Chapter Text
Aziraphale was going to tell Crowley how he felt about him. He was. There was simply no use in trying to deny it anymore. Besides, after everything that had happened, surely Aziraphale owed it to Crowley to be truthful with him. Although admittedly, Aziraphale’s relationship with the general concept of “truth” had been a little rocky as of late.
Before the Apocalypse-That-Almost-Was-But-Then-Very-Suddenly-Wasn't, Aziraphale had thought he understood the nature of truth -- some things were true and other things were not and it was not an angel’s place to question it either way.
Recently, he’d been forced to confront the reality that some of the things he'd thought to be true had actually been shockingly false, while other things he’d thought to be false had turned out to be rather true indeed. It was all a bit overwhelming, to have one’s worldview stretched and folded and reformed like a piece of taffy on a pulling machine.
And yet, throughout the fabric of all his turmoil and doubt was a glittering thread of knowledge that managed to hold Aziraphale together at the seams despite the strain:
He was in love with Crowley, and that was the truth. Aziraphale loved Crowley’s laugh and his eyes and his hair, loved the cocky way that he walked and the not-so-cocky way that he smiled at children and animals when he thought no one was looking. He loved the few scattered freckles that only appeared on Crowley’s cheeks during the hottest week of the summer, the way his hair changed color from burnished copper to flickering flame in the light.
Aziraphale gave himself a shake. It was settled -- He would tell Crowley the truth about his feelings. Only...not today. Next week would certainly be a perfect time.
Of course, Aziraphale had told himself the same thing last week...and the week before that, and every week spanning back through the months since Crowley had invited Aziraphale to stay at his flat the night after the world didn't end.
It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t want to tell Crowley. He did, and rather desperately at that. It was just that everything was going so well between him and Crowley. They saw each other nearly every day now, something that Aziraphale’s past self had only dreamed about.
He might have told Crowley that he loved him last week, but they’d had plans to go to the farmer’s market. The week before that they’d had tickets for a production of Into the Woods, and before that there had been a new exhibit opening at the National Gallery.
It was dizzying, this new and sudden abundance of Crowley’s attention. It was more than Aziraphale ever could have hoped for. What if Aziraphale said something foolish and Crowley backed away? Then there might not be any more dinners together at all, no more late nights in the bookshop or trips to the market.
Perhaps if Aziraphale could just find the perfect time to tell Crowley. He had a list of possibilities that he kept in his pocket, but somehow every idea seemed rife with potential downfalls.
Aziraphale took the list from his pocket and unfolded it for what must have been the hundredth time, hoping that this time one of the neatly written bullet point suggestions would present a clear and obvious solution. Should Aziraphale tell Crowley he loved him in St. James’ Park? That was awfully public, though. What about in the shop, when they were alone? Ah, but then wouldn’t it hurt all the more if Crowley rejected him in the place where Aziraphale felt most at home?
Well. Perhaps next week the ideal scenario would present itself. Aziraphale would know the perfect moment when it happened, surely. Yes, best to wait til then…
There was the sound of boots hitting the stoop outside, and Aziraphale hastily stuffed the list back into his pocket. He turned just in time to see Crowley kick the door open with a bang. The wind from outside caught the door and it slammed noisily into the wall as Crowley burst through, his dramatic entrance only slightly hindered by the large box in his arms.
“Everybody out, there’s been a terrible gas leak!” Crowley declared, his face serious, his voice loud and full of authority. “Run while you still can!”
“There’s no one else here at the moment, although I appreciate the initiative,” Aziraphale said. “But do close the door, you’re letting in leaves.”
Crowley looked down at the small pile of yellow leaves that had drifted through the door along with the chilly autumn wind and were now swirling gently around his feet.
“Thought you liked leaves this time of year,” he said, only a little petulantly. Still, he pushed his foot against the side of the open door and nudged it closed, but not before a miraculous little gust of air pushed the errant leaves back out onto the sidewalk.
“On the trees, yes, not so much in my shop...oh dear, do hold still a moment.”
Crowley paused in his path toward the backroom as Aziraphale came around from behind the register. There was a leaf in Crowley’s hair just above his left ear, its color caught halfway between orange and yellow. His initially curious expression went very still as Aziraphale moved closer, until the only thing separating them was the box in Crowley’s arms.
He could tell Crowley now. It wouldn’t be hard-- he could open up his mouth and say “I love you Crowley, I am in love with you, and I wouldn’t mind if you brought a hundred leaves through the door with you, truly.”
“...Aziraphale?”
Crowley was giving him the sort of apprehensive look one tends to give when someone is staring at you in silence while standing very close indeed. Quickly, Aziraphale plucked the leaf from Crowley’s hair. Then, because he did want to be bold, even if he couldn’t be quite bold enough, he reached out and began to smooth down Crowley’s shirt collar where it had been flipped up by the wind.
Now. Aziraphale could say it now, as his hand traced along the collar’s edge, as one fingertip dipped a little below the line of fabric and brushed against the warm skin of Crowley’s neck--
Crowley made a small sound in the back of his throat that sounded like “Ngk”, and his footing faltered as if he’d somehow managed to trip while standing completely still. Aziraphale was forced to hastily catch the bottom of the box to keep Crowley from fumbling it.
“I’ll just, um, go set this down then, shall I?” Crowley said hurriedly, readjusting his grip. He glanced up at Aziraphale, down at the box, then back up at Aziraphale once more before retreating into the backroom.
Aziraphale watched him go. Did Crowley feel the same way about him? Aziraphale rather thought that he did. He certainly hoped the unmistakable blush on Crowley’s ears just now had resulted from interest instead of discomfort, but a certain insidious doubt still lingered. What if Aziraphale had been too slow, what if Crowley’s patience had finally worn thin and Aziraphale had lost his chance entirely? Or, worse, what if he’d never stood a chance at all? Aziraphale didn’t know how anyone could know Crowley and not love him, so Crowley would undoubtedly have his pick of potential partners; perhaps Aziraphale simply wasn’t appealing enough to make the cut?
“Aziraphale, are you coming or should I have left a trail of leaves for you to follow?”
“Just closing up, I’ll be there in a jiffy!” he called back. Thankfully, flipping the shop’s sign to CLOSED and turning the lock was always a highly satisfying activity, and it gave Aziraphale a moment to collect himself once more before heading back.
“So, what do you have planned for us today, my dear?” he asked once he’d rounded the corner into the backroom.
Since he and Crowley had become functionally unemployed, they’d both found themselves with a sudden and unprecedented amount of free time, and an even more unprecedented ability to spend most of it together. Sometimes Aziraphale still found himself looking over his shoulder, that familiar wave of fear and guilt rushing through him when he and Crowley went out into the open together. Then when reality caught back up with him it was like a sip of champagne, a rush of sugar that fizzed on his tongue and reminded him that they had fought for this, they had earned this. He could go anywhere he chose with Crowley now, could smile at him as brightly as he pleased without the constant threat of discovery looming over them like a stormcloud.
It was new and intense and perfectly wonderful, and sometimes Aziraphale felt his heart might burst from the sheer pleasure of it.
Recently, they’d started taking turns introducing each other to new experiences. Just last week Aziraphale had taken Crowley to a charity auction at a local historical institution, and Crowley had taken to it immediately; he and Aziraphale had polished off the contents of his flask and Crowley had enthusiastically spent entirely too much money on the ugliest porcelain angel that Aziraphale had ever seen in his life.
Said angel was now sitting hideously on Aziraphale’s desk, watching with its lopsided porcelain eyes as Crowley opened the box.
“Nothing too fancy today, just some more records,” Crowley said, pulling out one vinyl after another until he had a small stack in front of him.
“That sounds lovely. I quite enjoyed the ones you selected for me last time. I listened to them again by myself just last night.”
“Yeah?” Crowley smiled at that, pleased. “Good to know you have at least some taste that overlaps with the last century. Now let’s see…”
Crowley fanned the records out on the table, perusing them.
“I figured we’d explore the 1970s today and I’ve got a few options that I think you’ll like...Dolly Parton, of course, Nick Drake, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young--”
“Oh, is that David Crosby and his friends?” Aziraphale interrupted, unable to stop himself. “I saw them perform at Woodstock. Such nice young men, and very talented.”
Crowley’s head snapped up so fast that his glasses slid down to the end of his nose.
“Wait -- you were at Woodstock? As in, the Woodstock?”
Aziraphale nodded.
“The very one. I don’t travel to the Americas much, but I was just so intrigued. All that talk of love and peace, you know. I had a splendid time.”
“Huh.”
Crowley’s eyes had gone a little soft, twin halos of gold over the edges of the dark frames. He didn’t elaborate on his statement, just gazed at Aziraphale quietly, his mouth quirking up in a loose, languid grin.
“What?” Aziraphale asked finally, breaking the moment’s silence.
“Just thinking about how after six thousand years you still manage to surprise me, angel.”
Aziraphale could really surprise Crowley, couldn’t he? He could tell him how, yes, he did have a splendid time at Woodstock, but he’d also spent the entire weekend thinking about how much Crowley would have enjoyed it, how much he wished Crowley were there with him. He could tell him that every part of his life was so much better when Crowley was there to experience it with him, how every difficult part was easier when Crowley was beside him.
But...the evening together was already shaping up so well. There would be a better opportunity soon. Next week.
“Let’s start with something you haven’t heard then, yeah?” Crowley asked, turning toward the record player. The machine was Crowley all over: sleek, black, and (Crowley assured him) state-of-the-art. “This one’s by Nick Drake, I think you’ll like it.”
“I still don’t know why we couldn’t just use my gramophone,” Aziraphale grumbled. Admittedly, his gramophone barely functioned even with the generous assistance of a miracle or two, but Aziraphale was still rather fond of it. Crowley, however, had insisted on bringing his own record player, and had apparently decided it should live permanently at the bookshop.
“Don’t get me wrong, the past has its appeal,” Crowley said with a flippant wave of his hand. He gently lowered the disc onto the turntable and started fiddling with various knobs and buttons. “It looks good on you, for example--”
Luckily, Crowley was completely engrossed in flipping on the power to the record player and its speakers, and couldn’t see Aziraphale’s blush.
“-- but there’s something I like about modern tech. It’s just so human, you know?” He continued to fuss with the dials. “They’re always trying to come up with something new and better, even if it doesn’t always work out for them. Do you remember when they thought it would be a good idea to cook hot dogs by electrocuting them?”
“I have a vague recollection, yes. To be honest, I rather thought it might have been one of your diabolical inventions.”
Crowley chuckled. “It does sound like one of mine, doesn’t it? Solely humanity’s doing, however. They just can’t stop themselves from trying everything and anything.”
He pressed the final button with a flourish. The record started to spin, and the arm gently lowered itself down to the record.
“And we should appreciate their efforts! Technology changes, and almost always for the better. Besides, if you don’t like it, we can always listen to something on your dingy old gramophone later.”
Aziraphale’s instinct was to protest, but when the needle caught and the first song began to play out of the speakers he had to admit it did sound much better than the tinny tone of his gramophone.
Crowley made one more adjustment to the volume, then flopped backwards over the side of the sofa. He landed with his back flat against the cushion, legs dangling over the armrest. The position didn’t look particularly comfortable to Aziraphale, but it seemed to suit Crowley just fine; he wiggled a bit as he settled in, pleased, and his feet swayed back and forth in the open air to the rhythm of the music. It really was very nice music too; the gentle notes seemed to drift over the tops of the books as the sound filled the room.
A bottle of wine sat open on a nearby end table, airing out. Aziraphale picked it up and poured himself a glass, and Crowley held out a hand expectantly.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s sprawled, almost upside down form. “Are you even going to be able to drink it?” Aziraphale asked dubiously, his eyes tracking pointedly up and down Crowley’s form. Crowley’s very lanky, very appealing form.
Crowley’s only answer was two raised eyebrows and an insistent motion with his hand. He’d pulled off his glasses by now and Aziraphale could see that his eyes were closed, apparently to better focus on the music.
“Very well then, but I will not be pleased if you spill red wine on my furniture.”
He decanted another glass and handed it over, watching carefully all the while. If it seemed rather miraculous that Crowley was indeed able to drink from it without pouring wine all over his face, Aziraphale decided not to comment. Instead, he took his own drink and sat down on the sofa, a few inches from Crowley’s head.
They sat in companionable silence and listened to the music, with only the occasional slosh of wine adding any additional noise. It was only after quite some time that Crowley spoke.
“Well, what do you think? Of the music, I mean.”
Aziraphale looked down. At some point, Crowley had shifted farther down the couch. The top of his hair, just long enough that it was starting to curl, was only millimeters from brushing against Aziraphale’s thigh. He was gazing up at Aziraphale, golden eyes wide and sincere. Perhaps it was the wine, or the music, or something else entirely, but in that moment Crowley seemed so vulnerable, and so very, very close.
Aziraphale could tell him right now. He could say he liked the music very much indeed, but he’d like it even more if Crowley would kiss him while it played. Or he could reach down and tangle his fingers in those red curls and say the words that had been ricocheting in his mind for longer than he was willing to admit: I love you my dear, my dearest, I am in love with you and I think maybe I always have been.
Aziraphale could see that path stretched out in front of him, as clear as day, and for one brief second he considered taking it. Then the song ended, and the few beats of silence before the next track started were enough to pull Aziraphale back to reality. What if he spoke too soon and ruined this moment, and every one that might come after? He should plan his words more carefully, he should pick a different time.
And so, he chose the other path.
“It’s lovely,” he said. “The music, that is. It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it? But still very bright...a hopeful sort of despair, one might say.”
Crowley’s face lit up at Aziraphale’s words, with a particular, guileless sort of smile that Aziraphale had been seeing more and more of ever since Armageddon had come and gone.
“Yeah, I think so too,” Crowley said, and swung his feet back and forth. “It’s one of my favorites. I’m glad you like it.”
Then, Crowley’s gaze seemed to catch on something and he tilted his head, squinting up at Aziraphale inquisitively.
“Has your hair got longer?”
“Oh!” Surprised by the question, Aziraphale’s hand shot up to self-consciously thread through his own curls. “I suppose it has. I haven’t been to see the barber since...well, since everything.”
Crowley was still peering up at him intently and Aziraphale felt even more self-conscious. It was always a particular sort of rush, Crowley’s attention, even more so now when the two of them were mere inches apart, when Crowley’s eyes were bright and unguarded.
“What made you decide to grow it out?” Crowley asked. “I didn’t think you ever changed it.”
“I did once before, on a whim. Gabriel...didn’t care for it,” Aziraphale told him. He fiddled with his empty wine glass as he thought back on it, running one fingertip lightly around the rim. Gabriel’s opinion on the matter had not been flattering. “After that I didn’t really see the point in doing it again...until now.”
“Gabriel is an asshole,” Crowley announced with a scowl. He punctuated his point with a wild gesture, nearly dumping his entire glass of wine on the floor. Crowley considered this, drained the rest of his wine in one long pull, then gestured again.
“For what it’s worth,” he continued, and Aziraphale could hear the effect of the wine in Crowley’s voice, “I think it looks, um, nice. Good. It looks good.”
Crowley suddenly had a look on his face as if he’d said more than he’d intended. Just then, the last few notes of the album ended. The record player clicked, and the disc continued to spin noiselessly on the turntable as the tonearm lifted, returning to its slot on the side of the machine.
“I’ll get that,” Crowley said quickly, springing up awkwardly from the sofa.
What was that all about? Aziraphale wondered. Crowley could be so jumpy sometimes. Whatever it was, it didn’t last long; it only took a few moments for him to carefully slide the Nick Drake vinyl back into its sleeve and start a new record.
“Up next is Carol King,” Crowley said enthusiastically, his confidence back in full now. “‘Tapestry’ is quintessential, really good stuff. Oh, and I’ll top off our wine.”
He sauntered over and grabbed the bottle, his movements loose and slightly in time with the music. When he leaned down to refill Aziraphale’s glass, Aziraphale caught a whiff of the particular scent that he only associated with Crowley -- something like woodsmoke and cloves. It was very distracting.
“Ah, thank you,” Aziraphale said, and took a hasty sip of his wine.
Now with his own glass refilled as well, Crowley dropped down on the sofa beside Aziraphale. This time, he was more or less in a sitting position, with just one leg thrown over the side, and one arm over the back.
“So,” Crowley said, “Have you decided what’s on the docket for us next week? It’s your turn now, after all.”
“Indeed I have!” Aziraphale replied excitedly. He’d been eager to tell Crowley all day, had in fact almost called him that morning, but had ultimately decided it would be more rewarding to wait. “The director of the Museum of London and I have formed a very cordial relationship over the last few years. They’re hosting an event next week and she invited me to come, as a friend of the museum. I’ve got a ticket for myself, and one for you. You’ll be my ‘plus one’.”
Crowley’s eyebrow quirked up at the phrase ‘plus one’, accompanied by the slow, devilish smile that never failed to make Aziraphale’s heart beat just a little faster in his chest.
“That is, if you’d like to go, of course,” Aziraphale continued, the tiniest bit flustered now. “It’s a costume party, so you’ll have to come up with something to wear.”
“Sounds great. I’m in.”
“Wonderful,” Aziraphale beamed. “Then it’s a date.”
He didn’t even realize exactly what he’d said until both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under the flop of red hair that fell over his forehead.
“November second, I mean,” Aziraphale added quickly. “That’s -- that’s the date. November second.”
“Welllllll, I’ll have to double-check my extremely busy social calendar, but I think I can make it,” Crowley drawled as his eyebrows lowered back to their original spot. “Pick you up beforehand?”
“Yes, please.”
The autumn wind whistled against the window, but the buzz of wine in Aziraphale’s system was more than enough to keep him warm. He stole a quick glance at Crowley, who had once again closed his eyes as he leaned back and listened to the music. Oh, Aziraphale loved him. He loved him, and he would be brave, and he would tell Crowley how he felt. Crowley had risked so much for him over the millenia, too much, and Aziraphale owed it to him to take this risk of his own. And he would...soon. Next week, perhaps.