Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley notices it in the small things.

It’s in the way Aziraphale’s fork stutters into the tiramisu. The hesitation before accepting, meekly, Crowley’s invitation to lunch. The long, vacant looks he gives his cocoa as Crowley miracles it warm again for the fourth time. Demurely turning down the offer of biscuits with tea at Jasmine Cottage. The tight eyed expressions he wears as he looks at his reflection in the gleam of the Bentley’s hood.

And Crowley worries.

He picks a quiet evening in October after a stroll through Regent’s Park and does what he needs to. What he usually does when his angel starts to blur at the edges in this brave new world of theirs. He takes him home to the book shop, settles him in the safety of the back room, sets the gramophone burbling and lets the ‘47 St-Emilion do its’ work on the pair of them.

He’d tried to steer Aziraphale onto the well-worn and comfy sofa they share most evenings. The one that was just a little too small to sit side by side with a respectable distance between occupants, but just long enough in case one soul felt the need to be draped over the other. But the angel had pulled away and sought the solitary safety of his armchair. Crowley fell artfully back onto the cushions and stayed there, filling the air with indulgent chatter, passing comment on anything and everything that passed through his mind as he watched his angel slowly emerge from his own hunched shoulders, one small smile at a time.

Crowley was acting drunker than he was and Aziraphale was trying to appear soberer than he may be, so when he speaks, it’s quiet and into his glass. Crowley stills and listens as the words skitter off the ripples in the wine.

‘Darling, what do you think of me?’

Crowley looks up slowly from his own glass to look at his angel.

If his wings had been out, Aziraphale would have been half obscured by his coverts, mantled underneath. His shoulders were up around his ears and he was slumped low in the seat, trying to dig into the upholstery with his shoulder blades. He painted a sorry picture, but no matter how his form resembled a crumpled ruin, it was his face that had Crowley swaying slowly forward.

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale hid further behind his wine glass, his eyes skirting away and brows drawing low.

‘Angel, you know how poets have tried for millennia, but I’ve not found a verse yet that can do justice to what I think of you. What I feel for you.’ Crowley leaned forward, resting his forearms across his thighs with a tremulous smile. His face wasn’t built for expressions of adoration, but neither was his tongue for words of love. Once, maybe. He’ll relearn for Aziraphale. He will reforge himself in the fire that Heaven and Hell still send to lick at their heels. ‘I don’t think there’s a language for it just yet.’

Crowley’s smile slips a little when Aziraphale looks back at him with worried eyes, but it scrabbles to stay on the thin lips that weren’t made for it. Crowley did his best to smother his subdued sigh into his palm on its way up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He paid a little attention to the indented flesh before pinching hard and nerved himself as his glasses dropped back down onto his nose.

‘Angel?’ Crowley reaches out to Aziraphale as he would a spooked horse. Actually no, sod horses. As he would to a terrified young virgin in Israel. ‘Angel? Is it alright if I come over there?’

He hadn’t quite gotten the words out before Aziraphale unfurled from his seat and scurried over to the sofa. The angel sank down beside him, rigid on the cushions and his fingers now twisting themselves bloodless and missing their abandoned wine glass. Crowley placed his own glass to the side with a small sigh and shuffled back and offered a shoulder. Aziraphale hesitated only for a moment before he crumpled into Crowley’s waiting arms.

Crowley let his thoughts stew and his fingers dance through Aziraphale’s dandelion fluff hair as they sat in silence. They’d been in this position numerous times now, though the usual tableau saw Crowley draped over Aziraphale. Crowley let the silence linger and let Aziraphale wrangle his thoughts in order.

‘Dear?’ Aziraphale tried again. ‘What do you think of me? Physically?’

Crowley’s fingers slackened in Aziraphale’s hair and he hid the worried moue of his mouth against the crown of Aziraphale’s head as he thought.

Physically?

Crowley had seen Aziraphale near every day since the End of Days, had had him in his bed nearly as frequently. Had felt the burn of his grace as he’d scorched Hell’s agents into shadows. Held him in his arms every day, had been held by these hands as his own resolve had shaken apart in this terrifying thing known as existence.

‘Physically?’ He let his hand migrate from Aziraphale’s hair and across his back to sweep broad, comforting strokes. ‘You are beautiful. She did well when she breathed you into existence, love.’ He stalled a little, because how could he voice just what Aziraphale meant to him? He stood by his earlier statement because he’d heard as much music as Aziraphale had read manuscripts but he’d still not found the words. He bought himself time, pressing kisses into Aziraphale’s hair.

‘I love you.’ The fact that these words no longer send him into a spiralling panic is just another reason why it’s true. He loves this angel with everything he is and parts he didn’t know he had, parts they are rebuilding together. ‘I will love you anyway I can have you. Anyway you will have me.’

Aziraphale’s breath goes thin against Crowley’s throat and Crowley feels himself tightening his grip, his hackles rising against a still unknown threat. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘You’ll think me silly.’

Crowley knew better than to try and hide the fond smile in his voice. ‘No doubt there, but that doesn’t mean it doesn't matter.’ He let Aziraphale gather his courage, entertaining himself by curling crop circles between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades.

‘I’m… I’m not fit for purpose.’

Crowley’s fingertips faltered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He… he said-’

Aziraphale tried to push himself back just as the arms around him become immovable. Crowley just held him fast, wrapping around Aziraphale as his own traitorous imagination did what it was best at.

Conjured up the worst conclusions.

‘When were they here!?’

There’d been attempts from both Above and Below, some they’d crushed, some that had landed blows. Aziraphale’s leg had gotten worse after the second foray from Heaven.

They were meant to be left alone. Aziraphale had survived Crowley’s trial by ordeal and the archangels were lucky to survive Aziraphale’s civilised lynching. They were meant to be left in peace. And there was only so much longer Crowley was going to put it down to no one really knowing if internal and eternal bureaucratic confusion was a product of Upstairs or Downstairs. He’ll believe that a little longer, rather than there being an active bounty on their heads.

But sometimes the poor, forsaken, and just plain misinformed souls that saw them as a quick promotion route got in cheap shots as well as lucky ones.

‘Where did they find you?! Are the wards holding? Do we need to call that Device woman? I can-’

‘No, no… It’s…’ Aziraphale managed to wriggle a little space and work his palm up to Crowley’s tight jaw. ‘No darling, it’s… This is from a while back… It’s silly.’

‘Angel. Tell me.’

‘I will, but… darling, please take those off?’

Crowley let his eyes slip shut and tipped his face down in acquiescence. Aziraphale’s fingers only shook a little as they curled around the bridge and gently slid Crowley’s glasses down his nose. He caught the angel’s retreating hand to press a kiss to the meat of his palm, and only then blinked his eyes open.

‘There you are. Thank you, my dear.’ Aziraphale settled down onto his chest once more. Crowley smiled idly and allowed Aziraphale his distraction. He’d wait patiently for as long as it took for Aziraphale to gather his courage under the cover of Vera Lynn’s silvery tones.

‘It was back before The End of Times, before all of this.’ Aziraphale swept a vague hand to indicate their little bower without really seeing it. ‘Gabriel found me.’ Crowley coiled tighter around Aziraphale, not caring that he could more than likely feel the low rumbling growl growing in the chest he was pressed against. ‘It was when we were giving them the runaround and they were determined to have their war but… He told me to, oh, how did he put it?’

Gabriel.

‘Oh, he told me to “lose the gut”.’

The Archangel fucking Gabriel.

‘And I know we averted the War, and we saved everyone in doing so, but… Crowley, I was meant to be a soldier… She created me and tasked me to protect Her creation and to fight in Her name… And, I’m not! I mean, I gave up that sword and I’d only been in the post for… Well for no time at all! Crowley. Crowley, I failed Her... I’ve failed Her for so long. Consistently. Gabriel’s been telling me this, all this time. But I never listened and I’m soft. I’m not fit to fight and I’m… I’m wrong.’

Crowley had never been one for wishes. There’s temptations and miracles and prayers and it’s all a treacherous sliding scale. Wishes are tricky because quite often, they aren’t addressed to anyone in particular.

Dangerous that.

Crowley can stop time, but in this moment he wishes he had the power to reverse it and be back there; wearing his angel’s guise, Hellfire cocooning him like a favourite coat and he wishes he could reach out and grasp that ever-smiling bastard by the throat and squeeze until the ichor runs from his eyes like the weeping saints. He can feel tears on his skin as Aziraphale tried to make himself smaller against Crowley’s chest.

Anger and fury and violence have been the makeup of Crowley’s soul for so long but in this moment, it ossified. And he hates Gabriel.

Hates that it’s Gabriel and his ilk that have had Aziraphale nervous and unsure in his own skin and forever looking over his shoulder in this life that they have won as theirs. Hates Gabriel for the poison he’s been drip-feeding into Aziraphale’s mind for millennia. The hostilities that flurried through the ranks of hell, snapping at their heels like demented collies and turning the flock on each other, they were to be expected. This honey-sweet concern to chase the bitter medicine, this creeps up and seeps in and smothers.

Aziraphale had endured this, and Crowley scrunched his burning eyes closed at the thought of it. Hell held no love for its agents, but Heaven was all that is Good and Right and Love. Just be aware of the terms and conditions. Whatever black shrivelled coal that stood in for Crowley’s heart broke as he clutched the trembling angel to him, Aziraphale’s miserable litany was little more than pained whispers. This was enough. Crowley held him fast and prepared to pull him out of this stoop.

‘You know, you weren’t the first angel I saw in the Garden. I came out close to the Western Gate and nearly didn’t make it much further. Met your counterpart there. Do you remember her?’ He felt Aziraphale shake his head. ‘She nearly sliced me in two and I only just made it away. She had a sword like yours, but it sparked with lighting. Scorched the ground with her warning shot. Funny that.’

He all too idly sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair once more, letting the pad of his thumb rest on the faint thrum below his ear. ‘We’d heard so much about you Angels Down Stairs and she fit every propaganda piece going. I always found it strange. I mean, I fell, so I can’t talk but-’ He shushed whatever interruption Aziraphale was drawing breath for, ‘I always thought you were made of love.’

Aziraphale doesn’t voice it, but Crowley can hear the soft, You too, my darling, echoing somewhere inside him.

‘She, oof... She was a piece of work. Then I found you and I was expecting more of the same, but you were unsure and worried and so damn precious I barely knew what to do with myself. And you’d given your weapon away.’ Crowley stretched a little and rested his chin on top of Aziraphale’s curls. ‘Now, I’m no expert on Angels, only an amateur enthusiast on one in particular,’ he smiled at the surprised giggle this got him, ‘but, I’ve got a, urrgh we’ll call it a theory. There she was, a supposed being of love, gripping this weapon of terrible power and destruction like it was the only thing that mattered. Like it mattered more than what she was protecting. Like the role was more important than the task? I dunno.’ Crowley’s face twisted in distaste. Sweet mercy he was making a hash of this. ‘But you? The job didn’t change you. You gave away your sword without a second thought.’ He felt Aziraphale squirm a little and relented. ‘OK, the worry came later. But, in the moment, I think yours was the first act of kindness.’

The And for that, they demoted you, lay curdling on Crowley’s tongue.

Regardless of any bashfulness Aziraphale may be feeling at his words, Crowley could feel his own face heating and pressed his pursed lips to Aziraphale’s hair once more. He was getting better at this. A few years ago he’d already have been scaled and skittering back to one of his heat lamps, most likely the one tucked highest up on the horticulture bookcase. And a few years before that he’d not known what to do at all.

But his blood still burned with embarrassment. That damn flaming sword was responsible for a lot of things, let him have this.

‘You are made of love,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘You will fight only to protect. Like you did with me, with Them, when the world was ending. You won’t be a blunt tool for them to wield, you won’t sleepwalk into doing their bidding.’

They lay in silence for a time, Crowley fighting a losing battle with his agitated feelings and Aziraphale losing the battle to stay composed if the dampness of Crowley’s collar was anything to go by. Aziraphale recovered well before Crowley however, but that was no surprise.

‘Also, not fit to fight? Bullshit.’ Crowley said around a snarl, diverting his own embarrassment into indignation on his angel’s behalf. ‘Has that bastard seen you in a fight?’

Now, Crowley would rather make out with any and all the sanctified relic heads of St. John the Baptist than see Aziraphale in harm’s way, but at the same time, his existence is a cursed miserable thing because seeing his angel battle-ready does things to him. It had all started at Tadfield. Aziraphale with fear written large in his pale eyes but hefted that sword ready to use it. The way he held it aloft and squared his stance, ready to strike, was so painfully different from War’s lazy posturing and taunting. Crowley watched the angel settle his weight as something settled low in his belly and he’d the detached thought of, Now? Really?!

Maybe what humans said about near discorporated experiences had some merit.

Since then, Crowley watched Aziraphale put angels and demons alike through walls. And it’s still breathtaking, every damn time. He absently understood what is happening when the chemical compounds of fear, adrenalin and ‘my-body-is-ready-and-has-been-for-millennia-at-this-point’ flood his system each time Aziraphale smokes assailants into shadows, but he’s usually preoccupied at that stage. He’s not complaining though, because more often than not Aziraphale will have a hand fisted in his hair and is pulling at him to bare his throat and then it’s Goodnight, Carthage. He was in the mood for a certain salting of the earth right now, to be honest, but he gave his body a stern talking to. Now was not the time.

‘What I have in front of me here, is functional strength.’ He gave Aziraphale a gentle squeeze to prove his point. ‘They wouldn't give your job to some wet lightweight. Not when you are defending against the terrible. Vicious. Rampaging.’ He punctuated each word with a kiss or playful nip at any patch of warm flesh he could reach until Aziraphale was wiggling and muffling squeals against Crowley’s chest, batting at him. ‘Ravenous. Diabolical forces of the Dark. We’re just awful, y’know.’ He closed his teeth over the shell of Aziraphale’s ear and nibbled, smiling as the angel sighed. ‘No, they need their most dependable on the job. You don’t look at draught horses and see defined muscles, do you?’

And he was back on bloody horses again.

‘Also, fuck Gabriel,’ he said emphatically as Aziraphale chuckled once more. ‘You know what, we don’t say that enough. Fuck Gabriel. With a rusty tyre iron. I’ve seen him trotting around when he’s been dirtside, jogging about like that when the most exercise he does upstairs is strut around. Vanity that, not good. It’ll probably get brought up in the old centurial performance review.’ He sniffed in disdain and finally loosened his arms to let Aziraphale sit up, the angel’s tired smile reassuring Crowley that somewhere in his rambling, he’d been at least a little reassuring.

Crowley smiled back, trying to pour every ounce of warmth he was feeling into the expression. ‘How long has this been brewing?’ Crowley asked, sweeping a thumb over Aziraphale’s brow to chase away the creases.

‘I really have gone native, haven’t I?’ Aziraphale said, his voice thick. ‘Worrying about my physique.’

‘I happen to greatly appreciate your physique.’ Crowley whispered against the apple of Aziraphale’s cheek. ‘I love you and your Renaissance body.’

Aziraphale smiled, a little sadly. ‘Oh yes. Humans do seem fickle with their opinions on what the “perfect” body is. I suppose I would have been alright in the Renaissance artists crowd.’

‘I have a very soft spot for the Renaissance; the resurgence of knowledge and learning and all. Asking questions, finding answers. Finding more questions. Science and art taking off in a big way. Portraits improving no end.’

‘Though, it seemed to be the female models they prefered along, umm, my lines.’

‘You may have helped Michelangelo. I understand it may not have been the boy’s wheelhouse, but he painted breasts as if he’d never even been suckled at one. Have you seen his women?’ Aziraphale’s laugh let him know they were coming out the other side. ‘But you’re right. You’d think they’d be occupied enough dictating to each other what is the “correct” thing to wear, but then they go and try and regulate the “correct” body to wear it on. It just doesn’t work like that, not really. And who’d want a “one trend fits all” anyway?’

‘That’s alright for you to say, my dear.’ Aziraphale’s face pinked a little as he gave Crowley an appreciative look, pushing himself up to better see Crowley still lain out against the sofa cushions. ‘You always look so dashing.’

‘Except for the Dark Ages.’

‘Oh goodness, no one looked good during the Dark Ages.’

‘But you like my style then? Really?’ A memory danced at the edge of his mind and he grinned. ‘Even 1793?’

The grin only grew as Aziraphale refused to meet his eye. ‘You popped out of nowhere,’ Aziraphale grumbled. ‘All slim fitted lines and calf muscles. The very image of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Sitting like that. I didn't know where to look.’

‘Oh, you did.’

‘Well, I settled on the hair.’ He sniffed before his face softened. ‘It broke my heart a little to see your curls brought to heel like that.’

Crowley had let his hair grow out a little in recent years. When he’d asked, Aziraphale had insisted that he liked Crowley’s hair however he wore it. And if anyone asked Crowley why, it certainly wasn’t due to the warm feeling he got when Aziraphale would spend an evening combing his fingers through what he termed Crowley’s “Pre-Raphaelite curls”.

His hand reached for Crowley’s hair now, and Crowley pushed himself up, swinging his legs inelegantly over Aziraphale, one hooking across his lap. Crowley hummed in delight, his eyes slipping shut when Aziraphale sunk his clever fingers into his hair, slipping the hair tie out and letting the half updo tumble into the rest of it. He only felt a little guilty as the angel’s fingers continued to work magic even if, really, he ought to be the one giving comfort. But that was Aziraphale; always helping, always providing.

Then made to feel terrible by his family if he’s found doing anything for himself for the simple joy of it. That feeling of failing, Aziraphale, well, that’s only been brought about by you.

Crowley was overcome with the need to kiss him. He leant forward, slowly dragging his nose against the slide of Aziraphale’s, giving him plenty of notice and chance to pull back, but he stayed there and drank Crowley in when their lips met. Even when the kiss broke, Aziraphale was reluctant to have Crowley draw back too far and they sat with their foreheads resting against each other.

‘It’s weird though, isn’t it?’ Aziraphale asked on a sigh. ‘How it changes and what they put themselves through.’

Crowley fought a grin. He knew a good smooch session wasn’t going to put the world to rights. Maybe one day. Nevertheless, here was Aziraphale, once again worrying about the humans.

‘Famine’s been playing mind games with them a lot of late,’ Crowley muttered in distaste. ‘Self-flagellation to a concept that wants them to wither and die. When I gave them the selfie, it was just to brag and irritate each other. I didn’t know it was going to get weaponised like this.’

‘Bless them, they will take any tool and injure themselves with it,’ Aziraphale said as if he was talking about children running with scissors. Crowley just sees two small figures, a newly felled beast and the flicker of flame.

‘I worried about you, y’know?‘ Crowley admitted in a rush. Aziraphale blinked up at him in surprise. His pale brows furrowed again and Crowley inwardly groaned at undoing all his work. He outwardly groaned when he realised he now had to explain himself. ‘When you were hanging out with Byron and the Shelleys. The poor bastard was obsessive, would have only biscuits and wine for days at a time. And they would throw laudanum around like the stuff was going out of… fashion.’ He trailed off lamely.

‘Well, George was mad, bad, and dangerous to know, but it was Mary I was interested in getting to know.’ Aziraphale looked away from Crowley, his voice going small. ‘It was at a time I was struggling and her Frankenstein was asking a lot of questions of the Creator, and… I thought maybe she knew something.’

Crowley remembered a tired, heartsick woman, aged beyond her years and that he’d seen a first edition tucked away in a secret corner of the shop downstairs. But she hadn’t known, had she. She’d just learned, like so many young women in love.

‘Not interested in Byron’s work?’

Aziraphale grimaced. ‘It has its place, but I don’t think the world needs that many Byronic heroes. Especially these days.’

They were silent for a time, as Aziraphale thought his thoughts and Crowley reminded himself to check Sparknotes when he got a moment to himself. One of his better inventions. Spreading learning and understanding, but at the same time, the user has a residual feeling of guilt knowing that they haven’t read the source material.

Except for the ones who didn’t.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Crowley loved it when humans made it through his temptations with their souls none the more tarnished. He was proud of them, owning it.

‘It’s a funny thing though fashion, isn’t it?’ Aziraphale continued, oblivious to Crowley’s little private moment of smugness. ‘Someone with very little authority just decided a thing and the rest of the flock follows because it’s… well... just because.’

‘Well it's easy enough for us,’ Crowley said, stretching until his bones cracked deliciously. He settled down across Aziraphale’s lap with a sigh, intent on coercing the angel into something of a ‘post-alcohol-and-emotional-detox’ nap. ‘Old flick of the wrist and, yup, costume change.’

Even from behind closed eyelids he could see Aziraphale’s ever so slightly embarrassed fidget.

‘Angel?’, Crowley prompted. ‘There’s something disrupting this glorious nap I had all lined up and it’s currently galloping around that brain of yours. Care to share?’

‘Do you really miracle all your clothes?’ Aziraphale asked after a pause.

‘You don’t?’ Crowley responded after a slightly shorter one.

‘No… Well, I do when I have no other options.’

‘You mean to tell me,’ Crowley cried incredulously as he jackknifed up, ‘that throughout existence, there have been tailors measuring you up for threads?’

‘Seamstresses mainly,’ Aziraphale sniffed. ‘A lot of them were women trying to support themselves and their families.’ He noticed Crowley’s raised eyebrows and grimaced. ‘I wanted to help.’

‘Oh sweet mercy, you legitimately paid too, didn’t you?’

‘Of course I did,’ Aziraphale said in horror and Crowley flopped back down onto the sofa. ‘They also typically did a damn good job. Hard-wearing. Made to last.’

Crowley snorted. ‘That coat,’ he said, reminded of how many times proceedings had been halted to retrieve that coat from wherever Crowley had flung it in his fervour.

‘Well, I wanted to keep a little of them with me…’ And Crowley wanted to kick himself because Aziraphale was sounding small again.

‘Shit, Angel. I’m sorry. I’m being an arse.’ He winced apologetically as he looped his arms as best he could around Aziraphale’s middle. The hand stroking through his hair told him he was forgiven, but Crowley still scowled at his own thoughtlessness. He hugged him a little tighter. ‘Tell me about them.’

The hand stilled. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You said you wanted to keep something of them with you. Tell me about them.’

Aziraphale didn’t move for a moment and Crowley thought he may have done some serious damage without even realising it. ‘Aziraphale?’ Crowley tried to scrambled upright, inelegantly, as he tried not to jab Aziraphale with his elbows. It didn’t work and he grudgingly surrendered to gravity, tumbling off the sofa and rolling up to his knees in front of Aziraphale. Aziraphale barely seemed to notice however, his gaze trained on a spot beyond the tops of his knees, somewhere among the floorboards. It wasn’t an expression Crowley had seen often, but every time he had, his heart had stuttered.

On the walls of Eden, in the streets of Pompeii, beside a yew tree in the Hanworth estate grounds, on the tarmac of Tadfield Air Base.

Come on. Crowley pleaded from within his own head. Come on love, be brave.

He didn’t know what Aziraphale was thinking, but it scared him. Whatever words he was chewing against the inside his cheek, they were potentially dangerous, potentially jeopardising in certain circles.

But they weren’t in those circles any longer.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in his and held them to his lips, kneeling at his feet.

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale said quietly after a time, ‘could I show you?’

<><><>

Crowley had never really been into this room of Aziraphale’s shop. A plain door a little further down the hall than the bedroom, and to be frank, when they were both upstairs, their attention never really went further than said bedroom. As Aziraphale led him through the door and found the light, he could see the whole room was clearly under the influence of some celestial magicking, because how else could a museum gallery fit into a corner plot in Soho.

‘Ah now, where is it?’

The soft yellow light showed walls carefully lined with racks, cabinets, and wardrobes. Glass fronted displays twinkled here and there, scattered between the wooden facades, and tucked away in each was another treasure that the V&A would undoubtedly kill for.

Crowley followed dumbly for a few paces, caught in Aziraphale’s slipstream until something caught his attention. The mash of darker colours called out to him. He found himself tugging gently, dredging it from the surrounding cream and ivory.

A kilt.

Bloody tartan.

Literally.

Aziraphale looked around from his searching to find Crowley hunched over giggling. This, this was the real stuff. This was tartan in its original form, weather-beaten and durable. Before the Victorians assigned different colours like club badges. A swath of rusted red cut through the medley of tea stain brown and charcoal black and Crowley traced it, his mind’s eye painting the blood splatter in the air. There was a sporran too, made of cracked and creaking leather. He looked again along the rail and around the room.

There must have been something for every era. Big or small, immaculate or damaged, the garments created a gentle kaleidoscope of creams and pale blues, the room a collage of fabrics. Crowley scurried the length of the room and travelled over millennia in textiles. Roman, Celtic, Tudor, Regency. Era after era, catalogued and carefully loved.
And while a full suit of armour took pride of place, there was a bit of a hole left by the 1300s.

‘You magpie!’ Crowley accused delightedly. ‘You utter magpie! Look at this! This is incredible…’ He reached out again, letting his fingers trail over the shoulders of a naval uniform jacket, the rampant lions of the East India Company gleaming on the buttons. ‘Have you hoarded everything you’ve ever worn?’

The pleased flush on Aziraphale’s face belied his indignant tone. ‘Well, I appreciate good craftsmanship. Not all of us miracle themselves a fresh wardrobe whenever the whim takes us.’

‘1793!’ The demon crowed, already rifling through the racks. ‘Oh Angel, you have to try these on for me! I need to see you in these!’

‘My dear boy, there’s no need-’ Aziraphale tried to temper Crowley’s energy, but Crowley was already flitting from place to place, piling the garments in his arms.

‘Please Angel?’ Crowley was pleading now. He looked like a madman, but the uncertainty was starting to crawl up his spine as Aziraphale approached him with a pinched expression. ‘Please? We… we missed so much time. Please, can I see you? What I missed?’

Aziraphale wavered for a moment, but Crowley watched as the self-consciousness was beaten off his face by an indulgent smile. ‘Of course, treasure. But, please,’ he started carefully relieving Crowley of his bounty, ‘be careful with these?’

‘Oh!’ Crowley held stock-still until his arms were empty and then resolutely shoved his hands into his pockets, embarrassed by his own giddiness. He didn’t spot Aziraphale’s fond smile until it was inches from his own nose.

‘Thank you, Crowley. Why don’t you get comfortable?’ he said, nodding towards a small armchair not far from a beautifully painted panel screen. ‘Do you have any requests?’ The smile was taking on an ever so slightly wicked glint.

‘Ngh.’ Was all Crowley could manage as his legs started the downward slope towards the seat cushions. ‘Umm… dealer’s choice?’

And what a hand he was dealt.

Outside, the light danced and played as Aziraphale tried on look after look for Crowley’s delight. It gave the demon an unexpected buzz to see his angel like this: coquettish and coy. But each time Crowley tried to approach, he was held off and sent to his chair with a teasing grin. He just had to bite his lip in giddy anticipation and wait as Aziraphale disappeared time and again behind the painted scenes of rural bliss, listening for the soft rustle of material.

Crowley hadn’t expected this sweet, soft torture, but it was a small price to pay to see Aziraphale like this. He glowed, slipping back into clothing that meant something to him, that held memories and stories precious to him.

His Angel had always been a storyteller.

‘Oh, this torc was a gift from Boadicea. I’d, um... I’d managed to get her daughters out of Norfolk after all that horrible business. Poor sweet girls. I think this may be the oldest British item I have...’

Crowley idly fluttered his fingers. Aziraphale’s soft reminiscings were underscored nicely by the soft drumming of rain on the skylight windows. It was almost perfect, he thought. And never let it be said he couldn’t set the stage for his angel. The tea table rattled only slightly as Crowley snapped his fingers again and the gramophone settled onto its surface, humming expectantly. It burbled into life with Dowland’s Come Again at the first sign of a doublet. Raucous pipes when Aziraphale came around the screen in the weathered tartan kilt. French baroque, although the needle skittered something fierce, when Aziraphale appeared in a bloom of a Rococo dress in robin egg blue satin.

‘I don’t usually go in for this style, but I dropped in to visit Lady Henrietta at Marble Hill House one evening, and she was holding something of a costume party. Gents in gowns, ladies in frock coats, wonderful evening. Henrietta insisted I borrow one of hers and then made me promise I’d keep it. Darling? Are you alrig-’

‘Fine! I’m fine!’

Not all the items were in a pristine condition and still, Aziraphale knew their importance and their story.

‘Ah, yes. Henry was, ah, venting some frustrations after he first met the Lady Anna of Kleve. I offered counsel and he threw his wine goblet at my head.’ Aziraphale smoothed a hand across his collarbone and down his arm, tracing a faded splash. The cream silk still bore the ghost of a stain, like damp earth in the wake of a dried-up puddle. ‘Sweet Joan took it from me that evening, insisted that it mustn’t be thrown away and that she’d do her best to save it. Little Audrey brought it back a few days later, so proud of her mother’s work. I couldn’t bring myself to discard it after their efforts.’

‘You never wanted to…?’ Crowley let the question hang in the air, raising his hand with his fingers together ready to snap. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he twisted away, hiding the stained shoulder from Crowley with an affronted little noise.

‘But that would undo all her work! She’d be gone!’

Crowley yielded immediately, put up his hands and spreading his fingers to show no threat. He was never going to pull the trigger unless Aziraphale asked. ‘But you asked me to with the coat?’

Aziraphale sighed and slumped a little. ‘I’m sorry, I know you wouldn’t. But that was a messy time and something of a senseless accident.’ His face twisted. ‘I know it doesn’t make sense-’

‘No, it makes sense, Angel. I promise. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He tossed his head back toward the modesty scene. ‘What other stories do you have tucked back there?’
Looking around the room, Crowley could see most items Aziraphale had squirrelled away in this wardrobe held true to a certain colour palette. There were exceptions, but light blues and soft creams and browns were most prevalent. So the dark navy cravat Aziraphale appeared in was a little surprising. ‘It may have been something of a compromise,’ Aziraphale said, fiddling with the knot. ‘It was a gift from Miss Lister and, of course, she wore next to nothing but black. She’d invited me up to Shibden Hall to look over what she and Miss Walker had in the library tower. I spent a few months with them there, it was a lovely spring.’ Crowley remembered Miss Lister and Miss Walker. He’d run into them when he’d ventured north to Halifax for a routine tempting one Easter, thankfully, outside of Holy Trinity Church in Goodramgate. He’d offered his congratulations and wished them well. Aziraphale seemed to have a knack of rubbing shoulders with women who were intent on rubbing the establishment up the wrong way.

Women who also seemed determined to look damn good while doing so, if Aziraphale’s glee at recounting his run-in with Moll Cutpurse was anything to go by. The angel thrust a cracked leather belt under Crowley’s nose. ‘Look! Oh, you can still see the dagger mark, oh marvellous. She lifted my coin purse at the Fortune Theatre. Cut the strings and nicked the belt in the process. I caught her at it, but she made me laugh so I couldn’t bring myself to punish her or anything.’

There was a tweed suit Aziraphale had worn at Balmoral in 1863. The trouser leg sported the work of a parlour maid, Judy, whose expert darning hid a bramble rip. A modestly sized but beautifully made powdered wig that had been coiffed and powdered by Bridgette. She’d been trying to keep her business and skills alive, but her flight from Paris and Pitt’s tax were taking their toll. An embroidered favour that Matilda had tried to distract herself with, her fury palpable when he’d gone to counsel her. Another, done in a shaking hand. Poor Lady Jane had been so brave in the end. The tartan kilt had been hastily thrown at him as Isla had barked he’d better put it on if he knew what was good for him when he’d been caught in Killiecrankie. A koru carved pounamu pendant on a flax cord, a 'thank you' from Makereti when he’d hosted her when her troupe had melted away around her.

Crowley turned the greenstone over and over in his palm, idly enjoying the sensation of its cool surface getting warm in his hand before flipping it over to feel the other side. It was when he’d tossed it over some 4 or 5 times and Pokarekare Ana appeared to be a much longer song than he remembered, that he realised Aziraphale had been gone for much longer than anytime before.

Crowley cast a look over to the gambeson and chainmail armour that stood in for any and all of the 13th century.

Well, that wasn’t it then.

‘Angel?’ Crowley called out. ‘Are you alright back there?’

Crowley didn’t panic when there wasn’t an answer but it wasn’t calm acceptance that prompted him into levering himself out of his chair and sent him searching.
The worry petered out as fast as it had flared through when he’d carefully stuck his head around the modesty screen. Aziraphale was still in his shirt sleeves after showing Crowley the East India Trading Company uniform that had turned heads in Bengal. The muslin was a little rumpled in the sleeves and creases had dug themselves between the angel’s hunched shoulder blades.

‘There you are,’ Crowley said gently and quirked a conciliatory smile when Aziraphale jumped and looked around in shock, something clutched in his hands. ‘Are you alright? I thought I’d lost you.’

‘Oh! Oh, umm, no. No, I’m quite alright dear. Just, umm…’ Aziraphale turned his attention back to whatever it was in his hands.
‘What have you got there?’ Crowley said as he approached Aziraphale carefully. He caught Aziraphale’s upset eye in the tall mirror standing just a little in front and to the side of the angel. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’

‘I’ve, umm, I’ve found my old corset,’ Aziraphale said with a weak smile. ‘It, umm, it had been hiding in the military garb. Huh. Gotten mixed in with the riding stays.’
‘You wore corsets?’ Crowley asked, looking down at the garment in Aziraphale’s hands. It looked careworn, maybe more so than many of the other items Crowley had seen. No angel would do anything as uncouth as sweat, but the fabric looked softened by wear. The corded channels that spider-webbed across the panels had twisted and warped, looking a little unregulated between the sturdier stays. Even those showed fatigue. Watching Aziraphale’s face closely for any sign he was overstepping, Crowley reached to run a finger down a bone channel. The worn cotton coutil felt a little rough under his fingertip, but it was mild in comparison to the sudden bristle of the whalebone that made him jump a little. The baleen boning was poking out a little, the channel looking like an uprooted tree with its roots exposed.

‘Well… ah… yes.’ Aziraphale briefly caught his eye in the mirror, but his attention didn’t stray from the corset for long. ‘I know you tended to run in the more covert circles, but a lot of the regiments had the officers wear stays.’

Crowley snorted. ‘And by ‘covert’, you mean ‘criminal.’

Aziraphale ignored his comment, still engrossed in the garment. Crowley hooked his chin over the angel’s shoulder, pressing his cheek up against Aziraphale’s.

‘Hello, darling. So yes, officers would wear stays for a bit of support and stability. It saved the back a little when you need to sit straight in the saddle for hours at a time. I found it, oddly… comfortable? Maybe I was looking for any scraps of comfort on the back of that beast. But, umm, I liked the way I… I held myself differently.’ Aziraphale twisted and Crowley found himself on the receiving end of a painfully earnest look. Crowley was sorry to say he recognised this face. It’s a face worn when having the judgement of superiors and family bearing down on you for millennia leaves you grappling to understand your own heart. ‘And, well, times were changing again. Fashions moved on and it wasn’t the seventeenth century anymore.’ Aziraphale looked down at himself, smoothing a hand self-consciously over his midriff. ‘Peascod bellies weren’t the thing. And Sandalphon made a pointed comment about me spending my endeavours on the Prince Regent.'

Crowley made a distressed noise and made to wrap himself around the angel. He felt Aziraphale’s arms come around him, his hands patting reassuringly at his flanks.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but if he’d spent a day trying to reconcile the bloody House of Hanover, he’d turn to the good port too,’ Aziraphale said in a huff.

Crowley snorted again at the mental image. ‘That would have been catastrophic.’

‘Hmm, quite. I don’t know how I kept letting myself get charged with the royal houses. You’d think after the Tudors I’d have learnt.’ Aziraphale sighed and Crowley tightened his arms a little more.

Because you were being useful to them, Crowley thought bitterly. Maybe if you were useful, you were worthy. He let the tired and futile wrath roil through him once more, dropping kisses in Aziraphale’s curls before pulling back.

‘You know, Angel, I think the life of a regency dandy must have suited you down to the ground. If we take Upstairs and Family Politics out of the picture.’ He gently turned Aziraphale in his arms until they were both facing the standing mirror once more. ‘Definitely could see you wandering the countryside, book in hand, waxing poetic about daffodils or something. Rubbing shoulders with Brummel and the like.’ He spotted Aziraphale’s disgusted eye roll. ‘Hey now, I know he’s one of ours but… actually, yeah, I’ve got nothing. The man was an arse. At least he made full trousers fashionable?’

‘I will thank him only for that, and normalising men wearing corsets. It did wonders for me.’ Aziraphale held the corset up to the light a little, a thumb sweeping over the raised stays. ‘I looked a little more presentable,’ he said blithely, missing Crowley’s pinched expression. ‘The tummy was tucked away. It hid a multitude of sins.’

‘... Angel.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry my dear, I didn’t-’

‘No Aziraphale, no you’re fine. But…’ Crowley swallowed thickly, blinking hard. Why was this so difficult? He’d had some 6000 years to kinda sorta master language, he should have this. ‘You know it’s you, right?’ At Azirphale’s wrinkled brow he hurried on. ‘It’s you under the clothes? And you, under the clothes, are beautiful. No, c’mon, look at us here.’ Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s upper arms gently but wouldn’t let him budge when he tried to turn away from his reflection. ‘Angel, you are beautiful. Fashions come and go. The ‘ideal’ changes with the bloody wind, but you. You are beautiful. You are cosmic. You are glorious. You are di-ugh, divi-nggh!’

‘Crowley, please! No, please. Before you hurt yourself.’

Crowley sighed and sagged a little against Aziraphale’s back. ‘My point still stands,’ he said mulishly. ‘You look it, every single day. And I want you to feel it too. I want that for you.’

Aziraphale knocked his head gently against Crowley’s in acquiescence. ‘Thank you, my dear. You know I want that for you as well. I want you to feel these things too.’

‘Being here with you helps.’

Aziraphale spluttered and blushed and was about to fluster a reply, but Crowley felt him gasp.

‘Angel?’

‘Consider the lilies of the field.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at Crowley with a look of delight and wonder and raised the corset into the light again. Aziraphale had turned the corset over and his thumb swept back and forth over a channel. Amidst the creamy off-white, there was a little seam of green. ‘Look,’ Aziraphale said almost reverently. ‘I can’t believe I forgot about this.’ Embroidered alongside the channel was a daisy. Neat but clearly done with inferior materials than the rest of the garment. ‘I was in a debtors’ prison for a routine blessing and there was an altercation. I was caught in the middle of it and the channel burst. She was sitting in a cell for her brother’s debt and she saw what happened. She begged a needle from a visitor and pulled threads out of her shawl.’ Aziraphale blinked down at the crude little flower suturing the seam closed. ‘Her name was Rose. She was 14.’

Aziraphale's face had gone pensive again and sadness was creeping in at the corners of his eyes.

‘Angel?’ Crowley said quietly when realisation dawned and it looked like he was losing Aziraphale to his thoughts. Aziraphale hummed but didn’t look up. ‘This collection you have here... it’s not just about the looks is it?’ Crowley looked over to the clothes that Aziraphale had worn and told him about: every single one had a story. ‘It’s not even about how they made you feel when you wear them. It’s about what you feel when you remember them.’

‘Yes...’ Aziraphale’s voice had gone a little soft and assertive and Crowley knew that voice. It was a voice that he paid attention to, no matter what. ‘I’ve met so many wonderful souls here on Earth. Or if I’ve not met them, I’ve read their stories, whether they’re the accounts of their lives or the worlds in their minds. But… I mean… For pity’s sake, the printing press has only been around some 500 years. Vellum was so hard to make and so precious. Then there was the education. So few people got to tell their story.’ He looked at Crowley over his shoulder, not quite turning fully. ‘So few voices. And… and the girls were kept quiet for so long.’

‘You wanted to keep a part of women’s history,’ Crowley said, understanding unfurling in his mind. ‘You wanted them to be part of history, wanted to keep them in the story’. His heart swelled in a melancholic sigh, understanding a little better. He tucked himself gently against Aziraphale’s back again, his hands curling around the angel’s arms, thumbs sweeping against shirt sleeves, trying to brush comfort through muslin. ‘You still do.’

‘I do.’ Aziraphale’s expression was sad too, but resolute. The angel, ever the shepherd. Aziraphale looked away from their reflections and down at the faded fabric in his hands, contemplatively rubbing a thumb back and forth across the raised ridge of a stay. ‘And I know you’re confused by the stained doublet and the damaged belt and such, but so many people, so many women. They become invisible if they’re not someone’s mother, or daughter, or wife.’ Aziraphale looked over to the cream doublet all but rescued by the laundress’ efforts. ‘And if she's the low-born servant of the household that catches the king’s eye and he takes her to bed and leaves her with a daughter... Well, they'll case her into the shadows all the harder.’ The angel’s fingers tightened on the aged garment in his hands and Crowley laid a hand over Aziraphale’s knuckles, rubbing soothingly.

‘Thank you for showing me this place.’ Crowley said as Aziraphale slackened his grip, curling his hand to lace their fingers together. ‘Thank you for telling me about them.’
Aziraphale nudged back against him in reply and the two of them stood in silence, gradually getting lost in their own thoughts. Crowley could almost see the ghosts connected to the clothes around them, sometimes more than one person to a treasured garment. Nimble fingers creating them. Sure and steady hands reviving damaged items. Care and attentiveness paid in their keeping. Crowley looked over at the pile of tried on clothes. While they weren’t exactly cast aside without a care, they weren’t benefitting from being piled on top of one another. Crowley felt the disapproving looks from across the centuries and winced apologetically, even if there was no one there to see it.

‘Come on Angel,’ Crowley said after a time, his voice a little hushed in the air of sanctity the moment provided. ‘I’m taking you to dinner.’ He smiled softly as Aziraphale visibly perked up in surprise. ‘The Ritz sounds good and I think you deserve to be shown off a little.’ Crowley couldn’t help himself and turned the angel in his arms. He kissed Aziraphale, gently taking his face in his hands and letting his lips travel over the angel’s face, stopping off here and there to lay a little more affection. ‘Pop the cream morning suit back on. I’m taking you dancing.’

‘But-,’ Aziraphale said only to be interrupted by the demon’s lips again, the puzzled pout melting into a dizzy smile. ‘But I thought dancing was Friday and Saturday nights? It’s only Tuesday.’

A smirk, an eyebrow quirk, and a snap of the fingers. ‘Someone in management has had a bright idea. Come on.’ Another click and Crowley was sporting a black duplicate of Aziraphale’s morning suit, his hair braided back smartly. ‘Get your dancing shoes on, Angel.’

Crowley’s heart danced a little as Aziraphale bounced in place and valiantly tried to keep his excitement off his face. The angel didn’t seem too fussed at losing that particular battle as he uttered a breathless ‘Alright’, and dashed away only to pause and dart back to take the suit off the rail and disappear behind the screen once more. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

‘Take your time, Angel,’ Crowley called back, even as his attention wandered back to the corset

<><><>

‘Ah, yes, hello. My name’s Anthony, who am I speaking to, please? Rose? Oh… Oh, hello. Yes, I’ve been perusing your website and it says you offer fitting sessions. Can I ask what exactly that entails? Uh-huh. Mhmm. Really? Is there any commitment to buy with the booking of a fitting? No? Wonderful. And you take commission work? Right. Yes please, I'd like to book a fitting session. No, it’s not for me, it’s for a friend. But I think you’ve answered my next question; do you cater to the male physique?’

<><><>

When Crowley initially steps into Strength in Modesty, the boutique shop tucked away on Duck Lane in Soho, with Aziraphale a step and a half in front of him, he didn’t hear the tinkle of the bell behind him.

Because there was a completely different ringing in his ears.

There was a lot of leather.

And nearly as much PVC.

Crowley was vaguely aware of Aziraphale frozen in front of him and the angel tensing as if preparing to bolt and Crowley found himself rooted to the spot.

Two walls that Crowley could see boasted displays of... were they items of clothing? Slick black, red, and baby pink accented with the odd glint of chrome off a buckle, a ring, or a zip. Crowley was never one to yuck anyone’s yum or tell anyone to curb their appetites, but as his blood turned to ice he had to admit this was not a direction he expected the day to turn.

Contingency plans started tumbling into his head, clambering for attention but most of them hit the wall of if Aziraphale runs, do I have the heart to stop him? A few get caught in the kissing gate of there’s no guarantee I won't beat him to the door.

‘Hello? Can I help you- oh!’

Crowley managed to drag his eyes away from something that must need an industrial amount of talcum powder to get into just in time to see a young woman hurry to the corner of the room between the two display walls. There was a rustle of cord and then heavy curtains were swinging across the displays, obscuring the racy kit with heavy brocade.

The woman turned to face them, hands behind her back and a slightly pained, apologetic expression on her face. ‘Gentlemen, so sorry, bear with me a moment.’ She scurried past them and Crowley wrapped an arm instinctively around Aziraphale. He tugged Aziraphale flush to his side, swivelling his head to keep the woman in his sightline at all times. But she merely passed them, went to the door where she busied herself with the open sign, flipped in and affixed a second sign in the glass of the door. ‘Hello, so sorry about that. You gentlemen caught me a little unprepared. Can I assume that one of you is Mr Antony Crowley here for the 3 o’clock appointment?’ Her words were calm and congenial, but Crowley could hear the strain in her voice.

He caught sight of the clock on the wall.

2:35 pm

‘Ah, umm, yes, ah.’ Still trying to erase the image of PVC basques from his mind, Crowley fought to find his footing, Aziraphale still and quiet beside him.

‘Well, hello. Wonderful to have you here. Would you two gentleman care to follow me?’

Her encouraging smile grew a little when Crowley deemed it safe and stepped forward, gently towing Aziraphale by the wrist through the small reception space. They skirted a few antique furniture pieces and, even with two walls covered by curtains, dressmakers mannequins stood to attention in a variety of liveries. Deep jewel tones glistened in the milky light as they followed the woman into a room further back. They were nearly out when Crowley got a little distracted by a titter behind him. The greenery in the windowsill was twittering like debutants and he scowled at the peace lily and devil’s ivy that found his flustered state so amusing. Even as he left the room, the coquettish giggling grew louder.

‘Apologies,’ the young lady said over her shoulder, indicating a sofa for them. ‘I know the showroom has a few things that may be a little much for some of our clientele. I usually have them covered for appointments but, well, this is Soho. I need to catch the passing eye.’ There was an indulgent quirk to her smile as if the prospect of the tawdry dalliances of London was on par with the games of rambunctious children. ‘But I take it that’s not quite what you’re after today.’

Crowley was just about finding his feet now he’d got firm upholstery under himself, only for his various guttural noises that equated to ‘Yeah, not our scene, no, not for us’ to be punctuated by a soft ‘Maybe?’

The proprietress just arched an eyebrow as her mouth twitched, fighting to keep the smile in the realm of professionally polite. ‘Something to explore at a later date perhaps?’
Crowley’s swivel round to stare at Aziraphale was about 50 per cent flinch. Aziraphale sat as prim and proper as he would in St James’s, hands folded tidily in his lap and only the slightest blush dusting his cheeks. Nothing to indicate that he’d shifted Crowley’s whole world to the left a few feet.

Their host seemed to sense there was a conversation that needed to be had, more than likely in hissed undertones. She made a small indulgent noise and clasped her hands behind her back. ‘Can I get you gentlemen anything? Tea? Coffee? Water?’

‘Tea would be marvellous.’ Aziraphale smiled and it was like watching two dancers approach one another as the caller announced the next dance would be “careful friendliness”. ‘Thank you ever so much, Miss….’

‘Rose, but please, take a moment to relax and get comfortable. We’ll make proper introductions once we’ve some sustenance.’

She headed back the way they’d come, a curtain swung down behind her and Crowley immediately missed her presence, anxious like a shy child watching their responsible adult leave the room.

‘Are you quite alright, my dear?’ Aziraphale asked gently.

‘Yes Angel, just, umm, recalibrating,’ Crowley muttered back. Recalibrating, and trying to keep his composure as his traitorous imagination went off on its giddy way, painting scene after leather accented scene for him. Aziraphale and himself in every configuration and he didn't know which casting option he preferred.

Well, that was a lie.

Crowley’s knees gave a thrilled little twinge.

He cleared his throat as subtly as he could and, spotting Aziraphale’s enigmatic smile out of the corner of his eye, resolutely did not look at the angel. With his blood burning itself out, he looked around the room. If he’s going to combust, he may as well know what he’s scorching on his way out.

It was never going to be easy, getting natural light in a backstreet workshop in Soho, but Crowley had to give her due, the girl had tried. The tall, narrow windows were clean and making the most of the second-hand light. Enough to facilitate another little sorority of plants. There’s a cooing to his left and he looks over to the nearest window sill. The plants are laughing at him again.

Crowley grit his teeth and tried not to pout as he turned his back on the English Ivy, Queen Fern and Bromeliads, only to hear them make sympathetic noises. They hushed as the curtain pulled back and the young lady reappeared, tying off the curtain and bringing an honest to goodness tea service trolley in behind her.
Aziraphale made a delighted little noise beside him.

Even if Crowley wanted to melt into the floorboards, at least he could go knowing that he perished leaving Aziraphale well catered for.

While the tea was being poured and Aziraphale was delightfully distracted, Crowley took a little closer look at the room. They’d been seated in a green zone of a sort. Two sofas angled towards one another with a low coffee table between them. It was possibly the only flat surface on the premise that wasn’t teeming with paper or projects; a demilitarised zone for clients and civilians to be entertained. The skylights were a recent addition and created little strategic seas of light. On a desk, at a sewing machine station, in front of a crescent of mirrors. A few inches above them and set back in a corner, a sturdy cutting table dominated a corner, a few bolts of fabric stretched across its surface, its face crisscrossed with chalk marks. Besides the cutting table, demure but attentive like a lady at court, stood a treadle Singer sewing machine. Two dressmakers mannequins flanked it, two queens’ guards waiting to attend.

There was a desk a little ways off and safe on its own raised and fortified area. It was a mountain of papers, notepads and books, a laptop rising resolutely out of the snowdrift. But the heavy desk was turned to observe the room at large, the occupant of the leather chair able to survey their kingdom and still be within snatching distance of the bookshelf.

Book wall.

Excellent, Crowley thought a little hysterically, if I need a distraction, I can turn Aziraphale loose.

Crowley turned his attention back to proceedings as the finger sandwiches were being selected. ‘These are wonderful my dear, so very kind of you,’ Aziraphale said as the proprietress settled onto the other sofa in a soft rustle of satin skirts.

‘Well, hello gentlemen,’ she said smiling, and Crowley could see she’d calmed down in the time the tea had taken to steep. ‘I’m Rose and thank you for visiting today.’

‘Hello, my dear.’ Aziraphale once again took up the dance of civility that Crowley didn’t quite know all the steps for. ‘I’m Aziraphale and this is Crowley.’

‘I was Anthony, on the phone,’ Crowley mumbled as he unfolded himself enough to reach across the table and shake her hand. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’

‘My pleasure. So, what can I help you with?’

There was a moment of quiet where Crowley took a fortifying breath and waited, content to let Aziraphale do the talking. But after a few seconds of Rose looking expectantly at him and silence to his left, that was on closer inspection, Aziraphale also looking expectantly at him.

And then the ice entered his blood all over again.

Oh yeah. He’d organised this.

Shit.

He’s vaguely aware of the slight alarm in Rose’s face when all that comes out of his mouth is gurgling, but he’d not, really, actually, thought about how this was going to happen. Or what even.

He missed the way her eyes darted back and forth between him and the angel, her lips pressed together. When Aziraphale only had an apologetic shrug for her, she looked back at Crowley with a pinched brow.

‘Are we in search of something for both of-’

‘We’re here for him,’ Crowley said finally, his voice like something out of a blocked storm drain.

‘Alright then, do you know what you’re after?’

And again the silence stretched as Aziraphale looked benignly over at Crowley for guidance. Crowley tried to get his words to work but he didn’t know if or how he could. His throat clicked as words and thoughts tumbled over themselves to get out only to get cold feet.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’ Aziraphale spoke up. He shifted his weight and it took all Crowley had not to throw himself across Aziraphale’s lap.

I’m sorry, I didn’t think this through. Please don’t leave me, we can both go. I’m so sorry.

‘But before we begin, would I be able to use your toilet?’

Crowley would have panicked if not for the detached voice in his head asking since when do you need to test the plumbing?

Rose picked up on the angel’s plan even as Crowley floundered. She cheerfully gave him directions back into the showroom behind them. Aziraphale stood as she spoke, dusting his hands on his trousers and leaned down to Crowley. Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as Aziraphale cradled his head with a hand and pressed his lips to his forehead.

‘Be brave, my love,’ Aziraphale said, quietly enough for Rose to pretend she didn’t hear anything. He swept the pad of his thumb back and forth against Crowley temple. ‘If you need me, you need only say. I trust you.’

He straightens and steps away with a thank you and disappears through the curtained doorway. Crowley tries. He tries to be brave, but a big part of him wants to scramble up and follow Aziraphale.

There’s a rustle that pulls him out of his head and a flurry of movement across his vision and he turns to see Rose has moved. She’d shuffled down to the other end of her sofa and he has to twist slightly to keep her in view. She’s got a notebook in hand and an intent expression on her face.

‘Listen,’ Crowley started, ‘I’m sorry. I think this may have been a mistake, thank you for seeing us-’

‘What prompted you to call me?’

Crowley had been half out of his seat and about to make his retreat when her question nudged him off balance. His rear hit the seat again and although she’d made no move to touch him, Crowley had the slightly uncomfortable feeling that he was pinned there.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why did you call me?’ She kept her voice low and earnest and her expression was edging into “hell-bent” territory. Maybe that’s what shook the words from Crowley.

‘I’m worried about him, alright!’

Rose merely nodded and settled back into the sofa, hitching one leg over the other and seemingly oblivious to the emotional maelstrom those indignant words had triggered in Crowley. She made a quick note and looked up expectantly, quirking a consoling smile when Crowley offered her nothing but a somewhat helpless expression.

‘OK,’ she said kindly, ‘you’re looking for help. I mean, this is not the first avenue most people would explore, but we’ll certainly keep going. Why are you worried about him? What’s the problem?’

Crowley gurgled something between a whine and groan.

He didn’t want to do this, he really didn’t. Because by the stars, he hated lying. But how was this going to go?

Ah, thank you so much for asking. You see we’re a pair of renegade divine spirits, struck off and exiled from our respective sides who seem to be hunting us for sport. We conspired to prevent the End of Times, that tends to upset Head Office. I’d burn all of existence if he asked me to but I can’t protect him from the toxins his supposed family have been planting in his mind for millennia. I’m terrified of losing him to them without them even making an effort.

So how exactly corsetry is going to factor into this, I don’t know. But I connected the two dots in a moment of emotional stress. Please help us.

Alright, so he was going to have to word this carefully. And if he completely cocked it up he could always miracle her memory clear.

He looks into her kind face again and he doesn’t think he wants to.

‘It’s...’ He hesitates, ‘It’s a little bit of a long and complicated story,’ he apologises with a roll of his shoulders.

‘Sir, I promise I won’t judge and you never know,’ she said with a shrug of her own, ‘I may have heard stranger.’

Crowley snorted but only nodded, chewing the “I doubt it” on his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he thought. He let his head loll against the sofa back and his breath caught a little as he looked at the ceiling. It had been meticulously painted, swirls of colour and shade building cloud banks, breaking around the skylights. It was a skyscape that boiled with threat and promise. It reminded him of the Garden.

‘Myself and Aziraphale, we, erm, we started off coming from very different places? I mean we met…. forever ago and, oh stars we were so young.’ He huffed a laugh and rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. ‘But, er, we ended up working quite closely, even if it was on different sides. We got to know each other very well in some very stressful circumstances.’ Crowley swallowed thickly and took a fortifying breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. ‘We’ve left that life behind now, but there's ...There are a few things that have not really let us go. Well, let him go.’

Rose’s slightly tense silence had Crowley looking around cautiously. She’d paused in her note-taking and was just rather tight around the eyes. ‘Oh…’ Crowley barked in horror and, as always, scrabbled for someone to curse. ‘No, sweet mercy, no! We’re not… I’m not ex-IRA or anything!’

Rose just pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows. Then shrugged her shoulders and clicked her tongue before returning to her notepad. ‘No judging. But your shared history is a source of worry?’

‘Well, umm, his more so.’ Crowley muttered trying to find the right words. ‘Alright,’ he said defeated, dragging his hands over his face. ‘I’m going to phrase this a certain way but please don’t think we’re from mob families. Urgh, right, so, umm, family businesses. Conflicting family businesses. Neither of them healthy or nurturing. And I’ve cut ties and made my own way and I still get shit from the family, but I’m okay.’ He completely missed Rose’s worried look. ‘But, umm, Aziraphale’s family, they did things a little differently. They got their hooks into him early and he’s having a hard time shaking them. They’re still… they’re still very much in his head. We think we’re getting somewhere and then a little mental landmine they’ve planted just...’ He blew his cheeks out and made a sad little explosion gesture next to his temple. ‘And he’s trying so hard, and I want to help him.’

‘And now as I’m talking it out, I realise I’ve come to a corsetière for help.’

‘While I am thinking that, yes, maybe we can go down some other roads,’ Rose said with a gentle smile, ‘I want to know why you thought to ask a corsetière for help.’ Crowley slouched a little further into the cushions. ‘Nope, come on, no hiding,’ Rose said encouragingly. ‘What had you coming my way?’

Crowley flicked a thumbnail against his teeth as he thought how best to get his words in order. Oh yeah, on some days he’s ghostwriting Shakespeare, but evidently not today. Not today, when he needs to communicate and express and he caaaaan’t.

The greenery on the windowsill gave an encouraging coo.

‘Sort of two-fold?’ Crowley hedged. ‘Aziraphale had a moment of...acute… self-consciousness. He’s been conscious of his shape and size for, I think a long time, but there was a run-in with the family and…’ Crowley’s breath rattled in his chest. ‘He felt ill-made. I never, ever want him to feel that. Ever. It’s not about what he looks like.’ He hurried on. ‘It never was, never will be, because he’s…’

He was floundering and looked around in something of a panic. Rose was just smiling softly at him, her eyes ever so slightly glassy. ‘There aren’t words?’

Crowley choked slightly on his surprised laugh that bubbled up. ’No, not yet. But I’m working on it.’ He smothered his smile behind his fist again and shook his head. ‘I just want him to hold himself proud. He’s… there are days when he’s been trying to make himself smaller. For years, he’s been cutting pieces of himself off to please these people. These people who… who don’t care for him. Or about him. Even though they’re meant to be family.’ He was getting angry again. He couldn’t tear them down right now. He was here to raise Aziraphale up. Refocus.

‘He’s fought for his place and he’s carved out his own niche. I just want him to feel safe enough to spread his wings.’

Rose’s smile was reassuring and one of the warmest Crowley had ever been on the receiving end of from a mortal. Not since Nazathath maybe had he seen a smile like that for him. He had to look away, glancing over to the windows again and his cheer squad of maiden aunt plants rustled encouragingly.

‘You’ve got a green thumb right?’ he said, jerking a thumb at the battlement of green. ‘You get plants?’

Rose made a noise between pained and noncommittal. ‘Not as well as I’d like. I try. My parents are the keen gardeners.’

‘Ok, ok. But do you know what I mean when I say ‘staking a sapling’?’

‘Yes! Yes, I do,’ she said, brightening. ‘I’ve actually done that. A few times.’ Crowley made an encouraging noise when she blushed a little. ‘Helped Dad in the orchard a bit growing up.’

‘Brilliant, I want that for Aziraphale. I want to give him support. Literally, evidently,’ he said, rubbing his eyes once more. ‘And, alright, I want to spoil him.’

‘Right,’ Rose said smiling, resting her notepad on her raised knee. ‘I think we’ve got a few parameters now that we can play in. Do you know if Aziraphale…’ Crowley’s small smile got a little wider as she navigated his angel’s name with care and attention. ‘Has Aziraphale ever worn corsetry before?’

Crowley thought back to the careworn linen and silk hanging up in Aziraphale’s wardrobe, the baleen peeking through.

‘Yes?’

Rose seemed to pick up on the slight muddiness of his answer. ‘There’s a story there?’

‘One we do not have enough time to go into. No.’ Crowley raised an admonishing finger with a smirk as Rose perked up like a hound going on point. ‘No, we honestly don’t have time.’

‘But I love stories.’ Rose giggled around a faux pout. ‘Was it for theatre? Re-enactment?’

‘Sure, let’s go with that’

‘Suit yourself,’ she said indulgently, head cocked to the side a little with a crooked smile. ‘Oh, wonderful timing!’ Crowley could see she wasn’t even trying to maintain the facade. ‘Aziraphale, please come join us, we’re about to start discussing some ideas and options.’

Crowley leaned into the warm hand squeezing his shoulder as Aziraphale appeared, settling in beside him.

‘Wonderful,’ he said lightly, but there was a slight nervousness playing at the edges of his smile. ‘I’m sorry if I was gone a little long. I got a little distracted by your pinboard.’ The slightly vague and embarrassed thumb Aziraphale casts over his shoulder tells Crowley that at least this isn’t part of the act.

‘Not a problem, Angel,’ Crowley said softly, throwing his arm along the back of the sofa and bracketing Aziraphale to him.

‘We’ve just been having a bit of a chat. Anthony’s been very helpful.’ Rose grinned a little at the twist in Crowley’s expression. It may have been decades but, yeah, he keeps forgetting that was his name, yup, he’d picked that. ‘We’ve discussed a few things and I was hoping to run a few ideas by you so we can work out what we’re looking for.’
Aziraphale just smiled and nodded gamely. Rose clapped her hands delightedly.

‘Anthony has given me a little insight and has told me that you’ve worn a corset before?’

‘Yes, but not for a long while and I don’t think anything quite like your beautiful work. But yes, almost daily for a time.’

Rose paused in her note-taking, looked at Aziraphale and cast a look at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m glad I kept the rest of the day clear. Gentlemen, I'm going to get us some more tea and a few reference pieces.’

<><><>

If someone had asked Crowley just exactly how long Aziraphale and Rose had spent discussing fabrics, colour palettes and cuts, he wouldn’t have guessed a little over an hour and a half. To be fair, time never meant much when he could watch his angel enjoying himself.

Like a child on Christmas morning, Rose had scurried away to the bookshelves and returned with her arms laden with folders. Crowley couldn’t help but smile when he saw Aziraphale actively restrain himself from getting up to examine the shelves. Crowley murmured a quiet ‘maybe later, Angel,’ in his ear and could only giggle as Aziraphale flapped his hands at him, shushing him and blushing at being caught out.

The coffee table between them became a sea of open folders. Photos had been slipped out of plastic pockets, pieces modelled by both men and women as Rose expanded on the virtues and values of different cuts and styles. Crowley found it a little overwhelming, but he left their conversation wash over him, soft lyrics to the lilt of string quartet covers filtering through the room. He just entertained himself by keeping the tea warm and perfectly steeped, the pot seemingly bottomless. He didn't know what amused him more: Aziraphale's knowing smile or Rose’s complete obliviousness.

He had fun watching Rose and after a few minutes of watching her work, he realised who she reminded him of. She didn’t have the same self-assuredness that came with having a long exploded ancestor laying out your life’s path for you, but she had the same competent and dependable air as Anathema Device. They even looked vaguely alike, like they could be distant cousins. Same dark eyes and dark hair. Where the resemblance fell down was their builds. While Anathema was tall and willowy, even bundled up against the English weather, Rose was more stocky. Thicker set and broader in the hips and shoulders. A Welsh Cob to Anathema’s Thoroughbred...

Fucking horses!

They'd asked him for his opinion and insight a few times and he'd tried to contribute. He thinks his effort was appreciated, regardless of any answers he gave, judging by her encouraging nods and the dawning look of awe on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley was actually able to contribute his observations about Aziraphale's colour palette. The notebook had been scribbled in again and again and Crowley was mollified to see a lot of his earlier comments underlined or circled or ticked. Aziraphale had run his fingers over fabric samples, giving them just as much care as he gives his books, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger. Crowley just wanted to wrap Aziraphale in those scraps of beautiful fabrics. Sod the lilies of the field, Crowley just wants to drape him in all the finery there is.

‘Well then,’ Aziraphale said and he rolled his shoulders back a little, steeling himself for the small battle to come. ‘I think I’d like to try a few things now.’ Their little scene broke with Rose collecting discarded reference pieces and folders, adding the unneeded materials to the snowdrift of the desk and carefully placing a few choice items on a small table by the alcove.

Crowley levered himself off the sofa ready to follow on, only to stop and look down at the pale hand planted in the middle of his chest. He looked up into Aziraphale’s tense face and laid his own hand on top, feeling Aziraphale’s fingers curl in his shirt front.

‘Will you… Will you wait for me out here? Please?’ Aziraphale’s eyes skittered away, following Rose as she collected a small arsenal of tools. ‘Stay close?’

Now that Crowley thought about it, yeah, it was a little strange that he was about to follow Aziraphale into the changing rooms. Maybe Aziraphale thought he was planning to head out, but in all honesty, of late, Aziraphale moves and Crowley falls into his slipstream.

‘Of course,’ he said, giving Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze, threading their fingers together and dropping a kiss to his knuckles. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Can I get you anything before we start?’, Rose asked gently, a little hesitant about breaking the moment. ‘Anything else to drink? Oh, wait!’ She hurried away and came back with a tablet. ‘Here, please feel free to pick and choose music-wise.’

Crowley settled back down, slow to let go of Aziraphale’s hand and made himself comfortable. He waved off Rose’s attentions, saluting her with his teacup that really ought to have gone cold by now. He quirked an eyebrow and grinned at her when that little wrinkle seemed to register with her, but she just cast him a curious look before disappearing behind the curtain after Aziraphale.

Crowley stretched out, sighed and did his best not to spiral into a panic at the realisation that he’d had a very vulnerable moment with a complete stranger.

<><><>

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together and looked at himself in the tall mirror in front of him. The lighting was kind in the spacious dressing room, but he couldn’t ignore how pale he looked. This was ridiculous. He was an Angel of the Lord for pity’s sake. Whatever that meant in these times. He shouldn’t feel this scared. He was scared. Rose had done nothing to put him on the back foot, but he didn’t like the mere notion of anyone looking at him, for any amount of time, for any reason. Not of late. There was a rustle at the curtain and Aziraphale had to fight to keep his wings in.

‘Just me,’ Rose said soothingly as she sidled in just in time to see him flinch. ‘Sorry, it’s a little hard to knock on curtains.’ It was also hard to knock with arms full of material. She stopped by a few coat hooks and hung up the items, brocade and satin winked at him and the cords and laces trailed like dark cobwebs against the cream wallpaper. ‘I’ve got us a few different styles and cuts, the ones you said you liked the look of, and we can have a play and see what works for you.’

She flicked her skirt clear and came to stand beside Aziraphale in front of the mirror. ‘Umm, I can adjust the lights if he’d like? Anthony,’ she explained when Aziraphale just blinked in confusion. ‘I’ve noticed he’s kept his sunglasses on. I can lower the lights if that would be more comfortable for him?’

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale felt fondness bloom in his chest in the face of her earnest offer. ‘Oh, that’s kind of you, but no, please don’t worry. He’s, erm, a little self-conscious of his eyes. They’re beautiful but rather striking; some people find them a little unnerving.’ Aziraphale shrugged and smiled a little sadly.

‘Ah, I understand,’ she said as she helped Aziraphale out of his camel coat. She took the weight of it in her hands and stared down at the coat in dawning wonder, stroking the sandy material for a moment before searching for a label. Aziraphale smiled a little when she found the Hawkes and Co. Ltd. faded label and her jaw dropped a little. She hung it up with a newfound reverence and came back with another coat hanger for his waistcoat. Which she also snuck a look at the label. ‘I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’ve ever had a fitting before then?’

‘I’ve had some in the past, although not in a long while now. Doesn’t really seem to be the done thing any more,’ he said a little sadly as he untucked his shirt a little. ‘And even longer for anything quite like this.’

‘Well, I’m sure you remember how this goes,’ Rose said reassuringly as she came back to stand next to him again, armed with a soft tape measure and a notepad. ‘But do you have any questions before we begin?’

Aziraphale felt his confusion and curiosity pique despite himself. Crowley was so much more aware of trends and what was in vogue, but even so, Aziraphale’s aware enough to know that your average man in the street doesn’t walk around with lacings and steel boning hidden under his suit jacket. ‘From what I’ve seen, your work is beautiful but, do you do many commissions for men?’ Aziraphale twisted and gave himself a hard look in the mirror: washed out, tired, frumpy, and frayed at the edges. ‘Do you…’

Be brave, love.

‘Is there anything you can do for me?’

Rose gave him a hard look for a second and Aziraphale could feel himself being weighed and measured. ‘Short answer, yes,’ she said pragmatically, unfurling the tape measure like a whip. ‘But I think we’ve got a task that needs a little more care than a short answer.’ With a rustle like bird’s wings, Rose appeared alongside him in the mirror, settling over his shoulder. ‘Shall we begin?’

<><><>

Throughout history, there’d been something about seamstresses that Aziraphale had forgotten. It doesn’t matter which culture he’s immersed in, which millennia it is, or how experienced the woman wielding the needle is, each seamstress has the same air of maternal assuredness. It doesn’t matter if she’s little more than a child and it’s her first day on the job, every seamstress Aziraphale has ever submitted himself to the tender mercies of had found from somewhere an iron will that steered them in their duty.

He didn’t know if it was them, didn’t know if it was him.

Crowley had once said that it was him. That he inspired the general populace to be on their best behaviour around him. That may have been the case once upon a time. But Aziraphale couldn’t remember when he, himself, felt his best.

Had he ever since the Garden? Or before?

The crack of the tape measure drew his attention from the curtain and Crowley’s presence on the other side of it.

‘Alright. Now I get the impression your Anthony out there was trying to surprise you and may have been in it a little over his head, but he said you’ve worn corsetry before.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said and had to gently remind himself he wasn’t expected to be standing at parade rest. Rose gave him an appraising look, dark brows drawn together and hands on her hips.

‘In what context?’

‘Ah…’ Aziraphale swallowed thickly, looking away for a moment. ‘Umm, to, erm, to smooth everything out a little. To try and get me a little closer to… to what was expected of me really.’

Rose’s face and stance softened a little, her hands dropping and coming together in front of her as she wound the tape measure around her fist. ‘So shaping and waist training. Did you tight lace at all?’

Aziraphale nodded slowly, not meeting her eyes, but he could still see when her movements stilled.

‘How often though? Were you doing it sparingly?’

Aziraphale didn’t move or say anything but by her little distressed noise, he was certain she was able to assume. Aziraphale could still remember the nausea as he braced himself, fingers up and ready to haul the laces taut. The buzz of Gabriel’s passing comment one drop-in visit, of Aziraphale looking a ‘little more like what we need’. The words tempering the dizziness that made Aziaphale’s head swim.

Rose came a little closer, ducking to try and look into Aziraphale’s downturned face. ‘Can I ask why? What made you choose tight lacing over waist training? I’ve seen that face before,’ she said kindly when Aziraphale looked up with a flinch. ‘That’s the face of someone remembering when the stays hurt.’

‘There were people who I needed to… appear a certain way for. Who expected certain attributes. And I never knew when these people would appear. I needed… I felt I needed to look a certain way. Fast. And all the time.’ Aziraphale ran a hand self consciously over his paunch. ‘I’ve tried various methods and diets before, but I never could stick to them.’ The old guilt and Gabriel’s judgement of his willpower were echoing in the back of his mind again. ‘There’s just too much to be experienced.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Rose said with a conspiratorial smile, though a little of the sadness still lingered in her eyes. ‘But come on now, none of that.’ Reached out to Aziraphale, but stopped just short of touching him. ‘May I?’ and at Aziraphale nod, she gently took him by the forearms and turned him to face the floor to ceiling mirror that dominated the changing room. The one Aziraphale had been trying to avoid looking in since they’d come in. ‘The nature of the fitting means I am going to be touching you,’ Rose said in a little aside. ‘I’ll be asking a lot, but if at any time you want me to stop just say, ok?’ Aziraphale nodded with a grateful smile and she gently pulled back on his arms.
He found himself straightening up almost without leave. His shoulders coming back, his spine straightening, his shoulder blades shifting as the muscles reorientated themselves. Aziraphale blinked in surprise. The slight movement seemed to reconfigure his upper body, but more astonishingly, he hadn’t even realised he needed it.
‘Now that may have felt like a little bit of a shock,’ Rose said as she rested her hands on his shoulders, ‘and I didn’t do anything revolutionary, but posture can have such an impact on how others view us and on how we view ourselves. Anthony said something very interesting out there.’ At the mention of Crowley, Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the reflection of the curtained doorway over his shoulder. ‘Nothing but praise for you, I promise,’ and Rose’s smile turned indulgent for a moment. ‘But he said he’s been worried about you trying to make yourself smaller.’ She gave his shoulders a light squeeze and her face became quite serious. ‘A lot of my clientele have spent a good proportion of their lives being told they are taking up too much space in one way or another, so they try to make themselves smaller. They become quieter, meeker, and some.’ She uncurled her hands enough to press her thumbs into the meat of his shoulders. ‘Some curl in on themselves. I see a lot of people who move through life with their heads down and their shoulders hunched because, at one point or another, someone said something to them that made them feel small.’

Aziraphale said nothing, but swallowed thickly and tried to control the faint burning in his nose. Because that’s what he’s been doing, hasn’t he? For millennia, if he's not been at a semblance of parade rest, he’s been shrinking in the presence of his siblings. Trying to fit, trying to carry out Her work, trying to do what feels right, trying to be Principality that his duty demands he be.

‘Anthony’s worried about you,’ Rose said softly as she watched his face. He could no longer see his own reflection in any clarity. Couldn’t see confusion, realisation and grief all hurtling across his face like clouds in a gale. ‘He doesn’t want you to lose your wingspan.’

Aziraphale jerks. She couldn’t…

He stared at her in the mirror but she just smiled back reassuringly, apparently oblivious to her choice of words being what had brought the angel’s thoughts to a screeching halt.

‘So while we are going to do our best to support you here,’ she said, her arms encircling him to motion at his tummy. ‘We are also going to exhibit you here.’ Her hands came up in front of them both in a slow, sweeping motion, indicating from Aziraphale’s chest upwards.

‘We’ll start slow,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I think we should find you something you can wear regularly, but we are going to go gentle. No tight lacing, ok? Promise me.’ Her smile became warmer when Aziraphale nodded ruefully. Rose pulled back and gave him an appraising look, her fingers steepled to her lips. ‘Can I ask, what sort of job do you do day to day? I have to say, I love your style. Do you work in academia?’

‘Ah…’ Aziraphale found he needed to clear his throat, the revelations having taken their toll on his voice. ‘I’m a rare book dealer.’ Hoarder came Crowley’s gleeful accusation in the back of his mind. ‘I run a book shop here in Soho.’

Rose’s eyes lit up a little and Aziraphale had to suppress his smile at seeing her actively have to keep herself on task and professional.

‘Would you say you do any heavy lifting?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say so,’ Aziraphale said. Not when he can have boxes hover and trail him like faithful hounds.

‘So, I reckon something classic in a style that you can wear every day at work. What? What’s the matter?’ She derailed her happy planning when Aziraphale’s face twisted almost without his leave.

‘Is it… It’s not typical, is it? Especially these days?’ he asked hesitantly. Rose cocked her head with a confused expression. ‘Well, I’m not the most up to date with fashion, but, umm… Gentlemen these days don’t seem to be walking around, hiding corsetry under their work shirts.’

Rose just arched an eyebrow at him, her confusion melting into a smile that looked like she was planning to impart the wisdom of the universe to him. ‘Well, one, a small but significant chunk of my clientele are men and I’m seeing more and more each year. I’ve had a good few commissions for men’s corsets and support garments, admittedly the larger production companies haven’t paid much attention to that potential client base. I mean, I carry a few lines designed for me out the front, but that’s really not what we’re looking for here.’ Rose left his side and walked to her little stockpile of treasures by the clothing hooks and started rummaging through the photos. ‘A lot of businessmen have told me that my work’s improved their confidence and performance in the boardroom.’ She made a little noise of triumph, picking up the photo she’d been looking for and came back to Aziraphale’s side. ‘And two, whoever said anything about hiding it away under a shirt?’

In the photo, the model was undeniably a very handsome man: broad chest and shoulders stretching the pale charcoal shirt smooth in an impeccable finish, tapering down to a waist made trim by a waistcoat. But this wasn’t a waistcoat in the style Aziraphale typically wore. He could see the panels cut to train the eye this way or that, how the seams were sturdy and strong, the line of the busk cleverly disguised amongst the black and gold of the fabric.

The piece was lovely, but Aziraphale’s gaze kept coming back to the model’s face. His face was relaxed, a self-assured smile playing at his lips. He may have been trussed up in something that as of late would have been described by many as fetish wear and womanly, and he may be the one that is the subject of the photoshoot, but this man looked like he had control of the whole room. He looked so sure of himself. He held himself confidently and proudly.

Aziraphale wanted to feel like this man did. He wanted the world to see him as he saw this model. He wanted to know what he’d be like, like this.

‘What do you think?’, Rose asked, her voice quiet as if aware major shifts were happening within Aziraphale’s mind. ‘Do you think this could be something that would interest you, or did you have any thoughts on design?’

Be brave.

‘I’d like to try this. Please.’ There was the faintest of trembles in his words and he hoped that it didn’t come out as a plea. He looked over at Rose, nervous of what he’d see there. He was met with a reassuring smile and a slow nod of acknowledgement.

‘Let’s get some measurements.’

They set up camp in front of the mirror, Rose dragging a small table over to rest her notebook on so she can scribble numbers and notes down as she pleased. Aziraphale was worried it was going to turn awkward after he’d shakily started unbuttoning his shirt before she’d spotted him and assured him there was no need, but they’d settled into an amicable chatter as Rose flitted around him, the tape measure almost an extension of herself. She froze though when Aziraphale flinched without thinking when she laid the tape across his back, measuring armpit to armpit. Right across the wing joint. He waved away her concerns, but that only made her frown deepen.

‘Aziraphale? Were you in the military once?’ she asked cautiously. ‘It’s just… your stance…’

He was under scrutiny, however benevolent it may be. He’s adopted parade rest once more.

Was he military? He thought of the ceaseless battle around Lucifer’s betrayal, of the purging of the Heavens that followed, the centuries of bloodshed in Her name, the War That Was Not. His sword arm ached.

‘Once. I know, it’s a bit of an old habit to shake.’

‘Are there any, um… any old injuries I need to be aware of?’

‘Only my leg,’ he said, a little surprised at her concern. He patted the meat of his thigh, the sharp sting still there after the last altercation overlaying a dull ache that's been there, it seems like always. ‘It comes and goes, but it’s alright. Thank you.’

‘No worries,’ Rose said, wrapping the tape around his waist, adjusting it to lie over his belly button. ‘I’d hate to advise something that ends up aggravating anything.’ She took a few more measurements around the barrel of his chest at different heights. ‘Will you be needing to lace yourself in or…’ she let the question hang and Aziraphale could see a struggle in her eyes, not wanting to offend and not wanting to assume.

Aziraphale huffed a small laugh. ‘Possibly something I can lace myself,’ he said and Rose made a note. ‘While Anthony does stay with me a lot, we don’t live together permanently. It’s not all that safe presently.’ He saw Rose tense like a startled rabbit for a moment, before shaking herself and sighing, rubbing at her forehead. ‘Are you alright, my dear?’

‘Just something Anthony said and now your ‘not safe’... I know I shouldn’t ask questions that are going to bring me trouble... Right,’ she said emphatically, gesticulating like she was calling to a higher power for strength. ‘I’m not going to ask. But, if you ever need anything, you can come here, ok? Both of you,’ she said, pointing her pencil in his direction.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in shock, the panic starting to rise. He’d seen this a few times throughout his time on Earth. Sometimes, something in his angelic presence inspired humans to be the best they could be, even to the point of endangering themselves. Her outburst seemed to be dawning on her too, her hand coming up to her mouth and her expression one of mild horror as she stared into the middle distance. He laughed weakly. ‘Do you often get trouble around here then?’

‘Well no,’ she admitted, some of the fight leaving her. ‘And to be fair, I wouldn’t know until it was too late. Although…’ Her face had gone pensive and she began to chew a thumbnail. ‘Those guys who used to tail me home disappeared after I fitted that bridal party… I mean, they were absolutely lovely, but if I had to pick a mob princess…’ Her head came up in a snap, her expression purposefully and resolutely blank. ‘I’m not going to think about it.’

Aziraphale chuckled at her antics but grasped onto the safe topic of conservation. ‘Do you do a lot of bridal parties?’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the main room. ‘I’ll be honest with you, I really did get distracted by your pinboard.’ It had been covered by reviews and thank yous from her clients and photos of radiant brides had been scattered through the words of praise.

Rose blushed a little as she passed Aziraphale to go back over to the hanging items. ‘Yes, they make a good chunk of my work, and so many are absolute delights to work with. I love it when I get whole bridal parties out there giggling away, excited for a fitting.’

‘And others?’

‘... And there are others who pay the bills,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But that’s the case in every line of work I imagine.’ She placed a few pieces off to the side as she stored through what she’d brought. ‘I know wedding season never really ends, but it’s a little quieter now that we’re in the danker part of autumn, most of my year’s wedding pieces have gone out now. I’ve got a few commissions in the works, but nothing’s due till April.’

‘Do you dress for anyone or anything else?’ Aziraphale asked, relieved that the tide questions had turned so naturally and at long last.

‘I work a bit of freelance on wardrobe for shows and operas,’ and Aziraphale remembers signed programmes and ticket stubs. ‘And I, umm, I’ve done commissions for historical recreations and costumes. Some cosplay.’

‘Oh I do love cosplay,’ Aziraphale said cheerfully. That had Rose looking around sceptically. ‘I always thought of it as a little bit like theatre but with no script,’ he said earnestly, ‘only the character themselves to drive it. Wonderful for the imagination!’ That seemed to mollify Rose and her face relaxed into a private little smile.

‘It’s how I got my start really. Went on to study costuming, worked with a few theatre companies. Right then,’ she said, all business. ‘This piece isn’t going to be a perfect fit, but we can get an idea of the cut and how it sits on you.’ She held out a beautiful piece, a waistcoat in a pale dove grey with a darker pinstripe running through it. Rose offered it up with a hopeful smile and Airzaphale nodded. Only to stand there, looking a little lost.

‘It’s been a while,’ he admitted.

‘Ok,’ she said with an easy grin. ‘Well, let’s get this busk undone.’ There’s a series of metallic popping noises as the pins slide out of the hooks. With a deft hand, she flipped it over and started tugging the black lacings at the back loose and gently pulling the panels apart. ‘You’d be putting it on the same as you would your waistcoat. Make sure you’ve got plenty of room in the back so you can get the busks back in place easily.’ She helped him shrug on the piece in front of the mirror and Aziraphale could already feel the difference in the lush material settling between his shoulders. Rose circled around in front of him again and took hold of the edges of the panels. ‘Get these alined and fastened up before you lace.’ There were a few clicks as the pins popped back in. ‘Check before you start lacing that all the pins are in place, and don’t be afraid to take it slow. Rather that, than damaging the material. There we go.’ She stood back slightly to assess her work and Aziraphale found himself running his hands down over the fabric. The colours were a little shocking to see on himself: they were more to Crowley’s personal palette but he liked the feel of the material under his palms and the way the panels created angles that weren’t previously there. Rose just stood aside and just let him look at himself for a moment, a fond smile on her face. ‘Shall we get you laced up then?’

Aziraphale cast her a look that he hoped was not too nervous before bracing himself and facing the mirror with all the graveness of a man facing a firing squad.
‘We’re going to take it slowly,’ Rose said reassuringly, her voice and movements gentle. ‘This was made for a gent who intended to wear it near every day to work. He had a hernia and this was going to give him some support. Unfortunately, there were some complications with the surgery and he had to take early retirement. But this was designed to be snug and supportive and flattering, and that’s what we’re going to look into for you.’ Rose took up her position behind him and picked up the laces, shaking them out slightly like she’d taken up reins. She gave an experimental tug and looked up into the mirror to catch Aziraphale’s eye. At his nod she pulled back a little more, taking up all the slack and Aziraphale felt the panels begin to hug closer.

‘If at any point anything hurts or it’s too much, you let me know alright?’ True to her word, Rose cinched the corset tighter slower, but with a practised efficiency of flicked wrists and hooked fingers. She gave instructions as she worked, advising to pull from the middle of the back and using the pull loops to get the best result. Aziraphale squirmed a little, tickled as she worked the modesty panel straight and flush.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, feeling how with each tug of the laces there was a little more resistance against his ribs. The pressure built steadily as Rose worked the excess out of the laces from the top down and the bottom up. The sensation was familiar to him, but it wasn’t the snapping bite of the regency corsetry. Something in his memories was bubbling up as if driven upwards by the cinch of the corset. It wasn’t a joyous feeling, this memory, but the uneasiness wasn’t down to physical discomfort so much. Aziraphale’s brows furrowed deeper as he tried to remember where he’d felt this sensation. The details taunted him, dancing just out of his reach, swirling in his grasp like mist.

Mist.

A dark, dank forest. The threat of mud under every footfall. The smell of rot. Sunlight a rare and fleeting thing. People scared. Always so scared. Arthur trying to establish some stability and reassurance in the populace. The need for a volunteer to meet with the mythical Black Knight. A young page, had it been Brenner?, swamped by the breastplate he carried, but still strong enough to heft it up and deft enough to buckle it in place. The metal wrapped around him, encasing and protecting. Bolstering him as he walked into the unknown on behalf of people who needed and trusted him.

Aziraphale gasped as his eyes flew open as the memory and all the sensations of that time hit him in the chest. He saw Rose take a hurried step back, slackening the loops as she went. ‘What is it?’, she said, her voice low and urgent. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘No, nothing,’ Aziraphale said a little fuzzily, swaying ever so slightly. ‘I, um...I just need a moment.’ He lay his hands on his waist for a moment and just breathed through the phantom sensations. They’d been the early days of him adopting England as his home. Some of his first efforts in interacting with humans directly to guide and protect them, instead of the impersonal passing blessings. It had been when Crowley had first suggested The Arrangement.

‘It feels like armour,’ he said in wonderment. He twisted to look over his shoulder at Rose. ‘It feels like I’m wearing armour.’

Rose’s look is a strange one as she came to stand beside him in the mirror. There was the recognition of a kindred spirit but it was tempered by gentle grief. Like someone recognising an old hurt in someone else. ‘I thought the exact same thing when I first tried on a steel bone corset,’ and Aziraphale suspected she was having a similar trip down memory lane. She looked up at him and smiled weakly. ‘I’ve always been a Clysedale amongst show ponies,’ she said with a patience one had no choice but to learn. ‘Always been the bigger girl. It’s partly how I got into this line of work.’ She fiddled idly with her skirts and Aziraphale observed the play of light over the satin. ‘I was involved in theatre from a young age and, well, I had to cannibalise pieces and make my own costumes early on. You know,’ she huffed a small, slightly bitter laugh. ‘I have a t-shirt that I got for leaving my schoolhouse at 12 that I can still fit in. Comfortably.’ Aziraphale cast her shapely form a startled look. ‘Yeah,’ she said in response to his surprise. ‘Being a teenager and being this size does a number on you. Actually being this size at any time of life in this day and age isn’t great.’

Aziraphale looked down at her sadly. Another Renaissance muse who will have to fight for her canvas space. Aziraphale placed a consolatory hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Humans have such short lives, even in these modern times and so many of them spend it worrying. If I ever come across Famine again, Aziraphale thinks steelily, there won’t be time for so much as words.

‘I mean it’s getting better but, huh, society. It does so love its ideals,’ Rose laughed tightly. ‘And friends and family are there trying to help, and oblivious to the fact they’re making the situation worse.’

‘Did your family try and change you?’ Aziraphale asked. Rose had his full attention now, as he waited on any and all insight she could offer him.

‘I know it came from a place of love, but…’ She sighed and ran a hand through her hair distractedly. ‘Yeah. I’ve been on some form or another of a diet since I was about 8.’ She looked up at Aziraphale with a subdued expression. ‘I’ve learnt the only things I lose on a diet are my bust line and my sense of humour.’

That startled a laugh out of Aziraphale and Rose was soon grinning again. ‘OK, enough of this maudlin talk,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘We were getting you battle ready, you good to get back to that?’

‘Absolutely.’

Aziraphale stood a little straighter as Rose took up her post behind him again. ‘But I discovered corsets when I was in my teens and I’ve never looked back. I mean I don’t wear them every day, sometimes that’s just not practical, but I waist train quite a bit.’ She hopped to the side, out from behind him to be visible in the mirror and smoothed a hand down her side. The black satin finish corset she had on cinched her in, the black of the skirt bleeding into it to give her an elongated figure. Aziraphale hadn’t really noticed she’d been wearing one: it blended with her wardrobe choices and didn’t hinder her movements. She stood so sure of herself as well.

‘The slimming effect was brilliant from the off, but there were other benefits I found that came into play too. And, this may sound a little odd, but they were psychological benefits as much as physical. How are we doing?’ she asked, pulling smoothly on the laces once more. ‘Take a deep breath for me?’ Aziraphale obliged and savoured the support and stability when he pushed. ‘I think that will see us for now,’ Rose said thoughtfully. ‘How do you feel?’

Aziraphale looked at his reflection for a long moment, feeling the flex and shift of his ribs contained by the steel boning. His shoulders were back, pulled out of their usual rolled in bearing and the expanse of his chest stretched out. His neck had lengthened, his head held higher. He looked himself in the eye, for the first time in a long, long while.

‘....Powerful.’

Rose’s eyes were sharp and steady on his own. ‘Aziraphale? I don’t know what battles you’re facing but someday I hope those against you see you as you see yourself now.’ He felt a tug behind him as Rose tied the fastening knot. ‘And I hope the ones who made you feel you needed to apologise for your existence? I hope you make them eat it.’

You find warriors in the strangest places, Aziraphale thought, looking down at this woman who he barely knew, but who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the mirror, a steady fire burning within her.

‘Thank you,’ Aziraphale said solemnly. Rose looked up at him, blinking a little at his tone.

‘No problem but I’ll still-’

‘No, my dear.’ Aziraphale took her hand on both of his, squeezing it gently between his palms. A little nameless blessing passing into her fingers. ‘Thank you, so much. For what you’ve done today.’

Rose continued to blink up at him with a slightly confused expression, but her smile was warm. ‘You are very welcome Aziraphale. Now,’ she led him over to the curtained door. ‘Shall we show Anthony?’

<><><>

Although the garment was not the finished article, the reaction it inspired from Crowley made Aziraphale’s heart dance. Rose had stuck her head out to find Crowley lazily flicking through a battered copy of Maskerade he’d unearthed from the snowdrift of papers on the desk. It will never be known if he was sorry for being caught red handed because as soon as Aziraphale appeared from behind the curtain, Crowley appeared dumbstruck. He slowly pulled himself out of his customary slouch on the sofa and a soft awed expression broke over his face like the dawn.

‘Hello Angel,’ Crowley said giddily, reaching out to ask for Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale’s smile shouldered its way past his bashfulness and he couldn’t help but beam at Crowley as he took hold of his hand. ‘C’mon, let’s have a look at you.’

While Aziraphale was the only angel to have ever danced, and despite that dance being the gavotte, he was still possessed with enough rhythm and grace to spin under Crowley’s raised arm. Crowley made an appreciative noise, a choked little giggle and rubbed his free hand over his mouth. ‘You look good.’

‘Thank you, my love.’

‘This isn’t the final effect.’ Aziraphale and Crowley blinked around at Rose, momentarily forgetting they had an audience. Rose herself stood like she was all too aware she was interrupting something, but nevertheless, needed to. ‘I happened to have this piece that worked to our purpose, but yours will be a commission piece if you’re happy with that. I also think we need to discuss colour palettes too,’ she said retrieving a book of samples and leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to gaze at each other in peace for a moment. ‘Do you have a palette you’d like to stay true?’

‘Creams, fauns, rustic yellows. The majority of my wardrobe is in sandy colours.’ He gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze. ‘I think Anthony likes me in those colours.’

‘I like you in any colour,’ Crowley cut in, sounding a little confused and put out.

‘I like the ‘me’ you see in those colours,’ Aziraphale amended gently, missing Rose’s quirked eyebrow.

They looked over the materials: the brocades, the drills, the twills, and the coutils. Aziraphale picked out a creamy yellow material, embellished with a burnished brocade that wasn’t quite feathers, wasn’t quite leaves, but somewhere in between, and a robin egg blue for the lining.

‘Are you sure this isn’t going to be too much, my dear?’ Now that it looked like this was happening and what a production it was going to be, Aziraphale was starting to fret.

‘I promise you, timeline depending,’ Rose amended before with the air of one who found the passage of time a personal insult, ‘this will not be a bother. It’s my job,’ she said with a game shrug. ‘Do you have a timeframe in mind?’

Aziraphale told her there was no rush. Crowley’s face told her that while true, there was no rush, he’d like it done yesterday.

‘Now comes my turn to be a bother,’ Rose said with a small grimace. ‘There’s, umm, there’s the ugly issue of payment-’

‘That won’t be an issue,’ Crowley said easily, producing a debit card from somewhere, holding it up between two fingers.

‘Well, umm… I realise we didn’t actually discuss price. I’m so sorry, I got carried away.’

‘What sort of damage are we talking?’

Rose hesitated for a moment before disappearing back into the fitting room to retrieve her notebook.

‘Promise me you will actually pay her Crowley,’ Aziraphale muttered under his breath, urgent to have this discussion resolved before she reappeared. ‘None of your leprechaun gold tricks this time.’

‘I will pay her, Angel,’ Crowley said and Aziraphale could see the soft adoration in his eyes, even behind the tinted glass. ‘There are some pockets that sorely need emptying.

And for making you look like this, feel like this…’ Crowley’s hand came up to cup Aziraphale’s face, his thumb sweeping over the apple of his cheek. ‘She deserves to be richly rewarded.’

They broke apart, a little embarrassed when Rose reappeared, but she was already running numbers in her head and oblivious to anything that wasn’t the possible location of her calculator. There’s a minute or two of scribbling as she sat added materials and time costs. She looked up and Crowley stepped forward as she spun the notebook on her desk surface for him to read the ringed projected total.

‘And this is the deposit right?’

There’s a faint gurgling noise. ‘Ah… no. That’s what I suspect the piece will be in total?’

‘But you will be wanting a deposit?’

‘... Please?’

<><><>

Rose still looked a little shell-shocked when she and Aziraphale retired to the fitting room to get him out of the corset. He started on the laces himself and smiled in amusement when she remembered herself and came over to help in a flurry of apologies.

She just about seemed back to herself when Aziraphale slipped his arms free and was turning the garment this way and that to admire the craftsmanship again while Rose retrieved the hanger. A glint of silver caught Aziraphale’s eye, something glittered in the corner of the modesty panel. Carefully moving the laces out of the way, Aziraphale went to stand under one of the wall lights. The light glinted off the golden metallic outline of flower: two large flat petals, one at the top, one at the bottom, with another pair on a tilt behind.

‘Rose dear?’ Aziraphale called as he traced the outline of the flower’s face with his fingertips, ‘can you tell me what this is?’

‘Hmm?’ Rose came over, her arms full of the unused sample corsets. When she realised what he was referring to, Rose’s face crumpled up and she gave an embarrassed little moan. ‘Oh, I forgot that was there. Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing.’ Aziraphale’s expression let her know that he didn’t believe any of it. Rose sighed and put the garments aside, coming forward to lift the corset out of Airaphale’s hands and inspect it herself. ‘You’ll think me silly.’

‘I promise I won’t judge,’ Aziraphale said with as much gravitas as he could muster.

Rose sighed and quirked him a look at having her own words thrown back at her. ‘Right so, my parents are keen gardeners, I told Anthony as much. I mean, I’m Rose. My sister’s Poppy,’ she said with an eye roll. ‘I’m just grateful we never had a brother. But Poppy’s a history buff and she’s fascinated by the language of flowers.’ Rose squinted up at Aziraphale. ‘Did you know the Victorians had a whole secret language told through flowers and plants?’

‘Yes.’ Aziraphale had half a shelf dedicated to various publications dedicated to educating the gallant young suitor on the romantic language of flowers. And those were just of the ‘signed by the author’ variety.

‘Well, when I first picked up a needle, it was mainly for embroidery and Poppy suggested I could work a little flower magic into my pieces and…’ Rose gestured vaguely at the golden flower. ‘You remember this piece was originally for a businessman? Yellow poppies mean ‘success’. I suppose I wanted to give him a little hedge witch magic to help him along.’

Rose shook her head a little. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be defacing your piece with anything like-’

A daisy in rough shawl wool on cotton coutil.

‘Rose?’

She looked up from her embarrassed witterings to find Aziraphale looking at her rather intently. ‘Yes?’

‘Would you stitch a little magic into mine? Please?’

In the some 6000 years Aziraphale had walked the Earth, he’d never been able to recognise a witch. He’d seen their work, first hand in the case of poor young Joan, but he couldn’t sense them. Maybe it was an inbuilt defence mechanism. Even Anathema didn’t trip any alarms in Aziraphale’s head, no angelic voices screaming for him to build a pyre. And possibly Rose didn’t know it.

But what she did, occult or not, was a little bit of magic.

‘Umm… What sort of, umm, spell are you looking for?’

They have a quick rummage through a reference book she dug out and Aziraphale has to fight to keep his expression in check when they settle on a flower. It’s perfect, and it’s so them.

Crowley brought him here, Aziraphale thought, as Rose scuttled off to add to her notes. Crowley had come with him. They’d been through so much together, his wiley serpent and he. Once they’d been on opposite sides, so long ago, before they made their own side. Because neither of their sides cared. Cared about them. About humans. They only cared about winning. No matter the cost.

But Crowley cared. He tried not to show it but Crowley cares so, so much. Painfully. Fatally. And there have been times where it has nearly led him to his end. Heaven insisted that demons can’t love, that they gave that up when they Fell. Aziraphale doesn’t know if Heaven was wrong or if they lied. Or if they themselves don’t know what love is anymore. And, he realises in a fit of fervour, he doesn’t care.

Crowley loves him. He knows this. He loves him, he loves this Earth and all its funny little creatures. He loves this world they are building together and he will fight besides Aziraphale to protect it.

They protect each other, they watch the other’s back, they are the other’s sword and shield.

They are each other’s armour.

‘Rose?’ Aziraphale said suddenly into the silence, making himself flinch and her look up from her work.

‘Yes?’

‘I know you’ve all but packed away and it’s getting late, but… Please could... Could we… Maybe… Try something… Different? Something... Closer to the skin?’

<><><>

It’s a lousy January afternoon and Crowley was making his way back to Aziraphale’s after a very productive day out beyond Hammersmith. St James’s Park lost its lustre if the Angel wasn’t with him and Aziraphale had needed to catalogue… something. But it’s still fun to send over-amorous mallards skipping across ponds like stones. The temperature was starting to get to him, even after the stuffiness of the tube and he was feeling sluggish by the time Greek Street hoved into view.

There were barely any pedestrians on the street, the weather driving people into cabs or the underground. So Crowley was surprised to see a figure leaning up against the doors of A. Z. Fell’s, wrapped up against the fickle wind and trying to see onto the shop floor through the doors.

‘Not open for trading today, so sorry,’ Crowley said in a practised lazy drawl, pressing his hand to the glass just in front of the person’s nose with enough of a smack to startle them but not enough to be an outright threat. ‘Best try some other day.’

The figure looked up at him and their uneasiness melted away into a bright smile. Which is usually the opposite of what Crowley’s going for.

‘Anthony! Oh, wonderful, I have got the right address.’ Rose chattered up at him from within her cocoon of an infinity scarf. ‘Is Arizaphale in? Are you heading in there? Could you take these in for me?’

‘OK, first off, hello you!’ Crowley said delightedly, surreptitiously giving the lock a quick finger snap and shouldering the door open. ‘Sticks something terrible in the damp. How have you been doing?’

‘Well, I’ve been well.’ Rose followed him when he waved his arm for her to come in, taking a moment to kick the wet and sludge from her boots against the threshold stone. ‘I tried knocking and calling but there wasn’t any movement. Is Aziraphale about?’

‘Knowing him, he’s fallen headfirst into a book somewhere,’ Crowley said, having a cursory lean around, trying to spy if the angel was hiding in the stacks. He looked at the boxes in Rose’s arms. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked, his voice hushed and a little giddy. Rose nodded and Crowley reverently took the top box out of her arms, fighting the urge to dance a little on the spot. He put it down carefully on a desk piled with books that can stand up to a bit of shoving. ‘You wait right here,’ he told Rose as she came over to the desk to stand beside him. ‘I’ll go find Aziraphale. Umm…’ Crowley looked around at the shop floor, taking in the organised chaos that was his angel’s usual affair. Rose followed his gaze and he saw the moment the delighted light of the bookworm flickered into life in her eyes. ‘Ok, you,’ he said sternly, pointing at her, ‘for your own safety, no touching! I’ll be right back.’ He took off before he had to bear witness to her flat out defying him.

Yeah, he liked that one.

He rushed through to the back room and just as he suspected, he found Aziraphale cataloguing. Or at least his own special version of it: get two books into a delivery, get distracted, let his cocoa go cold as he reads.

‘Hey Angel,’ is all the warning Aziraphale got before Crowley was pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s head.

‘Hello love,’ Aziraphale said, his nose doing its delighted crinkle that Crowley loved so much. ‘Had a good day I trust?’

‘Some very confused waterfowl and even more so wardens, but have you heard the door at all?’

‘Oh…’ Aziraphale pulled a distasteful face. Crowley lifted the book gently out of his hands and carefully moved the mug to a safe zone. ‘Who was it? Have you sent them on their way?’

Crowley just took Aziraphale’s hands and hauled him out of the chair and onto the main shop floor. Aziraphale’s squawking faded away when he spotted Rose, inspecting and absolutely not touching the anthologies of British folklore.

‘Oh hello, my dear!’ Aziraphale cried, coming forward to greet her. The deep purple boxes bearing a motif of white violets and oak leaves caught his eye on the desk. ‘You’d didn’t walk these round did you? Oh my goodness, you must be frozen.’

‘I’m ok.’ Rose endured Aziraphale’s fussing with good grace. ‘I run warm, I’m fine.’

‘That a service you extend to all your clients?’ Crowley asked with an incredulous face.

‘I wish,’ Rose laughed. ‘I’d get a few more holidays that way. Oh!’ Rose started digging around in her jeans’ pockets, ‘hang on, umm… ah!’ She pulled out a handful of glossy purple business cards, the same shade as the boxes and held them out to Aziraphale. ‘Hope this isn’t too many.’

‘Oh, marvellous! Thank you, Rose.’ Aziraphale took the small bundle and placed the cards down next to the phone. ‘I’m sending her card to Anathema and Madame Tracy,’ Aziraphale said in response to Crowley’s still incredulous look and an accusatory finger. ‘I think the ladies will appreciate her work. Maybe the gents too-’

‘And my mind is blown. Thanks, Angel,’ Crowley groaned, turning to lean against a stack and nurse his poor, afflicted head between his hands.

‘Dramatic boy,’ Aziraphale tutted fondly. ‘But it was very kind of you, to bring them round.’

‘You are more than welcome,’ Rose said above the rustle of tissue paper and Aziraphale’s soft gasp. ‘It wasn’t far and, well, I wanted to get these to you.’

‘Wait, wait, wait, wait!’ Crowley recovered enough from his mental images to parse together what he was hearing. ‘Am I hearing plurals?’

Aziraphale and Rose shared a conspiratorial look, seemingly delighted and amused by Crowley’s bewilderment respectively.

‘Yes, dear. Rose has very kindly completed two commissions for me.’ Aziraphale quickly shut the lid of the box on the desk and Rose slid around to block Crowley’s view as he came closer, the grin on her face almost childlike. Crowley pointed a threatening finger at her.

‘Don’t you take his side in this,’ Crowley growled even as the laugh bubbled up. It’s hard to sound menacing when the words dance. ‘I’m the one who’s paying, remember.’

‘Well, in that case, darling,’ Aziraphale said primly, even as his face broadcast nothing but mischief. He opened one of the boxes a crack and slipped a sheet of paper out. ‘I’ll take these somewhere safe,’ he hefted the two boxes into the crook of one arm with Rose’s help. ‘And you,’ he said as he sidled by, pressing a hand to Crowley’s chest, ‘can settle up. Thank you so much.’

Crowley could do little more than catch the invoice and watch as Aziraphale walked away.

‘I’ve created a monster,’ Crowley muttered, watching the undeniable skip in Aziraphale’s step. He looked around at Rose again. ‘You created a monster.’

‘I merely dressed him,’ Rose said on a chuckle, but her face became sombre as her eyes settled on the invoice. ‘I take it he didn’t mention the second piece? The, umm… the numbers will reflect that I’m afr-’

‘As we’ve established, not a problem,’ Crowley said, glancing over the price but zeroing in on the account details.

Right so… Half again... Plus tip… Bit more… Yeah, that looks good.

‘Don’t be afraid to ask for what you’re owed,’ Crowley sneered, but there were no real teeth in it. ‘You do good work, be compensated for it.’ He folded up the invoice and popped it into his breast pocket. The finger snap could have been for a flourish, or it could have been for siphoning from the accounts of a corrupt advertising executive.

Rose didn’t argue, just blushed and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘No,’ Crowley said seriously. ‘Thank you.’ Crowley raised his voice a little when he heard Aziraphale’s footsteps. ‘For all you’ve enabled me to spoil him like the brat he is.’ He laughed at Aziraphle’s indignant little noise as he disappeared into a set of stacks. Crowley took a deep breath and hollered, ‘He will come out here and say thank you himself in a moment!’

Indeed he did, profusely, and armed with two books. ‘They are beautiful my dear, I can not wait to wear them,’ he gushed, his cheeks pink with excitement.

‘I’m glad,’ Rose said, a little overwhelmed by the angel. ‘Remember: season them, especially the waistcoat. Slow and steady, ok?’

‘I remember,’ Aziraphale said before pressing the two books into Rose’s hands. ‘A little ‘thank you’ for you my dear.’

Rose blinked and looked down, only to baulk when she saw she held Dress as a Fine Art and Mrs Douglas’ The Gentlewoman’s Book of Dress in her hands. ‘I can’t accept these,’ she said hoarsely, but Aziraphale was already waving away her protests. ‘I can’t… Wait, are these first editions?!’

‘Of course, you can. I think you’ll find the contents very interesting.’

‘I can’t take these!’

Crowley recovered from the shock of Aziraphale parting, willingly, with a book, no wait, two books from his collection long enough to weakly suggest, ‘Maybe… consider it a loan?’

Rose didn’t look too reassured but she agreed, under the promise that she’d bring them right back once she read them and made notes. She heads out shortly after and they see her on her way, the two books bundled up and clutched to her chest like they were her maiden virtue.

‘You gave her books?’ Crowley asked in a daze, as the pair of them waved her goodbye through the shop window.

‘I did.’ Aziraphale sounded proud of himself. ‘I like that one.’

<><><>

Crowley had to admit, he did too.

Even if her work did facilitate a sweet sort of torture.

The changes in Aziraphale were subtle, like how the seasons sneak up on one another, but Crowley sees them.

When they’d been skulking around behind the backs of the Powers That Be, Crowley had always been the one taking up room. He’d lounged, he’d sprawled, he’d invaded personal space. It had been a joy just getting a chance to stretch his limbs after a stint Downstairs. The angel had always been so tightly curled on himself: hands folded in front of him, elbows in, feet together. Crowley was still trying to teach him how to play footsie. Crowley had thought maybe it was an angel etiquette thing, but during the Trial, Gabriel had clapped him on the shoulder, he’d spoken with his hands like a politician with something to hide. The more he thought about it, the more Crowley realised they’d driven Aziraphale into himself. They’d left him twisting in on himself, like a pot bound plant.

Crowley smiled to himself, hidden away in a little nook of the shop floor in a wingback armchair. They’ve come so far since those early days. Aziraphale was stood a little way from the open shop doors, the first warmth of April starting to nose its way inside on the breeze. The angel’s face was relaxed and patient as an apologetic browser wrung their hands as they tried to describe the text they were after. Crowley just gazed at Aziraphale a moment, drinking him in, and he couldn’t care who saw. Gone were the rolled in shoulders and the hiding behind feathers that weren’t actually there for all to see. His angel’s head was held high, even in this relaxed pondering posture, tapping a finger to his lips and eyes darting for inspiration. He was finally commanding his own space, his wings spread wide. Although, when they actually manifested, Crowley reckoned they still needed a damn good preen.

Across the room, Aziraphale gave a little noise of triumph and snapped his fingers before slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. Whether that was a miracle click or not, Crowley didn’t know, but suddenly Aziraphale was leading the sheepish young man over to the stacks of military campaign memoirs organised by number of typos.

That was new.

Aziraphale being personable to potential customers. They stay potentials, those that stay around and a lot of them do, because Aziraphale still won’t actually sell any of his precious collection. So they stay potentials, and they do stay. Aziraphale talks to them these days. He advises those who ask, he helps those not sure what they are looking for. It may have all started one afternoon when Anathema had dropped in to check in on them, pick up Rose’s card, and to scour Aziraphale’s occult volumes for… something. Crowley hadn’t been paying attention. He’d started paying attention when a slightly lost looking student had joined her at a table and by the time Crowley had invested heavily in attention, they were hosting a regular study group apparently.

Aziraphale hopped up a step stool to pluck a slim volume down for the young man, who was already bobbing his head in thanks. The angel waved his thanks away and rocked on his heels as the student hurried away with his nose already in the book. Aziraphale just smiled in amusement as the lad wandered off, grazing a table with his hip as he didn’t quite pass.

It turned out that Aziraphale and Crowley were both less of ‘I like that one, that particular one’ and more ‘actually the whole human race is rather wonderful, aren’t they?’ Rose had come back and she’d returned the books, only to be sent away with more. Anathema and Newt had visited, Madame Tracy rings at least once a fortnight and even The Them had snuck away from a school trip to come see them.

That had taken some smoothing out.

But all of them were special. All of humanity.

Crowley couldn’t speak for Aziraphale, but now that they weren’t playing the numbers game, humans were no longer souls to be gleaned for one side or another. They were just souls. Complicated, fragile, beautiful souls.

They are part of this world now, they’ve chosen it. They really ought to get to know the neighbours now.

Hell had stopped demanding receipts on Crowley’s wiles long ago, but now Aziraphale was being so free with his grace. Crowley could almost see the angel resisting the urge to thumb his nose at the sky every time he did it.

An extra pound in her pocket so she could get home safe. A free shelter bed coming along on the night of a rough spring storm. A key piece of evidence coming to light securing a conviction.

Little things.

‘If I can have nice things now,’ Aziraphale had said one evening as Crowley lounged against his chest like a spoiled cat, ‘why not them?’

Why not them indeed?

Of course, they still encountered people who were very much the reason they aren’t allowed nice things, but watching Aziraphale deal with those people is a whole new blessing. There have been people in the store or just out and about who seem, well, hell-bent on getting a one-way ticket downstairs, and they do it with so little style. Crowley is genuinely offended.

Then there are times when he’s just angry.

But Aziraphale…

Crowley bit his knuckles at the memory of Aziraphale all but stooping on a guy who’d come in and started on one of their little chickies. Some ex-boyfriend or some such and he’d had little Ruth by the arm and then Aziraphale had him by the collar and there was mantling and manhandling and... Yeah.

Crowley reckons when he Fell, the impact must have knocked something loose because his lizard-reptile-snake brain shouldn’t see an angel holding himself with the wrath of ages and bearing down on some other fool and squeak ‘step on me’.

But it does.

Aziraphale finally caught Crowley’s eye from across the room. He’d absolutely not been peeking in on Ruth, seeing if this Lucy girl was treating her well. Aziraphale simply quirked an eyebrow at being caught and shrugged, striding across the room to perch on the arm of Crowley’s chair. Crowley wriggled a little delightedly, shuffling so he could lay his head against Aziraphale’s ribs and feel the brocade against his cheek.

‘And how are you doing my dear?’ Aziraphale asked, fingers combing through Crowley’s hair.

‘I...’ Crowley all but purred, luxuriating in the sensation of being at the centre of his angel’s world. ‘I am marvellous.’ He smiled hazily up at Aziraphale, looping an arm around his middle and pulling himself closer. There was smothered cooing and giggling from over in one of the large alcoves and Crowley flipped the kids off without looking around. The giggles didn’t stop. From the opposite stack, old Mr Hill just huffed a laugh and shook his head.

Crowley hid a grin against Aziraphale’s chest and slowly dragged his hand over the laces that latticed over Aziraphale’s spine. His fingers idled over a spot just over his kidneys, where beneath steel, cotton and brocade, something flowered.

‘How’s the apple blossom treating you?’ he asked, looking up at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses.

Aziraphale smiled down at him, his hand making a few more passes through Crowley’s hair. Crowley shuddered, his eyes slipping shut and Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his forehead.

‘I think it’s treating us wonderfully.’ Aziraphale nestled his head on top of Crowley’s, his fingers still idling through his hair.

Crowley sighed and nestled back into Aziraphale’s side.

Contentment. Peace. Love.

All things a demon should not know. But here he basked in them.

Well, for a while at least.

Because Crowley was nothing if not a covetous, gripping little beast.

‘So… umm… that other box? Umm… amIevergoingtoseewhat’sinthere?’

Aziraphale’s smile inches a little broader, his hand never breaking rhythm.

‘Because it’s been a few months now, and, well…’

‘Maybe soon, treasure.’ Aziraphale slipped his fingers under Crowley’s jaw, bringing his chin up. ‘Can you be patient with me?’

Crowley whined.

He’d wait. Their luck would hold.

<><><>

Their luck held until it didn’t.

Crowley whimpered.

Everything hurt.

The wine had dulled the edges a little, but everything still hurt.

It had been bad this time. This time had been the worst.

They’d not been any more vulnerable or any more unprepared. It’s just… This time, they’d meant it more.

Crowley didn’t know how many there’d been in the beginning. He’d not bothered counting as he’d driven them back again and again. He’d not thought of anything but having Aziraphale’s back.

Until Camael had stepped onto the field.

Crowley’s jaw throbbed as he jammed the bottleneck between his teeth once more and threw his head back. The wine burned as it went down, every inch of him, inside and out, flayed open and raw.

It had been too close this time. If Camael had not wanted to gloat. If he’d taken the shot when he’d had Crowley pinned by the throat.

If Aziraphale had run like Crowley’d begged him to.

The wine bottle slipped out of his trembling hand, landing with a thunk on the carpet along with its spent contemporaries and Crowley bit back a sob. The sound hurt, breathing hurt, crying hurt.

Crowley pitched with all the control of a felled tree, listing to the side and hissing with every twist and shift.

He needed Aziraphale, but he couldn’t lean on the angel now. Not when…

Not when he’d faced down his brethren.

Word would get back now. Any hope Aziraphale had of being accepted back into the fold had gone up in flames the moment he called for that sword.

Aziraphale had brought him home, set him down here. Crowley didn’t know how long ago. He’d never measured time in empty wine bottles before.

He’d stay here and maybe they’d all forget about him.

Upstairs, Downstairs. Just delete him from the HR database. Just leave him here.

Leave him here to fade into nothing.

Leave him here to be forgotten.

‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale’s voice cut through Crowley’s wine curdled mind like garrotte wire. It curled around his throat and yanked him off the sofa. He tasted exhaustion and panic as he followed the thin line of the angel’s voice. ‘Could you help me for a second, please?’

The miracle that got him upstairs burned reserves he did not have as he stepped through one doorway and out of another. He staggered as the shift didn’t quite line up, grunting and chasing his breath as he thumped off the frame and landed hard on his side. ‘Angel! Wha-’

They’d accused him of going native. Of muddying his nature with the foibles of the humans he was meant to prey upon. Sleeping, drinking, commuting.

Breathing.

Aziraphale’s wings have always been beautiful to Crowley. They’re scruffy and patchily groomed and glow faintly, like moonlight on snow. And under rose gold light, there’s a pearly iridescence to them, pale colours that shift and dance with each tremble. Their rustling doesn’t quite manage to mask the ragged gasp of shock. They snapped out of existence as Aziraphale turned away from the mirror, leaving the air splintered like broken glass as Aziraphale looked down at Crowley. The tall lamp cast Aziraphale’s face into sharp relief, the light snagging of the tear tracks on his cheeks, glinting silver in their half-dried wake. He did nothing to hide them, his lips trembling over his grit teeth and his eyes over-bright and red-rimmed in his pale face. He was shaking like a leaf, his hands clutched numbly at his flanks. There were glimpses of red between his slack fingers and, despite everything Crowley knew, or thought he knew, his mind was consumed with the roar of hellfire, plummeting into brimstone panic and acid shock.

‘Crowley, my dear,’ his voice as thin and tight as a pennant snapping in a gale. ‘Could you, please, help me?’

Aziraphale’s hands were pale spiders against the dark fabric swaddled around him, clutching it to himself and slipping on the slick material. The soft light pooled and slid off puckered black satin only to be caught on jewel tones. Rudy embroidery laced over the fabric like a river course, crisscrossing around little islands of black. The Nile Delta bleeding red.

Scarlet etching out imperfect little inky diamonds.

Crowley’s breath rattled in his throat.

Scales.

Aziraphale was wrapping himself in his scales.

It seemed to take Crowley an age to raise himself from the floor. He could only stare enraptured at Aziraphale, at his set jaw and the way hope had to beat back fear. Because fear still clung there, digging its talons into the lines at Aziraphale's eyes.

And it broke Crowley’s heart.

Crowley couldn’t remember if he’d ever knelt in anything resembling prayer, but he somehow moved the length of the room only to find himself before the angel, a supplicant at Aziraphale’s feet. He was heedless of the garments around him, the discarded fabric tugging and swirling in his wake. The room around them was in tatters. Clothes rails lay toppled over. Cabinets teetered on unsteady legs, their smashed glass spilling their contents like ruptured hourglasses, hundreds of years’ worth of glittering sand now dashed across the floorboards.

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley’s voice trembled beseechingly, hands trembling just above the corset. ‘What do you need of me?’

Aziraphale was unable to look at him, turning his face away, as pale and pained as Valazquez’s Christ Crucified, wounded side bleeding in jewel tones around puckered silk. The air in the room trembled for a moment as Aziraphale seemed to wrestle with something, lace cuff fluttering as Aziraphale grit his teeth and his face twisted in ways Crowley had never seen. Crowley held his breath and waited as the currents Aziraphale was weathering ebbed and flowed.

The tides calmed, and Aziraphale breathed again, a relieved smile breaking on his face like the sun burning through the haar. Crowley could only take the hands held out to him, seize them as if they could stop him falling and stare up into Aziraphale’s eyes to track the flicker of hope there.

‘Put me back together? Please?’

Crowley had no idea of what he was doing, no idea of what he could possibly do but it didn’t matter, nothing did, because Aziraphale had asked it of him. Aziraphale needed him. Crowley rose on unsteady legs, his fingers tightening on the angel’s hands even as the terror of dragging Aziraphale down bubbled in his throat.

‘Angel?’ he whispered, his hands hesitating just above Aziraphale’s cheeks. He could track the ghosts of Aziraphale’s tears and each of their courses cut a little deeper into Crowley. He’s been up here, his psyche screamed. He’s been up here, alone, facing whatever he’s been battling and what were you doing? Aziraphale felt he had to hide away to have a moment of vulnerability because what use are you? He was losing his battle and you were downstairs, doing your damndest to get shit-faced.

‘Angel?’ Crowley couldn’t tell who was shaking more, his voice coming thin and high, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, what can I do? I’m so sorry.’

‘Darling? Darling, what-’

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t here. I wasn’t with you.’ Maybe it’s the molotov cocktail of adrenaline and wine coursing through him, but he’s not making much sense and what little sense he is making, he’s making this about himself. He’s lashed himself around Aziraphale like ivy around a tree, shuddering, begging forgiveness into his shoulder. ‘Angel, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I wasn’t-’

‘You came.’

Aziraphale’s hand was warm on the back of Crowley’s neck and he stilled as he felt Aziraphale’s fingers card through his hair. No, this was all wrong. This was the wrong way around, couldn’t he see that?

‘I called for you, and you’re here now. You came straight away.’ The hand in his hair slid to raise his jaw, and Crowley moaned at the contact. The dull ache of bruising tempered the sweetness of Aziraphale’s hands on him once more. He caught the angel’s hand and pressed it to his mouth, whispering wretched litanies into the meat of Aziraphale’s palm and painting the flesh with ichor from torn lips.

‘You came.’ Aziraphale's voice shook with unshed tears. ‘No, my heart. Listen to me!’

Crowley obeyed and it was only Aziraphale’s hands on his face that stopped him from sinking to his knees once more. Eyes closed to stem the flood, Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, hard enough as though he intended to fall through Crowley’s skull.

‘Do you know how long I’ve been screaming into the spaces between the stars and no one has listened? No one has listened to me. Except you.’ Aziraphale pressed reverent kisses to Crowley’s trembling eyelids. ‘No one except you.’

‘You, my darling. You, who they told me was my enemy,’ Aziraphale’s voice broke like a rain cloud and once his words started to fall on Crowley, he was awash with them. ‘You heard me. And more than that, you listened. I’ve been trying, on my own. I thought my voice… I thought it was ill-made. I thought it was broken. I thought I was broken, Crowley. All those centuries of not being accepted by them, not accepted by the Heavenly Host. I thought I was wrong.’

‘Never,’ Crowley snarled against Aziraphale’s temple, working himself free to lash himself once more around the angel. ‘Never you. They were. They were wrong. They can’t have you!’

‘I’d been trying. They wouldn’t listen and they were going to lay waste to everything. I tried,’ Aziraphale said, trying to soothe himself and Crowley alike. ‘I’d been trying to go on and do Her work, and only you helped me. Helped me do it my way as well as Her’s. And… I realised...’ Aziraphale swallowed thickly. He took a steadying breath and Crowley watched as he changed tracks, steeling himself a little, before looking Crowley square in the eye.

‘I was up here, I… I needed a selfish moment after…’ Aziraphale blinked hard. ‘I was trying to dress myself in… a little protection. A little safety.’ His free hand skated over his flank, his fingers searching for purchase on the glossy material. ‘And I couldn’t,’ Aziraphale gave a breathy little laugh that lasted just long enough to become a sob. ‘I couldn’t. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, I couldn’t keep the laces in order. I hurt to breathe. I couldn’t. I needed help. And you were downstairs…’ Crowley did not understand how the angel still had the breath for words. Eyes open now and not fighting them back, his cheeks were awash. Crowley reached to wipe them away, distressed little noises bubbling from his throat as his thumbs swept across Aziraphale’s cheeks.

‘You were downstairs. But I’ve been screaming, with no response, for so long… I was scared. Scared to call down a flight of stairs.’ Aziraphale’s voice was a hoarse whisper, the words skating in the air between them. ‘And you’re hurt, my love. You’re hurt. But you’d be here.’ His laugh is like a wet thundercrack, jarring but still electric. ‘I could call for you and you’d come, you’d do what you could, you’d try.’

Aziraphale reached for him and Crowley went willing, pulling the angel to him, cradling him close and daring existence itself to try him in that moment, even as he barely stood, bleeding. He could feel his angel weeping into his hair.

‘One way or another, you’ve always been there. For me. For the world. In The Garden, the Ark, Golgotha, even in the early days. Even when I hurt you.’ Aziraphale pulled back, looking wretched. ‘Oh Crowley, I hurt you, why did you come back for me? I hurt you!’

‘No, Aziraphale,’ Crowley whispered fiercely. ‘No, none of that. Our side, remember? Us.’

They stood together for a moment, both pinned in the eye of a storm of millennia old hurts.

‘I needed this, I think,’ Aziraphale admitted quietly. He was stiller now, his cheeks still damp but his eyes clear as he wiped his cheeks distractedly. ‘I think I needed to have this revelation alone. I needed to think for myself.’ He kissed Crowley's still slightly thunderstruck expression, his slack lips taking a moment to respond to what was being asked of them. ‘I’m sorry I sort of broke down on yo-’

Crowley kissed the apology off of Aziraphale’s lips and out of his mind, fierce and hungry.

No apologies, no making yourself smaller. Not for me. Not for anyone.

When Aziraphale had air to speak next, it took him a moment to convince himself. ‘Thank you, my darling. Thank you for coming when I ask.’

‘Aziraphale, if you wished it, I’d never leave your side until you bid me.’

‘Now then,’ Aziraphale said gently, a hand pressed flat to Crowley’s chest. ‘Don’t you go tempting me right now, you old serpent.’ He pressed another quick kiss to Crowley’s lips. ‘But may I ask you, please…’

‘Anything, Angel.’

‘Crowley, please, can you help me,’ he smiled and turned back to the mirror again, presenting his back and slack laces to Crowley. ‘Would you lace me up, please?’
Crowley’s fingers twitched as he looked at the web of black cords against the ruby red modesty panel. The panel itself was rucked and a little twisted and in a corner, Crowley could see delicately stitched tiny, white, bell-like flowers.

‘Angel?’ Crowley breathed, uncertainty gnawing at the base of his skull but he still took up the cords. ‘Angel, this is new to me,’ he said into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, laying a kiss there before looking at his angel in the mirror. ‘Tell me what you need.’

<><><>

Tug, slide, cinch.

The air over Aziraphale’s shoulder blades still crackled slightly. This corset is different from the apple blossom, as they’d affectionately termed it. The high back sloped up to reach just under the bulk of Aziraphale’s shoulder muscles, nestling under wing joints that were only half there. Crowley ran his fingers over the top line, feeling the phantom warmth and softness of down.

Tug, slide, cinch.

Crowley slipped his fingers behind the modesty panel, pinching it between thumb and forefinger and gently tugging it straight. Aziraphale squirmed a little and sighed as the backs of Crowley’s fingers grazed the sensitive skin of his back. The pad of his thumb grazed the small white flowers and a flare of protectiveness rippled up his arms and out through the boning.

Tug, slide, cinch.

‘The same way you would tighten shoelaces,’ Aziraphale had said, as if Crowley hadn’t started the fashion of shoving your feet into laced up shoes. ‘From the top down and the bottom up. Meet in the middle.’ Crowley crooked his finger through the laces and gently pulled, taking up the slack inch by inch.

Tug, slide, cinch.

‘Angel?’ Crowley asked.

The reduction of Aziraphale’s waist under the strain of the black satin was already more noticeable than in the waistcoat. The steels were pinning Aziraphale in. The press of the material creaking faintly like a ship's rigging as the sails filled and ebbed. Crowley pulled again, the last of the slack having disappeared. He hooked his fingers through the laces, tugging and Aziraphale rocked ever so slightly, his breath driven out of him just that little bit more.

It was heady stuff.

Tug, slide, cinch.

Crowley listed forward, drawn in by Aziraphale’s solid presence. He curled against the angel’s back, nudging his nose against the nape of his neck and spreading a hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder to ground himself. He could feel Aziraphale’s warmth and weight against his own still tender skin.

‘Angel?’ A note of begging crept into his voice. He made the mistake of venturing from his bastion between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades and looked into the mirror. Aziraphale’s gaze found his: steady, sure, and trusting in a way that terrified Crowley.

‘I’ll tell you when love, I promise.’

Tug, slide, cinch.

Crowley’s breath rattled in his throat. He pressed kiss after plaintive kiss into Aziraphale shoulders as the coils constricted.

Tug, slide, cinch.

Fingers dragging back and forth. Rhythmic. Almost like preening.

Tug, slide, cinch.

Why were feathers between his fingers black?

‘Aziraphale!? Please-’

‘That’s enough now, darling.’ Aziraphale’s words gave him something solid to cling to. His hands shook as he secured the knot over Aziraphale’s spine. He held on, wrapping the free laces around his fingers. With the laces in one hand, Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale. His palm slid over the puckered satin. He could feel his angel’s heartbeat even through the lush fabric, thrumming against his own. There was another pulse alongside theirs though. Faint and sparkling.

Crowley followed the line of light, tracing it back across the panels and channels, circling back to the corner of the modesty panel.

‘Aziraphale?’ Back to where, hidden out of sight, lay tiny white flowers hand stitched onto black. ‘Is this...’ Crowley swallowed past the recognition and understanding tightening their grip around his throat.

‘White heather, yes.’

Crowley choked a little and pressed his hand over where the stitching lay hidden as if trying to burn the thread into the meat of his palm. ‘Angel? Why…’

‘I know I can’t always have you near me, dear boy,’ Aziraphale said, his voice gentle but stern and weighted with the certainty of terrible things. ‘I know there are going to be times when we may need to be apart. For our safety. The world’s even.’ Crowley trembled at the prospect and curled closer, trying to burrow his way into Aziraphale so no power could separate them. ‘I wanted you with me, even if I can’t have you. And I wanted to take a little of what you make me feel with me. Selfish I know,’ he said and he turned, fixing Crowley with a gaze he was not ready to withstand and unable to turn away from. ‘But I don’t care.’ Aziraphale took Crowley’s face between his palms, the tips of his index fingers smoothing away the crows' feet around eyes gone wide. ‘They can’t have you,’ Aziraphale said fiercely, ‘I have waited too long, been scared too long. They will not have what is ours.’

Crowley didn’t know how long they stand together, leaning on one another. Slowly, the storm subsides: the taste of electricity leaves the air, the last of battle in their blood burned itself out, flickering like a candle. The light may have changed, it may have cycled. Crowley didn’t care. But it was under soft light that Aziraphale eyes cleared of their righteous fury and steadfast loyalty just enough to see what a state his little bower was in.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale moaned, a trembling hand flying to cover his mouth as he surveyed the scene. ‘Oh, goodness… I must have been a state. Sorry love, that can’t have been easy.’

Crowley could see the concern bubbling up in Aziaphale’s face as he looked over the state of disarray his treasures were in. There was a finch for every strewn garment, a flinch for each toppled case or rail.

‘Oh dear,’ he muttered in distress as he brought his hand up, the thumbnail white.

Crowley caught his hand before he could call it down, taking Aziraphale’s wrist in his hand and gently bringing to his lips. Aziraphale’s breath hiccuped as Crowley pressed kisses to his fingertips and across the palm. He laced their hands together: Aziraphale’s soft and supple hand in Crowley’s calloused and angular one.

‘Come on Angel’ Crowley said. ‘We have time. For now, we have time.’ He looked around at the patchwork art of Aziraphale’s collection. ‘I’ll help you put it all back together.’

<><><>