothing good ever came from opening himself up to someone like that.
Surprisingly, though, Crowley felt anything but. Something was lazily pulsing against his ribs next to his useless, rusty heart. The certainty that Aziraphale would never make fun of him for this. At least not in a way that could hurt him.
“Y-yeah,” he croaked, ears on fire. “Something like that.”
He then made the grave mistake of turning towards Aziraphale, only to be quite inconveniently reminded that the moment he’d first laid his eyes on him Crowley had described him as a clear-sky and sun-shining kind of guy.
Well, fuck.
What also didn’t help was Aziraphale gazing at him with the softest expression Crowley had ever seen from him so far. Lips pursed to suppress a smile, cheeks dusted with pink, eyes shining with… mirth, and fondness and–
Urgh. Awareness really was a bitch, huh?
“I can definitely work with that,” Aziraphale said, sounding so calm and collected Crowley couldn’t help but take offence at the unfairness of it all. “Shall we finish our lunch and go back home then?”
Home. Satan down below, it sounded even worse than the nonsense Crowley had just spewed up along with the pathetic scraps of his soul.
“Wh– I– Fuck,” Crowley stammered in a remarkable display of eloquence. “I’d rather stay here. I can write on my phone and you–”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprise before flitting around the pub, which wasn’t noisy, but not exactly quiet either. “But don’t you need your guitar to–”
“No,” Crowley rushed to reassure him. “I c-can do without. Easily.”
What he could also do without was going back to the cottage and doing something he would later regret, like making some kind of move on Aziraphale on account of the stupid idyllic sun-shining, bird-chirping fantasies currently ravaging his brain. No, the thought of being alone with Aziraphale as they worked on a song about lust was downright terrifying.
“Oh! Maybe we can ask the kids to let you borrow what you need,” Aziraphale suggested.
“Why, do they offer back alley lobotomies, you think?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and Crowley was just about to tell him that there was no need to ask the kids for anything, but Alan coming back to their table with his fish and chips thwarted his efforts and provided Aziraphale with the chance to barrel on.
“Oh, thank you, Adam. Can we trouble you for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind lending Crowley here one of your instruments? We have been visited by the muse, as it were, and we find ourselves in need of the proper gear so we can humbly answer her call.”
Crowley groaned and threw his head back to curse the Heavens. “I bloody hate you,” he grumbled.
Aziraphale shushed him with a pointed glare before turning back to Amos, who was grinning from ear to ear. “That’d be wicked. I’ll ask the others, but I’m sure it’s okay. It’s not like we need to rehearse at this point, we do it just for fun.” He glanced at Crowley, the smile turning smug. “Should I direct you to the nearest cliff, then?”
Mocked by angels and toddlers – whatever era this was, it couldn’t be over fast enough.
The moment Crowley placed Warlock’s guitar on the table they had commandeered right in front of the stage and left for the bar, Aziraphale finally took the opportunity to unleash the smile he’d been desperately trying to suppress for the past… well, two hours and a half, according to his pocket watch. His cheeks were aching for it, if you can believe such a thing.
It really was a wonder to see that demon of a man, usually so grumpy, snarky and closed off, get so lively and animated in shocks and bursts of creative energy. To witness him sharing the beats relentlessly churning in his head, building them a structure brick by brick and furiously scribbling notes on paper to turn them into music everyone could hear. To see him holding Warlock’s guitar with a truly endearing mix of carelessness and reverence, like he didn’t want anyone to know how much respect he actually had for the craft.
So, yes, Aziraphale had had a lot of fun writing for Crowley before, but this was different. This was writing with him. It wasn’t about coming in after everything was said and done and slapping words where Crowley couldn’t find any. No, it was a matter of carefully sewing together two different halves that were somehow dependent on one another, making sure the stitches fit all the way through. It meant being confronted with the way Crowley had hung on his every word, with those shiny black lenses insistently levelled at him, offering a different turn of phrase or reluctantly mumbling in agreement when he’d found one of Aziraphale’s ideas to be particularly good.
This was a true collaboration. And for someone like Aziraphale, who’d never actually collaborated with anyone aside from hearing the stories and the expectations of the people he’d ghost-written for, it was simply exhilarating.
It didn’t feel so much like writing for someone else as creating something original with another person, and the amount of gratification Aziraphale was getting from this was nothing short of astounding. Not to be a total fussbucket, but he knew that working with others wasn’t really his cup of tea. There was no denying that he was a loner at heart; he liked to do things his own way, at his own pace, and he secretly (or not so secretly) believed that his ideas were far better than most people’s.
Which made the genuine excitement he was feeling at the moment, not to mention the warmth making his limbs tingle, all the more miraculous. For all their bickering and bantering, for all their efforts to one-up each other on a daily basis, the moment they had sat down to work together, they had never so much as tried to impose their ideas on the other… Dare he say they had consistently met the other halfway?
Well, so far at least.
There was also that little, inconsequential detail concerning Aziraphale’s, er… pash on the man. He could be honest enough to admit to it (only to himself, naturally), but he was also ready to swear that the joy he was getting from this collaboration had nothing to do with his (very) minor infatuation for Crowley, surely born out of proximity and boredom and nothing else. Maybe, despite their difference in mediums and style, they had similar processes after all and–
“Mr. Eastgate, right?”
Aziraphale turned to the voice who had quite rudely interrupted his idle musings and found himself staring at a moustached man he immediately recognised as the chatty proprietor of the carpet shop he’d wretchedly visited – and subsequently tried to leave as quickly as possible – the week prior. He felt a tight smile creep on his lips before he could do anything to stop it.
“Oh, er, hello. Yes, that’d be me,” he blabbered, his confidence melting away like snow in the sun.
The man chuckled. “Do you remember me? I’m Mr. Brown from Brown’s World of Carpets.”
“Of c-course.” He unfortunately did remember.
Mr. Brown stepped over the cable connecting Warlock’s guitar to the amplifier on stage, and gestured to the chair next to Aziraphale, occupied by the paper bag containing Crowley’s purchases. “Do you mind? I’ve just closed up the shop for the day and I’m quite knackered.”
“Oh, p-please,” Aziraphale heard himself say, even though Mr. Brown was already placing his drink on the table, moving the bag and making himself comfortable even before he’d finished speaking.
This was most inconvenient, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think. He was as irritated as he was flustered. Upon meeting the man for the first time, it hadn’t taken him long to notice that accepting no for an answer wasn’t exactly Mr. Brown’s strong suit and that the man had developed some sort of interest in him, which was far from bringing Aziraphale any kind of satisfaction.
“So, how are you finding our little island?” Mr. Brown asked, giving Aziraphale his full attention.
Aziraphale’s first instinct was to sit back in his chair to increase the distance between them and turn towards the bar to look for Crowley, who was scrunching up his face at something Adam was telling him.
Oh, bother it.
Dismayed, Aziraphale glanced back at Mr. Brown, the same brittle smile plastered on his face. “M-most delightful,” he stammered, stopping there in the vague hope that a less verbose approach would result in Mr. Brown somehow getting the hint and leaving him alone.
“Have you given any more thought to my offer of showing you around?” the man continued, blissfully unaware of Aziraphale’s unease. “You said you’d be delighted, if I’m not mistaken.” Oh, for Heaven’s sake, he probably had said that just to shut him up and leave. “I was waiting for you to come back to the shop, actually, but you never did. If I was a superstitious man, I’d have taken it personally!”
“Indeed.” Who knew superstition could sometimes be an accurate indicator of truth, huh?
“You can’t say you’ve been to Skye if you haven’t visited the Fairy Pools, the castles, or went kayaking– you seem the adventurous type, am I right?”
Aziraphale gaped at him in horror, momentarily forgetting the emergency he was currently facing, because… kayaking? “W-well, I’m afraid I’m better suited to other types of adventure.”
Mr. Brown didn’t seem at all disheartened to hear this. “A little stargazing, then? What do you say?”
As luck would have it, Aziraphale’s face must have telegraphed some interest (mainly because he did know someone who might be interested in stargazing), as Mr. Brown was grinning like a maniac who’d just struck gold.
“I knew you were a romantic at heart, Mr. Eastgate,” he said, pleased as punch, his expression turning sheepish. “I’m awfully sorry if this seems too forward, but I was talking to Fergus the other day – he’s our resident vet, by the way – and he told me your full name.”
“How–”
“Oh, think nothing of it, he’s just been having an affair with the woman who owns the cottage you’re renting.” Mr. Brown chuckled and raised his hand in a don’t even get me started gesture, as if this was peak comedy for him. “Small village, I’m sure you understand. We have to get our entertainment from somewhere.” Another chortle, then he shrugged, smoothing his tie with both hands. “Anyway, he told me your name – very fascinating – and that you’re here with a certain Mr. Crowley on a work trip. Well, funny thing is, Miss Moonchild and the others believe you two are actually on a romantic getaway, and you can imagine how, well, let’s say disappointed I was to hear it, especially after our little tête-à-tête the other day. So, I guess I just wanted to ask you if you’re–”
A thin, dark shadow in an oversized white jumper obstructed Aziraphale’s view of Mr. Brown for a few, precious seconds, and when said shadow spoke in a familiar voice, relief instantly washed over Aziraphale like a balm.
“A sherry for you,” Crowley announced, placing Aziraphale’s drink on the table. “Whiskey for me. Did you know there’s a Talisker distillery not far from here?”
Crowley straightened and Mr. Brown came back into view (more’s the pity, really). The only reason Aziraphale didn’t despair was that Crowley was still standing beside him, hip cocked right next to Aziraphale’s face, free hand tucked in his pocket. Good Lord Almighty.
Crowley acknowledged Mr. Brown with a mischievous smile and a tilt of his head. “Hello,” he greeted, sounding way more pleased than the situation required, at least as far as Aziraphale was concerned (in the meantime, he wisely decided to drown his sorrows into his sherry).
Mr. Brown smiled back, seemingly not at all threatened by Crowley’s presence. “Oh, hello. You must be Mr. Crowley. Mr. Eastgate has just been telling me how much he’s looking forward to kayaking under the stars.”
Crowley turned his shielded gaze on Aziraphale, who had eyes only for him (more out of self-preservation than anything else, naturally). “Kayaking? Oh, you astonish me.”
“That’s not what I–”
“I see you two are busy,” Mr. Brown cut Aziraphale off, retrieving his beer from the table. “I’ll let you gentlemen be. But, Mr. Eastgate, I’ll send over the details to the cottage and–”
“Actually,” Crowley chimed in, and Aziraphale could swear he was looking straight at him, a silent question etched in the visible lines of his face. “I’m afraid we’re going to be busy for the foreseeable future.”
Mr. Brown finally seemed to take the hint, or something that could pass for one in the right light. At this point, Aziraphale would have taken anything.
“Oh?”
“Yes. We’re working really hard on this seven sins thing– Aziraphale’s idea, actually. Big fan of sin, him,” Crowley continued unperturbed, nodding toward the scribbled papers strewn all over the table, where Warlock’s guitar was still resting. “We’re really gonna have to put our backs into it, as we both want to finish in time.” He turned to Aziraphale and untucked his free hand from his pocket to place it on the back of his chair. “Don’t we, angel?”
Aziraphale felt his soul leave his body and jump on stage to improvise a little dance before resuming its original place with Crowley and Mr. Brown being none the wiser (he sincerely hoped so, at least).
“W-we are, a-actually,” he blabbered, because having a soul didn’t exactly equate with being able to speak when severely flustered.
Mr. Brown stood up, gathering up the sad remains of his flagging enthusiasm. “In that case, I’ll just wait for your next visit to Skye then.”
Crowley’s smile became even wider and decidedly more predatory, like he’d just grown more teeth for this very occasion. “You do that.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Eastgate. Mr. Crowley.”
“G-goodbye.”
Mr. Brown disappeared towards the back of the pub and Crowley quickly took his seat, which was much closer to Aziraphale than the one he’d occupied before he’d left for the bar.
“What was that about?” Crowley asked him, that devilish smile still playing on his lips like he’d just witnessed something unprecedented.
Aziraphale found it almost impossible not to squirm under his attention. “N-nothing.”
Crowley took a sip of his whiskey as he considered him. “Did you really tell him you’d have been delighted to visit the island with him?”
Oh, fiend that he was, Crowley was getting a kick out of this. How long had he been standing there, listening to Aziraphale making a fool of himself?
“Of course I didn’t!” Maybe? He honestly couldn’t remember. “I said what I needed to say so he’d let me go. You see, I had the terrible idea of wandering into his shop, and found myself cornered in one of the longest, dullest conversations I’ve ever been subjected to.” There are only so many so-called ‘fun’ facts any sane person could stand to hear about Persian rugs.
Crowley curled his lips in a dramatic pout. “Aw. I thought you liked making conversation.”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Only with the right people. I’m not one of those extroverts gallivanting around the world in search of human interaction.”
“Did you just use extrovert as a swear word?”
“It might as well be.” Aziraphale had grown up with the notion that being extroverted was the norm, and being introverted a condition to be rectified. Well, in his humble experience (which he wouldn’t go so far as to describe as universal), it was the other way around.
Crowley played with his tumbler, a thoughtful air peeking out from beneath his teasing grin. “Why didn’t you put him back in his place?” he finally asked, surrendering to his curiosity. “You’d have shut me down real quick.”
Aziraphale found himself in need of ungluing the words he was supposed to say from where they’d remained woefully lodged in his throat.
“That’s… different.”
“How?”
For a start, I like you. It’s what Aziraphale thought, but absolutely couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. God knew the man already had reason enough to gloat, and Aziraphale still some kind of attachment to his pride.
Since there was no escaping Crowley’s stare, he finally settled on a very eloquent, “It just is,” accompanied by a little sniff.
“Oh, come on! That’s just a cop-out.”
Aziraphale huffed. “Have you considered that maybe you bring out the worst in me?”
“Weird way to spell best , but whatever,” Crowley countered, making Aziraphale blush.
“You damn well know that’s not what I meant.”
Crowley sat back and crossed his legs, his left foot idly brushing Aziraphale’s shin. “Do I? You basically showed me your tits, remember?”
Someone please alert the authorities, Aziraphale’s jaw had just gone missing. “I most– I don’t– That’s just a gross overstatement!” Aziraphale protested, voice climbing inexorably higher. “I just needed to– My clothes were– And it’s your fault!”
Crowley smiled even wider. “Care to explain how you flashing me your tits would be my fault?”
Aziraphale desperately tried to keep his tits– wits about him and ignore the heat he could feel in his cheeks. “In case you’ve already forgotten about it, you made me sleep in the living room, which is the reason why my clothes are there. Haphazardly piled up in a corner, to be precise.”
“Are you somehow insinuating that I took the bedroom so you’d maybe end up wandering around the house half-starkers?”
“Well, that’s between you and whatever higher authority you subscribe to.”
“Netflix?”
Aziraphale pretended not to hear him. “Most importantly, I’m not some bashful maiden prone to be seduced by the first scoundrel passing through town.”
Crowley barked out a delighted laugh. “Is that what I am?”
“It’s certainly what you look and act like.”
“Thank Satan you’re immune to my wily charms, then. I can only imagine where we would be by now if you weren’t.”
Aziraphale could imagine it too, and quite vividly as well. He might even write an erotic book about it.
“I am.” He so wasn’t.
“Sour grapes, was it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Crowley just stared at him for what felt like an eternity to Aziraphale, who was left wondering when exactly he’d developed a sixth sense for where Crowley was looking even if he couldn’t see his eyes.
“Sssso,” Crowley began with a little hiss, rearranging his limbs on the chair to dial up his insouciance to the maximum. This whole songwriting affair certainly seemed to have curbed his usual self-consciousness. “Are there many passionate conversationalists wearing sleeve garters in your past?”
Ah, yes, talking about one’s own love life. A completely normal topic of conversation between two, er, acquaintances who were trying to outdo each other in the seduction department. A topic so normal that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly find any fault in it, could he? No risk of disgracing himself or anything.
Here’s one thing Aziraphale knew without the shadow of a doubt: he wasn’t ashamed of his past dalliances or lack thereof. The compromises he had resigned himself to and the ambitions he’d set aside in his professional life had only made him more demanding in his personal one, not to mention fussy and particular. He was quite aware of it, and even if he weren’t, Heaven knew the few partners he’d had throughout the years had never failed to point that out to him. Only he’d never met anyone who had made him want to change his ways, to mould and smooth his sharp angles (metaphorical, of course, lest Crowley should protest the accuracy of the statement) against theirs.
Because, ultimately, Aziraphale liked himself just as he was. He’d never stopped striving to become a better person, naturally, but he wasn’t interested in changing his personality or his appearance to fit someone else’s standards – he’d rather uphold his own. Besides, he had given it the old college try when he was younger and more impressionable, as well as more scared of being alone. But now? Now he knew that what truly scared him was being trapped in someone else’s idea of how he should be.
Whatever faults he may have, Aziraphale wouldn’t have traded himself for anything, or anyone, in the world, and he would have been willing to explain it to Crowley as well, had he not felt the despicable urge to somehow impress the man.
So he cleared his throat and took a dainty sip of sherry. “Actually, yes. Many of them.”
Only they lived inside the books he’d written. Oops.
For his part, Crowley didn’t look sceptical at all, just a little… constipated? It wasn’t easy to tell, what with the sunglasses and the over expressive movements of his face. Either way, Aziraphale could have kissed him stupid (another metaphor, don’t get too excited).
“Why aren’t you married then?” Crowley muttered, a little less impudently than just a few minutes before.
Mostly because one couldn’t legally marry his own characters on account of them not being real. One of life’s greatest tragedies, if you asked him.
“You seem like someone who would be married,” Crowley continued with a hint of red on his cheekbones, before catching himself with a shake of his head. “Heh, what do I know? Maybe you are. Or you have been.”
“I’ve never been married,” Aziraphale heard himself say in a sudden bout of sincerity.
So much for impressing the man! Only he hadn’t anticipated the guilt that was gnawing at his insides at the idea of Crowley taking his words at face value. And it wasn’t just guilt swirling in his stomach, there was something else too, something dangerously close to the need of being seen for who he was, just for once.
Heaven help me.
Aziraphale averted his eyes and slid his hands under the table to smooth them down his thighs in a bid to calm himself down. “I’m afraid I–” His voice failed him, and he had to start over. “The men I was referring to aren’t exactly…” Heaven help him, why was this so embarrassing? “W-well, real… as it were.”
Crowley frowned, visibly puzzled. “In the sense that you’ve paid people to play the part or more like an imaginary-boyfriend-only-you-can-see type of situation?”
“No, in the sense that… I may have used my writing to compensate for the lack of interesting prospects in real life.”
Crowley’s bewilderment slowly melted into delight. “Are you saying you’ve been making yourself horny all this time?”
Of course the man would leap to the worst possible conclusion. “I’m saying I’ve used my writing as an outlet, as I imagine you did with your music.”
“So you have been making yourself horny,” Crowley insisted gleefully. “I don’t blame you,” he rushed to add. “You certainly made me hornier than any person I’ve met in quite some time.”
Buoyed up by Crowley’s slip of the tongue, Aziraphale’s embarrassed grimace was swiftly replaced by a smug smile. Crowley registered it and likely realised what he’d just said, because he sneered and scoffed and grunted at the same time, which made for a very interesting collection of sounds.
“I meant your books,” Crowley clarified. “Not you-you.”
“Naturally,” Aziraphale conceded. “But, being an artist yourself, you have to admit that the act of creation usually requires the use of one or more pieces of yourself.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose, half-concerned, half-interested. “What pieces are we talking?”
“None that you’re thinking of, you demon,” Aziraphale chided with a dramatic eye-roll.
“Pity.” Crowley took a swig of his whiskey and shrugged. “Fictional people are better than real people, anyway.”
Aziraphale could definitely agree with that. “No complaints here.”
“What are you on about? You like people.”
“Well… not as such.” He liked pleasantries and polite conversations that lasted an appropriate amount of time. He liked going into a bakery, or a bookstore, or any other establishment, saying good morning to the people working there, and showing them how amiable he could be, and then leaving with a pastry, or a book, or anything else and go about his day with a new spring in his step. That’s what he liked.
Crowley’s eyebrows arched over the top of his sunglasses. “Ooh, I get it. It’s all a decoy.”
“It is not.”
“It is. You’re one of those likable-unlikable people.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a fussy introvert who judges people, and yet everyone likes you.”
“Hardly.” He didn’t know what possessed him to add, “Some might say I’m not good company at all.”
Crowley snorted. “Did you miss Moustache Man trying to whisk you away on his magic carpet?”
Aziraphale raised his eyes in alarm and couldn’t help but glance around to make sure Mr. Brown was out of earshot. “Will you please lower your voice?” he whisper-shouted.
“‘S okay, he won’t bother you anymore.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Were you even listening? I told him we’d be busy with sins-related work, and I used a carefully crafted double-entendre to really drive the message home. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
That he’d done, Aziraphale had to admit. “Now that you mention it, that was really kind of you.”
Crowley sneered in response. “Not kind, just– listen, I dunno why or for how long, but I’m writing again and I’m not gonna let Rug Man ruin this for us– For me, I mean.” He shrugged and projected an air of nonchalance that would have been believable had he not been wriggling in his seat. “Anyway, you may not be good company, but you’ll certainly give me a month to remember. And I still haven’t run for the hills either, that must count for something, considering my tolerance for boring people is at an all time low.”
Aziraphale beamed, ears suspiciously warm. “Are you trying to pay me a compliment?”
“Hold on a minute–”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“I’m not.”
“You are!” He was smiling so much, the muscles in his face would soon call a strike.
“Fine. Now, please, don’t get your tits out to celebrate.”
“I won’t flash you in a public establishment, Crowley, I’m not a degenerate.” Honestly, the impudence. “Besides, I think it’s your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To try and impress me.”
Crowley bared his teeth in a snarl that lacked any heat. “Try?”
“If you’ve read my books you know I have standards.”
“Kinks is what you have. Oodles of them.”
“Maybe so, but a little kink has never hurt anybody.”
Something flashed across Crowley’s face, something dangerously close to steely determination.
“Do or do not. There is no try,” he mumbled to himself, his lips slowly curling in a grin that didn’t bode well for Aziraphale’s reputation.
Crowley gulped down what remained of his whiskey and untwisted his limbs to get back on his feet. “Oi, little hellions!” he called out to Adam and the others, who were huddled at the bar to define the setlist for tonight’s show. “Gather round, kids. We’re gonna play something.”
At Crowley’s sudden announcement, thrilled murmurs and exclamations went through the group.
“We are?” Pepper asked, her face trying to decide if she was more excited or annoyed by the prospect. Next to her, Brian scrambled to climb off his stool, spilling beer all over the front of his shirt in the process.
Adam leaned over the counter and exclaimed, “Wicked!” as he high-fived Wensleydale, before they were both distracted by Warlock swaying on his feet in what was possibly an early sign of a fainting spell (the poor boy had never recovered from Crowley asking to borrow his guitar).
Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the kids excitedly pushing each other as they rushed towards the stage, and he turned to Crowley, who was picking up Warlock’s guitar.
“May I ask what you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to impress you and give you a new kink in the process.” He was grinning from ear to ear.
Aziraphale let out a garbled, aborted little sound that was decidedly more Crowley-esque than human, further proof that the man was rubbing off on him, and not in the fun way.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Aziraphale managed to say. “I truly do, but, you see, I’m rather fine with the ones I already have.” The situation was already untenable as it was.
“Sorry. It’s happening,” Crowley said, clearly not sorry at all. Guitar in hand, he made use of his long legs and climbed on stage.
With the horrified fascination of someone readying himself to witness a particularly gruesome car crash, Aziraphale watched as the kids crowded around Crowley in a flurry of shouts and questions.
Here’s another thing Aziraphale knew: he was going to come out of this little impromptu performance sorely defeated, probably embarrassed, and most definitely… well, enticed. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away or, God forbid, leave. Which left him there, inconveniently rooted to the spot, as he uselessly tried to make out the words that were being exchanged between Crowley and the kids over the blood furiously whooshing in his ears.
Before he knew it, Crowley stopped giving instructions and they all rushed to take their places – Crowley standing in front of the microphone as he adjusted his hold on Warlock’s guitar, Wensley on the drums, Pepper on the bass, Adam also playing the guitar and Brian hovering to the side in front of a second microphone. Warlock, on the other hand, clumsily left the stage and came to stand next to Aziraphale.
The poor kid looked for all the world like he was on the verge of collapse, body racked by shivers and dark eyes as wide as saucers. “I can’t believe I’m going to see Anthony J. Crowley playing The Clash on my guitar,” he murmured to himself, chin quivering and voice trembling a little.
Aziraphale stole a worried sidelong glance at him. “Are you quite alright, dear boy?”
“Never been better,” Warlock said breathlessly. “This is the best day of my life.”
Whatever attempt at pressing the matter Aziraphale might have made to convince the kid to at least take a seat was swiftly thwarted by the band striking up the first chords of a song he didn’t recognise.
There was every indication that this new kink wouldn’t drop quietly at all. So Aziraphale turned to face the stage in a huff, the music already loud enough to have him rethink the effect this whole thing was going to have on him, and then… then his eyes found Crowley and his breath immediately hitched in his chest. He forgot everything about the beat rumbling under the soles of his feet and deep inside his sternum, and reason promptly fled his brain.
Because Crowley’s whole demeanour had changed in the blink of an eye. He was the same, of course, but somehow also completely different. Gone was the awkward tangle of limbs Aziraphale had spent the past two weeks with, the restless bundle of nerves desperately trying to hold on to whatever shred of coolness he could put his hands on. That Crowley had been replaced by the confident, sultry man from the poster in the dressing room. He was holding himself differently – his body looking lighter, totally relaxed, with an almost liquid quality to it. A serpent sizing up his prey as he lazily planned his next temptation.
Another side of him had just come out to play, Aziraphale realised, and its magnetic pull was affecting the world around him too, the air somehow thicker, hotter and crackling with new energy. Even the way he was holding Warlock’s guitar was different. Always reverently, yes, but not as contemplatively as before. There was something almost possessive about it now, his long, elegant fingers brushing the chords with purpose. Like he’d do with a lover, was Aziraphale’s quite troubling conclusion about it. That was exactly the sort of silly but effective phrasing he would have used in one of his books.
And if this wasn’t quite enough to contend with already, this– well, this power Crowley was wielding so confidently had one, specific target, and that target was Aziraphale. Crowley was looking straight at him in a way that left no room for doubt on the aim of his stare even with the sunglasses still on. A gaze so intense that Aziraphale felt practically pinned in place, his heart doing somersaults in his chest and his face on fire.
Thanking his lucky stars to be sitting down, Aziraphale sunk his fingers in his own thighs and prayed to Whoever was listening not to let him fall off it like the very definition of a vertically-challenged clot.
Brian’s well-timed scream almost managed to pull him out of his own head and back to the real world, but the respite was short lived at best, delusional at worst, because when Crowley started singing in earnest – his voice teasing, low and silky smooth – Aziraphale felt transported somewhere he’d never been. No magic carpet required. Oh dear. He had severely underestimated how much trouble he was in, hadn’t he?
Darling, you got to let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?
Darling? Honestly, this song couldn’t have started on a more nefarious note. (The endearment was promptly filed alongside the previous culprits – sweetheart and angel – for future consideration.)
If you say that you are mine
I'll be here till the end of time
So you got to let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?
“Fuck me,” whined Warlock in his vicinity. “He’s making it sexy.”
Aziraphale would have very much liked to say he had the wherewithal to turn around and scold him for the unnecessary crassness, but he was powerless to look away from Crowley.
It’s always tease, tease, tease
Was he imagining things or did this feel pointed? As though Crowley was accusing him of something. And, what do you know, the demon might be a miracle worker after all, because not only was he proving himself capable of making Aziraphale reconsider the merits of an expression as trite as ‘hot as hell’, but of reading his mind as well. Or at least that was the absurd thought that crossed Aziraphale’s mind when Crowley let his sunglasses slide down his nose to peer at him with a smug, heated look that seemed to be screaming: ‘Am I right, angel?’.
You’re happy when I’m on my knees
Ah, well. He’d actually never seen Crowley on his knees, so this statement was just blatantly incorrect.
One day it’s fine, and next it’s black
So if you want me off your back
Well, come on and let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?
Go! I mean– Stay!, cried out Aziraphale in the safety of his mind, before realising that there was nothing safe about this.
Frustration surged inside of him. Must he really be reacting this way to a damn song? Or to the sinful workings of those sinful hips? Or to the devious moves of Crowley’s lithe body? Or to the way his voice was scratching his brain in all the right ways or–
Goodness. This just wouldn’t do. Come on, Aziraphale, buck up!
A sound that was nothing short of concerning left Warlock’s mouth right then, drawing Aziraphale’s admittedly dazed attention back to him.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he couldn’t help but ask. He was grateful for the chance to focus on someone else’s meltdown rather than his own, and the young man was definitely looking paler by the second. Aziraphale could only hope he was faring slightly better. How undignified!
Without so much as a glance in his direction, Warlock blindly grabbed Aziraphale’s chin and turned his head back to the stage, where Crowley was still singing. No, actually– where he was still singing at him, lips shaping words right against the microphone. Like temptation. Like a kiss.
And something must have been really wrong with Aziraphale, because his first thought wasn’t for how unsanitary it was, or for whose lips had touched the microphone before this very moment. No, he wondered how it felt instead. If it could retain the warmth of Crowley’s breath, if he could put his lips to it too and feel the shape of the words Crowley had sung into it against his own mouth.
Bother it all.
Should I stay, or should I go now?
Should I stay, or should I go now?
If I go, there will be trouble
And if I stay, it will be double
So come on and let me know
Double? Please. That seemed awfully optimistic, Aziraphale thought distractedly while the beat changed again. (And why, oh why was he arguing with the lyrics of a song Crowley hadn’t even written himself?)
This indecision’s bugging me
If you don’t want me, set me free
Brian jumped back in to sing the back-up vocals in what sounded like Spanish.
Exactly whom I’m supposed to be
Don’t you know which clothes even fit me?
Crowley apparently thought this would be the perfect moment to gather up the hem of Aziraphale’s white jumper and show the tight, long-sleeved shirt – the henley, his hazy brain supplied – he was wearing underneath. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry for approximately the hundredth time that day. Maybe there was something to those health programs continuously warning people to stay hydrated after all (the fact that such advice was generally given during heatwaves in high summer was neither here nor there).
Come on and let me know
Should I cool it, or should I blow?
Blow, definitely blow. Er–
He started at another scream from Brian, which introduced a longer instrumental part presumably leading to the bridge.
Split
The other kids joined in on the back-up vocals, screaming– no, howling, as Adam and Pepper played and jumped around the stage, dragging Crowley in their silly antics. For his part, he laughed and indulged them, played with them, his childlike enthusiasm mirroring theirs.
Should I stay, or should I go now?
Should I stay, or should I go now?
The rhythm grew increasingly more frenzied, the music louder and louder. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw a few patrons wandering closer to the stage to join in, singing at the top of their lungs and clapping their hands to the beat of the song. The more they did, the brighter Crowley burned.
Despite the man’s undeniably fiendish intentions and their appallingly sinful effects on Aziraphale, he couldn’t find it in him to fault him in any way, not when faced with how utterly incandescent he was. Crowley was having pure, unadulterated fun. He had shed all of his awkwardness, all the tension usually coursing through his body and weighing him down, and he’d become a different version of himself, one he probably hadn’t had the chance to be in a long time.
So, yes, Aziraphale may have been sorry for the images that would surely haunt his dreams from now on, and he would likely never know peace ever again, but he was also, simply put, deliriously happy for him. And proud of him too.
When the song finally drew to an end, the pub erupted into cheers and applause. Before he could think of a more dignified reaction, Aziraphale jumped to his feet and clapped enthusiastically, shouting, “Bravo! Bravo!” while Warlock shamelessly sobbed beside him.
Crowley raised a hand somewhat sheepishly to acknowledge the audience’s cheers (it seemed like performer-Crowley was already leaving the spotlight to regular-Crowley), then he pulled down his sunglasses and winked at Aziraphale, which, if there was any justice in this world, should have been considered a punishable offence.
Luckily, the man was now too busy high-fiving the kids that were excitedly swarming around him and screaming in each other’s faces to properly enjoy the consequences of his wiles on Aziraphale, who was himself distracted by a hand unceremoniously grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around. He vaguely recognised the blond woman as the village’s seamstress.
“Listen, love, I know your marriage is on the rocks, I’ve heard the stories,” she said without preamble, her gaze both intense and urgent. “We’ve all been there, haven’t we?”
Have we? Aziraphale thought dimly.
“But don’t you dare give up, alright? Because that bonbon of a man up there?” She gestured to Crowley with a red-painted nail. “You’ve got to fight for him, laddie.” Laddie? “Or I swear on my Gran’s lace knickers, I will.” This said, she nodded solemnly and straightened her blouse, then turned back and left.
Confused, Aziraphale glanced at Warlock next to him. The boy was half-sitting – and still sobbing – on a table, eyeliner running down his pale cheeks. “Mrs. Sandwich is right, you know,” he sniffed. “I will also. Fight for him, I mean. To the death if necessary.”
Aziraphale tutted in disapproval. How dramatic. “How old are you again?”
“Old enough,” Warlock muttered with a murderous side-eye before wobbling his way back to the stage to join the others in celebrating Crowley, who wasn’t doing a terrible job at enduring their enthusiasm.
Such a shame, Aziraphale thought. Warlock would never agree to sell him that poster after all.
Notes:
Can you believe we finally got some singing? 👀
Thank you as always for reading/kudosing/commenting along the way 💜
Chapter 8: Eight
Summary:
With emotions still running high after Crowley’s performance, Aziraphale almost loses a book and his common sense. He tries to retaliate, and they somehow end up having a very soft, gentle, romantic dinner (which is categorically not a date).
Notes:
Hello! Last update before the New Year, and this chapter is one of my favourites 💜
Thank you again for your ongoing support, it means the world to me!
EDIT 8/2/2025: now with a gorgeous art of the boys by the amazingly talented Wingsofpal 💜💜💜💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Had it been any other day, Aziraphale mused, the long walk back to the cottage would have been just the ticket to clear his head and put his thoughts into some semblance of order.
He would have breathed in the chilly early November air, marvelled at the beauty of the sunset and let his thoughts wander in every direction until his body would finally cool down. Even the light drizzle steadily falling from the sky he would have considered a charming part of the ambience rather than a nuisance, not to mention a sign of his increasing absentmindedness in the face of a certain someone. (Aziraphale was proud to say that the times he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella when the day called for it could be counted on one hand.)
Except this wasn’t any other day, and Aziraphale wasn’t trudging along the heather-lined path alone, no matter how hard he was trying to delude himself that he was. Heedless of his efforts, Crowley remained exactly where he was, a black and red blur looming in the corner of Aziraphale’s eye. A black and red blur that wouldn’t stop circling him like a very determined shark, or staring at him with a crooked, self-satisfied grin that could have easily put the devil’s to shame.
And to make matters much, much worse, the nip in the air had convinced Crowley to exchange his flimsy blazer with the long, black coat he’d bought at Warlock’s shop, going from Londoner man-child who doesn’t know how to dress himself according to the weather to tragic hero in a romance novel waiting for his lover to show up at dawn.
Aziraphale mentally chided himself. Here he went again with his silly nonsense! As if he didn’t already have his hands full after what he’d witnessed at the pub. As it was, he could barely bring himself to look at the man without his face becoming several degrees hotter than normal.
Oh, but wouldn’t it be nice if Crowley showed his same disinclination in the eye-contact departament, rather than staring at Aziraphale and looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream and was quite determined to let the whole world know about it?
Aziraphale chanced a glance in his direction and, sure enough, Crowley’s black lenses were trained on him. It was enough to make him flush and scoff as his eyes flicked back to the road with urgency. Needless to say, his valiant yet pathetic attempt at nonchalance met a rather swift, very miserable end.
“Will you please stop?” he croaked.
“Stop doing what?” Crowley asked delightedly, stressing both the ‘p’ and the ‘t’ (not to mention Aziraphale) for maximum inconvenience.
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Oh, bother. “It is my moral duty to inform you that smugness doesn’t suit you.” It suited him a lot, actually, but there was no need for Crowley to know that.
“That’s curious. What would I have to be smug about, angel?”
There it was again, the endearment that made Aziraphale’s skin tingle with pleasure despite Crowley’s teasing tone, which, to be perfectly honest, didn’t come across as sarcastic as the man probably thought it did. Aziraphale had been toying with the idea of making an off-handed remark to point that out, but he couldn’t risk Crowley retiring it for good, not for the fleeting satisfaction of seeing him flustered.
It was… sort of nice. Ridiculous as it was, it gave him a sense of belonging, of something shared.
“If you don’t know, I’m hardly going to enlighten you.”
Crowley pouted in mock sympathy. “Aren’t you a sore loser?”
Aziraphale pushed his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat and succumbed to the need to look at him properly. Like a thief breaking into a treasure room in the dead of night, he let his eyes roam around Crowley’s sharp, rain-splashed cheekbones. Over the tip of his nose, stained red from the cold. Over his hair, adorably ruffled by the wind in a way that made him look softer than he’d ever had.
“Not very mature of you, is it?” Crowley insisted.
Aziraphale desperately tried to gather all of his three remaining brain cells and maybe rub them together to spark off a close enough approximation of logical thought.
“Being a loser implies having lost some sort of challenge.” According to his calculations, the only thing he’d lost so far was his composure, though his common sense was at serious risk of following suit. “And I didn’t. Not as far as I’m aware, at least.”
“I did impress you, though,” Crowley pressed on.
“I never said you wouldn’t be able to impress me.” In fact, he’d never doubted him, not for a second.
“But I did.”
“If you’re so sure.” Unable to restrain himself, Aziraphale shifted his gaze to Crowley for the umpteenth time, met his eyes, blushed, and quickly turned back to the road ahead.
At this point, he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that someone had taken the trouble to implant the opposite poles of a magnet into their heads when they weren’t paying attention. That would certainly explain some things, starting from this… this pull insistently tugging at his chest. He didn’t need any empirical evidence to know where it would lead him, were he to surrender to it.
Oh, but Crowley looked so good! It was simply unfair. And whatever he’d done on the stage back at The Quarry had exponentially multiplied his charm (which had no business being multiplied at all).
As if reading his mind, Crowley asked, “How would you rate it? You never said.”
How would Aziraphale rate it? Well. There were many things to consider. First and foremost, the way Crowley had transformed as soon as he’d stepped on stage, stripping off his awkwardness like a snake shedding his skin. As it turned out, the man could probably tempt the wheels off a car, something you wouldn’t immediately think about him in normal circumstances.
Secondly, he’d performed wearing Aziraphale’s jumper. Had he ever done that wearing someone else’s clothes? (He took a mental note to search for videos from his concerts, for extremely normal purposes.) On second thought, this was probably the worst (best) part, because it had made the performance all the more… well, was intimate the right word? Probably not, what with them being, er, colleagues and whatnot.
Thirdly and most curiously, before this afternoon Aziraphale had never wished to be a microphone stand in his life. As far as new experiences went, he could definitely have done without it.
He huffed out a breath and removed his hat to drag a hand through his fluffy curls, only to swiftly replace it when he was reminded of the rain, which didn’t seem to have any intention of letting up anytime soon. In fact, it was probably getting worse.
“Nine,” he finally said, aiming his eyes at Crowley and promptly shivering when they found their target. He thought of Crowley’s hands cradling Warlock’s guitar with care and reverence, and his mouth took on a life of its own, adding, “Point five.”
Surprise coloured Crowley’s features. Not just that, the man also felt the need to flick off his sunglasses to openly stare at Aziraphale, who was now ready to throw himself off the nearest cliff (considering this was an island, he was going to be spoilt for choice). “Are you serious? Nine point five? For The Clash?”
Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face. Of course Crowley had meant the song, not the performance or how handsome he’d looked on stage. Good Lord.
As his brain was desperately trying to rewire itself and reach for something to say, the rain took pity on him by turning into a torrential downpour, making them both cry out in shock and hurry along the path, made more slick and treacherous by the rivulets of water now streaming downhill.
“For fuck’s sake! I can’t see shite!” Crowley snarled, shoving his sunglasses into his coat pocket. “Would it have killed Maggie to send us to Lanzarote or something?” With the advantage of his long legs, it didn’t take long for him to leave Aziraphale behind. Which was perfectly fine by Aziraphale, naturally. It was already hard enough to focus on what his feet were doing with Crowley standing right next to him, all artfully tousled wet hair and unshielded honey-coloured eyes. No, if Aziraphale had any chance of avoiding another sprained ankle – or, worse, a wound to his pride – he would need to keep a clear head.
Unless…
It sure would have been nice to be held by Crowley like he’d done that night, to feel his arms around his waist and his long, lean body pressed against his– in a completely innocent fashion, of course.
Aziraphale threw a glance at the road, as if calculating how much of a chance he had of taking a little tumble without hurting himself too seriously. Could he make it look like an accident? He probably could, though it would be a shame to ruin his beloved trenchcoat. He’d been keeping it in tip-top conditions for years…
The road seemed to stare silently back at him.
“There’s no need for judgement, you know,” Aziraphale whispered primly. “I’m not going to do it. Merely thinking about it. A little intellectual exercise, if you will. Nothing more.”
It would have sounded more convincing, had he not been… well, arguing with the road.
Before Aziraphale had a chance to properly assess the gravity of the situation and, consequently, how much trouble he really was in, long, cold fingers closed around his hand, forcing him to look up.
Crowley was now dragging him along the path, accompanied by a long string of half-bitten curses. “Chop-chop, angel!” he barked. “Bloody Hell, why are you so slow? We’re gonna get drenched!”
Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley’s hand without hesitation – oh God, they were holding hands – and, as if on cue, they both broke into a run (well, more of a brisk walk), not stopping until the cottage came into view.
Were he the sort of fellow who could run and talk at the same time, Aziraphale would have taken a moment to properly thank his lucky stars. For bringing them home safely. For sparing him from disgracing himself by faking an injury. For Crowley’s cold, thin fingers still clasped in his. But prayers would have to wait, as Aziraphale was struggling to breathe, let alone speak, and Crowley didn’t seem to be faring much better.
They turned into the driveway, Crowley hastily disentangling their fingers to fish the keys out of his pockets. He opened the door and stepped aside to let Aziraphale go in first – goodness, were those fingers grazing the small of his back?
“Fuck me,” was the first thing Crowley said the moment the door clicked shut behind them, blocking out the sound of the rain.
Aziraphale glanced at him from where he was slumped against the wall trying to get his wind back, hand clutching his aching side. “Just give me a second,” he blabbered under his breath without quite realising it, cheeks burning with more than just exertion.
Oh, but he was awfully out of shape…
Only then did he allow himself to properly drag his eyes over Crowley, who gave no sign of registering his terrible joke (thankfully… or unfortunately, Aziraphale hadn’t decided yet). Much like Aziraphale, Crowley was trying to catch his breath with his back against the wall, his hair darkened by the rain, a little raindrop dangling from the tip of his aquiline nose. The urge to reach out and catch it with his fingers was almost too overwhelming to resist.
Aziraphale felt a shiver running down his spine, and this time he didn’t have the guts to blame the icy rain trickling down the collar of his trenchcoat. He tried to regain some sort of composure and gingerly removed his soaked hat, placing it on the nearest side table. He couldn’t help but let out a huff of disapproval aimed at himself. Because what kind of simple soul leaves the house with a hat and a book but forgets his umbrella?
The thought struck him like lightning, sudden and painful.
His poems.
Alright, no need to panic.
Growing increasingly frantic, he checked and double-checked his pockets, all of them, and when it became clear that he had no books on him, he cried out in dismay, heart sinking, “Oh, no!”
Had he remembered to take it from the table when they’d left the pub? Oh, but what if he had, only to lose it when they’d run for the cottage? What if it was currently lying in a puddle, all alone out there in the cold, left at the mercy of wind and rain? “Oh, the book! I forgot the book! It was a Helen Adam first edition!”
The poor thing! But even with all the brouhaha caused by the downpour and the run, he surely would have felt it – if not heard it – fall. And great, now he was also hallucinating, because the book had just materialised under his nose and–
Aziraphale stopped fretting and blinked his shock away, or at least attempted to. His shaky fingers reached for the book, which was real and not at all a figment of his own imagination. Then he looked up at Crowley who, Aziraphale realised, had just produced his book from the inner pocket of his overcoat, as if by magic.
“You did forget it,” Crowley said with a little shrug, avoiding his eyes. “On a chair at the pub.”
Oh.
“Little demonic miracle of my own, angel.”
Oh.
Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to describe what was happening to his body at the moment, which was quite worrying, considering he technically described things for a living. Despite his fifty year long experience on this earth, he found himself at a loss to name to the too-big feeling currently spreading inside of him. In his chest, where his heart was beating fast, fast, faster than ever, ready to burst out of him and gavotte its way out the door. In his stomach, where his insides were having some sort of celebratory party. In his eyes, which were still fixed on the man who was busy taking off his coat and putting his rain-stained sunglasses back on as if something monumental hadn’t just happened (or maybe precisely because of it?).
There was a deep sense of relief, yes, and gratitude too, so overwhelming it threatened to knock Aziraphale off his feet. And it seemed that those two, the gratitude and the relief, had joined forces and were gleefully taking a sledgehammer to his common sense, which was notoriously steadfast and unwavering until it wasn’t. Yes, Aziraphale could feel it crumbling, blow after blow, leaving crumbs and dust in its wake as well as that dangerous recklessness that always got him into trouble.
“T-thank you,” Aziraphale stammered, clutching the book to his chest, mouth going extremely dry. “That was very kind of you.”
Crowley scoffed, indignant. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it. You did something very nice… for me.” As pathetic as it sounded, he wasn’t used to people doing things for him.
The man shrugged and snarled and made a vague gesture with his hands. “I mean it too. Shut up.” He hung his coat and toed off his snakeskin boots, making to move past Aziraphale, who stepped in front of him to stop him before his brain could suggest a more reasonable course of action.
“There must be something I can do for you in return,” he heard himself say.
Despite the blood roaring in his ears, Aziraphale had no trouble detecting the eagerness in his own voice. He cringed in embarrassment, but made no move to put some distance between them. Yes, he was two seconds away from doing something really stupid, he could feel it in his bones.
Could Crowley feel it too? Had he heard the keenness in Aziraphale’s voice? Did he know what it meant? Was Crowley as good as him at detecting Clues? Had he noticed the way Aziraphale’s eyes were raking over his face? The hitch in his breath? That his fingers had turned white where they were gripping the book like an anchor?
Crowley’s throat bobbed on a swallow, an invisible hand plucking the strings of the tension mounting between them. He looked at Aziraphale through his rain-stained sunglasses, an indecipherable emotion deepening the visible lines of his face.
“Forget it, will you?” he said a tad breathlessly, almost pleadingly.
Crowley smelled of rain and of himself, and it suddenly occurred to Aziraphale that he now knew enough to distinguish between the two.
“Well, I won’t. Forget it, that is,” he insisted, cheeks impossibly red. “Just tell me.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“You don’t have to need it. You can just, you know… want it.”
Crowley slowly reared back, something like alarm flashing across his dark lenses. “Like what?”
“No. You have to tell me , not the other way around.”
Oh, Aziraphale thought with a little thrill, wasn’t this great? If he played his cards right and stuck to his guns, he could have his cake and eat it too. He could coax Crowley out of hiding, and the demon would be forced to show his hand. And then, enter Aziraphale, ready to indulge him out of sheer magnanimity.
Now he only needed to come up with a way to protect his knees were he to suddenly drop to the floor to, well…
As if sensing a trap, Crowley bared his teeth, his expression shifting to a suspicious grimace that should have cast at least some doubt on Aziraphale’s need to concern himself with the well-being of his knees.
“Why are you suddenly so hellbent on doing something for me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Unfortunately, Aziraphale was already very busy wondering how nice it would be to pull his own jumper off of him, too caught up in the fantasy to realise that Crowley wouldn’t fold so easily.
“Only for… you know… er, common courtesy.” Oh dear, he sure hoped his face wasn’t giving him away too drastically.
“Common courtesy,” Crowley repeated warily.
“Why, yes. I get that you may not be familiar with the concept, but… I could. Show you, that is.”
“Alright. What does common courtesy look like to you?”
Oh, Aziraphale had written many books about his personal idea of common courtesy, and he could probably write many more. “It comes in all shapes and forms,” Aziraphale replied diplomatically. “In this instance, I rather think it depends on you. Since I’d be repaying your courtesy… with my courtesy.”
Crowley flushed the loveliest shade of red. “Be specific, and I’ll tell you if I care for it or not.”
“No,” Aziraphale insisted. “It must be the other way around.” He certainly couldn’t let the man know he was dying to ravish him and/or be ravished by him. On the other hand, if Crowley were to admit that he’d have liked Aziraphale to ravish him and/or be ravished by him, well that was another thing entirely. Two completely different situations.
“Who says?”
“I do.”
“If you want to do something to me–” Crowley choked on his own words and was suddenly overcome by a coughing fit.
Having the decency of feigning nonchalance, Aziraphale arched an eyebrow – at least now he knew they were on the same page – and just… waited him out.
“Hng. No, that came out wrong, ‘s not what I meant. What I meant was, if you want to do something for me, just bloody come out and say it.”
Oh, but he was a tough nut to crack, wasn’t he?
“But I want to make sure I return your courtesy with something that is to your liking.”
“Well, lucky for you I’m a man of many likings.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does to me.”
“So you just won’t say?”
“No.”
“Because you don’t care.”
“Didn’t say that. I may care, you just have to make your intentions clear.”
“Oh, I think my intentions are very clear.”
“Not as clear as you think.”
“They are clear for those who want to see them clearly.”
“Oh? Like Mr. Brown?”
Aziraphale scoffed, the mention of Mr. Brown throwing him for a loop. “You’ll be welcome not to drag that bore of a man into this.”
“Boring is good, ‘s what you said.”
“Well, not in this case.” Or any other.
“That’s good to know.”
“Now will you please tell me–”
“Fine!” Crowley snapped. “I want that pasta thingy you made last week. With the sundried tomatoes and those… I dunno. Walnuts?”
Silence fell heavily all around them, interrupted only by their heavy breaths and the muffled sound of the rain outside.
Crowley had just become very, very red.
For his part, Aziraphale quickly schooled his expression into something he hoped to God was neutral enough to mask his surprise. He was vaguely aware that he was beaming like an idiot. Crowley asking for food wasn’t what he had expected at all, it was… Blimey! Dare he say it was even better than what he had envisioned? Sure, he wouldn’t have minded to be pressed against Crowley on the nearest flat surface available and snog him senseless, but this was nice too.
“Pine nuts,” he informed him, straightening his shoulders. “Does this mean you’ll dine with me?”
“Ngk. Fff– m-maybe?”
Aziraphale couldn’t decide if being able to decipher Crowley’s hissy, garbled sounds was a good thing or not. He elected to set the question aside for another day, dropped his voice to a low whisper and settled on, “You have to say yes.”
“F-fuck!” Crowley barked out in frustration. “Yes, then! Are you happy now?”
Aziraphale felt a smile bloom on his lips, and couldn’t stop himself from wondering how far down that blush went down Crowley’s body.
“Quite.”
“Great. Now, if you’ll excuse me, and I don’t care if you won’t, I’m going to the studio to record my song.”
“Our song.”
Crowley looked just about ready to murder someone. “Do you really have to twist the knife in the wound like that?”
“That’s hardly what I’m doing.”
“Let’s agree to disagree then.”
“I suppose.”
“Great.”
“Great. I’ll see you at eight sharp. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel,” Crowley snarled, finally sidestepping Aziraphale to disappear into the living room.
That went as well as it could be expected, Aziraphale thought as he wiggled out of his trenchcoat. It hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but he did get a dinner date out of this whole debacle, even if Crowley probably wouldn’t have called it that and–
Music suddenly blared out of the audio system, making Aziraphale flinch. It was the same song Crowley had played in the pub with Adam, Pepper and the others.
Crowley peeked his head out into the hallway and fixed Aziraphale with a challenging stare, as if to remind him that shots were being fired, yes, but from both sides.
“Nine point five, was it?” he hissed.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you better remember it.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took shelter into the kitchen.
Crowley was fucked.
As sure as seagulls were nasty little shits. As sure as the concept of personal hygiene baffled Hastur and Ligur. As sure as Mr. Brown needed to keep his filthy moustache away from Aziraphale’s business.
Because what was Crowley doing in this God-forsaken cottage, writing new music, playing with other people after so many years and going out on–
No, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Besides, he reasoned, they weren’t going out-out. They were staying in, and it wasn’t like he’d actually gone and asked Aziraphale for a d– fuck.
You know what, Crowley thought angrily as he turned off the water, great pustulent mangled bollocks to the d-word and everything it represents!
He stepped out of the shower a tad more forcefully than necessary and almost tripped in the process.
“For fuck’s sake,” he snarled, cursing his unruly limbs and wishing, not for the first time, to be turned into a snake. Wouldn’t it be nice to be limbless and spend his days lying on a sun-kissed rock? Or maybe coil around soft shoulders and even softer middles and–
Crowley grabbed the nearest towel and indignantly dried himself off with it, growling to himself all the while.
So, yeah, he’d officially lost control of his thoughts. No surprise there. As much as it pained him to admit it, his mind was now doing its own thing, had practically gone solo, presenting him with images he had no use for.
Aziraphale sitting primly at the pub, his eyebrows knitted in concentration and his pink lips silently moving around words to make them fit like puzzle pieces. Aziraphale’s eyes lighting up like blessed stars when he particularly liked one of Crowley’s suggestions. Aziraphale flushing red when Crowley had caught him staring at his poster. Aziraphale looking up at him on stage like a deer in headlights and then somehow beaming with pride when the song had ended. Aziraphale making it harder to breathe because of the gratitude flowing off of him when Crowley had given him his book back.
The man was soft. So fucking soft. Soft enough for Crowley to know for a fact that if he were to throw himself at him, Aziraphale would somehow crush his bones to dust and reduce him to a pulp.
Crowley knew this and still had asked for– fuck, had he really asked Aziraphale to cook for him? The thought was so ludicrous, so utterly ridiculous, that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it had never happened.
Because Anthony J. Crowley didn’t ask people to cook for him. What he did – or what he’d done in the past at least – was going out to the nearest bar, draping himself over a stool and projecting the air of someone looking to be shagged within an inch of his life. There, done. At that point, someone would come in and do the job for him. He’d get what he wanted and then bring himself back home to resume his wallowing.
Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated.
Because when you threw yourself at jagged, pointy rocks with your eyes fully open it didn’t hurt. You knew what you were getting yourself into, there were no surprises. And Crowley was good at it. He could do it over and over again. He was indestructible. Sturdy. He was–
He wiped the steam off the mirror and found himself face to face with his reflection, unable to suppress a shudder.
Full of shit, ‘s what he was. Surprisingly full of it for someone so skinny. In fact, he could swear he’d put on some weight since he’d last looked at himself naked, probably proof that his body was accommodating the additional shit he’d managed to pile up since stepping foot on Skye (nothing to do with the semi-regular meals he was eating, shut your blessed mouth).
Crowley dragged his hands through his wet hair, slightly pulling on it as he kept staring at himself.
And there it was… the familiar, ever-present fear in his eyes. The resentment. The vulnerability. The hurt. And something else too. A glimmer that never went out, no matter how hard he tried to hack it to pieces, to snuff it out once and for all. A glimmer that had only gotten brighter since he’d met fussy, annoying, brilliant Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was soft where Crowley was sharp. Accepting where Crowley was still struggling like a fish caught in a net. Capable of indulging in the little pleasures life had to offer where Crowley had a habit of denying himself, because if the big ones were out of his reach, then what was the point?
He heaved out a sigh.
This was fucking stupid. None of this was real! They’d shipped themselves off to a bloody island and left their respective lives behind, of course it felt weird. It was what happened when you suddenly distanced yourself from your daily grind. It was like entering a different dimension. Just a brief reprieve, a bubble, nothing more.
“And don’t you fucking forget it,” he snarled at his reflection, before wrapping the towel around his waist and exiting the bathroom.
Whatever half-arsed idea Crowley might have had of giving Aziraphale tit for tat – or, more accurately, tat for tit – by sauntering around half-naked died a swift, sudden death when he passed the kitchen’s closed doors and heard the man singing Should I Stay or Should I Go? to himself as he pottered around.
In the light of the frankly concerning feeling taking up residence in his chest, Crowley decided that, in this specific instance, he should definitely go, and he all but ran to the bedroom, closing the door behind him with the sheer relief of someone getting to safety after being chased by an axe-murderer.
“Get it together, you pathetic arsehole,” he scolded himself, trying not to think about Aziraphale singing The Clash the way he would have done Frank Sinatra, and moving to the wardrobe to get dressed instead.
A glance at his phone informed him that it was seven fifteen and that he had exactly forty-five minutes to get ready. Fifty-five if he wanted to arrive fashionably late.
He put on his best suit – he couldn’t remember the thought process that had resulted in him deciding to pack it, but he was glad he had – and his black dress shirt. He then had the unfortunate idea of stepping in front of the full-length mirror next to the bathtub, which revealed him to be much too sharply-dressed for dinner at home. No, not home , he scolded himself. At a house. A stranger’s house. A random house.
Either way, he didn’t want to give Aziraphale the wrong impression. Couldn’t risk it. So, he quickly pulled off the shirt and wore a black tank top instead.
Another glance at the mirror confirmed what he already suspected, namely that he looked two seconds away from going to the nearest pub to pick someone up. Simply put, he reeked of desperation (which wasn’t that wrong of an assessment, considering the two hours he’d just spent recording a lust-inspired song he’d written with – but most definitely not about – the man he was about to have dinner with).
“Don’t be a fucking slut,” he growled, picking the black turtleneck he’d bought at Wizard’s shop. He pulled it on and went back to the mirror.
Yes, this was it. All black. Elegant, but still casual enough not to give anyone any ideas. (But he did reserve himself the right to take off the turtleneck and unleash the tank top if Aziraphale so much as tried to deploy his illegal food-induced moans again.)
Crowley then snuck out of the bedroom to go back to the loo – meanwhile, behind the closed doors of the kitchen, Aziraphale was inexplicably lecturing the stove in his stern, disappointed voice – where he took out the hair products and styling iron he’d stashed in the cabinet under the sink and proceeded to spend twenty minutes meticulously styling his hair.
When he got tired of snarling at himself and his stupid hair, for it staunchly refused to stay how he wanted it to stay, Crowley put everything back except for his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth and, when he was done, he absent-mindedly flung the toothbrush in the cup on the sink, right next Aziraphale’s, and took one last look in the mirror.
“Behave,” he warned himself before wearing his sunglasses and leaving the bathroom. (It was exactly seven fifty, but who was keeping track of that? Not Crowley, that’s for sure.)
His socked feet brought him back to the kitchen, the sliding doors now open to reveal Aziraphale in his ‘I Fuck Better Than I Cook’ apron fussing around the table. His cheeks were red, his messy white-blonde curls made even curlier by the heat of the stove. While a delicious aroma lingered in the air, there was also the unmistakable smell of something burning.
Aziraphale did a double take, his shoulders deflating. “Oh, it’s you.” His flustered state didn’t stop him from raking his eyes over Crowley, who felt his body turning liquid in response, like a cat rubbing against furniture in the anticipation of pets.
He took the opportunity to congratulate himself on such normal thoughts, and stepped inside the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, I just– well, I may have slightly burned the bread I was toasting to garnish the pasta, which may be a tad undercooked. And then I forgot I was also supposed to set the table, so I’m trying to–” Crowley sidled up to him and took the plates from his hands. “What are you doing?” Aziraphale protested.
“I’ll set the table, you take care of the food.”
“Are you sure? If you give me ten minutes, I can definitely–”
“I said I’ll take care of it,” Crowley insisted.
Aziraphale unleashed his megawatt smile, forcing Crowley to rear back just a little. The man was so bright someone should have put a blinding lights warning on him. “Well, okay. If you’re sure, dear.”
Crowley’s hands suddenly decided to stop working, and he fumbled with the plates like a man whose fingers had just been turned into pats of butter, saving them from certain destruction only Satan knew how.
“I’m fine!” Crowley exclaimed loudly before Aziraphale could open his mouth. The man was still looking at him with that stupid smile on his face. Add it to the adorably dishevelled state he was in and– fucking fuckity fuck fuck.
“Are you–”
“I said I’m fine. Go take care of the food, angel,” he said without thinking, which only made him cringe harder. Bloody Hell, that angel had come out all wrong. Breathy and plaintive rather than pointed and snarky.
Crowley feigned nonchalance as best as he could and focused on setting the table while Aziraphale went back to fussing with the pots and pans bubbling on the stove. Silence fell between them, punctuated only by the sauce simmering on the fire and Aziraphale’s absentminded whispers to himself. He did that a lot, Crowley realised, surrendering to the urge to glance at the man, at his brows knitted in concentration, at the twin red stains on his cheeks.
He was wearing the dark green apron that had haunted Crowley’s dreams, but even that monstrosity faded into the background the moment he realised Aziraphale wasn’t wearing his usual attire of soft jumpers and corduroy trousers. No, he was dressed like the first time Crowley had seen him, in a vintage-y looking suit, with a waistcoat and everything, the jacket draped on the back of a chair and his shirt sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. He wondered if the one he was wearing was his best bow-tie.
Crowley looked away and tried to prevent his heart from exploding in his chest. Why would Aziraphale make an effort to dress nicer than he usually did? Was this– No, he couldn’t think about that. Stop thinking about that, you idiot.
He pushed the thought aside, but couldn’t do much for the regrets he was having about changing out of his black suit. He should have stuck with that, for fuck’s sake. Why hadn’t he stuck with that?
“We’re all set, I think,” Aziraphale announced. “Will you pass me the plates?”
Crowley obliged and was then forced to be witness to Aziraphale assembling the dishes with the focus of a bomb disposal expert handling explosives. He ground his teeth together and bore the whole thing to the best of his abilities (which is to say, not very well), then he picked up the plates and placed them on the table, managing to avoid any disaster.
At which point, they squabbled over which of them was supposed to go down to the cellar to pick up a bottle of wine. Crowley won, but his triumph was short-lived, because when he came back to the kitchen with a bottle of Chianti Classico he found Aziraphale lighting up candles. He would have been less scared to see the man handling a semi-automatic rifle.
“What are you doing?” Crowley asked him, voice embarrassingly thready and teeth bared in a snarl.
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide in confusion. The very picture of innocence. “Isn’t it obvious?” Bitchy innocence.
“Do we really need the candles?”
“I thought we could dim the lights, so you won’t need to wear your glasses.”
A croaky sound echoed in the kitchen, something like a very talkative crow being strangled. Crowley knew it had just come out of his mouth. Bless it all. He cleared his throat and tried again, “What do you mean?”
Once the candles were lit, Aziraphale removed the apron and began rolling down his sleeves, retrieving the cuff-links he’d left on the counter. “You always wear sunglasses. I assumed it was because of a particular sensitivity to light.”
Crowley scoffed and took out his phone, because this candle thing required an immediate retaliation. “I’m not sensitive to light,” he clarified. “Actually, not sensitive to anything. I’m the complete opposite of sensitive. As thick-skinned as they come, me.” Yes, good. Tell him.
He opened his Spotify account, selected a romantic jazz playlist and pressed play. The first bars of At Last thankfully managed to tone down the silence surrounding them. This would definitely show Aziraphale who was boss, Crowley thought belligerently as he put his phone back in his pocket and went to look for a corkscrew.
“Why the glasses then?” Aziraphale asked, annoyingly not-annoyed by the in-your-face choice of music. “Are they prescription?”
Crowley lost control of the drawer he’d just opened, slamming it shut without really meaning to. “Wot?! My vision is impeccable!”
Aziraphale put on his jacket, straightened his bow tie and walked up to Crowley. “Let me take care of the wine,” he said with a nod to the table. “Why don’t you sit down? Better eat before the pasta gets cold.”
Crowley grumbled something under his breath, but ultimately did as Aziraphale had told him. It wasn’t like he could trust his stupid extremities at the moment. He sat down, threw one look at the nearest candle and scoffed as if it had personally offended him (it had).
“There you go,” came Aziraphale’s soft voice from somewhere next to him as he poured the wine in his glass and then did the same for himself.
Crowley wanted to die. This can’t be happening, he kept repeating himself. This isn’t happening.
Aziraphale finally sat down, primly unfolded the napkin on his lap and wiggled in his seat. “Bon appétit.”
A reluctant groan was Crowley’s only response as he tucked into his pasta, brandishing the fork as he would have a hammer. Suffice it to say, Dream a Little Dream of Me was not helping right now.
Since he apparently was more of a masochist than he remembered, he looked up and met Aziraphale’s eyes, which were already levelled at him.
“Well?” Aziraphale prompted.
Crowley swallowed and gulped down half of his wine in one go. “‘S good.” The bread was, admittedly, a little bit charred, but otherwise edible. (Let’s not mention the fact that Crowley would have eaten a bowl of rocks if Aziraphale had presented it to him.)
Another dangerous smile bloomed on Aziraphale’s lips. “Is it really?”
“Nyeah.”
“Well, thank you.” And there it was again, that blasted gratitude making Crowley squirm. “But I meant the sunglasses. Why do you wear them?”
Oh, right. The sunglasses.
Crowley shrugged. “I just do.”
He promised himself he would leave it at that, but the confusion on Aziraphale’s face spurred him to add, “Wore them once for my first concert with Don’t Lick The Walls. I was nervous as fuck, not to mention high as a kite, so…” He waved his fork around, running the risk of flinging pasta straight to the ceiling. “Then I realised life’s easier if people can’t see your eyes.” Especially if you were surrounded by wankers and your eyes had the terrible habit of giving you away every chance they got.
“Ah. Armour, then,” Aziraphale said, and he didn’t look offended at all. Just… sympathetic, maybe?
“Myeah. Then it became part of the look. My signature.”
“Like on the poster.”
Crowley nodded. “When I was still hot shit, designers wouldn’t stop sending me more. I have, like, three hundred of them at home.”
Aziraphale’s mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’. “Three hundred? That’s an awful lot of sunglasses.”
“Bet you have a weird collection too. Probably more than one.”
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”
“You have weird tastes.”
The heated look Aziraphale threw him made Crowley regret his choice of words immediately. “That is absolute poppycock,” he said with a defiant lift of his chin. “But if you really want to know, I collect misprinted Bibles.”
Crowley suddenly straightened in his seat. “See? I knew it!”
“Oh, hush now. It’s not that weird.”
“Sure it isn’t. I know plenty of people who collect misprinted Bibles.”
“You do?”
“No, angel, of course I don’t. You probably don’t either.”
“Well…”
“Got you there, didn’t I?”
Aziraphale scoffed. “I may be a sore loser, but you’re an insufferable winner.”
“Guilty as charged.” Crowley felt himself grin from ear to ear and rearranged his limbs on the chair. “We could play two truths and a lie and I would always win because your lie would be the most normal thing out of the three.”
“We could try, if you want. Since you’re so sure of yourself.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to, just–”
“I’ll go first,” Aziraphale decided. He took a dainty sip of wine to clear his throat and marched on despite Crowley’s garbled protests. “I don’t talk to my family anymore. I once went to magic camp. I’m part of a book club.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “You’ve just rigged the game.” Those were two normal things and a ridiculous one, which was a hundred percent true. “I can’t believe you went to magic camp.”
“Oh, I did. I was the oldest one there,” Aziraphale said, seemingly enjoying Crowley’s indignation.
“How old were you?”
“Twenty. No one had thought about age limits, so they just had to let me participate.”
“You went to magic camp with kids when you were twenty?” Crowley couldn’t believe his ears, nor stop himself from imagining twenty-year-old Aziraphale sticking out in a sea of kids in capes and top hats.
“I did. Called myself the Marvellous Mr. Fell.”
Crowley snorted, tried to suppress a bigger laugh in his glass, then just gave up and sniggered into his Chianti. “Of course you did.”
“You still haven’t given me your answer,” Aziraphale reminded him, pink lips curled up in an almost impish smile.
Crowley tried to stall by pouring wine into both of their glasses and eating some more pasta. If there was one thing he had learned about the man was that Aziraphale was a little bit of a bastard. And the book club thingy, well… it was too obvious, what with him being a writer who travelled with literal bagfuls of books.
“You lied about the book club. The other two are true.”
Aziraphale’s beaming smile almost convinced Crowley that he’d given the wrong answer, but then he said, “You got that right, I’m afraid. Well done.”
Crowley couldn’t do much to stop himself from returning his smile, though he did try to turn it into a pout at the last second. “Happens to the best of us.”
“It’s your turn.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t be such a spoilsport.”
“Fine. Er, I don’t talk to my family anymore. I used to wear women’s clothes sometimes. I like my coffee black and bitter.”
Aziraphale didn’t even blink. “Why did you stop wearing women’s clothes?”
Crowley, on the other hand, almost choked on air in surprise. “W-wot?”
“I said, why did you stop wear–”
“Yes, yes, I heard that! But why did you assume that that was true?” It wasn’t like he’d had much time for his personal brand of genderfuckery lately.
Aziraphale’s hands disappeared under the table to fuss with the napkin on his lap. “Well, we have been here for some time now, and you never mentioned a relative, except for that joke about your mum and dad, and that other thing you said at the pub that one time. Either way, I’ve never even seen you call anyone.”
Alright, DCI Eastgate was in the house, apparently.
“And what about the coffee? I always take my coffee black and bitter.”
“Not always,” Aziraphale amended.
Crowley’s stomach chose that moment to start churning like it was its Satan-given job. “No?”
“No, that’s how you take it when I’m around. When I’m not around, you put sugar in it. And creamer too sometimes. Which leads me to believe that you don’t like your coffee black and bitter, you just like to make people think you do.”
Crowley blushed like someone had just lit a fire inside his skull. “I d-don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I see the sugar bowl, I know I’m not the only one using it.”
“Ngk.” So the man may have actually been related to Columbo after all.
“Which leaves the women’s clothes. So… why did you stop?”
Crowley’s brain had officially reached its melting point. “I j-just…” Hell’s bells, could he be more of an idiot? What had possessed him to throw that truth in there? So stupid! Even if Aziraphale had gotten it wrong, Crowley would have had to explain himself at some point! “Hng. It’s just– Fuck. I can barely bring myself to brush my teeth most days, so–” His more daring fashion choices were the very least of his concerns these days.
Although, on second thought, it wasn’t exactly true anymore, was it? He went back through the past few days and realised he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Huh.
He blinked and refocused his gaze on Aziraphale, that soft smile permanently plastered on his face. Crowley hated it with a passion.
“Stop smiling like that,” he growled.
“Like what?” Aziraphale asked, smiling even wider.
“Like you’re gonna have a rockstar in a skirt in your next filthy book.” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow in a somewhat lofty manner, which meant Crowley had struck a nerve. “You’re thinking about it!”
“So what?” he shot back, fumbling for his wine glass. “It’s not a crime!” He cleared his throat, and added, “And it’s a Victorian vampire, actually.”
Crowley tried to muster all his indignation but could only cackle like a maniac. “You’re going to turn me into a Victorian vampire?”
“It’s not you-you. It’s just… you know, a fictional character.”
“That looks like me.”
“No, he’s just a redhead.”
“Like me.”
“You’re hardly the only redheaded person in the world.”
“I might as well be. There’s no one here but us.”
As if on cue, Just The Two of Us started playing in the background.
They fell silent for a while, both listening to the soft rhythm of the song, contemplating the awkwardness of the moment, and occasionally sharing a glance with each other.
“I’ll go again,” Crowley croaked when the prickle in his hands became so strong he was actually afraid he’d do something supremely stupid. “I have a green thumb. My longest relationship lasted a year. I’m a classically trained pianist.”
Aziraphale took on a thoughtful expression. “You probably do have a green thumb,” he mused after a while.
“I do?”
“Yes. Your tattoos are very… plant-based.”
Crowley chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.” Hell’s sake, was he really so transparent?
“Am I right?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“It’s perfectly fine. I’m good at uncovering Clues.”
“Clues?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed, waving his hands in front of his face like a magician, which wasn’t that far from the truth apparently. “Clues.”
“You’re quite something, you know?”
“Why, thank you.”
“No– I– come on, I didn’t mean it like that.” Did he? He didn’t, right?
Aziraphale ignored him. “I think you are a classically trained pianist. Aren’t most rockstars classically trained? I have read that somewhere. I’m going to go with your longest relationship lasting less than a year.” He joined his hands on the table and gave a little self-satisfied wiggle.
Bless it. He’d gotten it right again. He and Luc had barely lasted six months together. “Aren’t you brilliant?”
“Thank you,” he said, pleased as punch. “You do have the hands of a pianist.”
Crowley flushed again for some reason. “It’s your turn.” One thing was for sure, he could give as good as he got and he very much planned to.
“Very well. My longest relationship lasted two years. I once went out with an oboist. I almost got myself arrested in Paris because I was feeling peckish and I wanted crêpes.”
Okay, the last one was definitely true.
“What happened? Did you moan too much? Indecent behaviour in a public place? Were there kids present?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then refilled their glasses. “No, I just didn’t have an ID on me, and well… I may have tried to convince the gendarme to let me go, and my French is a bit rusty–”
Crowley’s mouth opened in shock and he quickly pulled off his sunglasses to look at him. “What did you do?”
Aziraphale turned the most delicious shade of red. “I may have come off as too… well, amorous, so to speak.”
“Aziraphale… did you try to seduce a police officer?”
“I would hardly say seduce. I was just trying to be polite, and he was quite handsome, but I would never–”
“Satan have mercy! You did try to seduce a police officer!”
“I don’t see what makes it so funny. In case you forgot, I almost got arrested.”
“Can’t even let you pop over the Channel for some crêpes without you getting into trouble.”
“Well, next time I’ll be sure to invite you too, so you can keep an eye on me.”
“I will.”
“Splendid.”
“Sure.”
And if La vie en rose was playing in the background, they both thought it was best not to acknowledge it.
Crowley cleared his throat and folded his sunglasses, placing them on the table. “I think your longest relationship lasted less than two years.”
“That is correct. Thirteen months, give or take.”
“Was it with the oboist?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“Arsehole?”
“Just a bit of a bore.”
“Get bored easily, do you?”
“Not really.” Aziraphale shrugged, something like sadness flashing in his eyes, but only for a second, so much so that Crowley wasn’t completely sure he hadn’t just imagined it. “I think most people get the wrong idea when they meet me. They expect me to be malleable. Ready to suit their needs out of– I don’t know, a misguided sense of gratitude, maybe. But I’m very stuck in my ways and I love my comforts, and when they realise I’m just not going to change on command, they start showing their true colors.”
Crowley scoffed. “They’re idiots,” he said curtly. “But, to be fair, you are pretty intolerable.”
“You make it sound like a compliment.”
“It is. Intolerable people are criminally underrated.”
“Nothing to do with you, I wager?”
“I’m the most lovable person on the planet.”
“Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
Crowley placed a hand on his heart with dramatic flourish. “Are you trying to break my heart?”
“Do demons have a heart?”
“‘Course they do. They were angels once, remember? You said so yourself.”
“I did,” Aziraphale allowed. “You do listen to me sometimes.”
“Nyeah, sure. Don’t get too excited.”
“Do you suppose demons have brains too?”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
“It’s an honest question.”
“Demons have bigger brains than angels.”
“That can’t be true,” Aziraphale countered.
“It’s true. Now, we all know size doesn’t matter–”
“Sometimes it does.”
“We know, you’re an erotica writer. Your eyes are bigger than your–” Crowley gestured vaguely at Aziraphale and wisely refrained himself from even thinking about the rest of that sentence.
Aziraphale let his arched eyebrow do the warning. “No, please, go on.”
“No, shut up,” Crowley snapped. “Now, whales on the other hand, they have giant–”
“Crowley!”
“Brains. What did you think I was going to say?”
Though they were both too busy to pay any attention to it, Unforgettable gently faded into a song none of them would have recognised anyway. It was about magic, romantic affairs, and a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square.
(Gorgeous art of the boys made by the amazingly talented Wingsofpal 💜)
Notes:
Lots of oldies mentioned in this chapter:
- Should I Stay or Should I Go? by The Clash
- At Last by Etta James
- Dream a Little Dream of Me by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
- Just The Two of Us by Grover Washington Jr
- La vie en rose by Edith Piaf
- Unforgettable by Nat King Cole
- A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square by Tori AmosHappy New Year, everyone 💜💜💜
Chapter 9: Nine
Summary:
During their categorically-not-a-date, Aziraphale suggests Crowley should get himself some new bandmates. Strangely enough, he agrees (and only mildly regrets it).
Notes:
Hello! 💜 Here's a surprise update because I can't wait to share chapter 10 (which is still coming on Monday) 👀
Thank you all for sticking with me as I put the *slow* in slow burn, we're almost there, I promise! (We also have a very special cameo in this chapter 🐮)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Six siblings?!”
Crowley burst out in surprise, head whipping towards Aziraphale. The pan he was scrubbing slipped out of his hands and back into the sink full of soapy water, splashing Aziraphale, who was dutifully waiting for the next item to dry with the green and white chequered tea towel at the ready.
“Are you telling me there are seven of you just walking around?” Crowley asked, visibly torn between horror and curiosity.
Aziraphale blinked and patted his cheek dry. “I would hardly say seven of me.” He couldn’t help but chuckle as he finally received the pan from Crowley’s hands, his eyes lingering on his thin fingers way longer than necessary. He really did have the hands of a pianist, Aziraphale mused. “I think the mere suggestion would be enough to give my parents nightmares for the rest of their days.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose and glared at the plate he was scrubbing. “‘S that why you don’t talk to them anymore?” With his sunglasses still lying forgotten on the table, there was nothing hiding his expressions from Aziraphale’s greedy eyes. “To any of them?”
“I am what you may call a black sheep.”
Crowley let out a scoff. “Well, they’re idiots. You’re the whitest sheep I’ve ever seen in my life.” He chanced another glance in Aziraphale’s direction, eyes climbing up his face to his hair. “Look at your curly little hair,” he said. “Whitest sheep ever.”
Aziraphale snorted. “I’m afraid my hair doesn’t really factor in.” It was more a matter of personality, beliefs and… well, one could say literally everything else.
“Did they cut you off then?”
“Not really.” He took the plate and dried it before placing it on top of the others. He had to admit that this chore thing was significantly more pleasant if you had someone to share it with. “We just lost touch, I suppose.”
One day he’d just stopped calling them, decided to wait for them to reach out for once, but they’d never made much of an effort. Aziraphale didn’t blame them. After the initial shock of realising that his family didn’t want anything to do with him, he’d plucked up enough courage to admit to himself that he also felt better without them in his life. He’d felt sad, yes, but also lighter, free and at the same time exceptionally more grounded in himself.
“Sssorry, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Crowley said, his words coming out a little slurred, which was no surprise considering they were on their third bottle of wine (an excellent Pinot Blanc).
Aziraphale was feeling pleasantly buzzed himself, a delicious warmth settling in his belly and tingling in his fingertips. “It’s okay,” he finally said. “I don’t mind.” He focused on drying the silverware Crowley had just handed to him. “My parents are very religious. Catholic, actually. They’re not bad people, just… very limited in their worldview, I guess you could say. They always had very specific expectations for us kids, the same ones their parents had for them. They couldn’t imagine us becoming anything different than what they had in mind. It’s almost like… like we were supposed to be all the same person, you know?” There had never been much room for anything else.
Aziraphale shrugged and went to put the silverware back in its drawer. The forks first, then the knives, one by one in their respective sections.
“It was already hard enough growing up in a house where we didn’t really have any space for ourselves.”
If it wasn’t the suffocating presence of their parents’ expectations, or the overcrowded bedrooms they shared well into his late teenage years, it was his siblings constantly trying to talk over one another, and Aziraphale, who had never been any good at screaming louder than everyone else, had gotten used to fading into the background. He’d learned at his expense that invisibility could be a double edged sword, that it protected and erased in equal measure.
He didn’t miss the petty rivalries between his siblings, the way they sometimes took their frustrations out on each other – on him – the fact that nothing in that house was actually his, which had led to him stashing little bits of himself wherever he thought they’d be safe.
“It’s the reason I started writing. As an outlet, you see. I kept a diary. Easier to make yourself heard when you’re talking to a blank page.” You didn’t have to scream to be heard and you didn’t have to feel guilty because it cost nothing. Pastimes that didn’t weigh on the family budget were highly encouraged back then. “Still do, actually.”
Aziraphale closed the drawer shut and looked up to Crowley, who was staring at him with a frown etched on his face. “That sucks,” he blurted out with a start, as if only just realising he’d been caught staring. “Not the diary, I s’pose. Though I’d rather headbutt a cactus than keep one– but yeah, anyway. Sorry about your family being twats.”
“It’s quite alright. I’m used to not having much in common with most people.” He was the odd one out wherever he went. There was a quote by Dostoevsky that always came to mind, There was no one like me and I was unlike anyone else. I am alone and they are everyone. That’s how Aziraphale had always felt, though it had taken him a long time to frame that feeling in a positive light. To learn to value and celebrate his differences even if it meant living a life most people would consider dreadful.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have any friends, because he did – people he saw every once in a while for brunch or talked to for a friendly phone call, but he could never quite forget that they invariably saw him as the eccentric, lone fellow they went to uni or attended the same dancing lessons with. If he still had a big family, he’d be the bachelor uncle who fascinates the little ones and inspires a weird mix of envy and pity in the adults.
“I just stopped trying to make it work with them solely because we’re related. They never made an effort, never tried to meet me halfway, so…” The moment they realised he was never going to be the man they wanted him to be, they’d just lost interest. He’d stopped being an actual person and became the cardboard cutout of one instead. Just a placeholder for the son and brother he could have been, nothing more.
“You’re better off without them,” Crowley muttered as he finally turned off the tap.
“Oh, definitely.” Aziraphale shook off his gloomy thoughts and handed Crowley the tea towel so he could dry his hands.
He let his eyes move up Crowley’s naked forearms and felt a little thrill going down his spine. The contrast between his elegant fingers, his tattoos and the turtleneck was doing something quite, er, some would say interesting to his insides.
“Why the piano?” Aziraphale heard himself ask after a beat, vaguely recognising the song playing in the background as Something Stupid. Which was nothing if not fitting – if he so much as stopped to think about Crowley choosing this particular playlist for their dinner, Aziraphale would have run the serious risk of doing something extremely stupid indeed.
Crowley shrugged. “My grandpa had an old upright piano in his living room. A Challen. Belonged to my nan. It was the only thing I ever showed any interest in when I was a kid, so he made me take lessons.”
“Oh. Did you live with them?”
“Nyeah. With my grandpa. Never met my nan, though. She died before I was born.”
“What about your parents?”
“Heh, what about ‘em?” Crowley went to take a sip from the wine glass he’d left on the table. Aziraphale was sure he would take the chance to retrieve his sunglasses and pull them on, but he didn’t. “Saw my father twice, once when I was ten, and the other when I turned sixteen. Can barely remember what he looks like, to be honest, but I do remember him calling me a snake. My mother on the other hand– heh, she was a kid herself when she had me, ‘s why she left me with grandpa. He was very strict, obsessed with discipline and all. They didn’t get along, so she was barely around. She was a grouch, but he was an arsehole, and so am I. Sort of runs in the family, you know? So I guess I got that from them. Along with the red hair.”
Aziraphale watched as Crowley rolled down the sleeves of his turtleneck, marvelling at the elegant figure he cut in the middle of the kitchen. “Is that why you have that tattoo?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
Crowley turned to him, his face open and… well, beautiful – there was no other way to put it. “Which one?” Aziraphale brushed his fingers next to his own ear and Crowley mirrored him without quite realising it. “Ah, yes. First one I got, actually. Just to spite him. Not that it worked, he didn’t give a shite. Never even saw it.”
“He probably did,” Aziraphale pointed out. “What with you being a rockstar and all.”
Crowley scoffed. “Yeah, right. Probably threw a party when I got outed.” He chuckled to himself, then added, “‘Bring up ravens and they will gouge your eyes out’. ‘S what my mom told me when I refused to send her money back in my twenties. Probably should thank ‘em both for inspiring my tattoos, I s’pose.”
It was no wonder, Aziraphale thought with heaviness in his heart, that Crowley didn’t seem comfortable with anything but standoffishness and rejection. He always bristled when Aziraphale alluded to Maggie being worried about him, not to mention the things he’d said about his previous dalliances…
Not that I qualify as a current dalliance, of course, Aziraphale rushed to amend, heat promptly flaming in his cheeks. Good Lord, how silly. He was literally talking to himself.
A refilled wine glass pushed into his hand forced him to cut his fretting short before it could get any worse. His eyes met Crowley’s for a split second. They were both startled, both embarrassed, then Crowley mumbled something unintelligible and left the kitchen for the living room.
Aziraphale swallowed down the lump in his throat along with the empty platitudes he had the urge to offer him. He knew from experience that certain wounds simply couldn’t be healed like that, if they could at all.
With a last glance at Crowley’s sunglasses discarded on the table and his own jacket draped over the back of his chair, Aziraphale gulped down half of his wine and followed, finding already Crowley artfully slumped on the armchair and scrolling on his phone.
“Did you record the song?” Aziraphale asked him, just for the purpose of having at least some words acting as a sort of buffer between them. He sat on his sofa, not sure if he regretted drinking too much or too little. He desperately wanted to show Crowley something. To take care of him somehow. But it was strange, wasn’t it? For him to feel like that after so many years spent by himself?
“Huh?” Crowley seemed to be lost in his own musings. Aziraphale wondered if they were thinking about the same things.
“This afternoon. Did you record the song?” The song inspired by Lust we wrote together, he refrained from adding.
“Nyeah.”
“Does it… work?”
“Hng– it does, I guess.” Crowley shrugged, eyes trained on his phone. “Would work better if I had actual instruments and, you know, musicians.”
“You do have them,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but point out. Much better to think about the practical aspects of things rather than Crowley sitting at The Quarry and blushing while Aziraphale weaved words and images together to fit his vision.
Crowley finally looked up. “Wha– the kids?”
“Yes. You could ask them to stop by. They’re not going to fit together in the studio, I reckon, but maybe one by one?” Is that how it worked? Aziraphale had no idea.
“Nah. I don’t do well with other people.”
“You did well with them, though.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “It was a one-time thing. I was just trying to fluster you,” he said, the wine loosening his tongue.
“Yes, you do tend to get things done when I’m around,” Aziraphale conceded, a little smile playing on his lips.
“Shut up.”
“Well, it’s true.” And he was quite proud of it too, if he could say so himself. “I still think you should ask. They’d be happy to play with you again.” Warlock would probably need to keep some smelling salts at hand.
“But I wouldn’t.”
Aziraphale was about to retort, but Crowley flashed him a warning glare. They both knew he was lying.
“You know, the oboist wasn’t such a grump,” Aziraphale heard himself say.
Crowley scoffed. “He was a bore, though. You said so yourself.”
“Guess I did.”
“‘S that what you said to him when you left him?” Crowley cleared his throat and sat up straight, mirroring Aziraphale’s position. “‘Awfully sorry, Mr. Oboist, but I’m afraid you might be too much of a bore for my humbly refined tastes’.”
Aziraphale gaped at him. “I don’t talk like that!”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t. Besides, Henry and I were never truly together, so we technically couldn’t break up, you see. He just disappeared.” This may have been an unpopular opinion, but Aziraphale liked when they did that, it saved him from concerning himself with goodbyes. “Now, in my other relationship, on the other hand… I am the one that got dumped.”
While he’d known that he and Oscar had never had a future together, he’d always been aware that he was the best chance he’d ever get at a stable relationship. Aziraphale had felt it in his bones, that it would have been Oscar or nothing, that he’d never find the strength to try to fit a whole other person into his life again, and himself into someone else’s. So he’d bitten the bullet and waited to see if things would get better. They hadn’t.
“No!” Crowley exclaimed in mock-sympathy.
“Yes.”
“I also got dumped.”
“What did you say when you did?” Aziraphale asked with a little smile, before schooling his features into a sort of couldn’t-be-bothered indifference. “‘K.’?”
Crowley snorted. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, I had a feeling.”
“So, why did you? Got dumped, I mean.”
Because he hadn’t had the courage to do the dumping himself. To this day, Aziraphale was grateful to Oscar for taking matters into his own hands. Some part of him still believed that if Oscar hadn’t been brave enough for the both of them, they would still be together, still trudging along, still mildly unhappy.
“Many reasons that all boil down to the fact that I’m never enough.” Never easygoing enough, or present or willing to take risks and disrupt his daily routine for someone else. Never loving enough, or warm or ready to take on his partners’ issues with no mind to his own. Never accommodating enough, or understanding or happy to go out at a moment’s notice.
Crowley chuckled. “Funny,” he drawled. “I’m always too much.”
Aziraphale took a sip of wine, his mouth annoyingly dry. “Sort of the same thing when you think about it.”
“Nyeah, I s’pose.”
As Aziraphale idly fantasised about going up to Crowley and performing his favourite magic trick (would he get the chance to brush his ear when he made the coin reappear?), an idea suddenly occurred to him. “That would be a great angle for the song about Greed, don’t you think? The whole never enough-always too much thing.”
Crowley rolled his neck for a few seconds, then sucked his teeth. “Might work. What do you have in mind?”
“Well… shall we move this to the studio?”
Considering how uncomfortable it was, Crowley shouldn’t have woken up in the armchair enough times for him to lose count of them.
That morning, the tally increased.
His breathing stuttered on a long inhale and changed its rhythm as he came to. He cracked one eye open and realised with a groan that he’d fallen asleep in the living room. Again. His back and neck wasted no time before making their displeasure known, pushing him to sit upright and assess the damage.
Carefully ignoring the figure sprawled on the sofa and the various aches in his joints, Crowley blinked into the grey morning light spilling into the living room through the half-drawn curtains. A quick tap on his phone, which was sitting on the coffee table along with the paracetamol Aziraphale insisted he took last night, informed him that it was almost eleven.
Without any warning, not even a courtesy heads-up, images from the previous night started flitting through his brain, not unlike videos on his for your page on TikTok (dear Satan, he needed to delete the blasted app).
Aziraphale fussing around the stove. Aziraphale’s soft, thick fingers cradling his wine glass. Aziraphale drying plates and putting them away with the focus and care of someone better used to restoring vintage books than doing the chores. Aziraphale listening to him and asking him questions as if Crowley had interesting things to say.
His heart began beating a little bit faster, in time with the faint ache still thumping in his temples, reminding him of all the wine he’d drunk last night. He touched his face, instinctively looking for his sunglasses. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to remember he’d left them in the kitchen, discarded on the table not even fifteen minutes into their dinner.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, senseless fear running through him with lightning speed.
It was like that odd falling sensation he’d sometimes get in bed. His stomach plunging only Satan knew where, his hands gripping the mattress as he braced for something that defied any known law of physics.
He flinched, letting his eyes wander to the sofa where Aziraphale was sleeping.
It was a miracle they’d managed to bring themselves back to the living room after spending almost the entire night writing in the studio.
Well, they’d gotten to the writing part after the ridiculously long explanation Crowley had provided about the software he used. To be fair, Aziraphale hadn’t even asked how it worked, he’d just wondered out loud if the computer Crowley was using was his or if he’d found it there. An innocent enough question, if answering wouldn’t reveal the fact that Crowley had brought along his songwriting paraphernalia for a trip during which, according to him at least, he wasn’t planning to write anything, not even a grocery list.
Half-drunk on wine and exhaustion, they’d worked on the song about Greed, which was shaping up to be the coolest one so far, with softly-sung verses and a raging chorus.
After that, he remembered Aziraphale stumbling to the sofa and lecturing him about the importance of taking painkillers to soften the blow of the hangover that would surely hit them the next morning. His words had been slightly slurred, with sleep more than wine, so unlike his perfect, posh pronunciation. Then he’d dropped to the sofa and was asleep before Crowley could shake his only remaining brain cell in the hopes of coming up with a witty complaint.
At that point, he had only had the strength to drag himself to the armchair before collapsing himself.
Aziraphale must have woken up sometime in the early morning, because he wasn’t wearing his waistcoat anymore, and his braces were slung down his arms. It seemed that he’d given up half-way through removing his shirt, which lay unbuttoned around him, only one sleeve still on, revealing the white, figure-hugging undershirt he wore underneath.
I’m also partial to a form-fitting white t-shirt, Crowley remembered saying. They look good on everyone, whether you’re showing off tits or biceps or both.
He flung himself off the armchair, tension and embarrassment coursing through him like electricity through a live wire. He scurried to the loo to take a quick, hot shower to dispel those annoying thoughts and hopefully loosen the sore knots in his neck and shoulders.
When he came back to the living room, Aziraphale was still snoring softly. Crowley considered taking a picture of him so he could make fun of him later, then decided it was a brilliant idea and did just that before retreating into the bedroom to get dressed.
It took him less than a second to pull on Aziraphale’s white jumper instead of the black one he’d bought at Wilbur’s, something he’d probably regret later ( false – he was regretting it already). He slipped into his snakeskin boots, wrapped Aziraphale’s scarf around his neck and threw on his new-old black overcoat.
He stopped by the kitchen to retrieve his sunglasses and was out of the house before he could rethink any of his choices. He’d recently discovered that not-thinking was tantamount to him getting anything done.
Outside, the grey, moody sky stretched over him as far as the eye could see, kissing the green-brown landscape and the expanse of the steel-coloured sea beyond. It hit Crowley right then, how quiet it all was, and for a while he couldn’t stop wondering how he’d never noticed before. Not that he’d paid much attention to his surroundings, but still…
The only explanation he could come up with had to do with the chaos constantly raging inside of him and the reason it was just beginning to abate, so of course he pushed it aside and quickened his pace, hands mulishly shoved in his coat pockets and chin tucked into Aziraphale’s scarf.
He was starting to understand why the man always wore no less than six-thousand layers at all given times. It felt like armour. A much needed shield between him and the rest of the world.
Hell’s sake, what the fuck was he even thinking about?
Get it together, arsehole, Crowley scolded himself, growling under his breath as he approached the gentle slope where they’d first encountered the Highland cows. He had to make a conscious effort not to think about the way Aziraphale’s eyes had sparkled, his pale-blonde curls peeking out under the rim of his ridiculous hat.
The herd was out today too. Crowley had every intention of passing them, and maybe exchanging a silent nod with the herdswoman he spotted a few metres away if he felt particularly charitable, but when she noticed him, waving a hand in greeting and walking up to him, he could only stop and wait for her to reach him.
“Mr. Crowley, right?” she asked him, cheeks reddened and honey blonde hair ruffled by the icy wind.
“Nyeah,” he muttered. Hopefully, he was coming across as more cool and less shy (he fucking hated meeting new people). Which was precisely the reason why he initially swore he wouldn’t say anything else and let her do the talking, only he somehow got the urge to add, “Must have missed your name.”
And, really, what was the point of going out without Aziraphale if he couldn’t stop himself from picturing the beaming smile he’d have given him right then? Look at you, that smile would have said. Making polite conversation with strangers all on your own.
Fuck.
“Oh. I’m Deirdre.” She chuckled, clearly embarrassed as well, then fished something out of the inside pocket of her jacket. “I was wondering if you could sign this for me? If not, it’s okay.”
Deirdre sheepishly handed him an album. Tested to Destruction, his second solo record, Crowley realised. So she had recognised him that first time.
“My son saw me put this in my pocket the other day,” Deirdre continued, “and when I told him I was hoping I’d see you again so I could ask for an autograph, he begged me not to. Said I’d bring dishonour to the family.”
Crowley found himself unable to utter a single word. He couldn’t remember the last time this sort of thing had happened without him feeling the need to smash his head against the nearest surface.
Get a fucking grip, you absolute twat.
“Actually, I wanted to bring all of my albums, but Adam told me to pick one, so I did.” Deirdre let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, as I said, you don’t have to.”
Crowley licked his lips and tried to clear his throat before finally accepting the album. “Sure, I’ll sign it.”
Deirdre blushed furiously. “Really?”
“Yes, only I don’t have any–” She pushed a sharpie into his free hand without missing a beat. “Ah. That’ll do it.”
He took out the little booklet and scribbled a brief dedication, signing it with his initials as he always did. He couldn’t help the stab of self-consciousness when he looked at his messy handwriting. Luckily, Deirdre didn’t seem to mind.
“I can’t believe I have an Anthony J. Crowley album signed by the man himself!” she squealed, giggling like a schoolgirl.
Crowley carefully forbade himself from identifying the warm feeling clutching his chest, but could do nothing for the words that left his mouth. “Bring the others, I’ll sign those too.”
“Will you?”
“Sure.” He replaced the booklet, then gave her both the album and the sharpie back. “Now, I’ll just–”
“Yes, of course.” She took a step back. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“Right, yeah. Er, thanks.” He was just about to leave when his stupid mouth went rogue again. “Which one’s Judith again?”
Deirdre pointed to the biggest cow grazing by the other side of the road.
“Would you mind if I–” He waved his phone in explanation.
“Oh no, go right ahead.”
Trying not to dwell on what was probably going through her head, Crowley walked up to the cow Aziraphale had petted that first time. “I’m going to take a picture, alright?”
Great, now he was making conversations with cows too. What was that thing about the never ending nature of rock bottom?
Crowley took a quick photo and, before he could think better of it, sent it to Aziraphale along with a baffling, Judith says hi . He put the phone back in his pocket as if it was on fire. Then he gave an awkward pat to the cow and he hurried along the road to the village.
How supremely, fucking embarrassing. Hopefully, cows had a poor memory and no one would alert the press to inform them of how much of a milksop he’d become. Become being the wrong word here.
He stopped only to take out his phone again and put it on silent, because the last thing he needed was obsessing over every single perceived vibration in his pockets as he waited for Aziraphale to respond to his message. In fact, he wasn’t waiting at all. For anything ever. Thank you.
Crowley arrived at the village in record time – he found out that testing the limits of his spleen through power-walking was a great way to prevent his hands from fishing things out of pockets, especially phones – and headed for The Quarry.
Doing his best not to second-guess himself, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside. The pub seemed to be getting ready for the imminent lunch rush, a few patrons already perusing menus and Pepper, the girl with the deadly stare, wiping tables with military efficiency.
She clocked him before Crowley could have the chance to find any of the other less-intimidating kids.
“Oi,” she said, more in accusation than greeting, nose already wrinkled in disdain. “Where’s Mr. Eastgate?”
At least she hadn’t referred to him as his husband.
“Not relevant. I need to talk to you.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. “About what?”
“Business proposition.”
Pepper placed her hand on her hip. She looked just about ready to spray him in the face and wipe him out of existence. Crowley honestly didn’t feel like putting it past her. What did surprise him, on the other hand, was thinking it would be a shame to disappear right when he was on the brink of something new. Something, you could say, even exciting.
She opened her mouth, probably two seconds away from blasting him to death, when Alan materialised on his other side. “What kind of business proposition?” he inquired.
Crowley took a deep breath, steeled himself for whatever was about to come and tried to convince himself he’d be fine with the fallout no matter what.
“So… wanna record some new songs with me?”
As it turned out, Crowley would not be okay with the fallout no matter what. He should have known that better than anyone, and yet he hadn’t, blindsided once more by his most fatal flaw – namely, his optimism. That bastard kept defying all odds despite Crowley’s otherwise bleak outlook on life. Much like a 25-year old chihuahua both blind and deaf and with only half a tooth, it just wouldn’t die.
The five days that followed could only be described as a waking nightmare. The kids’ enthusiasm was so genuine, so unbridled, that Crowley had no choice but rethinking the merits of Pepper’s constant prickliness towards him.
Naturally, the moment he did, that too was taken away from him, because why would he ever get the things he wanted? So, yeah, after a couple of days of close proximity, even Pepper had the terrible idea of becoming more friendly towards him, exchanging her deadly stares for tight-lipped smiles reluctantly thrown in his direction.
Since Crowley hadn’t so much as stopped to think about the best, most reasonable way to organise the whole thing – which probably involved waiting to have all the songs pre-written and ready to be recorded, as well as individual recording sessions so that they wouldn’t have to assemble and disassemble Stilton’s drum kit once every five minutes – the kids ended up being around at all hours, whenever they could leave the pub and shop to someone else’s care, throwing the cottage into utter chaos as a result.
They all had very strong opinions about pretty much everything, especially Andy, Deirdre’s kid, who apparently had never had a thought he didn’t think was worth sharing with the class. The only reason Crowley hadn’t kicked him out the door yet was that the kid had good instincts and a real knack for composing, to the point that Crowley couldn’t really bring himself to flat-out ignore his suggestions. (His conscience, too, had not kicked the bucket yet, apparently.)
He’d always complained about his past bandmates slacking off, but he’d never stopped to consider how annoying it would be to take other people’s opinions into consideration, particularly when those opinions improved on his work. Fucking annoying, ‘s what it was.
They were all decent players too, especially Parmesan, who – if Crowley had to guess – was used to vent all of his negative feelings on his drums. Every time he picked up those sticks he stopped being a quiet little mouse and turned into a conduit for blind rage instead.
Brian was surprisingly competent at a number of different instruments and had a nice enough voice; Pepper undeniably knew her way around a bass and, when the novelty of recording with a (former?) rockstar wore off and he finally stopped mooning over Crowley, even Wolfgang wasn’t half bad.
This didn’t mean Crowley didn’t have notes and criticism for every single one of them, and he made no secret of it either. He pointed out all the things that could be improved in their playing, and offered clipped suggestions whenever he could. And he was quite proud of himself too.
Back when he’d played with Don’t Lick The Walls, he’d always refrained from sticking his nose in his bandmates’ business. He’d joke about them alright, even to their faces (that was half the fun after all), but he knew how vicious they could get and, honestly, he couldn’t really be arsed to help them in any way, shape or form.
So this felt different. New. Liberating, in a way.
That is, until he bragged to Aziraphale about how good he was at keeping them all in line, and Aziraphale butted in with a totally unwarranted, “That’s really kind of you, Crowley. I’m sure they’re going to treasure your advice.”
And, honestly, how dare he make such groundless, wild, vicious accusations?
“I’m not giving them advice,” he muttered, outrage making his head tumble. This was not a charity operation.
Aziraphale shifted his gaze from his computer to look at him, spectacles precariously perched on the tip of his nose. “Oh? But I rather think you are. I heard you speak in there, when I brought tea for everyone.”
Yeah, that’s another thing Aziraphale did a lot. He took care of refreshments like a mom would do for her teenage son who had his friends over (Crowley was familiar with the concept only through movies and tv shows – his mom had certainly never done anything of the sort. Also, he’d never had much luck in the friends departament).
“No, I’m criticising them and finding faults in their technique and reminding them who’s boss.” None of those things constituted advice, obviously.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then gestured to the plate of sandwiches laying on the kitchen counter. “Call it however you want, dear. Bring this with you to the studio, would you, the poor dears must be famished.”
Crowley scoffed and took his leave – with the sandwiches, of course – quite literally running away from that dear Aziraphale had deployed so naturally, while also racking his brain to try and remember why he’d gone to the kitchen in the first place.
After their not-date, something had shifted between them, settled. Crowley couldn’t even begin to guess what it was, mostly because he had been really careful not to delve too deep into the matter. He didn’t want to concern himself with the how’s and why’s of their circumstances. From time immemorial, nothing good ever came out from pondering on such things (nothing to do with how scared he was of what he could find out, shut up).
Anyway, his presence in the kitchen probably had something to do with needing a break from the kids and maybe a taste of what had become his daily routine after fifteen days spent on Skye. A daily routine that didn’t involve five new bandmates, but one single nuisance with pale blonde, fluffy curls and biteable cheeks and the bitchiest, most annoying attitude in the whole wide world.
The thought stopped him in his tracks, nothing but a bunch of sandwiches and a heavy beating heart as witnesses. It had been only one day and he already missed his alone time with Aziraphale, the fragile routine they’d carved out for themselves amidst all their bickering.
Which – Jesus fucking Christ – was really, really bad. Because, as Crowley made a point of reminding himself at least ten, twenty or a hundred times a day (as many as needed), none of this was real. It was like living in a bubble, a made up world where he couldn’t really trust anything he saw or felt because the standard parameters were all skewed…
…right?
“You’re such a pathetic loser,” Crowley hissed, glaring at the sandwiches as if they were the sole culprits of this quite inconvenient situation.
And Aziraphale, well, he wasn’t helping matters at all.
With the recording studio being so crowded all the time, he left Crowley and the kids to their own devices, and now spent most of his day in the kitchen, working on the medium-slashed-dominatrix memoir and taking a break every now and then to make them lunch, or tea or dinner depending on the time of day.
So, you see, on paper everything pointed to Crowley finally being able to put some much needed distance between them, focus on his work and think about literally anything that wasn’t Aziraphale.
Problem was, seeing him less was actually conducive to Crowley thinking about him more, as if to compensate.
The gravity of the situation dawned on him with all its might on the second day, when he got out of the loo and found the kids taking a break from recording the song about Gluttony he had finished writing overnight with Aziraphale’s help (working together on the song about sucking dick wasn’t difficult at all, thank you for asking). The kids were laughing and screaming at each other, recounting the time Brian had fallen off the stage at The Quarry and landed on a certain Sister Mary Loquacious, who they all knew from Sunday school.
Only Aziraphale was still working on his computer.
Crowley couldn’t even begin to explain the irritation that flared inside him right then and there.
“Oi! Will you shut the fuck up?” he barked out of the blue. “Hellions, the lot of you! Can’t you see Aziraphale’s working? Have some bloody respect!”
Six heads, including Aziraphale’s, swiveled towards him in varying degrees of alarm and surprise.
Wensleydale scoffed primly (yes, Crowley was so annoyed he couldn’t even pretend not to know their names). “That’s rich coming from you,” he said a bit sheepishly. “You annoy him all the time.”
So what? It wasn’t like he’d ever pretended to be consistent. Or not a bloody hypocrite.
“He’s mine,” Crowley blurted out before he could think better of it, as if that explained anything (and to him, it did. Explain everything, that is, except why he felt so strongly about it). “Go find your own angel to pester.”
“Sorry, Mr. Eastgate,” Adam chimed in, throwing a few pointed glares at his friends until they silently agreed to cut their break short and go back to the studio.
Crowley shifted in place, slowly realising what he’d just said and frantically touching his face to confirm that he was still wearing sunglasses.
Fucking Hell.
“Yours, am I?” Aziraphale asked when they were finally alone, a stupidly soft smile plastered on his lips. His rounded cheeks were dusted with pink and his eyes– fuck, not even six-thousand months in Skye would get him used to the way they sparkled for the most trivial of reasons.
“Mine to annoy ,” Crowley clarified harshly. “I was here before, so…”
“How noble of you.”
“The word you’re looking for is dishonourable.”
“I think I know a thing or two about words.”
“Do you? ‘Cause you keep using the wrong ones.” Nice, kind, noble. Crowley was anything but.
Aziraphale was still smiling, like Crowley’s threats had finally lost their bite, provided they’d ever had some in the first place.
Thing was, and Crowley wasn’t so in denial he couldn’t admit it to himself, Aziraphale had seen enough of him to distinguish between what he could take at face value (very little) and what he couldn’t (pretty much everything).
“You worry about the music,” Aziraphale said, straightening his shoulders with an air of finality, “and I’ll worry about the words. That’s the arrangement.”
Words weren’t Aziraphale’s only concern, of course. Now that they spent less time together, he seemed to be doing his best to concentrate all of his annoying aziraphaleness in however little time he had with Crowley. As mind-boggling as it sounded, the man was learning to optimise .
That’s what happened on the fourth day of recording, when Crowley came out of the studio to go to the bedroom and change out of his Black Sabbath t-shirt after Wilhelm had breathlessly pointed out the hole under his left armpit.
Crowley stopped by the kitchen on his way back to the studio to throw the ratty old t-shirt away.
He thought no more of it until that evening, when they emerged from the studio after an entire day spent recording the song about Wrath. The kids popped their heads into the living room to say goodbye to Aziraphale, and that’s when Crowley saw the man sitting on the armchair, rounded spectacles in place as he stitched up his stupid shirt.
“What are you doing?” Crowley asked him once the kids had left. He noticed the sewing kit splayed on the coffee table, and a shiver inexplicably went through him at the sight.
“Hm?” Aziraphale looked up, slightly confused. “Oh, this? You threw it in the recycling bin, must have been an oversight,” he said with a little hum of disapproval. “Besides, this is good, heavy cotton. Would be a shame to throw it away for such a little hole. So I’m fixing it.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”
“You didn’t have to,” Aziraphale replied with a little smile that betrayed how tired he was. “If you don’t want it anymore, you could give it to Warlock. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
Crowley tried to ignore the lump in his throat, but could do nothing for the sudden urge to push his sunglasses on his nose to make sure they were still there. This was the pale blue jumper conundrum all over again.
“It’s not gonna last, you know,” he heard himself say, his voice more whisper than anything.
“What?”
“The shirt. You can fix that one hole, but there’s going to be another.” It was like trying to fix a rotting thing. You couldn’t, unless hacking it all to pieces was an option. And even in that case, there was an argument to be made whether whatever you ended up with was still the thing you were trying to save or just the maimed ghost of it.
Aziraphale didn’t seem worried though. “Well, when the time comes, we can fix that too. I can show you how.”
“I can’t do that,” he mumbled. “I’m not like you.” He didn’t know how to be content with his choices, or find joy in the little things.
“Pish posh. You don’t have to be like me,” Aziraphale snorted, as if Crowley had just said the most ridiculous thing. “I would hardly recommend it, to be honest. But it’s a good shirt. I can’t say I understand, let alone share, your fascination with pentacles and skulls, but… it’s still yours, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Crowley croaked out. It felt weird, seeing Aziraphale with the black t-shirt in his lap. You could tell it had nothing to do with him, that it was out of place, by the way it stuck out against the lighter colours of his usual attire. And yet, he was still caring for it.
“Things don’t have to be perfect to be loved and appreciated, you know,” Aziraphale added, almost as an afterthought, eyes focused on what his fingers were doing. “They just need to be.”
And Crowley must have been worse off than he’d initially thought because he suddenly felt like crying about a stupid fucking t-shirt he couldn’t even remember buying in the first place.
He plonked himself on the sofa on legs that were suspiciously wobbly and watched him work in complete silence, and if Aziraphale noticed his breathing had grown laboured and uneven, or heard the dull thud of his heart echoing in the living room, angel that he was, he didn’t say anything about it.
Notes:
The only song mentioned in this chapter is:
- Something Stupid by Frank and Nancy SinatraSee you on Monday! 💜
Chapter 10: Ten
Summary:
It’s Lust’s recording day. Aziraphale takes a little gamble and Crowley lets himself have one nice thing, which may be too much to bear.
Notes:
Hello and happy Monday! 💜 This is it! Thank you again for sticking with me, I cherish your support immensely.
We're more or less officially looking at 14 chapters, epilogue included.
There are some more spoilery info (plus random ramblings) about this chapter in the end notes, but I think the "non-explicit sex" tag pretty much covers it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was around six in the afternoon when Aziraphale finally heard chatter and shuffling in the hallway.
He looked up from his copy of Trainspotting (unfortunately, the book’s main focus was not on trains) and saw Wensleydale standing on the threshold of the living room. “We’re off, Mr. Eastgate,” he announced while, behind him, Adam was distributing coats and scarves around.
“Oh, you’re not staying for dinner, then?” Aziraphale asked, closing his book as he stood up from the armchair.
“Nope,” Pepper chimed in. “Crowley had us recording our parts from Lust but refused to let us hear him sing, so…” Her voice trailed off but her expression spoke volumes.
“Sort of kicked us out of the studio,” Brian explained.
Wensleydale turned to Pepper with his brows furrowed. “Maybe, if you hadn’t pestered him with questions about that charity concert of yours–”
“It’s not my concert, it’s a concert and it’s going to help loads of people.” Pepper zipped up her puffer jacket with an abrupt gesture. “No, I think he’s just embarrassed.”
Aziraphale pulled off his reading glasses, carefully folding them as he walked up to the kids currently crammed in the hallway. “That sounds like a correct assumption.”
“Oi, no shit talking about Crowley,” Warlock intervened, eager and stern in equal measure. “He’s an artist, a pioneer, a genius.”
Wensleydale glanced at him in a slightly exasperated fashion, which probably meant that, much like Pepper’s concert, this was also a regular topic of conversation between them. “This crush thing is getting out of hand, Lock.”
“Shut it,” Warlock shot back resentfully. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “There, there, no need to squabble.” Having recently gained invaluable experience in dealing with prickly individuals, he knew it was better not to push it. “Are you leaving your instruments here?”
“Yes,” Adam confirmed as he ushered the others towards the door. “We’re going to be back first thing tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, then. Send my regards to your families.” Aziraphale followed them, and with a last, “Mind how you go,” he gently shut the door behind them.
He heard their voices fading in the driveway, the rumble of the car being started and the gravel crunching under the tires as they drove away.
He took a deep breath, the tension he’d been keeping in his shoulders finally relenting. He liked having the kids around, he really did, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain measure of relief when they were gone.
Placing Trainspotting on the side table, he went to the studio to look for Crowley, carefully stepping around the instruments that had been left in the hallway.
Crowley was bent over his laptop on the control side of the space, his angular features thrown into stark relief against the blue glow of the screen, dark glasses hooked on the collar of his henley.
“There you are,” Aziraphale said softly, trying to ignore the warm tug he felt in his chest the moment he saw him. “Why don’t you take a break?”
Crowley’s eyes flicked towards him for a split second before going back to his computer. “Can’t. Need to finish recording this one first.”
Aziraphale made the mistake of taking a step forward, and the irresistible urge to place his hand on Crowley’s back, like he’d do with a partner after a long day, hit him like a ton of bricks. He clenched his fists to prevent any such thing from happening. It would be… well, inappropriate, for a start.
“Pepper mentioned you were working on Lust,” he heard himself say, as he let his eyes wander away from Crowley and to the seven sheets of paper still pinned to the corkboard in the corner. Four of them had been crossed out – Lust, Gluttony, Greed and Wrath. Sloth still featured that terrible drawing of a sloth dangling from an exceptionally realistic tree; Envy was only half-scribbled (he and Crowley had been working on it in the spare time between his recording sessions with the kids), while Pride was still blank.
Only two and a half songs to go before Aziraphale would need to pack his bags and leave. Not that Crowley seemed in any hurry to finish…
Aziraphale pushed the thought away and turned back to Crowley. “She’s under the impression you were too embarrassed to sing in front of them.”
Crowley scoffed so hard he managed to blow back the lock of hair falling on his forehead. “She should mind her own business,” he muttered, squirming in place. “Embarrassed, me . Hng. I’ve never been embarrassed in my life.”
“That’s a bold claim to make,” Aziraphale remarked with a smile. He didn’t even bother with showing any signs of disbelief.
Crowley huffed and stood up abruptly, sending the swivel chair to crash into a nearby cabinet. “‘S true, though. And what would she know anyway? She’s like, what, four years old?”
“Plus twenty or so.”
“Same thing,” Crowley insisted, sneaking a wary look at Aziraphale, who still hadn’t gotten used to meeting his unshielded eyes.
Desperate to look literally anywhere else, Aziraphale found himself staring at his lips instead, which was as sensible a choice as a rusty velocipede in the middle of the sea.
He flushed all over and forced his eyes to drift upwards, deciding to brave his eyes after all, only to realise that Crowley’s gaze was trained elsewhere
On Aziraphale’s lips, to be precise.
Oh.
Could he possibly…? What if…?
No, Aziraphale chastised himself. That would be awful, terrible, unconscionable. An unnecessary complication to an otherwise pleasant work-trip, and for several reasons too. Reasons that he would surely be able to list as soon as he’d cooled down a bit. You see, he couldn’t quite think straight at the moment, and the tingling, cosy, exhilarating sensation currently swirling in his chest wasn’t exactly helping.
Crowley looked up with a start and a sharp intake of breath. He searched Aziraphale’s eyes for only Heaven knew what, then scrunched up his face in a complicated expression and shrugged.
“I’ll finish here and come help you with dinner,” he said, voice softer than usual.
Warmth swelled in Aziraphale’s chest in response. “Do you mind if I stay here and watch?” Lust was his favourite song so far, and with the kids always being around he hadn’t had much of a chance to see Crowley in his element (with his element being music not lust, obviously).
Crowley welcomed the possibility with great aplomb, which meant he almost tripped on the chair that had bounced back towards them and almost full-on crashed on the control panel. Almost.
Aziraphale pretended nothing had happened while Crowley hastily recovered some semblance of balance.
“Ngk. Why?”
“I just think it would be nice.”
“Urgh. Nice is bad,” Crowley bit out as he clumsily put his sunglasses back on. “Four-letter words and so on.”
Aziraphale plonked himself on the chair, if only to prevent any more crashing into people or furniture, and wiggled in place to make himself comfortable. Crowley followed his every move with a grimace that, all things considered, could have been much worse.
“Fine,” he bit out. “‘S not like I care or anything.”
That’s funny, Aziraphale thought to himself. I believe you care so much they should invent a new word to cover it properly.
“Splendid,” was what he said out loud, watching as Crowley made a hasty retreat to the recording side of the studio.
“Red button is to talk to me,” he explained without looking at Aziraphale. “Don’t push it while I’m singing and don’t touch anything. I’ll control the software from my phone.”
“Got it. Don’t touch anything.”
If the amount of trouble he could cause was directly proportional to the number of buttons in front of him, Crowley had good reason to instruct him to keep his hands to himself. As luck would have it, it was a field Aziraphale was becoming quite the expert in. In fact, so good he was at not touching the things he wanted to touch, that he was sure he’d have no trouble not touching those he had no interest in touching.
Crowley closed the glass door behind him and stood in front of the mic to put on the headphones placed on the music stand. He rifled through the pages resting on it – the lyrics, Aziraphale supposed – then finally took out his phone and tapped on it to start the music.
The song Crowley had written at The Quarry suddenly came to life around them. Aziraphale was so surprised by how good it sounded, how different from the demos he’d heard so far, that it took him a while to notice that quite some time had passed without Crowley even opening his mouth.
He was standing very still, shoulders hunched up to his ears and teeth bared in a pained sneer. Most definitely not singing.
Aziraphale waited a little longer. Then, when he was sure nothing would happen, he cleared his throat and pushed the red button he wasn’t absolutely supposed to push.
“That’s an awfully long intro,” he said casually.
Crowley flinched and visibly blushed, which led to him immediately resorting to snark. “It’s not a fucking intro ! I’m just– Warming up my– My– you know…”
“Your ears?” Aziraphale supplied.
Crowley snapped his fingers. “Exactly! My ears. Now, for Satan’s sake, stop pushing that blessed button.”
Aziraphale did as he was told (something he wasn’t that good at after all) and primly folded his hands in his lap. He gave them a silent, stern talking to for good measure.
Crowley waited for the song to end, then started it again with a jerky tap on his phone. He took a long, deep breath, gripped the sides of the music stand with both hands, opened his mouth and…
…didn’t utter a single word.
Oh dear.
Next thing Aziraphale knew, Crowley was angrily rearranging everything – the music stand, the microphone and the frankly concerning amount of wires piled onto the floor – so that he could turn his back to the glass wall separating them.
“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, torn between amusement, fondness and guilt. The man was so transparent, it was a miracle it had taken Aziraphale so long to read him like the open book he was.
“Shut up!” Crowley barked over his shoulder, the tips of his ears practically smoking. “It’s all part of the process!” With this grand declaration, he stopped the music and restarted it once more.
As they say, third time’s the charm, and probably something else too, something Aziraphale had never considered before. Because the moment Crowley’s voice did fill the studio – tentative at first, then growing more confident by the second – Aziraphale thanked the Heavens that they weren’t looking at each other.
Suffice it to say, he hadn’t thought things through (wonders truly never ceased).
Do you know how it feels to be devoured by the sun
by its bright gentle rays, like soft questing vines.
Do you know how it feels to be swallowed by the sun
by its delicate spring pleas, like prayers on the breeze.
Honestly, had he really thought himself capable of meeting Crowley’s eyes while he was singing the first song they’d properly written together? A song about Lust of all things? It was a recipe for disaster! Oh dear, such a rookie mistake! He must have been mad with– well, with something. And that something was now threatening to stage a coup inside his brain and take his faculties hostage.
Aziraphale recognised the feeling all too well. He’d walked the line so far, tried to exercise moderation, to not be too greedy. And yes, maybe, just maybe, he’d had to block out certain thoughts in order to be even remotely successful at that. He’d gone with the flux, as the kids say.
It’s the gold in your hair and the sunshine in your eyes
It’s the honey on your lips and the light in your fingertips
That’s how it feels to be fucked by the sun.
Only now here he was, teetering on the edge of his common sense, grasping at it for dear life, while also wrestling with the strong urge to plunge headfirst into recklessness. This is how he’d ended up choosing magic camp over university, burning his rent money over a book and trying to seduce a police officer for crêpes!
And none of those things compared to Crowley’s voice, which was… well, it was sort of scratchy and hoarse, but also warm and husky at times, just like the man himself. Aziraphale, who had heard him sing before, tried to convince himself that he was somehow overreacting, that this was the writer in him adding poignancy where there wasn’t.
Do you know how it feels to be embraced by the sun
with its apple cider promises pouring in your ears
Like the slow, lazy buzzing of sleep-drunken bees.
But, no, it was different.
For a start, this was a small, cosy studio, and not a bustling pub. They were confined to their own side, true, but it still felt like he and Crowley were in a bubble, a pocket-size universe. The only beings in existence.
We might as well be, Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from thinking, mouth going impossibly dry.
Do you know how it feels to be held by the sun
with its golden hands wrapped around your knees
like the gentle, tender grasp of gold-limned leaves.
And the lyrics. God, the lyrics.
Listening to Crowley singing the words he had come up with was akin to seeing him wear his clothes. Only it was much, much worse. Intimate in a way he couldn’t have anticipated, each line methodically chipping away at the wall Aziraphale had built around the things he knew he wasn’t supposed to think about too hard if he were to avoid any hurt.
It’s the gold in your hair and the sunshine in your eyes
It’s the honey on your lips and the sunshine in your fingertips
That’s how it feels to be fucked by the sun.
Crowley coming to his rescue on an empty street in the middle of the night. Crowley producing his book from the inner pocket of his coat as he tried to suppress the pleased little smile blooming on his lips. Crowley outrageously draped over a chair and laughing at his jokes.
Cradle me in your morning arms
Hold me between your sundown thighs
Kiss me with your golden hour lips
Crowley looking at him over the rim of his dark glasses as he explained his vision for Lust. Crowley, who was scared and maybe a little lost. Who guarded his soft bits fiercely, and yet had opened up to him. Reluctantly, yes, but open up he had.
And just fuck me, please.
And just fuck me, please.
And just fuck me, please.
When the music stopped, Aziraphale was breathing heavily and his heart was doing a great drum impression in his chest, one hand clasped over his mouth to stifle a sigh, the other gripping the armrest of the chair. His face was on fire.
Even though he couldn’t see his face, he suspected Crowley wasn’t doing much better. His shoulders were heaving and he was… was he panting? Judging by the iron grip he had on it, the music stand was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.
Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a silence quite so loud.
Crowley broke it first. “H-how was it?” he asked without turning around.
In his haste to answer, both to reassure Crowley and prove to himself that he hadn’t lost his mind yet, Aziraphale pushed the red button before realising with mounting horror that not only he didn’t know what to say, he also was in no condition to come up with something on the spot, which left him wide eyed, breathing heavily and, it goes without saying, not at all eloquently.
Silence stretched between them, dense and syrupy, until Crowley finally dared to chance a glance in his direction. “Are you hyperventilating?” he asked, the single arched eyebrow Aziraphale could see conveying his concern. “Did it suck?”
Aziraphale sealed his mouth shut and silently berated himself, cheeks so hot he wondered if flash fevers were a thing. Say something, you lumbering fool. “It most definitely did not suck,” he miraculously managed to say. “What, er, do you think?”
“It was too angry,” Crowley complained at once. “I’m too worked up. I need–” He rolled his shoulders and shook his arms. “Fuck, I need to calm down.”
Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to sound as nonchalant as possible as he said, “Do it again then.”
The worst was certainly over, he reasoned with himself. Reason had never failed him after all (except for the times it had, and quite spectacularly as well). It had been the shock of hearing the song for the first time, of listening to their work come to life, that had shaken him to his core. Surely, it was going to be smooth sailing from here on out… right?
“Nyeah, I’ll just–” Letting his voice trail off, Crowley took a deep, cleansing breath. On his side of the glass, Aziraphale tried to do the same.
This time, when the music started, Crowley’s voice filled the studio without hesitation.
And since hope is the last to die but die it must anyway, Aziraphale was not happy to report that the effect the song was having on him hadn’t diminished one bit. In fact, he felt more affected than the first time around, if that was even possible. Affected in a way he could barely comprehend or put into words.
He was sure he’d never experienced anything of the sort. Nothing that would make him feel like tearing up and, at the same time, surreptitiously hiding his lap under the edge of the control panel to make sure Crowley wouldn’t notice what he was inadvertently doing to him.
The song came to an end, and silence descended once more, thicker and warmer than before. Less lack of sound and more presence of something else.
Stunned with that, er, ineffable something, Aziraphale found himself staring at Crowley’s shoulders again. They were rising and falling like he’d just stopped running and was trying to catch his breath.
“H-how about now?” Crowley croaked, head turning slightly towards the glass, and Aziraphale beyond.
And wouldn’t it be nice, Aziraphale thought, to follow the curve of his nose with his finger? Or, better yet, his lips? “B-better,” he stuttered, embarrassed by his own musings and horrified by the thready sound of his voice. “Maybe you should–”
“Nyeah. Do it again,” Crowley decided, still breathless. “Why is it so hot in here?” he complained, removing his headphones to get rid of his henley.
Aziraphale’s eyes did not drink in the tantalising stretch of his tattooed back before Crowley had a chance to adjust the black tank top he wore underneath the shirt. He watched like a normal person would, fantasising about kissing his way up those tattoos, tracing them with his tongue and maybe counting the little knobs of his spine with his lips. Respectfully.
Crowley sang again, which was all the proof Aziraphale needed to know that the feeling this damn song was capable of conjuring up inside of him wasn’t so much abating with repetition as growing exponentially.
To make matters worse and reinforce the already quite strong impression of impending disaster, Crowley had the brilliant idea of replacing the last ‘Just fuck me, please’ with ‘Just love me, please’. Such a small, inconsequential detail that went off in Aziraphale’s brain like a bomb, leaving nothing but heat and destruction in its wake.
As the music petered out, in a desperate attempt to somehow restore the balance of the universe, Aziraphale breathed out an impassioned, “Oh, fuck,” that was meant for his ears and his ears only.
But if that was the case, then why, oh why did Crowley’s head snap towards him?
Oh fuck, indeed.
Crowley flicked off his sunglasses with dramatic flair, and that’s when Aziraphale realised that he’d never stopped pushing the red button.
“Did you just swear?” Crowley asked in shock, the promise of a smile dancing on his lips despite the tension crackling in the room.
Aziraphale tried to sit up properly and prayed to a God he didn’t quite believe in that Crowley couldn’t see what was happening below his waist. “I didn’t,” he rushed to say, feeling himself blush all over.
“No, no. I heard you!” Crowley unleashed the full force of his smile, eyes sparkling with mirth and, would you look at that, honest-to-God dimples in his cheeks. “You did!” He was downright cackling now.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I was merely trying to remind you that you were supposed to say fuck.” At this point, he could only do his best to grasp at all available straws.
And grasp he did, though he’d have done a better job of it if he wasn’t staring at those dimples he didn’t even know existed until now. Could a grown man make himself small enough to fit inside a dimple, snuggle inside of it and pretend the world didn’t exist?
“It was more of a, ‘No, it’s fuck’, than an ‘Oh, fuck’. Two completely different things, you see.”
“Yeah, right. Is that why you’re blushing so hard?” Crowley teased him gleefully.
Aziraphale stopped breathing and blushed even harder. “Oh, hush, you fiend,” he whispered, aiming for reproachful but shooting way past embarrassed.
Crowley’s expression softened, a smile quirking up the only corner of his lips Aziraphale could see, and that dimple… He couldn’t look away. It felt like finding an unexpected piece of the jigsaw puzzle he’d been working on for days, the one piece he needed in order to know what the final image was supposed to look like.
Something stilled and loosened inside of him as a result, a fresh wave of warmth settling in his chest and belly with a sudden, newfound clarity. He ought to be scared, he was vaguely aware of that, but he wasn’t.
Well, to be fair, the fear was there, as it always was despite Aziraphale’s best efforts (while he had gotten better at handling rejection, it didn’t mean he liked it), but it was also muted. Contained. Manageable.
Unprompted, his eyes drifted to the corkboard on his right, to the blank page for Pride. It was supposed to be a sin as much as the others, only Aziraphale had worked hard for it. To get it back, to build it up. Pride in himself, in his accomplishments, in his appearance, in his life choices. He could be forgiven, then, if his attachment to it sometimes erred on the side of too much.
But maybe…
Could he… could he stand to take a little gamble and maybe sacrifice just the tiniest bit of it considering what was at stake?
He dared another glance at Crowley, his insides clenching with want and something a little blurrier, a little scarier, in response. He withdrew into himself, tried to backtrack and make good use of his judgement, only to realise that the tangled mess of feelings he was trying to unravel wasn’t as tangled as he thought it was, and that the border of his common sense wasn’t ahead anymore, but way past behind him.
He’d crossed it already, of course. Who knew exactly how long ago?
And now he was floating over uncharted territories.
Could he maybe… possibly… fly?
Well, I don’t know about flying, he thought, suddenly determined, but I can still walk. It appeared that his body had taken it upon itself to do something about it, because his legs lifted him up from the chair, his feet brought him to the glass door and his hands opened it.
And then he was on the other side of the studio, Crowley looking at him in alarm and hope and–
“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s hoarse voice cut through the white noise buzzing in Aziraphale’s brain like warm breath on cold, numb hands. He was standing stock still, dark glasses held so tight in his left hand his knuckles were white.
Aziraphale didn’t stop. He carefully stepped over the wires scattered across the floor to get closer, his heart rate spiking as Crowley’s amber eyes frantically searched his face to confirm that whatever he was looking for was, in fact, there. (Aziraphale knew what it was, because he was looking at that very same thing on Crowley’s face.)
“May I?” Aziraphale asked softly as he came to a stop in front of him, hands hovering over the headphones Crowley was still wearing.
He waited for permission – a silent, jerky nod – before removing them and placing them on the edge of the music stand. Then he turned his attention to the sunglasses.
“What’s this song about?” He took Crowley’s left hand in both of his own and gently opened his fingers one by one.
Crowley didn’t resist. He shuddered at the touch instead, a sigh escaping his lips. They were swollen, as though they’d taken the brunt of his embarrassment when Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see him. Crowley didn’t move nor withdraw, his chest gently raising and falling, his sharp clavicles left exposed by the tank top.
“‘S not about you,” Crowley managed to say, nothing more than a whisper. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Hmm.”
Aziraphale waited for uncertainty to hit. It didn’t. So he freed the sunglasses from Crowley’s grasp and put them on the music stand next to his phone without letting go of his hand.
“‘S not… not about you,” Crowley clarified in a barely audible whisper, his cold fingers tentatively finding purchase on Aziraphale’s. “It– it m-might be.”
What if it’s not about chasing a pleasure you know you shouldn’t, but the opposite, he’d said at The Quarry. A pleasure you know to be good, like– not sinful, you know what I mean? Something that saves you rather than ruins you.
Aziraphale met his eyes and the moment he felt his heart flutter in his chest (mirrored by another shiver from Crowley) and a fond smile blooming on his lips (which Crowley couldn’t stop staring at), he knew there was no coming back from this.
“Crowley.”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to kiss me?” he asked with no hesitation.
Crowley immediately tightened his hold on his hand. Another white knuckled grip. “Ngk. You–”
“I would very much like to kiss you.” If he really was to try this flying thing, might as well do it properly.
Crowley’s eyes grew wide, triumph burning in their honey-coloured depths. “I knew it.”
“Yes, you’re very clever,” Aziraphale conceded. “Now, would you rather gloat or–”
“No!” Crowley cut him off. “I’ll take the other thing.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to answer my question first.”
“What was it again?”
“Would you like to kiss me?”
“Hng. Well– I– Fuck.”
“I do believe it’s a yes or no question.”
“T-then… nyeah.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “I knew it.”
Crowley deflated and scoffed at the poor dig. “Aren’t you brilliant?”
“I am, if I say so myself.”
“Can we–”
“Please.”
Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to tell who’d moved first even if he tried, and if he was being totally honest, he didn’t care much to find out, gambles be damned.
Because one minute they were staring at each other, both smug and elated, and the next they were holding each other’s face and crashing their lips together with perfect coordination, their bodies pressed against one another.
It felt like being lit from the inside, like being plunged into water after the longest of droughts. It felt right and good and Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to remember why he thought it wouldn’t.
He let his hands slide down Crowley’s neck and shoulders, mapping his body with his fingers until he could grab him by the waist and pull him against him, as if to make sure nothing could get between them.
Crowley let out a little moan and wasted no time before parting Aziraphale’s lips with his tongue, deepening the kiss like he’d waited eons to do just that, eagerly exploring his mouth while giving Aziraphale the chance to return the favour.
And Crowley might have been all angles and edges, but here he was soft and warm and welcoming, and Aziraphale couldn’t really wrap his head around what he was tasting.
This was Crowley. This was his taste on Aziraphale’s lips. This was the same tongue he used to hiss and snap and sing the lyrics Aziraphale had written for him. And while it was good, so good , to hear those words spilling from his lips, Aziraphale found that touching his tongue to the place his lyrics had been, tracing their ghosts in Crowley’s mouth and making space for himself right there was even better.
Crowley moaned in his mouth, hands gripping Aziraphale’s hair as he tried to increase contact between them. Feeling merciful, Aziraphale gently pushed his knee between Crowley’s thin thighs, slotting their legs together and making them both shiver in relief.
“Oh, God,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, trying to catch his breath and somehow contain the heat burning under his skin while his hands kept roving over Crowley’s waist and back and shoulders (which, to be fair, wasn’t really helping with the containing side of things).
“No, ‘s all me, I’m afraid,” Crowley whispered back, grabbing Aziraphale’s arse to pull him forward and let his body do the explaining.
Aziraphale didn’t know where he found the strength to tut in disapproval, hands moving up to grip Crowley’s hair. “That’s a terrible joke, dear.” He tentatively pulled on his fiery red locks and got the most delicious of sounds in return. “If you were God, I’d still be going to church.”
Crowley let out an incomprehensible gurgle, eyes impossibly wide. “Is this– Nnnnngk. Fffor– Argh! For fuck’s sake!” he barked out in exasperation. “Is this your idea of dirty talk?”
“Is it working?” Aziraphale inquired, making himself look as innocent as possible despite the pleased little smile curling his lips. “Because if it’s working–”
Crowley growled and kissed the words right out of his mouth, his hands snaking under Aziraphale’s jumper to untuck the shirt from his trousers. “You always talk too much,” he complained, peppering Aziraphale’s face and neck with angry little kisses.
“Far be it from me to offer advice to the enemy,” Aziraphale retorted, “but I do believe you may have just uncovered several manners of shutting me up.”
Crowley buried his face in his neck and breathed him in with a little whine, his nails scratching at his undershirt. “Fuck, Aziraphale.”
“While I certainly don’t mind the idea,” quite the opposite actually, “I’m afraid I won’t get that far.”
“Ngk,” Crowley agreed eloquently. “Me neither.”
“We’ll have to keep it simple then.”
“Sssimple, yeah.”
“Should we move this somewhere else?”
“Nah. Don’t think I can move. Overcooked noodles for legs.” He dragged his teeth on Aziraphale’s neck, eliciting a shiver, and attempted to loosen his bow tie without troubling his hands, which were currently busy elsewhere. “Ever dry-humped in a recording studio?”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say that I have.” Even though whatever Crowley was doing was severely tampering with his rationality, he was quite positive they could aim for something better. “I’m going to pick you up.”
Crowley scoffed without bothering to hide his scepticism. “Sure you are.”
Aziraphale let his hands slide down Crowley’s thighs, hooked them behind his knees and lifted .
“F-fuck!” Crowley screeched, squirming as Aziraphale nudged him to wrap his thighs around his waist for stability. Which he did, but not without kicking up an awful fuss about it.
“Stay still, you wily old serpent!”
“You can’t just– You– Ngk. ”
“I can and I did,” Aziraphale remarked before taking the first, tentative steps towards the glass door. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
Crowley coiled around him like the black red-bellied snake peeking out from under his tank top. He hid his flushed face against Aziraphale’s neck. “Hng. You’re– fuck. I can’t come into these trousers,” he whined. “I just washed the others.”
“You could have,” Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from pointing out as he brought them out of the studio, “if you hadn’t packed so light.”
Crowley leaned his head back, outrage written all over his face. Aziraphale couldn’t wait to kiss it off of it and replace it with something else entirely. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that why you brought your entire wardrobe then? Were you planning to come into your trousers a lot?”
Aziraphale blushed. Sort of walked into that one, hadn’t he? “Nonsense.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You see, there’s no such thing as being too prepared.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow as they were crossing the hallway. “Did you bring lube then?”
Aziraphale stopped just outside the living room, and gaped at the man in his arms, cheeks so pink and hot he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that his hair was actually in the process of catching fire. “Did I–”
“You did!” Crowley cried out, letting out an incredulous laugh.
Aziraphale huffed. “And what if I did? I didn’t know I was going to be sleeping on a sofa!” he protested as he moved around said piece of furniture. “Need I remind you that you were anything but friendly?” he went on. “You can hardly fault me for thinking ahead and making sure I had everything I needed to spend a relaxing evening with myself.”
“With yourself, huh?” And just when he was about to say something else, Crowley seemed to realise where they were. “Wait, bedroom’s that way.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale stopped before he could lay Crowley on the sofa. “Is that what you want?”
Crowley’s eyes became as wide as saucers. “No, what I want is to take these stupid clothes off of you. Touch you, get my mouth on you.” Crowley stressed this point by biting his chin playfully. “Want to bite you all over… if you’ll let me.”
A shudder went through Aziraphale, his gaze wandering to the door to Crowley’s bedroom, the one boundary he hadn’t yet crossed.
And though he’d spent the last thirty years of his life learning to just go and get the things he wanted, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that, sometimes, good things really did come to those who wait.
It came as no surprise to Crowley that undressing Aziraphale was like peeling a bloody onion, both in the amount of layers he had to contend with and the urge to cry he could feel lurking in the deep recesses of his mind, in the same dark, overstuffed corner where his useless thoughts and feelings resided. A long-forgotten cupboard filled with useless rubbish, if you will, bolted from the outside to make sure nothing could crawl back out.
A cupboard whose door wasn’t at all rattling ominously at the sight of a half-undressed Aziraphale sitting on the edge of his bed.
Nuh-uh.
Crowley had everything under control. He just needed to get a move on. Get the party started. Just hurry the fuck up before his brain could catch up with what was happening and elaborate unnecessary, dangerous thoughts about it.
Granted, carefully folding each piece of clothing and placing it on the chair next to the bed was significantly slowing him down. Worst part of it was, Aziraphale hadn’t even asked him to (although, if the hunger in eyes was anything to go by, he was quite appreciative of Crowley’s concern for the fate of his precious garments).
Now, to be completely fair, gallantry wasn’t the only reason Crowley was taking his precious time. He’d just thought it’d be a good diversion while he waited for his hands to stop shaking.
“You know, there’s only a couple of situations where wearing this many layers would make sense,” Crowley said, ignoring the storm brewing in his chest as he divested Aziraphale of his trousers and took a mental note to revisit the concept of braces at a later date. “One, you accidentally packed too heavy and don’t want to pay extra at the airport. Two, you live in bloody Antarctica.”
Aziraphale was wearing the most ridiculous vintage-y white cotton trunks, matching his form-fitting undershirt. Both hugging the gentle curves of his body, both leaving very little to the imagination. They looked like something a 1800s man would wear while rereading letters from his sweetheart in the privacy of his own quarters on the fancy ship he was travelling on.
Who knew, maybe Aziraphale had written a novella with a similar setting. He’d have to ask him about it…
But later. Right now, he needed to focus. Surveil the cupboard. Keep his reactions to Aziraphale’s everything in check. Reign in his trembling hands.
Except the world seemed to be shifting around him along with his senses; as in, he’d never felt so drunk without drinking a single drop of alcohol in his entire life.
“Three, you like to be undressed,” Aziraphale offered, taking advantage of Crowley’s distraction to reach for his hips and pull him between his spread thighs, which were as thick and plush as Crowley had dreamed they would be.
I could die here, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised to realise that he meant it. It was a good thing too, considering the suspicious heaviness that was slowly but surely spreading through his limbs. He tried to remember the most common tell-tale signs of a heart attack and came up empty.
Aziraphale grabbed the bottom of his tank top and pulled it up to help him take it off. Crowley let it drop to the floor – unlike the man currently sitting on his bed, he had no qualms about mistreating his clothes – as Aziraphale’s hands ran down his ribs to unbutton his jeans.
“Wait.” Crowley stopped him before he could, his cold fingers covering Aziraphale’s warm ones.
At least he could still move, he tried to tell himself. Was this what abstinence did to you? Turned you into a useless mannequin with no control over your own body? Had the wank-fest he’d allowed himself only a couple of days ago not even scratched the surface of his pent-up tension?
“You first,” he croaked, voice hoarse and rough. He saw himself gesturing vaguely to Aziraphale’s undershirt. Apparently, he had no idea what his hands were doing, but he knew his gaze was back on Aziraphale’s face, on his eyes, which had never looked so dark. Grey rather than blue, a storm at sea instead of a bright sunny day. They looked a little unfocused, a little glassy.
Different.
It suddenly occurred to him that Aziraphale had as many layers to his personality as the ones he stacked on top of each other to shield his body from the outside world. And that he ’d been the one to coax this particular one out of him.
The thought made Crowley shiver as Aziraphale made quick work of his undershirt, allowing Crowley’s eyes to rake over his soft shoulders, the downy blonde hair on his chest, the delicious swell of his belly.
“F-fuck,” was what came out of Crowley’s mouth, totally unbidden.
He was desperately itching to touch and, at the same time, unable to send the proper impulses to his limbs to make it happen. He was so fucking wound up, so highly strung, he was scared he’d somehow disintegrate at the smallest of contacts.
Aziraphale brushed his fingers on Crowley’s knee, thumb tracing soothing circles on it to relieve at least some of the tension unrelentingly coursing through him. Crowley wondered if he knew, if he was doing it on purpose, although he didn’t much care for the answer. He wanted his hands everywhere, no matter the reason.
“Shall we…?” Aziraphale murmured, the hesitant note in his voice shaking Crowley back to attention as much as his thick fingers slipping under the waistband of his own trunks.
“Y-yeah,” Crowley rushed to say. “P-please.” Nodding way too eagerly, he proceeded to frantically unbutton his jeans, which had become too tight and uncomfortable even for him, his unwillingness to look away from Aziraphale, who wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing at the moment, severely complicating matters.
“Do you need help?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley whined eloquently. Aziraphale must have become fluent in his nonsensical language because he took it as the yes it was and helped him out of his jeans, steadying him with his hands. His touch was so gentle, his eyes so intent. It was simply unfair how calm and collected he seemed. It made the contrast between them even starker.
For his part, Crowley was barely keeping a hold of himself, and the tremor in his hands was spreading to the rest of him like wildfire. His body was running away from him in every direction, a star ready to burst into trillions of tiny, burning particles.
Despite his inner turmoil, his jeans eventually joined the tank-top on the floor.
And then they were naked, Aziraphale sitting on the bed – where Crowley had imagined him so many times, even though he would hardly admit to it – and Crowley still standing between his thighs, nothing between them but the scorching heat radiating from their skin.
A heads-up would have been nice, Crowley thought, feeling more naked than his nakedness should have realistically allowed. This wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. This was– This was mental .
He felt faint and alert. Cold and hot. Terrified and impatient. He still didn’t know what his hands were doing. There must be something wrong with him.
His senses zeroed in on the sensation of Aziraphale’s fingers steadily climbing up his hips, brushing against his belly button, along the trail of hair marking the way up to his chest, and up, up, to his pebbled nipples and the black ink surrounding them in dozens of different shapes.
“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered, hunger and awe written in every line of his face.
Crowley scoffed, felt himself flush all over. “No, I’m not.”
Aziraphale’s eyes turned steely, his voice dropping lower in that way Crowley liked so much. “Yes, you are. Come here.” He ran his hands down Crowley’s sides, on the jutting bones of his hips, and gently pulled him against him.
Crowley went willingly, eagerly, and slowly straddled his lap, letting himself be wrapped between soft arms and nestled against warm flesh. They both shuddered at how close they were as Crowley put his own arms around Aziraphale’s neck to have something to hold on to, and…
All of a sudden, there was nothing but Aziraphale.
The whole world was Aziraphale. It all started and ended right here, with him, in the space enclosed in his embrace, within the gentle curves of his body, a space Crowley had somehow slithered his way in like a thief.
It felt safe and warm, and yet… he was still trembling like a leaf and he had the distinct impression he couldn’t do much more than feel at the moment. Dead weight, that’s what he was. What he’d always been. (That bloody fucking cupboard wasn’t even doing its job properly!)
“You smell so good,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s lips, trying not to dwell too much on how pathetic he felt. There was a reason he didn’t do this anymore. How could he let himself forget? He was too full of shit to contain anything else.
“So do you,” Aziraphale murmured back, kissing him chastely before looking up at him. “Are you alright, dear?”
“Yes.” No. Was being too alright a thing? “Do you want me to–” Fuck, just don’t be bloody useless. Do something. “I can suck you off, if you like. ‘M good at that.”
Aziraphale cupped his face in his hands, stared into his eyes. “Yes?” He smiled, and Satan help him, how could someone look so innocent and debauched at the same time? “Any references to speak of? Someone I could call or–”
Crowley pinched the nape of his neck and huffed out a laugh. “Bastard.” But hey, at least he was smiling too, maybe his muscles hadn’t completely deserted him, not yet. “So… do you?”
Aziraphale’s gaze turned contemplative. “Hmm. Maybe next time.” His voice echoed in Crowley’s ears. Next time. His hands had never stopped caressing him, his touch grounding him like an anchor. “We agreed to keep things simple, remember?”
“Simple, yeah.” He could do simple. He could, he could, he could.
Aziraphale must have realised Crowley was having several consecutive moments in a row and was in no condition to lift a finger, because he took the lead, reaching for the lube they’d fished out of one of his many suitcases and unceremoniously thrown on the bed. “Are you sure you’re alright? We can stop whenever you like.”
“Don’t wanna stop.” That was pretty much the only thing he was certain of.
“Are you sure?”
Crowley nodded.
“Use your words, please.”
“‘M alright. Just… you know. Enjoying the sights.” Having a complete meltdown in the process. Trying to determine if he was about to implode. Just a regular Tuesday for him.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“May I touch you?”
Crowley let out a shuddering breath, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head and quickly devolving into fear. He had to make a considerable effort not to squeeze his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at any of this. He didn’t want to miss any of it. “F-fuck, ‘Ziraphale. I won’t last a second.” So much for being a sex machine ready to reload…
Aziraphale smiled softly. “And what if you don’t? It’s not a problem.”
“No, just, you know… embarrassing as fuck.”
“Says who?”
“People living on Earth?”
Aziraphale tutted, his left hand caressing Crowley’s lower back, warming up his skin, his right one hovering in the heat crackling between their bellies. “It’s not embarrassing at all.”
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe. If we both are, though, it doesn’t matter. We can make our own rules,” he explained, eyes locked with his. “Are you?”
“I can be.”
“Splendid. May I touch you then?”
Crowley’s expression crumbled once more. This time, he did close his eyes. That stupid cupboard in his head was rattling like it was fighting to contain a fucking hurricane. “Aziraphale–” It sounded like a plea more than anything.
Bloody Hell, was he really so fucking scared?
Aziraphale placed a kiss on his cheek before pressing their foreheads together, his breath brushing Crowley’s nose. “Are you sure you don’t want to stop? I won’t mind.”
“‘M sure.” He would go mad if they stopped, that much he knew.
“Will you trust me then?”
“Yes. Yes, f-fuck. Yes.”
The moment Aziraphale’s fingers gently wrapped around him the world seemed to sizzle and melt, to turn liquid and shrink down (or was it blowing up?) to a single point.
“Is this alright?” Aziraphale’s velvet voice coaxed him back to himself, his lips caressing Crowley’s face as he spoke. He didn’t stop touching him.
Crowley nodded, or at least he hoped he did. As it turned out, having Aziraphale’s soft, caring hands on him, holding him like he was something precious, made him stupid. Well, more stupid than usual.
“Crowley…” came Aziraphale’s gentle reprimand.
Words. “Y-yes, ‘s alright.”
“Look at me.”
The moment Crowley opened his eyes, something that required more effort than he’d have liked, his heart did a double somersault in his chest.
Because Aziraphale was so beautiful. So luminous. He should have told him straight away. He should tell him now. He should tell him he was the fucking sun, while Crowley was just a puny, insignificant, undeserving speck of nothing floating around the universe. How had he even ended up here? What sort of trickery had he unwittingly resorted to?
“Fucking Hell,” he whispered, overwhelmed.
“There you are.” Another smile, like a caress. “Would you like to help?”
“P-please.” Anything not to be as useless as he felt.
“Give me your hand.”
“You’ll have to take it yourself, s-sorry.” He couldn’t move.
“It’s quite alright. I think I can manage.” More kisses. On his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his chin. “Such lovely hands you have.”
His head was swimming from the closeness, the softness, the genuine praise that had nothing to do with how good he was at being used.
Still, Crowley would have loved nothing more than to tell himself that he was rocking Aziraphale’s world, that he was showing him pleasures he didn’t even know existed up until that point. That he’d been the one to take down his defences and finally bring a touch of chaos to his perpetually collected exterior.
But the truth was he couldn’t do much more than let Aziraphale take his hand from around his neck and bring it between their bodies, helping him close it around them both, their fingers lacing together over their burning flesh.
“That’s it,” Aziraphale whispered, breath hitching in his chest. “You’re doing so well.”
Crowley felt like screaming, pleasure and fear squeezing him like a vise. “A-Aziraphale.”
“Yes?”
“D-don’t stop. Please, please, please…”
Crowley coiled around Aziraphale, nuzzling the side of his face as he slowly closed the distance between their lips. They shared breath for a second before Crowley demanded more with a pathetic whine, letting Aziraphale’s tongue breach the wet warmth of his mouth.
This was good. Kissing Aziraphale. Drinking those pleased little hums straight into his mouth. Easy. Simple.
Crowley held onto Aziraphale’s neck, carded his free hand through his curls and at one point even managed to look down, transfixed, at what their hands were doing. Stroking and teasing and touching. Moving in tandem between their bellies, as their breaths melted together.
“Yes,” Aziraphale was saying, with an almost pleading inflection now, forehead pressed against Crowley’s. “Just like that.”
Just like that, Crowley told himself. Keep things simple. Move against him, just move. Chase the touch of his hand. Of their hands. Remember to breathe. Commit Aziraphale’s sighs and moans to memory. Look at him, at his eyes like wet pebbles on the beach. Breathe, again. Make it good. Keep it simple. Make it good, good, good. Don’t stop. Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.
It didn’t take much at all, as Crowley feared, but it was still good.
So fucking good.
Pleasure, warm and white hot, wiped out whatever scraps of rational thought were still lingering in Crowley’s brain for a few, precious moments of bliss, filling him to the brim, as Aziraphale’s delicious moans echoed in his ears. In that split second, he decided he’d do anything, anything, for the chance to coax them out of him again, that this was the singular, most important thing he’d ever do. Better than any song, any music he’d ever written. That he’d ever write.
Aziraphale kissed him as he came and Crowley returned the favour when it was his turn, and then they didn’t let go of each other for what felt like a lifetime, minutes stretching lazily around them as their bodies acquainted themselves with a world where, apparently, they gave each other orgasms. And kept things simple. And made it good.
Weirder things had happened, Crowley thought dizzily. At least the door to that fucking cupboard was still in place. Still sealed. He could not move, true, but he hadn’t broken after all. Small mercies and all that.
Then Aziraphale grabbed him by the waist and picked him up to switch their positions – fuck, this thing with his strength would need to be properly assessed later – laying him down on the bed before climbing out of it.
With his blood still roaring in his ears, Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale had said anything. “Where you going?” he asked, flinching at the alarm he had no problem hearing in his own voice. Be more pathetic, I dare you.
Aziraphale squeezed his thigh, smiled. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Crowley anxiously followed him with his gaze as he left the room with his mussed-up curls and red stained lips, leaving him alone in this big, empty bed with only the icy air looming over his rapidly cooling skin as company.
He closed his eyes, trying not to choke on his anxiety and ward off the anguish furiously swirling inside of him…
…and there it was. That fucking cupboard full of things he didn’t want to think about, closer than it had ever been. So close that Crowley could feel it thrumming, calling out to him. Pulsating like a black supernova waiting to blast itself all over the galaxy. Something too big to be restrained.
And to think that he’d done so well, keeping it all inside for so long. Years of his life. And all it took for his hard work to crumble to dust was this… the smallest of chinks, the softest of blows.
He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, ears buzzing, fear tingling in his fingertips and limbs too loose to contain it any longer. In his chest, his heart was getting away from him, just as Aziraphale had.
He’d left, of course. Crowley wasn’t a fool, he knew what was happening. He had been on the other side of this countless times, doing the same thing to other people. In fact, this was the part he hated the most. When everything was said and done, and he needed an excuse – any excuse – to leave. Flee the scene of the crime. Run as far away as he possibly could.
Only he wasn’t the one leaving this time, which didn’t mean he should have surrendered to the fantasy or even–
Something warm and wet touched his belly, making him wince and look down, eyes wide, at Aziraphale, who was kneeling next to him on the bed, towel in hand.
“Oh, terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, visibly taken back by Crowley’s reaction. “I said I was going to clean you up, but maybe you didn’t hear me.”
His voice was like honey. Like the gentlest of breezes. Like a kiss on his eyelids.
The black supernova went off under Crowley’s impotent eyes, the door to the cupboard violently torn from its hinges.
He felt his face crumble under the strength of the explosion, all the things he’d buried, all the thoughts he’d never wanted to examine too closely, all the emotions he’d swept aside hoping they would just disappear somewhere they couldn’t reach him – sadness and self-loathing, desperation and resentment – now coming back to bite him in the arse, making it impossible to breathe properly.
It felt like drowning. Like being swept away by a bloody avalanche.
“A-angel,” he heard himself whisper, reaching a trembling hand towards him without quite realising what he was doing. His vision blurred, hot tears streaming down his face, a dam bursting.
Aziraphale’s eyes immediately flared in concern. “Crowley?” He quickly got rid of the towel and took his hand, holding it fast in his own as he cupped his face with the other. “Are you alright?”
“N-no.”
“What do you–”
“Ssstay, please.”
“Of course. Of course, I’ll stay. You needn’t even ask.” Aziraphale didn’t hesitate to lay down beside him and hold him close, murmuring sweet nothings in his ears.
Crowley clinged to him at once, cheeks and chest burning in shame, voice so thin he didn’t even know if he was saying anything at all. “Oh, god. I’m so s-sorry.”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Aziraphale whispered in his hair, cradling him in his arms. “I’ve got you, my dear. I’ve got you.”
Notes:
CW: non-explicit sex (it's on the page, no relevant body parts explicitly mentioned). Should be okay with the M rating, but let me know if I need to include something else.
As for the aforementioned spoilery ramblings:
When I started writing this fic the plan was to have these two idiots crash into each other mid-argument, because OF COURSE (I'm a one trick-pony, but I love it). Then something changed in the last couple of chapters, and it didn't feel quite right anymore. I rewrote the build-up to their first kiss I don't know how many times, and in the end it was like this, either soft or nothing. I'm quite happy with how it turned out. Crowley's been so prickly, and we've seen Aziraphale dismantle his defences very, very slowly, so it felt right.
*sighs* *clicks on edit tags* *types "Crowley Cries During Sex"* *posts*Get ready for a whole bunch of bicker-y fluff in the next chapters (and some of that crashing into each other I was mentioning, maybe?) 👀
Chapter 11: Eleven
Summary:
On the other side of his breaking point, Crowley tries to pick up the pieces, an angel gets taken care of, and they both make some interesting discoveries on the way.
Notes:
Hello, everyone 💜
Today we pick up where we left off last week. You'll see that the chapter count has gone up again, but the last proper chapter has been written and there's only the epilogue to go, so this time it's official.
Thank you all so much for reading/kudosing/commenting and generally showing love to this story 💜💜💜
This chapter is dedicated to the guest who mentioned a certain drug-selling up 👀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
So.
The worst had happened.
The most awful, terrible, unthinkable thing that could have happened… had happened. For real, this time.
And Crowley hadn’t disintegrated. He should have, at the very least. If you happen to make a fool of yourself to such a life-ending degree, you should just discorporate on the spot. As an evolutionary courtesy. A self-destruction fail-safe, like secret messages in spy movies, so you can save yourself at least some of the resulting shame.
But no, Crowley was still here.
Feeling empty. Unclogged. Uncorked. Loose and pliant.
No, not loose. Limp. Which, when you’re equipped with a dick and currently in bed with the man of your dreams, is less than ideal. Unless you’ve already used said dick, properly and thoroughly, and are now enjoying a well-deserved rest.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wot.
Rewind.
Man of your dreams?
Fuck. See?
In the aftermath of his own personal big bang (in the universe-expanding sense, not the shag-of-your-life one), Crowley was thinking things. Thoughts were floating on the black canvas of his closed eyelids like feathers falling in slow-motion all around him, only he couldn’t catch them even if he tried. His body was too relaxed and heavy to cooperate.
No, he could only stare at them and watch them fall. Slowly, little by little.
If he’d moved after he’d stopped sobbing like a blessed ninny – which had taken way longer than he’d ever be ready to admit – it was only thanks to Aziraphale, who had insisted they properly snuggle under the covers.
To be fair, he hadn’t used that particular word, but it was what they were doing. Aziraphale lying on his back, Crowley nestled against his side in an attempt to make himself as small as possible, his head hidden under the blankets and his eyes firmly shut.
He was way too aware of his body to ignore what it was doing or what it was touching, and maybe he wouldn’t have had the strength to do it even if he’d wanted to.
Because snuggling into Aziraphale’s arms was– Satan help him, but it was nice. The angel (ngk) was so warm and soft, and he smelled so good and familiar, and with his head so close to his chest Crowley could hear his heart beating steadily just a few inches away. Most importantly, Aziraphale had never stopped carding his fingers through his hair and softly scratching the nape of his neck with his perfectly manicured nails, insistently at first, now more absentmindedly.
So, nyeah.
The worst had happened.
Crowley had cried during sex like a bloody pillock. Like a fainting maiden. He remembered watching a movie where the female protagonist died right after having sex, and even that wasn’t as embarrassing as this. Because she, at least, died. She wasn’t there to endure the shame of it all. You see where he was coming from?
It wasn’t even during sex per se, considering how quickly it had been. Good, yes, but quick. Crying because you’ve just had the shag of your life he could understand, but this? Crying because you’re so emotionally constipated that being shown a modicum of gentleness and care can only result in the complete loss of your bloody marbles?
No, this was bad. Life-altering bad. Monumentally ba–
“Will you stop muttering?” Aziraphale’s voice cut into his musings.
To add insult to injury, Crowley felt the shift in the air when the blanket was lifted from his head, breaching the sanctity of his wallowing temple. The nerve. Couldn’t Aziraphale see that he was busy?
He scoffed, or at least tried to. Truth be told, it came out more like a whimper than anything coherent (or even dignified). “Don’t mind me. ‘M just having a moment.”
Aziraphale tutted, his fingers still caressing Crowley’s hair. “You’ve been mumbling for what feels like hours.”
“I don’t mumble.” He wasn’t, right? There was no chance in Hell he’d just said all of that nonsense out loud… was there?
“Don’t fret,” Aziraphale said softly. “I could barely understand most of it.”
Had he heard Crowley referring to him as the man of his dreams? Fuck’s sake. It was quite clear that his precious dignity-saving filters, honed to perfection during the years, had been tragically obliterated along with his faculties.
Besides, it wasn’t even true! Crowley had never dreamed of a man (nobody should), and he would never begin to either. If someone had asked him what his dream partner looked like, he would have laughed it off, then said something cutting, and probably troubling. The sort of comment his therapist would tilt her head to the side and hum to. Crowley hated that with a burning passion, it was basically the reason why he’d stopped going.
Fuck, it had been ages since he’d last spared a thought for his therapist.
“You didn’t like her?” Aziraphale asked.
Fucking Hell. Was he still mumbling out loud?
“Yes,” came Aziraphale’s reply.
Crowley let out a whine. “Stop listening to my thoughts.”
“Do they qualify as thoughts if you say them out loud?” Aziraphale sighed, then adjusted his hold on Crowley and arranged the blanket around his shoulders. No more hiding, then. Well, it was nice while it lasted. “I didn’t like going to mine either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I couldn’t stop thinking about my parents finding out and berating me for wasting my money like that, even though at that point we weren’t on speaking terms anymore.”
They hadn’t exactly talked about it, but Crowley had sort of gathered that Aziraphale hadn’t grown up rich or even having things of his own. It explained why he was so hellbent on mending his stuff to death – clothes, bags, electronics – and so peculiarly attached to his earthly possessions. When you grew up with that mindset, Crowley supposed, it was hard to shake it off, and even harder to believe that speaking to a professional about your mental health didn’t qualify as a frivolous expense.
“I also didn’t like that they seemed to know more about me than I did,” Aziraphale continued.
“Right? They look at you like they have x-ray goggles or something. And they say cryptic stuff that’s supposed to make you think.” He fucking hated thinking, especially about himself. “They also give you homework. ‘S why I stopped going.” Alright, so there was more than one reason. Sue him.
“What was it?”
“I was supposed to write down all the bad things I thought about myself during the day, then try to write something nice next to them.” You can write down ‘great hair’ only so many times before you end up feeling like an absolute twat. Not to mention, his hair needed maintenance, it wasn’t just naturally perfect. Like many other things about him, it was a con. So, you see, that didn’t even count.
“Your hair is great,” Aziraphale countered, because apparently Crowley was still mumbling out loud. “The loveliest shade of red I’ve ever seen.”
Crowley groaned weakly. “Stop kicking me when I’m down. ‘S not very angelic of you.”
“I’m just saying. If you ever wanted to try again, I could help you come up with nice things to say.”
“Nah. I can make up my own stuff.” He was good at that, he didn’t need a ghostwriter for his therapy homework, that would have been too pathetic even for him.
“Oh, but I wouldn’t be making stuff up. I rather believe that’s the whole point.”
Crowley opened his eyes, realising just then that he’d kept them closed until now. He tilted his head back to look up at Aziraphale and found him already staring at him with the hint of a soft, smug smile curving his lips.
Since that blessed blast had swept away everything in its path, including the bloody cupboard where he’d been hoarding his feelings (some positive, most of them negative), the warmth rising in his chest was now free to spread to every part of him unobstructed, making him tingle all over.
It wasn’t unpleasant either.
Because Aziraphale was gorgeous. Resplendent. Luminous. Everything that was good in life. It was like having the sun in your bed and– Fuck , he’d literally asked him to write a song about being fucked by the sun, hadn’t he?
Aziraphale’s lips parted as though gearing up to say something, but his grumbling stomach beat him to it. “Oh,” he said instead, free hand flying to his belly as he blushed furiously. With no clothes between them, Crowley saw it creep down to his chest. “Awfully sorry. I’m afraid my hunger is getting the better of me.”
Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off of him. “What time is it?” How long had Aziraphale stayed there, just lying next to him and soothing him without making a fuss? And Go– Sat– Someone knew how good he was at making a fuss.
“Must be almost eight by now.”
“Let’s have dinner,” Crowley heard himself say, pulling himself up so Aziraphale had no choice but to remove his hand from his hair. Crowley felt a bit dizzy as he did so, like this newfound lightness needed some adjusting to. A new balance of sorts.
“That’s a splendid idea,” Aziraphale agreed. He was pouting, a wistful look aimed at Crowley’s hair, which– er, no, let’s not go there yet. “What would you like? I can whip–”
“No.” Crowley sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the sweatpants discarded on the chair next to Aziraphale’s carefully folded clothes. “I’m going to make you dinner. You stay here.”
“But there’s no need–”
“I know. I want to.” The moment he said it, he realised it was true. So true, in fact, he almost felt dizzy again. He pulled on his trousers and stood up, refusing to believe that the universe would be so cruel as to make him faint on top of all the reputation-destroying events he’d already suffered in the last two hours.
“Crowley, I assure you that I–”
“Aziraphale,” he shot back. “Let me make you dinner. Let me– ngk. Let me take care of you for once, alright? Stop fighting me.” He was quite proud of himself for getting the words out without crumbling on himself. Or crying, because that was apparently a thing he did now. Expressing his emotions. On the outside. Disgusting.
Aziraphale gaped at him, shocked and maybe slightly concerned. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Has the orgasm dislodged something in your brain?”
“Yes. Isn’t that the point? Big explosion of chemicals flooding your neurons? Va-voom, you’re a new person!”
Aziraphale arched his eyebrows. “Well, in a way.”
“Then stay here and let me– just let me, yeah?”
Aziraphale seemed ready to put up a fight, but in the end he just sighed, his soft chest heaving deliciously. Crowley could not believe that he hadn’t even tried to bite him there. Such a waste.
“Alright.”
“Great. What do you feel like?”
“Anything, really. Even a sandwich would be nice.”
“Right.” Crowley nodded before leaning over the bed to place a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be back.”
He didn’t quite process Aziraphale’s surprised intake of breath and its baffling cause until he was already halfway through the door. Then he stopped, turned on his heels and stared at Aziraphale dumbfounded.
“S-sorry. Jesus, fuck,” he spluttered, flushing like mad. “Was that alright? I should have asked first.” Not that he knew he was going to do that before he actually did it, or even after, but…
Aziraphale was impossibly pink, hands fidgeting in his lap. Crowley had to admit that it felt good, not being the only flustered idiot in the room. They’d just gotten each other off – well, Aziraphale had done most of the work for the both of them – and here they were, getting their metaphorical knickers in a twist for a little peck on the cheek! Ridiculous.
“It’s quite, ah, alright,” Aziraphale managed to say. “Feel free to… erm, you know.”
Crowley realised with a little start that he did know. “Do it again?”
“Yes. But only if you feel like it.”
“‘Kay. I might.”
“Good.”
“Nyeah. I’ll just…”
“Go.”
“Yes, that. Er, bye.”
Bye?! For fuck’s sake, hadn’t he suffered enough?
He launched himself through the door and all but dashed in to the kitchen, barefoot, half-naked and entirely fucked (also strictly metaphorical, unfortunately).
And yet, as dire as the situation was, Crowley didn’t feel… bad. Not really. He felt… well, all felt-out, if that was even a thing.
He checked the pantry and the fridge, considering his options as he took the time for some much needed introspection, marvelling all the while at how airy and spacious his mind was. Feelings didn’t need to squeeze through the mess or squirm for his attention anymore. They were there in plain sight. He could see them. Feel them. Not only was there nowhere they could hide – no cupboards full of rubbish or mountains of emotional debris – he didn’t even feel the urge to get them out of his sight anymore.
Huh.
That was new.
It probably wouldn’t last either, but still.
After putting a pot of water to boil on the stove, he went to retrieve his phone from the recording studio, where everything was exactly as they’d left it. The music stand turned away from the glass wall, the headphones hooked on its edge along with his henley, his sunglasses just lying there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at them and saw them for what they were (eyewear) instead of what he used them for (armour he couldn’t quite function without).
He unblocked his phone and was faced with the instrumental base of the song about Lust still ready to be played. Golden Hour, it was titled.
Crowley took a deep breath and tried not to shy away from the events of the past two hours. He still felt a twinge of shame at his poor performance, true, but on the other hand he didn’t feel like running away, changing his identity and starting a new life somewhere else, maybe opening a goat farm. It must count for something, right?
He opened his Spotify account, scrolled through his playlists and selected his most recent one. He connected the phone to the audio system and, as he went back to the kitchen, he pressed play. The opening riff of Rusty Angels by Black Sabbath filled the cottage (at whatever the proper volume was, if you can believe it – but he was still going to cook half-starkers, so whatever survived of his reputation as a demonic rockstar was safe… for now).
He washed his hands, put some salt in the water, then took out another pan, a packet of tagliatelle, cream, parmesan and two lemons, and he got to work, letting his hands take the reins as his mind idly wandered back to Aziraphale.
He probably shouldn’t have – he didn’t want to think too hard about it, not yet – but it wasn’t like he had any control over the flow of his thoughts. As it was, he could only watch them bob like little corks on the surface of his awareness as they passed him by.
The softness of Aziraphale’s hair. The warmth of his skin against his own. The taste of his mouth. The gentleness of his touch. His voice low and breathless as he whispered ‘you’re doing so well’.
Crowley’s stomach clenched and he fumbled with the wooden spoon he was using to stir the pasta until it slipped from his grasp and cluttered to the floor.
Well, fuck. So much for liking rude people, Crowley thought as he angrily picked it up and washed it under the tap.
So, that was a lie. Always had been. Must have been, judging from the way he’d literally felt like his insides were melting when the words had poured out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Stars exploding in his head, nebulae being created in front of his eyes and all that jazz.
He sat with this new discovery as he quickly popped into the cellar for a bottle of white wine, a Chardonnay, and realised that, all things considered, it wasn’t much of a groundbreaking discovery. He always knew there was something missing. Something he craved more than anything even though he could hardly put a name to it.
Was it really kindness that did it for him? To be cared for?
Satan down below. Did Aziraphale care for him?
That was stupid, of course he did. Would have been nice to be able to pretend otherwise, just to preserve his sanity, but for some obscure reason… he did.
As he uncorked the wine and let it breathe on the counter, the lyrics of the song playing in the background trickled into his ears, making them turn pink.
If you swallow just a little pride
You might find a little love inside
Open up and let somebody in
‘Cause if you need somebody, you know it’s not a sin
Crowley stilled in his search for the colander, a sneer taking up residence on his face. He scoffed and looked up. “Really?” he asked no one in particular. “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
Irked, as if the playlist wasn’t his own doing, he skipped to the next song – Angel by Judas Priest – which didn’t help much, only he was too busy thickening the sauce to spare a second to change it.
When I close my eyes I hear your velvet wings and cry
I’m waiting here with open arms—Oh, can’t you see?
Angel, shine your light on me
Still embarrassing, plus it spurred an objectively terrible comparison between Aziraphale’s arms and the wings of an angel, but Crowley did feel a little better at that. If nothing else, he wasn’t alone in how pathetic he was, and this was Judas Priest. He was in good company, see? Maybe he could start a club – pathetic old rockstars thinking about angels.
He stirred the pasta in the pan until it turned perfectly creamy, then he put it in a bowl and topped it with grated lemon zest and fresh parmesan, as well as a pinch of black pepper. He unearthed the collapsible bed tray he’d spotted the night of The Ankle Incident as he frantically scavenged for tea.
Accompanied by The Angel and the Gambler by Iron Maiden (Do you feel lucky or do you feel scared?), Crowley placed the pasta on the tray along with cutlery, a napkin, a wine glass and the bottle of Chardonnay, and slipped his phone in the front pocket of his sweatpants.
He made his way back to the bedroom, careful not to drop anything, and found Aziraphale still sitting in bed, now propped against the pillows. He must have moved and popped into the living room at some point because he was wearing his tartan dressing gown.
Is this what it felt like to find a blessed star just randomly sitting on your bed?
“Here we go,” Crowley announced, feeling extremely silly as he did so. Safe to say, he had never thought about stars in bed or done anything as compromising as cooking for someone, least of all himself.
“Oh, that smells heavenly, what is it?” Aziraphale’s eyes were glittering, shoulders already wiggling in anticipation as Crowley moved the bottle to the bedside table and placed the tray in his lap.
“Lemon pasta.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Aziraphale looked flabbergasted. “How did you make it so creamy?”
Crowley shrugged and poured the wine in his glass. “You just strain the pasta before it’s cooked, and you finish cooking it in the pan along with the sauce, adding pasta water as needed.”
“Oh, my,” he murmured, eyes only for his dinner.
Crowley couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he rounded the bed to retake his place next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Go on, then. Try it.”
Aziraphale glanced in his direction, looking almost surprised to find him so close. “Oh, but I’m waiting for you.”
“I’m right here.”
“No, I mean, where’s yours?” He gestured to the pasta, brows adorably furrowed. (Adorably… fuck off, brain.)
“‘M not hungry.”
“Oh, nonsense. I can’t eat while you sit there and watch.”
“I like watching you eat. Very interesting noises.”
Aziraphale’s lips parted on a soft gasp, cheeks dusted with pink and eyes roving over Crowley’s face as though searching for a reason to call 999. “So you’re just saying things now, are you?”
“I’m trying this new thing called being too emotionally knackered to lie. Very enlightening.” Only it wasn’t a matter of trying so much as having no other choice.
“Well, you have to eat something all the same.”
“Maybe later.” He wasn’t hungry for food, but Satan help him if he couldn’t wait to find out if his pasta would coax any of those delicious moans out of Aziraphale.
“Very well, then. We’ll have to share this,” Aziraphale decided resolutely. “It’s a lot of pasta anyway. You didn’t weigh it, did you?”
“Look who’s talking. You don’t even know what a portion is, you always cook more than you need.”
“I cook the exact amount that’s needed.”
“Are you taking the piss?” There were always leftovers in the fridge. Crowley knew because he was the one making them disappear afterwards. “You cook enough for two people.”
Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and levelled a haughty look at him, eyes flashing in annoyance. “Exactly.”
Crowley lifted his finger, ready to protest and maybe provide all the evidence to the contrary that he’d collected over the past weeks, when the meaning of Aziraphale’s words suddenly clicked.
His face fell, mouth slack. “Wh– I– You… you cook for two.”
“Yes.”
“So those leftovers…” This certainly gave the word dumb a whole new meaning.
“Yes.”
“And the threatening notes, the ridiculous drawings…”
“You sort of are the poster boy for reverse psychology, my dear, if you don’t mind me saying so.” That said, Aziraphale expertly scooped up a forkful of tagliatelle and brought them to his mouth.
Crowley, who had been waiting for this moment like a kid waits for Christmas morning, was nevertheless taken aback by the sound that rumbled low in Aziraphale’s throat. He couldn’t decide if the happy wiggle that came with it was lessening or increasing the brain-melting effect of the display. Either way, he felt something like pride stir in his chest knowing he had been responsible for it. He was making Aziraphale moan like that.
“Oh, Crowley, this is delicious!” Could you bottle that Oh, Crowley? Or, better yet, inject it directly into his veins? Asking for a friend…
“Should I be offended by how surprised you are?” He wasn’t. He was… Hell’s sake, he was pleased as punch.
Aziraphale scoffed a little. “You certainly didn’t give me any indication that you could cook.” He twirled more pasta around the fork and fed it to Crowley, who decided to give his self-loathing a day off and accepted it without a fuss. Aziraphale was right, it was very good.
“Here, try it with the wine,” Aziraphale pressed on, handing him the glass. “It’s even better. You’ve paired them perfectly.”
Crowley indulged him. With the way Aziraphale was glowing, he wasn’t sure he could have denied him anything at the moment. “Yeah, ‘s good,” he admitted. “Don’t get too excited though, it’s one of the, like, three things I can make. Luc taught me.” He reconsidered his words immediately. “I mean, not really, I just learned by watching him.”
“Who’s Luc?”
“My longest failed relationship? He was a chef. Five Michelin stars and everything. Giant tosser, though.” First time Crowley had seen him, Luc was screaming bloody murder against his staff in the open kitchen of his famed restaurant in London. There was something about an angry Frenchman that somehow had done it for him.
With hindsight, he really should have stuck with therapy.
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “You were with the chef of Les Enfers?” He was shocked, but not too shocked to stop eating and feeding Crowley forkfuls of pasta.
“Nyeah. He always said every kitchen must have some essentials – flour, spices, olive oil, herbs, parmesan, and at least two types of pasta. I never keep much at home in the way of food, and when we got together he said he wouldn’t come over if I didn’t have them. So I let him stock my kitchen and when he stayed the night he would use whatever else he’d find to whip something up. He was quite resourceful.”
He also never failed to find fault in everything Crowley did or didn’t do, had or didn’t have. Teasingly at first, in a way that somewhat managed to hide the coldness behind his jabs. Or at least that’s what Crowley had thought at the time. Maybe Luc had been sharp and cruel right from the start and he’d been too fascinated by him to notice.
“You do seem to gravitate towards very successful partners,” Aziraphale mused. “I suppose it’s the sort of people you meet when you’re successful yourself.”
Crowley shrugged and took another sip of wine before placing the glass back on the tray. “Nah, you meet all sorts of people.” He leaned into Aziraphale to accept more pasta. “But I liked the rude ones, remember?”
Aziraphale hummed, glancing at him a bit gingerly. “I do.”
Crowley tried to hold his gaze, then found himself extremely interested in the wine and its particular shade of yellow. “I think I liked it,” he heard himself say, as if the words had snuck up on him. “Feeling at a disadvantage. Setting myself up for disappointment right out the gate.” Outsourcing his self-loathing, so to speak.
“Ah. A clear case of self-sabotage.”
“Nyeah, guess so.”
“Of course, you may also have a competence kink.”
Crowley grinned. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“Might be. What do you think?”
“Heh. I dunno.”
His thoughts wandered back to the food Aziraphale had been cooking for him since their arrival on Skye. The slightly underdone stews and the vaguely overdone pasta, the breadcrumbs burning in the pan the night of their date, and, before that, the half-blackened Chelsea buns (with the best ones set aside especially for him, Crowley realised just now, not in an attempt to hide his shortcomings, but to please him).
Aziraphale’s cooking wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exceptional either. It was just okay.
And yet, it was also the best food Crowley had ever tasted. In fact, he wouldn’t have changed it for all the fancy five-stars restaurants in the world. Unlike Luc, Aziraphale had never tried to impress him or assert his superiority. He wasn’t showing off, wasn’t trying to prove anything. It was just his way of taking care of him. And he’d done so disinterestedly, even while being shown barely any kindness in return.
In the light of his recently acquired wisdom, Crowley had no problem recognising the suspicious prickling in his eyes. Bloody Hell, was he about to cry over the hidden meaning behind Aziraphale’s half-burned Chelsea buns?
“I don’t think so,” he finally said, throat tight and voice thinning at the edges.
Aziraphale smiled and fed him some more pasta. Even if he’d noticed how emotional he was, he didn’t point it out. “Well, you’re quite safe with me.”
Crowley nodded – of course he was safe with him – then frowned. “Wait. What do you mean?”
“I’m competent in very few things and not really successful at any of them.”
“Aziraphale, you are brilliant,” Crowley blurted out, rearing his head back with a sense of urgency. “You’re way better than any of those mouldy arseholes.”
“Oh, I hardly believe I could compete with the chef of Les Enf–”
“Yes, you could. Soulless twats, the lot of ‘em. The banker, the sommelier, Luc, all of ‘em. They sold themselves to their jobs because they want– no, need to be the best. I know because I am one of them. Or I was, I dunno anymore.”
“You’re not soulless at all,” came Aziraphale’s stern retort. “You have a lot of soul, actually.”
“Pssh.” A soul. Sounded silly when you said it like that. “Took some time to find it, though, huh?” Whatever was left of it anyway.
“No, it was always there. I would never have come here with you if I thought you were a, erm, soulless twat, as you put it.”
“Fine, whatever,” Crowley cut him off, squirming uncomfortably. “But you have more than me. And you’re clever and brilliant and good. You’re– you’re a proper angel. Those bastards have nothing on you, do you hear me? Nothing.”
Aziraphale blushed so hard even his hair seemed to turn pink with it. “Well–”
“And you’re gorgeous too.” Oh, it turned out he had some ammunition left too.
“I–”
“I mean, look at you!”
“But–”
“Oi, none of this. You know you are or you wouldn’t have given me that little after-shower show that one time.” As far as Crowley was concerned, Tits Day deserved to be a national holiday.
Aziraphale mumbled, clearly flustered. “I do try to think of myself as… you know.”
“Gorgeous.”
“That.”
“Why are you so embarrassed then?”
“Nothing, I just– I just forgot how nice it is to be told.”
Crowley’s heart made something complicated in his chest, which wasn’t empty anymore, but full of a feeling so big and warm and alive that he was suddenly very worried it would consume him from the inside out leaving nothing but a little pile of ashes in its place. Smitten, Aziraphale had said.
“I’ll keep telling you then.” As he said it, he was almost scared by how determined he felt to keep his word.
Aziraphale turned to him with a shy look on his face, his eyes bluer and sparklier than ever. “Should I say thank you?”
“Better not.” This whole day was turning out life-changing enough as it was.
“More wine, then?”
“Please.”
If the world were to suddenly shrink down to the confines of this bed, Aziraphale realised he wouldn’t have minded. No complaints from him. Not a peep. None at all.
Why would he when he had everything he needed right here?
A soft, warm place to lay his head on, his books just a short distance away in the next room, good wine, the best company he’d had in a long while and even art to look at, and on the loveliest canvas he could think of. A canvas that was currently sprawled on his back, half-naked, sweatpants sitting low on his hips, eyes closed. One hand tucked under the nape of his neck and the other stretched to the side and idly tapping on Aziraphale’s pillow. A different beat. Possibly a new song.
“I particularly like this one,” Aziraphale said, brushing his finger on the water lily on Crowley’s right side.
Gooseflesh bloomed under his touch, as though Aziraphale wasn’t touching warm skin, but creating ripples on the surface of a sun-warmed pond. And on himself too, as the touch immediately reminded of sinking his fingers in the perfectly shaded petals not so long ago, when he’d pulled Crowley in his lap. He still couldn’t believe he’d been so bold as to step into the recording booth, but boy, was he glad he had.
“Does it signify anything in particular?” he asked.
Crowley mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “Pretty, ‘s all.” He lazily rolled his shoulders, keeping his eyes closed. “I always dreamed of having a big garden someday. Lots of plants and flowers.”
“Yes?”
“Nyeah. Saw Monet’s house in Giverny this one time I went to France with DLTW and I became obsessed with water lilies for a while.” He cracked one eye open and looked at Aziraphale. “You’d like the place, I think. Very colourful. Though the yellow dining room was a bit much.”
“Yellow is my favourite colour.” Especially the warm honey-gold shade of a certain someone’s eyes.
Crowley snorted and, as though reading Aziraphale’s mind, closed back his eyes. “Figures.”
“I was there years ago. The gardens are beautiful.” Before he could think better of it, he pictured Crowley walking among the luscious green, studying the colourful flowers lining the path, and himself lingering back to watch him. How silly, he reprimanded himself. “Don’t suppose you have a garden in Mayfair.”
“Pssh, no. Not even houseplants. Stopped keeping them when I became big enough to tour. Couldn’t keep proper care of ‘em, so… I started getting them tattooed instead.”
It was probably why there seemed to be no rhyme or reason in the art gracing his body. It was sort of astonishing, considering how minimalism-inclined the man was with everything else. For someone so obsessed with tidiness, his tattoos seemed to be the result of several spur of the moment decisions.
“It’s a beautiful garden,” Aziraphale heard himself say. “Full of creatures too. I like the big snake you’ve got on your leg,” he continued.
A dopey grin appeared on Crowley’s lips and he opened his eyes, turning his head to the side to look at him. “Oh, I bet you do. Just wait till he’s ready to go again.”
Aziraphale tutted. “Really, my dear?” That was an unfortunate joke, even for him.
“Why do you think I have so many snake tattoos?”
“I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.”
“So I can make all sorts of terrible jokes about them. People love ‘em.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” He paused and then chuckled. “How many times did you ask someone if they wanted to see the snake in your trousers?”
“Oh, angel, you have no idea.”
Aziraphale burst out laughing, amused and endeared by Crowley’s lopsided smile. He looked relaxed, totally at ease, unguarded even. It was all Aziraphale could do not to let that particular knowledge go to his head.
Speaking of angels, Crowley’s playlist was still playing in the background. Rock wasn’t Aziraphale’s favourite music and it probably would never be, but he didn’t find it unpleasant, not anymore. In all truthfulness, it was more because of Crowley’s habit of letting the music say the things he couldn’t bring himself to than the quality of the songs themselves, but still. The idea of him looking for angels in the music he liked best made Aziraphale feel all warm and tingly inside.
“I quite like the raven too.” In the dim lights of the bedroom, it looked almost shimmery. “Very intelligent birds, ravens. They mate for life, did you know that?”
Crowley shrugged, affecting indifference as he let his eyes roam around Aziraphale’s face. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” But he had a feeling Crowley already knew. “Do you know what a flock of ravens is called?”
“Bunch of little fuckers?”
“Close. It’s an unkindness.”
Crowley howled with laughter, his whole body shaking with it. He looked younger somehow. Lighter too. Carefree. “Should get a whole unkindness of ‘em then,” he said when he’d calmed down.
“You barely have any space left.”
“Nah, still got a whole leg to go.” He rubbed at his eyes, then shifted to lay on his side. “I thought you wouldn’t like them.”
“Why not?”
“Tattoos don’t exactly scream old-fashioned.”
“So? I appreciate beauty in all of its forms.”
Crowley invariably flushed, which didn’t stop him from huffing out in annoyance. “Fff– Jesus. You can’t say things like that.”
“I can and I did.” Especially after all that gorgeous nonsense.
“Bastard.”
“I’ll pop to the loo so you can have a good sulk about it, what do you say?” He’d better go brush his teeth before he became too sleepy to haul himself out of bed.
Crowley’s expression turned serious, hesitant. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he asked, trying his best to sound cool and detached.
Aziraphale felt his chest clench in response, warmth flooding him in a way that was already becoming way too familiar. Dangerous too. “My dear, if you believe I’m going back to sleep on the sofa after lying on this bed, you’ll have another think coming.”
Crowley didn’t look convinced and Aziraphale was suddenly overcome by the urge to give quite the tongue-lashing to whoever had made him feel that way.
“You’ll come back then,” Crowley said. “For the bed.”
“For the bed, yes.”
“No other reason?” he pressed on, arching one eyebrow and subtly cocking his hip.
Aziraphale smiled. “None at all.”
“Smug bastard.”
“We both know you like it.”
Crowley’s half-hearted growl followed Aziraphale out of the bedroom.
He stopped to pick up his pyjamas from the living room, then made his way to the loo, where he put himself to rights after the evening’s activities. He caught his reflection in the mirror more than once in the process, each time seeing himself with the silliest smile on his face and blushing under his own scrutiny.
“Come on, old chap,” he whispered, though he couldn’t quite prevent his thoughts from going back to his second night in the cottage. When he’d stood right here, looking for signs of Crowley’s presence and wondering why his toothbrush wasn’t in the cup alongside his own. He’d scolded himself back then too, the only difference was that now Crowley’s toothbrush was next to Aziraphale’s, that he knew what sounds he made when pleasure became too much to bear, what his lips felt like against his own, the way he writhed and squirmed when he lost control of himself.
He knew the shape of his tears too.
It felt scary. It felt like a blessing.
His mind suddenly caught up with the song playing over the audio system.
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and you will find
The way out of the dark
And then,
Here I am (Here I am)
Will you send me an angel?
Here I am (Here I am)
In the land of the morning star
A little shiver went through him.
Well.
Some rock songs were clearly better than others.
On his way back to the bedroom, he stopped in the hallway to pick up Trainspotting from the side table, and then his spectacles, notebook and phone from the living room. When he joined him once more, Crowley was snuggled under the covers on Aziraphale’s side, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone.
“All sulked-out, then?” Aziraphale asked, placing his stuff on the nightstand.
“Shut up.”
“Scoot over.”
“No can do.”
Hadn’t lost his annoying touch after all. What a relief.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and mustered up his patience. “I believe that’s my side of the bed.”
“Not anymore.” Crowley burrowed deeper under the covers to drive the message home.
Aziraphale was unimpressed. “Oh?”
“Nyeah. ‘S warmer than mine. So now ‘s mine.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, what are you gonna do about it? Fight m– oi!” he screeched when Aziraphale pulled the covers away. “What are you–”
Without letting him finish, Aziraphale rested a knee on the mattress, grabbed Crowley by the waist and quite literally threw him on the other side of the bed.
Crowley squeaked and flushed and spluttered, phone slipping away from his grasp as he landed back on the mattress. “H-how– Wh– Jesus fuck!”
“I think his name was Jesus of Nazareth, actually,” Aziraphale said primly, thwarting Crowley’s pitiful attempts at invading his space by trapping him under his bodyweight and pinning his wrists to the bed.
“Satan– fuck!” Crowley bellowed at him, though he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, cheeks and ears almost as red as his hair. He wriggled like a mad man, more to test Aziraphale’s strength than freeing himself in earnest, Aziraphale suspected, pushing their bodies together as he did so.
“Probably not his name either,” Aziraphale said as conversationally as he could given the circumstances. “Besides, I don’t think they’re related.”
“Shut up. Angel my arse! You can’t do this!”
“I can and I did.”
One hot angel, one cool devil, began, as if on cue, whoever was singing the song that had just started playing. Your mind on the fantasy, living on the ecstasy.
“Is this song about us?” Aziraphale wondered out loud.
Crowley ignored him, too busy with his minor meltdown. “How are you so strong? ‘S not fair!”
“Well, for a start, I don’t have twigs for arms and I treat food as both pleasure and fuel rather than an inconvenience to be endured.”
“Hell’s sake, you’re insufferable!” Crowley complained.
“Then stop rubbing against me!”
“Why? Am I bothering- bothering you?”
“What does that even mean?”
“I think you know,” Crowley shot back, a wild look in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then, “Just so you know, I get tested every year.”
Aziraphale floundered for words and could find nothing better than, “Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean– no pressure or anything. I don’t think I can go again, not so soon. Also don’t want to cry my way through that sort of thing. Can you imagine? So embarrassing. But, you know, in case you’re interested and I–”
Aziraphale decided to take mercy on him and stop him before he could talk himself into any more circles. “Crowley?”
“Nyeah?”
“Thank you for telling me,” he said softly. Still straddling him, he let his wrists go to kneel back and reach for his phone on the bedside table. “I’ve also been tested. I have my results right here on my phone.”
Crowley snorted as he grabbed the top of Aziraphale’s pyjamas to keep him in place. “So what, you keep them ready just in case you have to show them to your oodles of lovers?”
“Well, yes.” Aziraphale unblocked his phone. “It’s for the Grindr.”
No sooner had he said it, that Crowley bucked under him. The movement would have sent a slender man flying. “On the wot now?”
“The Grindr? The app for–”
“I know what Grindr is. No article needed. Why are you on it?”
“Do I seriously have to explain it?” It was quite self-explanatory, Aziraphale thought as he pulled up his test results and showed them to Crowley, who was too astonished to actually read anything on it.
“You use Grindr,” Crowley repeated, as though making sure he’d heard correctly. “And you know it’s not an app for fancy pepper grinders or something.”
Aziraphale scoffed. Fancy pepper grinders! “Yes, I do use just Grindr. I mean, not in a while. I download it when I’m writing a book. For research purposes, you see.”
Crowley was going through what looked like at least six separate stages of shock. “You research your books on Grindr?”
“Yes, I can’t exactly ask the cashier at Tesco to try sexual positions with me just so I can make sure they’re physically possible.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Crowley muttered, torn between pride and dismay. “So what? You just DM people and say: hullo, I’m writing a book, would you like to be chained to the ceiling so I can see in how many anatomically correct ways I can shag you?”
Well, he’d never actually shackled anyone to the ceiling, but that was the gist of it, yes. “Not in so many words, but yes. I like to be upfront.”
Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “Does this mean you’ve tried everything you wrote about?”
“Good Lord, no. Can you imagine? Doing those things with strangers?”
Crowley’s face did something complicated. “No, not really.”
Aziraphale blinked and suddenly realised he was still straddling Crowley, which was quite nice if he could say so himself – he very much enjoyed the view from up here – but probably not the best position to be at the moment.
As soon as he made a move to get off of him, Crowley let go of his pyjamas so Aziraphale could sit back on his side of the bed. He landed on something, which turned out to be Crowley’s unblocked phone.
Aziraphale was about to give it back when he noticed an app icon that made his blood turn to ice. “Crowley?” he said, voice suddenly low and cutting.
Crowley, who was still lying on his back and taking deep breaths for some reason, raised his head and let out a hoarse, “Yeah?”
“Why do you have a drug-selling app on your phone?” Without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale scrambled to get out of bed, outrage flowing off of him in huge, violent waves. “I can’t believe this! What has the world come to? Are drugs really so commodified these days? Do you just order them and get them like food? How does it work?” And then, another even more bone-chilling thought. “Are the kids your drug dealers?”
Crowley sat bolt upright. He looked like he’d just uncovered the seventh stage of shock.
“Aziraphale, angel… I’m going to hold your hand when I say this–” Aziraphale promptly held out his hand for Crowley to take, which he did despite his evident puzzlement. “Er, thanks, I guess. It was more of a metaph– you know what? Never mind. Anyway, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re on about.”
Aziraphale pointed to the infamous icon with a nod of his head. “Here, it says tick tock.” Actually, upon further inspection, it said TikTok, because of course. Why would a drug-selling app show any regard for the rules of the English language?
Crowley looked at him as if he was about to grow another head. “It’s one word, not two, and– Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Bloody Hell, please don’t tell me you think TikTok is an actual drug?”
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale was growing more irritated by the second. “You said so yourself. That you were on it, and that it was addictive.”
Crowley’s dismay slowly crumbled into amusement and gleeful disbelief, his mouth twitching. “It’s social media. So yeah, I am sometimes on it. To watch stupid videos, which are quite addictive.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Come on, angel, would I lie to you?”
Aziraphale was about to say something, when it occurred to him, and not without a start, that this Crowley would, in fact, not lie to him. Not about something like this.
“Come here, look.” Crowley gestured for him to join him on the bed, and Aziraphale complied, powerless to keep his distance.
He handed the phone back to him and watched as Crowley tapped on the damn icon. Sure enough, a video started playing, and then another, and another one as Crowley quickly scrolled through them as if in demonstration. Aziraphale even recognised some of the baffling, nonsensical things Crowley had said in the past.
“Oh dear. I thought you–”
“You thought I was holed up in here doing literal drugs?” Crowley was desperately trying not to laugh. He managed until he couldn’t any more, then started cackling like a maniac.
“It’s not funny.”
“Is too! It’s hysterical.”
“Hardly.”
“Come on, it is! You–”
Aziraphale wisely decided to make good use of the groundbreaking innovations they’d introduced during the evening, pulling Crowley to him and kissing him square on the mouth. Crowley moaned against his lips and eagerly parted them to deepen the kiss, then moaned some more when Aziraphale pushed him back to the bed for a more comfortable position.
“Can we snog all night?” asked Crowley, breathless and glassy-eyed, when they reluctantly pulled back to catch their breath.
“Your lips will fall off.” They were already red and deliciously swollen.
“Yours too. We can be lipless… together, if you like. ‘S worth it.”
At long last, Aziraphale thought, they seemed to have found the one thing they could both agree on.
Notes:
Alright, here are the angel-themed rock songs mentioned:
- Rusty Angels by Black Sabbath
- Angel by Judas Priest
- The Angel and the Gambler by Iron Maiden
- Send Me An Angel by the Scorpions (there is also a version with the Berlin Philarmonic and Italian singer Zucchero which is PERFECT. Thanks to Leviosally468 for making me discover the album - also run don't walk to read her classical music AU: Play For Me The Music Of Your Heart which features violinist Crowley and music professor Aziraphale. She also knows what she's talking about, unlike me!)
- Rock N Roll Train by AC/DCAlso (oh god, I'm full of notes this week):
- you can take a virtual tour of Monet's house in Giverny here;
- the movie Crowley mentions *does* exist and it stuck with me precisely because of that (I don't want to spoil it for anyone who may be seeing at random, but feel free to ask if you're curious).As I said, I hope to have the epilogue written and ready to be edited by the end of this week so I can publish at least twice a week.
In the meantime, thanks for sticking with me 💜 Hope you enjoyed these two being soft for a change!
Chapter 12: Twelve
Summary:
In the last ten days on Skye, things change and people too (even if they don't talk about it).
Notes:
Hello! Well, last week was awful. I didn't make much progress with the epilogue, so I'll have to stick to the schedule for now. Hopefully this huge serving of bicker-y fluff from a certain angel's POV will sweeten the deal?
Sending a big hug to all of you. Thank you for being here 💜💜💜
Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke up with his back pressed against a warm body and long arms snugly wrapped around his middle.
Or at least he thought he did, because said arms did a disappearing act as soon as he regained consciousness, only he could have sworn they were right there just a split second ago.
With his free hand, and the other safely tucked under his pillow, Aziraphale felt behind him, finding nothing but suspiciously tepid sheets. No better way to start the day than with a little sleuthing, and a successful one at that, considering he’d just opened and closed the case of the vanishing arms in record time.
“Where did you go?” he asked over his shoulder, eyes barely open and voice still hoarse with sleep. Good investigative instincts aside, Aziraphale also had an innate talent for sounding huffy and irritated even when barely conscious, which he made good use of right now.
“I didn’t go anywhere,” Crowley croaked from somewhere behind him. “I’ve always been here… a very respectful distance away.”
Aziraphale snorted and closed his eyes, settling back against his pillow. One didn’t need to inconvenience the likes of Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot to know Crowley’s nonchalance was nothing but a pale imitation of the real thing.
“You weren’t quick enough, I’m afraid.” In fact, he could still feel the warm imprint of Crowley’s hands on his breastbone. “So you can either spare yourself this silliness and come back here, or stay over there and freeze to death.”
Crowley grumbled, but it didn’t take long for him to move closer and tentatively slide his arms around Aziraphale. Who, for his part, decided he had no time for such poppycock, especially before his morning cuppa, so he grabbed Crowley’s wrists and tugged his hands over his chest to press sleepy kisses against his knuckles, making Crowley’s breath hitch and his body tense against his.
Had he perhaps dared too much? He was quite sure Crowley had never strayed too far away from him during the night, after he’d fallen asleep half-draped over Aziraphale, following many an assurance that he was just resting his eyes and that they’d soon resume their snogging with renewed vigour.
“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, still too groggy to skirt around the issue and dive headfirst into unnecessary fretting. He had the wherewithal to loosen his grip on Crowley’s fingers so he could easily disentangle himself if he so wished. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
Crowley’s reply was, simply put, indecipherable, which was an answer in itself.
“Preferably in English, dear, please.”
“Ngk, n-no,” he finally managed to say, leaning his forehead against the back of Aziraphale’s neck almost shily. “‘M very comfortable. Just, hng– you know– surprised, I s’pose.”
Aziraphale laced their fingers together, impossibly slow, so as not to spook him. “Why?”
“Well… ‘s morning, isn’t it?”
“I do believe that’s what usually comes after night.”
“Nyeah, exactly.”
Aziraphale was nothing if not confused. “Crowley, dear, do I need to explain to you what a day is?”
This made him thrash about quite dramatically. “Fffffff– no! I know what a bloody day is!”
“So?”
“So? Do I have to spell it out for youl? You know how these things work, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Were he closer to the ceiling, Crowley’s disgruntled huff would have probably threatened the solidity of the roof. “Morning usually brings, you know, perspective. You have a good night’s sleep and then things look different, people too, and– fuck. Listen, what I’m trying to say is that ‘s no big deal if you changed your mind. Feel free to–”
Ah. That was it, then. Crowley had taken it upon himself to do the unnecessary fretting Aziraphale had foregone, spending what had probably been a very long time just clinging to Aziraphale and anxiously waiting for him to wake up in order to gauge his mood and infer if he had any regrets about the previous night.
Not for the first time, and probably not the last, Aziraphale had to resist the urge to curse whoever was responsible for turning Crowley into a jumbled mess of insecurity. He dearly hoped such miserable individuals would eventually meet the fate they deserved, with or without his help.
“Have you changed your mind?” he finally resolved to ask. He didn’t think that was the case, but he wanted to be sure. Taking things for granted wasn’t the done thing at all.
“‘Course not!” Crowley exclaimed indignantly.
“Well, it’s settled then.” The relief that washed over him was as instant as it was overwhelming. “No one has changed their mind, and our liaison has survived the cold light of day.” It was tickety-boo!
Crowley spluttered some more nonsense, which roughly translated to, “Jesus, fuck, don’t call it that!”
“I’ll call it however I damn well please, if it’s all the same to you. Now, please, stop squirming.”
“‘M not.”
“You are. I have never slept with an eel, but I imagine it feels exactly like this.”
Crowley scoffed, his outrage palpable. “An eel? I have snake tattoos all over my body and the first image you come up with is a bloody eel ?”
“Eels are squishy.”
“Call me squishy one more time and you’ll regret it.”
“It’s quite alright, dear. Being squishy is not the end of the world after– ah!” Aziraphale scrambled to turn around without actually extricating himself from Crowley’s embrace. “Did you just bite me?” he asked more out of shock than pain (which was minimal). In the meantime, all of his brain function was wisely redirected to whatever part of it was endeavouring to ignore the heat suddenly bubbling under his skin.
It was a pointless enough question, considering Crowley was still sinking his teeth in his neck with the eagerness of a clumsy vampire trying to make up for his inexperience with a great deal of enthusiasm. (Aziraphale was well aware that he should not have been thinking about vampires right now, not if he wanted to preserve his sanity, only he was starting to question how interested he really was in keeping said sanity intact.)
“No,” Crowley groused, voice muffled against the crook of his neck.
Aziraphale was, by now, fully awake, his poor senses coming under attack from every direction. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s mouth on his skin, one of his long, wiry legs making its way between his own, and a hint of stubble scratching at the soft line of his jaw. And while he would definitely have liked to say this was doing nothing for him, he realised he was quite unable to muster up enough energy for even the most basic of lies.
“It’d be more believable, if you could actually stop biting me,” he remarked, making a valiant attempt at sounding unbothered and only half-succeeding.
To his credit, Crowley did stop biting him, but then proceeded to soothe the spot with his tongue, which didn’t help matters at all, especially when Aziraphale was reminded of how it felt to have that same tongue tasting and exploring every inch of his mouth. It also appeared that Crowley wasn’t even half as interested in preserving Aziraphale’s pride as he was in leaving his neck mostly unscathed, because he added an outrageous, “I think you liked it.”
“That’s beside the point.” Not to mention not a crime.
“Is it?” One didn’t need to see him to hear the grin in his voice.
“Yes, I believe it is,” he insisted with an annoyed wiggle, going for dignified and missing by a mile.
“Guess who’s squirming like an eel now?”
“Is it still you?” Or was there someone else in bed with them? It couldn’t be him, you see, that would have been too unbecoming to even entertain.
“Try again, angel.”
The endearment hit Aziraphale like a rush of warm air on a cold winter morning, making him reach for the first pseudo-normal thing that came to his mind. “Do you know what a group of eels is called?” (It was perfectly on topic, cut him some slack!)
“A disgusting, squishy mess?”
“A bed.”
Crowley squawked, before pushing Aziraphale on his back and climbing on top of him, knees planted on either side of his thighs.
There he was in all his glory. All ruffled red hair, honey-gold eyes and long limbs. The hollows of his collarbones, the delicious dip of his throat, the crook of his neck – all places Aziraphale had kissed and touched to his heart’s content. His thin, naked chest heaving, tattoos almost glowing in the grey light of morning, and the most blinding of smiles curling up his lips in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart beat faster.
The sight was enough to send his train of thought crashing into the nearest wall at full speed and his hands instinctively running up and down Crowley’s hips. For a moment, he couldn’t quite remember how they’d gone from bickering and snapping at each other to sleeping in the same bed and touching each other’s naked skin like it was completely normal behaviour. What had been a slow descent into intimacy suddenly seemed to Aziraphale more of a fall from a very steep cliff and into the unknown.
The thought sent him reeling.
Thankfully, Crowley was too distracted by Aziraphale’s hands to detect his sudden confusion. Judging by the full-body shiver that went through him and the blush spreading on his cheeks, Crowley didn’t much mind the distraction, which wasn’t quite enough to wipe the smug grin off his face.
“Did you start rambling about eels just for the chance to impress me with your vast knowledge about collective nouns?”
“Why? Do you find collective nouns impressive?”
“No, it’s you I find impressive.”
It was Aziraphale’s turn to flush like mad. “Flattery will get you nowhere, you demon.”
“Oh, I think it’ll get me somewhere .” He slid his hands under the top of Aziraphale’s pyjamas, hooked them in the waistband of his trousers and–
The bedroom door was flung open, quickly followed by a very startling, not to mention confusing, collection of high-pitched screams and yells.
Aziraphale sat bolt upright, wrapped Crowley in his arms and almost turned them both around to shield him from whatever threat was waiting for them in the doorway.
“Oh my God, you guys, I told you we shouldn’t have!” squeaked someone.
“Is he– fuck me sideways, is he naked?”
“Brian, hold Warlock up, will you? He’s going to faint again, isn’t he?” huffed another in exasperation. “Are you sure your iron deficiency is under control, Lock?”
“I can’t believe I just started my morning by watching old men porn.”
That last statement, uttered with a great deal of disdain, eventually managed to rouse Aziraphale from his stupor. “Excuse me?” he snapped back as the kids finally came into focus. “We are not that old! And this isn’t porn!”
“Yet!” Crowley barked. Anger and embarrassment were battling it out on his face, though it wasn’t quite clear which was winning.
Snarling and growling, Crowley got off Aziraphale, threw the blankets over him in a ridiculous, albeit very sweet attempt at preserving his modesty, and snatched a pillow to cover his own lap. Then and only then did he turn to the kids and yelled, “What in the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“We thought you two were dead,” Pepper said, something dangerous flashing in her dark eyes as she glared at Crowley. “We were supposed to meet at eight, remember?”
“Wha– what time is it?”
“It’s eight thirty-five,” Wensleydale supplied, eyes practically glued to his wristwatch.
“Have you ever heard of knocking? Or, I dunno, ringing the fucking bell?”
Adam didn’t even try to suppress his snigger. “We did.”
“Multiple times,” Pepper clarified. “As I said, we thought you were dead.”
Aziraphale, who was very much torn between outrage and shame, could only blabber his excuses along with some pointed remarks about he and Crowley not being so old as to require people checking in on them just to make sure they hadn’t peacefully passed away in their sleep. In fact, you could almost say he hadn’t felt this young in a very long time, what with this being the first time in his entire life he had ever been caught in such a compromising position.
Still using his pillow like a shield, Crowley lurched out of bed and stalked towards the kids. “Out, all of you, right now!” he ordered, free arm frantically waving around.
“Fine, fine,” Pepper scoffed with a dramatic eye-roll. “No need to yell, old man. We are right here.”
“Believe me, I noticed,” he hissed, herding them out of the bedroom like a very distressed, very short-tempered shepherd dog. “Do you have any idea what I was about to do?”
“Unfortunately, I think I do,” came Pepper’s response as they slowly filtered out into the living room.
By this point, Aziraphale could only see a hint of Crowley’s ink-covered shoulder blades, so sharp they looked like wings.
“Well, then you know I should probably sue you for damages.”
“Don’t get too close to Warlock,” interjected Adam in warning. “He wasn’t ready to see you shirtless.”
“Bri, you owe me twenty quid,” Wensleydale chimed in. “I told you they were doing it.”
“I’ll pay up if you help me with Lock, he’s heavier than he looks. Just take his other arm and–”
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide at the dull thud that echoed from somewhere in the living room.
“It’s okay,” Brian rushed to say. “He’s got a thick skull.”
Crowley closed the door without so much as a glance back, and Aziraphale was left alone in the bedroom, straining his ears to hear whatever was being said in the next room and clutching the blankets against his chest like a blushing maiden surprised by her parents the morning after her wedding.
He immediately let go of the covers in a futile attempt at projecting an air of confidence for an audience of exactly none. He silently chastised himself for such embarrassing imagery, then reached towards his bedside table for a drink of water.
For lack of better things to do, he put on his spectacles, picked up his notebook, opened it to a blank page and started jutting down some notes about neck bites (for no other purpose than the Victorian novel he was, apparently, officially working on).
He let his hands run the show, so to speak, and took the opportunity to give his thoughts a little bit of a reprieve.
Crowley came back a few minutes later, shutting the door behind him and flinging the pillow on the bed. “Those bloody kids!” he groused, face still scrunched up in anger. “Young people these days… no respect for authority whatsoever.”
“Isn’t challenging authority supposed to be your bread and butter?” asked Aziraphale without lifting his eyes from his notebook. “What with you being a rockstar and all.”
Then he blinked, really looked at the notebook and realised that he wasn’t so much writing down his thoughts as drawing them. Baffled, he let his fingers follow the outline of two people that very much looked like him and Crowley. And for some reason it was this, the idea that someone like them could be the protagonists of one of his silly novels about steamy sex and visceral connections, that shook him to his core. It certainly put the whole thing into a very specific perspective.
Was this really happening? To him of all people?
It sort of… well, it sort of defied reason, didn’t it?
“Shut up,” Crowley grumbled under his breath. “I told them off. A proper dressing down, they were shaking in their boots.”
Aziraphale forced himself to breathe properly, which became easier when he chanced a glance at Crowley. “Yes, I’m sure you were very firm and very scary.”
Crowley perked up at that, trying – and failing – not to make it too obvious. “I know. Firm ‘s what I am, and scary ‘s what I do.”
“Of course.”
“‘M sorry, we’ll have to cut this– er, whatever this is , short,” he said, the top of his ears turning adorably pink as he began collecting his clothes. “Got some recording to do. Pepper wouldn’t stop accusing me of treating them like cogs in the capitalistic machine and taking advantage of my so-called celebrity status to get some free labour out of ‘em, so…”
“That does sound like Pepper, yes.”
He wore his mended satanic t-shirt, then sat on the bed to put on a pair of dark socks. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away or wrestle the urge to brush his hair into submission.
“I may have also agreed to a charity concert the day before we leave.”
“Oh dear.”
“You can bloody say that. Who’s gonna come to hear me sing?”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Good Lord, the man didn’t really have a clue.
Crowley snorted. “How’s that for a change?”
“Miracles do happen sometimes,” Aziraphale mused, making a move to get off the bed only to have his plans thwarted by a very fetching demon pushing him back by the shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Stay here, rest.” In the steely light of morning, Crowley’s eyes looked like molten gold. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”
“But–”
“No buts,” Crowley said softly, a slow grin blooming on his lips. “Only one butt, singular, if you like. But later.”
Aziraphale both flushed and scoffed. “That’s a terrible way of propositioning me, dear.”
“Is it?” Crowley teased, then leaned forward to press his smile against Aziraphale’s lips. “Just stay,” he whispered, so close Aziraphale could feel his warm breath tickling his cheeks. “Do lazy morning things. Read one of your boring books. Think angel thoughts. Make your fluffy hair even fluffier.”
Aziraphale’s heart fluttered hopelessly in his chest, eyes locked with Crowley’s. “You have very strange ideas about what I do in the morning.”
“Yeah, the reality is probably a hundred times filthier, huh?” He gave him another peck on the lips, pulling back before Aziraphale could so much as think of retribution. “I’ll be back with your tea. Just stay, please.”
If he wasn’t careful, staying was all Aziraphale would want to do.
For being a made-up construct, time really had an uncanny knack for ruining things and doing the exact opposite of what you wanted it to do.
So it came as no surprise to Aziraphale that, in his last week or so on the Isle of Skye, the days began to slip by at breakneck speed. No matter how desperately he tried to stop them or even slow them down, to grasp at the hours and clutch them to his chest for just a moment longer, every day stubbornly turned into the next.
The only thing Aziraphale could do was fill them to the brim, to load them up with things to do and places to see in a desperate attempt to weigh them down, slacken their frenzied pace and impress their memory on his mind.
Curiously enough (or probably not curiously at all), time wasn’t the only thing that changed during those days. No, even the fabric of reality seemed to be different, now offering itself to Aziraphale’s eyes with way more clarity and focus than he’d grown accustomed to – the sky, the sea, the rolling hills, the sharp rocks jutting out from the earth… it was like a veil had been lifted, and Skye felt more real and sharp and brilliant than it had ever been.
Aziraphale could have easily invented a number of elaborate reasons to explain this shift in perception, something about the magic of travelling and the way it rouses the long-dormant, routine-addled parts of your brain, but deep down he already knew that the real catalyst in all of this was the man who went to sleep next to him at night and was there to give him shy good morning kisses when they woke up.
Change didn’t spare them either, even though none of them dared to mention it out loud or, God forbid, actually talk about what was happening. There’d be time for that too. Later.
In the blink of an eye, Aziraphale’s luggage was moved into the bedroom, his clothes hung in the wardrobe, and sure enough, his things wasted no time before piling up on his bedside table in their usual haphazard mess (Crowley had a lot to say about that).
It should have been jarring, navigating their cohabitation after what Aziraphale would have dramatically described as an earthquake of biblical proportions, but it wasn’t. In fact, they settled into a new routine by seamlessly shifting their old ones around. Aziraphale was pleased to say that it didn’t take much adjusting at all, mostly because they already shared a routine of their own, only they hadn’t quite acknowledged it up until that point. It felt like bracing for a considerable feat, one that could have been easily doomed to fail – Aziraphale knew he had a terrible track record on making space for other people in his life – only to realise half the work had already been done without him even noticing.
And so Aziraphale was in charge of buying groceries and making breakfast, lunch and dinner, while Crowley took care of making the bed, doing the dishes and generally keeping the place clean, though one could argue that his main contribution was complaining at length about Aziraphale’s terrible habits.
Crowley didn’t stop gracing him with his daily musical selection (at the proper volume, mind you), either sharing his favourite albums or specific songs he thought Aziraphale might like (he was usually spot on), telling him about this or that artist he had met, recounting anecdotes from his life in the spotlight, uncovering bits of himself he’d previously kept buried and hidden even to himself.
They also finished writing two more songs together, Envy and Sloth – the first about the powerless anger that fills you when you see other people living the life you desperately wanted for yourself; the second about lazing about in bed and the joys of taking it slow. Crowley had randomly come up with the concept when they were enjoying one such morning together, and Aziraphale had been more than happy to indulge him right there and then, scribbling the lyrics on his notebook.
“‘S better than my first idea anyway,” Crowley said, tapping away on his phone.
“What was your first idea?”
“‘M not sure, but it had something to do with the sloth from Zootopia.”
“What’s a Zootopia?”
“‘S an animated film about a sexy con-artist with a heart of gold who happens to be a red fox that sort of looks like me,” Crowley explained, “and this cop, who’s a little perky bunny with a passion for sticking to the rules, a fluffy white tail and giant blue eyes that–” He abruptly cut himself off and glanced at Aziraphale, gaze narrowing in suspicion. “Eyes like yours.”
Aziraphale, who was already frowning, couldn’t help but scrunch up his nose in response. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” He was sort of at a loss for words. No one had ever told him he had eyes like a bunny’s. The only bunny he could think of he’d met at magic camp and had creepy red eyes. “And what has the sloth got to do with any of this?”
“Nothing, he works at the DVLA.”
Oh dear. “That doesn’t explain things at all.” Quite the opposite, actually.
“Here, I’ll show you. ‘S bloody funny.”
Crowley showed him a clip from the movie, and while Aziraphale didn’t find it even remotely funny – you could say bureaucracy had scarred him for life – he did enjoy watching Crowley as he sniggered to himself, mouthed the character’s lines under his breath, then lectured Aziraphale about his unforgivable lack of good taste.
Envy and Sloth aside, Aziraphale tried multiple times to get Crowley to brainstorm themes and concepts for Pride too, the only remaining blank page on the corkboard in the studio, but whatever his approach in broaching the subject, Crowley flat-out refused to even bounce a few ideas around, vehemently reasserting that six sins were quite enough for him, then sulked for the rest of the day until Aziraphale dropped the matter entirely.
Two days later, he was brewing himself a cup of Earl Grey when it randomly occurred to him that Crowley’s reaction might have had something to do with the bet they’d made at The Quarry on their ninth day on Skye. To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale had never taken it as a serious bet in the first place – whatever the outcome, he would never have given the man the satisfaction of cutting his vacation short, not even for double the songs they’d bet on.
And yet, as he let his eyes wander over the foggy landscape outside the window, the mere idea of Crowley refusing to write that seventh song for the irrational fear (because irrational it was) of sending him home before the month was up was enough to make Aziraphale tear up in his now tragically oversteeped tea.
“Oh bugger.” What in the world was happening to him? Crying in his Earl Grey like his twenty-five-year-old self would have, how embarrassing!
No matter how silly he felt, as the days ticked by, he could no longer deny that something was different, not just between him and Crowley but within himself too. He felt strangely unmoored, like he’d suddenly looked down and realised that, since after that night in the studio, he’d never stopped floating.
He knew, vaguely, that he should have been scared, and part of him was. It wasn’t like he didn’t endeavour to try new things every once in a while, because he did, but always in moderation and well within what he’d deemed as reasonable limits. Creature of habit that he was, Aziraphale didn’t like to toy with things that could produce a lasting change in his life. In this specific instance, he knew the risks and saw the danger approaching with staggering clarity, but awareness didn’t make him any less powerless to steer himself away from it, mostly because, well… simply put, he just didn’t want to.
It was nice, waking up next to Crowley, shaving next to him in front of the sink and exchanging jabs about their choice of razors (a fancy electric razor for Crowley with more settings that could ever be necessary, and an old fashioned cut throat one for him, which Crowley wouldn’t stop blabbing about), showering together (as the environmentally conscious people they were), then spending their day apart and finding themselves in the kitchen to cook dinner together, talking about nothing and everything, then retreating to the bedroom and dancing around what they actually wanted to do until one of them finally caved.
When Crowley wasn’t busy recording with the kids or organising the concert with Maggie’s help (whose squeal at being told Crowley was going to headline what he’d called an ‘an embarrassing charity concert that’s gonna put the last nail in my career’s coffin’ had been heard all the way up North), Aziraphale convinced the man to explore the island with him before their time on Skye ran out. It seemed a much wiser choice than spending whatever remained of it in bed, where things were bound to become even blurrier.
Crowley grumbled and groused and complained, but he gave in the moment Aziraphale announced he would go by himself if necessary.
“You’d lose your head next if it wasn’t attached,” Crowley said by way of explanation, as he unhooked his overcoat in the hallway.
“I’ll have you know that I’m still perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” That’s what he’d been doing all his life, after all, and he hadn’t done such a terrible job at it, if he could say so himself.
Crowley wasn’t even looking at him when he said, “Nyeah, but you don’t always have to.”
He’d made it sound casual enough, nothing more than an offhand remark, and maybe to him it was – something so obvious it didn’t even need to be stated out loud – but to Aziraphale it felt like being struck by lightning on a bright sunny day.
He stopped in his tracks, too stunned to do much more than stare at the man as he wrapped one of Aziraphale’s tartan scarves around his neck. I can, he mouthed the words to himself as though they weren’t English, but a mysterious foreign tongue he’d just uncovered by pure chance. But I don’t always have to.
After that, the walk to the village went by in a bit of a daze, the petrichor still lingering in the air after what had been a very rainy morning. Aziraphale didn’t even realise they were walking arm in arm until they arrived at their destination – and with no injury, fake or otherwise, required! The proximity didn’t help clearing his head, but it apparently did wonders to soothe his buzzing nerves.
As soon as he got his bearings, the first thing he did was drag Crowley to Warlock’s to buy a pair of comfortable walking shoes, which Crowley flat-out refused the minute he saw the available options (“Not even at gunpoint!”), assuring him that his snakeskin boots had never failed him and they wouldn’t start now if they knew what was best for them.
Then they visited the only car rental in the village, where they bickered for the better part of an hour just to decide between an awfully big, shiny black Jeep, and a perfectly serviceable yellow Peugeut.
Aziraphale won, but solely because the very anxious lad working at the rental, a bespectacled young man called Newt, climbed on to the Jeep, started it with the intention of showing them how that monstrosity of a dashboard worked, and somehow broke the whole thing by touch alone. Crowley’s murderous glare was plain to see even through his sunglasses.
Which is how Aziraphale found himself driving a yellow Peugeut while gleefully ignoring the relentless protests of a very disgruntled Crowley sitting on the passenger seat, ranging from “You can’t possibly drive that slow, it’s against the Geneva convention,” to “Did you just honk at that other car to say hello? You did, didn’t you? That’s it, I’m going to jump off this old crock and be done with it,” and straight to “Don’t tell me. I died and this is Hell.”
One hour into their hike around the enchanting landscape of the Fairy Glen, a truly magnificent collection of craggy hillocks and boulders covered in a thousand shades of brown and green, as well as enchanting little lochs reflecting the grey sky, Aziraphale was reading aloud from the pamphlet he’d picked up at the car rental when he turned around and noticed Crowley wasn’t beside him anymore, but arguing with the soil several meters behind (Aziraphale had become very proficient at tuning out his grumblings).
“Jesus fuck– urgh! Let me go, you bloody twat!”
“Crowley?” Aziraphale inquired politely once he’d walked up to him. That’s when he noticed Crowley’s left foot was stuck in the mud. “Oh dear.”
“‘Oh dear’ my bloody fucking arse!” Crowley snapped. “Your stupid fairytale thingy has just kidnapped my foot!”
“I’m sure that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration. Besides, if you had–”
“Don’t you dare,” Crowley warned him, eyes flashing behind his shades. “If you say ‘I told you so’ right now, I’m going to drown myself in this stupid puddle then haunt you for the rest of your life. And I can already tell you, you’re not going to like it!”
“How can you be so sure?” (Paranormal erotica involving ghosts, now that was an idea.)
“Because they’ll make a depressing documentary about my life, and everyone will know you were the last person to see me alive, and they’ll ask you to participate and you’ll say no, because you think the telly is a getaway to drugs or something, and everyone will find it suspicious and–” Another groan. “Satan down below, if they ever make a movie about me, please don’t let me be played by a monkey. An aardvark, maybe, but not a monkey.”
“Why an aardvark?”
“‘Cause they wouldn’t know what to do with it and they would eventually give up. Obviously.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips in annoyance. “Is this about the Zoo Utopia?” Not only he couldn’t see what monkeys and aardvarks had to do with any of this, he also believed he had earned the right to I-told-you-so him fair and square, seeing that he had explicitly told him to look where he was going instead of sashaying around with his nose up in the air.
“It’s one word, Zootopia, and no, I’m talking about Robbie Williams.” Crowley tried to free his boot, but it just wouldn’t budge, so he growled and sighed in quick succession instead. “Did I tell you about that time I almost threw up on him at the BRIT Awards?”
Aziraphale wisely decided to refrain from making his displeasure known (too overtly). “I’m afraid not.” And he had no intention of entertaining any conversation about vomit of all things. “Now, do you think you can manage to free your foot?”
Crowley looked aghast. “Wha–”
“Detaching it from your boot, of course,” Aziraphale clarified.
“Are you taking the piss? And leave the boot there? Hell, no.”
“Rest assured, we will rescue your precious boot. But first lean on me and–”
“Ugh, yes, yes! Fine!” he scoffed, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm for balance. “I’ll just–” He twisted his foot experimentally for a couple of seconds until he found the right angle. Being half-snake had its perks, apparently. “There it is.” Not a moment later, Crowley was free and jumping in place on his right foot.
“Splendid. Let’s get you to that boulder over there.”
Crowley scrunched up his face as he sat down and watched Aziraphale shrug off his trenchcoat. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to save your boot.”
“And you have to be naked to do that?” he squawked, but still accepted Aziraphale’s coat and scarf.
“I’m hardly naked. I just don’t want to ruin my trenchcoat. It’s vintage.” Besides, young Newt had warned him about some mud puddles being knee-deep, and he wasn’t going to take any chances.
“‘Course it is.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes (which Crowley didn’t care for, if his indignant squawk was anything to go by) and the sleeves of his jumper (which, on the other hand, seemed to catch Crowley’s attention alright – he did have a thing for forearms, Aziraphale had noticed). “Do you think there might be something to be said about you being the one literally stuck in the mud?”
“Absolutely not,” he grumbled.
“There might be a lesson in there somewhere,” Aziraphale insisted, walking up to the mud puddle with his very sensible, yet unfashionable, trekking shoes.
“I’ll tell you where you can stick it.”
Aziraphale glanced at Crowley over his shoulder and couldn’t help but smile. He looked impossibly cute sitting on the boulder like that, with his hair ruffled by the wind, his lips pouting prettily, his socked foot resting on the opposite knee and Aziraphale’s trenchcoat carefully folded in his lap.
The warmth that flooded him at the sight was enough to make Aziraphale’s head spin. As it was, he could barely resist the urge to retrace his steps and kiss that stupid moue off Crowley’s face.
He gave himself a mental shake and focused on the boot instead, ignoring his heated cheeks and the way his heart was happily pounding away in his chest. His stomach felt weird too, and it probably had nothing to do with Crowley talking about vomiting on one Robert Williams, who apparently had a thing for monkeys, whoever he was.
Pushing all thoughts aside, he dropped down on one knee where the ground was mostly dry, grabbed the top of Crowley’s boot and pulled. The mud tried to resist, but Aziraphale, strong and mulish as he was, eventually won. He took a little detour towards the nearest lochlan to clean the boot before going back to Crowley, who became very red and spluttered some more nonsense the moment Aziraphale went down on one knee to help him put it on.
“You’re so fussy,” Aziraphale teased him reproachfully.
“‘M not fussy. I’ve never been fussy in my life and I sure as Hell won’t start now. Also, stop kneeling. ‘M not bloody Cinderella.”
“If you say so, you fussy demon.”
“Shut up.”
Aziraphale burst out laughing and straightened up to wipe the dirt off his trousers. After a bit of hesitation, Crowley leapt back to his feet, gave the trenchcoat and scarf back to his rightful owner, then disappeared somewhere behind him while Aziraphale was still fixing his clothes. “We should hurry up if we want to make it back to the cottage before the sun is–”
He turned and was met by a cold, muddy hand unceremoniously placed on his face. He gasped and reared back, taking in Crowley, who was cackling like an idiot for what was probably the lamest prank ever conceived.
“Did you just–”
“Oh, I did,” Crowley confirmed gleefully. He put his clean hand on his chest, “Fussy demon,” he said, before extending it towards Aziraphale, “meet dirty, dirty angel.”
Aziraphale gaped at him, the epithet bringing a scarlet flush to his face. “I beg your pardon?” he stammered.
“You heard me.”
“Oh, you’re– how dare you– you– you– ” Oh, but he really wanted to kiss him right now, counterintuitive as it may have been.
Crowley must have read his mind because he stalked towards him, flicked off his sunglasses, searched his face for a split second, found exactly what he was looking for and caught Aziraphale’s lips in a searing kiss that made his toes curl (in his still very sensible, very unfashionable shoes, he’d like to point out).
There had been lots of kisses after that night in the recording booth, shy kisses and bold kisses, sleepy kisses and passionate kisses, little pecks and long, steamy snogging sessions that had left him feeling pliant and boneless and drunk out of his mind. And yet, everytime it happened, Aziraphale felt his heart flutter against his ribcage and his fingertips tingle in anticipation. There had been other things too, exploring hands and questing fingers, over clothes, under clothes, and one time in the shower too, but they were taking it slow, letting themselves get used to the intimacy of it all (they’d quickly realised, none of them was quite used to it).
Aziraphale grabbed him by the front of his overcoat and pulled him closer, but wasn’t too far gone not to whisper, “Stain my trenchcoat and I’m going to be very crossed with you.”
Crowley grunted against his mouth. “How crossed exactly?”
“Very crossed,” he assured, earning himself a scoff that was more groan than anything else. A slow smile spread on his lips. “You like this, don’t you?”
“Maybe? Possibly?” Crowley shrugged, trying (and failing) to feign indifference. “Er, you know what? Fine. Definitely.”
“That’s very good to know.”
“It is?”
“Yes, but in the spirit of avoiding any and all misunderstandings, please rest assured that if you ruin my coat there’s not going to be any spanking involved, I just won’t talk to you anymore.”
Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “Wait a sec. Spanking’s on the table?”
Aziraphale huffed. “Did you hear what I said about the coat?”
“Sure, sure– now, about the other thing…”
The day after the Fairy Glen they went to Coral Beach in Claigan, where the sun unexpectedly came out and turned the water a shocking blue. Crowley took the opportunity to film a short video (a TikTok, apparently) to let his ‘three and a half followers’ (his words, not Aziraphale’s) know about the charity concert and direct them to the website they could buy tickets from. Maggie had called to squeal some more after that. They also managed to take a quick walk on the Quiraing before sundown, but after that, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts not to think about that, their time was up.
The night before the concert, armed with several blankets, a couple of electric torches, some nibbles consisting of sandwiches and shortbread, and a thermos full of hot tea, they drove to a car park up north to do a little bit of stargazing, on Crowley’s insistence this time.
They climbed on the bonnet of the battered old Peugeout (Aziraphale more clumsily than Crowley) and wrapped themselves in the blankets, lying side by side as the stars twinkled and blinked above them.
It was breathtaking, Aziraphale had to admit, definitely worth suffering the cold, and the company made it even better.
“That glowy dot in the middle is Mars,” Crowley explained, barely concealed excitement in his voice as he pointed to the relevant spots in the sky. “And that’s Orion, can you see it?”
“I think so?” To be perfectly honest, to Aziraphale it all looked like a little bit of a mess. He chanced a glance in Crowley’s direction and found himself staring at those same stars reflected in his eyes, full of wonder and excitement. His stomach did that fluttery thing it’d been doing for some days now.
“‘S gorgeous, isn’t it?” Crowley said softly.
“It really is,” agreed Aziraphale, who, like the worst possible cliché in a romantic movie, wasn’t even looking at the sky.
Crowley turned to him and, like the worst possible cliché in a romantic movie, instead of letting his outstretched arm fall back to his side, he snaked it around Aziraphale’s shoulders as if the doings of his arm didn’t concern him. “Bet you regret not coming here with Mr Brown.”
Aziraphale snorted and snuggled a little closer before he realised what he was doing. Crowley, who was still pretending nothing weird was going on, didn’t seem to have any objection.
“So you are a mind reader after all.”
“Nah, don’t do minds. I can read it in your eyes, though. Fell in love immediately, didn’t you?”
“At first sight.”
Crowley’s chuckle turned contemplative. “Have you ever then?”
“Have I what?”
“Fallen in… you know, it .”
“Have I ever fallen into what?” Aziraphale knew where he was going with this, but Crowley’s embarrassment was too endearing not to tease him mercilessly for it.
“In lo– hng.”
“Have I ever fallen in love?”
“Ngk. Yes.”
Aziraphale’s smile dimmed, just now realising that the question would require an answer. “I’m not sure, actually.” He paused, an unnamed feeling swirling in his chest. “That’s not true,” he heard himself say before he could think better of it. “I’ve never been. Honestly, I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”
Crowley glanced at him, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe I just can’t. Fall in love, that is. Maybe you need something I’m not equipped with.” The thought was so stark, so bone-chilling, Aziraphale briefly wondered what it was doing outside of him in all its depressing glory. It was one of those things he’d always thought but never ever dared voicing out loud.
“Wot?” Crowley sounded scandalised. “That’s a load of bollocks, you literally write love stories.”
“No, it’s erotica.”
“So? Your characters love each other. I still think about them, and not because they shagged a lot.” Crowley grimaced in contemplation. “Well, not just because of that,” he admitted after a beat of silence.
“But that’s not what ultimately moves the story along, is it? It’s sex. Desire. That I understand, but romance…? I don’t know. You could say it has always… er, eluded me, I suppose. At least in real life.”
“Pfft. I think you’re full of it.”
“Why would I be lying?” If he was, he’d stick to more flattering lies.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Crowley took a sharp intake of breath, and then, without looking at him, he said, “You’re full of it– of love. ‘S like you’re made of it.”
Aziraphale felt his throat tighten and his eyes immediately prickle with tears.
How silly.
“Crowley…” he began, but his voice was wet enough to make him reconsider.
Crowley tensed beside him. “Alright, fine. ‘S like ninety percent love and ten percent bitchiness, but it’s there. You care for everything. Good food, ratty old t-shirts, those awful threadbare bags you insist on lugging around, your books, your clothes, those annoying kids who never shut the Hell up, even pathetic washed-up rockstars like me…”
“B-but it’s not the same thing.”
Crowley chanced a glance at him. “Who says?”
“I don’t know. People?” The hundreds of romance books he’d read and loved throughout his life?
“Would you take advice from those people?”
What a weird question. Aziraphale shook his head and tried to focus. “Which people are we talking about specifically?”
“People in general.” Crowley twisted his body to turn to him, one arm still draped over Aziraphale’s shoulders to pull him closer. “You wouldn’t, would you? Because you’re a stuffy posh bastard who thinks he’s better than everyone and is so full of love he barely even knows what to do with it.” He shrugged. “You’re one of a kind. Maybe the way you love ‘s the same. Different from everyone else’s. But I can still recognise it for what it is.”
Another pause, and when Aziraphale didn’t say anything, Crowley continued, gaze shifting back to the sky. “Take the stars for example. Constellations do not actually exist, did you know that? They’re just random patterns. Someone decided that smattering over there looked like a big chariot, others compared it to a bear, but maybe someone else would have seen a different pattern entirely. Someone would have grouped different stars altogether and stick a fancy name on ‘em depending on what they saw. But no matter what you see in them, or how you group them, they’re still the same stars, you know? That doesn’t change.”
Aziraphale smiled through the tears not so shamelessly streaming down his face, chest swelling with a warm feeling so big he was afraid it’d crush him sooner rather than later. “W-well… you do seem to know a lot about this.”
“Bit of an expert, me,” said Crowley with a luminous smile. “Don’t hesitate to ask me if you have any other questions about stars… or love.”
The Crowley of a couple of weeks ago would never have said anything of the sort, Aziraphale realised. He looked different. Lighter. More open, more–
And that’s when the penny dropped. Whatever he’d been doing to get Crowley to open up to him and get him back into writing, well, it must have worked both ways. Aziraphale had approached him like a bit of a puzzle, like a case that needed solving, only he hadn’t quite realised that solving this mystery would require showing some pieces of himself too. He’d given them away without much thought or care. He’d shown the man his soft underbelly (literally, some would say) without even noticing, without even hesitating, and he’d never once felt threatened, never felt in danger. And now…
Aziraphale had never been more attracted to him than at this moment. Had never felt so present and real and at the same time like he could float away at any moment.
“You’re very sweet.”
Crowley’s face fell immediately. “Oi! You better watch your language!” he snapped, but he didn’t let Aziraphale’s shoulders go. On the contrary, he pulled him even closer. “Sweet, what the– me! Sweet my thin, flat arse! You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Completely barking mad.”
“I think you like me precisely because of it,” Aziraphale retorted, rolling on his side to snuggle into him.
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t like you… much.”
“An overwhelming endorsement.”
“You should be thankful,” he groused. “‘S a great honour.”
“What about you?” He was curious now. “Have you ever fallen in love?”
Crowley snorted and shook his head. “Nah.” No hesitation whatsoever.
“Whyever not?”
Crowley shrugged and went back to look at the stars up above them. “I didn’t even know what it looked like until very recently.”
“And now you know?”
“Now I know,” he confirmed, cold fingers idly brushing the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “‘S why I’m an expert, you see.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Are you sure? You could argue with a wall if you wanted.”
“Oh, pish posh. You’re mistaking me for you.”
“I can definitely argue with a wall, but its comebacks wouldn’t be as good as yours.” He let out another laugh. “Hey, maybe we do have something in common after all.”
“Something, yes.” Aziraphale sighed, then finally turned back to the sky, trying to discern his very own patterns among the stars. “What’s that one called?”
“That’s Gemini…”
Chapter 13: Thirteen
Summary:
Anthony J. Crowley returns to the stage.
Notes:
Hello, and surprise? 💜
I've officially finished writing the fic! The last two chapters are coming on Monday and next Friday 🥳This one was supposed to be the first part of the final proper chapter before the epilogue, but it took a life of its own. It's 8.5k words of pure self-indulgence, hope you'll like it!
Thank you so much to all of you reading/kudosing/commenting. You're the best! 💜
CW: one person incorrectly assumes Crowley's sexuality, but it's very minor.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale looked up from Crowley’s phone and its quite ridiculous amount of features with the same pained grimace he’d been sporting for the last couple of hours. “Do we really need this– this live?” He glanced at Wensleydale, pushing out the word like he would an errant fishbone in a Michelin-starred restaurant, with a little surprise and a whole lot of disdain.
Wensleydale sighed. He was too polite to let his exasperation show, but Aziraphale could tell his patience was wearing thin, and he didn’t blame him either. When it came to mastering these new technologies, he wasn’t exactly model student material (to be fair, he’d never been and would most likely never be, no matter the subject at hand). “I think we do. I mean, that’s what Mr Crowley’s manager said, so–”
“‘S just Crowley!”
Crowley’s muffled voice, coming from the loo, had the unfortunate effect of making Aziraphale aware of their current accommodations.
Belonging to the adjacent community center, it was some sort of poorly lit, multipurpose locker room set next to a rugby field. Aziraphale, who prided himself on having successfully avoided any and all locker rooms he’d encountered in his life past middle school, still didn’t know why the concert had been moved from the school gym where it was initially supposed to take place to here. As far as he was concerned, the smell alone should have been enough to change everyone’s mind.
Someone probably had taken the time to explain to him why, but, you see, event planning was abysmally low in the list of things Aziraphale personally deemed fit for interesting conversation (with cotillon balls being the only notable exception), especially when he had other, more pleasant things to think about (Crowley’s eyes, Skye and its breathtaking sights, Crowley’s hands, Crowley’s collarbones, Crowley’s tattoos, Crowley’s– well, alright, Crowley’s everything ).
And now here he was, being subjected to dubious surroundings and even more dubious smells, not to mention vexed by the looming prospect of being tasked with filming tonight’s performance, which, in other circumstances, he would have been looking forward to.
“Here, I’ll explain again,” Wensleydale said, launching himself in yet another lesson on the joys of TikTok (Aziraphale longed for the days when he’d thought it was just a drug with a ridiculous name).
He tuned out Wensleydale’s voice and stared down at Crowley’s phone with no small amount of animosity.
Truth was, he’d spent the entire day tidying up, packing and generally going through the cottage to retrieve all of the bits and bobs he’d scattered all over the house, and for the life of him he couldn’t seem to shake off this… moodiness. As it was, he could barely bring himself to think about the fact that at this time tomorrow he’d be back in London. Back to Soho, back to his flat and back to a Crowley-less existence, unless he could somehow convince himself to take the man aside and actually talk to him.
Unfortunately, talking about the future would result in bursting the perfect bubble of the present, and Aziraphale… well. Let’s just say he wasn’t ready for that yet.
Even worse, he could barely hear himself think over the restless hum coming from– honestly, he didn’t know where it was coming from. Was it a faulty pipe? The ancient ventilation system giving up the ghost? Or was it coming from outside despite the locker room having no windows whatsoever? Suffice it to say, the constant buzzing was doing nothing to soothe Aziraphale’s already strained nerves.
Alas, one look around the room revealed that he was the only one affected. Brian and Pepper were doing a last minute review of the set-list, and Wensleydale was still raving about TikTok. Adam and Warlock had left some time ago to help the volunteers tasked with setting up their instruments on stage, and Crowley was getting dressed (and most likely styling his hair to death) in the loo.
The door opened, shaking Aziraphale out of his musings, and Adam and Warlock came in. “It’s showtime. We have to get a move on if we don’t want to lose the volunteers handling security. They can stay only ‘till eleven,” Adam announced without preamble. “Where’s Crowley?”
“Coming!” Crowley called out and, sure enough, one moment later he stalked out of the loo looking like… well, looking like himself, Aziraphale supposed, in the same sinfully tight black trousers and scuffed snakeskin boots he always wore, only this time he’d paired them with a burgundy blouse with voluminous sleeves and a plunging neckline that stopped short of revealing his belly-button. His hair was perfectly styled, of course, dark shades in place and a single snake earring dangling from his left ear.
Dear Lord. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry, a daily occurrence he was now very familiar with. Good thing was, he could do something about it now besides drinking plenty of fluids. Well, not now-now, but now.
Crowley ignored the others and sashayed towards him before twirling in place, arms wide. “How do I look?”
Aziraphale, who was starting to rethink his stance about Heaven not existing, muttered something unintelligible. (His only consolation was that, somewhere on the threshold, Warlock was going through a similar experience.)
Pepper snorted and nodded to Crowley. “I think you’ve broken him. He talks like you now.”
“Shut it, missy,” he barked, then turned back to Aziraphale with his arms still wide. “Angel?”
Aziraphale felt himself blush all over. Crowley looked stunning, good enough to eat. Like a dashing pirate, which… which was awful news. Between skirt-clad rockstars, Victorian vampires and charming, red-headed Scottish rogues, the last thing Aziraphale needed right now was to add another book idea to the already-sky-high pile he had amassed in the past month.
He cleared his throat and hoped his voice wouldn’t fail him too spectacularly. “You look very fetching, my dear.”
Crowley grinned from ear to ear and was he… was he wearing lipstick? “Then I’m good to go.”
Despite being in its death throes, Aziraphale’s common sense suddenly reared its head. “But aren’t you going to be cold?”
“‘S okay, I’m gonna wear my coat.”
“With a scarf, I hope.” His chest was practically exposed (Aziraphale filed it under: ‘things that are simultaneously very good and very bad’).
“Wally found me this,” said Crowley. He retrieved his coat to rummage in its pockets and hold out a silvery thing which couldn’t be considered a scarf even by the most generous of definitions. (Somewhere near the door, Warlock let out an undignified whimper.)
“What is that supposed to be?” Aziraphale asked, equal parts enticed and dismayed.
Crowley cackled as he pulled on his coat. “It’s called fashion.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is pneumonia.”
“I’m not expecting you to understand. Ninety percent of your wardrobe is tartan.”
Naturally, this was a gross exaggeration (it was less than fifty percent), which didn’t stop Aziraphale from retorting, “Excuse me, tartan is stylish.”
“I’ll check with Nasa, but I’m positive they still haven’t found a planet where that statement is even remotely true.”
Such impudence! “Regardless, you can’t go out like that. The only thing that scrap of cloth is good for is flossing.” And some light bondage, but this was definitely not the time or place to explore that particular avenue.
Heedless of Aziraphale’s very sensible arguments, Crowley wore the silvery not-scarf-thingy around his neck. “‘S okay, angel, I’m going to be moving a lot.”
Aziraphale was nothing if not mystified. “Why?”
Crowley paused, looked at him, then placed a hand on his hip and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other (wait a second, was that black nail polish?). “I can’t believe I get to pop your rock concert cherry.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in shock. “I beg your finest pardon?” He had no cherries left to pop, thank you very much.
“Can we go now?” Adam chimed in.
Crowley turned to him with a dramatic huff. “Can’t you see we are having a moment here?”
Pepper scoffed, exasperated. “The only thing I see is that I should stop surrounding myself with men time and time again. I must be mad. I hate men.”
“But you love to keep us in line,” Brian interjected.
“You’re also useless around women, you get a crush on every girl you meet,” offered Wensleydale.
“That is not true!” Pepper protested as Adam ushered them out of the locker room and across the hallway which supposedly led to the rugby field where the concert would take place. And that buzzing, good Lord, it was getting even worse– so it was coming from outside.
Making sure he still had Crowley’s phone with him, Aziraphale steeled himself for whatever was about to happen (he was now envisioning a two-hour concert with a very poor audio system) when he felt long, thin fingers slide through his. Crowley tugged on his hand until Aziraphale slowed down and came to a stop next to him, the kids going on without them.
He realised he was trying to avoid Crowley’s eyes only when he found himself staring at his own reflection in his sunglasses and flinched.
“Is everything alright?” Crowley asked in his soft voice, the one he’d been using more often lately, the one that sent Aziraphale’s heart into a somersaulting competition against itself.
“Quite alright,” Aziraphale confirmed a little too quickly, hoping his smile wasn’t as tight as it felt. “It’s tickety-boo, really. Don’t worry about me.” He let out a chuckle that made him cringe like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you nervous?”
Crowley shrugged. “Heh, I thought I’d be, but I’m not.” He still hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand. “But I’ll take a good luck kiss anyway.”
Aziraphale drank in Crowley’s pleased little grin, the pink dusting his sharp cheekbones, and felt his nerves melt away like snow in the sun. He couldn’t even remember what he was nervous about. “You’re a menace.”
“Thanks. Is there any chance this menace is about to be kissed?”
Several feet ahead of them, Pepper scoffed. “This is the tooth-rotting fluff no one’s asked for.”
“D’you guys think I should go blonde?” asked Warlock out of the blue.
“No, but I think you should go to therapy,” Wensleydale offered.
“Shouldn’t we all?” Crowley mused, eyes never once straying from Aziraphale, who knew because he’d been doing some staring of his own, struggling with the urge to take off Crowley’s sunglasses.
In the end, he decided against it, not wanting to disturb the calm feeling that had settled over him by recklessly plunging into those unfathomable amber-coloured depths and saying things he wasn’t supposed to be saying, not when Crowley was about to perform.
Congratulating himself on his wisdom, Aziraphale simply leaned forward and pressed his lips against Crowley’s, his free hand cupping his face and his thumb brushing soothing circles into his slightly stubbled cheek.
It felt natural, familiar even.
He pulled back with what he feared was a silly, besotted smile. “Well, I don’t know what one’s supposed to say in such circumstances–”
“Can I suggest, ‘I’d like to fuck you r–’” Crowley’s voice trailed off in a strangled squawk, courtesy of Aziraphale’s death grip on his hand. “‘Break a leg’ is also fine.”
“Mmh,” Aziraphale hummed, looking him up and down. Was it customary to lick someone’s collarbones before a concert? Probably not. Oh, but Crowley really was good enough to eat, a whole five-course meal to be precise, Mrs Sandwich had been right about that. “Break a leg, then.”
Detecting the heat behind Aziraphale’s words, Crowley flushed, then launched forward to give him another kiss before joining the kids near the exit with Aziraphale still in tow. “Oi! Get in formation, you little hellions! Let’s do this and don’t you dare show me up, yeah?”
Pepper smiled. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.”
“Let’s go!” Adam bellowed, pushing the doors open.
The moment he stepped foot outside, Aziraphale realised that the hum he’d been hearing wasn’t a faulty pipe or even an audio system in desperate need of an upgrade, but the relentless buzzing of a huge crowd whose screams were now filling his ears, a sea of people so vast Aziraphale couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked back to the doors they had just come out of with half a mind of going back inside and coming back out again just to confirm they hadn’t opened on the wrong reality.
He was so startled by the whole thing he didn’t even register the cold wind biting his cheeks, and when it was time for him and Crowley to part ways, he could only reply to his, “I’ll see you later, angel,” by squeezing his hand and reluctantly letting go.
In a whirlwind of screams and camera flashes going off, Aziraphale moved as though in a dream, letting a woman he recognised as Adam’s mom Deirdre drag him in front of the stage – which, he realised distractedly, looked more fit to a village fair than a rock concert. Deidre left him to stand before the crush barriers, next to a couple of volunteers in high-vis jackets who nodded to him in greeting.
“Good evening,” he heard himself say from very far away as he tried to spot the end of the crowd behind him, which turned out to be a rather pointless endeavour.
He didn’t have much time to let his brain adjust to the most recent developments because Crowley climbed on stage, picked up his guitar – it was called Bentley and he liked to make silly voices at it, Aziraphale had learned – and stalked to the mic in a few, long strides, accompanied by the deafening screams of the audience.
Still dazed and very much confused, Aziraphale took out Crowley’s phone, unblocked it and opened TikTok to start the live, too overwhelmed to overthink the necessary steps.
“Hello, Skye!” Crowley all but purred into the mic, sending the audience into a veritable frenzy. “Long time no see, huh? Well, turns out I’m still alive. Sorry mom and dad!”
Aziraphale tutted, all of his (admittedly limited) brain power focused on following Crowley with his gaze and holding the phone up in front of him. “I do hope they’re watching,” he muttered under his breath, bewilderment making him sound even prissier than usual.
“Thank you for coming to Pepper’s concert on such short notice,” Crowley continued.
Pepper immediately rushed to the mic, holding her bass out of the way. “It’s not my concert, old man.”
“Okay, then, would you like to enlighten us?”
She rolled her eyes but then took a moment to talk about the multiple charities that would benefit from the proceeds of the concert and thank the volunteers who had made it possible.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Crowley grumbled when she went back to her place. “I thought we were raising funds for my flagging career, or at the very least a new espresso machine.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. “You’re still hot as fuck, AJ!” screamed someone.
Aziraphale snorted, throwing a scolding glance over his shoulder. “That he is. Congratulations on having eyes, I suppose. May I suggest working towards acquiring some good manners next?”
“Thank you for noticing,” Crowley quipped in response, holding the mic like he was going to do very bad things to it. (This jealousy thing for mic stands was going to become a problem, wasn’t it?) “Well, here’s how it’s going to work, folks. I know you’re here to hear me sing my old songs, and I will, you can put the pitchforks away. But I’ve also been working on some new music, so we’re going to make a little deal, you and me.”
“You and I,” Aziraphale murmured.
“It’s one song for you and one song for me, ya feel me?”
The audience roared its assent. And just like that, with truly astounding effortlessness, Crowley had the crowd eating out of his hand within two minutes of walking on stage. Aziraphale was nothing if not impressed and something else too, something that had him thinking he should have probably made his own trip to the loo just to take the edge off.
Crowley smiled his most devilish smile, and– yes, loo it should have been.
“Alright then. If you don’t know me, you’re about to, and if you do, you already know the drill. I’m Anthony J. Crowley, these are The Them,” he said, gesturing to the kids around him, “and I bloody hope you’re ready to be dragged back to Hell.”
“Oh, my,” Aziraphale breathed out, a shiver dancing down his spine as music started playing and the crowd went crazy, screaming their heads off and immediately singing along. A fan favourite then.
Aziraphale was mesmerised. If he thought Crowley had looked incandescent on the little stage at The Quarry, here he was scorching the air around him and setting the audience on fire with such enviable ease that Aziraphale couldn’t help but think he must have made some sort of deal with the devil after all. He was changing the magnetic field all around him, turning himself into the center of the world, if only for a little while.
The first song was followed by the one about Envy, which the crowd seemed to enjoy well enough, some even venturing to sing the chorus on its second repetition. Aziraphale, who knew the new songs by heart, sang under his breath, earning himself some puzzled stares from the people leaning on the barriers next to him. Then came another success, something about Alpha Centauri of all things, the song about Sloth and an old one Aziraphale remembered listening to while researching Crowley almost two months prior.
“Alright, alright, alright,” Crowley drawled into the mic, breath coming in short gasps and forehead already glistening with sweat. “If you brought your kids here, first, what the Hell were you thinking? Second of all, you better cover their ears for the next three and a half minutes.” He downed half a bottle of water in one go, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Done? Good, because this next song is about sucking dick.”
A collective gasp rolled through the audience. “So you are gay!” yelled someone not very far from Aziraphale, who whipped his head around looking for all the world like he was going to add ‘punching people’ to tonight’s long list of firsts.
“How dare you,” he scoffed.
Crowley took it in his stride. “‘M not gay, I’m pan. Look it up, you might learn something.”
“Not to ask strangers if they’re gay, for example,” Aziraphale rumbled with a murderous glare aimed in the culprit’s general direction.
“It basically means you all have a chance,” Crowley continued, stalking around the stage like he couldn’t contain the energy crackling through him. “Except you, yes, you with the gay question, I don’t like you.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Just joking, none of you stand a chance, but I’m still pan.” He shrugged off his coat, the sleeves of his blouse blowing in the wind and the silver scarf-y thing dangling from his sweat drenched neck in a way that made Aziraphale think about anything but flossing. “Anyway, hope you’re in the mood for some Gluttony, you heathens!”
Aziraphale liked to think of himself as a very prepared person, the sort of individual capable of weathering any kind of storm with a little caution. But no amount of far-sightedness could have prepared him to have that particular song sung at him, or– well, Crowley was singing at the crowd, but Aziraphale could feel his shielded eyes on him, his personal twin pools of molten black lava.
He felt himself tingle all over, senses taken over by a very peculiar mix of excitement and confusion, as though Crowley wasn’t so much singing as casting a spell.
The concert went by in a blur. The songs were catchy, the audience wrapped around Crowley’s finger, especially after a very improvised, very heartfelt rendition of Flower of Scotland. Aziraphale’s rapt attention stayed glued to the stage, chest swelling with pride more often than not.
For being such a neurotic bundle of nerves, there was no denying that Crowley was born to be on stage. He knew how to put on a show, how to exploit his carefully crafted on-stage persona to connect with the audience and temporarily become someone larger than life. He was good at moving around on stage, even one as humble as this, at engaging all sections of the crowd, and never once forgetting to hype up the kids after each and every song.
When he announced the last two songs on the set-list, Aziraphale was shocked to realise that they were nearing the two-hour mark.
“Before we play the last song– yes, yes, it’s So Long, Suckers, no need to panic – I have another new offering.” He dragged a hand through his hair, styling be damned, and rolled his neck as he bent down to pick up another water. “So, a little confession time might be in order.” He took a long swig and a deep breath, fatigue taking its toll. “Before coming here, I hadn’t been able to write for the better part of… well, almost five years now. I was pretty much down in the dumps, not gonna lie, but then– this will sound cliché, but I…” He paused and lowered his voice. “I was visited by an angel.”
Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He wasn’t– He couldn’t possibly– Oh dear.
The crowd groaned and Crowley burst out laughing. “‘S okay, haven’t converted or anything, not to organised religion at least. Sort of done with institutions, to be honest. But the angel in question… well, this is a pagan angel we’re talking about, and he was so annoying and so stubborn that, in the end, he did manage to perform a miracle and got me writing again.”
“Hardly. Annoying, that is,” Aziraphale complained, throwing a sideways glance at the people immediately behind him even though they were paying him no mind. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone knew Crowley was talking about him.
“In fact,” Crowley continued, “he’s written the lyrics of all the new songs you’ve heard so far.” He leaned towards the crowd, conspiratorially. “He’s pretty good, isn’t he? But don’t tell him, it’ll go to his head and he’s already insufferable, so…”
“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale muttered, cheeks growing impossibly hot. He was a ghost-writer, for Heaven’s sake. The people he wrote for weren’t supposed to acknowledge him, they never did.
“Well, the next song’s all me.” Even behind the sunglasses, there was no mistaking where ( who ) Crowley was looking at right now. “I wanted to write you a ballad, something you’d like. But then I thought, you’re way too unpredictable for a boring ballad, so… here it goes.”
Aziraphale was speechless, there was no other word for it, and if Crowley’s sheepish grin was anything to go by, he was enjoying his bafflement immensely.
“Angel, I know you’re going to have notes. Be nice, alright?”
“I’m always nice!” Aziraphale shot back, drawing the attention and the excited whispers of the people around him.
“Yeah, let’s reserve judgement for later, huh?” Crowley adjusted his hold on Bentley and, with a quick nod to Adam, they started playing.
Aziraphale was in no condition to launch himself into anything even remotely resembling musical analysis at the moment, but he did register that the song was not a ballad, even though the rhythm was slower and more unorthodox than Crowley’s usual offerings. It reminded him of the song about the psycho French killer.
Incidentally, this was also Aziraphale’s last coherent thought before Crowley’s voice started pouring in his ears, velvety, scratchy and laced with poorly concealed fondness.
So I met this angel, you wouldn’t believe
He looks like a cloud, speaks like a dame
Smells like autumn right after it rains
He’s soft and warm and gentle and sweet
A bit of a bastard, and sort of a bitch
Aziraphale quite literally stopped breathing and, for a while there, he was convinced he’d have to go through the rest of his life without breathing ever again.
So I met this angel, you wouldn’t believe
He fell from the sky in a flurry of wings
Sharp, witty, clever and hot as sin
What I want he never truly gives me
What really counts it’s what I need
He’s always stitching rips and fixing things
Says it’s no bother mending my wings
I didn’t ask him to but he does anyway
They don’t have to be perfect, he says
They just have to be
Just have to be
Just have to be
And there it went, his stupid heart, beating against his ribcage, flooding him with a warmth that made goosebumps bloom all over his skin despite the many layers he was wearing.
So I met this angel, you wouldn’t believe
Soft and dangerous, enough to crash into
and God help me, because crush I did too
Curves for miles, thwarting my wiles
There’s no one, believe me, just no one like him
He’s always stitching rips and fixing things
Says it’s no bother mending my wings
I didn’t ask him to but he does anyway
They don’t have to be perfect, he says
They just have to be
Just have to be
Just have to be
Worst of it all, the angel’s dead right
Turns out even a demon can fly
Maybe it’s not much
But it’s me
And it’s mine
Maybe it can’t hurt
Just a sprinkle of pride
Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears he couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to. So Crowley had written a seventh song after all, only he’d never told him.
He’s always stitching rips and fixing things
Says it’s no bother mending my wings
I didn’t ask him to but he does anyway
They don’t have to be perfect, he says
They just have to be
Just have to be
Just have to be
No, you don’t have to be perfect, he says
You just have to be
Just have to be
Just have to be
The song drew to a close, the crowd clumsily singing along before erupting into deafening cheers. Aziraphale felt strange hands on his shoulders, people shaking him, patting him and screaming in his ears. The fact that he didn’t even feel like turning around and launching into a tirade about proper manners, and the decency of not touching strangers when not invited to, was a testament to the not-so-unnamed feeling currently ravaging his insides.
Crowley raised a hand to acknowledge the audience’s reaction, but the soft smile quirking up his lips was only for Aziraphale. “Not bad, huh?” he murmured into the mic with a little nod in his direction.
“Wily old serpent,” Aziraphale whispered back, unable to tear his eyes away from Crowley, who was already gearing up for their last song.
“Alright, thank you all for coming out tonight, and thank you to the volunteers for wasting their evening on little ol’ me. This is So Long, Suckers. You better sing along, you heathens.”
Crowley had missed this.
The adrenaline pumping in his veins. The screams of the crowd still echoing in his ears. The world becoming more real, more tangible through the lens of his newly sharpened senses. His heart furiously drumming in his chest in its haste to break free from the constrictive confines of his body. The tingling sensation running up and down his limbs, making him feel like he was walking on air rather than the sticky, dirty floor of a community center in some godforsaken Scottish village.
It felt oh so fucking good . Better and more addictive than any drugs.
And yet, despite the endorphins firing up his brain, if he had to choose between this and the soft fingers laced through his, Crowley wouldn’t have hesitated to give it up without a second thought. One of those things he could do (and had done) without, and it had just occurred to him that it wasn’t the one he would have chosen a mere month ago.
“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked from somewhere behind him, voice faint and a little unfocused.
Crowley, who still hadn’t gotten his breath back and wasn’t exactly clear-minded either, had no idea. He was vaguely aware he was dragging Aziraphale across the corridor leading to the locker room and that he had to do something about… about this thing relentlessly swarming through him, giving him no respite.
He stopped in front of the first door they stumbled upon, flung it open and found himself staring at a walk-in cupboard. Heh, good enough for– whatever he wanted to do (it’d come to him). He tugged Aziraphale inside, closed the door behind them and pulled on a string to switch on the lonely lightbulb dangling over their heads before crowding Aziraphale against the nearest shelf, stopping himself short of pressing their bodies together like he wanted to (see? It had come to him).
“Is this okay?” he managed to ask.
“Yes.” The way Aziraphale was looking up at him, with his sparkly blue eyes and a dopey smile on his lips, you’d think Crowley was personally responsible for hanging the stars in the sky. Intoxicating, was what it was. “Where are we?”
“Er, a closet, I think.” Not the most romantic of settings, now that he really looked around. Were those old rugby boots?
Aziraphale pulled him impossibly closer by tugging on the hand he was still holding. “Are we about to have sex?”
Crowley spluttered, taken aback by Aziraphale’s wide-eyed candour and the sudden realisation that yes, maybe that had been the reason he’d entrusted his beloved Bentley to Adam and leapt off the stage to grab Aziraphale and make a run for it.
Well, no– the truth was more damning than that, wasn’t it? He wanted to do something for Aziraphale. Needed to, lest he crawled out of his skin to make space for whatever was flaming inside of him.
How did people usually do this? How did they go about their day carrying their big, bulky feelings around without worrying about where to bloody put them? Weren’t they scared that their heads and chests and stomachs and everything would eventually burst at the seams?
He needed Aziraphale to know. For him to get even a little glimpse of those big feelings simmering under his skin, a gratitude so immense he didn’t even think it’d be possible for such a thing to exist. To make him feel cared for. ‘Cause the angel, Crowley had found out, was really bad at it. The whole letting people take care of him. Truly awful. And it was only right that he returned the courtesy.
Relying on everything that had just dawned on him, as well as on his newfound ability of stringing more than two words together to form meaningful sentences, Crowley opened his mouth and very eloquently said, “Wot?”
Aziraphale’s eyes were roaming around his face with the sharp focus best reserved for open-heart surgery. And you know what? Maybe that was exactly what he’d been doing the whole time.
Fine, yes – Crowley could admit that his ability to correctly read other people’s feelings without his own mudding the waters was close to non-existent, but he could swear that whatever was flowing off of Aziraphale right now was big feelings material too.
“Cupboards are a staple of romance and erotic books,” Aziraphale explained, slightly spreading his legs so Crowley could come even closer, which he immediately did. Could he spend the rest of his days just rubbing his everything (both metaphorical and non-metaphorical) against Aziraphale’s? He should ask him right now.
“Have you ever made your characters shag in a cupboard?” was what he asked instead.
Aziraphale tutted. “No, I’m way too sophisticated for that.” A pause, and then, “But two of them have some pretty satisfying intercourse in the confessional of a deconsecrated church. Does it count as a cupboard, you think?”
Crowley tried to stifle a laugh before reminding himself there was no reason to. “Why not? A literal cupboard for your sins.” He brushed his free hand through Aziraphale’s fluffy blonde curls, mussed up by the wind. His cheeks were red and flushed and oh-so biteable, like he’d run a marathon rather than attend a concert. “Pretty satisfying intercourse, huh?”
Aziraphale shivered at the touch, but didn’t look away, tugging him even closer until they were pressed together. “Yes, there were British spies and Nazis involved. I mean– not in the intercourse, naturally. Nazis don’t deserve anything, let alone orgasms.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you really write me a song?”
“I did.” Unbidden, his stomach lurched. “What do you think?” Did you like the concert? Was I good enough?
Aziraphale scrunched up his face, eyebrows doing something complicated and smile turning… well, the smile he was giving him deserved a song of its own.
“Oh, Crowley ,” he breathed out, “I loved it. I think you’ve done an excellent job.”
His eyes were a little glassy, veiled with unshed tears, a whole constellation of them, shining like anything. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from leaning in, nuzzling his neck before climbing back up and softly kissing his cheek. Again and again.
He’d been doing loads of embarrassing things lately (kissing, touching, cuddling, saying stuff about love and stars of all things), and though their embarrassing nature had never been in question, his willingness to let himself be deterred by that particular detail had. In fact, he was quite close to not giving a single fuck about it. More than that, it had recently come to his attention that he’d been hogging all the fucks for years, and that he was sick of it.
“No one’s ever written me a song,” Aziraphale whispered, tone warm and wondering. He reached for Crowley’s face with his free hand, only it wasn’t free – he was still holding Crowley’s phone in it. He glanced at the screen as though surprised to see it there. “Oh. They’re recommending books where they have sex in closets.”
“Who?”
“The people in your live.”
Crowley huffed out a laugh. “Hell’s sake, Aziraphale, are you still recording?”
“I’m not sure.”
Crowley gently took the phone from him and, sure enough, the live was still going on. Feeling more smug than embarrassed, Crowley let out a delighted cackle, said goodbye to the heathens online and shut the whole thing down. “There ya go.” He placed the phone on the shelf behind Aziraphale, right next to a collection of deflated rugby balls.
“Crowley?” Making the most of his newly freed hands, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s torso and pulled him closer, their faces mere inches from each other.
“Yes?”
“You wrote me a song.”
“I did.” Least he could do, really, when looking Aziraphale in the eye was eons better than stargazing– and Crowley loved stargazing.
“All by yourself.”
“Yeah, ‘s what songwriters do when they’re not being pathetic.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
“Hng. Shut up.”
Aziraphale beamed and his thank-you, invariably brimming with gratitude, was promptly silenced with a kiss, a proper one this time, with Crowley’s hands tenderly cradling his head and their mouths sliding against each other in a lazy sort of hunger.
Kissing Aziraphale was probably the best thing Crowley’d ever done. He tried to put everything in it – all the words he wanted to say but had yet to find, his fondness, this blinding urge to make him feel good, to give him anything he wanted, to make him feel even an ounce of the care he’d shown him.
The moment they parted for air, Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathlessly kissing him everywhere he could reach, tugging his scarf and bow tie and jumper aside, revealing what little he could of his skin– but it wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough.
He let out a pitiful whine, nose pressed behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Can I suck you off?”
Aziraphale chuckled, a low rumble in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, you know–” He nibbled at the soft line of his jaw. “I dunno if there will be more concerts, but the Gluttony song should definitely go at the end, so I don’t play myself like a blessed fool and think about sucking you off the entire time,” he blabbed. “Does wonders for my energy, but when you wear trousers this tight… well, you know how it is.”
“I don’t, actually.” Aziraphale dragged a hand through Crowley’s hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp just the way he liked, as attested by the undignified whimper that escaped his mouth. “I’m afraid I’d rather stroll around in the nude than wear those torture contraptions, my dear.”
“I’d like to see that.” He’d make all the trousers in the world disappear if that’s what it took.
“Wouldn’t you just?”
“‘Ziraphale…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t make me beg.”
Aziraphale’s lips brushed against the curve of his ear, nudging his earring (Warlock’s, actually) with the tip of his upturned nose. “But you’d do it so prettily.”
“Fuck.”
“Maybe later, if you’re good.”
Crowley was pretty sure his insides had just turned into a bubbling pool of boiling lava, his head swimming with arousal. He laughed under his breath, with eagerness and disbelief. “You’re loving this, you bloody bastard.”
“So are you. Am I right?”
“Y-yes.”
“Are you going to be good for me, then?”
“Ffff–”
“That doesn’t answer my question, I fear.”
“Yes! Fine– fuck, yes.”
“Look at me, darling.”
Aziraphale cupped his cheek to tilt his face up, and Crowley couldn’t do much more than comply because darling ? I wouldn’t be calling just anyone darling , Aziraphale had said at The Quarry all those days ago.
“Ngk.”
“Take off your glasses first.”
Crowley did, enthusiastically, flicking them off as though they were burning up, and this time it was Aziraphale’s turn to melt, his blue eyes turning that dark and stormy grey that spoke of lazy mornings spent in bed while thunderstorms raged outside, his lips parting on a startled sighed.
“Would you look at that?” Crowley drawled, a slow, smug smile spreading on his swollen lips. “You really do like men with eyeliner.”
Aziraphale blushed furiously, and wasn’t it nice, just being able to fluster him like that? Whatever game they were playing, they were playing it together. “But– but why did you wear your glasses, then?”
“‘Cause it’s just for you.” As simple as that.
Aziraphale’s eyes went even more unfocused, his thumb rubbing circles under Crowley’s left eye. “You look lovely.”
Lovely. Fucking Hell. “Does this mean I–”
“Yes,” Aziraphale spoke over him, arousal twisting in Crowley’s belly in response. “But Crowley…” His gaze darkened, more steel than storm.
“N-nyeah?”
“I want to make myself clear. Nothing would displease me more than you not enjoying this.”
Crowley took a breath, ready to assuage any doubts, but Aziraphale stopped him before he could get a single word out.
“Which doesn’t mean you have to provide me with proof of your enjoyment, though I wouldn’t mind. It means you stop if you stop enjoying it, are we clear?”
“Aziraphal–”
“Crowley, please.” He took his face in both hands, eyes searching his with a sense of urgency. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are, angel. I promise.”
Aziraphale relaxed a tad at that. “Very nice.” His thumb brushed against Crowley’s lips. “Open your mouth.”
Crowley did and Aziraphale pushed his finger inside, pressing it against the flat of his tongue, heavy lidded eyes following his own movements until Crowley’s senses turned to mush. He remembered the thrill he’d get every time he put himself in someone else’s hands, not knowing what they were going to do with him, both anticipating and dreading whatever scar they’d leave him with. But this– there was no dread involved, because he knew, deep inside his battered soul, that Aziraphale would melt his brain while keeping him safe.
“Mmh, yes,” Aziraphale hummed. “This will do nicely.”
Crowley choked on a groan as Aziraphale removed his thumb and patted his cheek instead. Dear Satan, what had he gotten himself into?
“Now… you should probably get to work before someone comes looking for us,” Aziraphale continued. Crowley pulled back and he’d have dropped to his knees right then and there if Aziraphale hadn’t stopped him before he could. “Wait, take those rags over there,” he said with his normal voice. “We don’t want you to hurt your knees.”
Crowley huffed in protest. “Aziraphaaaaale!” he whined as he retrieved said rags and piled them on the floor in front of him.
“We aren’t twenty anymore, we must be careful.”
“You’re ruining the mood.”
“Seeing that I have created the mood, I can do whatever I want with it, if you don’t mind.”
“He’s about to get the blow job of his life,” Crowley muttered under his breath, “and he’s thinking about bloody rags . Unbelievable.” He gestured to the sad heap of rags between them. “Is this up to your impossible standards, my liege?”
Aziraphale scoffed indignantly. “You’re welcome to stop with the dirty talk at once. I am in charge here.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow, perplexed. “My liege? Really?” He was about to start cackling again, when Aziraphale’s expression shifted infinitesimally, fussiness swiftly replaced by a now familiar sternness that made Crowley’s insides quiver in anticipation. Oh, but the angel was unfairly good at this.
“If I am your liege, you already know what to do, don’t you?” Aziraphale wondered out loud, voice low and velvety.
Crowley kneeled and fumbled with Aziraphale clothes to get them out of the way, willing his clumsy fingers to cooperate.
“Slower,” Aziraphale commanded as he pushed a hand through Crowley’s hair and lit up his nerve endings like a bloody Christmas tree. “There’s a dear.”
Crowley glanced up at him, shivered at the sight, then leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s clothed belly and laughed, so horny he could barely function. “F-fuck. I can’t believe this is doing it for me.”
“Yes, well, we don’t choose our kinks. Our kinks choose us.” He clucked his tongue and tightened his hold on Crowley’s hair. “What we can do, though, is keep our knees safe.”
Crowley growled in a pathetic attempt to suppress the laugh that was threatening to escape his mouth. Again. “Fucking Hell, angel.”
“Come on, darling,” Aziraphale said, the smile plain in his voice, “show me how good you are.”
And then it was a blur of burning flesh and soft fingers relentlessly carding through his hair and brushing his cheeks; muffled whimpers coming from his own mouth, and “I’ll let you set the pace”, and “You’re doing very well”, and “Such a wicked tongue you have”, and “Lovely, just lovely”, and long pleased hums and Crowley’s own arousal clamouring for attention, banked up by the pleasure he was giving Aziraphale and the impossible urge to open himself up and let the man touch every part of him, even the darkest and most secret ones.
Satisfaction swept through him, warm and intoxicating, the moment he felt Aziraphale melt against him and rest his weight against the shelves behind him with an “Oh, Crowley” that was going to be seared into his brain for the rest of his days.
Focusing on his breathing, Crowley waited for the aftershocks to pass, then put his clothes back to rights – making sure his shirt and undershirt didn’t bunch up under his jumper – and got back on his feet, knees protesting despite the rags.
Aziraphale looked wrecked, cheeks ablaze and glassy eyes glittering in the faint light coming from above. He raised a hand to brush his fingers against Crowley’s swollen lips and let out a trembling, dreamy sigh. “That was very good.”
Crowley blushed in response, because of course. Aziraphale had permanently rewired his brain circuits then, quelle surprise. “Yeah?”
“Quite. Whatever the opposite of false advertising is.” He looked adorably drunk. “Will you kiss me?”
Well, he didn’t have to tell him twice. Crowley launched forward, capturing his lips in a graceless kiss, his neurons misfiring happily as Aziraphale wrapped him in his arms.
“Do you want me to–” Aziraphale began to say when they came up for air.
“No, ‘s okay.” He just needed a second to think disgusting thoughts and make sure his trousers wouldn’t burst at the seams– literally. “Let’s go home, angel.”
The kids were waiting for them in the locker room and, as a true testament to the success of the evening, Pepper didn’t do much more than glare at them.
The journey home was short and uneventful, or at least that’s how it felt to Crowley, who leaned his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder in the backseat of Alan’s car and dozed off immediately.
When Aziraphale woke him up, they were parked in front of the cottage.
They said their goodbyes to the kids, retrieved Bentley from the boot of the car and walked up to the door hand in hand. Aziraphale unlocked it and ushered a very sleepy Crowley inside, insisting he took a quick, hot shower to warm himself up.
Crowley had forgotten this part. The bone-deep tiredness that always followed a gig, making him pliant and drowsy. Some of the most reprehensible choices he’d made in the past could be blamed on this very same feeling, he thought as Aziraphale wrapped him in a clean towel, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear to convince him to brush his teeth even though he could barely hold the toothbrush in his hand.
He caved, as he always did, and the next thing he knew he was all snuggled up in bed with Aziraphale carefully removing his now smudged make-up with one of his reusable cotton pads. Crowley mumbled something and drifted off again and when he woke up next, the bedroom was plunged in darkness, the early morning twilight filtering through the half-drawn curtains. He remembered Aziraphale saying something about keeping them like that so they wouldn’t be tempted to oversleep and miss their coach for Inverness.
Crowley muttered something under his breath and reached for the warm body sleeping next to him. Only said body wasn’t sleeping at all. Crowley could tell because Aziraphale pulled him closer with clear-minded purpose, letting him cling to his front like a blessed octopus to a nice sun-warmed rock.
“Go back to sleep, my dear,” he whispered, lips softly brushing his temple.
“What about you?” Crowley managed to drawl against the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.
“I don’t seem to be able to.”
“Why not?”
Aziraphale shrugged and Crowley took the opportunity to bury his nose in the open collar of his pyjamas. “It’s silly.”
“Big silly fan, me,” Crowley mumbled, forcing himself to open his eyes. He pulled back to peer at Aziraphale’s darkened profile. “Shoot.”
“Oh, well… maybe if I don’t– no, never mind. It’s really very silly.”
“Angel.”
There was a sharp intake of breath, then he felt Aziraphale relax in his arms.
“M-maybe if I don’t,” he said softly, voice both wistful and embarrassed, “tomorrow won’t come.”
Crowley’s stomach clenched, the fear he’d pushed somewhere to the back of his mind now coming to the forefront. He made a conscious effort not to squirm away from it – it’d be a shame to throw all of his progress to the wind, wouldn’t it? – and traced the lines of Aziraphale’s forehead with his fingers instead, trying to smooth them. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“I don’t suppose it does, no.”
“Do I need to explain to you what a day is?” Crowley teased, earning himself a huff.
“Oh, hush, you fiend.” Aziraphale came a little closer and Crowley tried really, really hard not to think that this could be the last time they slept together in the same bed.
His chest tightened. “It’s still not tomorrow, though.”
“Technically, it is.”
“Not until the sun comes up,” Crowley insisted. “And you haven’t fucked me yet. You said you would if I was good. And I think I’ve been very, very good.”
Aziraphale let out a non-committal hum, but his fingers dug in Crowley’s lower back. “Don’t toot your own horn, my dear. It’s unbecoming.”
“Would yours be amenable to being tooted again, my liege?” (To be filed under: Things I’d never thought I’d say while in bed with someone else .)
“It would, but a little variety couldn’t hurt.”
“Great, then I think it’s time for my reward.” He knew they couldn’t shag the day away, but no one said they couldn’t give it a fair try.
“I must say you have been exceptionally good.”
Crowley felt himself flush all over, because why not? At least the darkness wouldn’t give away how pathetically whipped he was. “Did you pack the lube?”
“No.”
He grinned from ear to ear and rolled on top of Aziraphale. “Such a dirty, dirty angel. Thought you’d get lucky, didn’t you?”
“Stop it at once,” Aziraphale bristled under him, the warmth radiating from his face a dead giveaway of his own blush, which didn’t stop him from reaching to the side.
“Are you trying to escape or to get the lube?” Crowley asked, because it didn’t hurt to check.
“Lube. Can I turn on the light?”
“Wouldn’t want to miss my sleepy face, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“Fine.”
Crowley should have felt at least some measure of embarrassment, and yet, seeing Aziraphale splayed under him, his fluffy blonde curls looking almost as white as the pillow behind him, felt like coming back to a comforting sense of familiarity that spread through him like the sweetest of syrups (not that he liked things as sickly sweet as syrup– shut up).
Aziraphale glanced up at him, looking delightfully rumpled, tired and wide awake at the same time. “Are you sure?”
“Nyeah. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’m telling you, if the sun comes before I do, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
He wasn’t, of course. There was nothing disappointing about undressing Aziraphale and letting himself be stripped bare by him (wasn’t that what he’d been doing from the start, anyway?), about negotiating positions, likes and dislikes. About his fussy, prim voice commanding he stay still while he opened him up with careful, meticulous fingers that Crowley had a half a mind to sue for taking way too fucking long to do anything and almost undoing him before the real fun had even started.
And there was definitely nothing disappointing about seeing Aziraphale’s pupils dilate and his lips part on the softest of sighs when Crowley finally – finally – sank on him. How could there be, when they were so close, blending together like the faint glow of the lamp and the darkness surrounding it? When Aziraphale couldn’t stop pouring sweet nonsense in his ear, unable to control the words coming out of his mouths, the praise becoming more and more improbable the less coherent he was?
And maybe Crowley cried too, just a little bit, practically not at all in the grand scheme of things, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything more than “Oh, my darling,” and merely kissed the (totally negligible) tears away.
I could die like this, Crowley thought when pleasure became too much to bear, and then, even more shockingly, I could live like this too.
If only he knew how to ask for it.
Tomorrow, he told himself as Aziraphale was coming undone beneath him. Yes, tomorrow.
Notes:
See you Monday 💜
Chapter 14: Fourteen
Summary:
It’s time to leave Skye and go back to London. Shocking as it may seem, talking actually occurs.
Notes:
Hello and happy Monday! 💜
It's the last proper chapter before the epilogue 🥹 and it features the talking I've been promising for a while, plus some extra silliness.
Just FYI the epilogue is sort of chonky (9k words) so whatever doesn't happen here, may happen there 👀Thank you for sticking with me, it means a lot 💜💜💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crowley woke up a little after seven, Aziraphale tucked under his right arm with his head resting on his chest and his warm, steady breath making his nipples pebble. Crowley took a moment to contemplate the improbable coexistence of light snoring and hard nipples, then he wiped the sleep from his eyes and placed a kiss on Aziraphale’s hair (ugh, embarrassing as fuck) before extricating himself from his embrace.
He climbed out of bed for a quick trip to the loo where he took a shower and brushed his teeth, enjoying the muted soreness in his muscles (and knees – maybe those rags had been a good idea after all, not that he’d ever admit to it out loud in front of a certain angel). He retrieved the last of his toiletries from the cabinet under the sink as he considered styling his hair for the journey, but ultimately decided against it.
“The loveliest shade of red, was it?” his reflection seemed to taunt him.
Crowley grumbled. “Shut up.”
He went back to the bedroom to get dressed, gazing at Aziraphale’s sleeping form all curled up under the covers. The urge to crawl back in was enough to make his head spin. It was all he could do not to succumb to it. If he did tumble back into bed, they would probably need to call someone with some sort of heavy machinery to tow him away from it.
So he sighed and dashed out of the bedroom before his self-control could have a chance to forfeit. He threw one last look at the audio system, zipped up his carry-on instead and rolled it next to Bentley, which was still propped against the wall in the hallway, all snuggled up in her case. He put the kettle on, arranged a handful of biscuits on a plate while he waited for the tea to steep, then brought both in the bedroom to place them on Aziraphale’s bedside table along with a short note.
Back in the hallway, Crowley let the quiet stillness of the cottage envelope him for what was probably the last time, shrugged on his overcoat, wrapped Aziraphale’s tartan scarf around his neck and slipped out the door.
His legs carried him to the little black beach only a ten-minute walk away from the house, going down a steep, narrow path almost completely covered in vegetation with only the cold, briny morning breeze and the screeches of the seagulls to keep him company.
The sea was a black slate under the steel grey light of morning, the surface gently rippled by the wind and the light drizzle that was falling steadily. Crowley fished his sunglasses out of his coat pocket and pushed them on his nose as he ran his gaze up and down the beach.
Aziraphale was right to say they hadn’t really made an effort to explore the island. Crowley had told him he’d had better things to do (such as annoying Aziraphale, pestering Aziraphale, tormenting Aziraphale, and most recently touching Aziraphale, kissing Aziraphale, finding perfectly reasonable excuses to be close to Aziraphale), but now that they had to leave, he had to admit that it was a bit of a shame.
Well, it probably takes a really pathetic sod to miss a beach he’d never seen until five minutes ago. You’re not gonna miss Skye, the annoying voice inside his head piped up. You’re going to miss what happened on it. Ugh, emotional intelligence was bloody overrated.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked around the place until he got bored of muttering profanities against the seagulls and annoyed by his boots sinking in the sand. He found a nice, flat boulder to sit on, and began to brood like it was his new purpose in life.
Aziraphale joined him not twenty minutes later, all wrapped up in his beloved trenchcoat. “There you are, I found your note,” he said, gesturing to the spot next to him. “May I?”
Crowley shrugged. “‘S not mine.”
“Thank you for the tea,” Aziraphale continued. “I brought you some.” He produced his thermos (tartan, of course) from the inner pocket of his coat with the flair of a magician, and despite his sulking, Crowley couldn’t quite suppress a laugh. “Something funny?”
“Yes, you.”
Aziraphale clucked his tongue. “Oh, but you’re prickly this morning. Have you slept alright?”
It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. And, you know what, it was no small consolation, knowing deep down that whatever he was going through, Aziraphale was right there with him, grappling with the same questions.
“Like an angel,” he murmured after a long while.
Aziraphale’s smile had turned contemplative, a bit distant. “I almost didn’t sleep at all.”
Crowley pushed his hands deeper in his pockets to prevent himself from reaching out and doing… something. He was so focused on keeping his hands under control, that he forgot to do the same with his stupid fucking mouth.
“D’you think it was real?”
The question hung in the air between them in all its uncomfortable honesty. And even though Crowley had to force himself to breathe around the lump in his throat, he still managed to keep the urge to take it back at bay. Miracles falling left and right on the Isle of Skye, he thought. A bit glumly, a bit proudly.
Aziraphale blinked, pink slowly dusting his cheeks, further proof that they were thinking about the same thing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Crowley averted his gaze and feigned a sudden interest in three seagulls squabbling over something, possibly a fish. “I dunno. This isn’t real life.” It wasn’t his real life, that’s for sure.
Some part of him was waiting for Aziraphale to agree with him, to concede that yes, this wasn’t real life, that they were miles away from home and that whatever they had shared wouldn’t survive a head-on collision against reality.
But Aziraphale didn’t agree, he just scoffed. “Pish posh. Of course it is.”
Crowley turned to him in surprise and maybe just a touch of annoyance. “Come on, you know what I mean,” he muttered. “What if it all goes away the moment we set foot back in London?”
“What if it does?” He had that steely look in his eyes. “Would it make it any less real?”
“Wh– yeah?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t think it would.”
“How so?”
“Take… well, take a rose for example. You like flowers, don’t you?”
“Nyeah.” How did flowers fit into any of this?
“How long does a rose last?”
“I dunno. A week, maybe?”
Aziraphale nodded. “So the rose blooms, lasts one week and then wilts. Does this mean the rose has never existed in the first place? Was it never real?”
And who knew, maybe Aziraphale really was some sort of wizard, because Crowley felt an unpredictable sense of calm settling over him as a result of his words. “No,” he admitted. “It doesn’t.”
“I quite agree.”
So maybe it wouldn’t last, but it was real. And that counted for something, right? It meant that everything that had happened… mattered.
Crowley licked his lips, trying to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. “So… this– this thing– d’you think it’s a rose?”
Aziraphale gave him another small, tight smile, a vulnerable expression flickering across his face. “I’m not sure. What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that… well, worst case scenario, it’s a rose.”
Crowley mulled it over and, before he knew it, he let go of at least some of the tension coursing through his body. His hands unclenched in his pockets, leaving behind the phantom pressure of his own nails digging into his palms.
“Worst, huh?” he breathed out, chancing another glance at Aziraphale, who was busying himself with the thermos.
“Yes.” He poured tea in the little plastic cup and handed it to Crowley. “What do you think?”
Crowley finally freed one hand to take it. “That you’re too clever for your own good.” But that’s not all he was thinking, was it? In fact, he was thinking so many thoughts he didn’t even know where to start. “I– I think– fuck.” He moved his mouth around words he still couldn’t quite put into focus. “I think I was different. This month, I mean. I did things I never thought I’d do.” Felt things I never thought I’d feel. Said things I never thought I’d say.
“Hmm. Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” he rushed to clarify. “Not as such. Just… weird, I s’pose. Good weird, but still weird.” He turned to Aziraphale, who was still smiling his soft smile, and let out a grunt. “If you’re about to say that the caterpillar doesn’t know it’s going to fly before it becomes a butterfly, I swear I’ll jump into the sea and go live with the dolphins or whatever blessedly silent beast swims around these parts.”
Aziraphale snorted. “Do you really think I’d have gone for such a trite metaphor?”
“Fucking Hell, you’re a bastard,” Crowley whined, shoulders sagging with the last of the tension leaking from his body. In a silent sort of protest, he finished his tea in one gulp.
“But it does sound sensible,” Aziraphale conceded. “Silly as it may seem.” He let out a soft sigh. “You should know that it was the same for me.”
Crowley shifted his gaze to him, fondness hitting him like a now-familiar slap in the face. “I do. Know, I mean.”
He heaved out a heavy sigh and suddenly made up his mind. Because you know what? Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. So he took out his other hand from his pocket and laid it between them, palm up, without acknowledging what he was doing or – Satan forbid – why he was doing it.
It didn’t take long for Aziraphale’s palm to slide on his own and for him to lace their fingers together. Crowley had a feeling they were both looking elsewhere.
“Don’t you think we’re a little too old to think of ourselves as butterflies?” he heard himself ask.
“Hate to be predictable, but you’re never too old. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Change never stops. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. Either way, nothing lasts forever.”
Nothing ever did, Aziraphale was right. Crowley knew a thing or two about good things not lasting forever, but it had just occurred to him that the same could be said for the bad ones. And if the bad things don’t last, no matter how used you are to them, it doesn’t mean the change isn’t real.
He pushed the thought away. He’d ponder on it later, he promised to himself, and maybe give his old therapist a much-needed phone call. Whatever breakthrough he’d made in the past month, he didn’t want to squander it.
“What do you think it is then?” he whispered after a long moment of silence. The three fighting seagulls had turned into five. Vicious bastards.
Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “I don’t know what it is.”
“Guess we’ll have to find out.”
“I’m afraid so. How terribly inconvenient.”
“Awful, really.” When Crowley finally turned to him, Aziraphale was trying to conceal the silliest smile. “Speaking of awful,” he went on, lest he say something about how adorable the angel was, “what’s a flock of seagulls called?”
“A colony, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Ah, that tracks.”
“It does?”
“Yes. Harbingers of evil and all of that. Much like colonies. Nothing good ever comes from them.”
“Well…”
Crowley checked the time on his phone and sighed. “We should probably go.”
They replaced the plastic cup over the thermos and got back on their feet without letting go of each other’s hands. As they say, when on Skye…
They made their way back up the hill, Crowley teasing Aziraphale about the worn out soles of his brogues and Aziraphale snapping back at him that this month-long trip had forced him to postpone his bi-annual trip to his cobbler (of course Aziraphale was one of the last two people on Earth who had a cobbler).
When they got back to the cottage, they found Avery and Pepper leaning against the boot of their sorry excuse for a car, and two strangers climbing out of a Tesla, which was enough to immediately label them as wankers in Crowley’s books.
“Hello, old men,” Pepper greeted them with a tired grin. “Seems you’re about to be kicked out of your little love nest.”
Crowley squawked in outrage. “Call it like that again and I’ll–”
“Do something undeniably terrible, we know, dear,” Aziraphale chimed in, returning the kids’ hellos and thanking them for volunteering to drive them to the coach station. “We’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he assured them as he dragged Crowley towards the strangers.
“Please don’t say that ever again,” Crowley complained, now torn between ignoring Aziraphale’s ridiculous expressions and pretending the wankers didn’t exist.
He took them in, the dark-haired woman wearing a sharp, burgundy tailleur with a ridiculous matching hat, the man in a dark green ensemble that had definitely seen better days. His hair should have been reason enough to fire his hairdresser and obtain an injunction to prevent them from exercising the profession ever again, because– wow.
Next to him, Aziraphale gasped and came to a sudden halt. “Marjorie?” he asked in disbelief.
The woman scoffed and wrinkled her nose. “No, that’d be my dear sister,” she said in a tone that suggested she wasn’t dear at all.
Crowley grimaced in confusion. “Who’s Marjorie?”
“The former dominatrix,” Aziraphale whispered back, before turning back to the newcomers. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I’m Sharon Potts, and I’m the owner of this house, as well as the second-biggest ASMR artist in the UK.”
Talk about weird segues…
Crowley’s eyes grew wide. This was Maggie’s client? An ASMR artist? He gaped at her. It suddenly dawned on him why the recording booth featured make-up brushes and bloody whips.
“Soon to be first,” interjected the man with a chuckle. “I’m Fergus. Resident veterinarian.”
“Oh, so you do house birds in there?” asked Crowley, gesturing to his hair.
The man’s smug smile faltered for a second. “Excuse me?”
Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley’s hand. “What my, er, my– what Crowley was trying to say is that we’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“And thank Satan for that.” Let’s just say that if Fergus’ therapist had asked him to write nice things about himself, the poor sod wouldn’t have been able to use ‘great hair’ as a blanket answer.
Fergus ignored him and focused on Aziraphale instead. “You’re the one with the weird name, aren’t you? Had to write it down for Timmy at the rug store.” Crowley felt Aziraphale stiffen beside him. “Something like Azirapalala– Azirapapap– Aziphapalala–”
“Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale’s eye-roll could be seen from outer space and the low voice he spoke with, wellllll… suffice it to say, if Crowley wasn’t careful, other things would also be seen from outer space. Hopefully Nasa employed only people of age, Crowley mused, as he discreetly buttoned up his overcoat and not-so-discreetly sneered at the bird’s-nest-carrier in front of them. “You would know something about weird names, wouldn’t you, Furfur?”
“It’s Fergus,” he shot back coldly.
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Sharon observed the exchange with the irritation of someone who had much better things to do with her time. That is, until her eyes zeroed in on Crowley and Aziraphale’s joined hands. “Oh.”
“Oh?” As far as Crowley was concerned, she had lost every right to criticise other people’s choices the moment she decided to let that thing walk beside her.
She shrugged, lips curled in a smirk. “Maggie was right.” She glanced at Aziraphale. “Funny, you don’t seem his type at all.”
Crowley snarled and took a very deliberate step forward. “What is that supposed to mean?” What would she know about his type, huh? Even he hadn’t known what his type was until he arrived on this blessed island! In fact, if he did have a type, the fastest way to describe them would be by showing a picture of Aziraphale.
Sharon didn’t seem perturbed by his not-so-veiled threat. “Nothing. She said this trip would do you some good and I didn’t believe her. Not that I’m invested in this little entanglement of yours or anything. I owe her, so…”
“Entanglement?” Crowley mouthed, so outraged he could barely speak.
“Regardless,” Aziraphale interjected, tugging him towards the front door, “we are very grateful for your hospitality. As I said, we’ll retrieve our luggage and be out of your hair in no time.”
In order to unlock the door, he first fumbled with the keys, then let go of Crowley’s hand to get the job done. Crowley had no time to be sad about it, he had too many questions. “What did she mean about Maggie?”
“I have no idea,” Aziraphale replied in a huffy whisper. “It appears that we have been set-up. I had no idea the client who owns the house was Marjorie’s sister. They look the same! It’s uncanny.”
“There’s two of ‘em?” Unfortunate, Crowley couldn’t help but think.
They both rushed to pick up their luggage – Bentley in her case, Crowley’s carry-on and Aziraphale’s many threadbare bags, which were evenly divided between the two of them with no request for help necessary.
“Is everything alright?” asked Sharon, who had followed them inside.
Aziraphale turned around to flash her a tight smile. “Perfectly tickety-boo, dear lady.”
Crowley sniggered under his breath, but his mirth was short-lived, quite rudely interrupted by that Furfur person yelling from the kitchen.
“What happened to my apron?” He came out of the kitchen holding the ‘I Fuck Better Than I Cook’ apron that had haunted Crowley’s dreams for no less than twenty days. Seeing it in Furfur’s hands was a level of wrong he could barely wrap his head around.
Aziraphale sniffed. “It’s just slightly singed.” Actually, the bottom right corner was completely blackened.
“We found it like that,” added Crowley.
“You know what? Now that you mention it, you may be right,” Aziraphale agreed, much to Furfur’s dismay.
“It wasn’t!” He turned to Sharon. “My little storkling, you better go check the studio.”
Crowley lost control of his jaw. “My little wot?”
But Furfur was paying him no mind, holding the apron like his long lost lover who had died mere minutes before his arrival. The image was already quite disturbing in itself, but the man couldn’t resist making it ten times worse. “I’ll pop down to the cellar.”
Crowley stopped breathing and distinctly heard Aziraphale doing the same beside him. Slowly but surely, he saw all the bottles of wine they had drained in the past month pass before his very eyes as alarm bells gleefully blared in his ears. Oh, shit. They turned to each other in unison, exchanged a quick glance and a frantic nod and immediately dashed towards the door. “We better go!” Aziraphale squeaked just as Crowley called out, “Good luck with the bird’s nest!”
They exited the cottage running. “Start the car!” Crowley yelled at Andy and Pepper.
“What happened?” asked Alan, who to his credit didn’t so much as flinch before doing as he was told.
Pepper narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but still followed Amos’ lead. “You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“No, but they might kill us if we don’t get a wiggle on! Get in, angel!” he barked, opening the boot to load all of their luggage, before rounding the car and climbing in the backseat next to Aziraphale with Bentley in his lap. “Drive!”
“Did you just say ‘get a wiggle on’, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as they drove off.
Crowley croaked something that could roughly be translated to, “This is not the time!” (He had said it and he was fucked, no surprise there.)
They heard a scream behind them and Pepper turned around, eyes as wide as saucers. “Is that Fergus coming after us? What happened?”
Aziraphale was delightfully unruffled, which realistically meant he was on the brink of a heart attack. “The moral of the story is that alcohol isn’t good for you.”
“Are you two even old enough to drink?” Crowley wondered out loud, his own heart pounding away in his chest.
Pepper snorted. “We literally manage a pub, old man.”
“Right. Yeah, well, be sure to drink your own alcohol then.”
Aziraphale giggled under his breath. “At the very least, make sure you don’t get caught if you don’t.”
Crowley barked out a laugh, nerves melting into amusement. “Not very angelic of you, is it?”
Aziraphale turned to him with the most blinding of smiles and a mischievous glint in his eyes. “On the contrary, my dear. Are you familiar with the concept of the angel’s share?”
“No, but I guess I’m about to be, right?”
“Quite right, so–”
In the end, they managed to board the coach for Inverness without Marjorie’s horrid sister and her even more horrid companion catching up with them and demanding compensation for the wine they were apparently not so welcome to consume.
After loading their bags in the luggage compartment, Crowley got into a heated argument with the driver who insisted he put his guitar there too. Aziraphale swooped in, deploying his sweetest smiles, his most saccharine please-and-thank-you’s, and a truly outrageous lie about Bentley being Crowley’s therapy-mandated emotional support guitar, until the man allowed Crowley to bring it up with him provided he paid a ticket for her, which he did.
Then it was time to say their goodbyes to Pepper and Adam, and Crowley’s reaction made Aziraphale think that the emotional-support guitar wasn’t that far-fetched of an idea after all. The man stammered and sputtered, lifted his hand in half-aborted shoulder pats a disconcerting amount of times, then muttered a “Thanks, I guess, let’s keep in touch,” and disappeared inside the bus.
“That means he’s going to miss you, I believe,” Aziraphale explained, not quite capable of concealing his amusement (he’d already accepted that hiding his fondness was a hopeless endeavour).
Even Pepper seemed a little teary-eyed. “We’re going to miss you too, old men.”
“We’re going to be very disappointed if the upcoming tour won’t include Skye,” Adam chimed in with that unsettling knowing look in his eye.
“Oh, we can’t have that, can we?” Aziraphale agreed, giving them a quick hug.
“Yes,” Pepper continued, “we’ll be sure to find you the nicest cupboard, so you can–”
Aziraphale gaped at her, cheeks pink and eyes flashing in warning. “That’s quite enough of that, young lady.” Honestly, kids these days! Crowley was right, they had no respect for authority whatsoever. “Send our deepest regards to Wensleydale, Brian and Warlock, and your mother too, Adam. Oh! And Judith, can’t forget dear old Judith.”
An insistent knocking made them turn towards the coach, where Crowley was hitting the window and gesturing wildly for Aziraphale to hurry up.
He heaved out a sigh. “Very well, that’s my cute–” His eyes flared. “Cue! Goodbye!”
Crowley spent the entirety of the three-hour bus journey dozing off with his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. In a truly shocking turn of events, it hadn’t been an accident either – no, he’d put it there right from the start, didn’t even go to the trouble of pretending to slowly fall into it in his sleep.
In Inverness, they took a quick, very unsatisfying lunch at the station before boarding the train for London. Much like the first time they had made the journey, Crowley bemoaned and cursed Aziraphale’s lack of practicality and ridiculous amount of bags, and Aziraphale responded with the same (very reasonable, he’ll have you know) arguments. Unlike the first time, though, Crowley never once left him to fend for himself. In fact, he handed Bentley to Aziraphale so he could transport as many of his bags as possible (the grumbling increased exponentially as a result, but Aziraphale still counted it as a win).
Not long after they were settled in their seats, surrounded by their luggage and being given the stink eye by their fellow passengers for the amount of space they were occupying (luckily, there was plenty of space), Aziraphale took out an old, battered copy of Macbeth, read the first lines of the scene where Duncan arrives at Inverness (This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air / Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself / Unto our gentle senses) and promptly fell asleep.
He woke up sometime later to Crowley giggling and squirming in the seat next to him. “What on Earth is so funny?” he heard himself ask even before he was completely awake.
Crowley turned to him, phone in hand, sunglasses on his head and eyes shining. Whatever he was laughing at had brought him to tears. “‘S you. It’s always you.”
Aziraphale frowned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“You went viral, angel.”
“I assure you my health is perf–”
“No,” Crowley cut him off immediately, “you went viral on TikTok.” He leaned on the armrest separating their seats to show him whatever was playing on his phone.
It was a video of the concert– the video of the concert, Aziraphale realised, the one he’d been filming for the live. Off-camera, he heard his own voice saying loud and clear, “That he is. Congratulations on having eyes, I suppose. May I suggest working towards acquiring some good manners next?”
Aziraphale felt himself blush all over. He had no idea the phone would pick up his voice too, which… which sounded quite stupid now that he thought about it. Of course it’d record his voice too, only he didn’t think it’d be so loud.
Mind reeling, he tried to run through the things he’d said, but it was all a blur of songs and screams and Crowley being unfairly sexy and– the cupboard!
“Oh dear.”
Crowley tried to stifle another laugh, to no avail. “Your bitchy commentary is all over TikTok.”
“It’s not bitchy,” Aziraphale protested, too flustered to come up with a more scathing retort.
“Oh, angel, it was. It’s glorious.”
“Well excuse me if I was enjoying the show. I rather think that was the whole point.”
Crowley flashed him a lopsided grin. “I think you were enjoying more than the show,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, you were very good, very sinful.”
Crowley was still leaning on the armrest, staring at him like he was prey. “Was I?” he said in his sultry voice. “Care to tell me how sinful exactly?”
This is quite enough, Aziraphale thought to himself as he straightened his shoulders. “You were, simply put, incandescent. It was one of the saddest stages I’ve ever seen and yet you made it look like the most prestigious of venues. You’re an incredible performer, Crowley, and I’m sorry I didn’t fully appreciate it until last night.” He caught his breath, vaguely aware that Crowley’s smugness was slowly spiraling into embarrassment. “Everytime you go on stage, you transform. It was a joy to see, really. You’re a mean player and even meaner singer – and yes, before you ask, in more ways than one – and you know how to interact with the audience, which I wouldn’t have guessed considering you can barely bring yourself to say hi to people most of the time.”
Crowley slumped back in his seat and quickly pulled down his sunglasses, cheeks so red Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised to see them melt off his face. “Shut up,” he wheezed.
“Well, I’m terribly sorry, but you are. I should have told you last night, only I wasn’t… let’s say I was a tad distracted.”
“I remember,” grumbled Crowley, arms almost comically crossed against his chest. “Everyone’s asking about the angel in the cupboard.”
Considering the crowd Crowley had managed to attract and amass in less than ten days, and with little to no publicity, Aziraphale was concerned by how many people were included in that everyone. The man had certainly downplayed how famous he was. “Do you mind?”
“Nah. Do you?”
Aziraphale took a second to really think about it, and realised that no, he felt more smug than embarrassed. “No.” He was the angel in the cupboard after all. “I really enjoyed seeing that side of you. The performer, I mean.”
Crowley muttered something – probably a string of colourful profanities – under his breath. “Yeah, ‘s the best one.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the one people expect to see when they meet me. Sexy, confident AJ with his forked tongue and abs of steel.”
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, lips pursed in what he felt was his best bitchy expression. “Well…”
“I know, never had a single ab in my life, but you know what I mean, right?”
“Yes, I get it. It’s the side you show to the public. But it’s not the best one, not by a long stretch.”
Crowley glanced at him sideways, and even though Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes, he had no trouble picturing the vulnerable expression he was likely wearing. “You’re only just saying that.”
“I am not.” Dear Lord, but Crowley could be really stubborn sometimes. “You’re not just one thing, you are many things, and while I’m glad you found your way back to this particular side of you, I won’t stand here and let you disparage the others.”
Crowley grimaced. “But I–”
“I will hear no more of this, thank you.”
“Ugh. You’re insufferable.”
Aziraphale scoffed. Talk about groundbreaking information! “Tell me something I don’t know, will you?”
“If you keep going like this I’m going to shag you in the toilet,” Crowley threatened in the same resentful tone.
“I said something I don’t know, dear.” This earned him a surprisingly long, angry whine that was stopped only by a couple approaching their seats.
“Hello,” the woman said to Crowley. “So sorry to bother you, but are you AJ Crowley?”
For his part, Crowley didn’t waste a second before hissing out an indignant, “No,” and going back to ignore them.
The woman turned to her companion, almost vibrating out of her skin. “It’s totally him.”
If the conversation didn’t end with Crowley dramatically jumping off the moving train, it was only thanks to Aziraphale, who salvaged the situation, took a picture of the three of them and sent the couple on their way with no one risking their life.
The sky darkened outside the rain-specked windows, proof that despite Aziraphale’s wish for this train ride to last forever, time was passing with or without his consent. They spent the last few hours watching clips from the concert and battling against each other armed with excessive praise (for Crowley’s performance) and merciless teasing (for Aziraphale’s impromptu commentary).
When they got off in King’s Cross, though, they were both eerily silent. Crowley hailed a taxi and fixed the driver with a murderous glare when he tried to protest at the sheer number of bags they had with them. They both got into the car without discussing it first. Aziraphale gave the driver his Soho address, hoping against all hope that the taxi would drive straight into a time loop of some sorts, so he and Crowley wouldn’t have to part ways.
A shiver went through him the moment he spotted his building in all its disconcerting familiarity. Any other day and he’d have been thrilled to be home, he was a homebody after all, a creature of habit, a man who looked to his daily routine with never ending fondness. A routine that, historically, didn’t take well to new people to possibly make space for.
The taxi came to a stop and Aziraphale had to suppress the urge to make up a random excuse about having given him the wrong address by mistake, and that his flat was actually located on the other side of London.
He was waiting for it – no, dreading it – the moment he’d snap out of it. The moment he’d look at Crowley and realise he was out of place, here next to him, in front of his house.
Only it… it wasn’t coming. Crowley looked the same, exactly where he was supposed to be. It was London that didn’t seem as comforting as before.
“Come on, I’ll help you with your bags,” Crowley said in his soft voice, which was enough to make Aziraphale go from panicky to weepy in a split second.
Being a great supporter of using one’s words to express oneself, Aziraphale was surprised to find that he couldn’t bring himself to utter a single one. He merely nodded, let Crowley pay for the fare and ominously stare at the driver while he unloaded their luggage (except for Bentley, that one he didn’t let him touch), while Aziraphale fished his keys out of the inner pocket of his trenchcoat.
After a disconcerting amount of fumbling, he managed to open the door. “I’m on the second floor,” he heard himself say from very far away.
Crowley passed him Bentley without a word, then picked up as many bags as he could and went up the stairs, leaving Aziraphale to close the door behind them and take whatever he couldn’t carry.
When he caught up with him, Crowley was already waiting in front of one of the three doors on the landing, bags neatly arranged at his feet.
“How did you know which one was mine?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask.
Crowley scoffed and probably rolled his eyes. “Your doormat literally says Avaunt.”
Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat in response as he unlocked the door with clumsy fingers. “I thought it was funny.”
“It is.”
The familiar smell of home washed over him, comforting if a bit stale. He turned on the light in the hallway, left Bentley on the landing and proceeded to carry his bags inside. This time Crowley didn’t volunteer to help, careful as he was not to cross the threshold, and Aziraphale’s brain must have really been worse off than he thought because the first thing that came to his mind was vampires and how they needed to be invited in.
Once all of his luggage had safely been hauled inside, Aziraphale stopped in the doorway to look at Crowley just standing there, with Bentley on his shoulder and his lone black trolley by his side, and his chest tightened so hard he had trouble breathing for a second. He caught his reflection in Crowley’s dark shades and cringed at the deer-in-headlights expression in his eyes.
Oh, fuck.
Crowley opened his mouth, moved it around without producing a single sound, then closed it again and shoved his hands in his pockets so violently Aziraphale was concerned for their intactness. “I guess I’ll just go.”
Aziraphale let his shoulders drop. “Oh.” He looked around for no reason. “Do you want me to call you another taxi?”
“Nah, I’m not far from here. I’ll walk.”
“It’s very good for your health. Walking, I mean.”
“Nyeah, I s’pose.”
Aziraphale forced himself to swallow his unease. “You have my number, of course.”
“Yeah. And you have mine.”
“I do.”
“Can I call you?”
Warmth flooded Aziraphale, making him dizzy. He grabbed the door for stability. “Please.”
“Right, then.” Crowley’s chest heaved as he tipped his head upwards, as if taking a sudden interest in the ceiling. “I’ll go.”
“Goodbye, Crowley.” It was definitely the wrong thing to say, Aziraphale could feel it in his bones, but his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own and he didn’t have the wherewithal to overdrive it. And he was still waiting for it, that stupid moment of truth that wasn’t coming at all.
Crowley nodded once, took a step backwards, then nodded again. “Bye.”
As if in a dream – a nightmare? – Aziraphale stared at his hands as they closed the door, then accusingly at the door itself. Honestly, how dare it get between him and– and– oh, bugger.
He brought a hand to his chest, where his heart was beating furiously, trying to garner his attention, and he turned towards his living room, gaze sweeping over his overflowing bookshelves, his mismatched furniture dotted with empty tea cups, his beloved knicknacks scattered all around, covered by that ever-present film of dust. The faulty pipe next door clanged, as it always did every few hours, making him startle, and it suddenly occurred to him that his familiarity with irritating noises had begun long before travelling to Skye to live with a man who had turned weaponised noise pollution into an art.
And here’s the thing– Aziraphale didn’t want that blasted pipe to be doing all the irritating by itself. And he didn’t want to wait for Crowley to call him, or to go through multiple days of concocting random excuses to do the calling himself. He didn’t want to let this thing go, whatever it was, whatever it could be, he just knew it didn’t feel right to end it like this, with oh so many unsaid words lingering in the air between them. With Crowley going home alone.
His beloved routine was supposed to be a nest, a cosy place where he could be himself. A refuge, not a prison. And could he really say he loved himself unconditionally if he couldn’t even allow himself to– to love – Good Lord – the people he wanted to love? So maybe it would all go pear shaped at some point, he certainly couldn’t predict the future, but was the mere possibility of it reason enough not to try? Not to take a little risk?
This was real, and maybe it was just a rose, and he’d be grateful for it anyway, but what if it wasn’t?
“You’re being exceptionally silly,” he scolded himself, turning towards the door with a newfound determination. He fished an umbrella out of the umbrella stand, flung the door open and stepped outside, ready to dash downstairs and possibly run after Crowley, even though he had no idea where he lived.
Any thought of calling Maggie to ask her for his address was wiped away when he registered the black-clad figure furiously pacing on his landing, hands tangled in his red hair, which was standing in every direction, and sunglasses nowhere to be seen.
Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, holding on to his umbrella.
“Crowley?”
Crowley whipped around, eyes impossibly wide, his pacing turning even more frantic. “Right,” he muttered, breathless. “Right, right. I didn’t get a chance to say what I was going to say, and I think I’d better say it now.” He came to a stop and took a very deep, very shaky breath. “Right, okay, so– yes.” His mouth opened, but nothing came out aside from a very long sigh.
The sight was enough to make Aziraphale’s heart clench painfully. “Crow–”
“No, wait. Just– Just let me.” Crowley swallowed, mussed up his hair even more, took another breath. “I wanted to– fuck. I wanted to apologise. Should have apologised a long time ago, but I didn’t, because I’m a raging arsehole– well, you knew that, but still… I’m– I’m sorry. For treating you the way I treated you at the beginning. I wasn’t– I mean, it wasn’t personal, I just– I was a mess. I am a mess, and I thought I had made my peace with it, but I hadn’t and I won’t, and you were just… like this constant reminder that I wasn’t okay and I hated you for it. And I guess I wanted– no, needed to make you hate me, so you’d do at least some of the job for me, and I tried very hard, because I’m a stubborn piece of shite and I’d rather wallow in my own misery than let someone else be right about me.”
He let out a shuddering breath, which Aziraphale mirrored without quite realising it. He was too busy trying to convince his heart to slow down so he could hear what Crowley had to say.
“And, trust me,” Crowley continued, “I really thought I was the most stubborn twat in the Northern hemisphere, but then I met you and realised I was just a bloody amateur.” He rubbed a hand on his mouth, then sighed again. “For what it’s worth, I truly am sorry. For some reason I still don’t understand, you were trying to help me and you wouldn’t take no for an answer, and it’s like I tried to say in that stupid song– you never did what I wanted you to, but you always managed to do what I needed and I didn’t even want to acknowledge that.”
Aziraphale felt a prickle in his eyes and heard the whooshing of his own breath, which was coming too fast. “Crowley, dear–”
“I’m not finished.”
“Alright.”
“I guess– I guess I also wanted to thank you. For what you did for me, for not giving up on me despite me giving you every reason to.” He scrunched up his face, hurt washing over his features. “Fuck, angel, I tried so hard to give you a reason to,” he said, voice breaking and eyes looking up to stop the tears from falling. “I really am mad.”
“Just a little,” Aziraphale conceded with a teary smile.
“I wasted nine days bothering you and trying to get you to run away from me, when we could have– you know, done what we did after. You fed me and tolerated me and got me back into writing– I– I– hnnnngggg. I thought the best thing that could happen to me was writing music again, performing again, but I was wrong. It was– it was getting to share all of that with you, because you really are the fussiest, most insufferable, most unintentionally funny–”
Aziraphale scoffed through the tears. “I’m sorry, I think I’m very intentionally funny.”
Crowley’s eyebrows shot upwards. “No, you’re not. And that’s the beauty of it, you’re mad too! In the best way. You are out of your mind.”
“Excuse me, is this a confession or an attack against my character?”
“Both, I think. Though I wouldn’t say attack, because I– I love it. All of it. All of you . You are brilliant and clever and gorgeous and also an absolute pain in the arse.”
“Well, last night you weren’t complaining.”
Crowley barked out a surprised laugh. “You see? That’s exactly it! You are incredible and I’m sorry you only met complete wankers who couldn’t see what was in front of ‘em, but I see it and I won’t stand for you not being told, again and again, how incredible you are. So maybe it’ll have to be me.”
A swarm of butterflies (also known as a kaleidoscope, for those of you wondering) had just taken up residence in Aziraphale’s belly. “Are you volunteering?”
“Yes. I am.”
“That’s splendid.”
“Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to live with–” Crowley stopped, brows wrinkled in confusion. “Wait, really?”
“Shocking as it may be,” Aziraphale said with the most blinding of smiles, “I think we are on the same page on this one.”
Crowley’s expression crumbled and the tears started falling in earnest as he walked up to Aziraphale to cradle his face in his very cold hands. Words kept spilling too, a whole deluge of them.
“Maybe we would have met regardless of my career going down the drain, you know? We don’t live far from each other. Maybe I would have taken up day drinking, because I wasn’t happy when I was successful either, and I would have ended up in the smallest, filthiest little pubs in the hope of avoiding being recognised, and you’d have been there, because I bet you’re one of those people that make a point to support family owned businesses even when they’re falling on themselves and don’t know what health regulations even are– And– and I would have seen you there, having lunch with one of your stupid books and your equally stupid bow-tie and I’d have been gone for you on the spot– Because it’s what happened when you came into the coffee shop. I couldn’t stop staring at you and when you talked to me I was shocked. And, anyway, I’d have teased you mercilessly just to have you snap back at me, and I’d have come back everyday just hoping you’d be there so we could do it all over again–”
This was probably the most romantic, most offensive thing Aziraphale had ever been told in his entire life. “I would have been there.”
“Yes, just further proof that you are barking mad, angel.” Crowley shook his head, eyes looking almost golden in the faint light of the hallway. “Point is– The point is, Aziraphale, that maybe we would have crossed paths anyway, but if they told me that the only way I could meet you was to go through everything, everything I went through – the arseholes and the backstabbing and the falling from grace – I would gladly do it all over again. It’d be worth it. It’d be oh, so fucking worth it, angel.”
“Oh, Crowley.”
Aziraphale hugged him so hard they both had trouble breathing for a second. Crowley hid his face in the crook of his neck, holding on for dear life.
“I will go back to therapy,” Crowley whispered. “I will get better, I promise. I won’t be so hard to lov– lik– care for. I promise, I promise, I promise.”
Crowley’s words almost took Aziraphale’s breath away, which was very inconvenient because he needed it, now more than ever. “My dear, caring for you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he said directly into Crowley’s neck. And wasn’t that the truth? For some reason, he had never even thought about doing it before actually doing it. It had come to him naturally. “The hard part is not smacking you in the head with the first thing I can find, but other than that…”
Crowley let out a muffled whine. “I don’t want to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave either.” He’d been thoroughly sidetracked, but that was the whole reason he’d come out the door. “That’s what I was coming to say.”
Crowley squeezed him even tighter. Thank God for those twigs he had for arms. “Yeah?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Why the umbrella?”
“Oh.” Aziraphale had quite forgotten about the umbrella he was still holding. “I don’t know. Something about using it as an excuse if I cowered and didn’t manage to say anything, or maybe as a weapon if I did find the courage only for you to say something stupid in return.”
“I always say stupid things.”
“Not always.” Aziraphale brushed a hand through Crowley’s hair and held him a moment longer before pulling back to kiss him softly on the mouth. “Do you want to come inside?”
Crowley peered at him with his teary honey-gold eyes. “That’s what he said.”
Aziraphale scoffed. “I wasn’t expecting anything less.”
“Great.” Crowley peppered kisses all over Aziraphale’s face. “Don’t know much about successful relationships, but I’m pretty sure realistic expectations are key.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I’d like to come in, whichever way you meant it.”
Aziraphale wanted to say something scolding, but ended up chuckling instead, happiness bubbling inside of him. “We can order some dinner and take a shower. I’ll find something for you to wear.”
“Can’t wait to see my fashion standards being obliterated.”
Aziraphale tugged him inside, closed the door, replaced the umbrella in its stand and dragged him towards the living room, where he turned on the lights. “I’ll even let you criticise my choice in décor, and maybe count how many doilies I own,” he offered magnanimously. “I think it’d cheer you up.”
Crowley stopped in the doorway to survey his surroundings, a slow smile spreading on his lips in truly horrified fascination. “Satan’s sake, angel. This is going to take a while.”
Aziraphale smiled.
He was counting on it.
Notes:
See you Friday for the end 💜
Chapter 15: Epilogue
Summary:
It’s a little over a year in the life of rockstar Anthony J. Crowley and author AZ Fell...
Notes:
This is it 😭 I can't believe I have to say goodbye to this version of my favorite idiots (affectionate) *sighs*
First and foremost, thank you to everyone who read the story as it went, leaving kudos and/or so many nice comments, which I am definitely going to treasure and come back to in the future everytime I need a pick-me-up 💜 It's been a joy to share this story with all of you! (And, of course, thank you to all of you reading this from the future too! 💜)
I also have made a playlist of all the (actual) songs mentioned in the story, you can listen to it here.
There is an image at the end of this chapter, I hope it shows. If it doesn't, there'll be a link in the text. Let me know if you have any trouble seeing it.
Alright, let's see what these two are up to one last time, okay? 💜
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
December – Christmas Day
“So, did you set us up or not?” Crowley asked, pouring himself more wine.
Maggie snorted and almost choked on a bite of her Christmas pudding. “For the umpteenth time, I didn’t. I just had a hunch that you two would be good together.”
Crowley muttered a curse and scrunched up his nose, half grateful, half offended by the implication (alright, maybe it wasn’t that fifty-fifty, after all). He glanced at Aziraphale, who was sitting at the kids’ table with Maggie’s nephews and nieces and currently fumbling through an unnecessarily complicated and very much confused explanation of the rules of checkers.
Bored out of their minds, the kids had stopped listening around the third or fourth, “Awfully sorry, my dear fellows, I also should have mentioned that…”, wisely tuning out Aziraphale’s ramblings to stare at his paper crown instead, which was golden and very shiny, sitting primly over his fluffy curls. Maggie’s sister and brother were chatting with their spouses and assorted relatives, all too happy to leave the kids’ entertainment to someone else for a change.
Crowley scoffed and turned back to Maggie. “Nyeah, if you don’t count the nine days I spent trying to send him packing.” Aziraphale had repeatedly told him to stop beating himself up over it, but it wasn’t always easy. Crowley had realised that the concept of wasted time scared him shitless.
“Well, you two seem happy now, which is all that counts,” Maggie insisted.
“Ugh, shut up.”
“Don’t tell her to shut up,” interjected Nina, materialising ominously behind him and making him jump. Right, she and Maggie were an item, apparently, as Crowley had found out a few days after returning from Skye.
“It’s okay, love.” Maggie beamed at her and reached for her hand. “He only just says it. Do you want some Christmas pudding?”
“Oh no,” grumbled Crowley in his wineglass. “I mean it.”
He threw another glance in Aziraphale’s direction, mostly to spare himself Nina and Maggie’s love-dovey soppiness – or at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. The truth was that staring at Aziraphale took up ninety percent of his time, which was one of the many reasons he was wearing sunglasses at Christmas. Among these, the fact that Aziraphale shined like a blessed star (would he ever get used to it?), and Crowley’s powerlessness in the face of his very specific brand of ridiculousness.
Right about now, for example, Aziraphale looked one second away from succumbing to his own checkers ambitions, and the kids’ stares glued to his flushed face weren’t helping at all. Then he straightened his shoulders and steeled himself by tugging on the hem of his waistcoat and fishing a penny out of his pocket. Fucking Hell, he was going to (attempt to) do his terrible magic trick, wasn’t he?
Crowley groaned. Considering that the mere thought of this man was keeping him up at all hours of the night, there was enough ridiculousness to go around. (And, no, it wasn’t just thoughts that were preventing him from getting a good night’s sleep.) (Not that he was complaining.)
“You didn’t even tell me how you met him,” he complained (oh wait), suppressing the urge to throw a blanket over Aziraphale, bundle him up and bodily drag him home.
“Oh. Marjorie had some things of their mother that she wanted Sharon to have, and the sisters aren’t exactly on friendly terms, so they went through us instead. We met at Nina’s, and the rest is history.”
“Right.” Crowley gulped down his wine and slumped against his chair. “So, I have an idea,” he blurted out without quite meaning to.
Maggie jumped on her seat. “You’re not going to ask him to marry you already, are you?” she whisper-shouted. Crowley couldn’t decide if she looked more excited or horrified by the prospect.
“Wh– ngk . No? We’ve known each for, like, two months.” It was too early. Definitely too early. Right? Besides, he didn’t even know if Aziraphale was interested in the whole marriage thing. If he was. He’d never even thought about it before. What he knew he was, though, was up for anything Aziraphale wanted to do. Including marriage.
Maggie gaped at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. “You’re thinking about it!”
“I’m thinking about it because you just said it!” he shot back, loud enough to catch Aziraphale’s attention.
“Is everything alright, dear?” he asked, dropping the penny he was clumsily handling.
Crowley blushed, because why not? “Nyeah, don’t worry. You’re doing great, by the way. You’ll put them to sleep in no time.”
Aziraphale scoffed, flashing him a properly chastising look before going back to his audience (read: prisoners). “Where were we? Ah, yes.”
Fuck’s sake, that was close. Maggie was beaming and even Nina was smirking knowingly. Crowley threw daggers at the both of them, willing them to behave.
“What I was actually thinking,” he said, taking a deep, centering breath, “is that I want to found my own record label. Make a new album with the material we’ve written on Skye and publish my own songs, on my own terms. We could even, I don’t know, see if we can get the masters back from those arseholes over at Morningstar or work out some sort of deal to re-record my solo albums. Can we do that?”
Maggie looked flabbergasted, blue eyes suddenly as big as saucers. She opened her mouth to say something, but the only thing that came was a tremulous gasp.
“Hell’s sake, did I break her?” asked Crowley, peering at her over his sunglasses to make sure she wasn’t dying or something.
Nina, who was rubbing soothing circles on her back, snorted. “Give her a minute, Red. I am going to make some tea, do you want some?”
“Can I have six espressos in a big mug?”
“No.”
“Ugh, the service here sucks.”
“This is Maggie’s house.”
“Yes, and?”
Nina got back on her feet, graced him with a truly menacing glare and disappeared back into the kitchen. Crowley muttered something under his breath, when Maggie’s brain came back online with a jolt.
“Are you being serious?” she asked, breathless.
“Of course I’m being serious.” Now that he thought about it, he was probably not drunk enough for this conversation. He reached for the wine, but Maggie’s hand stopped him before he could.
“I’ll see what I can do and I’ll let you know,” she said, a somber look in her eyes as she squeezed his hand. “I’m really, really happy for you.”
“Nyeah, thanks. Don’t get too excited, nothing’s happened yet.” He knew from experience that, if he wasn’t careful, it could all come crashing down on him any second.
“I’m sorry, it’s too late.”
Crowley huffed, but didn’t try to take his hand back. “You perky people should be outlawed.”
Maggie beamed at him. “You’re probably right.”
“I usually am.”
“Darling, please, don’t lie,” came Aziraphale’s stern voice from the kids’ table. “It’s Christmas and you’re not setting a good example.”
“‘S okay, you’ve bored the kids to sleep, their young minds are safe from me.”
Aziraphale shook his head and proceeded to clear the checkers board. “So rude.”
They left shortly after that, mainly because Maggie wouldn’t stop vibrating with excitement at the prospect of a new album and, had they stayed, Crowley was scared she’d start planning it all right then and there. While he was grateful for her excitement, what he needed was to take it slow.
In their Uber, Aziraphale reached out to fuss with Crowley’s scarf, a lumpy black and red thingy he had personally knitted and gifted to him as a Christmas present. It was possibly the ugliest scarf Crowley had ever seen, and also his most prized possession. In case of fire, were he to choose between Bentley and the scarf, he’d probably go for the scarf first. That’s how catastrophic this whole situation was.
“I really wish I’d had more time,” Aziraphale fretted, like he’d never stopped doing since presenting Crowley with his gift. “It could have come out much better, maybe I should–”
“‘S perfect, don’t touch it. ‘S mine.”
Aziraphale beamed, visibly pleased and slightly pink. “Oh well, if you think so.”
“I do.” Crowley paused, momentarily overwhelmed by that big feeling – love, he knew what it was, he wasn’t an idiot (not that much of an idiot, at least) – that always made itself known whenever Aziraphale smiled like that (and did loads of other things too, things that could be easily summarised with one word: existing). “I told Maggie about the label.”
“Oh, that’s splendid. What did she say?”
“She was happy.”
“Hate to say it but–”
Crowley scoffed so hard the Uber almost recoiled. “You don’t hate to say it.”
Aziraphale primly fixed his own scarf. “Well, be that as it may, I told you so.”
“There it is. Unbelievable.”
“Is it really?”
“Ugh.”
“You’re coming back to mine, aren’t you?”
“Nyeah.” He needed to make sure that the poinsettia he’d gifted Aziraphale knew its days of terror hadn’t ended when he’d brought it out of his flat that morning. It was the first houseplant Crowley had tended to in years, and he’d spent the better part of the last twenty days screaming at it to make sure it’d be perfect for Aziraphale, who would no doubt place it on a special doily and coddle it to death. You must teach them young. (Now that he thought about it, his propensity for disciplining plants was probably something worth mentioning to his therapist.)
Crowley slumped against the seat in relief and looked out the window, lips twitching against his will. They were slowly becoming better at this, actually inviting each other to their homes instead of skirting around the issue and hoping they would magically end up in the same place when the day was over.
As London passed by in a blur of twinkly Christmas lights, Crowley felt a hand creeping into his own and interlacing their fingers together. He chanced a glance in Aziraphale’s direction and found him doing some staring of his own out of his own window.
Warmth flooded his chest. Bloody nice ‘s what it was.
He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and turned back to the city swishing past.
Crowley had never been in love before, but he was starting to allow himself to believe that this was exactly what it felt like.
February
Aziraphale was just coming out of the dairy section of his local Tesco when Crowley stalked towards him, staring down at his phone with his brows furrowed over the rim of his sunglasses. He stopped a few feet away from him before slipping it in the inner pocket of his coat, the one he’d bought on Skye and hadn’t stopped wearing, much to Aziraphale’s delight.
“How was your phone call?” Aziraphale asked, aiming for casual. He was proud to say that he was getting better at it. While Crowley had become less prickly and more open when it came to talking about his career and his plans to bring it back, Aziraphale had learned that he couldn’t just come out and ask or, God forbid, show too much interest, or he’d clam up on the spot.
Crowley shrugged and finally came to stand next to his trolley. “Okay, I guess.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale pretended to be very interested (as opposed to only mildly so) in a jar of pickled herring, the fancy kind.
“Morningstar has flat out refused to give me back my masters, so we’re going to re-record everything. ‘S better this way. All the changes they didn’t let me make at the time, I can make now,” Crowley explained like it was no big deal at all. And then, voice lower, “I’m going to ask the kids if they want to record them with me.”
Aziraphale whipped his head towards him, unable to mask his excitement for a moment longer. “Oh, Crowley, that’s a marvellous idea.”
Crowley blushed bright red. “Nyeah, right, so…” He mumbled something unintelligible, then glanced at the contents of Aziraphale’s trolley, which was overflowing with all sorts of things. “How did you end up getting so much stuff? I’ve stepped away for, what, ten minutes? Are you trying to feed a bloody army?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, nose up in the air. “One thing you should know about me is that my strength lies in editing.”
Crowley’s eyebrows lifted at that. “Huh?”
“It means I take whatever I fancy, and then I edit, as it were.” In order to decide what he actually wanted, he first needed to have all the options displayed in front of him. “You have to trust the process.” He certainly couldn’t afford this much stuff, no matter tonight’s, er, occasion, which he didn’t dare define as special. Not out loud at least. So what if he’d bought new sock garters? Two completely unrelated events.
Crowley looked perplexed. “So what, you fill the trolley and then you take out stuff?”
“Yes, until I reach my budget.”
“But that’s–”
Aziraphale’s eyes flashed in warning. “What?” Maybe he was a hedonist at heart, but he still lived alone in one of the most expensive cities in the world, he couldn’t just buy things willy-nilly (well, sometimes he did, and while he usually didn’t regret it, his bank account did).
“Nothing.” Crowley wrinkled his nose and glanced around for no reason, before licking his lips and adding, “Since you’re hosting tonight, I’m going to pay for the groceries. Take everything you like.”
Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm and clasped the pickled herring to his chest, where gratitude was wrestling with shame. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to be able to sit back and let other people take care of him for once – in fact, he did like it, very much – only getting used to it and how vulnerable it made him feel was proving harder than he thought it would be. In his experience, such acts usually came at a cost.
“My dear, I couldn’t possibly–”
“You can.” Crowley reached out to take the jar from his clenched hands and put it in the trolley along with the rest of the stuff. “Whatever you like,” he repeated. “Please.”
Aziraphale just stared at him and mentally said ‘Hello, and welcome back,’ to the butterflies now permanently living in his stomach. At this point, he could name them one by one (Jane, Emily, Charlotte, Anne, Mary and so on and so forth). Oh, but he could have spent the rest of his life just staring at this impossible, wonderful man, who was currently too embarrassed to even look at him.
Aziraphale was pondering the possibility of launching himself on Crowley and hugging him in front of an army of herrings, when someone cleared their voice beside them.
Aziraphale turned towards whoever was so impatient to get their herrings that they couldn’t even wait for two gentlemen to wrap up their intimate moment, and found himself gaping at an unfortunately familiar, tall, broad shouldered man in a long light grey overcoat paired with a lilac scarf. Everything about him screamed expensive , including the bottle of wine he had in his hands.
Aziraphale’s stomach lurched uncomfortably. It had been years since he’d last seen his brother. Not as many as I would have liked, he couldn’t help but think.
Gabriel opened his arms and laughed in that boisterous, fake way of his. “Aziraphale? How long has it been?” Then he glanced at Crowley – who had gone very still and looked for all the world like a coiled serpent ready to strike – and his good mood faltered. “AJ?”
Crowley moved one step closer to a very confused and irritated Aziraphale, his back unnaturally straight. “If it isn’t Gabriel fucking Archer.”
“Archer?” Aziraphale heard himself ask, shaking off his stupor, before glancing back at Gabriel. “Did you change your name?” And why would Crowley be privy to this particular piece of information?
Gabriel snorted, clearly trying his best to keep up with his easy going approach while also seemingly regretting every single choice he’d made in the last five minutes. “Not officially, but yes, buddy. I couldn’t let mom and pops know what I did for a living, now, could I?” He laughed, a short empty sound that made Aziraphale’s skin crawl even more than the American accent he’d suddenly put on for no reason.
“You’re not a solicitor?” He was quite sure he was, considering the many, long years he’d spent listening to their parents wax lyrical about Gabriel and his brilliant future.
“He’s a talent manager, aren’t you, Gabey? The backstabbing kind,” Crowley hissed, then did a double take and turned to Aziraphale. “Wait a second. Who do you think this is?”
“This is my brother.”
Crowley looked flabbergasted. “No, he isn’t. This is the manager that screwed me over.”
Gabriel chuckled as he tugged at the collar of his dress shirt. “Now, I didn’t exactly screw you over–”
“Yes, buddy,” Crowley spat. “You did.” He scrunched up his nose. “Wait, so you’re not even American? You’re a locally sourced twat?”
“Pardon me,” Aziraphale chimed in, blinking almost obsessively. Reality was threatening to slip away from him. “I really thought you were a solicitor.”
“No, I mean– I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything to mother and father.” And now he was back to his own accent. “They’re very old and–”
Aziraphale was horrified. “So you’re still pretending to be a solicitor?”
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them, sunshine.”
Crowley growled next to him. “Call him sunshine one more time.”
“Woah woah, easy there,” said Gabriel, taking a step back with his hands held out in a placating gesture. “I was just saying hi.” He eyed their trolley and laughed. “You still like good food, eh buddy?” Crowley took off his sunglasses and flashed him a glare so murderous Gabriel’s face crumbled again. “Well, you two seem to have everything you need for a nice Valentine’s Day.”
Aziraphale stiffened and felt Crowley doing much the same next to him. So, yes, maybe they hadn’t exactly acknowledged the reason they were out buying groceries to cook dinner together and–
“Is it?” Aziraphale asked, breathless and high-pitched, just as Crowley said, “Valentine’s what?”
They turned to each other and shook their heads in a flurry of “I had no idea” and “Goodness, is it February already?” and “The calendar is just a social construct anyway” and “Are you familiar with the French Republican calendar? Today is day twenty-six of Pluviôse”, becoming pinker and more flustery as they went.
Gabriel chuckled again, their stammering making him braver. “Would love to know how this happened,” he said, gesturing between them. “I did hear the rumours, but–”
“Nyeah, you wish,” Crowley snarled.
Gabriel turned to Aziraphale. “No offence, but you don’t seem like his type at all.”
This bothered him immensely. Why did everyone keep saying that? Also, what did Gabriel know about Crowley? Was he really the manager that had thrown him to the wolves? How dare he!
Aziraphale pursed his lips and squared his shoulders. “I suggest you take your very expensive, very mediocre bottle of wine and leave us alone, Gabriel.” He’d probably chosen the most expensive bottle available without much thought for taste or quality, which was everything one needed to know about his brother.
“Come on, Azi–”
“You heard him,” Crowley interjected, taking a deliberate step forward that made Gabriel cower.
“Sure, sure. It was nice seeing you again… erm, both of you.” He walked backwards, as though afraid of turning his back on them. “Bee will never believe this.” He reached the end of the aisle, then and only then did he turn around and leave in quite the hurry.
“Fucking Hell, they’re still together?” Crowley huffed out, nothing short of scandalised. “At least he didn’t screw me over for a fling, I s’pose.”
They remained silent for a long moment before exchanging a dumbfounded look. Could they go back to pretending they didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day?
“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley muttered.
“Quite. Dare I say we need more wine?”
“Extraordinary amounts of it.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s just spiffing, dear. I’ll meet you at check out.”
“Sure.”
“Yes.”
April
[Verified TikTok profile ajcrowley is streaming live.]
[The live has approximately 10.000 followers and 300.000 likes and counting.]
[Anthony J. Crowley is laying belly down on a bed with a flowery duvet. Only his face and upper torso are visible. He’s wearing a black sweater and dark sunglasses, and he’s reading out from a book with a fake marble paper cover. The title, in cheap gold lettering, reads: Heads or Tails.]
‘The air was dense with desire, the silence softened by the muffled chattering of the rowdy crowd downstairs, the innkeeper’s useless warnings and the fire lazily crackling in the hearth. They spoke no words, letting their quick, shallow breaths and the press of their bodies do the talking for them.’
[Anthony J. Crowley lets his sunglasses slide down his nose and looks straight at the camera. He wiggles his eyebrows.]
Things are about to get saaaaucy.
[He counts how many pages are left in the chapter and whistles.]
I hope you don’t have dinner plans because this is going to take some time, and you know what it means. We’re looking at–
[He counts the pages again.]
–I want to say, no less than ten pages of shagging? Or, as I like to call it, Throbbing & Thrusting Time. Happens a lot in this sort of book. Granted, they’re wearing a lot of layers. Men in the 1600s sure loved their foreplay. Didn’t have much of a choice, did they? Speaking of, how are we feeling about hose? I think it’s hot. Bonus points if it has little dainty bows on it.
[He leans forward to read the comments.]
Can I jump straight to the smut? Well, no, snakebabe89, I can’t. This AZ Fell has a way with words and we’re going to appreciate every single one of ‘em. proximacentaurixxx asks: “Why are you reading gay smut on the Internet?” Well, why not? ‘S fun and I’m bored. Therapy’s kicking my arse and I need a distraction.
[He turns around at the sound of a door opening off camera. He smiles at whoever has just entered the room.]
Finally! All done with work then?
[There’s some shuffling, then another voice.]
Hello, dear. I am and I’m feeling quite peckish. But first, I was wondering if– [A pause] What are you doing?
I am educating the masses through a very edifying read. It’s the inn scene after the meeting at the Globe….
Is that Heads or Tails? Wait. Are you live?
Yes, on TikTok. I’m giving my followers what they want. And this AZ Fell person… well, they know a thing or two about things I want. Seemed like a good place to start. [He turns to the camera, looking amused and pleased with himself.] italiancornetto wants to know if the voice they’re hearing is the same from the cupboard at the charity concert. I don’t know. [He gazes at the other person in the room.] Is it?
[The other person scoffs, then someone comes to sit on the bed next to Anthony J. Crowley and leans forward. A man with white-blonde hair and rounded cheeks appears. He’s frowning.]
Yes, that’s me. [He squints at the phone to read the latest comments, which are piling up quickly on the bottom left corner of the screen.] ‘Are you too fuc–’ [his eyes widen in outrage] Well, I believe that’s none of your business, hellhound01.
[Anthony J. Crowley cackles.] Do you want to stay and read with us?
Why would I read my own book on the Internet?
[Anthony J. Crowley gapes at him for a second.] Angel, you do know we’re streaming live, right?
Yes, I do. [He’s still staring at the screen, transfixed and mildly offended by the comments pouring in.] No, it’s not my book because I bought it. It’s my book because I wrote it. Am I AZ Fell? Why, yes, xxBigFlamingSwordxx, I rather think I am.
[Anthony J. Crowley sits bolt upright on the bed. The movement sends the phone tumbling down the pillow. Only the ceiling is visible, but the voices can still be heard.]
Did you just come out as AZ Fell?
Yes, dear, don’t look so surprised. It’s not a secret.
Why the pseudonym then?
Well, when I started, I didn’t want my family to know, hence the nom de plume, but now– I’m not ashamed. I was actually coming to see if you–
Want to get dinner, yes. Let me just–
No. I mean, yes, that too. But I am having trouble with a scene and I was wondering if you wanted to help.
[There’s a choked sound.] What sort of scene?
Well, the protagonists have run into each other in a gentlemen’s club. It’s evening and the upper floors are–
[Anthony J. Crowley gasps.] Fucking Hell, are you asking me if I want to take one for the anatomically correct sex positions brigade? Because I do! Yes!
[The other man – AZ Fell, apparently – tuts.] Are you still streaming, dear?
Oops, fuck. [The camera jostles around before Anthony J. Crowley is back on screen. His cheeks are flushed and he’s grinning from ear to ear.] Gotta go, I’ll be back with the rest. Bye, heathens.
June
“Angel, it’s me! Don’t freak out, I let myself in with the key you gave me.”
For emergencies only, they’d told each other a few weeks back. Just two grown men exchanging keys, no big deal. Only they weren’t looking each other in the eye when they’d said the words. No, they’d swapped them like they would have done with drugs on a dark street corner, if you also carefully ignore the fact that they were both blushing like mad.
Either way, Crowley was almost one hundred percent positive that being bored out of his mind after an entire day spent recording with people half his age constituted an emergency.
He closed the door behind him and crossed the hallway to pop his head around the living room. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, his shiny new laptop laying open on the desk by the window. Was he still working? One thing Crowley had learned about Aziraphale, if he was ghostwriting he couldn’t wait for an excuse to take a break or stop working for the day. If he was writing for himself, on the other hand, you’d need a miracle and no small amount of temptation to get him away from his computer.
“Come on, come take a break and eat something.” He placed the Indian take-away on the coffee table, quickly followed by his sunglasses. “I stopped by that place you like.” Something caught his attention. “Is that a new doily?”
He finally heard footsteps coming from the little corridor leading to the rest of the flat. A few seconds later, Aziraphale barged into the living room, looking frazzled, his eyes wide and his fluffy hair sticking out in every direction, as though he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.
“Crowley…” he began with a hitch in his voice. He brought a hand to his heaving chest, which was enough for Crowley to panic and launch himself forward until they were standing face to face.
“Is everything alright?” He took Aziraphale’s hands to prevent them from fidgeting. “Did something happen?”
“I was just on the phone–”
“Another one of those scammers? Do you want me to call them back and scar them for life? I told you, I’m always happy to do that–”
Aziraphale squeezed his hands back. “No, it was a publisher. Well, an editor actually.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose in confusion. “An editor?”
“They want to buy the rights to my books and publish them. Properly, I mean. Turn them into a series, with new covers and everything.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
He knew Aziraphale had been selling more books than usual since April. He had mentioned it in passing a few times, but it certainly didn’t explain this sudden restlessness. If they hadn’t been holding hands, Crowley had no doubt that Aziraphale would be relentlessly tormenting his bottom lip between his fingers.
“Yes, yes– I suppose it is. I just didn’t think it would ever happen. I had resigned myself to– and I– Goodness.” Aziraphale took a deep, calming breath to try and collect himself, and for a second he did look calmer, only it didn’t last. His face crumbled, making Crowley’s stomach clench in response. “You see, I rather think– Oh, Crowley, I think it was you.”
“What?”
“Those silly lives you’ve been doing. You’ve been– you’ve been–”
Fuck. “Oh, no no no, angel, don’t cry.”
But it was too late, Aziraphale was already downright sobbing. Without so much as a second thought, Crowley wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer, his heart squeezing in his chest when he felt Aziraphale desperately hugging him back and burying his face in the crook of his neck.
It wasn’t that he’d never seen him cry, because he had, but never like this, like a dam had just broken. Aziraphale had never lost his composure before; no matter how angry or sad he was, he always, always managed to control himself.
Well, not this time.
Crowley didn’t know what to say. It felt jarring to see him like this, but also… monumental, in a way. He’d been granted a privilege of some sort, and he had no intention of squandering it.
“‘S okay, angel. You’re good, you deserve it,” he repeated over and over again, kissing the top of Aziraphale’s head and rubbing his back. He was still trembling like a leaf.
“But if it wasn’t for you–” Aziraphale tried to say.
“No,” said Crowley firmly, pulling back to cup his face with his hand and look him straight in the eye. “I didn’t do anything. I just read your books to some people because I was bored.”
Aziraphale scrunched up his face, overcome by a fresh wave of tears. “But still, if it wasn’t for–”
“If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be recording again,” Crowley cut him off immediately. “It was only right that I returned the favour.”
Aziraphale took a tremulous breath. “But I wasn’t doing you a favour, I–”
“I know. I wasn’t doing you a favour either, I was just bored and I love your books and I thought other people would love them too if they knew they existed, you know?”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, eyes roaming around his face. His lips parted on a shaky exhale. “I love you.”
Crowley snorted, a jerk reaction he wasn’t particularly proud of. “You–”
Aziraphale swallowed and straightened, only slightly offended. “I do. I love you,” he said again, more firmly, as he wiped the tears away. “You don’t have to say it back, I–”
“I love you too, you idiot,” he blurted out, lightning-quick.
Aziraphale let out a little outraged gasp. “Come, now. There’s no need to be rude.”
“No, it’s just– I thought we were taking it as said.” He’d known he was in love with Aziraphale and that Aziraphale was in love with him for some time now. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest, but some things were too obvious to be ignored, even by those who were actively trying to ignore them.
“We were. But it’s nicer to be told, isn’t it?”
“What would I know? No one’s ever said that to me, you can hardly expect me to react normally.”
“I would never expect you to do anything normally.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.” Aziraphale sniffed and let out another trembling breath. “What’s this delicious smell?”
“Indian food?” And then, “Do you really love me?”
“I thought we were taking it as said,” Aziraphale replied primly as he let Crowley dry his tear-stained cheeks.
“We were. But can you say it again?” For, you know, scientific reasons.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but indulged him nonetheless. “I love you.”
Crowley snorted again, earning himself a stern glare. “Sorry! I love you too, I swear. I can’t control it.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I try to be.”
“Let’s eat before–”
“Before you change your mind?”
“Before it gets cold. I won’t change my mind. About loving you, I mean, so you can stop worrying about that right this second.”
Crowley grinned from ear to ear, fireworks going off under the surface of his skin. He was practically gloating. “Oh, my therapist’s gonna have a field day tomorrow.”
“Poor woman. I don’t envy her.”
“Believe me, no one does.”
July
It was during an assuming Thursday evening at Crowley’s flat, in the middle of a heatwave no less, that the tits came out again. In their full glory and without any warning.
Not that Crowley had never seen Aziraphale naked after that morning on Skye – he’d seen plenty and often and had made peace with the fact that he would never get enough of it – but this particular set up, with Aziraphale coming out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and pretending (because pretending he was) to look for something, had never presented itself again.
Crowley, who was slouching on his bed in his black silk nightie (something he’d bought to scandalise Aziraphale and then kept wearing when Aziraphale wasn’t scandalised so much as made extremely horny by it), immediately put down his phone and followed Aziraphale around with his gaze as he rummaged in the drawer where he kept his stuff.
“Looking for something?” Crowley asked, clearly enunciating every syllable.
He was amused. In fact, everything about Aziraphale amused him. He loved how calm and collected he presented himself, how his normal façade could trick you into forgetting that he was also a little insane and a little bit of a bastard. One of the things Crowley loved the most about the months they’d spent together was discovering this side of Aziraphale over and over again, and in more ways than one too.
And this little performance? It meant Aziraphale wanted something and he didn’t know how to ask for it. Which, coupled with the long time he’d spent in the shower, made Crowley think of a very specific scenario they’d been dancing around for some time now.
He wants me to fuck him, Crowley was dead certain about it, not to mention very willing and very eager to make all of Aziraphale’s dreams come true. They had talked about it more than once, and lately even more so. Crowley had never pushed, of course. Neither of them liked change all that much. In fact, they did without until they couldn’t anymore, and they were used to taking this sort of thing unhurriedly.
Besides, Crowley was happy to do anything Aziraphale wanted to, and he was fine with that particular thing not ever being on the table, but he knew it was more fear than preference on Aziraphale’s part. It would take time for him to actually, truly, deeply believe that he could let himself be taken care of and surrender control with no repercussions.
And Crowley was nothing if not patient– well, alright, he wasn’t patient at all, but when it came to Aziraphale? He could wait around six thousand years. He’d probably hate every second of it, true, but he could. And, most importantly, he would.
Something had changed between them after the night Aziraphale had broken down in front of him after receiving a phone call from his now editor, a very perceptive woman improbably called Anathema. So, maybe, it was time.
“Oh? Nothing, dear.” Aziraphale turned to look at him over his naked shoulder and, yes, he was already blushing.
Crowley patted the spot next to him on the bed. “Come here.”
“I’m not even dressed yet.”
“You don’t need to be dressed.”
“It’s quite hot today, isn’t it?”
Crowley grinned. “You’re always hot.”
A strangled sound left Aziraphale’s lips. “Hush, you fiend,” he scolded him, which didn’t stop him from closing the drawer and wandering towards the bed to gingerly sit on it. He looked so soft and delectable and he smelled so good. Crowley couldn’t wait to get his mouth all over him, heatwave be damned.
For now, though, he contented himself with scooting a little closer and running a hand through Aziraphale’s wet hair. And, since he’d also been making some progress of his own, he opened his mouth and just straight up asked, “Do you want something?”
Aziraphale pouted and deployed the full power of his puppy eyes. “How do you know I want something?”
Crowley smiled, endeared and annoyed in equal measure. “I think I know you by now,” which was apparently enough to make Aziraphale blush all over again.
“I suppose you do.”
“And you know I’ll give you whatever you want, don’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“So just ask. I’m all ears.”
Aziraphale lowered his eyes and began to idly run a hand up and down Crowley’s naked leg, rubbing his soft, manicured fingers on his newest tattoo – two pairs of angel wings, one white and one black, wrapped around each other. “So, I was thinking–”
“Concerning as usual…”
“Yes, thank you for pointing it out.” He threw him a chastising look, warning him to behave. Once Crowley had pretended to zip his lips shut, Aziraphale looked away and resumed his ramblings. “I was thinking that we’ve been together for some time. And, believe me, I’m aware that it’s not that long, it’s been what–”
“Nine months and four days, give or take.”
Aziraphale glanced up at him. “Are you keeping count?”
“No, just– you know, lucky guess.” Of course he was keeping count. “Go on.”
“So it’s been nine months–”
“And four days.” Couldn’t forget about those. Four days were almost one hundred hours, practically a lifetime. A lot could happen in a hundred hours. And nine months? Whole human beings were made in nine months.
“And four days,” Aziraphale conceded. “We’ve been growing closer, which makes me very happy, and I know I had reservations about this sort of thing, seeing that in my past relationships–”
There we go. Crowley had hit the nail on the head, hadn’t he? “I’m not like your past relationships, we’ve talked about this.” Whatever they were going through, it was new for both of them.
“I know you aren’t, dear. It’s just–” Aziraphale bit his lips, clearly worried. “What if it doesn’t go well?”
“Angel, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“But what if I want to do it? Because I really do.”
“Then we’ll do it, and if it doesn’t go well, we’ll try again, if you like. Or not, whatever you want.” I mean, what could happen, really? So maybe Crowley would cry his eyes out (it wasn’t a possibility so much as a guarantee) or Aziraphale would back out and they’d spend the rest of the evening doing the cool version of cuddling (definition yet to be determined). Even if it went bad, it wouldn’t be bad. Nothing involving Aziraphale would ever be.
“Do you really mean it?” asked Aziraphale, voice soft and uncertain.
Crowley placed a hand on the nape of his neck and pulled him closer until their foreheads were pressed together. “Of course I mean it, angel.”
“Alright,” Aziraphale whispered. “If that is indeed the case… I suppose… that I would really like… if you could… well…”
“Yeah…?” Not to be dramatic or anything, but his heart was ready to burst out of his chest.
“I would really like it if you moved in with me.”
Crowley reared his head back, mouth gaping open. “You would like me to move into you?” Had he heard correctly? Sure, his blood was roaring in his ears and his head was spinning a little, but that was a weird way to phrase it, right? Technically correct, but–
Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Move in with me.”
“But where?” Inside of him?
“In a house!” Aziraphale blurted out, exasperated. “Where do people usually move in together?”
“No, wait, you’re not asking me to fuck you?”
Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to gape at him. “I am asking you to move in with me, you silly man!”
“But–”
It took only a split second for Crowley’s hesitation to turn Aziraphale’s uncertainty into unease. “Alright,” Aziraphale rushed to say, making a move to stand up. “I shouldn’t have asked, it’s too early and–”
“No, come back here!” Crowley pulled him back on the bed and climbed on top of him to thwart any and all future escape attempts. He even wiggled his shoulders to make the left strap of the nightie slip down his naked shoulder – Aziraphale loved that. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to! Your face said it for you.”
“It did not,” Crowley insisted, cradling Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks between his hands to search his eyes with his own. Now that the shock was subsiding, he could feel his heart pounding away in his throat. “Do you seriously want to live with me?”
“Yes? I don’t like to have my things scattered across two different flats. I want everything I love in one place.” As he said it, he placed his hands on Crowley’s waist, their warmth soaking through the silk. “It just makes more sense. And I know you don’t like my place, and honestly, it wouldn’t feel right. It’s my place, after all, and yours… well…”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “I know, you hate it because you have standards.” Which apparently included doilies, lots of things once owned by dead people and a perpetual layer of dust covering everything in sight.
“Precisely. So I thought we could look for a new place. Together. Somewhere you could have a garden, and I could keep lots of books and enjoy some peace and quiet.”
“Like we did on Skye?”
“Yes. It was nice, wasn’t it? Living together outside the city. Though I would prefer somewhere less rainy than Scotland.”
“It was nice,” Crowley admitted. Hindsight was a hell of a thing, wasn’t it?
“But will it be?”
Aziraphale’s eyes were so full of hope and fondness that Crowley almost whined in response, the love inside of him burning brighter than ever. “Of course, angel. I would love to.”
Aziraphale’s frown turned into a beaming smile. “Really?”
“Fuck’s sake, put that blasted sun away, ‘s too hot already!” Crowley’s face was already on fire as it was.
“Excuse me, you’re the one sitting in my lap.”
“And I’m really comfortable, thank you for asking.”
“You look good in that nightie.”
“Oh, I know. You look good in that towel. Even better without it, though.”
“Flattery–”
“Will get me nowhere, I know, I know. But still, you got your tits out to ask me to move in with you, so I still maintain that it got me somewhere.” And this somewhere was quite something.
“Did you really think I was going to ask you to take me?”
“Ngk.” Yeah, that was how Aziraphale would word it. “We’ve been talking about it, and you spent a lot of time in the shower. I thought you were, you know, preparing yourself.” Hell knew how fussy Aziraphale could be.
“To be fair, that’s exactly what I was doing.”
Crowley almost choked on a surprised whimper and the only reason he didn’t collapse on the floor was Aziraphale holding him by the waist. “Ange– You– Bloody Hell! You’re not just a little insane, you’re bonkers!”
Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t you think you’re being a little too dramatic, dear?”
“Satan help me, I’ll shut you up real quick, just you wait–”
“I’d like to be romanced first.”
“I’ll romance the shit out of you and you’ll be sorry you ever asked.”
“Mmh, yes, probably.”
“Yeah, ‘s time to say a little prayer, angel.”
“Oh, my.”
December
THE GRAHAM NORTON SHOW – SEASON 33, EPISODE 11 – 12/12/2025
Guests: Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande, Anthony J. Crowley, AZ Fell, Miranda Hart
GRAHAM NORTON: So moving on, AJ? Are you still with us? You seem quite cosy over there.
[Anthony J. Crowley lifts his head from the sofa he’s currently slouched on, arms crossed on his chest and sunglasses perched on his nose. He seems to have dozed off. He’s wearing a very sharp, very tight black suit with a lace top underneath. He makes a show of startling himself awake and the audience laughs.]
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: ‘M sorry, did you say something? [more laughs from the audience and the other guests]
GRAHAM NORTON: I’m glad you made yourself comfortable. This is your first television appearance in how long?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [scrunching up his face in thought] I dunno. A long time, though. Can’t say I missed it, to be honest.
GRAHAM NORTON: [snorts] Tell us how you really feel, huh?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Hey, at least I’ve got whiskey this time. You’re already better than most of ‘em. [he gestures to the tumbler on the low table in front of him]
GRAHAM NORTON: You’re coming out with a new album next Friday, your sixth studio album to be precise and, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re also producing it this time?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Yeah, I’ve got my own label and everything. Easier to get things done when you’re the one calling the shots. The only arsehole breathing down my neck this time was… well, me. [he stills] Can I say arsehole?
GRAHAM NORTON: You can, don’t hold back. [he laughs] Our Own Side Records, right? That’s the name of the label.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Yep.
GRAHAM NORTON: I had a chance to listen to the album and let me tell you, it’s really, really good. Why Sauntering Vaguely Downwards ?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [shifting nervously on the sofa] Well, it’s loosely based on a reinterpretation of the seven sins, plus some extra tracks. I didn’t set out to write a cohesive album, though, or even an album, it just happened. And the title, pfff– ‘s about falling, right? But it’s more of a slow descent. So, that’s why. The sauntering downwards thing, I mean.
GRAHAM NORTON: Descent… in love, right?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [scoffs and blushes] Don’t put words in my mouth.
GRAHAM NORTON: [smiles] Lucky for us, we have a surprise guest who probably can.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: What? [he furrows his brows] Put words in my mouth?
GRAHAM NORTON: [stands up and turns to a different camera as the picture of author AZ Fell comes up on screen] Please welcome, romance and erotica author AZ Fell!
[The audience cheers, the guests clap, all except Anthony J. Crowley, who’s slumping back on the sofa and muttering profanities under his breath.]
AZ FELL: [walks up to Graham Norton to shake his hand. He is wearing an old fashioned three piece cream coloured suit paired with a light blue shirt] Hello, how do you do?
GRAHAM NORTON: Fine, and you?
AZ FELL: Splendid!
GRAHAM NORTON: Take a seat, please. What are you drinking?
AZ FELL: Oh, sherry for me. [he greets each guest individually before sitting next to Anthony J. Crowley] Hello, dear.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: What are you doing here, angel? [a surprised oooh goes through the crowd]
AZ FELL: Mr Norton invited me. We actually met in the lobby this morning when I accompanied you, so here I am. Isn’t it exciting?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [unintelligible gibberish]
GRAHAM NORTON: [amused] So, that’s an odd pairing. How did you two meet exactly?
AZ FELL: [turns to Graham with a big, beaming smile on his face, his hands smoothing down his thighs] Let’s see. It all started when I met Maggie, who’s his manager, she–
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [lifts a hand to cut him off] Why don’t you start from the day you were born? ‘S gonna be even more interesting that way.
AZ FELL: [looking outraged] I’m just answering the question.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [looks at Graham Norton] My manager hired him behind my back to write my lyrics, because I couldn’t. There, done.
GRAHAM NORTON: [to AZ Fell] And you did, I imagine?
AZ FELL: Yes. It wasn’t easy, but we soldiered through and got there in the end. [he leans forward, holding a hand to the side of his mouth] Some of us kicking and screaming every step of the way, but we did.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [grumbling] I heard that.
GRAHAM NORTON: You went on a month-long retreat on the Isle of Skye, is that right?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [scoffs] A retreat? It was a cottage in the middle of bloody nowhere. It was awful.
AZ FELL: [at the same time] It was delightful.
GRAHAM NORTON: Speaking of the cottage, we have stumbled on a TikTok video from the owner. Let’s take a look. [he gestures to the screen next to him and a TikTok video starts playing]
[The video is titled GRWM AS I TELL YOU ABOUT THAT TIME MY WINE CELLAR WAS RAIDED BY A ROCKSTAR and features ASMR influencer Shax as she puts make-up on and complains about Anthony J. Crowley and his guest helping themselves to her wine collection. When the clip ends, the camera switches to AZ Fell, who is very pink, and Anthony J. Crowley, who looks unbothered and a touch disgusted. The audience giggles.]
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: In our defence, no one told us we couldn’t drink the wine.
AZ FELL: We wouldn’t have dared otherwise! They could have locked the cellar, I suppose.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [mumbling] I would have probably picked the lock anyway…
AZ FELL: [turns to him in surprise] You can pick a lock?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: I do.
GRAHAM NORTON: I’m guessing the wine helped with the writing?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: No, but I will say, Aziraphale is much better company when he’s sloshed.
AZ FELL: [tutting in disapproval] I am never sloshed. Respectably tipsy, maybe, but not sloshed. [the audience laughs; Ariana Grande leans into Cynthia Erivo and whispers: “He’s soooo cute”]
GRAHAM NORTON: That’s your name, isn’t it? Aziraphale.
AZ FELL: Yes. AZ Fell is just my nom de plume.
GRAHAM NORTON: You just published your tenth book, titled A Gentleman’s Arrangement. It’s a little bit of a departure for you, isn’t it?
AZ FELL: Yes, it’s a full length novel instead of a novella, and it’s more romance than erotica, though it features plenty of, you know–
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Creative shagging.
AZ FELL: So to speak.
GRAHAM NORTON: Did you write it while you two were on Skye?
AZ FELL: No, that came after. But I was plotting it. Anthony’s been a tremendous help.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [snorts] No, I wasn’t. You just wanted to fu–
AZ FELL: [squeezes Anthony J. Crowley’s knee, making him start] Don’t be crass, dear.
GRAHAM NORTON: Well, it was quite a productive month for both of you. You even put on a concert where AJ here and up and coming band The Them, also published by Our Own Side Records, performed for various charity organisations. [the charities’ logos appear at the bottom of the screen] Now, Aziraphale, when we met this morning you told me you were a luddite, but the concert went viral thanks to your commentary… and what happened after. We have a collection of highlights. [he gestures to the screen next to him and another video starts playing]
[It’s a collection of little snippets from an Anthony J. Crowley’s concert taken from a TikTok live. In the background, AZ Fell can be heard either making a series of snappy comments or expressing enthusiastic praise for the performance. The last clip shows the interior of a cupboard. The video ends and the camera switches back to AZ Fell and Anthony J. Crowley. The audience and the guests are laughing.]
GRAHAM NORTON: You seemed pretty, er, into it.
AZ FELL: [primly] Well, he can put on a jolly good show.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [huffing] You can’t go on television and say that I put on “a jolly good show”! My career can’t take it, it’s already on life support!
AZ FELL: [turns to him, annoyed] Of course it can, dear. You’re the bee’s knees, everybody knows that.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [groans loudly] I need more whiskey.
GRAHAM NORTON: What’s up next for you two?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Extraordinary amounts of alcohol, I think. And hope.
AZ FELL: [ignores him] We plan on spending the next few months in our home, writing more songs, and then Anthony will go on tour. Won’t you, dear?
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Nyeah, I guess. Don’t forget your book tour.
AZ FELL: [goes back to ignoring him] He’s also re-releasing his previous music.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Shut up, angel.
AZ FELL: I’m starting to understand why your career went down the drain the first time. [the audience laughs]
GRAHAM NORTON: Have you been back on Skye since?
AZ FELL: Oh, we did.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Can’t believe I went there twice. One of ‘em willingly. [AZ Fell elbows him lightly] Fu– yes, the tour also ends there. In July. So that’s three times.
GRAHAM NORTON: What did you do the second time around?
AZ FELL: Brought quite a lot of wine to replenish Miss Potts’ collection.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Showed Aziraphale’s editor around. [grimaces] She fell in love with some guy.
AZ FELL: We also saw the sights we hadn’t had a chance to see the first time. It’s a truly enchanting island.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Tormented oblivious carpet sellers.
AZ FELL: [throws him a Look™] Dear.
GRAHAM NORTON: Didn’t you two also get married? [the audience gasps]
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Myeah, right. Must have slipped my mind.
AZ FELL: [distractedly] We did get married, now that I think about it.
GRAHAM NORTON: Who asked who?
AZ FELL: It was more of a mutual agreement. A spur of the moment thing.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Everyone thought we already were, so… nothing’s changed. Besides, why suffer the downsides of being married without the legal perks of it? We’re not idiots.
AZ FELL: What he means to say is that we try not to be.
GRAHAM NORTON: We don’t have pictures from the ceremony, but Aziraphale did provide us with this one. [points to the screen] I believe this is your lockscreen, AJ?
[On the screen, there’s a picture of AZ Fell immortalised mid-scoff, holding a framed marriage certificate and rolling his eyes.]
GRAHAM NORTON: You sort of look like a hostage there, Aziraphale.
AZ FELL: Quite. Did you know he made multiple copies? Also terrorised the poor clerk and checked and rechecked that they’d spelled my name right. You see, he was afraid it might be null and void if they hadn’t.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Can’t back out now, angel. You’re stuck with me. Hope this helps.
AZ FELL: I will not back out. I told you already, you’re the bee’s knees.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [groans dramatically] Stop saying that!
AZ FELL: No.
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: [muttering] Bastard.
GRAHAM NORTON: Well, all’s well that ends well. You two were off to a rocky start, but you seem to be enjoying a, er, rocky middle? [laughs]
ANTHONY J. CROWLEY: Myeah, what do you know? [he turns to look at AZ Fell, and even through his sunglasses, you can tell his expression is full of fondness] Guess he’s grown on me in the end.
AZ FELL: [smiles at him, eyes sparkling] I love you too, darling.
May
Somewhere in the South Downs, Anthony J. Crowley had just woken up to the headlines about the previous night’s concert. Somewhere in the South Downs, Anthony J. Crowley went out into his garden, took a deep breath and screamed, “AAAANGEEEEEEEEEL!” at the top of his lungs, sending a flock of nightingales (a watch, the aforementioned angel would observe) flying. Somewhere in the South Downs, author AZ Fell was luckily too busy buying pastries from the nearest bakery to face his husband’s wrath.
It was all tickety-boo, really.
Notes:
I'm going to try and get some original writing done next, but if you want to stay in touch come find me on Tumblr or Bluesky (I'm either Hermiola or Hermiola89) 💜
Sending a big hug to all of you! Thank you 💜💜💜
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