Archive of Our Own ^beta

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They left the Ritz several hours after they first sat down. Somehow, the waitstaff never appeared to genteelly usher them out of the restaurant until nearly everyone else had gone.

The walk to Aziraphale’s shop was well-worn and familiar under Crowley’s shoes. Aziraphale was telling him a story about a man who outbid him at a recent auction for a first edition John Locke tome, and Crowley was strolling along next to him, hands in his pockets. Not for the first time, Crowley found himself wishing that Aziraphale’s shop was just a little further away.

There were two customers waiting outside his door when they turned the corner. One of them, a young woman in a green coat, was a regular; she gave Crowley a little wave when she looked over and saw them approaching.

“Ah, customers,” Aziraphale said. It was lacking his usual note of despondency on the topic.

Crowley looked over at him. “You sound excited. Are you going to actually sell them something?”

“Who knows?” Aziraphale smiled at him. “It is, after all, a brave new world we’re in.”

The Bentley was parked in its usual spot on the corner; after bidding Aziraphale farewell and nodding to the woman in the green coat, Crowley unlocked it and slid behind the wheel. The drive back to his apartment was as familiar as the walk from the Ritz to the shop, and he let his mind wander.

It had been fun, to be Aziraphale. It was one thing to mockingly imitate him to his face, which Crowley had done many times, but he had managed to fool four archangels and win Aziraphale’s freedom from Heaven’s dominance. Looking down at his bound wrists and seeing the backs of Aziraphale’s hands had felt good. Aziraphale kept his hands in better condition than Crowley did.

The houseplants had come back, if it were possible, even more lustrous than they had been before. Crowley gave them a spritz and a stern pep talk before pouring himself a glass of wine. He wandered into his office to find his ansaphone in pieces, seemingly burned from the inside out. Fucking Hastur. Crowley would have to get a new one, and they were hard to find these days. He’d had that one from new.

Slinging himself down into his chair, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had given up on his new customer-friendly philosophy yet, if he’d driven the customers from his shop with overbearing politeness or if they were still there, browsing through the angel’s beloved collection. Over lunch, Aziraphale had told him about the small collection of boys’ adventure books Adam had inserted above his desk; Crowley would have to flip through them next time he was there. Maybe they would hold his attention better than Aziraphale’s usual fare, which Crowley had given their fare shake but had been unable to appreciate the way the angel did.

It was not the first time Crowley had been alone in his apartment since the world had failed to end, but never had it seemed so cavernous. The bucket he’d used to kill Ligur was still on the floor, deadly drops of holy water clinging to the rim. He should have had Aziraphale help him clean it up when the angel had spent the night at his flat, but they had both been too tired. Under normal circumstances, getting Aziraphale over to his flat was like pulling teeth. He seemed to find it too impersonal, too modern, as he would say. Still, if Crowley told him part of the flat was now actively life-threatening to him, the angel would come. He had such a hard time saying no to Crowley.

Now that he had noticed it, the bucket was practically throbbing in the back of his mind. He should go get Aziraphale now, bring him back to clean it up. He could have waited with Aziraphale until the customers left, it wouldn’t have meant losing a sale if the angel was serious about his change of heart. And now that Crowley thought about it, he wasn’t sure if holy water was dangerous once it’d evaporated; if he breathed in holy water vapor, would it burn his lungs? He shouldn’t have come back here without Aziraphale.

He shouldn’t have left Aziraphale.

To his horror, Crowley could feel a particular thought inching its way out of the back of his brain, where he’d carefully locked it thousands of years ago. A particular secret, one he’d been keeping from Aziraphale for a long, long time, but now it was coming out to play. Had been ever since he’d walked into Aziraphale’s burning shop and failed to find Aziraphale there.

Maybe he should tell Aziraphale. The angel would understand, wouldn’t be mad at Crowley for keeping it schtum. Sometimes Crowley wondered what it would take to make Aziraphale stop looking at him the way he did, affection and longing and exasperation all mixed together; wondered how demonic he could really get before the angel stopped loving him. On his worst days, he almost resolved to try, just to find out.

Without thinking about it, Crowley fetched his car keys and found himself back behind the wheel of the Bentley. The road back to Aziraphale’s shop unspooled before him, a miraculous lack of traffic, his usual parking spot still open by the front door.

The customers were still inside, one browsing, one sat at a table with three books spread out in front of her. Aziraphale was in the back somewhere, but he came out at the sound of the door. “Ah, Crowley,” he said, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Back so soon?”

Crowley walked up to him and put one hand on either side of his face. “Brave new world,” he said, and kissed him.

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Crowley heard a soft gasp from the direction of the table, but that was nothing to the sharp inhalation Aziraphale gave before carefully, carefully pressing back. Aziraphale’s hand came up to wrap around Crowley’s elbow, and lingered there when the kiss ended.

Aziraphale bloomed. There was no other word for it, for the smile that crept across his face, the lightening of his eyes, the way happiness started to pour out of every single one of his atoms. Crowley could feel it heating his face. All he could feel was panic.

After a long moment of utterly still eye contact, Aziraphale turned to the customers. “I’m terribly sorry, ladies, but the shop is now closing.” One of them was already halfway to the door; the woman in the green coat flashed them a thumbs-up as she left. Crowley watched the door close behind her, then turned slowly back. “Aziraphale -” Aziraphale’s free hand came up to clutch at Crowley’s lapel and yank, hard, and Crowley stumbled forward, back into Aziraphale’s waiting mouth.

The kisses went on for a long time, until the light was noticeably dimming from the windows and even Crowley’s only-technically-corporeal feet started to hurt. Every time Crowley thought about stopping long enough to relocate from the center of Aziraphale’s shop, the angel would make some sort of noise, or clutch at Crowley in a new way, or bodily haul the demon closer, and that thought would go back to bed for a while.

Finally Aziraphale let him go. Not far, but enough space to start to catch their breaths. “Aziraphale,” Crowley tried again. Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked at him. Crowley paused, helpless.

Aziraphale let out a soft little laugh. “It’s okay, Crowley. We don’t have to talk about it, not right now.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Crowley started.

“I know.”

“It’s just if I try to be honest right now I think it might kill me -”

Aziraphale cut him off with another kiss. Crowley thrilled toward him, a demonic moth towards the holy flame of an altar candle. “Crowley. I know you. It’s alright.”

Crowley let out a ragged breath. “You do, don’t you.”

“I really do.” Aziraphale smiled at him, a wonderfully open, honest thing. Crowley aspired to it. “I have to close up the shop. Will you stay tonight?” Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale bustled about, locking the door and putting the books back. Finally, he beckoned Crowley towards the door to the back rooms. “All done. Wine?”

“Please.”

Aziraphale had a soft bed and an even softer sofa tucked away in his back rooms. He also had a stash of magazines, subscriptions he pretended to read although they both knew he upheld them only for Crowley. Many a well-spent night had passed there, Aziraphale reading one of his books, Crowley alternating between a magazine and curling up for a catnap on the other half of the sofa. Crowley snagged one of the magazines now and made for the sofa. Aziraphale took the hint and picked up his current book, settling down next to him.

A few minutes passed before Aziraphale said, “Would you mind - that is, would it be alright if I… um,” and shuffled a little closer. Seeing where this was going, Crowley lifted his arm and wrapped it around Aziraphale, who sighed and leaned fully against Crowley’s shoulder, lifting his book again.

It lasted fifteen minutes before Aziraphale sighed again, sadder this time. “Alright. Failed experiment. I apologize for the imposition.”

“What?” Crowley asked. “What do you mean, failed?”

“Darling,” and oh, that was new, “you’ve been sitting there stiff as a board for a quarter of an hour. You’re clearly uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked down. “Despite what I said before, you usually refrain from directly lying to me.”

They sat in silence, the heartbeats of their corporeal bodies passing. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Crowley finally said, the words dragged out of him by Aziraphale’s kind patience. “I don’t know how to do this, I’ve got no clue how these things normally go -”

“Do you think I do?” Aziraphale cut him off. “What about me makes you think I’ve got any better of an idea?” Tentatively, he reached out and rested his hand on Crowley’s knee. Crowley never wanted Aziraphale to touch him tentatively again. Gently, firmly, passionately, but never nervously. “I figured we’d just muddle along together until we figured it out.”

“Together?” Crowley’s throat was dry.

Aziraphale laughed. “Well, it would be rather pointless to muddle along separately, my love.”

Crowley froze. “Your love?”

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth quirked up, wry. “Of my life, I expect.”

“Well.” Crowley wiped roughly at his eyes. They were snakelike enough that he couldn’t actually cry, but they were feeling unnaturally wet all the same. “That’s that, then.” He leaned back and opened his arm up again. “Come back here.”

Aziraphale tucked himself back into the curve of Crowley’s body. Crowley set all of his muscles to relaxing and pushed his nose into the angel’s hair.

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Honestly, not much changed in a practical sense, although Crowley was almost painfully aware of every new difference. Now, when they walked down the street together, they did so hand in hand. Now, when people assumed they were a couple, they were right. Now, when Crowley made a particularly salient point during an evening debate over dinner at one of their favorite restaurants, Aziraphale rewarded him with a kiss.

But much stayed the same. Crowley kept his flat. He kept his Bentley. He sent Shadwell his wages every fortnight. His favorite nights were still the nights spent in the back rooms of Aziraphale’s shop, drinking and talking, or sitting in companionable silence. (Those nights just happened more often.) His houseplants were still terrified of him. He was still hopelessly in love with Aziraphale, just the same as he had been before.

He still had a life outside Aziraphale. Tempting people on a micro level was still fun, and he kept doing it, the same as Aziraphale kept discreetly blessing people. He went on long drives by himself, around and around the city, speeding when he got bored. He even let himself get a few speeding tickets, just for the novelty.

One day, he came into the shop almost skipping. There had been a fantastic new indie film at the cinema that Aziraphale had confessed no interest in, so Crowley had gone alone, and it had been fantastic; he’d tempted a man in his thirties out of a lifelong diet that was cutting his lifespan by three months for each year he kept it up; a duck in the park, dissatisfied with an attaché’s stale offering, had turned on the man and torn his suit. The sun was shining, gleaming off the Bentley’s hood. He was in a better mood than he could remember feeling in years.

Aziraphale smiled at him as he came into the shop (which was, thankfully, empty). “You’re practically glowing, darling.”

“I have had a fantastic day.” Crowley loped over. “There’s only one thing missing to make it perfect.”

“And what’s that?”

Aziraphale hadn’t yet offered to make an effort, and Crowley would never ask, so it was a boundary-pushing kiss from the start, but Crowley was feeling so light he couldn’t resist. To his surprise, Aziraphale rose to the challenge almost immediately, opening his mouth to Crowley’s thin, prehensile tongue and slinging his arms about Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale’s kissing was improving in leaps and bounds, more often than not leaving Crowley weak at the knees when he put his mind to it, and both of them were out of breath by the end of this one.

Crowley grinned. “Perfect,” he said. Aziraphale beamed back at him.

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Every year, Aziraphale splurged for season tickets for his favorite cricket team, and occasionally he dragged Crowley along. Crowley hated cricket. But Aziraphale loved cricket, so Crowley loved it too. Mostly he just watched Aziraphale watch the game, basking in his excitement like a snake in the sun. It was, all in all, not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

This particular game was quite close, each team taking the lead from the other again and again. Aziraphale’s face was as flushed as Crowley had ever seen it, and at one point he even slammed his fist against the rail in front of them when the umpire made some call or other. There was a family on Crowley’s other side, the woman of whom was reacting similarly to Aziraphale. Crowley had made much eye contact with the man through his sunglasses.

Aziraphale scowled at the umpire a final time and turned to Crowley. “I’m for the loo. Do you want me to bring you back anything?” Angels did not need to use the loo, but Aziraphale was clearly steamed. Crowley assumed he wanted a break before he pulled out his wings and stormed the field.

“Bring me back a beer, angel?” Aziraphale nodded and swept away.

There was a chuckle from Crowley’s other side. The man was watching Aziraphale walk away. “How long have you been together?” he asked, turning his eyes back to Crowley.

“Oh, six thousand years, give or take.”

The man laughed. “Feels like that sometimes, doesn’t it?” A pause. “You two are a good couple.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, oddly touched. “I rather think we are too.” The man smiled and returned his attention to the woman, who was smacking his arm and gesturing towards the players.

Aziraphale returned precisely ten minutes after he left, a cold glass of beer with the perfect head clutched in one hand. “Here you go, darling.” He passed it off and settled back into his seat.

Crowley let him arrange his coat to his liking, then leaned over and kissed him. Aziraphale smiled, surprised. “What was that for?”

Crowley lifted the glass. “For the beer.”

Aziraphale snorted and turned his attention back to the field. “You won’t train me to bring you alcohol, you demon. Special occasions only.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” Crowley said, and took a sip.

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Aziraphale’s happiness was palpable. It poured out of him like water, every time Crowley kissed him or touched him or said something particularly witty or sappy, mixed with his divinity into a concoction more potent than any cocktail Crowley had ever tried. Crowley wondered, often, how humans could see the two of them walking down the street together, could see Crowley reach over to take Aziraphale’s hand and not sink to their knees at Aziraphale’s reaction, shouting Look, see, here is one of God’s own angels.

Crowley never imagined he could inspire such pure joy. Even after Crowley had figured out Aziraphale was in love with him and started torturing himself with imaginings, he never would have guessed he could make the angel so very, very happy.

It was a heady feeling.

“You’re smiling,” Aziraphale said, washing up after breakfast.

“No I’m not,” Crowley retorted, leaning back in his chair at the table and nursing his cup of coffee.

“You are,” Aziraphale countered. “You’re practically beaming.”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, don’t rub it in. It’s disgusting.” He scrubbed at his face, as though to physically force his mouth down.

Aziraphale laughed. “It’s not disgusting. It means you’re happy.” Crowley groaned louder, which made Aziraphale laugh again. “You’re happy with me.”

Aziraphale moved back towards the table to pick up Crowley’s plate. Crowley reached out and grabbed his wrist. “I am, you know,” he said, suddenly serious.

Aziraphale never blushed, not really, but sometimes his face would react as if he were, scrunching up, his eyes cast down. Still holding onto his wrist, Crowley stood up and leaned in.

Mostly Crowley kept things walled off, the higher ends of either side of the emotional spectrum. He’d been taken by surprise when he walked into Aziraphale’s burning shop all those months ago, and the full force of despair had taken hold of him until he could regain control of himself. Now, as pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s, he deliberately lowered his guards again, letting himself feel the full rush of happiness that always sparked up at Aziraphale’s touch, the ecstasy of knowing and being known, loving Aziraphale and being loved by Aziraphale. It swept in, so hot he feared it would burn him alive where he stood. But it didn’t, so he tugged the angel a little closer, kissed him a little deeper, and let himself relish it.

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They had never gone on that picnic. Crowley knew Aziraphale, knew he didn’t like thinking about that night when he had handed over a thermos of holy water like it was a bomb. Even now that the holy water had proved useful beyond measure, the waver in Aziraphale’s voice that night was almost enough to make Crowley regret the initial request. Crowley wanted to put a bow on that night, wrap up all the loose ends and put it to bed.

So he invited Aziraphale out for a picnic.

They ordered lunch from Crowley’s favorite Greek restaurant, miracled it to stay warm in the back of the Bentley, and headed for Hyde Park. Rather more crowded a getaway than Crowley had originally intended, but Aziraphale had lit up when he suggested it, and that was good enough for Crowley.

Miraculously, they managed to find a secluded corner away from the worst swells of tourists, under the shade of a sprawling oak tree. Crowley rather suspected it hadn’t been there before they arrived, but Aziraphale did love an aesthetic, and Crowley wasn’t going to argue with him. (Crowley rather loved an aesthetic too.)

They ate, sticky pastry and warm sauces and chewy olive bread, Crowley breaking off bits of lokma for the ants that marched around their blanket. Aziraphale had brought a (fifth edition, so suitable for an adventure outdoors) book of Nostradamus’ prophecies, and he read his favorites aloud, Crowley’s head in his lap. Aziraphale’s long fingers pushed through Crowley’s hair as they argued about the death of Henry II.

“Lucky guess,” Crowley insisted.

“Darling, Nostradamus had the Sight, there’s no denying it. Sandalphon himself was deputized to keep an eye on him. There was more than one time he had to have a stern word with the man about getting too specific.” Everyone knew prophets were only allowed to publish if they were vague enough to be missed until after the fact (Agnes Nutter being the notable exception. Betamax indeed).

“I’m not saying he didn’t have the Sight. Obviously he had the Sight. But this particular one’s not accurate.”

“And how do you know?”

“Because the death of Henry II was one of my lot. He didn’t die from a head wound, he died from a stab in the back by Hastur.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Are you certain?”

Crowley snorted. “The bastard was insufferable for weeks beforehand, it was a plum assignment. Knock off a French monarch and make it look like a jousting accident? There were hordes of my lot salivating after that one, much more straightforward than our usual fare.”

“Humph.” Aziraphale shut the book with a snap. “Well. I still maintain that knowing the specifics of the cover-up job counts as a real prophecy.”

“Oh, don’t scowl, angel.” Crowley rolled up to sitting and kissed him. “It’ll give you wrinkles.”

“I can’t get wrinkles, this body is frozen in time,” Aziraphale said huffily. Crowley rested his chin on his shoulder and poked his cheek with his nose until Aziraphale gave up and smiled. “Oh, all right, you win,” the angel said. “Let’s go, I’m getting grass stains on my trousers.”

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Aziraphale was elbow-deep in work when Crowley came out of the back rooms with a bottle of scotch in one hand. He’d taken a bookbinding workshop last month, and was putting it to good use on a second-edition Conan Doyle that he’d somehow wound up with at auction. Crowley kissed his cheek, slipped a note onto his desk for him to read when he took a break (Gone for a drive. Back soon), and left.

The streets were surprisingly empty for eleven in the evening on a Saturday night, and Crowley took full advantage, gunning the Bentley as fast as it could go and twenty kilometers per hour beyond that. He roared through the city, only slowing when its lights were dwindling behind him and he was deep in the countryside. Pulling off the road into a field, Crowley unstoppered the scotch and took a healthy swig.

The bottle was half empty before he felt remotely prepared for the conversation he had to have, and “remotely” was as close as he was ever going to get, he expected. Opening the door, he slithered onto the grass and rearranged his limbs until he was propped up against the rear tire, bottle at his side, head tipped back. He took another shot for good measure and looked up at the sky.

“You can’t have him back, you know,” he said. “I know the archangels are contented to leave us alone for now, and don’t think I’m not grateful for the respite, but none of you can have him back, ever.” Another swig. “He’s mine now.

"And really, you should have seen this coming,” he added, tracing one finger around the rim of the bottle. “If you didn’t want to lose him to me, you shouldn’t have made him so damned - so blessed - so fucking beautiful.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and looked right at Alpha Centauri. “You made him for me, and I have him now, and I’m not giving him up. Not ever. I’ll kill anyone you send, don’t think I won’t. He’s mine.”

One final swig. “Anyway. That’s all I wanted to say.” He closed his eyes, sobered up, and slid back into the car.

He’d driven far enough that Aziraphale was finishing up with the book by the time he walked back into the shop. “How was your drive?” the angel asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Conclusive,” Crowley said. “I think we should officially move in together.”

The look Aziraphale threw at him started off surprised and ended up soft and affectionate. “I’ve had some thoughts along similar lines, if we’re being honest. You spend all your nights here anyway, I shudder to think of the state of your houseplants.”

“They’re fine.” Crowley may not spend nights at his flat anymore, but he did drop in for spot inspections. His plants were as green, healthy, and terrified as ever.

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, in a determinedly light tone. “I’ve been thinking, and I’m not sure this location is suitable for the shop anymore. It’s starting to get too many casual patrons. I’ve been thinking of relocating somewhere less populated. Maybe even all the way out in the country.” He caught Crowley’s eye. “But I know you love the city.”

“I love you.” Honesty. Crowley was getting better at it. “I’d live in the country if you were there.”

“Well then.” Aziraphale dropped his eyes, pleased. “Shall we take a drive sometime and see if we spot anything that catches our fancy?”

Crowley nodded. “I suppose, if we’re going to do this, there’s a question I ought to pop first.”

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A piece of mail delivered to the Young family, Anathema Device, Newton Pulsifer, Sergeant Shadwell, and Madame Tracy:

You are warmly invited to the wedding of

Anthony J. Crowley

and

Aziraphale

Sunday, the 21^st of October, 9:13 am

at London City Hall

Brunch to follow