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There was a certain awful pleasure in going book shopping with Aziraphale.
As a demon, Crowley had an appreciation for the ecstasy of pain, and while he usually preferred others to suffer, he wasn't averse to a spot of it himself. He mustn't be, or he'd stop putting himself through this, he thought.
Aziraphale, leaning over a crate of books in a stall that had been put up in the convention hall that morning*, caught his breath in a sigh. He was tense with delight, quivering, and he gave his poor worn waistcoat a sharp little tug.
* But somehow still managed to be grimy in a way that left a thin coating of something on one's hands.
Crowley, who had participated in and sometimes even instigated several of history's most infamous orgies, found himself indulging in the Victorian eroticism of resting a hand on the angel's lower back.
"It's a Van Halland book of hours," Aziraphale murmured.
"And that's good, is it?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale shushed him.
"Yes, but we mustn't let on," he hissed, voice dropping almost to nothing. "It's in the bargain bin!"
Crowley, feeling the idiot as ever but unable to stop himself, twitched his thumb against Aziraphale's back in a little circle.
"Well, allow me," he said, and Aziraphale trembled as Crowley plucked up the book along with two others at random.
"Oh, Crowley -- "
"Oi," Crowley called to the bookseller, who was making change for a spotty young man with a stack of elderly encyclopedia volumes. "Bargain bin."
He waggled the books, and heard Aziraphale catch his breath.
"Two pound each," the man grunted.
"Pay you a fiver for the three," Crowley offered. Aziraphale gasped in shock at his audacity, and Crowley enjoyed a sharp pang of stifled arousal.
"Fine, but I won't gi' ye a bag!"
"Done." Crowley flicked the five pound note across to him. "There you are, angel," he said, handing them to Aziraphale, speaking just loudly enough that anyone nearby would mistake him for an indulgent boyfriend.
Aziraphale immediately deposited the other two books back into the bargain box, his deft, blunt-ended fingers gripping the whatever-it-was book of hours covetously before tucking it into the soft tartan-patterned canvas bag he was carrying.
"I shall pay you back directly," he said, voice rich with satisfaction.
"You'll buy lunch," Crowley suggested.
"Yes, delightful. Only one more aisle first?"
Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets, mostly to deny himself so that he could indulge later, and nodded. "Fair enough."
The Rare, Antiquarian, and Second-Hand Booksellers' Annual Convention was in full swing. It made some pretense of having panels and lectures attached, but it was really, at the end of the day, just a pop-up street fair for excruciatingly earnest book lovers, and Aziraphale could excruciate with the best of them. Crowley followed along behind him, concentrating on his saunter, as the angel indulged in what Crowley knew was the closest he would likely ever see him get to lust. It was a particularly terrible form of foreplay, as it never preluded anything other than a decent hot lunch and then the eventual disappointment of going home alone, but Crowley was accustomed to enjoying suffering, and anyway, he'd take what he could get.
"I was thinking I ought to find some dashing adventure books for Adam," Aziraphale remarked, ducking behind some shelves to skim them for undiscovered treasures. "After all, we are his godfathers, and we've eleven years to make up for after godfathering the wrong child. And a boy does like a ripping yarn now and again."
"Oh, sure," Crowley agreed absently, watching Aziraphale's eyes skim the titles. The one thing you could put stock in was Aziraphale's complete obliviousness to other people when in proximity to this many old books.
Besides, the sunglasses did most of the work for him.
"Though I don't see much here worth fussing over," Aziraphale sniffed, and Crowley loved his unwarranted snobbery and his horrible face and his stupid bookshop.
"Comic books," he suggested, instead of saying any of it out loud. He'd had a handful of centuries to get used to it, after all.
"Beg pardon?"
"It's the sort of thing children like, isn't it?" Crowley asked, vaguely aware that his side had been blamed for comic books and so the suggestion was probably a safe one to make. "Get him some compendium of dreadful comic books."
"What sorts of comic books do children like?" Aziraphale asked dubiously. "Donald Duck, perhaps?"
Crowley rummaged in a crate of cookbooks, mostly in order to avoid complete despair at the suggestion. He came up with a plastic-comb-bound Women's Auxiliary cookbook, but at least it was the Women's Auxiliary of the Satanic Order of Ba'al. He seemed to recall that the Order of Ba'al had rather better pancake breakfasts than most. Aziraphale clucked disdainfully at the cover. Crowley clucked back defiantly and passed the cashier 50p for it.
"Well, we'll see what we turn up after lunch," Aziraphale declared, taking Crowley's arm, unexpected enough that Crowley also let him take the cookbook and stuff it into his bag as they strolled out of the convention hall.
"It's too far to go to the Ritz, but we can't stay here -- it's all dreadful sausages and limp salads," Aziraphale continued. "I know a dear little place; it's called a 'gastro pub'," he said, pronouncing the words carefully.
Crowley, who had previously considered taking credit for inventing gastropubs but felt they were probably too small potatoes, bit his tongue and said nothing.
They sat at the bar in the little gastropub, Crowley with a cider and Aziraphale with probably the first sherry the barman had ever served, and Crowley perused the menu while the angel unpacked his books from his tote bag. Not having a keen grasp of the use or capacity of tote bags, he managed to unpack three bags' worth of books from it, including several comic books Crowley knew they hadn't purchased.
He picked up the Donald Duck omnibus and paged through it. It wasn't actually that awful.
"...so you see," Aziraphale was saying excitedly, the book of hours open in his hands, "Van Halland was the artist, not the owner of the books, and he served a very select clientele. He made scads of them, but there aren't that many left that we know of. It's quite priceless to the right collector."
Crowley leaned toward him, peering over his sunglasses at the book. "Why's that, then?"
"Well, most books of hours were made for women and quite a lot were wedding gifts," Aziraphale said, paging delicately through the book. "They were custom-made, the nicer ones. Sometimes you even got your name put into the prayers. But all of the names in the Van Halland books are mens' names. And, as it were, most of the names on the dedication pages are too."
"I don't understand," Crowley said, and then without looking up at the barman, "I'll have the prawns, he'll have the roast half-chicken."
"Right you are," the man agreed amiably, despite the fact that roast chicken was not on the menu.
"Thank you, delightful," Aziraphale said, flipping back to the dedication page, delicately patterned with a blue and green border of wriggling dragons. In the center, the dedication was to Willim, of St----, from Jack. Below it were two entwined gold rings.
"It was a marriage gift," Aziraphale said, turning his head slightly, to meet Crowley's eyes. "From Jack to Willim. William."
"Ah," Crowley said, not moving. "I see why there aren't many left. Not the sort of thing one's family passes down, after dear bachelor uncle Willim and his lifelong friend Jack both pass."
"No," Aziraphale said, a twinge of sadness in his face. Crowley realized he was probably being inappropriate and leaned back, reaching for his cider.
"Well, that'll be one for the display case, eh?" he asked, playing it casual. "Give Willim and Jack their moment in the sun at last."
"Yes, I think so. Ah, and here's your Satanic cookbook," Aziraphale said, handing over the singe-spotted volume, "And these are for Adam."
"The Ineffable Adventures of Crowley and Fell?" Crowley asked, picking up one of the trade paperbacks. The cover illustration showed a man in a white suit with a jolly grey beard, leaning in the doorway of a crypt, and a man with a tumble of black hair and sunglasses on, seated nearby.
"Well, he ought to know his history," Aziraphale said, taking it from him and squaring it up with the other two ("Donald Duck Harrows The Underworld" and "Karl Marx's Illustrated Guide to Class Struggle").
"That one's for Pepper, really," Aziraphale said, producing a roll of brown paper and a ball of twine from the tote bag and neatly packaging them up. "I'll just pop these in the nearest post. Mind the books?"
Crowley waved him off, idly examining the books on the bar as Aziraphale went to mail the comics. Postage was something that happened to other people in Aziraphale's world, but they'd make it to Lower Tadfield regardless.
Aside from the priceless Van Halland and the cookbook, most of the books Aziraphale had picked up were second-hand, relatively recent non-fiction and romance. Mostly the sort of thing he stuffed the front shelves with to keep shoppers from trying to purchase any of his real beloveds in the stacks at the back.
"Boyfriend's a keen reader, is he?" the barman asked, gesturing at the piles of books.
"Nothing gets past you, my friend," Crowley said, grinning.
"That's why they pay me so well, my astute observational skills."
"Regrettably off point in this case."
"Books're yours then?"
"No, but neither is he."
The barman snorted. "Is he anyone else's?"
"No. Well. One, but she's not speaking to him at present."
"Then trust me and my eye for things -- he's yours," the barman said, as Aziraphale returned, dusting his hands. He plopped onto the stool with a cheerful little bounce and began properly sorting the books.
"I'll have the same again," Crowley said to the barman, who gave him a knowing look and poured him a second glass of cider before disappearing into the kitchen. Crowley rotated on his own stool to lean on the bar with one elbow, paging through his cookbook and watching Aziraphale make small piles and then slowly pack them back into the tote bag, which swelled and then deflated after each load.
"I think that will just about fill up the front shelves," he said, satisfied. "Anything good in...that?"
"Such a snob," Crowley rolled his eyes. "I mean, I don't cook, but the note on this recipe says her garlic pickled cucumbers are a lovely light snack, just right for an afternoon picnic before an early dark mass with the children."
"I can't say I approve of that," Aziraphale told him sternly.
"Yes, but you won't say you disapprove, will you?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale's mouth went prim for a moment but then the skin around his eyes wrinkled up, like always when he was trying not to be amused.
Before Aziraphale answered, a perfectly-roasted half-chicken on a bed of crispy potatoes and a platter of prawn skewers with cilantro mango slaw were laid in front of them. Aziraphale, books forgotten, took up a forkful of chicken and beamed at the heavens.
It wasn't as though Crowley hadn't been damned for six thousand years, but some days he really did feel it more than others. He pulled a prawn off the skewer, ate it, and bumped his shoulder against the angel's.
"This 'gastro pub' thing could really catch on," he said.
Aziraphale clearly did not want to advertise his wares. The whole point of his bookshop was not to sell to anyone, ever, under any circumstances. When he did have to sell, he only wanted to sell books he didn't care about.
But he still understood the format of the thing, and one of the things booksellers did, especially in this day and age, was advertise. He had always advertised, even when it went against every instinct he had.
He also advertised as if he were still an 18th century businessman. In the newspaper.
MR. A.Z. FELL, PROPRIETOR, WISHES TO NOTIFY THE PUBLIC
OF A COLLECTION OF DIURSE AND FASCINATING VOLUMES AVAILABLE FOR PERUSAL OR PURCHASE
Including several Bibles of Interest, many Devotional Handbooks and also Adventures For Children
the Crown Jewel of which at present is A RARE BOOK OF HOURS
Being one of few remaining DEVOTIONALS OF A HOMOROMANTIC NATURE
Come, come and see the volumes on display! Reasonable offers considered. Hours not set. Contact for appointment.
He didn't list his telephone number, his email, or his address, but someone found him anyway.
Crowley didn't invent Tumblr* but he did take credit for it.
TIL that there's such a thing as a gay Book of Hours and the only copy that isn't in a private collection is on display at a random second-hand book store in London.
* Heaven had done its best with various patches for the site, but it was often a losing battle**, and they rarely had time to address any actual content.
** Shadwell would have been pleased about the nipples, though.
"Crowley, please. I need your help."
Crowley could appreciate a desperate angel, and had several times in the past. If he still had access to a telephone, however, he couldn't possibly be too desperate, so Crowley grinned as he sped along through London towards the city centre. He'd been out driving mostly for pleasure, causing minor fender-benders to anyone texting while driving, and now it looked as though he was going to have a very entertaining destination.
"What's the problem, angel?" he asked.
"There are people in my bookshop," Aziraphale whispered.
"Well, that's what'll happen if you unlock the door and wait long enough. They're like ants, they can smell fear."
"...ants can't smell fear, you're thinking of wild dogs," Aziraphale said, distracted.
"How do you know? Ever asked an ant?"
"I'm afraid the till is broken, I simply cannot sell you a book," Aziraphale said to someone. Crowley heard faint disgruntled murmuring. "Crowley, you must come and help me close the shop."
"What do you expect me to do? Humans love me, I'll only attract more of them. I'm not the side always driving people out of places."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Temples, gardens, Ireland -- "
"You really must let your grudge against poor Patrick go. Anyway there's too many; every time I get one to leave two more come in."
Crowley shook his head. "The things I do for you. Be there soon."
"I shall attempt to keep things calm until you arrive, but I make no promises," Aziraphale said, and hung up. Crowley thumbed on the stereo and sang along to Uptown Funk as only Freddie Mercury could render it.
When he pulled up to the bookshop, he could see that things were a little more dire than he'd expected, given Aziraphale's tendency to exaggerate where his bookshop was concerned. The lack of parking was normal; the crowd standing around outside, many of them vaping, was not. A space opened up (as it always did) and Crowley pulled the Bentley into it, wondering if he was going to get into another hot debate with Aziraphale about who was to blame for vaping.
He let himself into the bookshop quietly, intent on reconnaissance at first. There were an awful lot of skinny jeans, quite a few excessively-groomed beards, and a variety of spiked-up and side-shaven hairstyles in very bright colors on both men and women. There was a crowd around the display case, certainly, and more people browsing than Crowley had ever seen in the shop at one time, but there was also a crowd around Aziraphale, who looked faintly panicked by all the...humans.
Crowley considered matters, pronounced, "Hipsters," and then reasoned that while most of the problem was the hipsters, probably the greater issue was the crowd around Aziraphale.
Time for a grand entrance, clearly.
"Angel," he cried, swaggering forward, and the crowd parted for him as he circled to come up behind the till next to Aziraphale, resting a hip on the counter. "Sorry I'm late. The parking is hell around here."
He knew it wasn't really for him, that it was just relief at having an ally present, but it was both gratifying personally and helpful to his current mission that Aziraphale lit up when he saw him.
"Crowley, thank -- something-ness that you're here," he said.
"You know me, can't ever keep away for long," Crowley replied. Several of the men crowded around the counter had already faded discreetly away, but some of the more stubborn or oblivious ones remained, so Crowley grasped the hem of Aziraphale's waistcoat (old enough it had probably been sold as a weskit) and tugged it gently. Aziraphale's brow knitted.
"You've drawn quite a crowd," Crowley murmured, leaning in provocatively.
"I don't know what they're all doing here," Aziraphale replied, leaning in far less provocatively, not that you could tell from across the counter. "Someone came in yesterday and took a few daguerreotypes with their telephone -- "
"Photographs, angel, photographs -- "
"And today everyone just...showed up, talking loudly about how it's such an authentic local treasure and how much they like to support local businesses. I'm the least local being in this entire city!"
"Why didn't you just send them away?" Crowley murmured. "Minor miracle sort of sending."
Aziraphale looked stunned. It was clear, in his bewilderment, the thought hadn't occurred to him. "But they're customers!"
"Sinners preserve us," Crowley sighed. One or two stubborn admirers were still watching, he could see out of the corner of his eye, so he took the chance and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Aziraphale's lips. Not much reaction from the angel; well, he hadn't ever expected there would be, and this certainly wasn't the time or the place he'd like for an attempt.
"I'll handle it," he said, stepping away. "Right you lot," he announced, stalking back out into the main area of the shop, "Closing early today, I'm afraid, you'll all need to come back some other time."
"Even better, do not," Aziraphale added.
"But it's two in the afternoon," a heavily tattooed young woman protested.
"Closing for religious observances, we're very devout," Crowley said, herding everyone towards the door. "Besides, the hours are clearly posted."
"I thought that was a joke," one of the excessively-groomed bearded men said.
"We also never joke," Crowley told the crowd solemnly. There was a queue forming for last-minute purchases that Aziraphale was studiously avoiding. "Sorry, till's closed -- "
"He said it was broken."
"Closed and broken. Out you go."
It took another five minutes or so, but eventually the last of them filed out, though he stopped on the threshold.
"Look, it wasn't anything personal, I didn't know he had a boyfriend," he said.
"Well he does, so you don't, bugger off," Crowley told him, and closed the door. Almost immediately someone knocked on it; Crowley threw the latch and with a gesture lowered all the blinds. It left the bookshop very dark. Aziraphale was a sort of white smudge, leaning heavily on the counter for support. Crowley took his shades off, which helped a little.
"They're customers?" he asked, grinning. "Really, angel?"
"I'm sorry! I got overwhelmed," Aziraphale said, voice muffled by his arms.
"I suppose you're not to blame, all those admirers."
"Everyone crowded around and wanted to make small talk," Aziraphale said.
"Do you really not understand what was happening just now?" Crowley asked, leaning on the other side of the counter.
"I think they call it a flash mob."
"They were flirting," Crowley said. Aziraphale lifted his head from his arms long enough to give Crowley the most withering look he'd ever had from a divine being. "Not all of them, some were shopping, but the ones who wanted to make small talk were flirting. I suppose it comes with the territory. It must be rather hard finding someone like you anywhere, let alone in London."
"Well, yes, I am the only principality on Earth, as far as I know."
"Not what I meant, but fair enough."
"Then what did you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know, an attractive man who dresses nicely, owns his own business, seems to have his life together, single, your age," Crowley waved a hand. "Very interesting to a specific sort of person."
"Is that why...?" Aziraphale tapped his finger against his own lower lip. Admittedly Crowley may have lingered a little too long on it during the kiss.
"Seemed the easiest way to disperse a crowd," he said. Which was true. And also a lie.
Aziraphale leaned his elbows on the counter now, head raised, thoughtful. "Do you know," he said, "that explains an awful lot about the last three hundred years or so?"
"What?" Crowley asked, alarmed.
"Flirting. That being flirting. I've definitely encountered that before at least twice."
"Only twice?" Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You could have had William Shakespeare for a song."
"No."
"Oh yes."
"No!"
"And Leonard Bernstein."
Aziraphale gasped as if he'd been punched.
"And Edward the second," Crowley added after some thought. "The 14th century really was just the worst."
"But we were like brothers!"
Crowley shrugged. "Gentlemen prefer blonds."
"I'd like a drink," Aziraphale decided.
"Better raid your own pantry then, the vapers are still out front," Crowley told him. Aziraphale let his head fall and waved a hand at the back of the shop, gesturing for Crowley to lead the way. Just as well; this felt like a syrah kind of an issue, and Crowley knew where he kept the really syrupy stuff.
Several hours later, Aziraphale was standing in the stacks just outside the back room, calling out names, as far as Crowley could tell, at random. He'd never fathomed the sorting method for how the books went on the shelves, and never really saw the point of trying, given his general disinterest in books. But it seemed like Aziraphale was systematically, if drunkenly, locating books given to him by friends since the invention of the printing press and calling their names one by one.
Or possibly he was just...thinking things up to ask.
"Which emperor did we meet in Rome?" he called.
"Which time?"
"The time with the oysters, but not when we were eating the oysters, a week or so later."
"Ah, Claudius. I don't think he fancied you but I don't know that he fancied anyone to be honest."
"Hm, that's fine then. Definitely not Savonarola."
"No," Crowley agreed, laughing. "Didn't he threaten to set you on fire?"
"Said I was a demon, the cheek. Oscar Wilde."
"Yes."
"That's all? Just 'yes'?"
"I'm much too drunk to discuss your relationship with Oscar Wilde."
There was a long pause, and then Aziraphale said, faintly, "Fair."
"Do you know," Crowley said, to cover that momentary awkwardness, "I think that fellow Geoff based a character on you."
"That fellow Geoff?" Aziraphale's voice drifted back, outraged. "Do you mean Geoffrey Chaucer?"
"The very one. He said you were just the sort of chap he'd been looking for, for one of his tale thingys."
"Well, my goodness. What about Lord Byron?"
"Difficult to say. I don't think you were his type, to be honest. Not enough drama."
"Not Sir Arthur," Aziraphale said, popping his head in to look at Crowley. "I can't imagine."
"Sir Arthur? What, the king?"
"No! Conan Doyle!"
"Oh. Doubt it," Crowley said. "Only thing he loved more than his wife was writing extremely dull historical fiction."
"George Sand, do you think?"
"Did you even know George Sand?"
"We used to go shopping for shirts together. You might have been asleep at the time."
"My my," Crowley murmured. They'd moved on from syrah to...slightly cheaper syrah, and he downed the rest of his glass before leaning forward, catching Aziraphale's eye.
"Angel," he said. "Angel, angel."
"What, what is it?"
"This is a great truth I'm going to impart to you," Crowley told him, with the seriousness of the truly drunk.
"Well?" Aziraphale prompted.
"Most women you have known in your life. Most women. Most women have believed. That you are gayer than a Victorian Jubilee. Like a very monochromatic one-man Pride parade."
"I liked the Jubilees," Aziraphale said, frowning.
Crowley stood up unsteadily and rested his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. "I cannot tell you every person who ever fancied you. The list would go on longer than The Sound Of Music. But almost all of them have been men. The women generally thought it was pointless."
Aziraphale looked intensely thoughtful, then opened his mouth.
"Neither Rogers nor Hammerstein," Crowley told him.
"It's just that this is all somewhat worrying," Aziraphale said. "Most humans react in awe and fear to angels. It's disconcerting to think I mostly inspire..."
"Lust," Crowley rolled the word out of his mouth with unnecessary vigor, partly to poke at him a bit and partly just because he could. "Stands to reason. Been on Earth too long. Show up to Lord Byron as a spinning ball of wings with blinking eyes and I guarantee lust will not be the reaction you get."
To his surprise, Aziraphale leaned forward until their foreheads touched, letting Crowley take some of his weight, and closed his eyes.
"It's been an extremely long day," he said. "In what has been an extremely long year. And I say this as someone who lived through 541."
"Brutal year."
"Which, then or now?"
"Both," Crowley said. Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "You know what you need?"
"Probably to sober up."
"I was going to say you could use a kip."
He expected a scoff and a reminder that angels didn't need to sleep and it was a sign of sloth, but instead Aziraphale slumped further into him, head sliding down to Crowley's shoulder.
"That sounds lovely," he mumbled.
"Well, you have a bed around here somewhere, don't you? I thought this place came with a flat."
"Upstairs," Aziraphale said, waving vaguely back into the shop.
"Right then." Crowley bent and heard a shriek of surprise as Aziraphale fell forward, only to be caught around the middle by Crowley's arm. Crowley straightened, securing him in a fireman's carry with his other arm, and hoisted him into the air.
"I have rarely been so -- so undignified!" Aziraphale called, but it was muffled a bit by the fact his face was pressed into the back of Crowley's jacket. "Put me down!"
"I'm putting you to bed is what I'm doing," Crowley said, greatly cheered by the idea somehow. It was probably the cheaper syrah that was driving all this but he didn't really care. "Don't squirm, wouldn't want to drop you. And no wings!" he added, because it occurred to both of them at the same time that Aziraphale could get greater balance and leverage if he used his wings.
Crowley unhooked the little chain with the DO NOT ENTER EXCEPT BY PERMISSION OF THE PROPRIETOR sign on it and took the stairs two at a time. The upstairs was just as crammed with books and the odd knick-knack as the downstairs, but there was what looked like an unused kitchen in the back corner, and a doorway that, when he kicked it open, led to a dusty little room with a bed and a washstand in it. Crowley sneezed.
"Have you ever used this bed?" he asked.
"It came with the shop. Put me down!"
Crowley whisked a hand upwards, and decades of dust and dead insects flew into the air, vanishing with a little puffing noise. The sheets rustled as they turned from moth-eaten flannel to a nice high thread-count cotton, and the coverlet inflated itself a bit.
"Right," he said, bending carefully to set Aziraphale on his feet. The angel gave a truly outraged tug on his waistcoat and then crossed his arms. Before he could speak, Crowely pushed a single finger into the middle of his chest and he stumbled backwards, sitting on the bed with a thump.
"I don't suppose you've any pyjamas," Crowley said, getting on one knee to tug at the laces of Aziraphale's shoes. "But you ought to do the thing properly. Fewer delights more pleasant than a nice long sleep in comfortable pyjamas."
He'd only just got the second shoe off when Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and his socks and the slightly frayed cuffs of his trousers vanished, replaced with what appeared to be a thermal onesie. Tartan, naturally.
Crowley looked up and Aziraphale looked down, which for a minute was dizzyingly reminiscent of the very beginning, even before the apple.
Except for the tartan onesie. There was really no getting round it. In it, Aziraphale looked a bit like a fancy pear you might get in a holiday assortment, and Crowley ignored how charmed he was by it.
He got to his feet and tugged at the coverlet and sheet, and Aziraphale didn't even protest, squirming around to crawl under the covers.
"What happens now?" he asked, but he was already yawning.
"You just sort of...close your eyes and...disappear for a bit," Crowley said, the only real way he knew how to describe it.
"What about you?" Aziraphale asked around another yawn.
"Oh, I'll hang about, the way I do," Crowley said, vanishing his shoes and settling onto the bed, leaned up against the headboard, taking out his phone.
"No, I mean..." Aziraphale inched up on the pillow, until his nose was nearly pressed into Crowley's thigh. "I mean..."
Crowley looked down, eyebrows raised, but Aziraphale had passed out, and was whuffing softly against his leg. Crowley rested a hand on his pale hair, sighing.
"Well, yes, angel," he said quietly.
He considered sobering up, but then he'd be sober and pathetic, instead of just pathetic. He decided sleep was probably the best option, and was unconscious practically before he'd finished the thought.
Crowley woke in a position which, if he weren't a supernatural sort of creature, would have inclined him to a day of lower-back pain and a crick in his neck. Snakes being mostly back, however, gave him a few advantages even in human form.
Unlike Aziraphale, who went out and bought clothes (even if it was somewhat infrequently), Crowley usually just manifested his, which meant he was, in reality, walking around naked most of the time. Demons aren't modest and generate quite a lot of internal heat, so he didn't see why he ought to care, but it was inconvenient at a time like this, when he'd fallen asleep and unconsciously de-manifested his smart trousers and nice shirt down to a worn pair of red cotton pyjama bottoms.
Which was how he woke: in a thin pair of pyjamas, no shirt, toppled over and somehow wrapped around Aziraphale, so that the angel's face was planted in his chest and Crowley's head was bent at an uncomfortable angle and pressed into Aziraphale's hair. One angelic arm was thrown over his hip, and his own arm was curled around Aziraphale's shoulder, hand resting on the nape of his neck.
There were worse ways to wake up, of course, and he imagined they looked rather like some kind of intricate Renaissance painting as it was, but -- well, there was dignity to consider. Mostly his. Aziraphale, as he had with the kiss yesterday, would likely simply brush off the drinking, the napping, and the particularly flexible position they were currently in as a necessity of the moment, and ignore it. Crowley, on the other hand, would have to cope both with the silliness of their current pose and the indignity of it being blithely ignored.
Aziraphale was very still in sleep, just a faint warmth against Crowley's skin even indicating that he was breathing. Slowly, cautiously, Crowley uncurled his arm, levered himself back up the headboard, and slithered off the bed. A quick check of his watch told him that at least they'd only slept the night through and not accidentally napped for a couple of weeks, as had happened to him once or twice before.
He hitched the pyjamas up around his hips as he went back downstairs, reattaching the little DO NOT ENTER sign's chain behind him, and found his sunglasses where he'd left them near the till. He could hear Soho beginning to go about its day outside the bookshop, the murmur of people and cars a buzz at the edge of his hearing.
He didn't know if Aziraphale got a newspaper or took milk, but when he opened the front door a crack and leaned through to check, it appeared what had mostly been delivered that morning was more hipsters.
"Hi! Are you open?" a woman with a very asymmetrical hairdo asked, beaming. "We were hoping to see the gay book of hours!"
Her companion elbowed her, and her gaze drifted downward to Crowley's pyjamas.
"Do I look like we're open?" Crowley asked.
"Oh, you're the scary boyfriend," her buddy said, and snapped a photo. Crowley considered murder but he'd hate to get blood on Aziraphale's front door.
"You'll never know just how ssscary," he hissed, tongue flicking out, and both of them about-faced in shock and began walking quickly away. Others were subtly moving in to take their place, but Crowley pointed to the sign listing the hours and slammed the door shut.
His phone, which at this point was more minion than mobile and often kept him abreast of current events without being asked, beeped softly at him from the back room. The room was still littered with empty wine bottles and dregs-stained glasses, and it took Crowley a moment to find it. He picked it up and read the message, then flicked through a handful of images.
"ANGEL," he yelled.
"Well, there's a simple solution to all of this," Aziraphale said, buttoning his waistcoat, as if it were the most mundane and reasonable problem in the world.
"We are literally on the front page of the internet," Crowley said, gesturing at Aziraphale's computer, which was roughly thirty-five years old and yet had faster internet service than should have been physically possible. It was running an operating system of such grace and cleanliness that it would make the most ardent Linux evangelist weep in shame.
Displayed on the chunky and yet unbelievably high-definition monitor was an image of Crowley, leaning into Aziraphale, glaring down some of yesterday's crowd of admirers. The article beneath it was captioned ("Rather overdramatically," as Aziraphale had put it,) The Bookshop At The End Of The World.
The proprietor of AZ Fell & Co., one of the last truly independent bookshops in Soho and certainly the quirkiest, has recently filled his display cases with unusual examples of misprinted bibles, inaccurate books of prophecy, and the crown jewel of the collection, a book of hours printed as a wedding gift between two men hundreds of years before gay marriage was legalized.
In an era of no-plan Brexit, presidential proclamation by tweet, worldwide trade and water wars, and the juggernaut of Amazon, AZ Fell & Co. is a little beacon of old London in a world that badly needs it.
The comments were less lyrical. They were split more or less evenly between long discussions about the Van Halland and serial commentary on Aziraphale's more obvious charms.
Crowley gestured to one, which just said, "Sunglasses is hot but his boyfriend's a real daddy."
"Is that not a nice thing to say? I think I'd make a decent father," Aziraphale said.
"Not that kind of daddy," Crowley said.
"Ah. A spiritual father. Well, I suppose that falls within my mandate, but I do feel the humans should be looking to each other for that sort of thing."
"You're a meme," Crowley said, because he couldn't bring himself to explain.
"I beg to differ. We are a meme."
"If you thought the crowds were bad before, wait until you look outside."
"Yes, but that's what I'm saying, my dear," Aziraphale said calmly. "There's a very simple solution to this. I've used it many times in the past."
"Oh yes? What's that then?"
"I simply won't open. I'll say I've gone on holiday. It worked whenever a new Harry Potter book came out." Aziraphale pursed his lips, pondering. "Where do people go on holiday now? Is it still Majorca?"
"You could just close," Crowley said. "You don't have to actually go on the holiday."
"But then I'd be here, and duty-bound to open at some point."
There was another soft ding from Crowley's phone.
Demons don't generally have many contacts in their mobiles, but that may be partly down to small sample size; only Crowley, of all demons, actually had a phone capable of storing contacts. He had exactly three contacts in his phone: Aziraphale, a really good kebab place he could never remember the name of that had closed in 2004, and Adam Young. He hadn't actually put Adam's number in his phone. He suspected Adam had done it. Infernally.
Aziraphale, of course, didn't text. Adam did text, usually to send him funny pictures of Dog or strange-looking rocks Wensley had found. Occasionally he sent a question about some daft thing he'd read in Anathema's new age magazines. Crowley responded exclusively with Queen memes.
Ur on the internet 2day! Pepper says its axe ploy potatoes.
Exploitative, she says.
On account of ever1 thinking Mr. Fell is so goodlooking.
Please tell Mr. Fell thank u for the comics Brian really liked the Donald Duck book.
A series of largely inexplicable emojis followed.
"Adam says thanks for the comics," Crowley said. Aziraphale had already wiped their faces from his browser and was scanning vacation rentals in Majorca. At the mention of Adam's name he stopped, turned to Crowley, and broke into a wide grin.
"I already don't like this," Crowley said.
"Tadfield!" Aziraphale announced. "Just the place for a nice local holiday. Oh, I bet they have a flower show around this time of year."
Crowley strongly suspected that if they did not, one would spontaneously occur.
"I really think we should leave well enough -- " he began, but at that point Aziraphale found the extremely ugly Tadfield Municipal Village Website, where an animated banner proclaimed the Tadfield Botanical Garden Club Plant Show And Sale! above a slideshow of grainy, low-resolution photos of plants.
Crowley paused.
"Is that a crested potentilla?" he asked. "An orange variant crested potentilla for sale?"
"Shall I rent a bungalow for two?" Aziraphale asked.
Not having many material needs, it wasn't difficult for either of them to pack. Aziraphale assembled a few books to take with him to deliberately not read* and ordered a hamper from the Ritz kitchen while Crowley headed to his flat to see to his own affairs.
* One of the greatest pleasures of a holiday.
When Crowley pulled back up to the shop that evening, there was a large "Closed -- On Holiday" sign in the window and the crowds had dispersed a bit, though every once in a while someone still walked up and tugged on the door. Crowley blew his horn and climbed out to hold the car door as Aziraphale slipped out the back way through the alley, a basket in each hand.
"My word," he said, settling the baskets in the back, next to several potted plants. "I thought you were coming along to buy plants."
"I am, but these are the latest culls and I thought I'd take them down and see about swapping them, instead of the usual*," Crowley said. After some consideration, he added, "Or I could always just abandon them on the witch's doorstep, she seems the type to take in wayward plants and Private Pulsifer seems the type to trip over them."
* Crowley had attained a vast and verdant indoor garden by occasionally picking the weakest-looking plant and ceremoniously removing it, never to be seen again. As far as the other plants knew, "the usual" was a one-way trip to the compost bin. Crowley, who felt that simply disposing of them, while perfectly demonic, lacked imagination, would instead leave them on various entry stairs to buildings in the area. It was true this meant some plants were rescued by mystified but kindly residents; it was also true that some plants were tripped over by equally mystified but slightly less observant (and eventually slightly more concussed) residents. Crowley did like to give both humans and plants a sporting chance.
"Well, I'm sure we'll find them a good home," Aziraphale said. The plants in the back seat visibly relaxed, which was faintly annoying. Although lots of beings did that around Aziraphale, so Crowley tried not to take it personally.
The angel had, of course, found the most picturesque bungalow in Tadfield, a village known for extreme picturesqueness, but it was also outside of town and the roads were not clearly marked. Dark had long since fallen by the time they found it, and Aziraphale bustled his baskets inside. Crowley scented the air, decided it would be a reasonably fine night, and left the plants in the car.
"I'll just make some tea," Aziraphale said, puttering into the tiny kitchen.
"What sort of nightlife do you suppose Lower Tadfield has to offer?" Crowley asked, inspecting the framed needlepoint on the walls and the squashy, comfortable-looking furniture.
"I don't imagine much; it's a Thursday," Aziraphale replied. "You could have just come down for the plant show, if you wanted."
He glanced under his brows at Crowley, and Crowley sensed an angelic undercurrent he wasn't fully grasping.
"I'm in that internet photo too, you know. I don't fancy walking down a street in daylight in London right about now," Crowley said. "Besides, I can't let you wander around alone."
It must have been the right answer, because Aziraphale's mouth drew up, pleased.
"I was thinking, you know, about what people do," he said. "Most of the time I'm on a busman's holiday. Travel's always nice but I'm usually miracling my way to wherever I'm going and then blessing my way back again."
"Eat too much, get in the way, and complain about all the foreigners, if my experience of tourism's anything to go by," Crowley replied.
"Well, it seems to me that what one mostly does is rest," Aziraphale said. "To that end I thought I might, you know. Sleep some more. It's terribly lazy of me, and sloth is a sin, but then it's not as though I'm getting many requests from upstairs these days. I've very much had to write my own ticket in terms of all the blessing, and it can be a bit stressful. Besides, it's better than just sitting around staring at the walls."
"That sounds very rational of you," Crowley said. The kettle beeped, and Aziraphale spooned tea out into a strainer, pouring the hot water over it. Crowley suspected that the nice floral teacups he was setting out were replacing the usual chipped mugs one got in a rental.
"Sugar?" Aziraphale asked.
"Darling."
The angel snorted. "Black it is for you, then. I'll get some milk from the shops tomorrow."
Crowley gestured at the tea. One of them filled with milk. Aziraphale looked mildly annoyed.
"The whole entire point of this sort of holiday is it's always a bit like camping out at first," he said. Crowley snapped his fingers and the milk vanished. "Thank you. Much better. At any rate, there's two beds, so if you'd care to sleep as well you're certainly welcome to."
Crowley took the teacup and continued his inspection of the bungalow; between the kitchen and the sitting room was a hallway, decorated with sporting prints, leading to the lav and the bedrooms. When he came to the second one, he leaned in the doorway, slurping his tea.
"Angel," he called.
"Yes, what is it -- oh," Aziraphale said.
There were two bedrooms. There were, in fact, two beds. But the second bedroom was full of second-hand toys -- action figures, princess dolls, stuffed animals, grimy miniature construction equipment -- and the bed was about three feet too short. And shaped like a racecar.
"You know what, though," Crowley said, as Aziraphale stared at it in dismay. "I think I can work with this. If you stretch a race car out you do, basically, get a Bentley."
"Crowley, I'm so sorry, I'd no idea. When they said it was good for families I thought they meant, you know...homey, comfortable."
"I mean, I'd still know I was sleeping in a bed meant for an eight year old human, but it wouldn't be uncomfortable. And I've slept in worse," Crowley continued, beginning to enjoy this. "Proper kind of room for a demon, full of scary lifeless dolls."
"Now you're just making fun," Aziraphale told him.
"Just a little. Anyway, there's the sofa."
"Or you could just..." Aziraphale shrugged.
"Stay up?"
"I was going to say, the other bed's quite large, isn't it? Sleeps two easily. I am apparently quite a deep sleeper, so..."
Crowley took off his sunglasses and chewed on the earpiece, considering this. On the one hand, he knew it was an entirely innocent offer and that it wouldn't have been made if Aziraphale thought he had any kind of ulterior motive. And in a way it just went to show how little had changed since the world hadn't ended, in terms of...them.
But on the other hand it showed just how much had. This wasn't simply fraternizing. This was a level beyond, into something Crowley felt strange and uneasy about. And he was alone in this new place, because for Aziraphale it clearly...wasn't strange and uneasy.
"Forget I said anything," Aziraphale said, his words oddly kind. "You've slept for ages, you're probably not even interested."
"I didn't say that. I love a good sleep, me. Very slothful. Probably outsleep you."
"I doubt it. You know I strive to be excellent in all that I do."
"Bet I could," Crowley said. "Loser has to fetch breakfast."
"Angels don't dice with demons!" Aziraphale said. "And when you do lose I should like a chocolate croissant."
"Done. When you lose I want the most horrible beans on toast you can find."
"Fine."
Aziraphale wandered back into the sitting room to unpack his books; Crowley narrowed his eyes at the racecar bed, and for a moment it stretched out and flourished upwards into a very nice Bentley bed, complete with black silk sheets. But he'd still know, after all.
He let the bed snap back to child-sized and stepped out into the back garden to have a look around.
Lower Tadfield didn't have a bakery, much less a patisserie. It had a store that advertised itself as general grocery, delicatessen, and ice cream, but it wouldn't be open until nine. How picturesque could a village possibly be, Crowley reasoned to himself, if it didn't have somewhere you could go and get bread packed with so much butter it was practically a dairy food at seven in the morning?
He wasn't really angry about the lack of a bakery, he knew that, but it was nice to be able to give the annoyance a proper outlet. The annoyance itself, deep down, was some part that he'd lost the bet, and some part that when he'd woken up, this time much less contortedly, he'd literally been pressed forehead-to-forehead with his ancient mortal enemy.
Well, that was the gist, anyway.
He'd gone to bed in proper pyjamas this time, black silk, luxurious as any old thing, especially compared to the tartan onesie. He'd woken up in the worn red cotton again. Must be something about proximity to Aziraphale. What a terrible thought.
At any rate, waking had been slow and warm, and Aziraphale, even at extreme close-up with pillow crease-marks on his face and his usual cloud of white-gold hair smashed down against his head, looked like the best thing Crowley had seen since falling.
He should have, he realized now, just rolled over and pretended to sleep another hour or two. If he had, it'd be beans on toast as far as the eye could see. Instead he'd panicked and wriggled himself carefully if speedily off the bed.
He also should have taken the Bentley instead of strolling into town. If he had, he could be driving to upper Tadfield, which would bear at least the promise of civilization.
As he thought it, he saw a white lorry coming down the road; old-fashioned, with an open back walled in by wooden struts, full of metal racks and cartons. Boulangerie L'Tadfield was painted decoratively on the door. Just after it passed, it hit a little pothole in the road and a white box tied in red-and-white twine fell out of one of the racks on the back of the truck, landing at his feet.
He picked up the box and held it at eye level, poking one of the flaps in to see what was inside. The box was stuffed with half a dozen pastries, including, very prominently, two chocolate croissants.
Aziraphale must be up, he thought amusedly. Manna from heaven, wasn't that the phrase?
He turned back towards the bungalow, box swinging by the twine from his fingers, and at the edge of town he nicked a bottle of milk from someone's doorstep as he passed.
Aziraphale was clanking around in the kitchen when he returned, setting out plates and, in an unlikely twist, glasses of juice.
"Patisserie L'Tadfield," Crowley said, holding up the box.
"Well, what should it be called, Boulangerie Dans Le Armageddon?"
"It'd be Boulangerie Apres Le Armageddon, surely."
"Don't look at me. French wasn't my idea," Aziraphale said.
"Well, Armageddon wasn't mine." Crowely slit the twine with a knife from the kitchen rack and popped it open, holding it out. Aziraphale placed both chocolate croissants on his own plate and then took what looked like a toasted brioche roll and set it on Crowley's. Crowley put the milk in the elderly refrigerator and was about to ask if he wasn't allowed to even choose his own breakfast when he realized he smelled something cooking, something redolent of cheap student food and every time he'd ever met Sergeant Shadwell to hand over his pay packet.
He watched, eyebrows shooting upwards, as Aziraphale took a pot off the hob and poured steaming hot baked beans all over both halves of the brioche.
"There was a can of them in the pantry," Aziraphale said defensively. He picked up both plates. "Come along, it's very nice out, breakfast in the garden! Bring the juice!"
"Was that in the pantry too?"
"Don't be silly, it was in the hamper. I put it away last night," Aziraphale replied.
"Yes, I'm clearly the ridiculous one. Have you forgotten we don't actually need to eat, or is this another part of the Very Meticulously Taking A Holiday plan?" Crowley asked, but he did pick up the juice glasses and follow Aziraphale down the hall.
"I like eating," Aziraphale said. "Besides, you said you wanted beans on toast."
"Yeah, if I won the bet, but only as a punishment to you because they're hideous."
"Evil always contains the seeds of its own horrible breakfast." Aziraphale dusted off the brightly painted garden furniture and set the plates down. Crowley slouched into one of the seats, then leaned forward and sliced off a hearty wedge of brioche and beans. It was, actually, not too bad.
Aziraphale had chocolate on his lip.
"I thought we might go in to town after breakfast. No rush, of course," he said, tongue swiping it away.
"Uh-huh," Crowley managed, shoveling more beans and brioche into his mouth, not so much to keep from saying anything stupid as because he had momentarily run out of anything at all to say. He found himself thinking of the light red pillowcase crease-mark across Aziraphale's cheek he'd seen when he woke.
"The plant show starts at noon, apparently," Aziraphale said. When Crowley didn't respond, he added, "I thought you could show your dears around and make some new friends."
That snapped him out of it long enough for him to grunt, "Highly unlikely."
"What, making new friends? Nonsense. Everyone was very nice in Tadfield last time we were here."
"Last time we were here, Satan himself nearly destroyed us all."
"Yes, but it's not like he's local. And it's very unlikely the Adversary of Heaven would bother with a Friday afternoon outing to a village plant show. Surely he's got heads to gnaw upon and such," Aziraphale said.
"I suppose last time was a bit of an extenuating circumstance," Crowley admitted. "But if Satan does show up to the Tadfield Botanical Garden Club Plant Show and Sale, you'll be sorry you made fun."
"I never made fun. I just...showed proper disdain for the forces of evil and the prince of lies," Aziraphale said, licking powdered sugar off his thumb. "If I were going to make fun I'd start with the dreadful horns and work my way along from there."
"Very properly demonic, horns," Crowley protested. "They give off an aura."
"So very 16th century," Aziraphale sniffed.
"What a snob you are, angel," Crowley said fondly.
"Well, someone must keep some standards," Aziraphale said. He broke off a little chunk of his remaining croissant and passed it over. Crowley took it and wrapped his real, demonic tongue around it, pulling it hissing back into his mouth.
"See, the classics never go out of style," Aziraphale told him, unperturbed.
Crowley knew on some level that the angel was indulging him; Aziraphale, who loved all living things, was generally affectionate but fundamentally indifferent towards plants. He'd wandered off, presumably to see if anyone at the plant show had any antique books about plants, and left Crowley to his own devices.
The Tadfield Botanical Garden Club Plant Show and Sale had quite a good turnout, all things considered; arranged on the commons were row upon row of church-basement folding tables and mismatched lawn furniture, all adorned with potted plants of various breeds and sizes. Show competitors were marked with gold flags, and usually set off to one side, while the rest of the table would be taken up with plants for sale or trade, from the ordinary to the strange. Crowley, not having the forethought to arrange a table for himself (and the powers of Hell having limited sway against the organizational might of the Botanical Garden Club Council in the matter of johnny-come-latelys to show registration), had left the potted plants in the back of the Bentley for now. Aziraphale had cracked a window for them.
There were common garden flowers aplenty, small fruit trees and the odd potted rose, and here and there a somewhat unusual succulent, but nothing to tempt a connoisseur. At least not until he reached one of the end tables, about three-quarters of the way along. The table was gaily decorated with bunting and small baskets full of apples, and the plants on it were arrayed in impeccable rows. The sign hung on a corner of the table said that this was TABLE #47, RP TYLER, CLUB COUNCIL CHAIR.
There it was. The crested potentilla, in a decorous blue ceramic pot. Rare by any standards, but especially so when the usually yellow flowers were a bright golden orange.
Crowley sidled up as only a demon knows how to sidle, and pretended to be examining some fairly average begonias. When he caught the proprietor of the table's attention, he pointed to one of the little apple baskets. "May I?"
"Of course. Best apples you'll find anywhere in Tadfield," the man, presumably RP TYLER, said, waving a hand. Crowley picked up the apple and bit into it. Crisp and perfect; probably more Adam's doing than RP Tyler's, but you couldn't fault a man for vanity. Or at least, Crowley couldn't.
"Delicious," he said, around a mouthful. "I'd heard Tadfield had a good garden show."
"Well, we do our best," RP Tyler said proudly. "RP Tyler."
"AJ Crowley," Crowley replied, shaking with the hand that wasn't occupied with the apple.
"Up from London for the show, are we?"
"Something like that. Came for a bit of a holiday, timed it well."
"You certainly did. Wonderful weather we're having. Perfect for this time of year. Say, don't I know you?" RP Tyler asked. Crowley found it impossible not to refer to him by his entire abbreviated name, even in his own mind.
"Couldn't say," Crowley hedged.
"No, I'm sure we've met before...oh! The young gentleman looking for the air base!" RP Tyler pointed at him. "With the flaming car! It was very definitely on fire!"
"Oh, yeah, that," Crowley nodded. "It's gone out now."
"For the best! It's a hazard, young man, driving a car when it's on fire. Now, did you have any questions? Most people are very curious about my begonias."
"What about this one here?" Crowley said, gesturing at the crested potentilla with a casual wave. "Quite pretty little orange blossoms, aren't they?"
"Ah, yes! Our Jennifer brought that back as a wee clipping from a vacation in California. She knows I like souveniers," RP Tyler said.
"Very impressive, growing it that woody from a clipping. How much are you asking?"
"Oh, it's not for sale."
Crowley frowned. "I'm sorry, the website said -- "
"Yes, there was a bit of a miscommunication. These young political types at the village offices never listen, do they? No, I'm holding this one back for a trade, you see."
"Any specific trade?" Crowley asked.
"Well, I've been on the lookout for a true blue bougainvillea," RP Tyler said, leaning in conspiratorially.
Crowley frowned. "But those don't exist."
"Ah! Never say never."
"No, they literally -- they don't exist, genetically they're not possible," Crowley said.
"I prefer to think positively," RP Tyler said, with a bit of a sniff.
"You can think positively all you like, you'll still never get a blue bougainvillea," Crowley retorted. He knew he should be making nice, bargaining for a clipping of the potentilla if he couldn't have the whole plant, but the flagrant abuse of positivity in the face of scientific proof was too much to bear.
"Not with an attitude like that, certainly," RP Tyler said, which was when Crowley really lost it.
Aziraphale had clearly heard the shouting when it reached fever pitch, but by the time he caught up with Crowley he was already stalking away from the plant show.
"My word, who did you find to shout at in a garden exhibition?" he asked, shuffling to keep up.
"It is not possible to breed a true bougainvillea with real blue non-striated petals," Crowley said through his teeth.
"Oh. That's...a shame?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley turned on him, seething.
"He's saving a rare orange-variant crested potentilla to trade for a true blue bougainvillea which does not exist," he said, still not quite able to believe it. "Bougainvilleas, the closest you're going to get is a very pale purple. They're just not designed for blue."
Aziraphale clearly grasped that there was a problem, but not which problem was the more vital. "But you're a demon," he said.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Couldn't you just...?" Aziraphale made a vague summoning magic from Hell gesture.
"Of course I could just make one, but that's not the point," Crowley said. "The point is, no amount of inspirational wall art is going to defy science."
"Yes but...miracles and such..." Aziraphale said. "They defy science all the time. WE defy science all the time."
"Are you the fellow who just told off RP Tyler?" an elderly woman asked, coming up to Crowley.
"Do I know you?" Crowley asked.
"Good for you," she said, and punched him in the arm and walked away.
"Great, now I've ingratiated myself," Crowley said. "I'm going to find the only pub in this place and day-drink. Coming?"
He could see disapproval of inappropriate drinking was warring with the boredom of plant talk in Aziraphale's mind; it was all reflected on the battleground of his face.
He was well aware that, as they sat in the garden of the pub, picking at a basket of chips and drinking really rather decent beer, he was ranting a good deal about plants. But since Aziraphale seemed content to let him, he didn't bother with self-restraint. Aziraphale had a calm, fond look on his face, but that was probably for the beer, or from it.
"Is there some other way to get the potentilla?" he asked, when Crowley subsided. "Perhaps I could make him an offer for a clipping. Do you have anything he'd take instead of the Impossible Bougainvillea?"
Crowley was opening his mouth to glumly admit that probably it would require an act of Heaven or Hell, when he heard a familiar bell ringing. He twisted around to see a dust cloud in the distance, down the road: four children on bicycles, one with a basket in which sat a small dog.
Crowley, naturally inclined to deviousness in any case, saw the cherubic face of Adam Young and knew he had found his path to the potentilla.
"Hey!" he called, as they skidded up to the pub. "It's the four cyclists of Lower Tadfield. Look, Aziraphale."
"Hello, children!" Aziraphale said cheerily, because he had no idea what Crowley was about to do.
"Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley," Adam said. "World's not ending again, is it?"
"No, dear boy," Aziraphale said. "We're here to -- "
"Get your help," Crowley cut in. Aziraphale looked at him, startled for a brief second and then intensely suspicious.
"Usually when grownups want our help, it's for something very boring, actually," Wensley said.
"Mr. Crowley's all right though," Adam said. "He wouldn't ask us to move his furniture around or weed the garden or mind Pepper's little sister."
"This isn't anything like that," Crowley said. "It's a heist."
"Oooh," the Them chorused, even as Aziraphale said, "Now, wait a minute, Crowley."
"Do you know Mr. Tyler?" Crowley asked. As one, they wrinkled their noses.
"Crowley -- "
"Can you be at the garden show tomorrow morning at, say, half ten?"
"Will we be done in time for lunch?" Brian asked.
"It won't take more than half an hour, I imagine," Crowley said. "And I leave the details entirely up to you."
Adam's chin lifted proudly. "What've we got to do then? Will we be whizzin' along on ropes or cracking safes?"
"I need a moment alone with Mr. Tyler's plants. So I need you to cause a diversion," Crowley said. "One that would draw Mr. Tyler's attention in particular."
The eyes of the Them glittered. Without a word, they stood on their pedals and pushed off, presumably to plot something. Crowley hoped it would involve explosives.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Aziraphale said.
"Of course it's not a good idea. It's mine," Crowley replied proudly.
"Well, go on then," Aziraphale sighed.
"Go on what?" Crowley asked.
"What's my job?"
Crowley paused, startled. He hadn't considered the idea that Aziraphale would want any part of it, let alone volunteer. Then he realized he wasn't volunteering -- he was just assuming. Assuming his place in Crowley's plans.
Or perhaps, after the last failed heist, asserting it.
"Well," Crowley said. "You're pretty good with a blade, aren't you?"
Aziraphale leaned forward. Crowley watched his mouth, saw him lick his lips quickly in anticipation and then smile. He was surely going to regret everything about tomorrow morning, but it'd be worth it, probably, to see Aziraphale smile like that and be the cause of it.
RP Tyler was, actually, very well-beloved by the villagers of Tadfield, even the Them. He was like a grandfather who yelled at you to take your shoes off in the house but also built you the best treehouse in the county. And whose apples would they steal, if not his?
RP Tyler did many of the more boring municipal tasks of Tadfield, such as chairing committees nobody wanted to chair, negotiating with obnoxious sign makers to lower the prices of village signage, and calling round to remind everyone what they'd signed up to bring to the annual summer pot-luck feast.
So it wasn't that anyone disliked him. It was just that he also tattled on children to their parents and was a bit of a stickler for rules most people would rather ignore. So they would have immediately pitched in to help him if he ever got in trouble, but they all also enjoyed when something confounded him. It happened so rarely.
The entire village was already abuzz over the previous day's encounter with some London flower-merchant, a ringer no doubt, who'd had an ungodly row with Mr. Tyler in which Mr. Tyler had mouthed, if not actually pronounced, the word bastard. And when the show reopened at ten on Saturday, everyone was eagerly looking to see if the flower merchant would come slinking back.
Crowley, well aware of this, kept himself to the shade of a tree far outside the bounds of the show. He shouldn't have been surprised that Aziraphale had taken his very basic plans and expanded considerably on them; Aziraphale had always liked the hint of spycraft their clandestine meetings had in the past. Crowley had not been able to stop him from conjuring a large floppy hat, sewing (or at least, causing to be sewn) a secret waterproof pocket into his coat, or procuring a bicycle from a nearby uninhabited bungalow.
Crowley casually kept an eye on him as the Them ran up to Aziraphale and had a few words; then he stared incredulously as Aziraphale took his pocketwatch out and clearly made them synchronize their watches.
The Them went off in one direction, and Aziraphale drifted casually in another, working his way with impressive nonchalance towards the table with the potentilla. At exactly a quarter to eleven, it began.
Even knowing something was about to happen, the first pig was a surprise.
It was a tiny, dainty little pink thing, not anywhere close to full grown, and as far as Crowley could tell it had probably just wandered in from some well-beloved but tragic children's film or other. It trotted up one of the aisles of the plant show as if it, too, might be looking to purchase a small succulent.
The second pig, much louder than the first if not much bigger, came roaring down on the first one. Adam's little once-hellhound, Dog, was running behind it gleefully. Both pigs picked up speed.
The pigs after that were too numerous to count. Crowley had to hand it to Adam; it took a special kind of resourcefulness to procure that many pigs and coordinate their movements. Adam and his cohort brought up the rear of the world's most absurd 5K race, chasing along after the pigs as if they were trying to catch them, rather than being the ones driving them forward.
From the point of view of anyone in the plant show, it looked like a small but extremely loud and unlikely stampede; being relatively rural, very few people seemed upset, and only a handful of the more nimble plant-lovers even bothered to try and help corral the creatures. Most people knew that pigs would eventually run themselves out and then it'd just be a matter of hauling them back to wherever they'd escaped from.
RP Tyler, however, as Adam had clearly been aware, could not let this kind of nonsense stand. Crowley watched, holding his breath, as Tyler emerged from behind his table to see what the hubbub was. Once he'd seen a crowd of adolescent pigs do a sharp turn around one of the end tables and head up the next aisle, Dog and the four horsemen of the aporkolypse at their heels, he strode forward like a lawgiver of old.
"You there!" he bellowed. Even Crowley was so distracted by the pigs and their attendant chaos that he almost missed Aziraphale sidling up to Tyler's table now that he was out from behind it. "Adam Young! Call off these pigs this minute, young man!"
"Just trying to catch 'em!" Adam called, and Dog helped herd them around another hairpin turn, so that now they were headed straight for Tyler himself.
In the background, Aziraphale casually admired the crested potentilla, cupping a blossom with one hand. Crowley knew he was taking his time for a reason, but it was hard to watch. Still, Aziraphale was nothing if not conscientious, and Crowley had been very explicit about where he was to cut.
"I need a good length of stem and at least four leaves. Find where it branches from a larger stem and try to cut close to the joint," he'd said the night before, in bed actually, which was now a sort of strange ritual. Aziraphale, lying on his side and watching him, nodded. Crowley kept his eyes mostly on the ceiling. "If you can, try to cut at a 45 degree angle. That'll offer maximum area for the rooting when it's propagating."
"And you don't need a blossom?" Aziraphale had asked, sounding concerned.
"It'd be nice to have, but I'd rather you not face Tyler's wrath. Just take what you can and try not to make it a very obvious cut. I can get it to blossom once I've got it potted."
Aziraphale had fallen asleep like that, on his side, listening to Crowley talk about plants, and Crowley had shamefully enjoyed it. Which was sort of in a demonic charter as it were, guilty pleasures, so at least there was that.
And now here they were, and he was paying for being so specific, he just knew it. Aziraphale was still admiring the plant, turning the flowers this way and that.
The first pig reached RP Tyler right as Aziraphale's hand found the join of two stems. A pair of small, sharp scissors appeared, snipped, and disappeared almost too quickly to see, and then Aziraphale was casually wrapping the stem loosely around his fingers.
He got the flower into the custom-made internal pocket of his jacket just as Tyler caught a pig by the hind leg and tried to contain it; the little thing pulled him over onto the grass. As he wrestled with it, other plant lovers began to converge on the herd, because if RP Tyler was going to wrestle a pig, by Heaven no other man in the village was going to shirk his duty.
The garden show was soon full of triumphant yelling and confused squeals, which was entertaining but unfortunate, since it was making Aziraphale's getaway somewhat difficult. The field of pigs was between him and the bicycle he'd insisted on leaving against a nearby hedge as a getaway vehicle. Crowley, unable to help, watched tensely as he picked his way through. He clenched a hand and caught his breath when Aziraphale almost fell over one of the larger pigs, but the angel made it out eventually.
The bicycle was just so unnecessary. Still, Crowley didn't try to stop him as he mounted up and pedaled away like Hell, rather than one single solitary baby pig, was after him.
The whole thing had taken less than fifteen minutes from pig to bicycle. Not bad for a crowd of amateurs.
Crowley sauntered off to the pub. Aziraphale had said they should meet in the back room there for the handoff, but that he himself would take the long way around to be sure he wasn't followed.
As Crowley left, he caught Adam's eye and gave him two thumbs up. Adam beamed back and went to help haul one of the larger pigs off Brian, who didn't especially want to be rescued.
In the back room of the pub, which was really just a booth in the front room of the pub, Crowley pulled a crate out from under the bench seat and began unpacking it. There was a sharp knife, a plastic bowl with a fitted lid, a bottle of distilled water, and a sponge. He put the sponge in the bowl and poured the water over it, and then he waited.
Aziraphale arrived at 12:30, looking over his shoulder as he entered, his coat sloshing a little.
"I think you've made it out safely," Crowley said to him, as he slid into the seat across the table.
"That pig followed me for ages, and you know you can't trust a pig," Aziraphale said.
"....do I?" Crowley asked, mystified. "Why not?"
"Too much like humans. Anyway. Is it all prepared?"
Crowley gestured at the bowl. "Have you got the goods?"
Aziraphale reached into his coat and pulled out a damp but perfectly sound-looking clipping. It even had two blossoms on it. Crowley accepted the curled up plant and carefully sliced away the bottom two leaves before laying it on the sponge. They both studied it for a moment, reverently. Well, not reverently in Crowley's case, but as close as he could get.
"You'd better cover it up," Aziraphale said. "Have you ordered lunch? I'll be right back. I need to empty the plant water out of my coat."
"Got you the steak pie."
"Oh, splendid. And I'll steal a few of your chips."
"How do you know I got chips?" Crowley asked.
"Well, I do know you, my dear," Aziraphale said, sliding back out of the booth. "The only fish the pub does is cod and chips, and if there's a fish to be eaten somewhere, you'll eat it. Back in half a moment."
Perplexed by Aziraphale's attention to his eating habits, Crowley let him go. He fixed the lid on the bowl and then placed it back in the crate, covering it with a pair of old garden gloves and various other detritus.
After lunch, Aziraphale wobbled off on the bicycle to return it to wherever he'd got it from, and Crowley loaded the potentilla into the back of the Bentley with the others and drove it back up to the bungalow. He stopped briefly at Jasmine Cottage to leave a few of the droopier looking plants on the doorstep for Newt to (hopefully) trip over.
He carried the potentilla's bowl into the kitchen and took the lid off, leaving it on the counter where it would get just enough light.
"If you don't propagate properly you will disappoint Aziraphale," he hissed at it. He went out into the garden, leaving his sunglasses inside.
It was a sunny afternoon, and it'd been ages since he'd basked, which combined both vanity (Crowley knew he looked good in afternoon sunlight, and he never burned) and sloth. He picked a white wrought-iron garden bench, the kind people think look elegant but really are just very uncomfortable, and summoned a few cushions to solve that particular issue. Then he lounged himself out on it, legs stretched in front of him, arms spread across the back in an appropriately casual pose designed to catch as much sun as possible.
He heard Aziraphale returning and eventually heard him come out to the garden; just as well, since after about half an hour he always remembered that basking was, in fact, quite boring.
He was about to get up and find some kind of mischief to get into when Aziraphale plopped himself down on the bench, closer than usual -- right up against him, under one of his outflung arms -- sighed contentedly, and spread the book he'd brought to not-read over his stomach. As a concession to being in private on holiday, or possibly overwarm after all that cycling, he'd left off his waistcoat and tidily rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Crowley watched him settle in, curious, and then felt himself relax a little. The boredom was fast turning to a sort of serene entropy. Probably the angel's doing.
Still, little temptations were what Crowley was made of, and after a while he stirred just enough to shift his arm over Aziraphale's shoulders, dangling it down to casually -- one might say accidentally -- brush his fingers against Aziraphale's bare wrist.
"Penny for your thoughtsss," he said.
"You'd get ha'pence back, I'm afraid," Aziraphale replied. He shifted too, stretching out his legs, arm bumping Crowley's fingers. "I've been going over some very tricky theological ground, that's all."
"The old head-of-a-pin question?" Crowley asked. He had considered, once, declaring a demon dance-off on the head of a pin to try and resolve the question, but by then the late 1980s had hit and you could cut the electronica with a knife.
"No, nothing so abstract. I was just considering that while this morning's activities were undoubtedly wicked and caused by temptation -- "
"Unfair!" Crowley said. "I never tempted. I mean, yes, I asked, but not tempted, not with wiles. And you volunteered."
"I should have thought you'd be proud of it," Aziraphale said mildly.
Crowley scowled. "Obviously I am. But you ought to be precise about these things."
"Of course, my dear. But what I was thinking was, while it was obviously not a good thing we did, not wholly -- those poor pigs, honestly -- "
"Adam wouldn't hurt a pig. They had a grand old time."
"Maybe," Aziraphale said, "but I felt it incumbent on me to be sure, you know."
"A very difficult blessing. O lord, protect these hams!"
"I didn't offer you a penny for your thoughts," Aziraphale said, but he gave Crowley an amused look. "Only it was your idea, and so obviously it carried with it a certain element of wickedness. It's very wrong to rob a decent man like Mr. Tyler, even if he won't miss it."
"Decent is up for debate."
"I'm sure he does his best, and it's not any less wrong to rob an indecent man. At the same time, all the mess and trouble we caused did go towards a good end. It's a lovely little flower, Crowley, and I'm sure you'll raise it very carefully. And obviously now there's two of them, that's just a little more brightness in the world."
"So where does theology come into it?" Crowley asked, uncomfortable with the idea of Aziraphale thinking he would be careful with a flower.
"Well, is it a blessing that came of a sin, or were our good intentions, however well-rewarded, paving the way, as it were? Did Adam and his friends do something wicked in order to do something good and, if so, do the ends justify the means? Is it a bright new miracle in the world, this rare, pretty little thing, or is it a vanity spawned of an inherent impulse to do ill?"
Crowley thought about this, tipping his face up, eyes closing. After a while, he pronounced, "It's just a flower, angel."
"Yes, but it's your flower," Aziraphale said.
"Does that make a difference?"
"To me, apparently, it does," Aziraphale replied. "I'm not looking for an answer, you know, but there is a long and sacred tradition of wrestling with the question regardless."
Crowley huffed in response, but he couldn't refute it.
"Did you ever know a good thing, a truly good thing, on this planet, that didn't somehow come out of darkness?" he asked, after a while. "Is there any blessing that isn't at least a cousin to cursing, somehow?"
"But that's just the way of the world. It's been that way since the apple," Aziraphale said. "Knowing good from evil make things harder, that's the rule. If I had not known the light, I could have borne the shade, et cetera. And it doesn't mean one would wish suffering on anyone."
"It sounds to me," Crowley said, tipping his head down and turning to look at Aziraphale, "That it wasn't demonic or angelic, what we did. It was just human."
Aziraphale, looking back at him, made a thoughtful noise. "But we aren't human, Crowley."
"Would being more human be so terrible? It doesn't seem to have been so far."
"I wouldn't want to...die, or not be able to get a table at the Ritz," Aziraphale said. "But to live a more human life, I don't suppose it would be terrible. It's what we're doing now, isn't it?"
"Sleeping, eating, taking holidays," Crowley shrugged. His fingers brushed up Aziraphale's arm again, and he could see a flicker of something in his eyes -- uncertainty? surprise? -- which was enough to make him disengage. He stretched casually, lifting his arms, and tucked his hands back in his own lap. "What else do humans do to be, you know, humany?"
"Traditionally, war and sex," Aziraphale said. Crowley nearly choked on his own tongue. "And, I don't know. Jigsaw puzzles. Fishing. Shopping. I've got an idea," he added, while Crowley was still recovering from the juxtaposition of sex and jigsaw puzzles. "Let's go walking. There's some very nice country paths around here, supposedly."
"Walking to where?" Crowley asked.
"Just walking. You walk out...then you walk back. Like in London only without ever nipping into a shop where you don't plan to buy anything."
"Oh, well, put like that it sounds all right," Crowley said.
It turned out walking was pleasant, to a point. Past a certain distance from Tadfield the birdsong got annoyingly loud, the mosquitos suddenly buzzed, and the footpath became dustier and less pleasant; probably that marked the boundaries of Adam's territory. But up to that point, there was something to be said for being able to stretch one's legs without having to deal with the teeming hordes of London.
In the days that followed the Great Flower Caper, they fell into a routine of sorts. Crowley knew Aziraphale liked routine, but Crowley himself had never felt...settled enough, or perhaps secure enough on Earth to give it a real try. The closest he'd come was sleeping through a significant portion of the 19th century, and he didn't think that really counted. It always seemed like if he was going to do his hellish business well he ought to move with the times, and figuring out how to do that often took a good deal of chaos and energy.
But now he wasn't officially on-side for Hell anymore, perhaps he didn't have to go so fast.
Most mornings he woke first and walked into Lower Tadfield or took the Bentley to Upper to pick up something for breakfast. If both of them slept late, by the time he got into town he might see Adam and the others cycling off to who-knows-where. Aziraphale would invariably be up and making tea by the time he got back, and they'd entertain themselves for the morning, Aziraphale pretending to read, Crowley berating the potentilla and roundly abusing the rest of the plants in the garden to induce nicer blooms and better growth. He knew Aziraphale was encouraging them behind his back, brutally undercutting his perfectly good system for plant care, but he could never catch him at it.
In the afternoon they'd go walking, either into the village or out on the footpaths surrounding it. Whenever they started running into mosquitos, they'd turn back.
Crowley didn't mind it, though he felt he wouldn't miss it when they got back to London. But Aziraphale just...seemed to enjoy the walks so much. Every once in a while he'd breathe especially deep and close his eyes, and Crowley would watch him sidelong, wondering why neither of them seemed bored by all this quiet, all this peace.
Well, it was probably natural for Aziraphale, being an angel and all. And maybe Crowley had mistaken the blur of speed for entertainment.
"What are you not-reading, then?" he asked one afternoon, poking at the book stuffed into Aziraphale's pocket as they walked into Tadfield for dinner.
"I am reading it," Aziraphale protested.
"You aren't. You've been not-reading it for two days now after you finished not-reading the last one."
"Well, there's no rush to read books, is there?" Aziraphale replied.
"Just curious, that's all. I've spent several centuries not-reading books, I've got nothing against it," Crowley said.
"Just some Shakespeare. Nothing you haven't seen before. Anyway, what I wanted to show you is just down here," Aziraphale said, leading Crowley down a narrow alley between two buildings, off the village commons.
"Is this place you 'found' going to be like Patisserie L'Tadfield?" Crowley asked.
"No, I promise I really did find it," Aziraphale said. "I do have a theory, though."
"Oh?"
"This whole area is very...carefully curated. Or was. After Adam gave up his Satanic father, I think he retained some power -- well, I think that's obvious," Aziraphale said. "But I think he loosened his grip a little. Or perhaps he's simply growing out of it. Either way, Tadfield is, for lack of a better word...gentrifying."
"Every word I can think of is better than the word 'gentrifying'," Crowley said.
At the end of the alley was a little building that looked like most of Tadfield's other buildings, with a green awning that said BISTRO in big white letters. Crowley reflected that if this was Tadfield's idea of gentrification, they'd probably be ok.
The bistro's menu ran heavily to steak and things in cream sauces, but they had oysters and a decent wine list, so Crowley ordered a half dozen oysters and tried to make them last as he watched Aziraphale savor his way through a steak diane. Crowley had never mastered the art of eating slowly, but he didn't mind watching Aziraphale enjoy a meal. And he didn't keep track of the wine.
It was nice, he would admit, to sit in a warm, dimly lit restaurant even in Tadfield, enjoying human indulgences. The world felt a little unfocused, and Crowley had a faint sensation he hadn't felt since the last time he'd been the serpent, ages ago. As if all his sharp edges had been smoothed down, as if he wasn't constantly knocking some elbow or knee against the surface of this world.
Aziraphale had spent most of the entree describing a production of Much Ado About Nothing that Crowley had missed in 1961. Crowley listened with chin on hand, occasionally sipping more wine. Over dessert and coffee, the angel moved on to a long, comedic story involving several university students and their extremely erroneous theories about Shakespeare himself.
"Makes sense though, doesssn't it?" Crowley asked, aware he was hissing more than slurring, but either way, probably a bit more drunk than he ought to be. And watching Aziraphale's mouth a bit more openly than he ought to be, but it was hard to see it if he didn't look over his sunglasses a little.
"What's that?" Aziraphale asked, scooping up another bite of berry pie.
"Well. Trying to susss a person out just by what books they wrote," Crowley reasoned. "S'like...if you made up a big book, right. Of all the miraclesss you ever did."
"That'd be quite a volume."
"A person could read through every miracle and they'd know...nothing about you. At all. Not really."
Aziraphale looked thoughtful. "Are we including the miracles you did on my behalf?"
Crowley waved a hand. "Better not. Have to include all the curses and temptingsss and such you did for me."
"Well, I suppose they'd learn a few things," Aziraphale said. He swiped a smear of berry off the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
Crowley leaned in intently.
"Not a thing," he said. "Nothing real. You're fathomlessss, angel. Can't be fathomed."
"You seem to think you have my number often enough."
"I wish," Crowley said, and leaned back. "Let's go home. I could use the walk."
"Six oysters and one bite of berry pie weighing you down, are they?" Aziraphale asked, amused.
"I'm an asce....an aesc....a minimalist," Crowley told him.
"All right, my dear. But I'm taking a bottle of that good rose home with us," Aziraphale said, signaling the waiter.
By the time they left the bistro the evening had cooled off, but not enough to be properly chilly. Aziraphale tucked the bottle of wine under one arm and, to Crowley's mild and alcohol-delayed surprise, took his elbow with the other. Crowley tucked his hands firmly into his pockets and slowed his pace a little.
"When you sleep," Aziraphale asked, as they strolled. "Do you ever dream?"
"Not that I recall," Crowley replied. "Why? Do you?"
"I get the sense I do, but I don't remember what they're about. It's the oddest part of the whole thing, if you ask me. You deliberately make yourself immobile and vulnerable and then a nonsense surrealist film plays out behind your eyelids," Aziraphale said. "Your brain like some mad film editor, just putting up whatever it thinks you ought to see. I don't think I'd care to remember it, to be honest."
"Well, plenty of film to choosssse from, in our case. I wouldn't mind revisiting Rome," Crowley said.
"You were the crankiest I have ever seen you in Rome," Aziraphale replied.
"Not alwaysss. Not after you showed up."
"What else would I be? An aardvark?" Aziraphale said, doing a terrible impression of him, in Crowley's opinion. "What had you so angry, anyway?"
"Dunno. It all seemed a bit much, just then, I sssuppose," Crowley said.
"What all?"
Crowley tipped his head back. The stars were coming out; another half a mile's walk from Tadfield and they'd be visible the way they never were in the city. Even in the country, though, they didn't seem to shine as bright as they had in Mesopotamia, in Jericho.
He'd never brought it up in Rome. Too fresh a wound then, perhaps. At the time he'd blamed it on being unable to tempt Caligula into doing anything worse than he already was.
"Well, it's jussst. She sends Her only begotten son to redeem all of humanity," Crowley said. "I thought, oh, here it is! The big one. Making up for that flood and all the rest. Humans're going to be all right now. Better, you know. And maybe Ssshe'd stop playing such bloody games," he said, a little louder than necessary, aiming it upwards.
"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, hand tightening on his elbow.
"But the humans just...went on. Put him up on the cross and went on," Crowley said, lowering his head. Aziraphale stepped closer, arm linked through Crowley's now. "World kept turning, shopkeepers kept cheating their customers, rich kept pounding the poor into the dirt. Warsss kept on. Every time I came into Rome I'd think, well. That was for a big round nothing, wasn't it? And I suppose I felt a bit pointless, given what the humans did to each other without my even trying. Started to feel like...like a human who'd been shunted to a dead-end file-room job. Stuck."
"You know, I thought for a second you were saying something profound about humanity, but you were just mad your career had a setback," Aziraphale said.
"No, I -- " Crowley turned his head, outraged, and saw Aziraphale's teasing grin. "Cruel," he told him.
"Humility is good for the soul. So what happened? You clearly got past it."
"Well, you turned up," Crowley said. Obviously, angel, you turned up. When Aziraphale looked surprised, Crowley added hastily, "And I thought, I don't even like anyone in Hell. At leassst if I'm up here I've got some decent company."
Aziraphale's smile turned fond. "Well. That's very kind of you. Being nicer than Hell is a low bar to clear, but I'll take it."
They'd reached the branch in the road that led back to the bungalow, and Crowley could see the light he'd left on in the front room from here, the subtle dark gleam of the Bentley in the drive. He wanted something, and he wasn't even sure what it was anymore; something deep and visceral, like the warm earth of the garden a few feet down. Some hint that they weren't just adrift in the world.
Aziraphale's hand slid down his arm, from the crook of his elbow to his wrist, tugging his hand out of his pocket. The angel twined their fingers together and tugged him forward.
"Come on, it's this turning, you can tell because it's the only unmarked one," he said, leading Crowley up the road. Crowley stumbled after him, off-balance. Aziraphale's hand was smooth and warm, with just one callus, above the crease of his thumb's second joint, where he held a pen. Crowley had seen him rub a finger against it when he was anxious, and he felt for it now without thinking. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice, even when Crowley stopped himself, appalled.
"I say," Aziraphale said, only now letting go of his hand to open the front door, "that we pour out the wine, settle in the garden, and stargaze, then sleep away the morning."
"Truly, there never was such a hedonist," Crowley drawled, but he couldn't think how anything Aziraphale suggested was a bad idea.
"Open the wine, there's a fellow," Aziraphale said, disappearing into the bedroom. Crowley shrugged, blurrily popped the cork with a gesture, and pulled two wineglasses that hadn't been there a moment before out of the cupboard.
Aziraphale emerged, once again in his shirtsleeves, tie discarded, and picked up both glasses of wine while Crowley was busy staring at his throat. After a significant delay, he left his sunglasses on the counter, grabbed the bottle of wine, and followed.
Outside, Aziraphale was standing in the garden, gazing upwards.
"Where's Alpha Centauri from here?" he asked, as Crowley set the wine bottle on the little decorative garden table.
"Can't you just...know?" Crowley asked.
"I can, but I'd rather you show me."
Crowley reached out, clamped a hand on Aziraphale's head gently, and tilted it downward. He ignored the soft fluff under his fingers with great effort. "Can't be seen from this hemisphere. It's that direction, roughly twenty five, twenty six trillion miles, give or take."
"What a shame," Aziraphale said, as Crowley let go of him. He looked up at Crowley and smiled, fond and indulgent. "I'd have liked to have seen it."
"Well, Australia's not twenty five trillion miles away. Show you sometime," Crowley said casually, flopping down on the bench cushions, spreading his arms across the back. "Did you do any, you know, celestial work?"
"No, I was concerned with planetary bodies, mostly. Did quite a lot of the technical work on Earth, though. That's why She made me guardian of the eastern gate."
"I never knew. So, what, like granite and bacteria and such?"
"Oh, no, more like...well, when one separates the firmament from the waters, it takes a bit of heave-ho." Aziraphale sat next to him, close like he had before, leaning his weight against Crowley's side. "It's not as celestially spectacular as a nebula -- "
"We haven't spent six thousand years in a nebula," Crowley pointed out.
"Thankfully, no." Aziraphale tilted his head back, pillowing it on Crowley's bicep, resting across the back of the bench. "Look, there's Chesil and Chimah," he said, tracing the forms of ancient constellations.
"Oh, they've rebranded since Job's day," Crowley said, studying the line of his throat, stretched out as he gazed upwards. "The Greeks got to them."
"What a shame. I liked Chesil. And see, there's you," Aziraphale added. "The great serpent."
"It's called the Big Dipper now," Crowley said. "They don't even remember the culture that named it for me."
"Appalling."
"Never saw much in making shapes of the stars, myself," Crowley said. "Humans have such a need for patterns."
"What do you see, then?"
Crowley looked up, eyes dilating as wide as they would allow, which wasn't much.
"I like to see them all at once," he said. "The whole heavens. Well, a bit of the whole, anyway. Enough of the whole."
"Mm," Aziraphale replied. Crowley felt him shift, and then, "Crowley?"
"Yes, angel?" Crowley asked, looking down from the stars, turning his head. Aziraphale was turned to him now, which he hadn't expected, and their faces were close enough together that Crowley could see flecks of pale gold in Aziraphale's eyes.
The angel's mouth was open just slightly, but his expression was intent, almost determined. There was a knowledge in his eyes Crowley didn't quite like, and if he didn't look up from Aziraphale's face he was going to do something even the drink couldn't explain away.
"I need more wine -- " he began, but before he could fully turn Aziraphale's hand came up, catching his cheek and holding him there, thumb pressed against the jut of his cheekbone.
"I don't think you do," Aziraphale said. "I think you're just fine, Crowley."
"Fine," Crowley breathed. He wanted to lean into the hand, but this couldn't actually...which was to say it must be terribly innocent on Aziraphale's part. He hadn't known Oscar Wilde fancied him for --
Aziraphale kissed him, body craning up slightly, and Crowley didn't know what to do with the one hand pinned under Aziraphale's shoulder or the other hand sitting stupidly in his own lap. Or any of the rest of his body, really. The only option seemed to be to kiss back, so he closed his eyes and ducked forward for better leverage, and Aziraphale made a small, satisfied noise, his hand bracing on Crowley's arm.
He hadn't really pictured this much, because he might be stupid but he wasn't self-destructive. Even so, he'd had an idea of what it would be like, and it wasn't like this -- like some kind of tide pushing past him and then receding, pulling him forward into deeper water. He managed to get a grip on Aziraphale's wrist, just below where Aziraphale still held his face, and clung on like it was an anchor.
"There," Aziraphale said, pulling back just enough it would have been undignified to follow. Crowley opened his eyes. That same smile, fond and remarkably innocent, one of those aspects of divinity that he couldn't really hide any more than Crowley could hide his eyes. "There," Aziraphale repeated, thumb rubbing his cheek.
"Where?" Crowley asked, confused.
"Never mind. Would you sober up for me, please?" Aziraphale asked.
That sounded extremely dangerous, given the way the world could turn hard-edged if he did.
"I don't really...think that'd be good, to be honest," Crowley said.
"A bit, at least?"
A bit, perhaps, yes. Just enough to know if the rest of the way would be better or disastrous. Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated.
Yes; the world was a little more hard-edged, now, but still manageable. And Aziraphale's hands were steadying him, keeping the world in orbit.
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, impossibly earnest. Crowley opened his mouth to point this out, but he got kissed again instead, and that was probably better anyway. He could talk his way out of a lot, and had in the past, but trying to talk his way either into or out of this seemed unwise.
"I'm sorry I go a bit slow," Aziraphale said, ending the kiss to press their foreheads together again. "But I do eventually work these things out."
"I wasn't impatient," Crowley said.
"I know, my dear."
"I didn't have...expectations. I wasn't even waiting."
"I was. The consequences were higher for me, and I'm not naturally very brave," Aziraphale said.
"I won't hold that lie against you," Crowley told him, and tugged on the wrist he was holding, pushing with his other arm; Aziraphale didn't seem especially surprised to be swung up and across him, landing in his lap. He dug a hand in the hair at the back of Crowley's head and settled, knees bracketing his hips.
But something fizzled momentarily in Crowley's brain, and he let go to put a hand on Aziraphale's chest.
"Consequences," he repeated.
"Angel, demon," Aziraphale said. "Hell might consider it a conquest, but Heaven does not."
"But you're still -- and I'm still," Crowley said.
"Yes but the thing is," Aziraphale said, pushing forward against his hand to kiss him. "The thing is, Crowley, I don't care anymore."
It occurred to Crowley he could say but I do. He could make a competent and good decision for once in his wretched life and end this before Heaven came down to curb-stomp the best thing about the entire planet.
But he wanted this, and Aziraphale wanted this, so why start making good decisions now?
Millennia rolled out in his mind before him, of getting to touch the angel like he meant it and have him know he meant it, of something beyond amused antagonism and pretending. Awash in it, the idea of stopping for something as inconsequential as Heaven's wrath never really had a chance.
He shifted his hands to Aziraphale's hips and pulled him forward a little, slouching so that more of their bodies could touch, thighs and chests, and Aziraphale ruffled his fingers through Crowley's hair.
"Last time you had short hair was the forties," Aziraphale said, nipping his bottom lip. "Always liked short hair on you. Hated the sixties. The seventies were worse."
"It was the style," Crowley replied.
"Hideous. Much better now." Aziraphale brushed back the front of Crowley's hair with his other hand, leaning up to kiss his forehead briefly before settling back again. Crowley arched his hips a little, wondering how fast he could go before he'd be told to slow down again.
Aziraphale's fingers clenched in his hair, so...probably hadn't hit full speed yet, at least.
Still, there was something sort of pleasant about not having to accelerate, and something delightful about putting this all on display for the heavens. For Heaven, which couldn't have Aziraphale now and had never deserved him in any case.
He's mine, Crowley thought. I've got him now and I intend to keep him.
So he held Aziraphale in place, undulating under him but otherwise letting the angel do as he pleased, mostly kissing, some soft murmuring he didn't know if he was even meant to understand. Every time he moved, hips canting up into the weight of Aziraphale straddling him, he felt a spark of pleasure that he knew he could chase, but didn't have to. They had time.
Still, he was a demon, and inclined to keep things interesting. Eventually he ran a hand up from Aziraphale's thigh to his hip, tugging at the neatly-tucked shirt, fingers slipping under to flatten against his skin.
"For a creature affiliated with cold-blooded things, you're always so warm," Aziraphale said, wriggling into the touch.
"Demon before snake," Crowley told him, taking it as encouragement. He splayed his palm in the small of Aziraphale's back, lifting his other hand to untuck the rest of the shirt. When he brought both of them around to press against Aziraphale's stomach, he could feel the heave of his breathing, surprisingly deep.
He broke off a kiss to look up at Aziraphale, studying his face. The angel gave him a little half-smile.
"Don't mistake composure for calm," Aziraphale said quietly.
"Is that so?" Crowley asked, fingernails scratching his skin lightly.
"Though I wouldn't mind taking this inside. It's starting to get chilly."
"Ah, so this was all to take advantage of my demonic warmth, I see," Crowley told him, letting his hands linger as Aziraphale slid off his thighs. Aziraphale fussily straightened his collar despite the fact that his shirt was wildly but not completely untucked and the most proper word that could be applied to his mouth was debauched.
"Don't make fun," Aziraphale told him, offering a hand to help him up off the bench. It was a strange little gentlemanly affectation, and Crowley was so surprised that he accepted it, let Aziraphale haul him up and pull him back inside.
Just inside the door, however, Crowley tugged on his hand and turned them, crowding Aziraphale up against the wall of the hallway and pinning him there with a thigh between his legs. Aziraphale pressed up to kiss him, and the bulge of his erection rubbed up against Crowley's thigh.
It was a strange shock -- he could feel his own erection, of course, he was in this body and wasn't unaccustomed to it. But the reality of it, of Aziraphale not just interested in anyone sexually but in him, was almost bewildering.
"I honestly," he said, between kisses, "didn't think angels went in for this sort of thing."
Aziraphale pulled him in by the belt and deliberately rolled his body, rutting against Crowley's thigh.
"Did you think I've been humoring you for the past half an hour?" he asked, amused.
"Angel," Crowley managed, trying for as much contact as he could, now, bumping their bodies together a little clumsily. He'd only meant it for a term of endearment, but Aziraphale laughed.
"Normally we don't, unless we make an effort," he said, hands at Crowley's belt actually interfering with Crowley's excellent plan to get them both off right here in the hallway and preferably as soon as possible. The belt clattered to the floor. "But you're very good at being both the exception to the rule and -- oh, Crowley," he interrupted himself as Crowley cupped a hand under one of his thighs, lifting it for better leverage. "Worth making an effort for," he finished breathlessly. "Easy, dearest, we have all night."
Crowley nodded, drawing a deep breath. "Technically we have all century," he pointed out, which he felt was very virtuous of him.
"Well, carpe diem, let's not go too far," Aziraphale replied. Crowley leaned in and just stood there, not moving, breathing, pressed against him.
"Did you really like my hair in the forties?" he asked, and Aziraphale nosed against his cheek.
"There was nothing I didn't like about you in the forties," he said. "Lord, those suits, and the way you wore a hat."
"Since the forties, then?" Crowley asked. They'd wasted so much time, decades and decades --
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. "Since Rome."
"Rome?" Crowley reeled. "Which time? 1798? 1520?"
"41," Aziraphale mumbled.
"Forty -- no, it was 1520, not 1541."
"No, Crowley, forty one," Aziraphale said, opening his eyes. Crowley stared at him. "Anno Domini 41. I only figured it out later. But we didn't really know each other before then. We became friends in Rome, and -- that meant a lot to me. More than I realized."
Crowley closed his eyes and knocked their foreheads together.
"And I was a prat," he said. "In Rome."
"Being fair, hardly the last time you've been a prat," Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley huffed. "I'm sorry, Crowley."
"Don't be sorry," Crowley told him. "It wouldn't have been any good before, anyway, not without..."
"All the history between us?"
"Mm." Crowley leaned away from him. "Really, though, 41."
Aziraphale nodded.
Crowley grasped him by the front of the shirt and pulled him into the bedroom, then, all but throwing him on the bed. Aziraphale scrambled for balance for a moment and then sort of let it happen, tumbling onto the bed in a heap of limbs, shirt-tails flying. Crowley crawled over him, grinning.
"Crowley, I've still got my shoes on," Aziraphale said, protesting. "There's mud from -- "
Crowley snapped his fingers; their shoes, socks, a significant amount of mud and grass, and Aziraphale's shirt vanished.
"You know it's actually somehow dirtier that you didn't just vanish it all," Aziraphale said, levering himself up on his elbows. Crowley pushed him flat and kissed him quiet.
"You have to have something to take off," Crowley told him, hiking Aziraphale's legs around his hips. His cock brushed Aziraphale's through the fabric, and it should have made him crazy, should have moved all this along, but -- he felt like he could be contented here, just like this, rocking slowly between Aziraphale's thighs, still in those awful brown trousers and with his own trousers much too constricting for this. It was slow and a little awkward, but then so were they.
Aziraphale didn't have any more smart remarks to make, apparently; he just tilted his head back against the blankets and gasped, soft breaths in time with the roll of their bodies. His hands were everywhere -- Crowley's hair again, his shoulders, then the nape of his neck and under the collar of his shirt, to the space between his shoulderblades where his wings would be rooted if they manifested. Crowley pressed his face to Aziraphale's throat and moaned. Aziraphale twisted the back of Crowley's shirt around his hand and pulled it up, over his head, clumsily tugging until it came free and he could toss it aside.
That was even better; lying against Aziraphale, skin-to-skin, with the angel's deft hands tracing the planes of his back, clenching against it when he rocked a little harder, a little faster.
Aziraphale's hands moved to Crowley's waist, fumbling with his trousers, pushing them down by quarter-inches as much as they'd go. Crowley lifted his hips and popped the button on his flies, helping things along, and groaned in relief when Aziraphale shoved the fabric down to his thighs.
"This is much better than sleeping," Aziraphale said, wrapping a hand around Crowley's cock, and Crowley groaned into the angel's throat. He'd wanted to dominate him, up until about ten seconds ago, to pin him down and take what he'd been aching for, but this was infinitely better, bucking into Aziraphale's hand as the angel quite calmly and rationally told him that he was the best of all pleasures.
"That's good, darling," Aziraphale said, as Crowley writhed against him. "I'm so glad, Crowley, that it's you, that it's now."
Crowley groaned and rocked his hips, constrained by his trousers, still bunched up around his thighs.
"Sweetheart," Aziraphale said, and Crowley's hips jerked.
"Angel, please," he mumbled, into Aziraphale's skin.
"Not just yet, dearest."
Crowley felt Aziraphale stroke his cheek with his other hand and leaned into it. The hand on his cock tightened briefly and then stilled.
In a way, it was good; he lay on top of the angel, catching his breath, enjoying the little twitches of pleasure whenever he moved. It was also a kind of torment, but then, he was used to that.
"You've brought this on yourself, you know," Aziraphale said into his ear, affectionately. He rolled Crowley to one side, fumbling with his own trousers. "If you'd just vanished it all to begin with -- "
Crowley nuzzled back in, hooking a leg around one of Aziraphale's thighs and rolling his hips, enjoying the rub of skin on fabric. His hands clumsily worked at Aziraphale's flies and then tugged on the sensible, conservative briefs underneath. Aziraphale drew up his legs to slide the clothing completely off, and Crowley leaned into him, face pressed just below his pectorals. He felt a hand smoothing down his hair.
"What would you like?" Aziraphale asked softly. The question almost overwhelmed him; it wasn't as though he was unused to getting what he wanted, but to be asked to begin with was oddly rare. Hell didn't often take into account the tastes or desires of its denizens. Crowley hid his face in Aziraphale's belly, considering. Aziraphale, more patient than Crowley deserved, just waited, stroking his hair, sending electric tingles along his skin.
He didn't know at first what he wanted, so many options available; he'd hardly thought this far even in wild fantasies. But there was an urge to claim and consume, warring with an urge to bury himself completely in Aziraphale's all-encompassing acceptance, the unconditional affection that was afforded all creation but, just now, especially to the demon Crowley.
He twisted his body, wriggling down the bed, and pressed his face into the soft skin just below Aziraphale's hipbones. When Aziraphale gasped in approval, he lifted his head and slid between the angel's legs, taking him in his mouth, at first just the head of his cock and then as much as he could, grateful they were a little less than mortal and could ignore things like physics and the gag reflex. Aziraphale's hands twisted in his hair.
"Oh, Crowley," he murmured, and Crowley could feel him trying not to push up into his mouth. He bobbed his head, sucking harder, and -- "Crowley!"
He was a demon, after all, and knew how to do this -- had known since almost the first of humanity -- and had plenty of experience. And he wanted to be especially good, to wipe away any former lovers and ruin any future ones. Aziraphale panted underneath him and his body began to cant upwards, despite what was clearly an effort to be still. Crowley changed angle slightly and drew his hands under Aziraphale's thighs, encouraging the minute twitches of his hips. When he choked on a thrust for the first time, Aziraphale cried out and came, and Crowley lost himself for a moment in the rush of it all, the taste of skin and the sound of Aziraphale's hoarse cry.
He started to crawl up the angel's body, but his legs were still tangled in his trousers; he waved them away, no more patience for the drama of it, and then continued, the heavy drag of his cock against Aziraphale's skin pleasurable but not urgent. Aziraphale pulled him in close, nestling their bodies together, Crowley curled around one side of him, face in the soft curve of his jaw.
"Just delightful," Aziraphale said to him, arm around his shoulders, fingertips tracing patterns on his arm. "Come here, Crowley, there's a love -- "
He turned his body toward Crowley, who would have been happy just to rest there, face hidden. Instead, Aziraphale forced his chin up, too-human eyes meeting his, and kissed him.
"Don't tell me you're ashamed of that," he said gently. "You're very good, my dear."
Crowley closed his eyes, melting into Aziraphale's body. It was an actual shock when he felt Aziraphale's hand around his cock again, his other hand in the small of his back and firmly pinning them together.
"People get all sorts of ideas about the sacraments," Aziraphale murmured, as Crowley whined and thrust into his hand. "But I believe," and his belief sounded like a rock that couldn't be moved, "that there is no greater worship than love -- "
"Angel," Crowley gasped.
"Go on," Aziraphale said, infinitely tender, and Crowley bucked into his hand and came, silent, overwhelmed, quite possibly blaspheming against Hell.
For just a little while after, the world was still.
"I would trade all the forges of Heaven for you," Aziraphale said softly, which didn't even make sense. Crowley knew nothing of the forges of Heaven anymore, but joy blossomed in him nevertheless. "I'd Fall for you, darling."
"No," Crowley protested weakly, still afloat on a sea of hormones and unsure how to come back to himself. "Angel."
Aziraphale hummed, a sound like celestial orchestras. "Well. Thank goodness I shan't have to, probably."
Crowley, barely operating in reality, curled closer. "Still cold, angel?"
"Yes," Aziraphale lied, Crowley could tell, but he didn't care. He wrapped as much of his body as he could around the angel, physically and spiritually, and dozed against an ineffable light he found within. The light settled, comfortable, into the curve of his body, and Crowley fell asleep bathed in the divine.
***
He woke bathed in tartan.
Tartan as far as the eye could see; when Crowley blinked and refocused it was clear he was faceplanted into Aziraphale's terrible pyjamas. It bewildered him for a second, but then a hand ruffled his hair, fingertips rubbing into his scalp, and he decided to ignore the tartan.
"Wha' time's it?" he mumbled, leaning into the hand petting his hair.
"Why, do you have an urgent appointment?" Aziraphale asked, amused. Crowley hitched his body up a little and felt the red cotton pyjamas slide with him. He ignored it for now and concentrated on getting level with Aziraphale's face. Sleepy blue eyes with crinkles at the corners. Aziraphale might like a chocolate croissant for breakfast but this was probably the best thing Crowley had ever encountered in any morning.
"Good morning, my dear," Aziraphale said, nosing in for a kiss. "You slept like you wanted to earn a medal for it."
"Just wanted you to take your turn fetching breakfast," Crowley told him.
"Oh, breakfast," Aziraphale sighed blissfully. "I think fruit salad and those little pastries, you know the ones, from that cafe near the bookshop."
"Marzipan rugelach, you hedonist," Crowley said, but he flung an arm over Aziraphale's chest and leaned his weight on him. "Not yet."
"No, I have to savor my triumph," Aziraphale told him gravely, but his eyes were amused.
"Your triumph!"
"Well, yes, darling," Aziraphale told him. "I put a lot of careful work into all of this, you know."
"You what," Crowley asked, giving him a flat stare.
"Well, I'm the one who slammed the brakes so hard," Aziraphale said. "Only fair I fix it once..." he gestured, an arcane sort of hand wave that told Crowley exactly nothing.
"Drunk stargazing was your plan?" Crowley asked.
"Part of it," Aziraphale agreed, kissing his nose, which was stupid and Crowley absolutely did not like it. "Anyway. Someday we're bound to end up in Australia for one reason or another and I will make you show me Alpha Centauri."
That did call up hazy memories of the previous night, of Aziraphale's soft hair under his hand, and he realized with a start he now had permission to touch it without needing an excuse. He tangled a hand in the short curls, smoothing them into a little bit of order, and Aziraphale closed his eyes.
"That's very nice," he said. "All these bodily feelings, you know, a chap could get used to them."
"I'm sure a chap could," Crowley replied, amused. "You might have hated the sixties -- "
"I didn't hate the sixties, I hated your hair in the sixties -- "
"But you always looked very fashionable back then. Very Beau Brummel, sort of conservative mod. Made all the young fellows want to undo your tie," Crowley said, curling the ringlets down like he'd worn them back then.
"Oh, all the young fellows," Aziraphale scoffed.
"It's true. You weren't the only one who heard things in Soho. Those fancy lads who would get dolled up and hang around the bookshop before going to the nightclubs and the sex shows, they talked," Crowley said.
"Shall I add them to my list of could-have-been conquests with William and Oscar?" Aziraphale asked drily.
"Well...yes, angel."
"Tosh."
"AZ Fell and Company was the heart of gay London," Crowley said. "It baffles me you didn't realize it. How much gay erotica did you sell?"
"It was all dime-novel stuff," Aziraphale sniffed. "Pulps. I don't keep track of the sales, you know that, so long as they don't buy any of the Collection."
"Lots, then."
"Yes, but humans, who can fathom?"
"Clearly not you."
"None of them ever bothered me, not the way those fellows did recently."
"Well, it was a more discreet time. But they all fancied you. That bona bookshop omi-palone with the dolly orbs," he said, nostalgic for polari and the camp of sixties London. "Prettiest gay man in the district."
"I'm an angel. Technically we have neither gender nor sexuality," Aziraphale said. Crowley rested a hand on Aziraphale's cock, casually. "Well, obviously one makes choices from time to time, but I reserve the right to change my mind."
"Do tell," Crowley murmured. "You'd look fine in female. You'd look good in any gender."
"I'll take that under advisement. Meanwhile, I would like breakfast," Aziraphale said, gently disengaging and pushing himself up on his elbows. "It was a very momentous night and I could do with refreshment."
Crowley drifted a hand down his shoulder, staunchly unhelpful. Aziraphale gave him a pointed look, then sat further up and shifted back against the pillows, crossing his legs. Crowley watched, resting his chin on his arm. After a few seconds of intent focus, a tray materialized on the bed.
The hot, enticing smell of coffee wafted up from a carafe on the tray, and there were two bowls heaped with fruit on either side of it; piled on a platter were dozens of little rugelach, and on the side nearest Crowley there was a plate of toast and an egg cup, the egg in it already sliced open to reveal a perfect pool of soft golden yolk. Crowley licked his lips and sat up, his attempts to be cool and devious forgotten.
"Love an egg," he mumbled, snapping the crust off the toast and dipping it in the yolk.
"I remember," Aziraphale said, lifting one of the fruit bowls off the tray and picking the grapes out of it to eat first. "Is it a snake thing, do you suppose, or just happy coincidence?"
"Eggs are great," Crowley said, mouth full, scattering crumbs in the blankets. "Enough said."
"Eat some fruit," Aziraphale advised. He was holding a cube of melon in one hand; Crowley grasped his wrist and pulled his hand over, taking it from his fingers with his mouth. "Not my fruit," Aziraphale scolded. Crowley rolled his eyes. "What would you like to do today?" he continued, sipping his coffee.
"Tremendous amounts of sex," Crowley said, ripping his toast into soldiers.
"Really, my dear, a little restraint."
"Restraint?" Crowley leered. Aziraphale gave him a thoughtful look that seemed to indicate some other time, which was frankly astounding; who knew the angel had it in him?
"I'm simply saying I'm not going to spend such a lovely day entirely inside," Aziraphale said.
"Fine. Tremendous amounts of sex followed by a nice walk?" Crowley offered. He could probably offer a nice walk now and then bargain Aziraphale down into half an hour in the garden before returning to the sex.
"Your flower clipping seems to be coming along nicely," Aziraphale told him. "Perhaps we ought to go into town and get a pot for it."
"You'd really rather shop for plant pots?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale was quiet, thoughtful, for long enough that Crowley started to worry.
"Well, sex is nice, of course," he said finally. "But...I like all the things we do together. Walking into Tadfield, arguing about your driving, nice meals, reading good books while you sleep...I like it all, Crowley."
Crowley considered this. It made a certain amount of sense, approached from that angle. It was a fun thing to do on holiday, a sort of stand-in for complaining about foreigners.
"Plant pots," he said, because if plant pots would allow him to keep touching, keep seducing, then he'd accept them. "Sure. Sounds nice."
***
It was actually very fun, finding a pot for the potentilla.
There was no garden centre in town, but Lower Tadfield did have a handicrafts shop run by a woman who clearly had lived through and yet did not remember the 1960s, which by default made her the biggest hippie for miles around. She had hand-thrown every pot and then painted them with spirals, goddesses, moon motifs, and suchlike. Between the stunning array of pottery and the forest of windchimes and other new-age nonsense, shopping was an adventure both physically and emotionally.
Not to mention, Aziraphale had named the potentilla.
"It comes from California, doesn't it?" he'd said on the walk into town, and then pronounced, "Jim Smiley."
"Who the hell is Jim Smiley?" Crowley asked.
"You are an illiterate monster," Aziraphale told him, and then proceeded to shop for 'Jim' in a way that made it seem like he was some kind of dear relative, perhaps even a son.
"Have you any pots with frog motifs?" he asked the woman who ran the handicrafts shop, earnestly.
"Only celestial bodies and crystals, luv," she replied, and Crowley tried to stuff down his laughter.
"Do you think Jim would like this one?" Aziraphale asked, holding up a red pot with an enormous naked woman on it.
"Is Jim in the throes of a hormonal awakening of some kind?" Crowley asked.
"Jim is a plant, dear," Azirpahale reminded him.
"Not the way you're treating him, he's not," Crowley said.
They settled, finally, on an iridescent blue pot with a smiley face painted on it, and Aziraphale beamed all the way through the purchase and out the door.
When they returned, Crowley set the smiley-face pot on an appropriate saucer on the kitchen counter and filled it with potting soil, wetting it every few scoops to make a muddy slurry. When the soil was half an inch from the rim, he dug a channel in the wet earth and laid the potentilla's stem in it, carefully burying the rootlings while keeping the leaves and blossoms well above the soil. Aziraphale watched, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, cooing encouragements to the plant all the while.
"Grow, or so help me," Crowley whispered to it. The plant trembled a little. Satisfied, he washed the soil off his fingers and placed the pot in the sunlight.
"I think he likes his new pot," Aziraphale said.
"He'd better," Crowley said, turning the pot so that the smiley face gazed out the kitchen window, invisible from the inside. Aziraphale leaned into him from behind, nose buried in his neck.
"Thought you didn't care that much for sex," Crowley observed.
"That is not in any way what I said," Aziraphale replied. His voice vibrated against Crowley's skin. "You smell like the garden."
"It's just dirt," Crowley said.
"It's not, though. It's...earth," Aziraphale replied. "Growing things. Fruits and...and pollination. New life. Fecundity," he added.
Crowley considered this.
"Tremendous amounts of sex, now?" he asked.
"At least reasonable amounts," Aziraphale agreed.
"I've never been reasonable and I resent the implication," Crowley said.
"Do you work at being difficult, or does it come naturally?" Aziraphale asked him.
"It's a personal inclination. Probably why I was thrown out, you know," Crowley said, and Aziraphale went still. "Joke, angel."
He felt Aziraphale press his face into the nape of his neck. "Not very funny," Aziraphale said.
"Maybe, but the demon is the one who gets to make jokes about being a demon," Crowley reminded him. "It's one of the few perks."
Aziraphale tightened his arms around Crowley's waist. Crowley, amused, rested his hands briefly on Aziraphale's and then picked them up, moving them lower.
"Sauce," Aziraphale said, sounding both appalled and affectionate, and kissed the back of his neck before withdrawing. Crowley turned around, leaning against the kitchen counter. The sun, streaming in through the window behind Crowley, lit up Aziraphale's face, turning his hair gold-white and illuminating his eyes. He looked like the kind of painting academics would rhapsodize over, with words like luminous and delicate. Crowley curled his fingers under Aziraphale's chin and kissed him.