Chapter Text
The midmorning sun streaked through the shop windows, bathing the dark wood floors in golden light. The sun’s rays warmed the space but did not reach the well-stocked cooler case or shelves of wine set further back in the shop. Aziraphale Fell, proprietor of fine wine and cheeses, would never allow his precious wares to be exposed to extreme conditions — no harsh sun, fluctuating temperatures, or uncouth clientele would sully his goods.
With his platinum blond curls, tartan bow tie, and polished shoes, Aziraphale was an exacting and particular man. Some might describe him as fussy. Others might say he was uptight, a control freak, or perhaps even an arrogant arsehole. Aziraphale, however, preferred to think of himself as passionate. He simply had high standards.
He hummed as he flicked a bright yellow feather duster over the shelves, occasionally straightening a wine bottle or a descriptive label written in his elegant penmanship. It annoyed him when customers struggled to read cursive — hadn’t they learnt anything in school?
Once finished with the dusting, he slipped on his reading glasses and took a quick inventory of the cheeses, then checked the colourful jars of olives, cornichons, roasted peppers, olive oil, and other imported foods available for purchase. He moved on to inspect the stock of clean wine glasses, corkscrews, coasters, and menus kept behind the long bar. All seemed to be in impeccable order.
Along with wine, cheese, and sundries available for purchase, his establishment, Le Paradis, offered wine by the glass and a menu of small plates for dining. To Aziraphale, his shop was a little slice of paradise, a calm oasis filled with all of his favourite things.
He held monthly wine tastings and occasional special events or private parties. It was a bustling little enterprise in a charming, well-to-do London neighbourhood. Several other small businesses occupied the same stretch of Whickber Street, including a florist, antiques shop, French bakery, clothing boutique, music store, and a sleek Thai restaurant.
The shopkeepers had formed an association that met regularly and worked cooperatively to plant flowers, hang holiday lights, and make the area as welcoming and attractive as possible.
Then there were the Other shop owners. These more recent interlopers included a tattoo parlor (ghastly), a crystal and psychic shop (eye-rolling), and, perhaps most aggravating, a kombucha and cocktail bar (ridiculous) that had opened just a few weeks ago. It had been a shock, watching these businesses move in and pander to “millennials” or whatever they were calling young people these days. The newer shops were just so… Aziraphale didn’t want to say “vulgar,” exactly, but perhaps “common” fit the bill.
The Other shopkeepers rarely attended the association meetings, which lowered Aziraphale’s rather low opinion of them even lower.
He glanced out the window at the street, then noticed a spot on one of the panes. Tutting, he took a towel to the offending smudge. As he wiped it away, a movement caught his eye over the road.
A woman with long braids and a perpetual scowl was wiping down the cafe tables set on the pavement outside the kombucha bar. She was the owner — Nina something or other. Aziraphale watched her shift the chairs around and flicked his eyes up at the sign: Seven Circles.
More than one person had made the tiresome observation about Le Paradis being right across the street from the Seven Circles of Hell. Aziraphale didn’t know if Nina had intentionally chosen the name as a joke, or perhaps it was an insult, or it was entirely coincidental. They’d never spoken long enough for Aziraphale to ask. At best, they gave each other curt nods when forced to acknowledge one another.
They were, after all, competing for the same food and drinks clientele, although they appealed to vastly different demographics. Seven Circles catered to those with tattoos, colourful hair, and black clothing — students, artists, and creative types, while Le Paradis attracted a crowd in tailored suits and expensive watches — business professionals and the quietly wealthy.
Aziraphale had never darkened the door of Seven Circles, and Nina had never set foot in Le Paradis. And that, Aziraphale thought, rubbing the glass vigorously, was the unspoken agreement. They would co-exist but studiously ignore each other.
“Good morning. I’ve got today’s specials planned. Want to go over them?”
Aziraphale turned at the sound of the voice behind him and saw Maggie, the chef, tying an apron around her waist. A cheery blonde with a penchant for vintage clothing and red lipstick, Maggie was a key part of the business. She was a clever, instinctive cook who turned out delicious tapas, beautiful charcuterie boards, and indulgent desserts that Aziraphale paired with his extensive knowledge of wine. They made an excellent team.
The rest of the kitchen staff consisted of a few cooks and a dishwasher, and the front of the house employed several servers and a bartender. Aziraphale prided himself on working as many hours as possible, rarely taking time off. He lived in a tidy flat a short walk away in order to tend to business at a moment’s notice.
Aziraphale joined Maggie at a table near the front window where they went over the menu. They were chatting about the desserts when a black delivery van sporting the Seven Circles logo on the side screeched to a halt in front of the kombucha bar. Heavy bass music thumped from the vehicle, rattling the windows of anything within 100 metres.
Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence and frowned at the van, irked at the noise. “How rude.”
The driver didn’t bother switching off the engine or lowering the volume even though he was parked. Aziraphale tried to return to the conversation with Maggie, but the low bass notes rumbled through the floor and chair, causing his buttocks to vibrate in time with the music. This was unacceptable.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Aziraphale gave Maggie an apologetic smile as he stood up, his blood pressure elevated.
He marched out the door and headed directly towards the van, ready to give the driver a polite yet firm tongue lashing. He came round the back of the vehicle, intending to rap on the driver’s side window just as the door swung open.
Aziraphale jumped back, the door narrowly missing him.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Aziraphale snapped. He was about to launch into another reprimand when the music abruptly cut off. A moment later, an impossibly long leg extended from the driver’s seat and planted an expensive looking snakeskin boot onto the pavement. A lean body clad in all black slithered into view and rose to its full, skinny height.
“Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there,” the lean body apologised.
Aziraphale stared at the man standing before him. Dressed in shockingly tight jeans and a fitted T-shirt, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of opaque black sunglasses. His hair, long and pulled back into a low bun, was a deep shade of red that Aziraphale could only compare to a glass of burgundy held up in the sunlight. Aziraphale’s eyes roamed, not knowing where to settle, flitting from narrow hips to sharp cheekbones to lickable collar bones. Oh, God. This was unsettling.
“Yurmutwoloud,” Aziraphale stammered incoherently, flustered.
The man stared at him. At least, Aziraphale assumed he was staring at him. It was difficult to tell with the sunglasses.
The man cocked his head. “What?”
Aziraphale forced himself to focus, remembering his ire. “Your music was far too loud,” he repeated himself, clearly enunciating this time. “You’re disturbing the entire neighbourhood.”
The man seemed to size up Aziraphale, his lip curling in disdain. “So’s your bow tie, granddad.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. The audacity! He was certainly not elderly, thank you very much, and his ties were a fashion statement.
The man brushed past him, sauntering to the back of the van.
Aziraphale followed him, finding his voice. “You can’t park here. You’re impeding traffic.”
The man barely glanced at him as he pulled open the cargo doors and hoisted out a heavy hand cart. “I’m only here for a few minutes. Relax.”
“I will not relax,” Aziraphale huffed. “You can’t just ignore the rules.”
The man in black remained silent as he lifted out a crate of what sounded like glass bottles. Aziraphale tried not to notice his wiry biceps straining as he wrestled out another crate.
“You need to move this van!” Aziraphale almost stamped his foot in frustration, but managed to hold back.
“Everything all right here?” Nina appeared at Aziraphale’s elbow, her arms crossed defensively.
Aziraphale whirled around. “This person in your employ was blaring music and is now parked illegally.”
The red-haired man sighed in exasperation. “This gentleman has a massive stick up his arse.”
Aziraphale gasped. “And he’s incredibly rude!”
“I haven’t even started yet,” the man snarled.
Nina raised her hands to stop them. “Boys!” She turned to Aziraphale. “Actually, Mr Fell, the city allows 15 minutes for loading and unloading purposes between the hours of 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., which was discussed at the January 2021 Whickber Street Shopkeepers Association meeting. Item 3b in the meeting minutes. I looked it up.”
Aziraphale’s mouth formed little gaping motions like a fish as he struggled to protest. The other man leaned against the van and smirked at him, delighted with his comeuppance.
Nina then turned to the redhead. “And you, Crowley, keep the music down, for fuck’s sake.”
Crowley’s cocky smile vanished and Aziraphale stood up straighter, vindicated.
“Are we good here?” Nina glared at them both.
“Got it, boss,” Crowley drawled, still slouched against the van.
“Yes, thank you for the clarification,” Aziraphale replied, flicking his eyes over Crowley’s lanky frame. Looking at him again, Aziraphale noticed for the first time a tattoo of a coiled snake on his outer cheek. He estimated Crowley was only a few years younger than he was, despite the “granddad” comment. He also sensed that he and Nina knew each other well and were perhaps friends.
“It’s like working with children,” Nina grumbled as she turned and stomped back inside.
Crowley pushed himself off the van and returned to the crates.
Aziraphale knew he should walk away, but he was compelled to have the last word. “You have eight minutes left.”
Crowley shot him an annoyed look. “I’m just trying to do my job, man.”
“As am I,” Aziraphale said primly, turning to head back towards the wine bar.
“That’s your place?” Crowley asked, pointing with his chin.
“Yes.”
“Huh. Figures.” Crowley shook his head with a wry laugh.
Don’t take the bait, Aziraphale warned himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dammit, he took the bait.
Crowley shrugged. “Nothing. Just lines up with what I expected.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
Crowley leaned against the hand cart (was the man not capable of standing up straight?). He shrugged again. “Fussy little shop, fussy little man, that’s all.”
Aziraphale took in a sharp breath through his nose. He drew out his gold pocket watch to consult the time as he controlled his temper, refusing to give this miscreant the pleasure of flustering him again. “Seven minutes. Good day to you,” he said icily.
He stalked back to Le Paradis with as much dignity as he could muster, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat and cuffs to dissipate his anger.
He entered the shop, the bell above the door ringing shrilly.
“What happened?” Maggie asked, glancing up from the notepad she was writing in. “It looked like you were arguing with that delivery van driver.”
“We exchanged a few words,” Aziraphale explained, his pride slightly wounded. “Cheeky bastard.”
“Oh no! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, just a bit irritated.”
“Well, never mind him. Come back to the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”
Aziraphale let Maggie lead him to the kitchen where she soon presented him with a steaming cuppa and a plate of biscuits. They talked about the menu and pairings some more, distracting Aziraphale enough so that he could get on with the day.
Later that night as he settled into bed, he opened his laptop and Googled the city ordinance about loading and unloading along the street. He then looked up the meeting minutes that Nina had referenced. To his chagrin, she was correct on both counts.
He closed the laptop lid with a curt snick. There should be signs posted along the street explaining the policy, or the city should more clearly designate loading zones. He’d bring the matter up at the next shopkeepers’ meeting.
He switched off the lamp on the side table and tried to close his eyes, but the image of a lanky body and lazy smirk was superimposed on his eyelids. He tossed and turned, unable to rid himself of the redheaded spectre.
Fussy little man.
The words unexpectedly stung. So what if he played by the rules and had high expectations?
Granddad.
That barb stung too. His style was admittedly old-fashioned, but he admired old things — they had craftsmanship and quality, like a fine wine. He turned over again with a huff. What did he care what some aging hipster thought about him, anyway?
Aziraphale snorted to himself, pleased with his newly coined insult. Aging hipster. Ha! He began to drift off. Hipster… Hips… Slinky, loose, fuckable hips….
His eyes flew open. Dear God, no, not that. Crowley was not his type. Not even close. Aziraphale had had his share of amorous adventures (none lately, regrettably), all of whom had been well dressed, impeccably mannered, and discreet. They weren’t coarse and edgy like Crowley.
He was just upset after their confrontation, that’s all, mixing up anger with another type of adrenaline. He could never be attracted to a tattooed, kombucha-drinking, loud-music-playing, rude prat like that.
Aziraphale punched his pillow several times to fluff it, then settled back down. He stared at the ceiling. The clock ticked.
Oh, the hell with it. He reached into the bedside drawer and rooted around until he found an old bottle of lubricant. The contents were almost gone, but he managed to squeeze out a decent dollop of cool liquid into his palm. He pushed down his pyjama bottoms and pants and grasped his half hard cock. The only way he was going to get any sleep was by relieving all this tension. And he was absolutely not going to think about Crowley. He’d fantasize about an actor, someone handsome and clean cut.
In the end, the visualisation of George Clooney didn’t stand a chance. It was an image of Crowley that brought Aziraphale to a panting frenzy as he writhed in his sheets, a dirty little secret that Aziraphale would never, ever admit to anyone.
Crowley glanced at his watch as he wiped down a table, his mind ticking through all the errands he needed to run after work. Apart from deliveries, he sometimes helped tend the bar at Seven Circles, knowing his way around making a cocktail or two.
His shift ended in 30 minutes, but the afternoon crowd was slow. Eric, the regular bartender, was hunched at the end of the bar chatting with a customer.
Maybe he could go early. After all, it wasn’t like Crowley required the small salary Nina was paying him. He was helping her out as a favour, lending a hand to get the business up and running smoothly, pitching in wherever he was needed until it was on firm financial ground and Nina could hire a permanent employee. He and Nina went way back, and he owed her more than he could ever repay, so giving her his time was the least he could do.
He wandered into the back where several large stainless steel tanks were set against the wall. This was Nina’s mad laboratory where the kombucha was fermented, the space where she concocted an ever-changing menu of flavors like mango chili and raspberry peach.
He didn’t know all the details about the process — it was black tea that was fermented for a week or longer, sweetened, and flavoured – and the results were slightly carbonated with a distinctive tangy taste reminiscent of vinegar. Nina had told him that the drink dated back at least two thousand years and was packed with probiotics, but he wasn’t particularly interested in the science behind it. It tasted good if a bit odd, and people were into it as a health drink, so that was enough information for him.
Nina was tasting a sample of the latest batch, sniffing it and swirling it in a glass.
Crowley tapped on the doorframe. “Hey, mind if I take off a little early? Eric has it covered.”
Nina looked up at him. “Fine with me. But water the flowers out front first, would you? Then you can go.”
“Sure.” Crowley actually liked doing the watering. Plants were kind of his thing, and he’d taken ownership of the flower boxes that bordered the patio seating out front. He fertilised and weeded and deadheaded the flowers with a firm hand, demanding perfection.
“And for God's sake, don’t get into a row with that pompous git across the way if you see him,” Nina warned. “I don’t need him breathing down my neck and causing trouble.”
Crowley leaned against the wall, suddenly curious. “What’s the deal with him, anyway? Who is he? Not that I care,” he added hastily. He’d barely noticed the blond curls, perfect Cupid’s bow, and sturdy thighs, the kind that could support a full-grown man in all sorts of interesting positions.
Nina rolled her eyes. “His name is Aziraphale Fell. He’s some sort of posh wine expert who thinks he’s better than everyone else. A real snob.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.” Crowley hated snobs. Still, it had been fun to wind him up, seeing him huff in indignation in his velvet waistcoat that stretched across that delicious belly. Not that he had a thing for men who were built like they could crush him. He should probably delve into the meaning behind that sometime, but not right now. “What kind of name is Aziraphale?”
“Something Biblical? How the fuck should I know?”
“Fair enough.” Crowley detached himself from the wall and turned to go. “I’ll finish up and see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, see you.” Nina had already focused back on her work.
Crowley sauntered out to the patio, unwound the hose, and carefully watered each flower box, inspecting the lush plants along the way.
He looked around at the nearby shops, comparing his handiwork to the others. Not to brag, but his flowers were far more vibrant and healthy than the competition’s. In fact, the pitiful attempt at flower boxes in front of Le Paradis was just embarrassing. He almost felt sorry for the poor neglected things.
Compelled to investigate their mistreatment, Crowley furtively glanced around and strode across the street. He peered at the wilted flowers and tutted in disappointment. “You can do better than this,” he muttered, inspecting the limp blooms and testing the dryness of the soil.
Crowley barely registered the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps when a voice boomed out, “You! Stop fingering my pansy this instant!”
It was true — Crowley had been caught with one long finger thrust into the dirt. He withdrew his digit and turned around to face Aziraphale, whose chin was tilted up in indignation. Crowley tried to play it cool. “You’re grossly under-watering your plants. And these are petunias, not pansies.”
Aziraphale glared at him. “Did I ask you for your opinion?”
“Just stating facts, not opinions,” he smirked. He seemed to smirk a lot around Aziraphale; he couldn’t help it. Crowley also couldn’t help noticing that Aziraphale’s sleeves were rolled up, showing off strong forearms. The way his waistcoat snugged his belly made Crowley want to sink his fingers into various parts of his plush body. Too bad he was such a twat.
“My flowers are fine,” Aziraphale defended his petunias. “They’re just slow growers.”
Crowley grinned, cocking a thumb at his own flower boxes. “Mine are growers and showers. Want me to give you a hand with yours some time?” he asked suggestively.
Aziraphale turned bright pink and spluttered uselessly, which delighted Crowley to no end. But the plants needed to be rescued.
“Seriously, what you’re doing now is a crime,” Crowley chastised him. “If you water everything twice a day and continually remove the faded blooms, they might actually survive.”
“Are you a horticultural expert now?” Aziraphale countered, finally finding his voice.
“Well, I have a lot of talents,” Crowley admitted with false modesty.
“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale’s tone was mocking, “playing loud music and driving a van being your other specialities.”
Ouch. That landed a little too close to a sore spot and Crowley bristled. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Nor do you know anything about me,” Aziraphale sneered.
They glared at each other, anger surging through Crowley’s veins, his body ready for fight or flight or … something else? His gaze fell to Aziraphale’s mouth, and he was momentarily seized with the mad desire to kiss the stupid sod purely for the shock value.
Thankfully, just at that moment a blonde woman emerged from the wine bar to stand next to Aziraphale. Judging by her apron and the smudge of flour on her cheek, she was a cook.
“Oh, hello!” she chirped, seemingly oblivious to the standoff playing out in front of her. “I’ve seen you at the kombucha place over the road. You have such nice flowers.”
“Erm, thanks,” Crowley answered, trying to relax his tense posture.
Aziraphale shot Maggie an irritated look. “Don’t encourage him,” he chided.
“Why not? He clearly knows what he’s doing.” She held out her hand. “I’m Maggie, by the way. I work with Aziraphale. I’m the chef.”
Crowley awkwardly shook her hand, not wanting to be impolite to an innocent bystander. “Anthony Crowley.”
“How’s the business going?” Maggie asked, apparently in a chatty mood.
Crowley nodded. “S’good. Building a solid customer base. You know how it is, lots of long hours.”
“So perhaps you should be getting back to work,” Aziraphale hinted loudly. “As should you, Maggie.”
Maggie ignored him, continuing to address Crowley. “Your boss — I’ve seen her, too. Nina, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Nina.”
“You two seem close. Are you —?” Maggie blushed a little, letting her sentence trail off.
“Are we…?” It took Crowley a minute to fill in her meaning. “Oh! God, no. We’re old friends from uni days. We go way back.”
“That’s nice.” Maggie smiled, looking pleased.
Crowley glanced at his watch. “Sorry, I gotta go.” He looked pointedly at Aziraphale and jabbed his finger at the plants. “Water these.” He then gave Maggie a slight nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Aziraphale stared at him, as tight-lipped as a displeased Sunday school teacher.
Crowley turned on his heel and walked away with his loose stride, his jangled nervous system half angry, half horny. It was fun to needle Aziraphale, to rile him up and get him flustered. But Crowley didn’t appreciate the patronizing tone of some of his comments. So why was his traitorous body attracted to the posh wanker?
Apart from his physique, Aziraphale wasn’t his type. He was far too uptight, had a bizarre love of bow ties, and didn’t know a pansy from a petunia. Nah, Aziraphale was a snobby prick.
The pricks Crowley usually fell for were good looking but unsuccessful actors or musicians that blamed the world for their misfortunes. He’d sworn off relationships for a while, determined to focus on his own interests and helping Nina get the bar running.
Aziraphale could be an amusing diversion, though. An easy target he could shock and annoy for the hell of it. Was he being immature and childish? Sure, but making Aziraphale stammer and squirm? It was entirely worth it.
Chapter Text
The next day, Aziraphale tried not to waste time thinking about Crowley, but every time he glanced out the window and saw the flowers, he was reminded of their abrasive exchange. What a know-it-all Crowley was, telling him how to take care of his plants. He was utterly obnoxious.
So why couldn’t Aziraphale shake the image of Crowley’s sharp cheekbones, expressive lips, and long, artistic fingers? Why was he allotting any portion of his brain to that insufferable hipster?
His eyes landed back on the flower boxes adorning his patio. They were looking a tad droopy… There was no way he was going to give Crowley the satisfaction of having them shrivel and die.
“Muriel?” Aziraphale beckoned over one of the servers who was folding napkins before the wine bar opened for the day. “Would you please water the petunias after you finish with the napkins?”
“Certainly, Mr Fell,” Muriel replied, chipper as always. “Er, but I thought you said those were called pansies.”
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I have been informed otherwise.”
“Well, it’s always nice to learn something new, isn’t it?” Muriel beamed.
“Quite.” Apart from learning about bloody petunias, Aziraphale had learnt Crowley was tetchy about having his abilities questioned. When Aziraphale had made that crack about Crowley’s talents consisting of driving a delivery truck and blasting music, Crowley’s hackles had gone up. Perhaps he had a weak spot that could be exploited…
But no, being outright cruel was beneath Aziraphale. He wasn’t a monster. In fact, he prided himself on being a good person when he wasn’t being irritated by lanky, red-headed troublemakers.
“Have you tried the kombucha?” Muriel asked, looking at Seven Circles. “That was something new for me.”
Aziraphale glanced at Muriel, his expression dour. “No, I haven’t. And I don’t plan to. I have no desire to subject my palette to rancid tea or whatever it is.”
Murial laughed. “I had my doubts too, but it’s good! It definitely has a unique taste, and it’s sort of fizzy. I had the lemon ginger flavour.”
“I shall stick with wine,” Aziraphale stated firmly.
“Suit yourself! But trying new things can be fun.” Muriel smiled again and returned to the napkins.
For a fleeting moment, Aziraphale wondered if he was too stuck in his ways. When was the last time he had tried something new? Then he shook his head. Honoring tradition and staying with the tried and true was perfectly safe and respectable, and it had served him well. No need to go chasing after every new fad.
Aziraphale continued with the preparations for the day, tidying here and there and consulting with Maggie on a few details. He was looking down at his phone when he nearly collided with someone in the passageway leading to the kitchen. He caught a fleeting impression of a turtleneck, clipboard, and mustache when he suddenly recognized the shape standing in his path.
“Ah, Brown. I didn’t see you there. Apologies.” Aziraphale smiled politely, already plotting his escape. Richard “Dick” Brown owned a carpet and flooring store, was the president of the Whickber Street Shopkeepers Association, and possessed one of the most unctuous personalities in the whole of London. Somehow he always managed to wheedle people into doing tasks they didn’t want to take on.
“Hello, Fell,” Brown greeted him, standing a little too close for comfort. “How are things?”
Aziraphale took a small step back, trying to avoid Brown’s liberally applied cologne.
“Fine, thank you. It’s a rather busy time right now, as you can see. We’re getting ready to open.”
“This won’t take a moment. I’m updating everyone on the beautification project.”
Aziraphale sighed inwardly. The neighbourhood beautification project, which had started with the infernal flower boxes, had spiraled into upgraded benches, decorative lamp posts, lavish holiday decorations, and year-round fairy lights. “I have submitted my extra dues,” he reminded Brown.
“Oh, yes, duly noted. This is about a new project.” He paused dramatically, then raised his hands and made a sweeping motion. “A mural!”
Brown described his vision with enthusiasm — a colourful mural painted on the wall of one of the buildings that lined a side street. “Public art will add some pizzazz! All the major cities are doing it.”
Aziraphale was less enthused. He was particular about his art. “And who have you commissioned to create the mural?”
“That’s the best part — it’s practically free! School children will design the mural and do the majority of the painting. The association just needs to provide the supplies and some additional adult supervision.” Brown looked up from his clipboard expectantly.
Aziraphale froze, willing his expression to go blank even though he was roiling with horror. Good God, a mural of juvenile pictures scrawled by school children? Sticky, rowdy, paint-covered urchins running through the streets? Commit to nothing. Don’t crack under pressure.
Several uncomfortable seconds passed until Aziraphale was struck with a devious impulse. “You know, I just had an idea.”
Brown raised an eyebrow in interest. “Oh?”
“I think you should invite the staff at the kombucha bar across the way to get involved. They’re an artistic bunch. Ask for Crowley — he’s the skinny one with red hair. I’m sure he’d be brilliant at working with children and helping to pull this together.”
“Oh, that’s an excellent idea!” Brown jotted a note onto his clipboard. “I’ll be sure to mention that you recommended him.”
“Oh, no. No need to do that. Just let him know that his artistry with flowers speaks for itself.”
“Marvelous!” Brown looked chuffed as he squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting his hand linger a little too long. “You’re such a help.” He gave Aziraphale one more squeeze before heading to the door. “I’ll pay this Crowley fellow a visit right now. See you at the next meeting, Fell!”
“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale returned Brown’s wave half-heartedly. For a brief moment, he felt a pang of guilt, knowing what he was inflicting on Crowley. But then he felt a shiver of mischievous glee. Seven Circles was now part of the neighbourhood, after all. What better way to get involved, and who better to take the lead on such an important project than Crowley?
Aziraphale felt a cackle of laughter bubble up and he tried to suppress it, but the sound came out as a manic giggle. Just then Maggie exited the kitchen, and she gave Aziraphale an odd look.
“What’s that all about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just taking part in a little civic engagement.”
She eyed him suspiciously but moved along, leaving Aziraphale to hum happily to himself. Take that, Anthony Crowley.
Crowley wandered through the aisles of the corner shop, his head pounding. The shop was bustling on a Friday evening after work, and he just wanted to find what he needed and go home. What a crap day it had been — Nina was in a bad mood, Eric showed up late, the deliveries ran behind schedule, and then that knob with the clipboard waltzed in.
He pushed past shelves lined with biscuits and pasta and tinned goods, trying to find the paracetamol. He turned the corner, relieved to find the personal care aisle — and there he was. The other knob who had ruined his day.
Aziraphale Fell stood next to a shelf, one hand wrapped around a very large bottle of something.
“You,” Crowley said through gritted teeth as he approached Aziraphale.
Aziraphale turned and blanched as he recognized his assailant.
“You set me up,” Crowley snarled. “You sent that mustached bastard over to strong-arm me into helping with the mural.”
“I’m sure a man of your many talents can handle the job,” Aziraphale countered, still holding the bottle.
“Oh, I told him where he could stick his mural,” Crowley hissed. “But then he told me about the kids.”
“The kids?” Aziraphale repeated in confusion.
“Yeah — a bunch of 10-year-olds in a school arts program who are really excited about the project. And if I didn’t say yes, the whole idea was going to be scrapped because no one else in the shopkeepers association stepped up to help.”
“I didn’t realise...” Aziraphale’s excuse faded and he looked ashamed.
Crowley pressed on. “I’m personally not into killing kids’ hopes and dreams, so I said I’d do it. Happy now?”
“Oh, I — I had no idea it was at risk of being shut down.”
“Well, you do now.” Crowley’s head throbbed as his gaze fell to the bottle that Aziraphale was nervously clutching. He peered closer. It was lube. Like lube lube. For sex.
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up behind his sunglasses as he looked at Aziraphale in surprise. Well, well, well… perhaps he wasn’t so boring after all. “Big plans tonight?” he asked with a smirk.
Aziraphale blushed and dropped the bottle into his shopping basket as subtly as possible, given the circumstances. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he said coolly.
Not wanting to look like a loser who was going home to eat leftover takeout and watch Antiques Road Trip, Crowley casually reached up to select a box of condoms, 12 count, large. “I should stock up while I’m here. I go through them so quickly.”
After a few heavy seconds ticked by, Aziraphale boldly held his gaze and reached up for a box of the same brand of condoms, his hand shifting last minute to pluck up a package labeled XL. “Good idea,” he agreed, tossing the box into his basket.
Crowley swallowed, suddenly curious about what exactly Aziraphale was packing in those khaki trousers. Not to be outdone, he returned Aziraphale’s gaze as he picked out an equally large bottle of lube. “I’m almost out.”
As Aziraphale watched, Crowley impulsively grabbed another box of condoms, the colourful package plastered with endorsements like “Fun Flavours” and “Natural Feel.”
“You can never have too much variety,” he added, trying to sound cool as he awkwardly juggled all the prophylactics. He really wished he’d picked up a basket on the way in.
Aziraphale stared at the items in Crowley’s hands, seemingly at a loss for words. “Well,” he finally said, his voice prim, “enjoy your weekend.”
“Oh, I will,” Crowley assured him, hoping he sounded sexy and mysterious. “I will absolutely enjoy every inch of it.”
He watched as Aziraphale walked away, then gradually noticed a bored clerk patiently standing to the side. “I need to restock the shelves, sir.” The clerk pointed at the condoms section. “Are you done?”
“Uh, yeah.” Too embarrassed to put everything back, Crowley hurriedly paid for his goods at the self-checkout and headed home. Only as he was pulling out his key to the front door did he realise that he’d forgotten to buy the paracetamol.
“Shit,” he muttered. He unlocked the door and pried off his boots in the foyer before trudging up the stairs to his bedroom. He tossed the bag of condoms onto the nightstand with a sigh. The way his lackluster love life was going, they’d probably expire before he ever got around to needing them.
He ran his hands through his hair and massaged his temples, too tired to think about the work that waited for him in the next room. He didn’t have the energy for any of that tonight, even though he was haunted by a sense of guilt and growing pressure. If he didn’t come up with some ideas soon…
He cut off the thought, stuffing down his anxiety into a small locked box, and tromped down the stairs to rummage around in the kitchen. He wolfed down some leftover Pad Thai and poured himself a drink as he ran a hot bath.
When he finally stripped off his clothes and sank into the scalding water, he let out another long sigh. Screw Dick Brown and his extortion tactics, and screw Aziraphale Fell and his stupid blue eyes and perfect mouth and his extra large cock. Christ, he was annoying.
He tried to think about something else, but kept coming back to the giant bottle of lube and jumbo condoms. Who was Aziraphale fucking, anyway? Was it Brown? Nah, he didn’t seem like his type. Probably some city boy with perfectly manicured nails and bespoke suits.
Crowley sank lower into the water. What did he care about who Aziraphale was sleeping with, or who got to touch those blond curls or was wrapped between those thick legs, or who was choking on that massive cock?
His palm roamed up his thigh and curved under his balls, his fingers absently toying with his cock. Despite the stress of the day, he found he was surprisingly responsive to touch, his shaft growing hard with a few deliberate strokes. Maybe he needed to ease his tension with a little manual release.
He let his thoughts wander freely, imagining what Aziraphale would be like as a lover. Would he be soft and yielding, or would he like it just a bit rough? Was he a demanding pillow princess, or did he want to be the top boss in the bedroom?
Crowley didn’t really care what his own role was. He was happy to switch whichever way his partner desired or the mood called for. He did it all, and he enjoyed it all. He liked to think he was pretty good at it, too.
Right now, he elected to imagine Aziraphale on his knees, looking up at him, licking his lips and begging for a taste of Crowley’s cock. Oh, he’d like to trace those shiny pink lips with the tip of his prick, then slide it into that hot mouth, a little whimper of desire escaping Aziraphale’s throat as Crowley pulled back then pushed slowly in again, his fingers curling into those tempting tufts of hair that were made to be tugged.
His fantasy progressed, the pace of his fist increasing, his breath growing shallow as he climbed towards the precipice. His imagination transformed his hand into Aziraphale’s expertly working him, the warm water into the wetness of an eager mouth, his moans those of the blond man sucking him off.
The spell lasted until Crowley arched up with a hoarse cry, water splashing over the side of the tub, his flat stomach striped with the warm, glistening results of his detailed imagination. Panting, he wiped himself clean with a damp flannel and slid back down into the tub, closing his eyes, floating in the traces of bliss. After a few minutes he realised his headache had vanished. That was a damned fine wank.
He smiled to himself, picturing Aziraphale’s shock if he ever found out Crowley had jerked off to his imaginary doppelganger. It was a dirty little secret Crowley would have to keep hidden, because he was never, ever admitting to anyone else that he had a weird new kink about a snooty wine expert in a waistcoat giving him a blow job.
A few mornings later, Aziraphale was peckish and nipped off to the French bakery for a coffee and pastry. While he was there, he decided to pick up something for his friend Agnes, who ran the antiques shop next door to Le Paradis. He hadn’t seen her in a few weeks and wanted to surprise her with a little treat.
The trip to the bakery took him on a different route from his usual trek to and from work. On his return, he slowed to investigate a section of the street marked off with yellow caution tape and scaffolding. Coming closer, he saw that the brick wall of the building had been recently power-washed. This was where the mural was going to be painted, he realised.
He glanced around, wondering if Dick Brown or Crowley were anywhere nearby, but saw neither man. Clutching the cups of coffee and the bag of pastries, he quickly skulked away, not wanting to get pulled into any extra volunteer duties.
Entering the antiques store, Aziraphale took in a deep, appreciative breath. Ahh, history. The scent of leather and old books and wood polish, the distillation of the past.
“Aziraphale! How wonderful to see you!” Agnes emerged from the depths of the shop to greet him, her voice warm. Her mass of dark hair shot through with silver streaks was worn loose, the heavy bracelets on her wrists jangling as she embraced him.
“Hello, old thing.” He placed a quick peck on each of her cheeks. Aziraphale had no idea how old Agnes actually was; she seemed to be ageless and yet never aged. He held up the coffees and pastries. “I brought us something from Justine’s.”
“I knew you’d stop by,” Agnes commented in her usual cryptic fashion, ushering him into the back room where they could sit and chat.
Agnes’s shop was the longest-running business on Whickber Street, having opened many, many years ago. The property had always been in her family, Agnes said, and had seen waves of history come and go.
Aziraphale’s own history with Agnes stretched back to when he first opened the wine bar some 10 years ago. She had been welcoming and full of shrewd business advice, and somehow was always able to predict the best years for wines. She’d become a dear friend as they bonded over antiques and an excellent bottle of Bordeaux.
Now they talked about this and that, catching up on Whickber Street news.
“So.” Agnes’s tone revealed that she was shifting into gossip mode. “What do you think of our new neighbour, Seven Circles?”
Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve already had a few disagreements with one of the employees.”
Agnes took a sip of her coffee. “Really?”
“One of them seems to have a particularly bad attitude.”
“And which one is that?”
Aziraphale shifted in his chair, not wanting to go into details, but he knew Agnes wouldn’t let up. “The man with red hair and sunglasses. Crowley.”
“Oh, that one.” Agnes’s eyes danced with mirth over her cup.
“And what’s so amusing?”
“I’ve noticed him around. He’s hard to miss.”
“He’s hard to avoid,” Aziraphale snapped, irritation creeping up his spine. He was still embarrassed about the confrontation in the personal care aisle. Good Lord, Crowley must be sleeping with half of SoHo based on his purchases. He’d crammed his own panic-purchase condoms into his bedside drawer along with the lube as soon as he’d returned home so he wouldn’t have to look at them.
“So there’s some tension between you,” Agnes stated more than asked.
“Yes, there certainly is.”
Agnes leaned back in her chair, smiling. “Sometimes friction can be a good thing. It adds a certain charge to the atmosphere.”
Aziraphale looked at her blankly, not understanding.
She leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. “‘Our mind is capable of passing beyond the dividing line we have drawn for it. Beyond the pairs of opposites of which the world consists, other, new insights begin.’”
“Okay…” Aziraphale replied carefully. Agnes sometimes said the oddest things, speaking in quotes and riddles. He changed the subject, not wishing to dwell on whatever she was saying. “Tell me about that lovely Louis Quatorze table I saw on the way in. Where did you acquire it?”
She withdrew her hand, a sly look on her face, but she answered his question, alluding to a mysterious seller who wished to remain anonymous.
“You are a woman of intrigue,” Aziraphale said with admiration.
She waved away his compliment. “I’m a woman who’s growing old and tired. Sometimes I dream about retiring to live by the sea.”
“You? Retire? What would Whickber Street do without you?”
“It would do just fine, and I could do without all those stairs up to my flat,” she chuckled. “My knees aren’t what they used to be.”
Agnes resided in a large, lavishly decorated flat above the shop, the best of her collection filling her private living space.
Aziraphale didn’t know if she was truly being serious, so he let the conversation slide elsewhere. The thought of Agnes leaving was untenable; there was already too much change in his world.
They meandered through a few more topics until Aziraphale pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “Oh my goodness, I really must be going.”
They said their goodbyes, promising to see each other again soon.
As Aziraphale left the antiques shop, his light mood was instantly dampened when a heavy thump of bass blasted him in the chest. He glowered at the black van that cruised by, catching a glimpse of red hair, a cheeky grin, and a middle finger raised in salute.
Crowley.
Notes:
The idiots are off and running! I'd love to hear from you in the comments! ❤️
Chapter 3
Notes:
Welcome back! Thanks to everyone who bookmarked and subscribed! It's been lots of fun reading and responding to the comments about these two idiots (affectionate). Let's get into the next bit!
Chapter Text
Crowley stood on the patio in front of Seven Circles, his posture stiff. He glared down at the sickly yellow leaves in his hand, his upper lip twisted in disdain.
“I expected more from you,” he told the plant, his voice low and menacing. “This is very, very disappointing.” He pulled a pair of small and wickedly sharp pruning shears from his back pocket, flexing the blades a few times. “It gives me no pleasure to do this,” he muttered, “but that has got to come off.”
With a swift and decisive stroke, he lopped off a withered stem that dropped with a pathetic splat onto the patio stones. He stood over it, shaking his head grimly. “You just couldn’t hack it out here, could you?”
He was glowering at the other plants when someone behind him politely cleared their throat. “Ahem. So talking to plants really works, does it?”
Crowley turned around and recognised Ana, the woman who owned the crystal and psychic shop next door. Crowley didn’t buy into all the New Age stuff, but he liked Ana well enough. At least she was interesting with her strange pendants, witchy clothes, and unruly long hair.
Refusing to be embarrassed about his gardening techniques, he shrugged. “Seems to be working just fine.”
“Oh, yeah. No doubt,” Ana agreed. She looked at him thoughtfully as she sipped a glass of kombucha. “Your aura is different,” she announced.
Crowley blinked, not sure how to answer. “Uh, thanks?” It wasn’t a particularly unusual statement coming from Ana, given her line of work, but he didn’t know what she meant.
“It’s changed since I last saw you.” She tilted her head to scrutinize him more closely. “Have you met somebody?”
Crowley did a double take. “What? Me? No.”
“Hmm.” Ana sounded dubious. “Let me see your hand.”
He hesitated, but eventually wiped his grimy hand on his jeans and held it out, not certain what he was getting into. Ana flipped his hand over so his palm was facing up, and she peered at it, taking another casual sip from her glass.
“Aha! No wonder.” She dropped his hand, apparently satisfied, but didn’t elaborate.
“What do you mean? You can’t say something like that and not tell me.”
“Nah, you don’t believe this stuff anyway,” she teased.
“C’mon, that’s not fair. Give me a hint, at least.”
Ana took pity on him and lifted his hand again. “You have an unusual love line. There’s a cross-roads here” — she pointed at an X shape — “and both paths are quite strong. Just keep following your heart. It’ll sort itself out.” She smiled. “The flower boxes look lovely, by the way. You should work with your hands more often. You have an artistic soul.”
Crowley couldn’t formulate an answer, still trying to process all of Ana’s pronouncements.
She drained her glass and handed it to him. “Tell Nina the strawberry-passion fruit is excellent, will you?”
“Er, sure.”
“See you around.” Ana waved and Crowley half nodded, still mystified by her words.
He tried to shake it off and returned inside, pouring himself a small glass of whiskey as he leant against the bar. His aura was different? Maybe it needed more probiotics, he thought sarcastically.
What exactly was Ana getting at, asking if he had met someone? The only person he’d met recently was an elitist wine snob who was apparently hung like a horse. And what was the deal with reading his palm? His love line would sort itself out? And the last thing she said about working with his hands was the real corker. He’d been attempting to express his “artistic soul" for the past year with little success.
Nina joined him in slouching against the bar. “Why so dark and moody?” she asked.
Crowley sighed, reluctant to delve into all the details. “It’s just the usual shit.”
“Let me guess — you haven’t been laid in forever, you still have a crippling creative block, and you’re suffering from poor circulation due to those tight jeans?” Nina almost cracked a smile. “Those may all be related, you know.”
Crowley flicked a bar towel at her. “You’re hilarious.”
“But am I wrong?”
His shoulders slumped. “Might have two out of three right.”
Nina held his gaze, turning serious for once. “Art blocks don’t last forever.”
“I haven’t painted anything worthwhile in over a year, Nina.” Saying it out loud was both a relief and a depressing admission of defeat. It was terrifying to be an artist who couldn’t create. He thought of the studio in his flat that he barely entered any more, too afraid of the blank canvases and untouched brushes. He missed the smell of paint and the feverish excitement of creating, but his mind was a barren desert, a void that could not be forced to produce anything of merit.
“Something will inspire you again,” Nina reassured him. “Besides, you’ve been busy helping me get this place ready. Sometimes you just have to let things rest while you rebuild your creative energy, then come back with a fresh eye.”
“Maybe,” he replied, still not convinced.
“At least you have a mural to help paint soon, right?”
Crowley put his head in his hands and groaned. “Oh, shit, I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“God, I can’t believe they're letting you help supervise those little hellions.” Nina laughed unsympathetically.
Crowley wished he could weasel out of the mural gig, but deep down he knew he had to do it. He didn’t want to be another lame adult that disappointed kids. He remembered what it was like being young and creative and not being taken seriously.
“Good luck herding the little beasts.” Nina nudged his shoulder playfully with her own and returned to work, leaving Crowley to ruminate.
Maybe Nina was right about being in a temporary creative lull. He’d been through dry spells before, but not like this. Sometimes he worried his muse had packed up and fled for good.
His mind wandered back in time, trying to trace a path to the present. Years ago, after he and Nina had finished art school, he’d had a long stretch of living a clichéd, starving artist’s life. He ended up crashing on Nina’s sofa for months when he’d hit rock bottom, unemployed and unable to afford a flat of his own. She let him stay with her until he managed to find work bartending at a posh restaurant and scraped together a little money.
Throughout it all, it was a struggle to sketch and paint, but he doggedly kept at it, eventually producing a respectable body of work as he found his footing. It was good enough to convince an acquaintance who owned an art gallery into letting him take part in an emerging artists show in London. That opportunity ended up changing his life. One of his paintings caught the eye of a guitarist in a well-known band (Crowley rarely told people who it was, not wanting to sound like a name-dropping prick), which led to a sale and a series of lucrative commissions over the next few years. That led to a network of more work and commissions, and within 10 years Crowley had amassed more money than he’d ever dreamt possible.
He now owned a townhouse in Soho with a gorgeous, light-filled room that served as his studio. He splurged on a fancy vintage car that spent much of its time in storage, and he bought all the leather jackets, snakeskin boots, and luxury watches he could ever want. He kept a low profile, shunning the limelight and attending only an occasional opening or after hours party, preferring to let his work speak for itself. Only now, it wasn’t speaking to him at all.
He didn’t need the job at Seven Circles, but he owed Nina a debt for her generosity all those years ago. Working at the bar also happened to provide an excellent excuse for not having the time or energy to tackle his own resistant art block.
He stared into his glass before swallowing the dregs of his drink. He’d gotten lucky and found success early on in his career, a veritable wunderkind, but now, no longer a youngster, he felt like an imposter, a has-been with no new ideas on the horizon.
He swept a hand through his hair, trying to snap out of his bad mood. There was no use wallowing in self-pity. He’d been down that road before and it was a dead end. He’d just have to give it more time, keep trying, and eventually something would light his creative spark again.
He glanced up and followed a movement across the street. It took just a second to recognise Aziraphale as he fussed over the exterior windows of the wine bar, wiping at a spot here and there with a white rag. What an unbearable perfectionist, Crowley thought with irritation.
Aziraphale suddenly bent over, rubbing hard at a stubborn speck, the curves of his generous arse outlined in his sensible trousers. Crowley watched with unabashed interest as Aziraphale’s rear end wiggled with the exertion of his cleaning.
Nina walked behind the bar again, then snorted as she followed Crowley’s line of sight.
“What an arse,” Nina scoffed as Aziraphale bent over even further with his bum comically tipped up in the air as he scrubbed at another smudge.
“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, his indiscriminate cock suddenly wanting to bury itself in those ridiculous soft mounds. “What an arse…”
Aziraphale ran through the mental list of everything he had to do that day as he returned from Justine’s with a coffee and pastry. The frequent coffee breaks were an excuse to stretch his legs a bit, and, if he was being honest, to check on the progress of the mural. He had concerns about the aesthetics, and wanted to be fully informed should he need to speak up about it at the next meeting.
Over the past few days he’d watched as the wall for the mural underwent preparations. Several volunteers painted a white background then lightly marked out a grid of squares. Today there was a small group of people huddled together near the wall looking at a large sheet of paper that resembled a blueprint. Amongst the group, Aziraphale recognized Dick Brown and the long, lean form of Anthony Crowley, his vibrant red hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
Crowley was talking and gesturing at the wall, apparently making suggestions. Of course he’d have strong opinions, Aziraphale sniffed, the infuriating man always thought he was right. How ridiculous. What could a delivery driver possibly know about art, anyway?
Aziraphale hurried on, not wanting to be caught gawking, or worse yet, dragged into helping. He wondered again what monstrosity the schoolchildren had drawn for the artwork. Probably some childish scribbles of houses and animals, or maybe a scene from a tasteless cartoon or video game. Lord knew what children were allowed to watch these days. Whatever it was, his expectations for the mural were decidedly low.
Once he was back at work, his thoughts returned to the rhythm of a busy day. At one point, he was pleased to note that the flowers in front of Le Paradis were looking better now that they were receiving daily attention. He was not going to let Crowley have the satisfaction of seeing his petunias perish.
The next day, Aziraphale slipped out for another morning coffee break. He walked towards Justine’s, slowing as he came closer to the mural. A jumble of voices greeted him, as did the sight of a dozen young people all dressed in bright yellow T-shirts. These must be the children from the arts program that were responsible for whatever ghastly mural was being forced onto the neighbourhood. A tired-looking woman, most likely their teacher, stood nearby, occasionally herding a few wandering children back to the group. Then another firm adult voice raised above the din. “Oi! Shut yer gobs and listen up.”
Miraculously, the children stopped and turned to face the speaker, still giggling and shoving each other a little, but at least looking in the same direction. Crowley stepped in front of them, fixing a stern sunglasses-covered gaze on the group. “You’re going to divide up into teams again — no complaining, Cecil.” He pointed at a dark haired boy, who instantly shut his mouth. “And we’re going to continue to paint the squares following the guide. You did a good job yesterday, so well done on that, but don’t start faffing around or we’ll never finish this.”
A tall girl raised her hand. “Mr Crowley?”
Crowley snapped his attention to her. “Yes?”
“Can you show us how to mix the different colours again?”
“Right,” Crowley answered after a beat. “Let’s review what I went over yesterday.”
Aziraphale slipped into the shadows of a doorway and watched as the kids huddled around Crowley. He couldn’t see everything, but Aziraphale gathered that Crowley was demonstrating how to mix different combinations of paint to create a variety of colours. He was surprisingly patient as the children asked endless questions, some more serious than others.
“All right,” Crowley finally announced, “grab your stuff and let’s get started, same groups as yesterday. Who’s brave enough to climb up on the scaffolding?”
“Me!” A dozen hands shot up into the air.
“You, you, and you,” Crowley pointed at three eager faces. “You lot start, then you’ll trade places in 30 minutes. Who wants to be the timer?”
Aziraphale was impressed with the way Crowley handled the little cretins, and the teacher was clearly relieved to let someone else run the show while she managed other details like distributing paint and settling minor disputes.
Aziraphale finally took a moment to properly look at the mural itself, and gasped in surprise. It was only about a third completed, and it was not at all what he’d expected. It was, in fact, not terrible. Based on what was already painted, it was going to be an explosion of colourful flowers, the stems and blooms twisting amongst each other in a pleasing organic shape. It was hardly the rudimentary, juvenile scribble he’d been expecting.
The kids were settling into their work, each painting a section that had been marked out in advance, almost like a paint-by-numbers kit but with more creative latitude.
“What’s this flower called again, Mr Crowley?” one of the boys asked, pointing at the wall.
Crowley inspected the area. “Snapdragon. See how it sort of looks like a dragon’s head?” With a sixth sense Crowley suddenly turned to one of the girls who was about to intentionally dab paint on a classmate. “Do that, Audrey, and you’ll be cleaning all the brushes for the rest of the week.”
Audrey wisely withdrew her paintbrush and muttered an apology.
Aziraphale continued to watch for a few more minutes, grudgingly impressed by Crowley’s ability to handle the youngsters. He even knew all their names. To Aziraphale, all children looked alike — short, out of proportion, and generally sticky. These children all clearly enjoyed painting, stopping every once in a while to admire their progress or shout something to a friend.
The teacher stood next to Crowley to consult with him, and Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing how tall and perfectly proportioned Crowley was, from his lean shoulders to his impossibly trim waist and long legs. The whole damn package was attractive in a confusing bad-boy-but-good-with-kids way.
He’s absolutely not my type, Aziraphale reminded himself. He’s crude and arrogant. I would never lower my standards.
Yet Aziraphale continued to stare as Crowley crouched down to talk to a student, his tight T-shirt stretching over the planes of his long, sinewy torso, a pale strip of skin exposed above the waistband of his black jeans. Aziraphale’s mouth suddenly watered, a strong urge to lick the slight dip in Crowley’s back taking hold of his imagination. Fuck… oh fuck, no!
Aziraphale shook himself out of his stupor and quickly stumbled the rest of the way to the bakery, shocked at how his body insisted on betraying him. Crowley might be good looking, but he was not suitable as a romantic interest. The thought was so far-fetched that it was laughable. They had absolutely nothing in common! They hated each other!
He ordered something chocolatey and sweet and sneaked back to work down a side street to avoid the mural. However, the next morning Aziraphale found himself back at the coffee shop ordering three large lattes, suddenly seized with a sense of neighbourliness. Or so he told himself.
With his back held straight and his face set into a pleasant expression, Aziraphale walked towards the mural carrying the lattes in a cardboard container. He approached the female teacher first.
“Good morning,” he greeted her. “I’m part of the Whickber Street Shopkeepers Association and would like to offer my thanks for contributing this fine piece of public art. I took the liberty of ordering a few extra coffees this morning. Would you care for one?” He held out the box with a smile.
“Oh! Thank you.” The teacher seemed surprised but reached for a cup. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I hope you like lattes.”
“I do,” she assured him. “I could use a little energy boost, if I’m being honest.”
They chatted briefly, the woman introducing herself as Ms Sheffield, until Aziraphale felt another presence looming behind him.
“This is Mr Crowley,” Ms Sheffield informed Aziraphale. “He’s helping as well.”
Aziraphale turned to Crowley, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, we’ve met.” He thrust the box at him. “Latte?”
“Thanks,” Crowley answered, his voice guarded. He picked up a cup with spidery fingers. “Have you come to spy on our progress for the Shopkeepers Association?”
“Oh, nothing nefarious. I just thought I’d thank you both for your time,” Aziraphale replied, lifting out the final cup for himself. “It’s coming along nicely.”
“The kids are doing most of the work,” Crowley answered gruffly.
“Was it all their design?” Aziraphale asked out of curiosity.
“Mr Crowley had some fantastic ideas for arranging all the images,” Ms Sheffield gushed. “His suggestions made it much more dynamic.”
“S’nothing,” Crowley brushed off the praise. “It’s their art.”
“The children thought having flowers to look at year round would be cheerful,” Ms Sheffield added, beaming at her students with pride.
Aziraphale paused to take in the mural, which was almost complete. Vibrant blossoms seemed to emerge from the wall in three dimensions, the flower names written in flowing script beneath the images. Zinnias, snapdragons, sunflowers, daisies, tulips, roses, iris, carnations, and, at the top, petunias and pansies.
Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of the last two flowers, and Crowley grinned. “Figured the plant identification might be helpful for people who are utterly hopeless at gardening.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, stifling a mildly obscene retort. Not in front of the children. “How thoughtful of you.” He managed to make his words drip with sarcasm.
Ms Sheffield excused herself to check on one of the children just as another urchin ran up to Crowley, excitement and red paint dashed across their face. “Come look at the rose I just finished!”
Crowley glanced down. “Sure, I’ll be there in just a minute.”
The child scampered off and Aziraphale had to admit that the joy exuded by the youngsters was palpable. He realized that what had started out as a prank to annoy Crowley had turned into something unexpectedly positive for the children and the whole street. He offered a reluctant acknowledgement to Crowley. “You’ve, er, you’ve done a good job managing all this.” He swept an arm at the children and mural. “It’s not as terrible as I imagined it might be.”
Crowley snorted. “Is that your idea of a compliment? I think it turned out well, despite you throwing me to the wolves.”
“Mr Crowley! Come see what I made!” another child shouted, waving at him.
“The wolves seem to like you,” Aziraphale observed.
Crowley flashed him a wicked grin, leaving with a parting shot. “What can I say? Some of us are alpha wolves, and others are boring, obedient sheep.”
Aziraphale gaped at him. Was Crowley implying that he was dull and unimaginative? “I am not a sheep!” Aziraphale heard himself yelling back before he could think better of it.
The children turned to gawk at his outburst, then started giggling and bleating like lambs.
Humiliated, Aziraphale stalked away with as much dignity as he could muster, blushing all the way up to his ears.
“Good baaaa!” one of the little smartarses called out.
Such impertinence! Aziraphale refused to turn around and look, but he swore he could hear Crowley laughing.
Chapter Text
Crowley parked the van behind the bar and took a moment to close his eyes, sitting in the peaceful silence. Christ, he was tired. It felt like he’d driven around all of London, dropping off deliveries to dozens of specialty stores that carried Seven Circles bottled kombucha.
Demand was steadily increasing, and Crowley thought he should talk to Nina about hiring a permanent driver. He was no business expert, but it seemed like the opportunity to add staff was staring her in the face. But maybe she didn’t have the capital to commit to that yet.
He yawned and stretched, feeling stiff. He’d mention something to Nina tomorrow. All he wanted to do right now was go home and soak in a hot bath. Crowley slid out of the van and sauntered through the back entrance of the bar. He filled out a bit of paperwork and said a few words to Nina, then clocked out for the evening.
He left through the front door and had just stepped onto the pavement when Maggie blocked his path.
“Oh, I was hoping I’d catch you,” she said, wringing her hands and practically vibrating with anxiety.
“Is everything all right?” Crowley asked, slightly alarmed.
“Of course!” Her voice was pitched artificially high. “Actually, no.”
He tilted his head in curiosity, which was enough to open the floodgates.
“Oh, I hate to even bring this up,” Maggie fretted. “The thing is, we’re hosting a really important private event tonight, but we’re short-staffed. Our bartender broke his wrist in a bicycle accident this afternoon, and another server is out sick. So we’re really in a bind.”
Crowley groaned inwardly, predicting where this was heading.
“Aziraphale doesn’t know I’m here, and I hate to ask, but would you maybe, possibly, consider filling in?”
“I just ended my shift—” Crowley started.
“I’ll pay you double, no, triple the usual rate,” she interjected, sounding desperate.
“I’m really knackered…” He quickly tried to think up a million more excuses — but then Maggie’s lower lip wobbled. Shit.
“That’s okay,” she sniffled. “I understand. We’re fucked, but I’m sure we’ll manage. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She turned to go.
“Wait.” Crowley clenched his fists and looked up at the sky, wondering what the hell he was doing. He had nothing against Maggie, and he knew how awful it was to be in the weeds and understaffed. He didn’t wish that kind of stress on his worst enemy — not even Aziraphale. He sighed heavily.
Maggie paused and looked back at him, dabbing at her eyes.
“I’ll do it,” he gritted out.
Maggie instantly brightened. “Oh, bless you. You’re a lifesaver.”
“This is a terrible idea, you know. Aziraphale hates me, and I’m not exactly enamored with him, either.”
“You let me deal with Aziraphale,” Maggie assured him. “His bark is worse than his bite. He’s actually an angel under all that stuffiness.”
Crowley had his doubts about that, but kept them to himself as he trailed after Maggie. She led him through the front door of the wine bar and to a back room, managing to avoid Aziraphale. She quickly outlined the event as she dug through a rack of waiter jackets.
A small tech company was celebrating the completion of a major project, she explained, and appetizers and wine would be served throughout the evening.
“They just want us to keep everyone well fed and the drinks to flow. The CEO will give a brief speech and toast, but that’s it. It’s really just a nice party.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Crowley asked.
“Are you any good at pouring wine?”
Crowley cracked a smile. “I’m very good at that, actually.”
“I thought you might be. Try this on for size.” She held out a cropped white caterer’s jacket and Crowley shrugged it on.
“Fits like a glove,” Maggie said admiringly as Crowley fussed with the lapels. “The black jeans will do nicely with that, I’d say. Come with me and I’ll get you something to eat before everything starts.”
Maggie served him a quick meal in the kitchen as they chatted. She raised her eyebrows when she offered him coffee and he requested several shots of espresso in a big cup. He gulped down the brew in one go, the caffeine hitting his nervous system with a satisfying buzz.
As he washed up and popped a mint, he checked his hair, hoping the night wouldn’t be a disaster. Maggie walked with him out to the bar where Aziraphale was running over a checklist.
Aziraphale looked up, his reading glasses on the end of his nose. “What’s he doing here?” he demanded, gesturing at Crowley.
“Don’t say a word,” Maggie threatened darkly. “I asked Crowley to fill in because we’re short-handed and he’s doing us a massive favour. Now say ‘thank you’ and show him the bar set up.”
Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s haughtiness deflated under Maggie’s orders. She clearly was not in a mood to be trifled with.
“Fine,” Aziraphale replied archly. He turned to Crowley with a perfunctory little bow. “Thank you for your assistance. Let me show you how I like things done.”
Crowley resisted making a suggestive joke out of his wording and instead smirked. God dammit, he was smirking again. He dutifully watched as Aziraphale presented him with a quick rundown of where supplies were kept and which wines they were serving. There were also non-alcoholic alternatives and a limited selection of beer and cocktails.
As Aziraphale moved behind the bar pointing out this and that, subtle notes of his cologne wafted over to Crowley. God, the man smelled good, like some sort of candlelit library in an old country manor that you wanted to burrow into for a long weekend.
Crowley shook himself out of his fanciful thoughts to pay attention to Aziraphale’s instructions. He tried to appear engaged, nodding and asking a clarifying question now and then. In truth, he could sleepwalk his way through pouring and serving; he’d tended bar for so many years it was second nature.
Aziraphale wrapped up his quick training and looked at Crowley. “So, do you think you can handle all that?”
“Piece of cake.” Crowley slouched casually against the bar, causing Aziraphale to frown.
“Posture, please. We are a professional establishment.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and straightened his back, folding his hands in front of his waist, standing at attention. He felt like a footman in a bloody Pride and Prejudice film. “Is this better?”
Aziraphale ran an appraising gaze over him, drawing out the wait. The bastard was loving this, Crowley realised, lording over him and bossing him around.
“Very nice,” Aziraphale pronounced, his gaze heavy lidded, his voice a silken rumble.
The words dragged over Crowley’s skin like a filthy secret. He had no idea a sound like that could come out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Holy shit.
He had joked about being an alpha wolf, but sweet Jesus, he’d let Aziraphale dom the fuck out of him with that voice and attitude.
“I expect you to perform your best tonight,” Aziraphale continued in that same deep tone, holding Crowley’s gaze.
Damn. Did Aziraphale feel it too, this weird electricity arcing between them? He’d have to be an idiot not to notice.
“Yes, sir,” Crowley heard himself reply, lifting a flirtatious eyebrow. He immediately wanted to kick himself. What the fuck was he doing? This was the last man on Earth he wanted to tempt with his wiles. “I mean, yeah, I will. Duh.” His backpedaling made him sound like a petulant teenager, but whatever.
Aziraphale shot him a dubious glance before hurrying off to check on something else.
“Micromanager,” Crowley muttered, slouching against the bar again. To distract himself, he inspected his surroundings more closely, noting how every surface gleamed and every detail was thoughtfully organized. The shelves with food items for sale were arranged attractively. Even the small bouquets on each table were designed with a perfect balance of colour and texture. The bastard had a good eye and ran a tight ship, Crowley had to admit. Maybe Nina could steal an idea or two and apply it to Seven Circles.
He read the labels on the wine bottles and snooped around behind the bar to pass the minutes before the doors opened for the party. A server named Muriel stopped by and introduced themselves, and Crowley wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or annoyed by their perkiness.
“It’s super nice of you to help Aziraphale out,” Muriel added, smiling brightly.
“M’not doing it for him,” Crowley quickly clarified. “Maggie asked me.”
“Well, it’s still super nice.”
“I’m not nice,” Crowley growled.
Much to his chagrin, Muriel chuckled. “Of course you are! You were so sweet and helped those children with the mural, too.”
Crowley stared, appalled. He wasn’t sweet! He was cool and edgy! A badass! Christ, the mural thing had really ruined his reputation. Being here, volunteering his time like a Scout, wasn’t helping matters either.
Muriel drifted away to the kitchen while Crowley scowled, sinking into a funk. When had he become such a boring do-gooder? He was a rebellious artist.
He didn’t have time to mull it over any further, his attention drawn to Aziraphale standing in the centre of the room with his pocket watch in one hand.
“The doors will open in one minute. Places, please,” Aziraphale announced. He shot a glance at Crowley, who immediately straightened his posture.
Crowley operated on autopilot once the guests started trickling in, twisting corks from bottles and filling glasses, mixing cocktails and garnishing soda waters with lime.
He minded his own business, making minimal eye contact and keeping his remarks short and professional. It barely registered that someone might be talking to him when he heard a male voice say, “You do have a way with garnish.”
Crowley looked up, confused. A man in a very expensive suit was smiling at him. “Pardon me?” Crowley ventured.
“I said, you have a way with garnishes. The twist of lime and such.” The man leant on the bar, bending forward conspiratorially. “I was just trying to be clever and get you to talk to me. It worked.”
“Did it?” Crowley parried, jabbing a corkscrew into the neck of a fresh bottle as he quickly examined the man. Within a few seconds, he took in nice hands/big grin/decent face/big ego.
“I hope so.” The man grinned again, all perfect white teeth like a B-list American actor. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”
“And I’m working.” Crowley hadn’t decided what to do with this new admirer yet, but could tell he was the type that liked a challenge. For the moment, he’d just enjoy the fact that he could still pull a stranger.
Jonathan leant even closer. “Surely you’re not working all night, are you?”
Crowley paused, finally meeting Jonathan’s eyes. “Not sure yet.” Would he go home with this bloke, or take him to his? He was admittedly tired, but he hadn’t had a proper tumble in ages. And he had plenty of condoms at his flat, come to think of it.
While he debated, a shadow fell across the bar top and Aziraphale was suddenly looming next to him.
“I need a gin and tonic, please. Extra lime,” Aziraphale said curtly, breaking up the flirtation.
Aziraphale turned to Jonathan, blocking his line of sight to Crowley. “Can I get you anything, sir?”
Jonathan settled back onto his bar stool with a wry smile. “No, I’m fine at the moment.”
Aziraphale stood his ground. “You really ought to try a vol-au-vent.” His gracious smile didn’t hide the warning in his voice. “It’s our chef’s specialty. They’re on the table over there. On the other side of the room.”
Crowley watched from the corner of his eye as Jonathan pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted something onto a paper napkin and folded it in half. Unhurried, he finally spoke. “A little nibble does sound good. I’m peckish tonight.” He looked past Aziraphale at Crowley and slid the napkin across the bar. “Nice chatting with you.”
Aziraphale remained standing next to Crowley until Jonathan oozed away into the crowd. Crowley placed the drink on the bar and picked up the napkin. Inside there was a scribbled phone number. He felt oddly pleased even though he had no intention of acting on it. But Aziraphale didn’t have to know that.
Aziraphale sighed in irritation. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that man.”
Crowley balked. “I don’t need you to defend me.”
“I don’t appreciate guests bothering my employees.”
“I’m not your employee.”
“For all intents and purposes, tonight you are.”
Crowley bristled at that. Feeling rebellious, he made a show of carefully tucking the napkin with the phone number into the front pocket of his jeans, pushing it slowly into the shallow depths of the tight denim. “You’re not the boss of me all night. Someone else might have that pleasure.”
A blush crept up Aziraphale’s face at the implication. He turned on his heel, the gin and tonic forgotten as he flapped away in his old-fashioned coat tails.
Crowley grinned to himself, feeling smug. He picked up the abandoned drink and surreptitiously sipped at it throughout the rest of the evening until the party wound down.
He basically forgot about Jonathan as he wiped down the bar and helped clean up the random plates and glasses that were littered around the room. He peeled off his jacket and left it in the dirty linen hamper by the back kitchen door, then found Maggie to tell her he was heading out. He briefly looked for Aziraphale but didn’t see him anywhere.
Maggie thanked him profusely and promised to drop off his payment the next day. “You really saved us tonight,” she said, squeezing his arm.
“No worries. Glad to help you out.”
They left through the door together and walked a short distance before going their separate ways. Crowley strolled on a bit farther before tossing the napkin with Jonathan’s number into a rubbish bin. He absently reached for his sunglasses, then stopped short, realising he’d left them back at Le Paradis.
Dammit. He groaned, then turned around, hoping Muriel or someone else was still there locking up so he could grab his glasses. He half jogged, retracing his steps. He tried the back door, relieved to find it was still unlocked.
He let himself in, peering into the dimly lit kitchen. “Hello?” he called out. “Anybody here?”
Hearing no answer, he crept to the bar and rummaged around until he found his glasses that he’d set aside earlier that evening. He slipped them into his pocket and returned to the kitchen, nearly jumping out of his skin when a figure emerged from the shadows, an arm raised as if ready to strike.
“Jesus — fuck!” Crowley clutched at his chest, his heart racing. His scrambled senses finally recognised Aziraphale, who was brandishing, of all things, a silver candelabra in his hand.
“Good Lord, Crowley!” Aziraphale lowered the candle holder, his face pale. “What are you doing here?”
Crowley sagged against a work table. “I forgot my sunglasses.” He lifted them up to show Aziraphale, then gestured at the candelabra. “What the hell were you planning to do with that?”
“Self-defence. It was the heaviest thing I had at hand.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
”I could say the same thing,” Aziraphale protested. “I saw someone dressed in black creeping around after hours. What was I supposed to think?”
They stared distrustfully at each other as they caught their breath. Aziraphale set the candelabra down, and Crowley attempted to make the motions to leave but his brain was still too rattled to function.
Aziraphale spoke first. “I think I could do with a drink. You?”
A glass of something to steady his nerves was a welcome idea. “Yeah, okay.”
Aziraphale slipped into the shadows to dig around in a cupboard and returned with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. He pulled the cork easily from the top of the bottle where it had been replaced. “Maggie opened it for cooking tonight,” he explained whilst filling the glasses. “No point in letting it just sit there.”
“Right,” Crowley agreed, noticing the glint of a gold ring on Aziraphale’s pinky finger. Gift from an old boyfriend, perhaps?
Aziraphale handed a glass to Crowley and they each took a long sip.
“So…” Aziraphale cast a sideways glance at Crowley. “I’m surprised you came back here. I thought you’d be off on a hot date with the mystery man.”
Crowley nearly choked on his wine in surprise. “That’s getting a bit personal, isn’t it?”
“Well, you two weren’t exactly being subtle at the bar.”
“Hey, he came onto me,” Crowley reminded him. Annoyed, he decided to toy with Aziraphale as pay-back. He shrugged, stretching casually. “Maybe I am meeting him later. What do you care?”
Aziraphale shrugged in return, tipping his nose up and giving a tiny toss of his shoulder. “I don’t care.”
Crowley lounged against the worktop, studying Aziraphale. He was in his shirt sleeves, his clothes slightly wrinkled after the long day, but the scent of his cologne was still enticing. It was like an aphrodisiac that went straight to Crowley’s uncensored mouth. “You seem very interested in my sex life,” he drawled.
Two spots of colour burned Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I’m not int—” he stopped, gathering the shreds of his dignity. “He just didn’t seem like your type, that’s all.”
Crowley snorted. “And why not?”
Aziraphale looked away, then let his eyes settle back on Crowley, locking onto his gaze. “I think you can do better than him.”
There it was again, that odd current running between them, a live wire that was spiky and barbed and hot. And because he was stupid and impulsive, he couldn’t resist touching it just to see what would happen. “So you think you know my type? What I like?”
Aziraphale’s gaze wandered over Crowley’s body for a moment. “I think you probably like a lot of things. Depends on the situation, no doubt. But with someone more substantial than Mr Number Scribbled on a Cocktail Napkin.”
Crowley’s mouth quirked up in amusement. He held his glass by the stem and ran his tongue across his lips, contemplating. “And what do you like?”
“Wit. Style.” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to Crowley’s mouth as he drifted incrementally closer. “Impeccable manners.”
“Manners,” Crowley scoffed. He set his glass down, hovering within striking distance of that irresistible cologne and the heat of Aziraphale’s neck. “What you need is someone to wreck you. Someone to rip off all those buttons and properly rattle your bones so you remember that you’re alive.”
A lightning bolt of anger sparked in Aziraphale’s eyes, their colour a brewing tempest of blue and grey, a stormy sea a man could drown in. He pursed his lips, then spoke, that deep and sonorous tone rippling over Crowley again. “And you need discipline.”
Oh fuck.
Four heartbeats passed, the heightened tension slowing time as they eyed each other, wary and waiting. Then time sped up.
It was like a head-on car crash, their mouths colliding in a thunderbolt impact. Crowley’s breath was sucked away in a shock of lips and teeth, his fingers grasping Aziraphale’s jaw, hot blood surging. His body was acting on its own, a slosh of horny, impetuous chemicals that left his higher faculties reeling in confusion.
Aziraphale seemed equally awash in the chemistry of his instincts. He pushed Crowley against the edge of the stainless steel worktable, their tongues sliding against each other, chasing the taste of wine and salty skin.
Oh, this was worth it, witnessing Aziraphale abandon all propriety like this, shoving his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, his hand winding into his hair. Crowley returned the kiss, equally feral, sliding his hands down to grasp two meaty, coveted cheeks, hauling Aziraphale’s hips against his own. God, he could feel the hardness of Aziraphale’s cock digging into him, and he couldn’t help but hump experimentally against the bulge, the urge too strong to resist. Aziraphale responded with an eager hump of his own, causing them both to groan and chase after more. Their hips ground together filthily, their mouths hot and greedy, their hands groping at anything they could reach. He was overwhelmed with lust, wanting to suck and lick and thrust —
Crowley froze. No. Wait. WAIT. Oh, shit, what were they doing?
He opened his eyes mid-sloppy-snog, finding Aziraphale’s wide eyes staring back at him in horror.
This was INSANE! PULL BACK! ABORT!
They clumsily broke apart as if they’d both been doused with cold water. Crowley wiped his mouth and Aziraphale quickly turned away, each stammering out garbled noises and half sentences.
“That wasn’t —”
“We don’t —”
“I didn’t —”
“Oh, God.”
Crowley took a step back, pressing the front of his jeans against the edge of the worktop, trying to tame his erection. He fumbled for his wine and gulped down the last of it, disoriented. “Look,” he finally said, “let’s just forget that happened.”
Aziraphale nodded rapidly. “It’s late. We weren’t thinking clearly.”
“It was a long day,” Crowley agreed, pulling his tousled hair into a tight ponytail to regain his bearings.
“Let’s make a pact,” Aziraphale urged. “We tell no one that this happened. We agree to forget about it.”
“Deal.” Unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley weaved towards the back door and stumbled out into the cool night air. His long strides carried him home quickly, and he slumped against the foyer wall once he was safely inside.
Holy fuck.
His lips still stung from the force of Aziraphale’s mouth and his hips still buzzed with the imprint of a solid, hungry body. Despite their pact, he wasn’t going to forget that hot, urgent gropefest anytime soon.
As he exhaled shakily, Maggie’s comment floated back to him. He’s actually an angel under all that stuffiness.
Crowley touched his swollen lips in dazed wonder. If that was Aziraphale’s angelic side, he was dying to know what his devilish side could do…
He let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. You idiot, he chided himself.
Trying it on with Aziraphale would be a huge mistake. He vowed to erase the entire incident from his memory.
Except for one thing.
Suddenly inspired, Crowley hurried upstairs and burst into his studio. He quickly gathered various tubes of paint and brushes. Seized with a strange idea, he had to try to get it onto canvas immediately. It was far from a fully formed thought; instead, it was like a fragment of a dream he was eager to capture before it vanished.
He squeezed out daubs of paint onto a palette — greens and blues, black and white. He mixed and dabbed, blending colours. Dissatisfied, he started over, trying again and again until he found the exact hue he was searching for.
He swept the brush across the canvas in quick strokes, building texture, an abstract landscape taking shape. He kept working, a forgotten rush of creative excitement coursing through his veins.
He finally stepped back, letting himself fall into a stormy sea of blue-grey. He tilted his head, evaluating. He didn’t hate it. In fact, it was unlocking a flood of new ideas.
He’d never, ever tell Aziraphale this, but it turned out that all he needed to break his creative block was a hot snog in the kitchen with the man he utterly despised.
Notes:
Well, well, well, the thick plottens, such as it is. We'll see what they get up to next time. *eyebrow wriggle*
I truly appreciate any comments, kudos, shares, key smashing, whatever floats your boat. If this brings you a smile or a snort laugh, I'd love to know!
Chapter 5
Notes:
The idiocy continues with two more chapters! The E rating will be earned in these, so buckle up (or unbuckle...)
Chapter Text
One small mistake was not worth replaying over and over in his mind, Aziraphale reminded himself as he polished wine glasses. One error did not overshadow his otherwise faultless judgment. So why, he agonised as he picked up another glass, did that damned kiss haunt so many of his waking hours?
Standing behind the bar in Le Paradis, he glanced toward the kitchen where the incident had taken place mere days ago. It had been a fluke, a trick of the late hour, un crime passionnel.
But Aziraphale still found himself drifting back to that moment in the low-lit kitchen, to the electricity crackling between them, to Crowley’s strangely hypnotic amber eyes and tempting mouth, his lithe body right there, daring him to act on impulse.
They both clearly had temporarily lost their minds, but good Lord, their physical contact had been so unexpectedly intense.
Aziraphale had never before been kissed like that — never plundered and tasted so deeply that his toes curled in unabashed pleasure. A little frisson of delight shimmered up his spine just thinking about it…
“Hello? Did you hear me?”
Aziraphale snapped out of his reverie to find Maggie waving her hand in front of his face. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I was thinking. Did you need something?”
“I have an idea.”
“Such as?”
“We should go over to Seven Circles and chat with Nina.”
Aziraphale’s face contorted. “Why on Earth would we do that?”
“I think we should get to know our neighbours better.”
“I already know my neighbours.”
“Not the new ones,” Maggie pointed out. “I really think we ought to properly introduce ourselves.”
Aziraphale panicked inwardly at the thought of facing Crowley and stammering like an idiot in front of him. “I’m really very busy.”
“You can spare 20 minutes. You’ve certainly managed to find the time to go get coffee at Justine’s, after all.”
Unable to come up with a retort, Aziraphale froze. Maggie was staring at him expectantly, and he could never, ever tell her the real reason he was balking. So sorry, but I had an ill-advised hardcore make out session with Crowley the other night that we vowed never to speak of again. So you see, it’s really quite awkward.
He cast a desperate glance out the window. The delivery van was nowhere to be seen, which he hoped meant that Crowley was out driving his route far, far away. He supposed the van could be parked in the back, but he’d have to take his chances.
“Oh, all right,” he sighed, dropping the polishing cloth onto the bar. “We’ll stay 20 minutes.”
Maggie broke into a broad smile. “Let’s go now.”
Aziraphale reluctantly followed her across the street, a knot in his stomach. Please don’t be there, please don’t be there, he prayed silently.
When they entered Seven Circles, it took a moment for Aziraphale’s eyes to adjust to the low light. He caught the impression of a large mirror behind the mahogany bar, eclectic artwork on the walls, flickering candles on the tables, and an old juke box against one wall.
“Hello?” Maggie called out, blinking into the darkness.
“We’re not open,” a woman’s voice answered, not sounding particularly friendly.
“Um, hi.” Maggie ventured a few steps further. “We’re from across the way, Le Paradis? We thought we’d introduce ourselves. You’re Nina, is that right?”
Nina appeared behind the bar, her expression suspicious. “That’s right.”
“I’m Maggie, and this is Aziraphale,” Maggie explained while approaching Nina.
Aziraphale let Maggie do the talking while he tried to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Nina was slightly terrifying with her no-nonsense demeanor and glare.
Nina eventually invited them to have a seat at the bar, and Aziraphale sat gingerly on a high stool.
“I have to say, I’ve only tried kombucha once,” Maggie admitted, looking at the different taps.
“Is that so?” Nina did not seem impressed.
“Could I ask for a taste, if you don’t mind?”
Nina shrugged. “Sure.” She turned to Aziraphale. “What about you — kombucha virgin?”
“Oh, well, yes, I suppose I am.”
“Hm. Thought so.” Nina poured them each a small serving and set the glasses in front of them. She watched them like a hawk as they sipped and oohed and ahhed over the taste.
The beverage did, Aziraphale had to admit, grow on him as he drank. He asked a few questions, and to his surprise, they fell into an engaging discussion about the brewing process. Nina poured them more samples, gradually warming up as they talked, and he soon forgot about the 20-minute time limit.
“So,” Nina leveled her gaze at Aziraphale after a pause. “Are you and Crowley still at each other’s throats?”
Aziraphale nearly dropped his glass, panic surging through him again. What was she implying? Had Crowley said something to her? Had she somehow seen them snogging each other’s faces off? “What do you mean?” he asked, going pale.
Nina crossed her arms and stared at him like he was slow. “I mean, are you two idiots still fighting like cats and dogs?”
“Actually,” Maggie interjected, “Crowley was a sweetheart and helped us out the other night, didn’t he, Aziraphale?”
“Er, yes.” Aziraphale twisted his glass in his hands as Maggie explained how Crowley filled in for their event at the last minute.
“He was really great, wasn’t he?” Maggie added, nudging Aziraphale to jump in with praise.
“Yes, really… top notch.”
Nina smirked. “He’s such a bleeding heart. Helping kids and damsels in distress. He can’t stand to see anyone in a tough spot.”
Aziraphale suddenly found himself defending Crowley. “It was very decent of him to help us out — and the children with the mural project.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. It’s grand,” Nina agreed breezily. “It just means he has less time for his art, though.”
Maggie and Aziraphale looked at her blankly.
“His art?” Aziraphale repeated.
“Yeah, his painting.” Nina looked back at them, and apparently saw that she needed to clarify more. “He’s an artist. A painter. That’s how we met — in art school.”
“Really?” Maggie asked, intrigued.
“Yes, really. We’re both trained artists. Except I gave it up to open this place.” Nina’s eyes traveled around the bar. “Crowley’s only working here temporarily until I get the business on solid ground.”
Aziraphale was still trying to wrap his head around Crowley being a painter. “And he’s able to make a living from his art?”
Maggie kicked him in the foot. “Rude!” she hissed.
Aziraphale knew it wasn't a polite question, but he was burning with curiosity.
“He’s actually very successful,” Nina replied smoothly. “He does abstract pieces.”
“And would we have seen any of his work anywhere?” Aziraphale pressed.
“Only if you visit exclusive galleries or read niche art publications.” Nina met his gaze. “Ever hear of AJ Crowley?”
Once again, Aziraphale nearly dropped his glass. “AJ Crowley? He’s AJ Crowley?”
“You recognize the name?” Nina asked in surprise.
“I read an article once about contemporary London-based artists. There was a photo of one of his paintings…” Aziraphale struggled to recall the details he’d read a few years ago in a glossy art magazine that Agnes had left on a side table in her flat. He remembered a photo of a stunning abstract painting that captured the movement of flickering flames, and he had absently noted the artist’s name. He hadn’t thought of it again until now.
“He mostly sells to private collectors,” Nina added. “It’s not like he has anything hanging in a museum. Not yet, anyway. But look, don’t tell him you know. He’s weirdly sensitive about the whole famous artist thing and likes to keep a low profile.”
“We promise,” Maggie answered for them both. She then leant forward on her elbows, focusing her attention back on Nina. “What kind of art do you do?”
“Multimedia. But I needed a job that was more steady, you know?”
Aziraphale tuned out their conversation. He was dying to pull out his phone and Google ‘AJ Crowley’ to connect all the puzzle pieces. He never would have guessed that Crowley — the snide, swaggering hipster with pretentious dark glasses and a ridiculous man bun — was a well-regarded artist. Why would he waste his talent hauling kombucha all over the city? Was he really doing it just to help Nina? Was he some sort of saint, giving up his time to help others? Did people like that really exist?
“Excuse me,” Aziraphale suddenly said, “I ought to get back to work. Thank you for the drinks, Nina. It was most eye-opening.”
He left Maggie lingering at the bar, hanging on Nina’s every word.
Once back at Le Paradis, Aziraphale sequestered himself in his office and flipped open his laptop. A quick online search brought up several links to newspaper and magazine articles and a handful of gallery sites. He scrolled through images of artwork and finally found what he was looking for — a photo of the artist. He enlarged a moody black and white portrait of the elusive AJ Crowley.
Aziraphale gazed at the photo, unable to tear his eyes away. It was likely taken a few years ago, when Crowley’s hair was shorter. But he was unmistakable, with his opaque sunglasses, quirked eyebrow, and chiseled jawline.
He scanned the story, which revealed little personal information about Crowley apart from his training, influences, and a handful of cryptic answers to banal questions.
Phrases describing his art — ‘organic movement,’ ‘bold textures,’ and ‘lush colours’ — peppered the article. He perused a few more links, coming away with the impression that while Crowley was extremely talented, he was also intensely private. Fascinating.
He sat back in his chair, turning over this new knowledge. He had misjudged Crowley, assuming he was, frankly, rather a feckless drifter. Instead, he was a sought-after, successful artist.
Aziraphale chided himself for jumping to conclusions. He had an unfortunate tendency to be judgmental, which had its roots in a childhood of being bullied for his soft nature and bookish interests. He’d learnt to defend himself with a sharp tongue and pretentious attitude, an armor against rejection that he still wore. It didn’t exactly win him friends, but it kept most would-be antagonists at bay.
But enough maudlin self-reflection; what should he do about Crowley? Should he say something the next time he saw him? Tell him that he knew about his real profession? Or would that go badly, seeing as how Crowley deliberately seemed to downplay his accomplishments?
Well, all that would have to wait. He really did need to get back to work, and he had to make sure that Maggie returned to her post as well. It was becoming clear to Aziraphale that Maggie had quite a pash on Nina. Good luck with that, he thought, picturing Nina’s steely glare. But then, Maggie’s sweet disposition might tame the most sour beast.
Thank goodness he wasn’t subject to such fickle whims of the heart. He was far too sensible to be carried away by romantic nonsense. He closed a few tabs on the laptop browser, pausing before deciding to bookmark the article with the black and white portrait. Just for future reference. In case he wanted to refresh his memory about the art. Not because he wanted to see Crowley’s photo again.
No, Aziraphale thought smugly, closing the laptop, he’d never fall for someone who was his complete opposite. Not in 6,000 years.
Crowley rinsed the last of the glasses and wiped down the bar, glad to be ending his closing shift. It was nearly 10 o’clock, which still left him a few hours to get some painting done.
He poked his head into Nina’s office. “Hey, I’m done for the night. I’ll see you Wednesday, yeah?”
Nina looked up from where she was sitting at her messy desk, her laptop open. “Yeah, see ya. Oh — wait a second.” She dug around in a stack of letters and pulled out a thick padded envelope. “This came in the post today. It’s addressed to Aziraphale Fell. Must have been delivered here accidentally.”
“So?”
“So could you run it over to him? It might be important.”
Crowley sighed in irritation.
“Just do it, will you? I don’t want it getting lost here.”
“Maybe if you cleaned your desk once in a while, it wouldn’t get lost,” Crowley suggested snarkily.
Nina glowered at him. “It won’t kill you to shove it through the mail slot on your way home.”
Crowley knew it was pointless to argue once Nina had dug in her heels. “Fine.” He snatched the envelope from her outstretched hand. “Just this once,” he added, trying to have the last word.
“Whatever,” Nina snapped.
Crowley stalked away, simmering with annoyance. God, Nina was impossible. Who did she think she was, treating him like her errand boy? Granted, most of his job did consist of making deliveries, but this, this was just adding insult to injury. After that incident in the kitchen of Le Paradis, the last person he wanted to see was Aziraphale.
They had somehow managed to avoid each other for the past week, but the awkwardness still lingered. What on Earth would they say if they met face to face? Oh, hullo, lovely weather we’re having. Hope your mouth’s recovered from that impromptu snog we had. I don’t know about you, but I was hard half the night, haha!
He strode across the street and made a beeline to the front door of Le Paradis, hoping everyone had already gone home for the night. The interior was dark, the faintest glow of light coming from the back kitchen area. Crowley quickly located the mail slot and shoved the package into the opening. Or rather, he tried to shove it into the opening. It wouldn’t fit. Try as he might, the envelope was too bulky to cram into the slot.
“Fucking fuck,” Crowley muttered in exasperation. He couldn’t just abandon the package in front of the door, and he didn’t want to go back to Seven Circles and argue with Nina. Maybe he could bring it around back and pop it into the kitchen without anyone noticing him. He circled around the building and was relieved to find the kitchen door unlocked. Holding his breath, he crept inside as quietly as possible. The low nighttime lights were on, and Crowley slipped off his dark glasses to better see into the kitchen. He glanced around, looking for somewhere to lay the envelope.
“Oh, Mr Crowley! What are you doing here?” Muriel stood by the work table holding a backpack as if about to leave for the night.
Crowley froze, cursing to himself. He really wasn’t very good at sneaking around. He smiled weakly. “Hi, Muriel. I’m just dropping off this package that was delivered to Seven Circles by mistake. It’s for Aziraphale.”
Muriel smiled brightly. “That’s nice of you. He’s still in his office. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“No! That’s not necessary —”
But it was too late. Muriel was already knocking on the closed door and beckoning for Crowley to come over.
Crowley briefly wondered if he should just throw the envelope onto the worktop and make a run for it. Yet he found himself walking stiffly towards Muriel’s encouraging smile and the now open door.
“Go on in.”
“Thanks,” Crowley muttered. After a week of avoiding this unpleasant moment, he was now standing in Aziraphale’s office and staring directly at his nemesis.
Aziraphale stared back at him from behind his desk, looking equally displeased.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. G’night!” Muriel gave them a cheery wave before departing.
Aziraphale finally broke the silence. “Well?” he asked, his voice cracking despite his haughty manner. “What is it?”
“I have a package. A big package. Too big for your slot.” Oh Christ, that came out wrong. Crowley winced, wanting to die as Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.
“This package!” Crowley held up the envelope and shook it a little for emphasis. “Bloody postman delivered it to the wrong address.”
Aziraphale stood up and approached Crowley, his brow furrowed in curiosity. “Who is it from?”
“How would I know? Nina asked me to drop it off, so here, just take it.” He thrust the package at Aziraphale, who fumbled to grab hold of it before it dropped to the floor.
“Careful!” Aziraphale barked. “It might be fragile.”
Crowley snorted derisively. “What were you expecting, a glass dildo?”
Aziraphale snapped his eyes up to Crowley’s, the words hanging heavily in the air. “Excuse me?”
Crowley almost regretted blurting out his wildly inappropriate comment, but decided to double down on the dildo innuendo. “Or maybe the King Cobra 3000 silicone model is more your speed.”
Aziraphale breathed in sharply through his nose and pursed his lips. Crowley stood there, marveling at his own stupidity. What the hell was he doing? Was he trying to piss Aziraphale off or weirdly flirt with him?
Aziraphale wordlessly laid the envelope to the side and stepped closer, his chest puffed out. For a moment, Crowley worried that the other man was squaring up against him, about to wrangle his collar and literally toss him out of his office.
Crowley stared into Aziraphale’s livid blue-grey gaze. He had no idea what was going to happen, but he didn’t move, rooted to the spot with morbid curiosity. Something then shifted in Aziraphale’s demeanor, his eyes narrowing as if toying with Crowley.
“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale said so softly it was sultry, “that I’m already endowed with my own natural King Cobra, thank you very much.”
“Ngk.” Crowley swallowed and flicked his eyes down to Aziraphale’s crotch. He tried to sound flippant. “I didn’t mean to kink shame you about the dildo.”
“Oh, I think I know who has a particular kink,” Aziraphale half smirked, trailing his fingertips over the velvety hem of his waistcoat, tracing languid circles above the seam of his fly.
Crowley followed the motion, imagining what beast must lie beneath the khaki folds of his trousers. He swallowed, his appetite whet.
A clock ticked somewhere in the corner of the office, a single lamp on the heavy oak desk casting a pool of warm light into the room.
Aziraphale tilted his head to the side. “Why are you really here?”
“Delivering… the package,” Crowley croaked, further distracted by the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne and the changing colour of his irises.
“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, his fingers still teasing small circles over the soft fabric. “I wonder if that’s all…”
Crowley watched the suggestive rubbing motion, mesmerized. A familiar spark travelled up his spine, a slow-burning fuse that was leading to another lust-filled explosion. He should leave, and yet he made no effort to move.
“And why are you still standing here?” Crowley finally countered, hoping his gravelly voice sounded alluring. “Seems like you want me to stay.”
Their gazes locked, neither one of them willing to back down, the charge between them growing exponentially more intense as every second passed.
“I don’t even like you,” Aziraphale retorted.
“I can’t stand you,” Crowley hissed, craning his neck closer.
Their words were suddenly muffled by their mouths colliding, the searing heat of the moment transferring into a frenzy of grasping hands and insatiable lips.
It was heady madness, both of them simultaneously trying to shut each other up, eat each other up, and feel each other up. All the talk of dildos and packages and cobras had them groping and stumbling backwards, Aziraphale’s shoulders landing with a whump against an empty wall.
Crowley’s tongue slid next to Aziraphale’s, their hands roaming and greedily slipping between legs, their breaths coming hard and heavy.
Crowley didn’t hesitate when Aziraphale tugged at his snake-shaped belt buckle. Without breaking contact with Aziraphale’s luscious mouth, he quickly helped undo the clasp, then turned his attention to Aziraphale’s waistband.
Between them, they unzipped, tugged, and pushed fabric away, managing to loosen their respective jeans and trousers, delving eager hands beneath each other’s pants. Finer thought processes and reasoning were supplanted by the primal allure of mutual hand jobs.
Crowley was giddy with discovery, the thick cock in his grasp growing heavier with every exploratory stroke of his fingers. And God, the way Aziraphale was cupping his balls, fondling them with exquisite pressure, made him lightheaded.
But then he remembered that he was supposed to despise the man who was wrist-deep in his skivvies. “You’re impossible,” Crowley growled, grinding himself against Aziraphale’s palm.
“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale panted in reply, taking Crowley’s cock fully into his hand, squeezing his fingers around him and dragging his hand slowly upwards.
“Nnnng.” Crowley mirrored the motion, drawing out a moan from the back of Aziraphale’s throat.
Crowley rocked into Aziraphale’s grip, his own fist working in staccato over Aziraphale’s cock. “Christ, you’re a fucking anaconda,” he muttered appreciatively against the side of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“You clearly have a size kink and — oh, God, don’t stop — a snake fetish,” Aziraphale gasped, his free hand clutching Crowley’s hair.
Their trousers sagged around their knees, their pants askew, the elastic snagged indelicately below their balls. The lamplight highlighted the straining muscles of their upper thighs, their bodies moulded close together at odd angles.
Crowley lost himself in the hedonistic thrill of sucking on Aziraphale’s tongue and stroking his massive cock slicked with precome. Dimly, he knew what they were doing was insane, and yet it was deliciously filthy and fucking hot — standing half naked in Aziraphale’s office, pressed against the wall, grunting and moaning, jerking each other off like sailors in a drunken back alley tryst.
Crowley groaned, relishing the slippery pump of Aziraphale’s fist over his achingly hard prick. He wasn’t going to last much longer, his climax mounting, tension coiling in his lower belly. He knew where this was heading — he was going to come in Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale would come in his, a strangely intimate exchange for two adversaries. And what would happen afterwards? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He was living in the moment, consequences be damned.
“I’m close…” Crowley’s voice was hoarse, his senses overwhelmed with pleasure, his pulse racing.
“Me too — I — oh, Crowley—” Aziraphale ended with a low keen, gasping as he suddenly bucked and shuddered.
The gush of warmth flowing over Crowley’s knuckles and spurting onto his belly tripped his system, setting off his own convulsive release. He squeezed his eyes shut and choked out nonsense sounds as he came over Aziraphale’s fingers, wave after wave rippling through him until he was an empty husk.
His knees weak, Crowley looked down at their spend dripping warm and pearly white over their hands and stomachs, the tang of sweat and sex filling the air.
“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said, dazed. “What a mess.”
Crowley salvaged enough presence of mind to snag a box of tissues that sat on a nearby table, and they wordlessly cleaned up and wriggled back into their underwear and trousers.
They avoided looking at each other until Crowley fastened his belt buckle with a final clink.
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” Aziraphale agreed.
They stood awkwardly, Aziraphale twisting the ring on his pinky finger.
Crowley, for once, was at a loss for words. “Yeah…” he finally said, rubbing the back of his neck, “we can just pretend that didn’t happen, either.”
Aziraphale nodded, glancing away. Then he spoke. “Actually, I was thinking…” he trailed off.
Crowley squinted at him. “You were thinking what?”
Aziraphale met his gaze. “Although we’re clearly not compatible, we do seem to have some sort of — I don’t know, chemistry.”
Crowley was immediately intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“Perhaps — perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement.”
Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “Enemies with benefits?”
“Something like that, yes.”
They looked at each other, trying to gauge the other’s reaction. Crowley ventured another clarification. “So, no strings attached, just sex?”
“Precisely. Based on our previous encounters, it could be … quite satisfying.”
Hell, yes, it could. Crowley tried not to sound too eager. “And we wouldn’t tell a soul,” he clarified. “Schtum.”
“Completely discreet.”
They looked at each other again, then shook on it. Crowley couldn’t help but think about where their hands had just been, but sealing a secret sex pact with jizz residue seemed appropriate. He grinned. “So how soon does this arrangement go into effect?”
Aziraphale paused to consider. “Tomorrow night? I have the evening off.”
“So do I.” Crowley mentally cleared his schedule. “Eight o’clock, my flat?”
“All right. Text me the address.”
Crowley whipped out his phone and they exchanged details. He was surprised to learn they didn’t live all that far away from each other. But there was one more important question to ask. “Which, er, which way do you want it?”
Aziraphale broke into a smug smile. “Oh, I think I’d like you to charm the King Cobra, if you can handle it.”
Crowley’s knees went weak again at the thought. Oh, God, he’d make sure he was ready. “Yep,” was all he could reply. “So. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“I’ll bring some wine,” Aziraphale offered.
“Yeah, yeah. Good idea.” Crowley slid his sunglasses back on and made his way to the door, trying to exude nonchalance.
Once he was back outside, he let out a long sigh of disbelief. The universe, he mused, had a strange sense of humour.
The night had taken a most unexpected turn, but really, he wasn’t going to complain. He’d just gotten an excellent hand job, and in less than 24 hours, he was going to be riding the snake train to Pound Town.
So who cared if it was Aziraphale? It wasn’t like they were dating. They didn’t have to wine and dine each other. They didn’t even have to pretend to like each other. They were consenting adults. This was just a hookup. And sex without the complications of romance, he decided, was perfectly fine by him.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke early the next morning, a sense of anticipation scratching at his ribs that he hadn’t felt in years. It was a bit like waking on Christmas morning — if Christmas involved sleeping with skinny, red-headed men who wore sunglasses at odd hours.
He stretched, taking a moment to marvel at his own audacity. He had surprised himself not only by plunging eagerly into their second unexpected dalliance, but also by making his bold suggestion that they form an “arrangement.”
He hadn’t planned on it — the idea had popped into his head as they were cleaning up after their energetic handiwork. That’s when he’d realised that he wanted more — more time, more privacy, and more of Crowley.
They did have an incredible chemistry; it was such a shame that they were otherwise completely at odds with each other. While he found Crowley physically appealing, well… they really couldn’t be more different. The idea of them as a romantic couple was unthinkable. They were like oil and water, chalk and cheese.
He finally got out of bed to shower, shave, and have breakfast, but he soon was restless without work to occupy his time. He filled another few hours by running errands, picking up a few groceries and his dry cleaning, tidying his flat, then making a cup of tea.
He went for a walk, briefly stopping by Le Paradis to select a bottle of wine for the evening. Still left with extra time, he decided to pay a visit to Agnes.
She noticed the bottle in his hand soon after they exchanged greetings. “That isn’t for me, is it?” she asked playfully.
“I’m afraid not,” he admitted, taking a seat as Agnes put on the kettle.
She slipped a plate of biscuits onto the table in front of him. “Big date tonight?” she asked, unable to hide a knowing smile.
“No,” he quickly objected, “not a date. More like, erm, a business meeting.”
“Oh, I see. Just a bit of business on the side.” She winked. “I support all of your entrepreneurial ventures.”
Aziraphale spluttered some nonsense about imports and exports and exploratory talks, then decided it would be best to change the subject. “And how are you, my dear?”
“I’m quite well, thank you.” She concentrated on arranging the cups and saucers on a tray. “I even have some news.”
“Oh? Have you come across some more first editions? You know I’m always interested in those.” He cleared away a stack of magazines on the table to make room for the tea tray.
“Something even more exciting than first editions.” Agnes took a seat as they waited for the tea to steep. She folded her hands in her lap and held Aziraphale’s gaze. “I’ve decided to retire, love.”
Aziraphale stared at her in surprise.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she continued. “It’s time.”
“But — but your shop!” Aziraphale scrambled to take in her announcement. “I’m happy for you, of course, but surely you’re not moving?”
Agnes smiled and poured the tea, handing a cup to Aziraphale. “That’s what I’ve been hoping to talk to you about. I’m planning to move to Sussex. But in order to afford that, I’m going to have to sell this building.”
Aziraphale’s stomach dropped at the thought of Agnes moving so far away.
“It’s only a train ride away,” she reminded him. “I’m not going to Mars.”
Aziraphale remembered his manners and set down his cup to clasp Agnes’s hands. “I’m delighted for you, you old boot,” he teased her fondly. “You absolutely deserve your cottage by the sea. And I’ll come visit you with all the news from Whickber Street.”
“I certainly expect you to keep me updated on all the gossip,” she said, her eyes twinkling. She patted his hand and grew more serious. “I’ve talked with an estate agent to get an idea of what the asking price might be. She told me she already has an interested party, but I wanted to speak with you first.” She leant forward intently. “Would you be interested in buying it? Maybe to expand your own business? You could even live here.”
Aziraphale nearly choked on his sip of tea. “Me? Oh, I don’t know.”
She slid a paper across the table that listed the building’s amenities, measurements, and the selling price. He stared at the Very Large Number.
“Now, I know it’s quite a lot, but these are London prices, after all, and perhaps with a bit of financing…” she trailed off, seeing Aziraphale’s wan complexion. “Just think it over. I wanted to give you the first option.”
“And this other interested party?” Aziraphale asked weakly. “Do you know who they are?”
Agnes glowered, disdain crossing her face. “Some big shot developer named Gabriel Archer. The estate agent wasn’t supposed to tell me his name, but I couldn’t help it — I saw it listed on some papers that happened to fall out of her bag.”
Aziraphale had a feeling that the spilled papers were no accident, but didn’t comment on it.
“I looked him up online,” Agnes went on. “I didn’t much care for his face. Too smug. I have nightmares that he’d turn this place into a vape shop or a tacky nightclub. That’s why I’d love it if you could see your way to buying me out, because I know you care about the neighbourhood and would do right by it. But if you can’t or don’t want to, I completely understand.”
Aziraphale picked up the listing sheet, his mind already running through possibilities. Perhaps if he spoke with his accountant, they could run some numbers… “Can you give me some time to look into it? I’m just not sure.”
“Of course, dear. There’s no rush. It’s a huge decision. Now, drink your tea and let me tell you the rumour I heard about Dick Brown.”
As the conversation moved away from real estate and retirement plans, Aziraphale’s anxiety eased somewhat. They ended up stepping out for a light dinner, and before he knew it, it was time to get ready for his next social engagement.
He folded the paper with the listing details into his inner jacket pocket, gave Agnes a peck on the cheek, and promised to follow up about the building once he had a chance to do some research. He then headed home, opting for a second quick shower to clear his mind and freshen up for his so-called business meeting. After the news of Agnes’s departure, he needed a distraction. A long, lanky, and hopefully very flexible distraction.
He splashed on his favorite cologne, straightened his bow tie, patted his wallet in his pocket, and grabbed the bottle of red wine. It was time for — what did the youth call it? — a booty call.
Crowley cast a quick glance around the sitting room to make sure everything was ready. Granted, he was something of a minimalist, so his house was always generally neat. The most cluttered area of his home was his menagerie of plants that were clustered by a window.
He switched on a few strategically placed lamps, lit a large candle in a glass container, and put on some ambient background music to fill the silence. He hoped he’d hit the right mood — not too sterile, not too romantic, but just the right amount of sexy, like his black jeans and lightweight jumper with a deep V-neck that showed a smattering of chest hair.
He checked his watch, his nerves ratcheting up a notch as he noted the time. 7:59. He glanced in the mirror, smoothing a stray lock of hair into place. He wore it loose tonight, having noted that Aziraphale seemed to enjoy burying his fingers in the shoulder-length waves.
If he thought too hard about how they had come to this moment — meeting at his home for a clandestine hookup — his head might implode. It was utterly mad, and yet it seemed inevitable. The sexual tension they generated could power the entire city, so they might as well let it burn in all its glory.
The doorbell rang, making Crowley jump. Punctual bugger. He put on his most suave expression and answered the door, cocking one hip as he leaned against the frame. “Hey.”
Aziraphale looked up at him from the stoop, clutching a bottle of wine in his hand like a talisman. “Hello.”
There was a prolonged beat as if they were both contemplating backing out of the bargain, but Crowley pushed the door open wider. “Come in.”
Aziraphale followed him into the lounge, looking around with interest. “You, uh, you live alone?”
“God, yes. No flatmates for me. I like my own space.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. “A room of one’s own.” He handed Crowley the bottle. “Wine, as promised.”
Crowley looked at the label. “Nice choice. Shall we open it up?”
“Yes, please. The sooner the better.”
Crowley placed the bottle on a nearby table and picked up a corkscrew. As he uncorked the wine, he watched Aziraphale stroll around the room, quietly inspecting the plants and the art on the walls.
When Aziraphale circled back, Crowley passed him a wine glass and indicated that they should have a seat on the large plush sofa.
“So, do we make a toast to our arrangement, or…?” Crowley asked, breaking the renewed tension.
Aziraphale lifted his glass. “To sworn secrecy and no strings.”
“Cheers to that.”
They clinked glasses and took substantial swallows.
“This isn’t what I pictured, you know,” Aziraphale said, waving his glass at the room.
“And what were you expecting?”
“I don’t know… something less sophisticated. Neon beer signs and heavy metal posters, perhaps.”
Crowley laughed, too amused to be insulted. “I’m not a bloody 20-year-old.”
Aziraphale just shrugged. “Who's the artist of that painting?” he asked, pointing at a canvas depicting a moody white-capped sea gradually fading into a deep blue.
Crowley hesitated. It was one of his earlier works that he never could bring himself to part with. “Just some bloke. I liked it.”
“Hmm. It’s very good.”
Crowley tingled at the praise, and he was almost tempted to reveal the truth about the artist but took another drink instead. He didn’t want to have to go into all of that at this particular moment. They were here for a purpose.
“Er, I suppose we should discuss health history,” Crowley started awkwardly. “Mine is squeaky clean, for the record.”
“Likewise,” Aziraphale confirmed.
“Good, brilliant.” Crowley nodded then took another swig. His eyes slid to Aziraphale’s lap, intrigued by the way the fabric of his trousers was stretched taut, hugging the curves of his thighs. He swore he could feel Aziraphale’s eyes roaming over him, lingering on his chest.
They drained their glasses and Aziraphale refilled them.
“I don’t normally do this,” Aziraphale added abruptly. “Have sex with random strangers, I mean.”
Crowley snorted. “Am I demoted to ‘random stranger’? I thought I was at least an irritating acquaintance.”
Aziraphale smiled briefly. “I stand corrected.”
The wine was starting to warm Crowley’s blood, loosening his tongue. “Well, I don’t usually sleep with every random annoying bastard that I meet, either.”
Aziraphale raised a bitchy eyebrow. “I thought that’s what all those condoms you bought were for.”
Oh, cheeky. “Yeah, that might have been a bit overdone.” Crowley grinned around another sip from his glass. “Just like the extra large condoms you bought.”
“Oh, my dear boy, that was no exaggeration.” Aziraphale shot him a smug look as he took a long drink. “You‘ve handled the evidence.”
Hnnnnng. Crowley’s brain went offline momentarily, then snapped back on, humming with anticipation. “Someone’s quite proud of themselves, aren’t they?” he teased, bending forward slightly. “I hope it lives up to my expectations.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
“Well, it’d be pretty impolite to complain mid-fuck, wouldn’t it? ‘One out of five stars: all size, no sizzle,’” Crowley snickered, cracking himself up.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, setting down his glass, “do shut up.”
And with that, Aziraphale grasped Crowley by his lapels and hauled him to his mouth, effectively silencing him.
Crowley blindly set his own glass down while simultaneously pressing deeper into the kiss, delighted that the spark had been reignited.
Here it was — the magical chemistry that brewed between them, unleashed and swirling around them like a smoky spell from a fairy tale. Surely this didn’t happen to real people, sex potions and love lines and all that nonsense.
No, he thought, sliding his fingers into impossibly blond curls, this was animal magnetism, raging pheromones, and good old-fashioned, unbridled lust.
Any hint of hesitation had clearly dropped away as they pawed at each other, necking furiously like doomed teenagers in a horror film.
The wine on Aziraphale’s lips and his intoxicating cologne were like aphrodisiacs. Crowley wanted to devour the man inch by inch, slowly and deliberately. He pressed closer, hooked a leg over Aziraphale’s thighs, and slid into his lap, barely breaking their kiss.
Aziraphale cupped his arse in a tight grip, his breath hitching when Crowley rolled his hips, grinding down with just enough pressure to elicit a very noticeable response.
“You like that?” Crowley taunted.
“Mmm, yes,” Aziraphale breathed out, guiding Crowley’s hips to a sweet spot.
Crowley let himself sink into a rocking motion, his cock hard and straining against his jeans. It felt good, tormenting them both like this, but he stilled, not wanting to end the fun before it really even started.
Aziraphale groaned in frustration at the loss of friction, pulling Crowley closer and urging him to continue. Unable to stop his instinctual reaction to chase more pleasure, Crowley rocked forward again, pressing their cocks together. Aziraphale slid his mouth down Crowley’s throat, nipping at his collar bone while tangling his fingers into his hair. They thrust against each other, panting.
God, he wanted to fuck this man.
Aziraphale was apparently having the same thought. “Your bedroom — where is it?” he asked raggedly, dragging his lips across Crowley’s jaw.
“Upstairs.”
With a huge effort, Crowley disentangled himself and held out a chivalrous hand to help Aziraphale up from where he was squashed into the cushions. With his other hand, he picked up the candle from the coffee table and led the way up the steps in the flickering light.
They passed the closed studio door at the top of the stairs and entered his bedroom. Crowley placed the candle on the chest of drawers that was topped with a mirror, the reflected flame instantly doubling the light. Shadows danced across the large bed covered in black silk sheets and plump pillows.
“Well, this is what I pictured,” Aziraphale mused as Crowley pulled him back into an embrace. “Somehow I knew there would be silk sheets.”
“I like to sleep in the nude.” Crowley ran his lips below Aziraphale’s earlobe. “Silk feels good, you know?”
“Skin feels good,” Aziraphale countered, sliding a hand under the hem of Crowley’s jumper and smoothing his palm along his waist.
Crowley shivered at the touch, his body aching for Aziraphale’s hands to explore him in full. However, he was at a disadvantage, dressed in far fewer clothes than his companion. It was time to even the playing field. He pushed at Aziraphale’s jacket, stripping it off his shoulders and arms and tossing it onto a side chair. He immediately set to work undoing the waistcoat buttons. “You wear too many damn layers,” Crowley complained.
“Not everything is about instant gratification,” Aziraphale shot back, shrugging off the item in question.
“This bow tie,” Crowley grimaced, tugging at one end of Aziraphale’s tartan tie and pulling it undone with a satiny hiss, “has got to go.”
“As does that vulgar belt buckle.”
“Cuff links? Who even wears those anymore?”
Accompanied by a litany of peppery comments, their fingers flew over buckles and buttons and zippers, freeing them from their clothing.
Finally, finally, they were both naked, a fact they both seemed to realise once they stopped bickering and actually paused to take each other in.
Oh. Oh. Aziraphale was stunning, a knee-weakening combination of strength and softness, the golden light playing over his broad shoulders, sturdy thighs, and curved belly.
Crowley wondered how his own slim profile compared, all long lines and sharp angles. He was thankful his chest and legs were decently defined so he didn’t look completely breakable.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Crowley heard himself say before he could censor himself. He immediately regretted blurting that out, afraid it was too honest and intimate for their situationship.
But Aziraphale accepted the compliment with an unexpectedly nervous little smile. “You’re rather gorgeous yourself.”
Well. There it was. They both liked what they saw. Really, really liked it, judging by the state of their arousal.
Crowley gestured at the nightstand on the far side of the bed, a few items placed on top barely visible in the low light. “There’s lube and condoms, so…”
Aziraphale nodded then picked up his trousers, fishing around in the pockets. He pulled out his wallet and lifted out several square foil packets. “I, uh, took the liberty of bringing my own,” he explained. “Given my… anatomy.”
Crowley swallowed. “Yeah, good. Good idea.” Enough talking. More action.
He took Aziraphale by the wrist and sank onto the bed, pulling Aziraphale after him. He soaked in the weight of that voluptuous body stretching over him and pressing him down into the mattress. Ahh, God, Aziraphale was warm and hard and heavy and soft in all the right places. Crowley found his mouth again, kissing him hungrily, slipping his tongue between his lips.
The heat where their skin met was incendiary, setting every nerve alight. With his knees straddling Crowley’s thighs, Aziraphale slowly rutted their cocks together as they explored mouths and necks and shoulders with their lips, sending small shockwaves through their bodies. Crowley rolled his hips upward in hungry thrusts, seeking the irresistible heat and pressure of Aziraphale’s heavy shaft until he nearly reached a tipping point.
Crowley braced his palms against Aziraphale’s chest, stopping him. “Jesus, I won’t last if we keep doing this,” he gasped.
“You’re right,” Aziraphale panted breathlessly, breaking away. He sat back on his heels as they took a brief pause to cool the frenzy of the moment.
That didn’t stop their eyes from roving over each other’s bodies in the shifting light. It was still a bit surprising to see Aziraphale exposed like this, his usual structured layers stripped away to reveal lush curves, silvery coarse hair, and dusky, taut nipples. And that cock. Huge and hard. For him.
Crowley eagerly reached for the large bottle of lube and held it out to Aziraphale.
“Maybe you could warm me up a bit with your fingers,” he suggested, not one to be shy about these things.
“Right.” Aziraphale took the bottle and shuffled closer.
Crowley arranged himself on several pillows and laid back, opening his legs in welcome. Aziraphale curved over him to capture his mouth again, and soon Crowley felt a cool, wet sensation slicked over his entrance, Aziraphale’s fingers gently working in a circular motion.
Crowley relaxed easily under Aziraphale’s touch, watching the shadows flicker over his face. The sandalwood scent of the candle filled the room, mixing with the heady traces of soap and cologne from their warm skin.
“Is this all right?” Aziraphale murmured as he slowly pressed in a thick fingertip.
“S’fine,” Crowley slurred back, his body slack. “S’good.”
Soon, a second finger slipped in, and Crowley made a small noise of satisfaction at being stretched and filled.
He moaned as Aziraphale gently pulsed his fingers in and out, any resistance melting away. Aziraphale smiled down at him wickedly, crooking his fingers to brush over his prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through his core. Crowley let out a groan, suddenly seized with the need for more. “Fuck, I want your cock in me. I'm ready.”
Aziraphale fumbled for one of the XL foil packets and ripped it open, Crowley watching lazily as he rolled the latex down his impressive length. When he slathered his cock with lube, Crowley’s body stirred with another intense wave of desire, the word girth burning like an ember in his mind. He settled back into the pillows again, drawing Aziraphale down by his shoulders.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Crowley murmured, grinning as he hooked his ankles around Aziraphale’s hips, “the fearsome King Cobra will now disappear before your very eyes.”
Aziraphale halted, confused. Then he broke into an unexpected laugh. “Do you always talk this much during sex?” He shifted slightly, lining himself up.
“Probably,” Crowley admitted. “I tend to be —” he suddenly stopped, his words melting into a breathy ahhh as he grasped at Aziraphale’s back, overwhelmed by the powerful sensation of being penetrated.
“All right?” Aziraphale asked softly.
Crowley bit his lower lip and nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”
Crowley’s impulse to chatter faded away as he locked gazes with Aziraphale, giving himself over to the vulnerability of the moment, putting total trust into the man braced above him.
Aziraphale pushed in a bit farther, pausing. “Too much?”
“No — keep going.”
Aziraphale eased in fractionally, watching Crowley carefully. Finally seated, he stopped and bracketed his elbows on either side of Crowley’s head, dropping a kiss just below the snake tattoo.
“How do you feel?” Aziraphale asked softly.
“Good… so incredibly full…” Crowley smiled, looking up into those blue-grey eyes that were several shades darker in the low light. “I want to feel you move.”
Aziraphale returned the smile then drew back and pushed in again slowly, repeating the strokes in a smooth, steady rhythm.
“Oh, fuuuck,” Crowley moaned, his toes actually curling with pleasure. “Keep doing that.” He ran his fingers over knobs of spine and warm flesh, exploring the curves and planes of Aziraphale’s body, still gazing into his eyes.
“You feel wonderful,” Aziraphale praised him, increasing his pace gradually. “You’re taking me so well.”
Crowley glowed, feeling like he’d won a prize. But in a way, he had, hadn’t he? A night getting properly railed with no obligations was pretty damn special. “I can take more,” he hinted.
Aziraphale grinned, locking his hands under the crooks of Crowley’s knees and hoisting his ankles over his shoulders. He increased his pace until they were both panting, his hips pumping like a piston.
“Holy ffffff —” Crowley couldn’t finish his delighted curse, his entire system overwhelmed by the thrill of being utterly dicked down. Christ, he needed this, needed to get out of his own head and doubts and limitations. He needed to be completely taken apart and rewired, letting his animal body take over.
The bed springs squeaked and his cock bounced wildly against his stomach, leaving a splotch of wetness where it leaked. Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s thighs as he pounded into him, his eyes closed and his lips parted, a furrow creased in his brow.
Aziraphale was close, Crowley could tell, and he was eager to see Aziraphale’s orgasm face again. Would it be sweetly pained or a grimace? Would he shout or grunt or remain silent?
He was equally eager to set off his own release, his hand wrapping around his cock to give it a few relieving tugs. “I want to see you come,” Crowley gasped, stroking himself, unable to wait any longer.
Aziraphale’s eyes opened, looking a bit dazed until he found Crowley’s gaze again. “Let yourself go. Come now,” Crowley urged, choking his own cock with slick fingers.
He watched as Aziraphale’s hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering, then catching again, caught in a mounting wave — then he pitched forward with a low grunt, burying his cock deep inside Crowley. His face bloomed into something like ecstasy, beautiful and pure, as he shattered into his climax.
Crowley didn’t see the rest, his own orgasm overtaking him as he stripped his fist over his cock, his back arching, a guttural noise escaping with the first crest of intense pleasure. “Oh, fuck… fuck…” he heard himself groaning helplessly, riding each ripple until he was milking out the last quivering drops of his release.
Aziraphale’s weight was suddenly engulfing him again, his hands tangling in his hair. Crowley responded in kind, pulling Aziraphale’s mouth to his, gasping breathlessly into a long, heady kiss.
They finally broke apart, Aziraphale rolling off to the side, their chests heaving as they descended back to the reality of sticky skin and damp sheets.
Crowley laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to reassemble his thoughts. That… had been amazing.
The experience had been better than he’d ever dared to imagine, and Aziraphale — stuffy, priggish, and unbearable Aziraphale — had turned out to be a caring, considerate, and talented lover. Crowley rubbed his eyes. Was he hallucinating? Stranger things had happened, he supposed, becoming almost giddy thinking about the many opportunities ahead to put their arrangement into practice.
Aziraphale’s voice broke the silence. “That was… that was very satisfying, wouldn’t you say?”
Crowley turned onto his side, pulling the silk sheet up to their waists, and Aziraphale followed suit so they faced each other. Aziraphale’s expectant expression was coloured with the slightest tinge of uncertainty.
“Five out of five stars,” Crowley reassured him, pleased to see Aziraphale’s face relax into a smile.
“Sizzle?”
“Oh, fuck yeah, there was sizzle.” Without thinking, Crowley rested his palm casually on Aziraphale’s chest, toying with the silvery hair, and easily accepted the gentle brush of Aziraphale’s fingertips as he swept a lock of hair away from his forehead.
They both froze at the same moment, both realising they were in uncharted territory. They hadn’t set the terms for the after-sex part, hadn’t clarified what caretaking or cuddling was allowed.
It seemed rude to throw his guest out into the cold night, and besides, this was rather nice, basking in the afterglow, Crowley had to admit.
“You’re welcome to stay,” Crowley offered. “We could take a shower and clean up, finish that wine…?”
“I’d like that,” Aziraphale said, visibly relieved.
“It was an excellent vintage,” Crowley added, giving them both an excuse to prolong the night.
“Oh, absolutely,” Aziraphale readily agreed. “Shouldn’t let it go undrunk.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Undrunk? Is that even a word?”
“Of course it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look it up, if you like.”
“Phone’s too far away.” Crowley waved a hand at where their crumpled clothes lay on the floor.
Their shins and thighs pressed against each other, their soft cocks almost touching.
“I think,” Aziraphale said, trailing a finger down Crowley’s neck, “you should show me where your shower is.”
They continued to gaze at each other. Crowley didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay here, studying the face across from him that held a trillion minute expressions that were suddenly fascinating. “In a minute.”
Their lips met again, the shower and wine forgotten.
Notes:
Uh oh, do I detect some feelings?
Thanks so much for the encouraging and hilarious notes -- they are all very much appreciated!
Chapter 7
Notes:
Welcome back! This week I'm posting a little early since I'll be traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday. It's a special treat of three chapters! I hope you enjoy them and have a lovely holiday if you celebrate it. I'm thankful for the fandom community and AO3.
Chapter Text
The dim room was cool and the bed was marvelously soft, lulling Aziraphale into another cycle of light sleep. He nestled against a warm back, burying his nose into the fragrant hair flowing over the pillow. He shifted his arm, pulling his pliant companion closer against his chest, his cock twitching with morning curiosity against the lean arse jutting into his groin.
This was lovely, spooning like this. This was so cosy. This was… oh, dear God, this was Crowley.
Aziraphale’s eyes flew open, verifying the red hair and sinewy back and black sheets. He scrambled to reconnect the steps that led to him waking up naked in Crowley’s flat with the equally naked man still wrapped in his arms.
He traced back to where it started last night: they talked and drank wine, snogged on the sofa, moved upstairs, had mindblowing sex, eventually showered, finished the wine, tested out Crowley’s stock of flavoured condoms with a giggling attempt at 69 (Cherry Blast and Juicy Mango Tango certainly lived up to their names once they got the hang of it), then finally fell into bed sated, naked, and sleepy. So far, their arrangement had been a rousing success.
But what about this unexpected development — staying over and canoodling, spooning like they were in a relationship? Which they weren’t, obviously. They didn’t even like each other.
Or did they?
Confused, Aziraphale gingerly unhooked his arm from around Crowley and scooted away a few inches, leaving some room between them.
Maybe he should slip out of bed, put on his clothes, and begin the walk back to his own flat. They wouldn’t even have to talk about it if he left now.
His half-formed plan came to an abrupt end as Crowley stirred and stretched like an oversized cat. Aziraphale waited as Crowley gradually noticed his presence and turned his head to look at him.
Aziraphale held his breath, unsure what to expect. He was surprised when Crowley merely smiled sleepily. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what else to say.
Crowley stretched again, then sat up. He picked up a hair tie from the side table and scooped his hair into a messy bun. “Want some coffee?”
“Erm, sure.”
Crowley slithered out of bed and Aziraphale admired his lithe form as he pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and yet another black T-shirt. The man seemed to have an endless supply of them.
“Come down to the kitchen whenever you’re ready,” Crowley said before sauntering away.
Well, that was easier than he’d imagined. No awkward hemming and hawing and small talk, just coffee. Encouraged, Aziraphale climbed out of bed and picked up his rumpled clothes. He tutted to himself, wishing he had access to an iron. He wasn’t sure if Crowley even owned such a thing.
Making peace with his wrinkled clothes, Aziraphale freshened up then started to follow the scent of brewing coffee to the kitchen. He paused briefly in front of the closed door at the top of the stairs, wondering what was inside. Another bedroom? An office? More plants?
He was tempted to take a quick peek, but he resisted, finding his way to the kitchen instead. Crowley placed a large mug of coffee in front of Aziraphale as he took a seat at the table.
Crowley turned to rummage in the cupboards. “I can also offer you toast and marmalade or… toast and marmalade. Need to go to the shops.”
“Well, toast it is then.” Aziraphale stirred cream and sugar into his mug, amazed at how normal this all felt. “Do you work today?”
“Yeah, at noon. You?”
“I go in at eleven.”
“Right.”
Aziraphale sipped his coffee, watching Crowley move around the kitchen.
“Sleep all right?” Crowley asked, leaning against the worktop as the bread toasted.
“Oh, yes. I was quite wrung out.” Aziraphale cleared his throat meaningfully.
Crowley smirked. “Me too.”
Aziraphale couldn’t repress a small smile. He glanced down into his coffee mug, suddenly seized with the urge to tell Crowley that he knew about his art. It felt dishonest not to reveal that he knew such an important piece of information at this stage of their — whatever this was. “Look, Crowley, I have to tell you something.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow as he set a jar of orange marmalade on the table. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s nothing bad, just a bit personal. When Maggie and I were talking to Nina, she mentioned that you went to art school together.”
Crowley stopped mid drink, his mug suspended half way to his mouth.
Aziraphale pushed onward. “She told us that you’re an artist. A painter.”
The toast popped up and Crowley jumped a little, startled. “What else did she say?” he asked gruffly, nabbing the toast and depositing the slices onto plates.
“That your work at Seven Circles is temporary, and that you’re only there until Nina gets the business established.”
Crowley slid a plate of toast to Aziraphale but remained standing, his face guarded.
Aziraphale sighed, coming clean with the whole story. “I know that you’re a successful artist, that the piece in there” — he pointed at the canvas hanging in the sitting room — “is one of yours, and that you paint under the name of AJ Crowley.”
Crowley was silent for a long time. He pulled out a chair and sat down with an air of sulkiness. “You’re not going to make a big deal about this, are you?”
Aziraphale looked at him quizzically as he slathered his toast with marmalade. “About what? That you’re an accomplished artist?”
Crowley hunched over his coffee. “Sometimes people act differently around me once they find out what I do or who I might know. Like I’m some sort of exotic curiosity.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took a calm sip from his cup. “My dear boy, you’re hardly the first artiste I’ve interacted with. Writers, musicians, even the occasional actor frequent Le Paradis. I assure you, I treat them all with professionalism and discretion.”
The corner of Crowley’s mouth tilted wryly. “Even the ones you fuck?”
“I don’t bed my clientele,” Aziraphale said primly.
A few moments passed as Crowley toyed with the handle of his mug. “How did you know that was my painting?” He nodded towards the sitting room. “It’s not signed.”
“I recognized the style. I’ve seen some of your other work in a magazine. And I, um, looked you up online.”
Crowley grinned at this. “You stalked me?”
“No! I was just curious.” He felt his cheeks burning. “Oh, all right, I might have done some minor investigation.”
Crowley leant back in his chair. “You barely exist online. A few articles about the wine bar and some business awards… booooring.”
Aziraphale’s eyes flew to Crowley. “Ha! You stalked me!”
They assessed each other as Aziraphale took a delicate bite of his toast. Secretly, he was a little thrilled that he’d been Googled. But he was curious to learn more about Crowley’s art. “So what are you currently working on, if I may ask?”
“Something completely new. I’m finally getting past a creative block.” Crowley hesitated, letting his gaze wander around the room. “Do you… ” he paused as if reluctant to finish his question, “…want to see my studio?”
Aziraphale perked up. “May I?”
“It’s upstairs.” Crowley gestured vaguely upwards.
“I’d be honoured.”
Crowley scraped his chair back and led the way back up the stairs, opening the door that had been firmly closed.
As Aziraphale stepped inside, he was immediately captivated by the sunlight pouring through the windows and sky light. The scent of paint and what he guessed were turpentine and linseed oil hung in the air.
Several canvases in various stages of progress sat on easels, and a work table held dozens of sketches, sheets of drawing paper, jars of brushes, and various pens and pencils.
Aziraphale walked around slowly, examining everything. He stopped in front of a painting of blues and greys.
“I’m not sure if it’s finished yet,” Crowley commented, coming to stand beside him.
“I quite like it.” Aziraphale moved closer to admire the work. “I’m drawn to the colours.”
“Hmm, yeah.” Crowley agreed. “So am I.”
Aziraphale gazed at the painting, losing himself in the image that seemed to shift from a stormy landscape to a seascape and back again. The paint was so thick and textured that he was tempted to touch it. “I can’t stop looking at it. The brushstrokes are wonderful.”
“You had some great strokes yourself last night,” Crowley practically purred in Aziraphale’s ear.
A shiver of delight ran down Aziraphale’s spine, but if he ever wanted to get anything done today, he really ought to leave. He took a small sidestep and made his way to the door. “Thank you for showing me this,” he swept a hand around the studio. “It’s really quite impressive.”
Crowley slouched casually against the work table. “Thanks for showing me your impressive assets.” His gaze dropped to Aziraphale’s crotch. “It’s been fun.”
Aziraphale smiled at Crowley’s inability to take a compliment seriously. “Indeed it has. Shall we meet at mine next time? Assuming you wish to arrange a next time?” he added hurriedly.
“I’ll check my schedule. Pretty sure I’m free Sunday night.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Aziraphale hesitated, not sure what else to add. “Right, then. I should be going. No need to show me out. I know the way.”
He quickly made his way downstairs and out the door, walking at a fast clip. He fervently hoped that he wouldn’t encounter anyone he knew on his way home. The thought of trying to make chit chat was far too exhausting. So sorry, can’t talk right now. My calm and orderly life has suddenly been upended by a secret sex pact with a kombucha-delivery-man artist and an overwhelming financial decision. Ta!
What he really needed, he knew deep in his bones, was a proper cup of tea.
Once home, he tidied up and fortified himself with a cuppa, read a long article about the Spanish wine industry, polished his shoes, then decided it was time to stroll to work. He had successfully pushed the night with Crowley into a far corner of his mind to think about later.
As he approached Le Paradis, he recognised Agnes in her long black skirt standing outside the antiques store. She was speaking with a tall, well-built man in a grey suit. Curious, Aziraphale sidled closer, catching Agnes’s eye. She smiled, then broke into a knowing grin, beckoning him over. “I see that someone had a good night,” she proclaimed loudly. “I want to hear all about it later.”
Aziraphale forced a laugh, mortified that she could read him like a book. He quickly changed the subject, turning to the blandly handsome man in the grey suit. “Hello, I’m a friend of Agnes’s. Aziraphale Fell.” He held out his hand expecting a brief polite shake. Instead, his palm was engulfed in a crushing grip.
“Gabriel Archer.” The man pumped Aziraphale’s hand with gusto. “I was just telling Agnes here how much I love this neighbourhood. There’s so much potential.”
Aziraphale blanched. That name — Gabriel Archer. This was the real estate developer that Agnes had mentioned. “Potential?” Aziraphale repeated, unable to tear his eyes from the man’s disturbingly square jaw and artificially bronzed skin.
“Oh, yeah. It’s so adorable. I’d love to open a business here of some kind.”
Aziraphale exchanged a wary look with Agnes. “What kind of business?” he ventured.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something that would appeal to ex-pats like myself. Maybe a Starbucks. Or spray-on tans — you guys have so much rain!” Gabriel chuckled at his own witticism. “Oo! Maybe a Taco Bell. Man, I miss that place.”
Anger roiled inside of Aziraphale, but he kept it in check. Gabriel Archer was an utter buffoon with appalling ideas. “So good to meet you,” he said coolly, taking his leave. “Best of luck with your big dreams.” His words oozed with sarcasm, but Gabriel didn’t seem to notice. “Agnes, I’ll chat with you later.”
Aziraphale strode to Le Paradis, walking immediately to his office. He picked up the phone and dialed his accountant, his hands trembling a little as it rang. Whether the shakiness was from rage, fear, or excitement, he couldn’t tell. He only knew that he had to try to stop Gabriel Archer from destroying the very fabric of the neighbourhood. He snapped to attention as soon as a familiar dry voice answered.
“Michael? It’s Aziraphale Fell. I need to talk to you as soon as possible about a new business plan. I may have an opportunity to expand.”
Over the next several days, Crowley found his thoughts repeatedly drifting to the evening — and the unexpected morning — he’d spent with Aziraphale. He had surprised himself by showing Aziraphale his studio; that little side tour had also been completely unplanned. Had he done it to prove that he wasn’t just a shallow Grindr-esque hookup? That he was more than an ordinary delivery driver? Was he trying to share a glimpse of his true self, or had he just been showing off?
He honestly didn’t know, and now as he rang the bell to Aziraphale’s flat for their Sunday night arrangement, he decided not to dwell on it. He was simply looking forward to another romp in the sheets.
The door soon swung open and Aziraphale bustled him inside with an air of urgency.
“I hope you don’t mind, but could we cut straight to business?” Aziraphale asked, looking unusually stressed.
“You mean you wanna —”
“Just fuck right now, yes.”
Crowley tried to cover his surprise. “I’m not opposed to the idea, I just need a little time to, you know, switch gears.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Aziraphale pressed his fingertips to his forehead as if he had a headache. “I’m just a tad tense and I could really use some stress relief.”
Crowley had never seen him so keyed up before, which was saying something because Aziraphale was a high-strung creature to begin with. A grin crept across Crowley’s face. “I know exactly how to cure stress.”
He crowded Aziraphale against the foyer wall, pressing him next to a tan trench coat that hung from a peg. Swiftly unbuttoning Aziraphale’s trousers, he sank to his knees, pulling down the pair of baby blue boxer shorts along the way. He gazed upwards at Aziraphale’s expectant face as he wrapped his hand around his cock, welcoming his gasp and drawn out moan of ohhh, yessss…
It didn’t take long to tame Aziraphale’s tension. The man was practically ready to burst from the first moment he slipped his lips over his cock. Crowley relished Aziraphale’s breathy praise and fingers tightening in his hair, the musky scent of his skin and helpless, shallow thrusts into his mouth. With a few deft strokes of his hand and swirls of his tongue, Crowley soon brought Aziraphale off, the taste of his release flooding down his throat.
Spent, Aziraphale sagged against the wall. “Oh, you knew exactly what I needed,” he sighed, stroking Crowley’s hair.
Crowley went a bit weak at the touch, and he let Aziraphale help him up from his kneeling position on the floor.
“Come to bed and I’ll see to your needs next,” Aziraphale hummed, propelling Crowley up a set of stairs.
In the rush, Crowley gained very little sense of what the flat looked like, but he could smell the traces of Aziraphale’s cologne in the bedroom and feel fine cotton sheets against his bare skin as they tumbled onto a massive bed. His thoughts were soon occupied by Aziraphale’s tongue sliding up the underside of his cock, and he gave in to the waves of sensuous pleasure rippling through his body. Hell, yeah, this was an amazing start to the evening.
Afterwards, they lazed in bed until their stomachs growled with a reminder to eat.
“Let’s have a little snack, shall we?” Aziraphale suggested. “But first, let’s get you something comfortable to wear.”
Rummaging through his wardrobe, Aziraphale handed Crowley a plush dressing gown — an ostentatious red velvet number with gold brocade.
“Thanks,” Crowley said dubiously, holding up the garment to inspect it before slipping it on.
Aziraphale happily wrapped himself in a fluffy white robe that looked like it had been nicked from a luxury hotel, then led Crowley downstairs to a large sitting room. Or was it a library?
Crowley gaped at the tall bookshelves that lined nearly every wall. Eclectic objects filled the space — an antique globe, an ancient gramophone, small statues, and so many trinkets that his head spun.
“I’m something of a collector,” Aziraphale explained as he disappeared into the kitchen. “I have a particular weakness for first editions.”
“So I see.” Crowley wandered around the room, reading random titles along the book spines and inspecting oddities.
Aziraphale soon rejoined him, handing him a glass of red wine. “Are you an avid reader?”
“Er, not really. I mean, I like the idea of books, but I’m more of a film buff.”
“Ah, I see. Classic films?”
“Nng, more like spy films. You know, Bond. James Bond.” Crowley cocked his finger like a gun, but Aziraphale looked at him blankly.
In the ensuing silence, Crowley knew they were deducting points from their mental tally of each other’s presumed intelligence.
“C’mon, surely you’ve seen a Bond film. 007?” Crowley pressed.
“Perhaps I watched one when I was an adolescent,” Aziraphale said unconvincingly.
“How can you not know? It’s one of the most famous film franchises in the world!”
“I’ve probably seen snippets. I just don’t seek out that particular genre.”
“Wow.” Crowley swept a hand through his hair in disbelief. “You do own a television, right?”
“I enjoy an Agatha Christie murder mystery now and then,” Aziraphale admitted, gesturing toward the sofa in an invitation to sit.
“That’s a start, at least,” Crowley mumbled as he sat down.
“Charcuterie?” Aziraphale offered him a board artfully arranged with cheese, meats, olives, nuts, bread, and fruit.
Crowley popped an olive into his mouth. “Did Maggie make this?”
Aziraphale looked as if he’d been caught cheating. “How did you know?”
“Just an educated guess.” Crowley narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You didn’t say anything to her about us, did you?”
“Absolutely not. I submitted it as an anonymous catering order.”
“Sneaky.” Crowley nodded approvingly, taking another olive.
“Maggie has her own sneaky agenda, you know,” Aziraphale pointed out while selecting a piece of cheese. “She has a pash on Nina. She’s always coming up with excuses to visit Seven Circles.”
“You’re joking.” Crowley laughed, then saw that Aziraphale was serious. “Maggie? And Nina?”
“Do you think Maggie stands a chance?”
Crowley swirled his wine, weighing the question. “I don’t know. Nina had a rough breakup with her last partner. I’m not sure she’s looking for anything new. But who knows? Maggie seems nice enough.”
“Oh, she is. Nina would be lucky to be with her.”
Crowley held up his hands diplomatically. “Look, I’m not getting involved. I’ll just say that Nina is a bit of an acquired taste, but underneath that spiky exterior, she has a good heart.”
Aziraphale picked up an almond, shaking his head. “Relationships can be so complicated,” he tutted. “Thank goodness we have a clear understanding.”
“Exactly. Just sex.”
They clinked glasses and took a long drink.
“I mean, can you even imagine the two of us as a couple?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.
Crowley nearly spat out his wine. “Oh, God, no. What a disaster. We’d kill each other!”
“We wouldn’t last a day!” Aziraphale giggled.
They guffawed at the scenario and nibbled at the cheese board. Crowley looked around the flat at the books, old-fashioned furniture, and bric-a-brac. It was not at all his style and another example of the hundreds of reasons they were incompatible. It was, however, admittedly cosy, like an eccentric library from a story book.
He settled into the corner of the sofa, amused to find himself lounging around and drinking wine in nothing but a gaudy velvet dressing gown.
“What had you so stressed out, anyway?” he asked, biting into a slice of apple.
Aziraphale sighed heavily. “Oh, it’s a long story.”
Crowley listened as Aziraphale explained his friend Agnes’s decision to retire and sell the building next to Le Paradis.
“There’s an obnoxious American interested in buying the property to turn it into some sort of hideous fast food restaurant.” Aziraphale shuddered in horror. “I’ve been speaking with my accountant to see if there’s any way I can afford to buy it. I’m looking into securing a bank loan, if need be. But I’m going to put in a bid no matter what. I can’t stand by and watch that awful man ruin the neighbourhood.”
Crowley was silent for a long moment. “Is that how you feel about Seven Circles and the other new shops? That we ruined Whickber Street?”
A flash of guilt crossed Aziraphale’s face. “I admit that at first I wasn’t thrilled. But then I came to realise that all the shops are owned by people who are passionate about their work. They’re unique — not soulless chain stores run by corporations.” He clutched his wine glass, his cheeks flushed with indignation. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into my business. I refuse to let its sterling reputation be tarnished by a bloody Taco Bell!”
Crowley blinked, impressed by Aziraphale’s vehemence. “Isn’t there a zoning law or something you can use to stop this Archer prick?”
“Sadly, no. Although we should add it as an agenda item for our next meeting.” Aziraphale flopped against the back of the sofa, despondent.
“Maybe Agnes would let you pay in installments?” Crowley offered, grasping at straws.
“Maybe. She needs the money so she can retire to Sussex. It’s her dream. I can’t ask her to change her plans for me.”
“Ah.” Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to pry into Aziraphale’s financial situation or his friendship with Agnes. He opted to take another drink of wine and remain quiet.
“Sorry,” Aziraphale apologised, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“S’all right.” Crowley cocked his head, struck with an idea. “Do you have a bathtub?”
“Well, yes,” Aziraphale answered, slightly confused. “Why?”
“When I’m stressed, I like to take a long, hot bath.” Crowley stood up and held out a hand to Aziraphale. “Think your tub has room for two?”
Aziraphale looked up at him, the worried line of his mouth blossoming into a smile. “I’m fairly sure it does.”
The clawfoot bathtub was indeed large and luxurious, just like everything else about Aziraphale, Crowley mused as he hungrily watched him sink into a mountain of bubbles.
They lazed in the steamy water on opposite ends of the tub, their bent knees nearly overlapping at the midpoint.
“Feeling better?” Crowley asked, running an arched foot along the inside of Aziraphale’s tempting thigh.
“Mmm, getting there.” Aziraphale lounged with his head resting against the back of the tub, his eyes closed. “Might need a massage after this to truly relax. There’s massage oil in the drawer of my bedside table,” he hinted.
“You are a special princess, aren't you?” Crowley teased, flicking bubbles at him.
Aziraphale lifted a dismissive shoulder. “I like to be pampered sometimes.”
Feeling generous, Crowley obliged the silly man’s desire to be indulged, carefully draping an oversized towel around his shoulders as they stepped from the bath. Once dried off, Crowley guided Aziraphale to the bed and instructed him to stretch out on his stomach. He straddled Aziraphale’s waist, trying to ignore the heat of their flushed skin pressed together, and began massaging almond-scented oil into Aziraphale’s broad shoulders.
God, he loved the filthy noises that Aziraphale made as he dug his fingers into knots of muscle. He ran his thumbs up the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pressing small circles under the damp blond curls at his nape.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale sighed into the sheets, seeming to melt under Crowley’s hands.
It was strangely enticing, reducing such a formal, sturdy man to a malleable puddle. His own cock was half hard from the contact with Aziraphale’s body, but he focused on loosening Aziraphale’s tight upper back.
“You have strong hands,” Aziraphale mumbled, sounding half asleep.
Crowley smiled to himself. Hauling cartloads of kombucha wasn’t glamorous, but it worked every muscle in his body, including his hands. He was wiry, but he had some strength to him.
He proved it by suddenly flipping Aziraphale onto his back and pressing him into the mattress, pinning him down with his thighs. He grinned at Aziraphale’s startled expression.
Crowley trailed his hands down Aziraphale’s chest, over his belly, to the vee of his thighs.
“What should I do with you?” Crowley wondered aloud, a wicked glint in his eyes.
Aziraphale gripped the sheets, fixing Crowley with a lascivious gaze. “What do you want to do, hmm?”
“I think,” Crowley curved his hands around Aziraphale’s hips, letting his fingers sink into the plump flesh of his backside, “I’d like to take a bite of this luscious cake.”
Crowley flipped Aziraphale onto his stomach again, then smoothed his hands over the delicious mounds of soft skin. Aziraphale exhaled luxuriously, arching his back and raising the perfect globes of his arse into the air like a cat in heat.
Sweet Jesus. Aziraphale was offering himself right there, a decadent fruit ripe for the taking. Crowley’s body was instantly aflame, his cock stiffening with the fastest hard-on of his life.
Aziraphale wiggled his bum coquettishly. “Don’t make me wait,” he demanded.
Crowley gazed at the feast before him, hardly believing he was being invited to sink deep into that gorgeous peach.
Oh, he was gladly going to give Aziraphale what he wanted. Crowley reached blindly for the lube, his motions hastened by lusty need, and soon he was cupping that lush roundness with his palms and sliding his cock into the most intimate of crevices.
Aziraphale gasped, twisting the sheets in his fingers. “Ohh, Crowley…”
Crowley grinned as he drew back and slowly thrust in again, watching his cock glide into a silky paradise. Aziraphale moaned out a symphony of delight, his oiled skin glistening in the low light.
It was like making love in a rococo painting, all plump curves and rosy flesh, the mood soft and gleaming with an air of abandoned decadence.
“I’ve thought about this far too much, sinking into your glorious arse,” Crowley growled, pushing in so deeply that his balls ached with barely restrained anticipation.
“I’ve dreamt of your slinky hips grinding into me...” Aziraphale gasped in pleasure. “Oh, just like that…mmm, don’t stop… ”
Crowley quickened his pace, relishing the slap of slick skin and Aziraphale’s breathy little moans embellished with raw desire.
“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley murmured, losing himself in the heated moment. “I’ve got you...”
Chapter Text
A few weeks later…
Aziraphale stared at the spreadsheet on his laptop, the columns of numbers turning into a meaningless blur as his mind wandered. He was working late in his office again, checking the books and calculating projections, trying not to fret about another day without a word from Agnes.
He had submitted an offer for the property several days ago, a sum large enough to make him slightly nauseous every time he thought about it, but he’d also included a business plan for expanding Le Paradis. The vision included a more extensive menu and extra seating, additional shop space, and a separate event room. It would involve some remodeling, hiring more employees, and training additional managers, all of which was daunting, but he believed it could be achieved. He had to.
The estate agent he was working with, Ms Uriel Aster, urged him to remain patient and reminded him that even though he and Agnes were friends, this was all about business.
“I prefer not to mix the personal with the professional. Emotions can complicate things,” she had remarked coolly when Aziraphale had originally mentioned his friendship with Agnes. It was difficult to imagine Uriel having any emotions or friends, she was so brittle and cold, but she had come highly recommended as a negotiator.
These things took time, he knew, and there might be counter offers and contingencies to wade through, so he just needed to remain calm and carry on.
He attempted to refocus on the screen but the numbers continued to swim in front of his eyes. Sighing, he gave up and closed the laptop.
Aziraphale tipped back in his chair and picked up the cup of tea he had made earlier. He sipped at it, frowning at the lukewarm temperature. His mind meandered again, going where it often did these days — to Crowley.
Things were going quite well with the arrangement. They alternated flats for their trysts and had fallen into the habit of staying the entire night whenever they had a rendezvous — all for the sake of convenience, of course. The toothbrushes and few personal items stored at each other’s places were purely additions of convenience as well. It wasn’t like they were a couple — that would be preposterous. They had nothing in common outside of the bedroom.
But inside the bedroom (or on the sofa or in the shower or in the delivery van that one time), they were extremely well matched. They remained vigilantly secretive about their agreement, barely acknowledging each other or merely trading terse remarks if they happened to cross paths during the day. Everyone assumed their mutual antagonism was ongoing.
If only the world knew what really went on between them… He smiled to himself, amused by imagining how Nina or Maggie would react to the news.
“What are you looking so smug about?”
Aziraphale looked up at the voice, surprised to see Crowley leaning against the door frame.
“You really should lock the back door,” Crowley pointed out, his sunglasses still on even at this late hour. “All sorts of weirdos could just waltz in here.”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale replied dryly. “What brings you round? Another package delivery?”
Crowley smirked. “Maybe later. But look at what I found today.” He held up a rectangular object.
“Is that,” Aziraphale squinted, “a DVD case?”
“It is. Saw it in a sale bin. It’s a classic film.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Which one — ‘Citizen Kane’?”
“Nope.” Crowley jiggled the case enticingly. “It’s the very first James Bond film, ‘Dr No.’ Sean Connery, 1962.”
Aziraphale tried not to look as disinterested as he felt. “That’s nice.”
Crowley pointed at him with the plastic box. “You're going to watch it with me.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“C’mon. You’re hopelessly Bond illiterate. It’s embarrassing.” Crowley shook the case again as if tempting a dog with a treat. “I have sweets to go along with it.”
Aziraphale was briefly torn — he ought to be doing something productive, and yet he yearned for a distraction, even if it was a terrible movie and Maltesers.
“All right. You win,” Aziraphale capitulated, and Crowley’s grin grew even wider.
He rose from his chair and switched off the lights, then made a cursory inspection of the premises before heading to the back door with Crowley.
“Wait,” Crowley hesitated, looking uncertain, “should we leave separately, or…?”
Aziraphale pondered the question. It was highly unlikely that anyone would see them walking together at this hour, especially if they stuck to side streets. He decided they should chance it, and Crowley agreed.
They didn’t talk much on the way to Crowley’s place, the novelty of the situation sinking in. Walking side-by-side for a spontaneous activity that didn’t immediately involve a sexual encounter was certainly unique.
What would it be like, Aziraphale idly wondered while stealing a glance at Crowley, to openly stroll down the street with a serious boyfriend? He’d never really had that sort of comfortable, long-term relationship where he held hands with a lover while browsing a market, or casually placed a hand on the small of his back while guiding him through a door.
Crowley probably considered himself far too cool to ever indulge in such small tokens of affection, Aziraphale mused. What was he like in a real relationship? Did he send romantic texts — or dick pics? Did he bring his paramour flowers, or just buy them a pint? Did he ever give his lovers paintings as gifts? The sheer romanticism of the thought made Aziraphale’s heart flutter a little. He was struck with a sudden pang of longing for someone who didn’t exist — someone to stroll and shop and cook with, someone to wake up to every day and build a life with.
He exhaled, seized with melancholy. Perhaps, though, his future partner was out there somewhere, their paths not yet aligned. Crowley, he knew, was certainly not interested in pursuing anything beyond their arrangement. The idea wasn’t even an option, being too far-fetched to ever consider.
Once they arrived at Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale excused himself to take a quick shower. He had his own towel hanging on the rack now, and a drawer in the bedroom set aside for a few items of clothing and pyjamas that he now slipped into. It was certainly more efficient to have everything he needed here instead of rushing back to his own flat.
He returned downstairs to find Crowley in the sitting room, the film cued up on the large television and a selection of snacks spread out on the coffee table.
“Ready?” Crowley asked, his expression eager.
His excitement was rather endearing, Aziraphale thought as he took a seat next to Crowley. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered, picking up a bowl of salty popcorn. “Er, how many of these films are there?”
Crowley settled back with the remote, tucking his legs into some sort of unnatural pretzel position. “Twenty-seven, I think.”
Oh, dear God… Aziraphale smiled weakly. He gamely followed along with the plot, such as it was, finding Crowley’s running narrative of sarcastic remarks and bits of trivia entertaining. While he usually disliked it when people talked during films, the cosy setting of blankets, wine, and sweets made it enjoyable.
The film eventually hit a lull, and Aziraphale was unable to stifle a yawn. He settled his head back against the sofa and pulled his blanket closer around him. Maybe if he just closed his eyes during this dull part…
Aziraphale woke with a crick in his neck, his vision blurry. The television was still on, the image frozen on the DVD’s home screen. It took several more moments to realise that they had both fallen asleep slumped into the corner of the sofa, his cheek resting on Crowley’s upper chest, the blankets loosely tucked around them.
Aziraphale gingerly lifted his head, not wanting to wake Crowley. He had somehow become nestled under Crowley’s arm, his own hand resting on Crowley’s sternum where he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breath. Aziraphale gazed at his face, peaceful and unguarded. He truly was a gorgeous man, his sharp features softened by his sensitive mouth and dark lashes.
Just then, Crowley stirred as if he could sense he was being observed, his eyes half opening. “Hey, angel,” he mumbled. “W’time is it?”
Angel? Aziraphale was surprised to hear a repeat of the endearment Crowley had uttered once in the throes of passion. It made him feel all warm inside, like a cup of sweet cocoa. “It’s late. I mean early,” he answered hazily, too sleep-addled to make much sense.
“M’kay.” Crowley shifted, making more room for Aziraphale to stretch out spooned against his chest.
Aziraphale sank into Crowley’s lazy embrace, allowing himself to be wrapped under his arm again. The couch was too small for the two of them, really, but it somehow seemed to magically accommodate their sleepy forms.
“You called me angel.” Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure if he'd said that sentence out loud or merely thought it, he was so tired.
“Mm, suits you. Maggie said you were one.” Crowley yawned. “An angel, I mean.”
“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, only half conscious. This feels nice, he thought blearily to himself, snuggling against Crowley. This is exactly what I’m looking for. If only we were a real couple…
He nodded off, the warmth of Crowley’s body coiled around him.
Bright, flat light poured through the skylight, illuminating Crowley where he sat in his studio. He stared mercilessly at the canvases around him as if daring them to speak. He did this often, gazing at his works until they revealed their secrets, some asking for more detail, some begging to be left well enough alone, others telling him to fuck off and come back later.
There was one painting, however, that refused to answer his interrogation. He got to his feet and strolled over to the grey and blue stormy scene, stopping in front of it. Every time he thought he was finished with this work, that he had wrung out exactly what he needed from it and was satisfied, it called him back to take another look.
Are you sure that’s all? it seemed to taunt him, the colours shifting like Aziraphale’s eyes. Are you sure you’re not missing something?
Crowley glared at it. “What? What are you trying to tell me?” he shouted, feeling slightly mad for yelling at daubs of paint. Aggravated, he banged down the stairs and whacked the kettle on for tea.
He stalked around the kitchen, flinging himself into a chair with a sigh. He suddenly wished Aziraphale was there to talk to. He was always an enjoyable distraction, whether they were tearing each other’s clothes off or bickering about silly things.
Crowley thought back to the other night when they had fallen asleep together on the sofa. It had felt so easy and natural, snuggling under blankets and trading quips, eventually drifting off into a peaceful, if cramped, sleep. They had woken the next day a bit stiff and creaky, but somehow the closeness had been… nice? They hadn’t fooled around, not even so much as a grope, much to Crowley’s surprise.
Aziraphale had stayed for a quick cup of tea in the morning, then made his excuses and left soon after. The night had been entirely tame and domestic, yet Crowley found himself thinking about it again and again — the flickering light of the telly, Aziraphale’s head on his chest, the curve of their bodies tucked together…
It was something Crowley could get used to, Aziraphale’s comforting presence, his quirky charm, sharp wit, and that stellar smile. God, he loved it when Aziraphale smiled. He briefly imagined waking up to that angelic face every day and coming home to that waspish humour and ravenous appetite lurking beneath all those layers and buttons.
But no, Crowley reminded himself sternly, that was a fantasy. What they had was merely a relationship of convenience, a mutually beneficial arrangement to fulfill their baser urges. Aziraphale clearly had no interest in pursuing anything deeper — he had practically bolted out the door as quickly as he could the other morning. Apart from sex, they simply had no common ground. Aziraphale lived in his world of wine and stuffy sophistication, Crowley in his world of art and creative chaos. Their spark would eventually burn itself out and they’d go their own separate ways.
The kettle boiled and Crowley poured the water over the tea bag, trying to dispel his bleak thoughts. Snap out of it. Why are you getting all soppy about a fuck buddy? You aren’t even buddies!
Besides, it wasn’t like he was looking for a relationship, right? Okay, sure, maybe someday he wouldn’t mind settling down with someone; maybe they’d get a dog and a big house outside the city… but not with Aziraphale. They both knew this was temporary, nothing but a fling that they should enjoy while it lasted.
Yes, he thought, settling back in his chair, he could do that, just enjoy the ride. No pressure, no strings, no expectations.
He sipped his tea, wondering when he could see Aziraphale again.
A week later, Crowley slid on his sunglasses as he slipped out the front door of Aziraphale’s flat. He grinned to himself, his body pleasantly sore after another energetic night testing the maximum spring tension of Aziraphale’s mattress. If his usual swaggering walk was a bit hobbled, well… let people wonder.
He had managed to put aside any pesky thoughts about dogs and houses and strings of attachment and wholeheartedly embraced the moments he and Aziraphale spent together. They both continued to be satisfied with the arrangement, and he’d even gotten Aziraphale to watch another Bond film. In exchange, however, he’d had to watch some slow-paced Edwardian love story that had mesmerised Aziraphale with its pathos. Crowley had settled for ogling the lead actor in a puffy white shirt.
Sometimes Crowley wished they could go out together in public, maybe to a pub or a nice restaurant for a change of scenery, but their confinement wasn’t a terrible trial. They ordered takeaway or occasionally cooked, and between Aziraphale’s wine cellar and Crowley’s cocktail-mixing expertise, they ate and imbibed quite well.
Crowley whistled as he unlocked the door of his townhouse and tossed the keys onto a narrow table in the entryway before sifting through a few letters and bills. Most of the post was junk, but one letter — a heavy linen envelope — caught his attention.
He held his breath as he carefully broke the seal and pulled out a letter printed on fine stationary.
Dear Mr Crowley,
We are pleased to share some exciting news. Due to the recent generous gift of an anonymous donor, the Shadwell Foundation for Contemporary Art in Amsterdam is able to support an increased number of artist residencies. We are delighted to inform you that your application has been accepted as part of this new expansion. The next residency cycle begins in four weeks, and while we regret the short notice, we wish to extend this opportunity to you as soon as possible.
We are pleased to offer accommodation, a living and research stipend, creative space, and programming support as part of a 10-month experience. Participants are encouraged to interact with other resident artists and the public through occasional workshops, conferences, demonstrations, and exhibitions.
Crowley looked up, stunned. He had applied for the residency nearly a year ago when he was in the depths of his art block, never seriously expecting to be accepted into such a prestigious program. The application had been an attempt to jumpstart his creativity, but so much time had passed without a response that he’d forgotten about it.
He quickly scanned the rest of the information in the letter. The deadline to accept the offer was in one week. Having only four weeks to get everything in order was ridiculously short, but the opportunity was too amazing to brush aside.
He walked slowly to the sitting room, rereading the letter as he sat down in mild shock. Should he seize this opportunity? He was painting again, the ideas flowing. A residency would allow him to focus exclusively on his new body of work. No obligations, no interruptions, just art, 24/7.
But what about his house, his plants, Seven Circles, and Nina? What about Aziraphale and the arrangement?
It was only 10 months. Not quite a year. Why did the latter sound so long? If he went away for that many months, things would inevitably change. Nina would find a replacement for him, and she’d manage the business without him. When he came back, she wouldn’t need him anymore, just as Aziraphale wouldn’t need him. Their clandestine relationship would come to a natural end, his residency thousands of miles away providing a convenient conclusion to their affair, all with no one at fault.
It was perfect. It was everything he could ask for. So why did he feel so conflicted? Crowley gnawed on his thumbnail, staring at the letter.
The next day, Crowley found Nina in her office and closed the door behind him. “Do you have a minute?”
She glanced at the closed door then at his tensed jaw and gestured at the chair in front of her desk. “I’m guessing you need to sit down for whatever this is.”
“Er, yeah, actually.” He took a seat and silently handed her the letter from the Shadwell Foundation, jiggling his leg nervously as she read.
She scanned the page, then lifted her eyes, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, well, well… congratulations, Mr Crowley.”
“I haven’t accepted yet,” he blurted out. “Is it mad to drop everything and go?”
Nina thrust the letter back at him. “You’d be mad not to go! This is an amazing opportunity.”
“But what about you — the business, all this? I can’t just leave you short-handed.”
Nina waved a dismissive hand. “I can hire a new driver. Don’t worry about that. Go!”
Crowley squirmed in his chair and Nina narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?” she asked. “You should be over the moon about this.”
“I’m just… not sure about the timing.”
Nina looked at him like he had two heads. “You’re as free as a bird. There’s nothing holding you back from accepting this.”
“But what about my house and all my plants?” he protested.
“Pffft. Hire someone to water them. Eric is always looking for extra work.” Nina narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “Why are you hesitating?”
Crowley picked at the stitching on the arm of the chair, not meeting Nina’s gaze. “What if I told you I’ve sort of… been seeing someone?”
Nina folded her arms across her chest and fixed him with a dark look. “You bastard. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“It’s nothing serious,” he quickly clarified. “Just a bit of fun. But it’s…” He shrugged, not sure how to describe it. “Good.”
Nina arched an eyebrow. “‘Good?’ Like ‘the sex is good’ or 'I'm falling in love’ good?”
Crowley shrugged again, belatedly contemplating that maaaaybe he shouldn’t have brought this subject up. “It’s all good, you know?”
Nina assessed him for a long moment. “Anthony Crowley, are you smitten?”
“Smitten?” He balked, trying to backpedal. “It’s just a casual thing. We just hook up now and then.”
“Does he stay over?”
“Yesss,” he answered slowly.
“Does he keep a toothbrush at your place and vice versa?
“Um, yeah…”
“Have you watched one of your bloody Bond films together yet?”
Crowley slouched down into the chair. “Yes.”
“Ha!” Nina slammed a triumphant hand on her desk. “You’re into this guy.”
“Well…” Crowley stalled. “I mean, kind of. A little.”
“Enough to turn down a residency from the Shadwell Foundation?” she asked incredulously. “That’s the fucking dream!”
It was the dream, an honour every art student hoped to someday achieve, a hallmark of success. Why would he give it up for a superficial relationship that wasn’t going to last anyway? “You’re right,” he finally said. “I should go to Amsterdam.”
“Yes, you should. Don’t worry about me — I’ve got this place well in hand. And since it’s casual between you and your naked man friend, he’ll understand. It’s not like you’re a couple.”
Crowley laughed uneasily. “No, we’re definitely not a couple.” His chest tightened as he spoke the words. “Just… don’t tell anyone else about the residency quite yet, all right? I’m still trying to get my head around it.”
“Sure, I understand.” Nina turned serious for a moment. “I’m proud of you, you talented git. You deserve it.”
“Thanks,” Crowley said, almost blushing. “What would I do without you?”
“Flail around like a helpless disaster puppy, I suppose,” she answered flippantly. “Go on, then. Some of us have work to do.” She shooed him from her office and he went outside for a breath of air, feeling relieved to have made a decision.
A movement caught his eye and he saw Ana sweeping the pavement outside her shop. She gave him a wave and he lifted a hand in return. As he started to lower his hand, he turned it palm up and stared at what Ana had pointed out as his love line.
There’s a cross-roads here, she had said, and both paths are quite strong. Just keep following your heart. It’ll sort itself out.
Follow his heart? He suddenly wavered again on his decision to go to Amsterdam. What if his heart was a confused mess that didn’t know what it really wanted? He looked up, hoping for some sort of sign, but Ana had disappeared.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale stole a glance at his phone while locking up for the night. No new texts. Nor had any lanky latecomers slipped through the back door of Le Paradis recently. He sighed, pocketing his phone.
Eight days had gone by without a word from Crowley. Aziraphale tried not to read too much into the silence; Crowley could be busy or have a cold or maybe he was a rude, selfish prick utterly lacking in manners.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, chiding himself. No strings no strings no strings, remember? Crowley owes you nothing.
He walked home, shrugging a little deeper into his coat. The autumn nights were growing chilly, the darkness falling earlier and earlier each evening. Once at his flat, he made himself a cup of herbal tea and pulled out his phone again. It wouldn’t hurt to text Crowley, would it? Just to make sure he was fine?
He tried to keep his tone casual, but he was never very good at it.
Hello. Sorry to bother, but is everything quite all right? I haven’t heard from you for a while.
Within a few minutes, two consecutive replies arrived.
Hey
Sorry, I’ve been really busy
Aziraphale waited for additional explanation, but none came. Slightly put out, he typed a curt answer.
So nice to know you’re not on your deathbed. Do have a lovely night.
He had just tossed his phone aside when it buzzed again. Miffed, he picked it up and glanced at the new message.
Want some company?
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Oh, so now he decides to invite himself over, he huffed to himself. I should tell him to bugger off.
His horny fingers, however, decided to send a different message.
Fine.
When the doorbell rang and Aziraphale opened the door of his flat, he intended to look cool and aloof. Instead, he was met with a sight that took his breath away. Crowley stood there, a slash of black angles crackling with energy, his jaw set in a hard line accentuated by the black turtleneck and sharp-shouldered suit jacket that clung to his narrow form. For a moment, Aziraphale’s inner Edwardian heroine nearly swooned.
“Oh,” Aziraphale stammered, holding the door without moving.
Crowley crowded his way in, greeting Aziraphale with a hard and long kiss that illuminated every cell in his body.
They finally drew apart, the corner of Crowley’s mouth curving up. “Does that make up for lost time?”
His blood still singing, Aziraphale managed to eke out a retort. “Not quite. I demand further reparations.”
Crowley raised an enticing eyebrow. “I’m happy to oblige.”
Once in the bedroom, Crowley wasted no time. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered Aziraphale as he wrestled off his own black turtleneck.
Aziraphale complied, gazing boldly at Crowley and tossing his pants and trousers aside. “What else do you have in mind?”
“Sit with your back against the headboard,” Crowley instructed.
Aziraphale obeyed, climbing onto the bed and reclining against a few pillows to soften the spot where his back made contact with the headboard.
Crowley slowly prowled toward him on all fours, a hungry gleam in his eye. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, riding your thick cock. I nearly gave in and had a wank right after you texted.”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s lithe body as he straddled his thighs. Aziraphale wet his lips, his voice thick. “I’m glad you waited.”
“I could barely restrain myself,” Crowley answered with a low chuckle, reaching for the lube and pouring a dollop into his palm.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply when Crowley gathered both their cocks into his hand and leisurely stroked their lengths from roots to sensitive tips. He watched with shallow breath as Crowley reached around to apply more lube to his own entrance, deliberately keeping one hand encircled around Aziraphale’s rigid cock. His eyes flicked up to the snake tattoo that seemed to writhe in the low light, then fell into Crowley’s amber gaze.
“I’m going to take every inch of you,” Crowley growled, “and make you come so hard you won’t know your own name.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open a little at this promise. In fact, his mouth was watering in anticipation. “I want you,” he whispered, his fingers flexing over Crowley’s thighs. “I want you more than anything.”
Crowley rose to his knees and positioned himself, looking Aziraphale in the eye as he sank down, slowly, slowly.
Oh, dear Lord above... Aziraphale bit his bottom lip, his hands cradling Crowley’s hips like a precious object. The tight heat surrounding his cock made his body burn with molten desire, a flush spreading up his chest. Once fully seated, Crowley lifted his hips, spearing himself again with a throaty exhalation. He tipped his chin back, the tendons in his neck straining with every movement as he lifted and dropped his hips, mesmerizing Aziraphale with his raw beauty.
Crowley gradually increased his speed, his fingertips digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders, the heel of his palms pressing into his collarbones as he ground himself on Aziraphale’s cock with abandon.
“Oh, God... yes… fuck yourself on me…” Aziraphale babbled, his hands lightly supporting Crowley’s back. “You’re so beautiful… that’s it, ride me…”
Crowley’s eyes were closed, his lower lip caught in his teeth, his thrusting growing more shallow as his legs tired. Aziraphale instinctively rolled his hips upwards, drawing out a small cry from Crowley.
“Again,” Crowley gasped. “God, keep going. Fuck me.”
Aziraphale dug his feet into the mattress, his hips snapping up as far as he could muster with a naked, gorgeous man in his lap. He drove himself into the tight sheath of Crowley’s body, gripping the other man’s hips and driving him down onto his cock in time with his thrusts, racing towards the bliss winding low and tight in his belly.
WIth grunts and sweat and fingernails pressing halfmoons into flesh, Aziraphale came with an explosive jolt, his chest heaving with every blinding aftershock.
He was barely aware of Crowley finishing himself off, the warmth of come sliding over his skin and pooling in his navel, tangles of red hair brushing his cheeks as Crowley found his mouth with his own, panting and praising and kissing him deliriously.
Crowley tumbled out of Aziraphale’s lap, collapsing onto the bed with a sated groan.
Aziraphale stretched out next to him. “Do you remember your name?” he teased.
Crowley laughed from deep in his chest. “I’ve no idea. Fucked right out of me.”
“Likewise,” Aziraphale sighed, still feeling fuzzy around the edges. He gathered Crowley closer, their fingers trailing lazily over each other’s skin.
“Mmm, I’ve missed this,” he hummed contentedly after a few minutes. “What’s been keeping you so busy? More painting?”
Crowley hesitated a few beats, a strange shadow passing over his face. “You could say that.”
Aziraphale knitted his brow at Crowley’s evasive answer. “That’s good, though, isn’t it?” he prompted cautiously. “To be painting so much again after a block?”
“Right, of course, it’s great. It’s just that I…” Crowley trailed off as if he was trying to find a way to phrase something difficult.
Aziraphale peered at him curiously, but Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind me, I haven’t slept much and I’m rambling. Tell me about the offer you made on Agnes’s building — any news?”
Aziraphale elected to set aside Crowley’s hesitation and let out a long sigh, unable to hide his frustration at the situation with Agnes’s shop. “It’s turned into a bit of a bidding war, unfortunately. I’ve had to make a second offer.” He toyed with the bed sheet between his fingers. “I’m at the limit of what I can afford. If I’m out-bid…” he lifted his shoulders, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Crowley propped himself up on his elbow and gazed at him. “I’m sorry. What will you do if you don’t get it?”
Aziraphale tried to lighten the mood with a toss of his chin. “Try to make the best of it, I suppose. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
Crowley laid a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. “When will you find out?”
“I’m not sure. Within a week or so, I expect.” He tried not to dwell on it, and cocked his head at Crowley. “Was there something else you were going to tell me?”
Crowley slid his gaze away. “No, nothing important. Can’t even remember what it would’ve been.” He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
They both became lost in their own thoughts, but their hands drifted closer together, their fingers loosely entwining.
When Aziraphale finally noticed their clasped hands, he nearly disentangled his fingers with a hurried apology. But he stilled his impulse, letting his hand linger. Crowley wasn’t tense or pulling away, so why should he? When Crowley’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the gentle gesture. Is this what enemies did, trade tender post-coital touches while sprawled naked in bed?
“Crowley,” Aziraphale asked softly, “what are we doing?”
Crowley shifted his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s. “Enjoying the moment.”
Aziraphale held his gaze until Crowley looked away again, seeming to doze off. Aziraphale did the same, closing his eyes to enjoy the quiet interlude, choosing to ignore the problems and pressures of the outside world for another few hours, and trying not to label whatever this had become between them.
Sauntering towards Seven Circles, Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets against the morning cold. In truth, just his fingertips fit into the pockets of his very snug jeans, but the sparse warmth was better than nothing.
As he passed Le Paradis, he tried not to stare through the window like a schoolboy hoping to catch a glimpse of his crush, but he couldn’t resist a glance at the facade as he walked by. He was disappointed to see only his own reflection.
He really didn’t want to study himself, didn’t want to look at his own stupid face and be reminded of what a coward he was. He still hadn’t told Aziraphale about the residency in Amsterdam, and he was due to leave in little more than a week.
He’d meant to say something on numerous occasions, but each time the mood just wasn’t quite right. And maybe he was purposely putting it off, avoiding the inevitable end. But he had to do it soon and just get it over with. Maybe he’d tell him tonight…
“Yoo-hoo, you there! Anthony Crowley!”
Crowley stopped in his tracks and turned to the source of the voice, recognizing the older woman with long dark hair and dressed in black. He’d never actually spoken with Agnes, only trading a nod as he passed.
He took a few steps back toward her and she smiled. “You’re tall,” she said. “I need your help. Come with me.”
Not sure whether to be annoyed or amused, Crowley followed Agnes into her shop. He’d never stepped inside before and was pleasantly surprised by the space. The main room was long and narrow with high ceilings and wood floors. Boxes and packing materials were scattered about, but Crowley could tell that Agnes had already cleared a tremendous amount of merchandise from her store.
“Think you can reach those goblets up on that shelf?” Agnes pointed at a set of red wine glasses trimmed with gold.
“Yeah, sure.” Crowley stretched an arm up to retrieve the glasses, handing them to Agnes. “So you’re selling this place,” he said, stating the obvious.
Agnes nodded as she wrapped a glass in packing paper. “As much as I’ll miss it, it’s time for a change.”
Crowley handed her the last goblet. “I know the feeling.”
Agnes gave him a shrewd look. “You’re Aziraphale’s… friend.”
Crowley didn’t miss the loaded pause before ‘friend.’ Did she know? Had Aziraphale said something to her? He cleared his throat. “Well, we’ve gotten to know each other a bit.”
Agnes snorted in amusement. “I’m sure you have.”
Crowley felt his cheeks burn and was relieved when Agnes asked him to reach a set of crystal vases.
“Aziraphale’s a good man,” Agnes continued conversationally. “I wish I could just hand him the keys to this place, but it’s all I have.”
“He’s mentioned that.” Crowley passed her another vase. “I think he understands your situation.”
Agnes sighed. “I hope so.” She eyed Crowley. “Did you say you were moving too?”
Crowley did a double take, trying to remember his exact phrasing. He hoped he hadn’t accidentally let his plans slip to Agnes before telling Aziraphale. He was saved from answering when a tall man in a dove grey suit barged into the shop.
“Ms Nutter! Don’t you look lovely today?” The man flashed an insincere smile at Agnes and flicked his eyes dismissively over Crowley before taking an envelope from his pocket. “I wanted to drop off my counter offer in person.” He shoved the envelope at her, then looked around the room, craning his neck up at the ceiling as if estimating the height.
“This is Gabriel Archer,” Agnes told Crowley, her voice full of distaste. “And this is Mr Crowley, a neighbour who’s been kind enough to help me with a few things.”
“Hi.” Gabriel glanced vaguely in Crowley’s direction, then pulled out his phone and began snapping photos of the space. He nodded his square chin at the envelope. “That offer should shut the competition up once and for all,” he chuckled. “Whoever that guy is doesn’t stand a chance. I’m gonna bury him.”
Crowley scowled at Gabriel with intense dislike. What a loathsome, arrogant prick.
Agnes held the envelope by one corner as if it were a dead fish. “You really didn’t need to come by in person. You could have emailed this.”
“Nah, I wanted to see this place again and take some pics for the construction dudes. They need to figure out where the deep fryer and taco machines or whatever they’re called can go.”
Crowley gritted his teeth. “What makes you so sure you’ll have the winning bid?”
Gabriel gave Crowley a look of mock shock. “Because I’m a fucking boss, sweetheart,” he sneered. “Pardon my French,” he added for Agnes’s benefit.
Agnes glared daggers at Gabriel. “As you can plainly see, I’m very busy. Good day, Mr Archer.”
Gabriel continued to snap photos. “Just a few more pic—”
Crowley grabbed Gabriel by the back of his collar and propelled him to the door. “Time to go, mate.”
“Woah! Careful with the suit!” Gabriel protested, his expensive shoes skittering across the floor.
Crowley hoisted the larger man out the door and enjoyed the sight of him stumbling onto the pavement.
“I expect to hear from you soon, Nutter!” Gabriel called out as Crowley shut the door in his face.
He turned back to check on Agnes and saw that she was fuming.
“A pox on that man,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed.
“What a massive wanker.”
“He’s a rich wanker, unfortunately,” Agnes said ruefully. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, regaining her composure. “Thank you for your help.”
“My pleasure,” Crowley replied, wanting to ask her how she could possibly consider selling her property to a fuck-muppet like Gabriel. But he knew the reason why — the proceeds of the sale were her bridge to the next chapter of her life. He couldn’t begrudge her for that.
“You all right with the rest of this?” he asked, looking around at the remaining items.
“Are you offering more help?”
He glanced at his watch, making a few calculations. “I could stay a bit longer.”
“I won’t say no to that.” She gave him a warm smile. “You can tell me about your art while we work.”
Crowley shot her a surprised look. “How’d you know about that?”
“Oh, I know a lot of things, my dear. More than you could ever imagine,” she smiled mysteriously and picked up another box.
He stayed another hour helping Agnes pack while they chatted. As they worked, the sunlight filtered through the tall windows, bathing the airy room in warm light. He gazed around, imagining what it would look like if it were completely empty and spruced up a bit. It would make an excellent cafe, or a bookstore, or even an art gallery.
He paused, holding an antique globe in his hands. He looked down at the sepia-toned map of the continents, mentally tracing the distance from London to Amsterdam.
“The world at your fingertips,” Agnes said, observing him. “So many paths ahead of you. Choose wisely.”
Crowley raised his head to look at her, but she merely returned his gaze with a knowing grin, then moved away with a swish of her skirts.
He stared after her. Was every woman on Whickber Street a bloody mystic? They kept dropping all these hints about paths and choices and following hearts — it was maddening. The universe clearly seemed to be conspiring to tell him something, and he wished it would be more clear. What if accepting the artist residency was the wrong choice? But what if staying here wasn't the right decision, either?
“Shit,” he muttered, giving the globe a vicious little spin. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Not surprisingly, the globe refused to answer.
They met the next night at Crowley’s home. After several glasses of wine and a slow and satisfying seduction that began on the sofa and ended in a tangle of bare skin and silk sheets, Crowley knew the moment had come.
With his hand resting idly on Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley willed the first halting words out of his mouth. “I have to tell you something.”
“Hm?” Aziraphale inquired, relaxed and sleepy. “What is it?”
“Might be easier to show you.” Crowley rolled over to retrieve an envelope from the bedside table and handed it to Aziraphale. “You can read it.”
Aziraphale creased his brow but took the envelope and drew out the letter from the Shadwell Foundation. Crowley watched him as he read it, noticing every twitch of muscle and tiny expression.
“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed out.
Crowley couldn’t interpret the tone — was it happy? Disappointed? Sad? “What do you think?” Crowley finally asked.
Aziraphale carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “I think it’s a wonderful opportunity for you. Congratulations.” A smile flitted across his lips but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s the sort of thing every artist dreams about,” Crowley said, wondering if he was still trying to convince himself how great it was. “Having all that time to devote to creating.”
“Ten months. Almost an entire year.”
A long silence hung between them. Aziraphale suddenly tossed the sheets aside and reached for his dressing gown, shrugging it on as he paced away from the bed. “When do you leave?”
Crowley sat up, supporting himself against the headboard. Aziraphale kept his back to him as he fiddled with the drapes covering the window.
“Five days.”
“Oh.”
Another silence filled the room.
“I was going to tell you sooner, but I kept dithering about it,” Crowley explained. “I wasn’t sure if I should accept…” he trailed off, watching the way Aziraphale’s frame seemed to sag where he stood by the window. Crowley held his breath. If Aziraphale asked him not to go, if he made one small sound objecting to his leaving, he’d stay. He’d drop all his plans in an instant if Aziraphale asked him to.
But then Aziraphale’s back and shoulders straightened as he took a deep breath, his posture strong and squared again. “Why wouldn’t you go?” he asked, his voice chipper as he turned to face Crowley. “Don’t be daft. Of course you had to accept it. There’s no reason not to.”
Their eyes met, and Crowley’s stomach twisted. There was not going to be a plea to stay, no asking him to reconsider his decision. Aziraphale’s gaze was steady and bright, and now a little distant.
“Right,” Crowley rasped, his mouth dry. “There’s no reason at all.”
“You’ll enjoy Amsterdam. Lovely city,” Aziraphale said, his fingers playing with the belt of his dressing gown.
“You could come visit, maybe.” Crowley tried to sound casual, like he didn’t care one way or the other.
Aziraphale shrugged slightly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be far too busy for visitors. You’ll be caught up with a whole new set of people.”
Crowley frowned. “I won’t be that busy. I’ll still have time for my —” he cut himself off, not knowing what word he should use. Friend? Lover? Secret enemy boyfriend? “— to see visitors,” he finished lamely.
“Well, I imagine I’ll be terribly busy myself in the coming year. Especially if I manage to buy Agnes’s building.” Aziraphale looked away again. “I doubt I could get away.”
Crowley read his response and stiff body language as putting an end to the discussion. Aziraphale clearly had no interest in pursuing any sort of long-distance situationship.
“So this is it, then?” Crowley asked, his voice hoarse. “This thing between us is over?”
Aziraphale let out a short laugh. “I believe this ‘thing’ has run its course, don’t you? It’s silly to pretend otherwise. It’s been an amusing lark, nothing else.”
Crowley nodded slowly, ignoring the ache in his solar plexus. “Hit it and quit it,” he quipped.
“Aptly phrased,” Aziraphale agreed dryly. “It was fun while it lasted, and quite satisfying, considering we don’t even like each other.”
Crowley smiled gingerly, feeling like his mouth was full of glass. “You’re completely unbearable.”
“And you’re intolerable,” Aziraphale smiled back.
Their gazes met once more, then drifted apart.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I think I’ll have a shower and be on my way,” he announced.
“You don’t have to leave. Stay.”
“No, I don’t think I can.” Aziraphale walked quickly to the bathroom and shut the door.
Crowley sat in the bed, absorbing the last few minutes. He felt numb as the sound of the water streaming in the shower filtered through the door.
He got up and slipped on a pair of dark grey pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. He scraped a hand through his hair, at a loss of what to do. He finally went downstairs and put the kettle on, giving Aziraphale some space.
When Aziraphale finally emerged, he was fully dressed, his hair slightly damp.
“Cup of tea?” Crowley offered, formality seeming a safe place to retreat.
“No, thank you.” Aziraphale twisted his pinky ring. “Could I ask you to collect my things and bring them round to my flat tomorrow evening?”
“Sure, no problem. And I’ll pick up my stuff then.”
“Mm, yes. Jolly good.”
Normally, Crowley would have mocked Aziraphale for sounding so ridiculously old-fashioned, but now, faced with their imminent separation, his archaic speech was suddenly endearing. Dammit, why did he have to be so weirdly charming with his bow ties and watch chains?
“It’s funny,” Aziraphale mused, almost as if talking to himself. “We both knew our arrangement was temporary. But you never really think about the end, do you?”
Crowley fiddled with the handle of his mug. “I suppose not.”
“Well.” Aziraphale turned to him and smiled graciously. “It’s been a most unexpected pleasure."
Crowley swallowed hard. “It has.”
He stood up and walked Aziraphale to the door, where the other man gave him a wobbly smile.
“I’ll say good night, then,” Aziraphale said.
“G’night.” He scrambled to come up with the right words, something to stop this terrible gulf that had suddenly widened between them, but he drew a blank, too uncertain and too unprepared for this moment. Still silent, he watched Aziraphale walk into the night, his pale form disappearing into the inky darkness.
Crowley slowly shut the door and turned around, resting his back against the wood. The house already felt empty, just like the hollow space in his chest.
Notes:
i know, I know, how dare I leave you with some sad boys and a cliffhanger. These two really dug themselves a big old hole of denial. But don't worry - the next installment will be the final one with all the answers tied up in a pretty bow! Thanks so much for reading, especially if you're following the WIP!
Chapter 10
Notes:
This is it! The angsty, agonizing wait is over! Time to get these two idiots back on track. Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers!
Chapter Text
Two months later…
It was raining, it was cold, and London was hateful, Aziraphale grumbled to himself as he unlocked the door to his flat. His shoes were damp and he was in a dramatically bad mood because it had been pissing down all week and he was thoroughly sick of it.
He changed into dry clothes and wandered into the kitchen. Too tired to cook after a long night at work, he made himself some warm cocoa and toast, flicked on the telly in the lounge, and wrapped himself in a blanket. He turned over the channels, searching for something appealing. A snippet of a familiar tune caught his attention, and he recognized it as the theme from the James Bond films Crowley had insisted they watch together.
He watched an action scene for several minutes, utterly confused as to why the villain had metal teeth, but the memories it brought back of snuggling with Crowley on the sofa were oddly comforting. If only he were here again…
He had tried, really, really tried, to convince himself he was not bothered one iota by Crowley’s departure. Crowley’s announcement about the residency had caught him by surprise, and he’d reacted with measured coolness and logic. Things had come to their natural conclusion. Their impetuous affair was over. They left each other’s things on the doorstep and went their separate ways.
In the following days and weeks, Aziraphale had thrown himself into work, pushed away any nagging feelings of regret, and soldiered on in the most English fashion possible. But now that he was alone in his flat, exhausted and cross, he finally lowered his dispassionate facade and indulged in a proper wallow of self-pity. It had been an awful month. Crowley was gone, Agnes had moved away, and he had lost the bid to buy her building.
He covered his disappointment about not getting the property next door with stoicism, and he never, ever breathed a word about Crowley. They had managed to keep their arrangement a secret, which prevented unwanted attention, but it also meant he had no one to talk to about the sudden absence in his life. The truth was, he missed Crowley terribly.
Thoughts about Crowley often crept into his mind: what he was doing, how his painting was going, where he spent his days — and nights. Had he found someone new to satisfy his urges?
Aziraphale’s own urges were greatly diminished, reduced to a few sad wanks in the shower. He had no interest in pursuing any other arrangements, no desire to start an affair with someone new. He was sometimes tempted to text Crowley, but what was the point? It would complicate what had been a clean break, just as they had intended to end matters all along — no strings, no expectations, no hard feelings.
Aziraphale sighed and burrowed deeper into the cushions. He knew he had to move on. Pining for the past was a fool’s errand. He still had his cosy flat, his friends, and Le Paradis, and despite what horrid shop or restaurant might arise next door, he still had standards. And by God, he would not lower them, come hell or Taco Bell.
Walking to work the next day, Aziraphale found some modicum of solace in his resolution to adhere to high standards. His eyes roamed over Agnes’s former shop, the antiquities sign now removed and the windows papered over. He occasionally noticed workers in hardhats coming and going and heard the sound of saws and hammering, but thankfully there had been no major disruptions to his own business.
Nina crossed the road and stood beside him. “What do you think it’s going to be?”
Aziraphale turned at the question and saw that Nina was eyeing the building with a skeptical stare.
“I don’t have high hopes,” he admitted. “Quite possibly a fast food place.”
“Didn’t Agnes give you a hint before she left?”
“No, I’m afraid not. She was very tight-lipped about it all,” Aziraphale replied. “She didn’t want to talk about business on her last days here.”
“Hmm, I suppose not,” Nina grunted.
They watched as workers wheeled out an old sink and hoisted it into a rubbish skip. “Have you, erm, heard from Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah, he’s doing great. Said he has lots of ideas and is working a lot.”
“That’s nice,” Aziraphale clasped and unclasped his hands, daring to ask one more question. “Is he planning to come back for the holidays?”
Nina glanced at him. “I don’t think so. He hasn’t mentioned anything.”
Aziraphale hoped his face didn’t betray his disappointment. “Ah.”
But Nina had already moved on. “When’s the next Shopkeepers Association meeting?” she asked sharply.
“Oh, next week, I believe.”
“Are we going to talk about all this holiday froufrou?” She gestured at the fairy lights and Christmas decor festooning the street. “Because I have things to say.”
“Well, I’m sure Mr Brown would be happy to add that to the agenda.” Aziraphale took this as his cue to leave, not wanting to hear Nina’s bah humbug rant. He personally enjoyed the lights and garlands with Christmas only a few weeks away. “I should be going. Have a good day.” He nodded politely and Nina raised a hand in farewell as they both turned back to their respective businesses.
Once in his office, he sorted through the post that had arrived earlier. With his mind half focused on the whereabouts of a late shipment of wine, it took him several moments to register that he was holding a postcard that showed colourful buildings lining a canal. Overlaying the image, a large garish font proclaimed Greetings from Amsterdam!
Aziraphale sucked in a breath and flipped over the card, his fingers trembling. He quickly read the loose handwriting:
I’m in a coffee shop feeling very relaxed, if you know what I mean. Thought I’d send you a note. City is great, program is great. Just a little homesick, you know? But I’ve got big plans. Lots of art. Just wait and see.
Cheers,
C
Aziraphale read the rambling note several times, trying to decipher the meaning. Crowley had clearly been enjoying some of the herbal substances the city offered when he wrote this. He said he was homesick… for what, exactly? Despite that misgiving, the residency sounded like it was going well and his creativity was flowing. Was the “wait and see” a promise, an assumption that they would see each other again? Or was it used in a general sense?
The note was personal and yet it wasn’t, and Aziraphale was left wondering if he should respond. Should he send a text or write a letter? Certainly not a phone call. That would be far too immediate and awkward.
Just then there was a tap on his door. “There’s a delivery that you need to sign for,” Maggie told him while hurrying by.
He slid the postcard into his desk drawer to contemplate later and headed to the kitchen, throwing himself into another long day of work.
In the end, Aziraphale never replied to the postcard. He was pulled into the rush of the day, and the day after that, and was soon swept into the holiday season, run off his feet helping customers, hosting private events, and working long hours.
The week before Christmas, he stole away for a few days to visit Agnes in her new cottage. It was cosy and charming with a big kitchen patrolled by a black cat who took an immediate liking to Aziraphale.
Agnes plied him with home-cooked meals and village gossip, and in the evenings they sat by the fire with tumblers of well-aged whiskey.
On the last night, Agnes finally asked about her old shop. “How’s it coming along, the renovation?”
Aziraphale stroked the purring cat in his lap. “It’s hard to say. The windows are still covered so you can’t see anything. The work seems to be finishing up, though.” He looked at Agnes. “Can’t you tell me what it’s going to be?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Agnes replied, taking a well-timed sip of her drink.
“That’s a maddening thing to say, you know.” He sighed, resigned. “It doesn’t matter. I’m prepared for the worst.”
“Ah, now, maybe it won’t be as bad as you think,” Agnes reassured him. “Remember the mural? That turned out to be all right.”
“I envy your optimism.” Aziraphale held out his glass for a refill.
“You never know,” Agnes said with a twinkle in her eye. “The universe may yet surprise you.”
Aziraphale highly doubted that, but just returned Agnes’s smile.
“And how are things with your gentleman friend, Mr Crowley?” she asked.
Aziraphale choked on his drink, panicking slightly. What did Agnes know? He tried to downplay her question. “I haven’t seen him for quite a while.”
“Oh? I thought you and Crowley were on friendly terms.”
Why was she asking about this? He should really just shut up, yet he really wanted to talk about it. “He had to go away on extended business,” Aziraphale answered, simplifying the details. “He had a wonderful opportunity abroad. He’s an artist, you know.”
“Yes, I gathered that. I connected a few dots.” She looked at Aziraphale intently. “You’ve not been in touch with him at all?”
“No, not really.” How could he explain their arrangement and its subsequent ending? It was far too personal and complicated.
Agnes sat back in her chair, swirling the whiskey in her glass. “Well. I’m sure your paths will cross again someday.”
Aziraphale merely gave a short nod and vague smile, then stood up and tossed another log onto the fire, choosing not to pursue the conversation. He was, once again, much more pessimistic than Agnes. “How about a game of backgammon?” he proposed, changing the subject.
Agnes let the matter drop and they spent the rest of the evening duelling over the game board.
The next day, Aziraphale took the train back to London and spent the evening cleaning his flat. The night was relatively mild, so he decided to take a walk and stretch his legs. He followed his usual route to work, enjoying the fairy lights and festive decorations. He went as far as Justine’s bakery and turned around to walk back, pausing to admire the mural of flowers. It was a cheerful sight, a colourful splash reminding him that spring would come again.
He meandered onward, watching people rushing from the shops, walking their dogs, and strolling arm-in-arm. On nights like this he loved the city and Whickber Street and felt immensely lucky to call it home.
As he approached the darkened facade of Le Paradis, he was glad to have taken a few days off to reconnect with Agnes. It was good to step away from work for a bit and rest. Seven Circles and the other shops were also dark, he noticed, but strangely enough a light glowed behind the covered windows of Agnes’s old store.
How odd. It was quite late for a work crew to still be on the job. Seized with curiosity, Aziraphale walked closer and noticed a small gap in the paper covering the windows near the front door. After all these weeks of wondering and waiting, it couldn’t hurt to take a quick peek, could it?
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he crept to the doorway and pressed his face to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer inside.
What he saw made his mouth drop open in shock. A familiar painting hung on the far wall. What was that doing there? What on Earth was going on?
He felt a presence behind him and he spun around, embarrassed to be caught staring through the window like a peeping Tom. “I was just —” he stopped short, his eyes going wide and his pulse hammering in disbelief.
Even in the dark, the silhouette was familiar, and the voice that followed was unmistakable. “See anything you like, angel?”
The world spun off-kilter and Aziraphale’s ears rang. “Oh, dear Lord,” was all he could mutter before bracing his hands on his knees and lowering his head to stop a sudden wave of dizziness.
“Woah, careful.”
A pair of hands held him by the shoulders. Those hands. Two hands that weren’t supposed to be here. “Crowley?” Aziraphale gasped, looking up. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s not exactly the welcome I was hoping for,” Crowley grinned, still gripping his shoulders. “I was hoping to surprise you, but not quite like this.”
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Amsterdam?” Aziraphale demanded while slowly straightening up.
“I changed my plans.” Crowley lowered his hands once he made sure Aziraphale was able to stand unaided. “I came back early.”
“I can see that,” Aziraphale snapped, still swimming in confusion. “But why? And what is this place? Why is one of your paintings in there?” He jabbed a thumb at the window behind him. “This isn’t a Taco Bell!”
Crowley hesitated, jingling a pair of keys in his hand before answering. “I think you should come inside.”
Aziraphale watched with renewed disbelief as Crowley unlocked the door and held it open. With wobbly legs, Aziraphale entered the once-familiar shop and stood in a transformed space. What used to be cluttered with antiques was now an open expanse, the wood floor polished to a high gleam, sophisticated lighting casting pools of illumination on the smooth white walls. On the opposite wall a solitary painting hung in a tasteful frame — a painting he recognised from Crowley’s studio, the one with vivid swirls of greys and blues.
“That’s yours,” Aziraphale stated, taking a few steps closer to it. “Is this some sort of gallery?”
“It is a gallery, yes. And that painting is my work, but it doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
Aziraphale was growing tired of the endless riddles. “I don’t understand, Crowley. Please tell me what’s going on.” He looked at the other man, fully taking in for the first time the sharp cheekbones and five o’clock shadow, the amber eyes and sweep of burgundy hair. God, he’d missed him. But at the moment he was too discombobulated to fully appreciate the sight.
Crowley awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I meant to do this differently. I wanted this to be a big surprise, but…” He paused again, gathering his thoughts. “Okay, here’s the thing. I sort of… bought this building.”
Aziraphale heard the words, but couldn't make himself understand them. “You — bought the building? I thought Gabriel Archer did!”
“He almost did. I mean, he would have, if I hadn’t made a higher offer at the eleventh hour.”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley, too shocked to speak.
“I know it’s mad,” Crowley continued, pacing a little. “But I met Archer in person one day when I was helping Agnes pack. He was such a prick there was no way in hell I could let him buy this place and ruin it. I’d already accepted the residency, but while I was in Amsterdam I worked with an estate agent here to put together an offer large enough to make sure Archer dropped out. And so yeah, I bought it and had it renovated.”
Aziraphale stood locked in place, trying to absorb everything that Crowley had just said. “Why,” he enunciated carefully, “didn’t you tell me?”
Crowley tilted his head back and groaned in frustration as he paced more furiously. “I don’t know. Everything happened so quickly — Amsterdam, the bidding, you and me ending things. I wasn’t sure how you’d react to me rushing in and making a last-minute offer. So I asked Agnes not to say anything until I had a chance to come back and show you this place myself.” He stopped pacing and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you once everything was finished.”
A burst of anger suddenly surged in Aziraphale’s chest. “All this time I’ve been worried sick about Gabriel turning this place into a monstrosity. I’ve had nightmares about it!” He flailed his arms in exasperation. “And how is this a gallery if there’s only one of your paintings in it?” he added peevishly.
Crowley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “More art is being delivered soon. And I told you, that’s not my painting anymore.”
“Well, who does it belong to, then?” Aziraphale demanded.
Crowley leveled a look at him. “You.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open again, yet another wave of shock rippling through him. “Me?”
“Yes, you. It’s a gift.” Crowley held his gaze. “It was meant to be part of the surprise, but that’s all gone down like a lead balloon, hasn’t it?”
Reeling from the barrage of unexpected revelations, Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I can take any more surprises. I’m still not sure I understand everything.”
“Look, initially I was compelled to buy the property just to cock up Gabriel’s plans. But then the idea of owning my own place started to appeal to me as I met more artists and visited some amazing galleries in Amsterdam,” Crowley explained. “I almost told you about it in that postcard I sent, I was so excited about the idea. I hired a contractor to draw up plans and manage the renovations. I withdrew from the residency a few days ago so I could come back to oversee the final touches.
“I wanted you to be the first person to see this space,” he continued earnestly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just got carried away and I didn’t consider how you might feel about being kept in the dark for so long. So… I’m sorry.”
Aziraphale tried to take all this in — Crowley returning, renovating the building, giving him a painting that was probably worth thousands of pounds — and his brain nearly collapsed.
“Are you angry with me?” Crowley asked tentatively.
“I’m just… overwhelmed. No, actually, I am angry,” Aziraphale corrected himself testily. “And I’m confused. You told me you were going to be gone for nearly a year. We agreed to end things. But suddenly I find out you’re opening a business next door to mine!” He shook his head in disbelief. “We didn’t communicate for months apart from one postcard you wrote when you were high! And now you show up out of the blue with — with elaborate gifts and all of this?!”
Crowley shuffled his feet, scuffing at something invisible on the floor. “When you put it that way, I can see how you might be a bit put out,” he admitted sheepishly.
Aziraphale paced a few steps away, still agitated. “I didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. We said no strings! I was just starting to —” He stopped abruptly, an unexpected surge of hurt welling up in him, but he mastered his emotions. “And you never texted or called…” he trailed off.
Crowley lifted his head sharply. “I did write. You never responded.”
Aziraphale looked away with a pang of guilt, knowing Crowley was right. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what you really meant in that postcard.” He waved a hand around the gallery. “I still don’t know what any of this means, not really.”
Moving closer, Crowley gazed at Aziraphale, his expression pleading. “This is difficult for me… I’m not great with words. I’m better at making things, giving things, to show how I feel.”
“Please, for once, just tell me what you feel,” Aziraphale pleaded.
Crowley took a breath, tilting his eyes up to the ceiling as if searching for courage. “What I’m trying to say is… I missed London. I missed you.” He swallowed hard, his jaw working. “I want… I want us to go back to our arrangement, for everything to be exactly like it was before I left.”
Aziraphale’s heart leapt and tripped on itself in a tangle of hope and caution. “Crowley, I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you want it too,” Crowley answered with urgency. “You and me together again, just like it was.”
Aziraphale pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to come to terms with the whiplash of the last few minutes, his head swirling with a million conflicting emotions.
The sheer balls of Crowley to do all of this without telling me! he fumed one moment. But it’s so romantic! he gushed the next. He’s a presumptuous bastard! He’s a passionate artist!
It was all too much. A confused, helpless whimper escaped Aziraphale’s throat. “You’re going too fast for me, Crowley.”
A shadow of disappointment passed over Crowley's face as he bit his lower lip and looked away. He slowly nodded, moving a step back. “You’re right. It wasn’t fair to spring all of this on you without any warning. I guess I wanted to — I don’t know, make some sort of grand gesture.”
Aziraphale thawed a bit at his words. “Oh, Crowley, I appreciate it, I really do. But I — I need some time to think about this. About us.”
Crowley nodded again, his shoulders slumped. “Sure. I understand.”
Aziraphale gazed at him, his heart muddled. Did he want to rush back into their arrangement? Did Crowley think he could just swoop back here like nothing had changed? What if it wasn’t the same?
He couldn’t cope with all this. He desperately needed to be alone so he could think more clearly. “I should go.”
He forced his feet to move towards the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he paused and turned to look at Crowley. “I really am glad that you’re back. And thank you for stopping Gabriel.” He smiled, his gaze bittersweet. “I just need some time to process everything.”
Crowley returned a weak smile and gave a half-hearted nod. “I know.”
Aziraphale blundered through the door and onto the pavement, blindly making his way home, a million thoughts churning in his mind. Once at his flat, he went through the motions of drawing a bath, hoping to calm his racing thoughts.
Sinking into a frothy tub of bubbles, he closed his eyes, letting the hot water relax his tense muscles. He wished he could embrace Crowley’s return without hesitation, but something was troubling him. Yes, Crowley had gone overboard with all of his surprises, but it wasn’t done maliciously. His exuberance could be forgiven.
And while it was thrilling to know that Crowley wanted to renew their arrangement, a nagging sense of doubt continued to linger in Aziraphale’s mind. But why was he hesitating? Shouldn’t he be jumping at the chance to rekindle their secret romance?
As he soaked, he carefully sifted through the facts to organize his thoughts: Did he want to be with Crowley again? Yes.
Did he want to continue all the hot sex and bonus canoodling? Oh, God, yes.
Did he want to keep their affair casual? Er… And a secret? Actually…
He stilled as his hesitant answers to the last two points sank in. If he didn’t want their arrangement to be casual and secret, that meant he wanted it to be serious and public, right? Deep down, what he wanted was… a real relationship? With Crowley? Out in the open in front of God and everybody?
“Oh, fuck!” Aziraphale cursed as this new revelation finally hit home. The truth went much deeper than he had allowed himself to consciously admit. For as impossible as it seemed, somewhere along the way, amongst all the sniping and snogging and fucking and snuggling, he had fallen in love with his maddening, irresistible enemy, Anthony J Crowley.
Flummoxed, he sank under the water, feeling utterly foolish. How long had he been in denial about being head-over-heels in love with his supposed nemesis? The sheer stupidity it took to think he could just ignore the intense attraction and connection between them!
Aziraphale emerged from the water gasping for air, his hair plastered unflatteringly to his head, and was struck with another alarming series of thoughts. Did Crowley feel the same way about him, or did he want to keep everything status quo? What had Crowley said? I want everything to be exactly like it was before I left. Did that mean he wanted their relationship to remain casual and secret? Where did they go from here?
As terrifying as the prospect was, he knew he needed to speak with Crowley to clarify their situation. Aziraphale now knew with certainty that he wanted something more between them, something real, something with strings. He only hoped Crowley did too.
And if Crowley didn’t want a serious relationship? Aziraphale didn’t think he could settle for anything less. What was the point of continuing on if there wasn’t a future? He didn’t want to be part of a casual fling forever. Crushing as it may be, it would be best to call it off for good now if Crowley didn’t want the same level of commitment.
The bath water was growing cold and Aziraphale stepped out of the tub. He wrapped himself in a warm dressing gown and fixed his curls, then poured a large glass of red wine. It was a terrible idea to drink so close to bedtime, but he didn’t think he’d be falling asleep anytime soon.
Needing to let this startling new knowledge percolate, he flipped on the television to distract himself and clicked through the options. A Bond film. A travel show about Amsterdam. An old Bob Ross episode. Somewhere, he suspected, the universe was laughing at him.
Chapter Text
“You fucking maniac. You really did this.” Nina gazed around the gallery the next morning, her hands on her hips.
Crowley watched her, gauging her reaction. He had called her late last night to let her know he was back in town and had arranged for them to meet as soon as possible.
“When you said you had something to show me, this wasn’t what I was expecting,” she said, turning in a circle. She suddenly punched him in the arm.
Crowley yelped. “What the hell was that for?”
“You could have told me about this sooner!”
“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, rubbing his bicep. He was starting to regret surprising people, which had seemed like a brilliant idea when he first cooked up this whole scheme. “Doesn’t anybody like surprises anymore?”
“Oh, I like them, but this — this is mental.” She looked around and suddenly laughed. “It’s impulsive and insane, but I kind of love it.”
Crowley perked up at her comment. “Really?”
“It’s a good idea,” Nina allowed. “A gallery is a good fit for the neighbourhood. Plus you get to be my neighbour. I guess that’s all right, having you hanging around.” She smiled at him, then turned more serious. “And you’re sure this is what you want? That it was worth giving up the residency to do this?”
“Yeah, it’s worth it,” he replied honestly. “I’ve needed an anchor like this. I can’t muck around forever without a purpose.”
Nina nodded, seeming to understand. “And you can afford all this?”
He looked at her with a wry smile. “I’ve sold a lot of paintings to a lot of wealthy people,” he assured her. “And believe it or not, I’ve worked with a financial advisor to invest most of that money. And I can let out my townhouse and move into the space upstairs if ever need to. The attic has good light for a studio.”
“So who will run the gallery day-to-day?”
“I’ll hire staff so I have time to paint. It’ll work out.”
“Look at you, all grown up.” Nina beamed at him. “Investing and running a proper business. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’ve been learning from you,” he grinned, nodding in the direction of Seven Circles. “You seem to be doing all right yourself.”
“Business is good,” she confirmed, wandering around the space and stopping by the painting hung on the wall. She was silent for a moment, then added another bit of news. “I might have a little surprise of my own to share.”
“Oh?” Crowley raised an interested eyebrow.
Nina brushed away an imaginary speck of dust on the wall. “Maggie and I… we’re sort of a thing.”
Crowley broke into a smile. “A thing?”
“We’re taking it slow,” Nina clarified. “After the whole Lindsey drama, I’m just being cautious.”
“Maggie’s great.” Crowley stood beside Nina and knocked her gently with his shoulder. “I’m chuffed for you. You two will be good together.”
“Yeah, well…” Blushing, Nina quickly changed the subject. “When’s the grand opening of this place, anyway?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Sometime after the new year.” Crowley cast a critical eye around. “There’s still lots to do.”
“Well, you should celebrate anyway. There’s a mandatory Shopkeepers Association holiday do tonight,” she said. “Come and get drunk with me.”
Crowley groaned. “Please don’t subject me to that.”
“Oh, come on. You’re going to have to join the association sometime. Aziraphale is hosting the party at the wine bar. The booze will be good, at least.”
Crowley hoped his face didn’t betray anything at the mention of Aziraphale’s name. “What time tonight?” he asked cautiously.
“Starts at seven o’clock.”
“I suppose I could stop by for a bit.” He tried to sound reluctant, but inwardly was already planning what to wear and drafting another apology speech to deliver to Aziraphale if he could find a moment to speak with him privately.
He felt terrible about the way their unexpected reunion had played out. It was nothing like the elaborate surprise unveiling he’d envisioned, which involved a blindfold, champagne, and an effusive response from Aziraphale. But when he’d caught sight of the other man peering through the window last night, he couldn’t resist approaching him right then and there and spilling the big news.
God, Nina was right. He was impulsive and insane at times. Why couldn’t he have just walked by Aziraphale without saying anything and waited to make proper plans?
Because the man stirs up every molecule in your body, you idiot. And you came on too strong, scaring him off.
All of this flashed through his mind in seconds as Nina continued the conversation. “So you’ll come to the party?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll come.”
“It’ll be the hot gossip, you opening this gallery. Everyone’s been wondering what it would be. Aziraphale has really had his knickers in a twist about it.”
“Has he?” Crowley felt another pang of guilt, although the image of Aziraphale in dainty knickers was strangely appealing.
“I wonder what he’ll think of you buying this place.” Nina snorted in amusement. “The two of you working next door to each other? You’ll be fighting like alley cats within the week.”
“We can be civil,” Crowley protested.
“Right.” Nina didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, well done, you. This place will be amazing when it’s finished.”
“Thanks, Nina.” He was half tempted to hug her, but she was already on the move.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she called out while walking to the door.
He tossed her a casual salute and turned back to contemplate the solitary painting. Maybe he shouldn’t have sprung it on Aziraphale as a gift. The whole thing had been a disaster, trying to show Aziraphale how he felt with grand gestures. It had backfired, and instead of sweeping Aziraphale off his feet, he’d swept him out the door.
What if Aziraphale simply wasn’t interested in rekindling their affair? Crowley had suggested renewing their arrangement in the hopes that Aziraphale would agree to the idea. Then, once they were back together, they could have gradually moved beyond casual sex to something more serious, taking it in stages. But instead of that happening, Aziraphale had been completely overwhelmed last night, and now it was difficult to tell where they stood.
Crowley laced his fingers behind his neck and stretched in exasperation. Why was it so goddamn hard to tell someone you were in love with them?
Because they might not feel the same way.
There it was — the unspoken fear looming in the background like a 500-pound gorilla. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t have feelings for him. Maybe that’s why he fled last night, eager to get away from Crowley’s heavy-handed overtures.
But he couldn’t give up without trying one more time. He needed to see Aziraphale again and use his words like a fucking grown up. He needed to tell him that he was, despite every logical reason he shouldn’t be, stupidly in love with him — a terrifying prospect that made his stomach drop. But it was more terrifying to think about losing Aziraphale without ever fighting for him.
Buck up, he told himself. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if he turns you down, you’ll just have to sell the gallery, move to Australia, and change your identity. No big deal.
Crowley’s day was soon occupied with letting in plasterers and painters to finish the work upstairs and making phone calls to start pulling together a staff. He wasn’t interested in keeping the books or greeting every client that walked through the door, but he did want to elevate the profile of up-and-coming artists. And if he could sell an occasional work of his own, all the better.
By the time he looked up from his desk at home, the sun had already set and the December sky was dark. With a jolt, he remembered the holiday party and hurriedly closed his laptop. He quickly showered and spent far too much time coiffing his hair into casual waves that were made to look effortless.
He dressed in black, of course, choosing a structured jacket to wear over a cashmere jumper that was as soft as a kitten. He slipped on his sunglasses and ventured forth, determined to woo the man he’d never, ever intended to fall for.
Crowley met Nina in front of Le Paradis a few minutes after seven.
“Don’t you look lovely?” Crowley complimented Nina, who was wearing a navy blue silk blouse. “Very sparkly.”
“You scrub up nicely yourself.”
They entered the wine bar and were immediately greeted by Muriel, who took their coats and handed them drinks. The large room was aglow with fairy lights, flickering candles, and garlands of greenery. Christmas music played softly in the background, and the atmosphere was elegant and festive, the room buzzing with conversation and laughter.
Nina made her way over to Maggie as Crowley nodded hello at many familiar faces, including Eric, Justine, and Ana, and a few less familiar ones. There was the pale, creepy man who owned the tattoo parlor, Hastur something; the music shop owner, whose name he could never remember; and Mrs Sandwich, who ran some sort of spa that was rumoured to be an escort service. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.
Dick Brown soon cornered Crowley by the bar. “A little bird told me you’re the proud owner of a new art gallery next door.”
Crowley was annoyed that word had travelled so quickly. “That bird is a nosy bugger.”
Brown laughed off his remark. “I’ll drop off the paperwork for membership in the Shopkeepers Association right after the holidays. I look forward to working very closely together,” he leered. “Oh, and I have another mural project lined up for the spring. I’m sure I can count on you to help out with the kids again.”
Distracted, Crowley looked past the other man’s shoulder for Aziraphale. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“Mr Fell is generously sponsoring the next mural,” Brown continued. “Such wonderful civic spirit.”
Crowley turned his head at that bit of news. “Aziraphale’s sponsoring it?” He laughed, picturing Aziraphale posing uncomfortably for a publicity photo with paint-splattered children. He truly was a big softie under all that stuffiness.
Brown nattered on about something else until he latched onto Mrs Sandwich as she passed by. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief and quickly downed his drink. Just then Maggie came over and gave him a quick hug. “I’m so excited you’ll be next door. If you ever need catering for an event, let me know. I still owe you for helping us out that time.”
“Thanks,” he said, appreciating the offer. He gave her a knowing grin. “Glad to hear you and Nina are, well, you know. A thing.”
Maggie smiled, her dimples showing. “I really had to work up the courage to ask her out, but I’m so glad I did.”
Crowley felt a pang of wistfulness at her obvious happiness. If only he and Aziraphale could find that same magic. “Is Aziraphale around?” he asked in a rush.
Maggie nodded while taking a sip of her wine. “He’s here somewhere. Maybe in the kitchen?”
Before Crowley could take two steps towards the back, Ana appeared in front of him.
“So, the cat came back,” she grinned. “You know, I wasn’t surprised to learn that you’re an artist. It all makes sense now.”
“Does it?” he asked, his eyes wandering around the room for a sign of a cream-coloured jacket.
“Want me to read your palm again?” Ana offered, seeming to know that he was looking for a certain someone.
“No, thanks. I think I’ve got it figured out now.”
“Good for you. Oh, there’s the new bloke.” Ana nudged Crowley and pointed at a young man with brown hair and glasses who looked slightly lost. “He just opened a computer repair shop, I hear.” She tilted her head appraisingly. “Hm, he’s kind of cute in a nerdy way.”
“Don’t let me stop you from introducing yourself,” Crowley said, amused as Ana had already started walking toward the young man.
After numerous similar conversations, Crowley finally caught sight of Aziraphale’s shock of white hair across the room. He stared in his direction until Aziraphale turned and their eyes met. Aziraphale’s face shifted through a kaleidoscope of expressions until he smiled and glided through the crowd holding a tray of wine glasses.
“Would you care for another drink?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley took a glass and Aziraphale set the tray on the bar, selecting a glass for himself. Crowley skimmed his eyes over Aziraphale, who was wearing his usual ivory and beige colours, but with one change — in honour of the season, he sported a red and green tartan bow tie. Crowley smiled at the festive detail and caught a whiff of Aziraphale’s cologne, a scent that instantly hit him in the solar plexus with desire and warm memories. He wanted to fold Aziraphale in his arms right there and capture his mouth in a passionate kiss that would shock everyone with its intensity.
Instead, he did something far more sensible and raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Aziraphale replied.
Crowley took a sip and finally spoke, forgetting any kind of speech he may have rehearsed. “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry again about last night.”
Aziraphale nodded. “As am I. I’ve been wanting to speak with you, but I’ve been so busy getting ready for tonight, I didn’t have time.”
The volume in the room rose as music, conversations, and laughter overlapped and people raised their voices to be heard.
“Can we find somewhere to talk in private?” Crowley asked with a note of urgency. “It’s too noisy here. Maybe in your office?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s currently filled with crates of wine. I can’t even shut the door.”
“Outside then?”
“Yes, all right.”
They placed their glasses on the bar and stepped outside to stand on the pavement near the flower boxes that were now adorned with pine boughs and ribbons instead of petunias. The night air was cold and their breath hung in white puffs, the street awash in shimmering holiday lights.
“So I wanted to apologise again for going a bit overboard,” Crowley started again. “I was so focused on what I wanted that I didn’t consider your feelings.”
“And I apologise for not replying to your postcard and for walking out last night. I tend to avoid difficult conversations. I’m trying to work on that.”
Crowley’s mouth crooked up. “We’re conversing now, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a beautiful smile that made his knees go weak. “But I need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” Crowley readily agreed.
“Why?” Aziraphale asked softly, lifting his gaze to Crowley’s. “Why did you really come back?”
Crowley took off his sunglasses, moving closer. “I thought the artist's residency was what I wanted. I did want it, if I’m being honest, but going away made me realise I wanted something else even more. I wanted to be here. With you.” He almost reached for Aziraphale’s hand, but hesitated. “I came back for you.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed even as his face softened. “Oh, Crowley. When you say things like that, it confuses me.”
Crowley was taken aback. “Why? Don’t you want it, too? To go back to our arrangement?”
“Yes, but —” Aziraphale stopped, seeming tongue-tied.
Inside, Maggie glanced out the window and peered with curiosity at Crowley and Aziraphale standing on the pavement. “What are those two doing out there?”
Nina stood beside her, drink in hand. “The idiots don’t even have coats on.”
Crowley panicked at Aziraphale’s hesitation, scrambling for anything to quell his doubts. “We’ll be even more careful. I swear it’ll be just like before, completely secret.”
Aziraphale threw his hands up in agitation, nearly hitting Crowley in the nose. “That’s not what I want! Don’t you understand?”
Stunned, Crowley stared silently at Aziraphale. The world ground to a halt as the blood drained from his face. Not what he wants.
“I knew it, those idiots are arguing already,” Nina chortled.
Eric and Muriel drifted over, curious to see what Nina and Maggie were staring at.
Crowley’s mouth was dry as he repeated the words like a stammering fool. “You don’t — you don’t want this?”
“I’m trying to explain, you clod,” Aziraphale huffed. “I do want to be together again, but on one condition.”
“What? Anything you want, just tell me,” Crowley pleaded, reminding himself that sinking to his knees to beg would probably be too over the top.
Maggie exchanged a look with Nina. “I don’t think they’re arguing, exactly.”
Nina squinted at them. “What the hell are they talking about?”
More guests drifted over to the window to watch the scene unfolding outside.
“Are they breaking up or something?” Newt asked loudly.
“Shhh!” Ana shushed him, pushing her way to the front. “Can anyone hear anything?”
“If we’re going to do this, it needs to be out in the open,” Aziraphale proclaimed. “I’m tired of hiding. No more sneaking around.”
Crowley, oblivious to the growing audience watching from behind the window, widened his eyes. “Out in the open? Us?” he repeated. Fuck, why do I sound like a dimwitted parrot?
Aziraphale took a breath and inched closer. “I want everyone to know that we’re together. I want more, Crowley. I don’t want to settle for crumbs. I want the entire feast.”
Crowley blinked, uncertain if he understood correctly. “And just to be clear, in this scenario, I’m the feast?”
“Yes, you git.” Aziraphale laid a palm on Crowley’s chest. “I want you. All of you. And I want everyone to know it.”
“Oh, my God.” Maggie drew in a breath, her eyes shining.
Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own, a rush of warmth flowing through him, making him unaware of the cold. A few crystalline snowflakes drifted down, dusting their hair.
“And I want you, you’ve no idea how much.” He pulled Aziraphale against the length of his body, holding him tightly. “Aziraphale Fell, I regret to inform you that I” — Crowley swallowed, feeling like he was about to plunge off a cliff — “that I am hopelessly in love with you.”
Aziraphale’s face blossomed into a radiant smile. “I have equally terrible news, because I’m in love with you, too.”
Crowley grinned, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands and drew their mouths together, closing his eyes as their lips met in a warm, tender kiss. Aziraphale’s fingers curled around his shoulders and slid to his neck, pulling him closer.
The audience inside the wine bar collectively gasped.
“But — but —” Dick Brown spluttered. “That’s impossible! They’re sworn enemies!”
“Who are they, exactly?” Newt asked in confusion.
“The toff who sells wine and the kombucha delivery guy,” Hastur grunted disinterestedly. “I’m going out back for a smoke.”
Maggie turned to Nina, her eyes wide. “Did you know about this?”
Nina shook her head in shock. “I thought they hated each other.”
“Apparently not.”
Ana smiled with satisfaction, then pulled out her phone to snap a photo of the romantic scene outside. She sent it to Agnes with a one-word comment. Finally
In her kitchen, Agnes lifted her phone and let out a delighted cackle that sent the cat skittering from the room.
Outside, Crowley and Aziraphale slowly drew apart, snowflakes sparkling in their hair, unaware of the small crowd watching them with bated breath.
Crowley traced the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, rosy with the cold. “I wasn’t sure — I didn’t know if you felt the same way. I’ve been terrified to say anything. So I tried to show you.”
“I understand that now. And I love it — I love that you bought Agnes’s shop, I love the gallery, and the painting — oh, I love the painting so much.” Aziraphale gazed at him adoringly. “And I love you, despite our inauspicious beginning.”
Crowley kissed him again, giddy and lightheaded. He never would have predicted they’d end up like this, enamored and beguiled. They’d come a long way from trading insults and pulling pranks to standing here, declaring their love in a rare, gentle London snowfall.
“I wonder what people will say about us,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly, wrapping his arms around Crowley.
“Technically, we don’t like each other,” Crowley said after a moment, grinning.
“Semantics, dear. We’ll have to say something at some point.”
Just then there was a rap on the window, making them turn their heads. Crowley was momentarily horrified to see the entire Shopkeepers Association gawking at them with dopey grins on their faces.
“I think they already know,” he muttered.
Aziraphale pulled Crowley into a tighter grip. “Then let’s give them a show, shall we?”
Crowley obliged, melting into the snog of his life, not caring who saw them or knew about their relationship. It was so freeing that he almost forgot about the many eyes witnessing the copious amount of tongue embellishing their embrace.
Nina poked her head out the door. “Oi, get a room!” she called, laughing.
Dick Brown crowded in behind her. “Overt public displays of affection are subject to fines and penalties!”
Maggie jostled Brown out of the way. “Nina and I will handle everything from here and lock up. You two should, erm, go talk.” She pointedly held up their coats.
“I think they’re trying to get rid of us,” Crowley observed.
“We’re scandalous.” Aziraphale giggled as Crowley swaggered over to collect their jackets.
“Would you, perchance, care to continue this conversation in your bedroom?” Crowley proposed while shrugging on his coat.
“Oh, I would indeed.”
Crowley slid on his sunglasses and hooked a possessive arm around Aziraphale as they set off.
“Merry Christmas!” Maggie called after them.
Aziraphale flashed her a smile and waved. They said very little as they walked, their hands joining in a warm clasp. The interlacing of their fingers was an unexpected form of foreplay that prompted Crowley to imagine a host of delicious intimacies.
Arriving at the flat, he waited as Aziraphale pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door, ushering him inside. Once the door was securely closed and locked again, Crowley gathered Aziraphale into his arms. “I can’t wait to get you into bed,” he said, kissing the fragrant skin of Aziraphale’s neck just above that damned buttoned collar.
“Oh, we’re not leaving the bed until Boxing Day,” Aziraphale replied, arching against Crowley and pushing his coat off his shoulders.
“What if we get bored?” Crowley teased, pulling at the end of the obnoxious bow tie.
“I assure you, we won’t.” Aziraphale skimmed his hands down Crowley’s arse.
“Is that a promise?” Crowley nipped at Aziraphale’s lower lip, the tie slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the floor.
“Promise.”
“Does that promise come with strings attached?” Crowley ventured hopefully, ghosting his lips over Aziraphale’s mouth.
“So many strings,” Aziraphale murmured. “Oodles of wonderful, marvelous strings.”
Crowley grinned, never happier in his life. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Chapter 12
Notes:
I couldn't quite let these two go yet, and I had to make up for the tears in chapter 9, so here's a little bonus scene of our lovebirds.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Later that night…
Aziraphale trailed a finger down Crowley’s spine, letting his eyes roam over the freckles that dusted his bare shoulders, his gaze continuing down the smooth skin of his back.
They were enjoying the afterglow of a heated reunion in bed, the sheets pooled at their feet where they had been shoved aside when they’d fallen atop the mattress in an energetic frenzy.
“I like these,” Aziraphale mused, the pad of his index finger dipping into a perfect dimple in Crowley’s lower back just above his arse.
“That tickles,” Crowley complained sleepily, making no effort to move away.
Aziraphale hummed something noncommittal, exploring the matching dimple. “You have a very long torso,” he observed idly.
“And you have a very long...” Crowley tossed a sly grin over his shoulder, “…memory.”
Aziraphale gave him a playful little push. “That’s not really what you were going to say.”
“Wasn’t it?” Crowley stretched and rolled onto his back, pulling Aziraphale into a languid kiss. “Ah, yes, now I recall,” he murmured appreciatively. “A nice, long cock.”
Aziraphale snorted, but didn’t deny it. They eventually broke apart, lying face-to-face on their sides.
“I’ve missed this,” Aziraphale said, turning more serious as he traced the line of Crowley’s shoulder with his palm.
“So have I,” Crowley agreed, curling his fingers against Aziraphale’s chest.
Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of these moments, touching and teasing, mapping every little detail of each other’s bodies, satisfying every need to explore.
Crowley’s hand stilled, his mood shifting. “Can I ask you something?”
Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Of course.”
“About Agnes’s shop — are you upset that you didn’t get the space? I mean, you had all those plans to expand your business. Did I — I don’t know, inadvertently crush your dreams?”
Aziraphale let out a laugh. “Oh, God, no. It’s a relief not to have to do all that, to be honest. I was prepared to follow through, but I wasn’t looking forward to the additional stress, frankly. I’m happy with my place the way it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I couldn’t be more pleased with the way things turned out. It’s perfect.” He raised his eyebrows as an idea struck him. “We could host joint events — wine and gallery nights, that sort of thing.”
“Brilliant,” Crowley smiled, his fingers tracing Aziraphale’s collarbone.
“Have you chosen a name for the gallery?” Aziraphale asked.
“I have,” Crowley replied. “What do you think of ‘Fingered Pansy Fine Art’?”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in horror until he saw the mirth in Crowley’s eyes.
“You fiend,” Aziraphale chided him. “What are you really naming it?”
“Something very respectable,” Crowley assured him. “‘The Whickber Street Gallery.’”
Aziraphale smiled. “That’s surprisingly tasteful.”
“God, it is, isn’t it?” Crowley sighed. “I’ve been spending too much time with this posh bloke who wears bow ties and waistcoats. Terrible influence on me.”
“Hmm, he must have very high standards.”
“He does. You should see how hot his boyfriend is.”
Aziraphale laughed again, pulling Crowley close for another taste of those tempting lips.
When they finally drew back, he studied Crowley’s eyes, trying to pinpoint their colour. Gold? Amber? It was an impossible task, one for a painter to attempt to capture.
“Speaking of names,” Aziraphale asked, suddenly curious, “does the painting — my painting — have a title?”
The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked up. “Believe it or not, it was temporarily called ‘Untitled work number 69.’”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am serious!” Crowley laughed. “But I finally came up with a proper title.” He hesitated, shrugging slightly. “‘The Heated Gaze of an Angel.’”
Aziraphale smiled softly, almost blushing. “I like that. It’s rather erotic.”
“Well, you inspired it.”
“Did I?” Aziraphale batted his lashes coquettishly.
“Don’t play innocent, you little tart,” Crowley teased. “You’re a feral beast under all that soft velvet. Except when you’re being a spoilt princess.”
“And you’re a gentle pussy cat under all those sharp angles,” Aziraphale countered. “Except when you’re using a firm hand.”
“You love it,” Crowley growled, swiftly pinning Aziraphale’s wrist above his head.
“Versatility is the spice of life,” Aziraphale hinted, his cock rousing with renewed interest.
“Someone’s feeling spicy right now,” Crowley murmured, rubbing his semi hard cock along the length of Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale looped his arms around Crowley’s neck. “What was that magic trick again — making the serpent disappear? I’d like to try that.”
Crowley grinned, rolling on top of Aziraphale and nudging his knees apart. “Ladies and gentleman, we have an enthusiastic volunteer for the snake charming act.”
Aziraphale smiled back, fond of Crowley’s inane chatter. He grasped Crowley’s cock, giving it a few firm strokes, enjoying the heft of it swelling under his touch. “The art of prestidigitation,” he winked, joining in the banter.
Crowley let out a slow, controlled breath before reaching for the bottle of lube, its contents greatly dwindled since its purchase. “You’re an excellent assistant.”
Aziraphale laid back on the pillows, luxuriating in Crowley’s attention. Locks of red hair brushed his cheek as Crowley finally braced his wiry arms over him, his cock head pressing enticingly against his entrance.
Aziraphale groaned with impatience, his hips squirming with anticipation. “I want you,” he breathed out. “Crowley…”
Crowley smiled down at him. “Abra…” he thrust forward gently, making Aziraphale gasp, “cadabra…”
Aziraphale clutched at Crowley’s back as hot sparks of pleasure rippled through him. Their chatter stopped, their conversation now one of hushed sighs and soft moans and intense gazes.
With limbs entwined in a warm tangle, their hips moved in a slow, sultry dance, the air thick with desire. There was no hurry this time, no rush to consume and devour and slake a desperate thirst. This was leisurely and indulgent, a hedonistic interlude to be savoured.
“God, you’re delicious,” Crowley murmured, finally breaking the silence.
“You feel amazing.” Aziraphale smoothed his hands over the dimples in Crowley’s lower back, enjoying every flex of muscle that translated to more pleasure. “I can’t believe we almost missed out on this. How were we ever enemies?”
“Thin line between love and hate,” Crowley noted with a crooked smile.
A brief stab of regret pierced Aziraphale’s heart. “Oh, my darling, I never hated you. You exasperated me, certainly.” He cupped Crowley’s face, looking earnestly into his eyes. “But I love you.”
Crowley stilled, wending his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair. “I know. And I love you.”
The kiss that followed was long and passionate and perhaps the most perfect kiss either of them had ever experienced, one they both tucked away in their memories, one that inspired an award-winning custom blend of full-bodied, deep red wine and an exquisite painting that hung in the bedroom of a London flat for many, many happy and fulfilling decades.
~ Fin ~
Notes:
A thousand thanks to all of you who followed along and commented as I posted chapters on the WIP. I genuinely appreciate the support and motivation that interaction with readers inspires. And thank you for reading if you come across this at a later point. I had a ton of fun writing it and keeping it (mostly) silly. It was a wonderful escape from the daily grind of seemingly endless bleak news. I hope it provided you with a little feel-good escape, too.
Pages Navigation
yokohamama on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 05:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 06:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
victims-of-love (toshifee) on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 07:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 10:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
redwinevinegar on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 11:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Thu 06 Nov 2025 01:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
beardo on Chapter 1 Thu 06 Nov 2025 04:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Thu 06 Nov 2025 06:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
6000years on Chapter 1 Thu 06 Nov 2025 06:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Nov 2025 01:47AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kuri_risu on Chapter 1 Thu 06 Nov 2025 07:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Nov 2025 01:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
LaudaddySmitten on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Nov 2025 10:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Nov 2025 06:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
ireallyneedmoretea on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Nov 2025 07:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Nov 2025 03:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
demonsandpieohmy on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Nov 2025 07:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Nov 2025 02:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
dbacklot99 on Chapter 1 Sun 09 Nov 2025 01:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Sun 09 Nov 2025 07:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hopeless_old_romantic_67 on Chapter 1 Wed 12 Nov 2025 02:35AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Wed 12 Nov 2025 03:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
beerok23 on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Nov 2025 05:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Fri 14 Nov 2025 01:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
WiblyWobly_TimeyWimey on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Nov 2025 09:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Wed 19 Nov 2025 03:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
Andromeda4004 on Chapter 1 Sun 23 Nov 2025 09:37AM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Sun 23 Nov 2025 05:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
Rosehip_Nettles_Ashes on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Nov 2025 11:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
Majnoona on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Dec 2025 07:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Dec 2025 10:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ifidontmind on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Dec 2025 05:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
Omensfan on Chapter 2 Wed 05 Nov 2025 07:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 2 Wed 05 Nov 2025 10:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
victims-of-love (toshifee) on Chapter 2 Wed 05 Nov 2025 08:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 2 Wed 05 Nov 2025 10:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
redwinevinegar on Chapter 2 Wed 05 Nov 2025 11:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
LemonTart on Chapter 2 Thu 06 Nov 2025 01:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation