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Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He paced backwards and forwards over the parquet flooring of the bookshop, wringing his hands compulsively.
He needed to find the right words. Words were not usually a problem for this literary minded angel. He was a good speaker when he needed to be, even eloquent at times, should the spirit move him. On this occasion, however, he was stumped. How to find words sufficient to express the immensity of his feelings—those huge, occasionally ungovernable feelings he harboured for the only person he had ever truly loved—appeared to be beyond him at the moment.
And it was imperative that he did find them, for he needed to, urgently. Crowley must be told before it was too late and he went away. Before he left Aziraphale for another, a person clearly better able to give voice to their affections, and capture the demon’s heart.
Aziraphale hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, it was rude and he preferred to refrain from such behaviour. It was just that he had spotted Crowley in the street, and being in a joyful, somewhat mischievous mood, had thought to surprise his friend with a light touch to the shoulder as Crowley so often did to him. Being surprised by Crowley never failed to ignite a certain special joy within his heart, and he hoped it might make Crowley smile were he to return the favour.
Aziraphale had not seen that Crowley was speaking with someone until he was almost within touching distance, then, when he did notice, he hung back from approaching any nearer, good manners dictating that he not interrupt the conversation. Hovering unnoticed nearby, he could not help but hear what Crowley and Nina, the owner of the local coffee shop, were saying to each other.
“…problem is, I kinda…”
“You love him, don’t you?”
Nina’s voice when she interrupted was not unkind, even if it was laced with wry amusement. Crowley stood straighter from his carefully casual lounging against the wall under the awning, his shoulders stiffening visibly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose I do,” he said, guardedly with a little sardonic upturn of his lips.
“Well, there’s an easy remedy for that, isn’t there?” said Nina, briskly.”
“What?”
“You tell him, idiot!”
“It’s not so easy, that, not for me.”
“Look, Crowley, you’re not good at expressing your… how you feel, I get it, I’m kinda that way myself. But everyone has to take risks in life. Look at how long it took for me and Mags to get together. It is worth it, honestly. Just go. Tell him. You’ll feel better when you do.”
At this point Aziraphale, having heard quite enough, turned on his heel and fled back to the bookshop needing time on his own to digest what he had just been witness to. His mind was whirling as he closed and locked the double doors and flipped the sign to ‘closed’.
Crowley had fallen in love with some lucky person. Aziraphale, like the fool he was, had left it far too late to make his own declaration. The heartbroken angel repaired to his favourite armchair and indulged himself in a little cry, wallowing in his despair without being able to see any remedy for it. He and Crowley could still be friends, of course they could, and he would try to be happy for his friend if he himself was happy. But he knew he would not be able to cope with seeing Crowley with another, the pain would be too great for him to bear.
After a good deal of deliberation, Aziraphale finally dried his eyes and blew his nose whilst coming to a firm decision. He would tell Crowley of his own feelings—be honest and open with him for once—and explain that he wished Crowley only happiness, but that he could no longer spend so much time with him. It would be only fair to let his best friend know the reason for his reluctance to meet and be together. It was an awful shame, Aziraphale reflected, tearful once again, they had been having such a wonderful time together lately—dinners, and shows and jolly chats over wine in the bookshop—since the failure of Armageddon. All that would have to come to an end though, now that Crowley was taken.
Perhaps he might shut up the bookshop and go away for a few years until the pain of this new situation became less fierce. First, though, there was the matter of finding the right words and then a suitable occasion on which to say them to Crowley. He would practice, that was the best idea, and then think some more about the best place and time to deliver some carefully chosen phrases, once he was entirely sure exactly what they were going to be.
Crowley was mortified. He liked Nina—her partner Maggie was okay too—for humans, that was. Nina could be fun to chat with: she always gave back as good as she got, which Crowley enjoyed, and she did make a good, strong espresso, which Crowley appreciated easily as much as the banter.
They had got talking on the street while Nina swept the pavement under the awning in front of her shop that late afternoon. Somehow, they’d got on to the topic of Crowley’s love life, or the lack of it. Crowley didn’t really have a love life, as such. He had a life, sure, and he had been in love for as long as he could remember. Combining the two had always seemed entirely beyond him, though. At first it had been through expediency: they shouldn’t even have been friends, he and Aziraphale, never mind anything more. Then secrecy had become something of a habit, and one that Crowley was now finding it well-nigh impossible to break.
Humans could be bloody perceptive at times. Nina had gone straight to the heart of the issue in minutes. The bookseller, she had said, her eyes twinkling, and Crowley hadn’t been able to find it in him to deny it, not any more. After all the two of them had been through, denying his love for Aziraphale had, in that moment, seemed to him a greater sin than any that he might previously have committed.
Nina was right though, he decided with some reluctance, he, Crowley, really should get on with it and tell his angel exactly how deep his feelings ran. There was no impediment to their union now, no auguries of bad fortune, no inauspicious stars that signified the inadvisability of their love. They were free, and retired to boot. Crowley summoned up all the resolve that he could muster. He would do it, there wasn’t really any other option if he wanted to stay sane.
Flowers could do some of the talking for him, Crowley reasoned to himself as he approached the familiar pillars of the bookshop entrance, twenty-four perfect red roses nestled in paper in one hand. And chocolates, too, for celebrating with once the vital words had been uttered: the finest those cunning artisans of Belgium could produce, ribbon-wrapped and gripped sweatily in the other. Aziraphale loved chocolates. Crowley hoped their presence would encourage the angel to forgive him if his love was not reciprocated and his friend was forced to gently let him down—Aziraphale could always be counted on to be kind, at least, he reassured himself.
Crowley didn’t want to march straight in to the bookshop, so he silenced the doorbell with a minor miracle and slunk inside, noiselessly. He thought he might do a little preliminary reconnaissance, see how the land lay with the angel, what his mood was before making his presence known and beginning his declaration over the fragrant petals of his floral offering.
Once inside the shop, Crowley immediately caught the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, mid-sentence. He sounded agitated, almost panicky, and Crowley could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“…thing is that I… I… Oh bother, not like that.”
There was the sound of pacing. Crowley and his flowers melted into the shadows between two runs of shelving. Eavesdropping was one of Crowley’s specialities. He had ensured that his hearing was very acute, just for this purpose, and it had served him very profitably in the past.
“I should just say it,” Aziraphale went on, “I… I love you darling… Is darling appropriate? Perhaps dearest might be better…”
The pacing continued, Aziraphale’s shoes making a soft, rapid beat on the ancient parquet flooring.
“Oh, I am being ridiculous,” the apparently harried angel berated himself, crossly, “I love you. There, that is enough. Now I just have to—”
Before Crowley had time to dwell on any of what he had just heard, especially Aziraphale voicing those precious words he had always longed to hear, there was a sudden flash of lightning, accompanied by a high, sonorous chiming sound, and a shape composed entirely of light began manifesting on the circular rug Aziraphale had placed under the glass oculus of the shop sometime back in the eighteen-twenties. The air sizzled and Crowley felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and stand to attention. He winced in his hiding place at the sensation, but remained stubbornly rooted to the spot. It seemed probable that another angel was in the process of calling on Aziraphale, and Crowley, ever curious, wanted to see who it was and what they wanted. Aziraphale might be in some sort of danger, and Crowley was not about to tolerate that.
The figure became solid at last, and stepped out of the circle of power as it shuddered out of existence. What had coalesced out of that column of fire was a vision of pure beauty. He—whoever he was—radiated a pearly kind of light. His features were delicately wrought, yet strong, his hair, like fine-spun gold tumbled down his back in a riot of gorgeous curls. He was tall and muscular, with an easy, confident stride that stopped decently short of a swagger. Crowley dearly wished he could stop thinking in clichés but this person, this celestial visitor, really was impressive, lovely and everything an angel ought to be.
“Greetings, Aziraphale,” the stranger began, and his voice had a pleasant timbre, whilst still remaining firm and commanding. Crowley shrank back deeper into the tenebrous gloom of the philosophy and self-help section, finding a gap above a run of shorter volumes on the nearest shelf from which he had an excellent view of the bookshop floor, and placing one eye against it, intent on seeing what was happening.
Aziraphale appeared, his hands clasped by his middle, a nervous looking smile upon his face. He wasn’t obviously frightened though, there was no sense of an immediate threat. Crowley allowed himself to relax a little and continued watching from his hiding place.
“Haniel,” Aziraphale began, pleasantly, “how good it is to see you. I, I am very glad you thought to drop by again.”
“You are most welcome, Aziraphale,” Haniel replied, his face lighting up even further with a smile of sickening effulgence.
“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale, in a tone of voice that matched the anxious motions of his hands, “the thing is, you see, I have something important that I need to say to you.”
That was it, Crowley had heard enough. Aziraphale was in love with that, that—well, admittedly he was pretty impressive this, this hunk of an angel—but he surely couldn’t be Aziraphale’s type, could he? Yet, against all likelihood, it seemed pretty obviously that he was. Aziraphale must have been practicing his declaration for this precise occasion. Crowley found he could not bear to stay one moment longer. He snapped his fingers noiselessly and vanished from the shop.
There, thought Aziraphale, that’s that sorted out, as the light dimmed then winked out from the centre of his summoning circle. Haniel was nice enough, if rather stupid, but they had needed to be told without further prevarication, and now it was done.
The other Principality; a sort of colleague, back in the day, had turned up unexpectedly in the bookshop for the first time a couple of weeks ago. Aziraphale had been rather taken aback at the intrusion, but had welcomed the other being as best he could, given that they were not accustomed to taking tea or cocoa, which were the two beverages Aziraphale usually resorted to when offering hospitality. Haniel, they had explained, sitting gracefully on the spare armchair, had been sent to offer Aziraphale a chance of ‘rehabilitation’. He had been officially ‘forgiven’ for his part in the failure of the Great Plan, and Haniel had been given the job of descending to Earth to ask him to ‘come home’ if he so wished.
At the time, Aziraphale had been altogether too shocked to respond. Haniel had been effusive about the offer, and had talked enthusiastically about the ‘benefits’ a place back with the Host might offer Heaven’s oldest emissary on Earth. In the face of this, Aziraphale had been polite but evasive, something he was extremely accomplished at, telling the other angel that he would ‘think about it’ whilst shuddering internally at the very idea.
Aziraphale had needed time to come up with a polite refusal. The thought of leaving the Earth, his bookshop, London, horrified the newly retired angel. Whilst the notion of spending the rest of eternity with the likes of Haniel, with their bland perfection and limited ideas appalled him even more.
Heaven was lovely, of course it was but, oh, the utter tedium of the place. The terrible, monotonous singing, the vapid conversations, the, frankly, awful food. Most importantly of all, he would be separated from Crowley, and Aziraphale could never, he knew, be able to find it in himself to even consider the thought of such a thing. No, a firm refusal that would be politic and tactful must be formulated, and it was this he had delivered to Haniel prior to the other angel’s departure.
Haniel’s zealous countenance had dimmed a little when they heard what Aziraphale had to say, but his explanation had been received with gracious magnanimity, and Haniel had left after advising him that he could always change his mind if he so wanted.
Aziraphale went into his kitchen and brewed a fortifying pot of tea. He was deeply relieved to have that over with, the exquisite awkwardness of explaining his position had made him feel very out of sorts. Now he could get back to the problem of Crowley and another, much more vital form of words he needed to come up with urgently.
It was just as the angel was pouring himself a second cup of Assam, and thinking he might go in search of a nice chocolate digestive, that the bell above the bookshop door rang out somewhat aggressively, and an agitated demon burst into the room.
Crowley had sat in the sterile white environs of his cavernous flat, bouquet and confectionary on the floor beside his chair, and brooded. Crowley was good at brooding, or at the very least, appearing to brood. What he didn’t like at all was the concept of having Feelings. Feelings were not demonic, not at all, and they couldn’t be trusted, Crowley knew that too. The humans had them all the time and they appeared to cause no end of trouble. Yet he, the Demon Crowley, original tempter of mankind, appeared to be having a very large amount of feeling-adjacent sensations coursing through his corporation all at once. It made him feel distinctly uneasy, unsettled in his scaly skin, kind of itchy in a psychological sense that he found distinctly disturbing.
Demons were not expected to worry about their psychological issues either—or have them at all, come to that. Like having Feelings, that sort of thing was frowned upon. Demonic life was supposed to be all about being evil and seeking pleasure when not actively promulgating the wicked side of things. Crowley never had been very good at the inherently ‘evil’ part of his job. He could look the part, and be quite threatening when he so chose, but the kind of nasty activities Hastur and Ligur, say, revelled in routinely, really weren’t his bag. His failure to follow through on your bona fide wickedness would have been a problem for him if he hadn’t been so inventive a liar and excelled at taking the credit for the unpleasant things humans tended to do to one another without thinking very much about it at all.
Crowley, undemonically, wanted Aziraphale to be happy. He would have preferred it if the angel had chosen to be happy with him, specifically, but because Aziraphale was his friend, Crowley would always want to see him safe and contented with his lot, even if the life he chose did not have Crowley in it.
The thought of doing without Aziraphale made his blood run cold. But, he would worry about that later. Of more pressing concern was this apparent relationship with another angel. Aziraphale appeared to have fallen in love with that pretty knucklehead Haniel, or whatever he was called. Crowley’s worry centred around the notion that Aziraphale might have been coerced or brainwashed in some way. Part of his brain insisted that it would be very difficult for anyone to coerce Aziraphale if he wasn’t happy to go along with the coercing: Aziraphale was and always had been one of the stubbornest people that Crowley had ever met.
Still, Heaven might have some fundamental hold over Aziraphale that Crowley wasn’t aware of—he was still an angel after all. The awful idea of Aziraphale in some sort of peril, made Crowley, a being who rarely allowed anything to get him worked-up—or at least that was what he told himself—very worried indeed. The notion of Aziraphale being persuaded by pretty words and (Hell forfend, thought Crowley) tender kisses from that disconcertingly handsome celestial numbskull to go back to Heaven where all of his interesting corners might be rubbed off was not to be borne. That was to say nothing of the worst they might do, given the Archangels’ propensity for random acts of violence whilst prosecuting the cause of righteousness. All of this didn’t bear thinking about, and would not be allowed to happen, if Crowley had anything at all to do with it.
Aziraphale shouldn’t be required to change in order to be loved. The very idea rendered Crowley hot with indignation. Crowley wasn’t so vain as to believe that he was an incredible catch, and he certainly would never stand in the way of Aziraphale’s happiness. But in all conscience (he winced when this term tripped across his busy mind), he couldn’t let the angel go until he had assured himself that he was aware of the changes this course of action could potentially mean for his life.
Aziraphale loved the world—the humans, their ingenuity and creativity, plants, animals (the angel fed stray cats in the little yard behind the bookshop), his books, his shop. In addition, Crowley had never seen another person, man, woman or child, eat a cherry clafoutis in the way Aziraphale did—with a kind of holy enthusiasm that made the consumption of the confection tantamount to a rapturous communion. Aziraphale would miss so many things he customarily enjoyed. Crowley had to be sure this was what his best friend wanted; he couldn’t let him go until they had talked about it properly.
And he would miss his angel. Crowley, curmudgeon though he had a tendency to be, had to admit that Aziraphale was his greatest weakness: he loved his oldest friend very much.
To Hell with it, then. He would tell Aziraphale that he loved him. If he was going to lose the one person he had ever cared for, he might as well go down fighting. If Aziraphale was leaving, then, for Crowley, there was simply nothing left to lose.
Gripping the flowers and chocolates again, Crowley, with a grimly determined expression on his face, left his flat and ran down to where his faithful car was waiting. Once his ordeal was over, he would take the Bentley for a long drive and think about where he might move to, nice and far away from London, that city, his home, where he and his angel had shared so many precious times together.
“Here, these are for you.”
Crowley thrust a huge bouquet of beautiful red roses against the astonished angel’s chest, following them up with a sizeable heart-shaped box of what looked like Aziraphale’s favourite Belgian chocolates. He embraced the bundle and box, clumsily grasping at both with some astonishment, and was about to say a flustered ‘thank you’ when the pink faced, distinctly surly looking demon cut across his attempts to speak with another curt phrase of his own.
“When are you leaving, then?”
Crowley stood, sunglasses on, arms folded defiantly, and looked him up and down.
“Leaving?” said Aziraphale, faintly, “how did you know I was thinking of—?”
“So you really are going?”
Crowley seemed to deflate somewhat, his shoulders losing their rakish angel and slumping a little.
“Well, I… Under the circumstances, I thought it might be best. I don’t want to get in your way and I, I—”
“Get in my way—what on Earth d’you mean by that?”
“I just thought with you being, um, attached, you might prefer it if I—”
“Attached?” protested Crowley, taking an exaggerated step backwards in his usual overly dramatic style, “I’m not… It’s you that’s… Gnnnh, I overheard you…”
“I overheard you!”
“What? When?”
Aziraphale stared down at his laden hands, miserably. The roses and the chocolates seemed to be mocking his desires, so he turned and placed them gently on a side table, then faced Crowley again, clasping his hands in front of him in preparation for what he had to say.
Aziraphale hadn’t wanted it to be like this. He had envisaged going to Crowley with magnanimous sympathy, wishing him well with tears of sadness in his eyes as he made the ultimate personal sacrifice for the sake of Crowley’s happiness. The notion of the virtuous nature of this envisaged action had been the only thing keeping him going. Aziraphale would have been able to feel noble and altruistic, like a character in one of the novels that he loved so much. And that might have been something, at least, some remnant he might have salvaged from the wreckage of his life. For otherwise, he was utterly bereft and heartbroken, dreading spending the rest of his existence on his own. The angel loved the company of his books, but had become used to their companionship being leavened regularly by that of Crowley, his oldest friend and the person he had loved since he understood he was capable of such a singular emotion.
“You were talking to Nina and you said—”
“Hah! Eavesdropping were you? Not very angelic of you, is it?”
Aziraphale bristled, despite himself. Crowley could be so provoking when he decided to be.
“I do not appreciate a lecture on moral probity from you. I was merely approaching with the intention of, um, surprising you—with a greeting, I mean. I didn’t see that you were engaged in conversation until I was near enough to hear. I wouldn’t have dreamed—”
“Yeah, yeah, never mind your attempts at self justification, what did you think you heard?”
“That… that… You confirmed to Nina of your… your feelings for someone.”
Crowley coloured deeply, yet still stood his ground. He was not prepared to talk about that, not yet, not until he had winkled out of Aziraphale the angel’s own attachment and he was surer of his ground.
“Never mind that,” he said, “when are you leaving with the knucklehead pretty boy then?”
“Pretty boy? What?” Aziraphale said, utterly confounded at the way the conversation had turned, “Who are you talking about?”
“Him, Haniel, or whatever his name is.”
“They/them,” said Aziraphale, almost absently, whilst staring at Crowley, more confused than ever, “and I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You were practising telling someone that you… Eurgh… About your, your, feelings for them. And then that shiny twit turned up. I suppose you told them then, did you?”
“Yes!” said Aziraphale, a little angry and a lot frustrated now, “I told them,” he paced up to Crowley until he was standing right in front of him, and tilted his chin, defiantly. “I told them, as politely as I was able, yet in no uncertain terms, that I was refusing their offer to come back to Heaven and be, be rehabilitated.”
“What?” said Crowley, his face morphing into an aghast expression, “they wanted you to what?”
“Return to the fold,” said Aziraphale, bitter now that he could really express his total dismay at the notion, “make my repentance and be accepted for re-education. I was very firm and they went away. I think they were a little disappointed, but I can’t imagine it will last for long. They don’t appear to feel anything very deeply. I don’t think they’ll be back.”
“So it’s not, uh, them you’re in love with, then?”
Aziraphale softened at the expression that was stealing over Crowley’s face. It was as if a sun had dawned across it, bringing relief and a half smile that could not but melt the angel’s heart. He smiled, tremulously, gentling his tone.
“Heavens no! They are alright, I suppose. And I wish them well, but I don’t even think we could be friends, not really. They have so little in the way of conversation, or interests come to that. Besides, I, I couldn’t… My heart is taken, and has been for a long time now.”
A wave of sadness washed over Aziraphale as he remembered the declaration Crowley had made to Nina, and the fact that he still had to explain that he could not stay in Soho and watch Crowley happy with another. Crowley’s voice was more gentle when he spoke again.
“Who by, angel?”
Aziraphale felt wretched, but it was time, and he could be brave, for Crowley’s sake.
“You, of course. It’s you.”
He took a deep breath. There, it was said, but he still needed to reassure Crowley that he had no intention of being a nuisance with his inconvenient affections. He stood a little straighter, clasped his hands together and continued, managing a faint smile for his interlocutor.
“I am sorry if this isn’t what you want to hear, but I will go away, I promise, travel for a while perhaps, and leave you to it… Who is it, by the way? A human?”
“Nah,” said Crowley, taking both Aziraphale’s hands in his. The angel, mired in his misery, let him without a murmur. Crowley was being kind, even if the touch he longed for cut him to the very core.
“Never even thought about that, not really to my taste, the humans, interesting little buggers though they are,” Crowley went on, stroking the knuckles of each of Aziraphale’s hands with his long fingers now, and smiling rather oddly.
“A, a demon, then?” ventured Aziraphale, allowing his hands to be caressed, soaking up the sensation of it and storing it away for all the lonely days to come
“Bloody hellfire, no,” said Crowley, almost laughing now. “Some of them are alright, but mostly they’re a grotty lot. And so boring, going on about how much they relish cruelty and at the same time whining about injustice. Not for me, no thanks.”
“Who then?” said Aziraphale, tilting his head to gaze properly at Crowley’s face for the first time, allowing a tiny flame of hope to ignite in his heart.
“You, you daft angel,” said Crowley, softly—kindly. “I was talking about you. It’s always been you.”
“Me?” said Aziraphale, hardly able to believe it. He could feel tears prickling at the back of his eyes, and was aware that his lower lip was wobbling in a most unbecoming way. Crowley let go of one of Aziraphale’s hands and drew his sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes were soft, the pupils wide. He took hold of both the angel’s hands once again and drew him close.
“Who else would it be? You’re my best friend. Can’t imagine caring about anyone else, if I’m honest.”
“You love me?” breathed Aziraphale, a great rush of wonder lighting up his corporation from his head right down to his expensively-shod toes.
“No need to go on about it,” said Crowley, almost playfully, but his eyes were lambent in the bookshop gloom, and filled with tenderness, “but, yeah, I love you.”
“I love you too. Oh darling, dearest, I was so worried I was going to lose you.” Aziraphale felt heat rush to his face as he said the precious words with more confidence now. He was glowing, he felt, for he was loved, and it surpassed all the wonders he had ever seen or known.
“You were worried? I thought you were off to Heaven with a bloody stereotype, that you’d had your head turned by some celestial beefcake,” said Crowley, smiling still, his cheeks now tinged with pink.
“No, absolutely not. Angels are lovely, of course. But I have to say, they’re rather, um, tedious, if I’m to be honest.”
“So I’m not boring then?”
“Of all the many things that might be said about you, Crowley, boring isn’t one of them.”
“I’m exciting then? Yeah, ‘course I am,” Crowley preened.
“Annoying, yes, frequently exasperating too, but never boring, darling. May I call you darling?”
“I suppose I will get used to it, angel.”
There was a pause, while they just looked at each other. Aziraphale, taking in what that ‘angel’ of Crowley’s meant, what it had always meant, or so it seemed. He could feel a tear, and then another trickle down the warmth of his cheeks. He felt so happy he thought it was likely he might burst from it. That and the relief of not having to go away, of not having to spend lonely nights imagining his love in someone else’s arms.
“What do we do now?” said Crowley, “never done this sort of thing before.”
“Nor have I,” confessed Aziraphale, blushing deeply, “I, I think we might essay some, um, physical affection, if that is what you would like, that is.”
Crowley groaned, but his eyes were shining.
“Don’t call it that, please.”
Aziraphale tutted, but could not prevent himself from smiling, beaming, at his beloved.
“A kiss then?” he ventured.
“Uh, yeah, we could try that, I s’pose,” said Crowley, clearly attempting to be casual about it. Aziraphale wasn’t fooled, and found himself, rather unexpectedly, in a teasing mood
“You’d rather not? We don’t have to—I mean, it’s not compulsory. It’s just that I—”
“Thought about kissing me a lot, have you angel?”
It was time for another act of bravery. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, aiming for insouciance despite the urgent beating of his heart
“I suppose I have. Now and again. But if you don’t want to—” He made as if to draw away, but Crowley gripped on to his hands more firmly and tugged him closer.
“Didn’t say that, did I? Now, what do you do with the noses again?”
“We don’t have to rush,” said Aziraphale, gazing at Crowley, allowing all the tender feelings he had nurtured over centuries to show, “we have all the time in the world now. We can take it slow.”
“Just kiss me, angel,” said Crowley, and his face was near, his voice low and it was wonderful and thrilling and everything Aziraphale had always wanted.
Their lips met and Aziraphale’s personal universe abruptly went on fire.
Aziraphale would not have called himself a passionate kind of person, not really. He was undoubtedly a romantic, he had known that for a very long time. He adored reading about love, seeing couples in the park holding hands and stopping to kiss and embrace each other. All of it melted his sentimental heart and made him happy, even if such sights did tend to exacerbate his perception of his own chronic loneliness. But passion, he had thought, was the preserve of others, not something he would or could ever have. He had resigned himself to a rather cerebral existence, despite the easy sighs and tears he occasionally indulged himself in at the sentimental ending of one of the romantic novels he so loved.
But kissing Crowley and even more so, being kissed by Crowley, changed all of that in a nanosecond. The touch of his beloved’s mouth set off a series of reactions in Aziraphale’s corporation that were nothing short of a string of detonations. He felt their percussive force through his willing, yearning body, in his heart and in his mind—and places further down. Crowley’s lips were soft, his mouth, and then his tongue, were hot. What began as a chaste press of lips rapidly turned into a fierce and open mouthed exchange of eager kisses, deep and ardent and totally, ecstatically overwhelming.
Crowley had a taste that was sublime, and was making little desperate noises that matched the heartfelt moans that Aziraphale was finding he could not help, such was his pleasure in this new and magnificently engrossing activity.
They clung together, arms about each other, hands clutching at clothing, thrust into each other’s hair, and finally cradling jaws and cheeks as the kissing gentled, turning slow and tender and finally coming to an end. They held each other, swaying slightly. Aziraphale could not prevent himself from humming, such was his unconfined happiness at having his beloved Crowley in his arms.
“Mmmmh, angel,” muttered Crowley in his ear, “what do you want to do now?”
“Crowley, darling, I’m not sure but I think I’d like to go to bed.”
“Bed?”
“Yes, please—like the humans do. If, if you want to…”
“I want to. Gosh, yes. I really want to, angel.” Crowley sounded eager, and he pressed the length of his lean and lovely body up against the angel’s with an urgency that made Aziraphale gasp. “Where is it, the bed—upstairs?”
Aziraphale gave a little yelp as Crowley crouched slightly and then picked him up bodily, strong arms beneath his knees and across his back, and then started, somewhat unsteadily towards the stairs.
“Up here, angel?” he panted.
“Yes! Oh yes, you, you strong, wonderful devil, you!” Aziraphale said, giving in to cliché, feeling giddy and grateful and very like one of the heroines in his beloved romances despite the corduroys, sensible socks and crumpled Oxford shirt.
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Crowley grunted out as he turned the corner in the stair.
“And afterwards, darling—”
“Afterwards?” huffed out Crowley, kicking the bedroom door open with a slightly shaky but still flamboyant thrust of one leg.
“Perhaps you might take me out to dinner, I think that’s the done thing, too.”
Aziraphale kissed the soft, tender place below Crowley’s ear and was rewarded with a warm flush of the skin beneath his lips.
“Aren’t we doing this the wrong way round, angel?” said Crowley, breathlessly, pausing dramatically in the doorway, “isn’t it meant to be dinner first, then bed?”
Aziraphale met his eyes, Crowley, like himself was rosy of cheek and smiling, almost gleefully.
“I don’t think either of us has ever been conventional, darling,” Aziraphale said, both arms linked about Crowley’s neck, and hanging on tightly. “I love you so much, my Crowley, and I really don’t think I wish to wait any longer.”
“I love you too, my angel,” Crowley panted, as he did his best to throw Aziraphale on to the bed, mostly succeeding, although Aziraphale had to scramble upwards a little to get his head on to the pillow. Crowley leaned down and kissed him, breathless and sweet. “I’ve had enough of waiting, as well. Although it’s been worth it—for you”
Aziraphale held his arms out and they fell together, naturally, as if they had indeed been waiting for this since the world began.
Afterwards, they lay together, quite stunned, both of them, by their mutual discoveries over the previous, admittedly fairly short, period of time. Their coupling had been passionate, yet inept in a way that had verged on the comical. There had been laughter as well as the sounds of ecstasy and declarations of love and desire that had echoed through the ancient building like a new and fascinating music. A harmony that both were keen to reprise once they got their strength back.
Aziraphale lay with his head on Crowley’s chest, while the demon drew long fingers through his hair repeatedly in a loving caress that made him feel doted on and drowsy. He tightened his arm about Crowley’s waist and snuggled closer, eliciting a kiss to his head from his beloved and a contented sigh as the demon lay his cheek against his crown. He placed a tender kiss on Crowley’s breast, and sighed himself. This kind of happiness was new and would take some getting used to, but he was determined to try to be the partner that Crowley deserved.
“You said something about dinner, angel,” said Crowley, his voice vibrating through his chest, warm and loving, “want to do The Ritz?”
“Mmmmm, I think I would like to celebrate somewhere much more, um, intimate,” said Aziraphale, rubbing his cheek against the delightful hair on Crowley’s chest affectionately, “I know this little place—”
“Of course you do,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could tell that he was smiling.
“It’s on Brook Street Mews, not far from your flat. Lovely people, and they know me…”
“Thought they might. Yeah, sounds great.” Crowley glanced at his watch. “It’s not quite dinner time yet though. Shall we—?”
Aziraphale raised his free hand, snapping his fingers with a smile. “I’ve booked us in for eight. Now, my darling, what were you suggesting that we do to fill our time?”
He drew himself up and kissed Crowley softly, his thoughts on the contents of a little box he had stuffed to the back of one of the bureau drawers in the bookshop sometime in the ‘forties. Bought on a whim when he had been caught-up in the romance of the idea of exchanging tokens, then put away when he had calmed down and realised how risky such a proposition would be in reality.
Crowley pulled him close, the scent of him intoxicating, and began kissing his neck with a controlled ferocity that made Aziraphale feel like swooning.
“Think I’ve got a few ideas, angel,” he murmured between kisses.
Later, at La Petite Maison, Aziraphale placed his dessert fork neatly in the centre of his empty plate with a small, satisfied sigh.
“Enjoy that, did you?”
“It was divine, my dear, if you will pardon the expression. The chef excelled himself this evening, I feel.”
“Nice place,” said Crowley, looking round from their window table, “I approve.”
Crowley was nervous. He was happy, had never been happier, but there was one last question he wanted to ask, and he wasn’t sure how Aziraphale might react to it.
Aziraphale was a romantic, Crowley had known that for a long time, but neither of them was human, and what he wanted was such a human thing. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to him, but knew it was rooted in a long-held desire for some kind of permanence in a life that had rarely afforded anything of the kind.
Crowley had possessed so many beautiful material objects in his time, worn the finest clothes, surrounded himself with priceless art and expensive personal effects, but these were fleeting pleasures, and ultimately of little value in the long term. Never had Crowley been able to have the kind of personal life that he desired. The demon hadn’t really even been permitted to admit those kind of longings: demons weren’t supposed to crave such intimate connections. Now that he was free he wanted his friend, his lover, the one mainstay of his immortal existence to be entirely and exclusively his.
Crowley wanted to get married.
Making vows to the one he loved, promises he could actually keep now that they were retired was vitally important to him. The ring he had chosen in the fleeting hope that making a permanent promise might be something possible for him so many years ago lay in its box within his jacket pocket. The knowledge of its presence there burned within his mind.
“Brandy,” he said, abruptly, “fancy an old, expensive French cognac?”
Aziraphale beamed at him, his cheeks pink from the champagne and wine they had already drunk.
“That sounds wonderful, dear.”
The angel reached out and took Crowley’s hand and they gazed at each other, Aziraphale’s lovely eyes soft with affection. Crowley was aware that he had a stupidly besotted expression on his face, but for once he didn’t care. The staff clearly thought they were ‘cute’, this older gay couple making moon eyes at each other. Crowley had spotted a few of them whispering and smiling across at them from the entrance to the kitchens. He made a gesture to call one of them over.
“The Rémy Martin Louis Thirteenth cognac, two large glasses,” he instructed once the young waiter had reached their table.
“If you would be so kind,” added Aziraphale, pleasantly.
The young man smiled and nodded, then hurried off at a satisfactorily swift pace. The angel and demon couple sat in a happy silence, continuing to hold hands.
“Can hardly believe we’re here,” said the angel, finally, making what Crowley could only describe to himself as bedroom eyes at him.
“Me neither, angel. But since we are…”
The waiter reappeared as if by magic, deftly placing two balloon glasses of dark, fragrant spirits in front of them both.
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale graciously, looking up at the young man with a grateful smile. The waiter nodded, smiling himself at the bright face below him, then shimmered off again. Crowley felt a little smug: Aziraphale was adorable, and here he was, dining with Crowley, having not long risen from a bed he had shared with Crowley. The demon’s desire that the angel be his and his alone flared more brightly than ever within his chest.
Aziraphale withdrew his hand from Crowley’s in order to lift his glass and take a sip of the aged cognac, after having swirled the spirit around and given it an appreciative sniff. He closed his eyes, hummed in pleasure, then swallowed and opened his eyes again to look directly at Crowley, his entire face soft and open. Now was most definitely the time for Crowley to make his move.
“What I was going to…” began Crowley, at the exact same time that Aziraphale said:
“I was wondering, actually…”
“You go first, angel.”
“No, no, it was rude of me to interrupt. Do go on, my dear.”
Crowley, his face aflame, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the little velvet box that had been weighing so heavily on his mind throughout the evening, and placed it awkwardly on the table.
“Don’t really know how to do this,” he said, glaring at the cube of velvet in front of him like it had offended him in some way, but before he could go on, Aziraphale was raising his hand as if making one of his ‘polite point of information’ gestures and Crowley ground to a halt.
Aziraphale slowly lowered his hand into the pocket of his coat, producing a square leather box, which he too, laid upon the pristine tablecloth. The angel was smiling, his eyes shining with tears, his cheeks as red as Crowley’s undoubtedly were.
“I have no idea how to do this either,” the angel said, softly, “but if what is in your box is the same as what is in mine—perhaps that might make it easier?”
“You want to—?” began Crowley, hardly daring to believe his luck.
“Yes, I rather do,” said Aziraphale, earnestly. He took Crowley’s hand in his own once more, enfolding the demon’s slim fingers in his warm, plump grasp. “In fact, there is nothing I want more, my darling. Would you—?”
“Yeah,” said Crowley, holding on tight, “I’d love to, angel—I’d be proud to.”
“Oh my love, my dear beloved, come here and let me kiss you.”
Crowley leaned in and they exchanged a brief kiss that still managed to be intense and sweet and make Crowley’s extremities tingle. The staff and other patrons had noticed what was going on and a discreet applause broke out as they did this, spearheaded by their young waiter and the previously rather haughty Maitre d’ who looked positively delighted and turned out to have a dazzling smile.
The rings they had chosen were very similar, as it turned out, plain gold in one case, platinum in the other, heavy and stylishly understated. Both of them had very good taste when it came to the other despite Aziraphale’s penchant for ghastly little nicknacks (according to Crowley), and Crowley’s liking for oversized watches and ridiculous shoes (in Aziraphale’s opinion).
Crowley slid the gold ring on to Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured finger in triumph, after receiving his own beautiful token from his new husband to be. They were going to be married, and were so in accord on the matter that Crowley had hardly needed to ask the vital question.
Aziraphale raised his brandy glass.
“I know we were in rather a state of miscommunication earlier, but although I was upset at the time, I find I am rather glad of it,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
Crowley raised his glass, likewise.
“Yeah. Worked out alright, didn’t it? Can’t say I was happy at the time, either, but—”
“You’re happy now?”
“Couldn’t be happier, angel.”
“Me too, very much so. Shall we make a toast, then?”
“Yeah—to us, and the future.”
The glasses sang out like bells as they touched.
“Us, the future and crossed wires,” said Aziraphale, smiling across at Crowley.
“Oh yeah, definitely, to crossed wires.” Crowley said, ‘I’ll drink to that.”