Work Text:
As far as Aziraphale could recall, it had started about two weeks ago.
Crowley had shown up at the bookshop around 2:30am, drunk and pliable. Within the frame of the door, he shifted like a plant in a breeze. His teeth seemed to glow as the light from the shop poured out onto him, a heavenly beam, flashing on his glasses.
“Evening, angel,” said his teeth, and he rolled a finger, slowly, toward the sky. “Or morning, I sssuppose. But you don’t sleep. So. It’s all the sssame to you, eh?”
Aziraphale pulled Crowley in before that unseen breeze blew him away. The bell jangled as the door closed, and Aziraphale reached up to still it.
“Been painting the town red, I see?” There was an edge to his voice, but an amused one, something fond and familiar. An observer would compare it to someone asking their partner about their day at the office. And that wasn’t far from it, after all.
“Red’sss my colour.” Crowley’s eyebrows almost disappeared below the line of his glasses as he frowned. “Or ‘t’s black. Redandblack.” He reached up and removed his glasses, head wrinkling back into his neck and eyes wide as he strove to focus on his breast pocket long enough to fit the glasses in them.
The removal of them drew Aziraphale’s attention to Crowley’s face, and he noticed for the first time a daub of something iridescent on his cheekbones, like moondust. His lower lashes were accentuated in a thin smudge of black, his lips a faint but unnatural shade of red as if stained by wine. It was make-up, Aziraphale realised slowly. Some inverted colour palette version of what angels like Michael and Uriel wore in Heaven. But to Aziraphale, this was far more beautiful.
There was a gentle shower of glitter - the minute kind, not the sort they put in children’s craft kits - setting pinpoints of light in Crowley’s ruffled hair and on his neck and chest, which was a little sweaty, and a little more revealed than usual. If Aziraphale were not currently too distracted to do so, he would realise that he was staring.
Crowley looked up suddenly. “Isn’t that one of your… your thingies? Your musicals?”
“Sorry?” Aziraphale reluctantly raised his eyes to Crowley’s face. Although, that was just as fine a place to be. He began to steer Crowley gently to the sofa in the back of the shop, afraid that the demon’s drunken limbs might cause havoc to his bookshelves.
Crowley let himself be staggered backward, not apparently seeing the need to turn around. “Red. Blood of angry men or sssomething?” His elbow bumped a shelf, and he looked furiously at the elbow, then the shelf.
Aziraphale frowned, and then his eyes bloomed wide as he understood. “Oh! Yes. Les Misérables.”
“ Misérable . That time was all veeery misssérable .” Crowley finally turned in time to plonk himself down on the sofa, spreading his arms along the back of it with a determination that suddenly made him look almost sober. Aziraphale perched opposite him, surveying him with some warming mixture of love and curiosity. His demon, it was fair to say, could never bore.
The glitter, Aziraphale realised, was on Crowley’s fingers too, along with the highlighter. Aziraphale had the sudden vivid image of Crowley’s long fingers smearing the powder across the plane of his cheekbones, rubbing the red along the curve of his lips. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry.
“--listening to me, angel?”
Oh, Crowley had been talking. One would think with his preoccupation with Crowley’s mouth, Aziraphale would have noticed.
“Sorry, my dear. Go on.”
Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I was just talking about the club I went to. New place. Over in…” He pointed haltingly to the east. “Well, it’s around here. Called Forbidden Fruit so, naturally , I had to make an appearance.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ Naturally .”
"I still say it would be funny if I took you to Heaven.” Crowley was grinning smoothly now, his sibilant slur gone. On the surface, it was a cheap and silly joke, but there was an undercurrent to his tone, and that combined with his posture - arms wide, thighs spread - and the cosmetics made Aziraphale feel warm and heady. Crowley’s grin faded slowly, and he leaned forward. “Angel.”
There was something soft and searching about the way he said it, and Aziraphale got to his feet.
Crowley gaze was fixed on him as he climbed onto Crowley’s lap, placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and looked back at him very carefully. As he did so, he reached out and dragged his fingers down the exposed V of Crowley’s chest, sweat and glitter collecting on his fingertips. A slow breath passed through Crowley’s parted lips, and he leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale’s jaw, before dragging his mouth down to suck at Aziraphale’s neck.
Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed and he sighed deeply, lifting his head to grant more access.
“What do you want, angel?” Crowley murmured, his voice muffled. Aziraphale felt hands plucking at his jacket, and he dropped his arms behind him so that Crowley could push it over his shoulders and off. In a demonstration of consideration that was uniquely Crowley, he caught Aziraphale’s jacket before it hit the floor, and dropped it on the back of the sofa.
“I…” Aziraphale started, but faltered as Crowley tugged his shirt out of his trousers, and slid long, skilled fingers against his bare skin. Nails grazed, gently enough not to be painful, insistent enough to make Aziraphale unravel further. He ached, and Crowley’s lips at his ear made him ache all the more.
“What was that, angel?”
Under normal circumstances, when Crowley called him “angel” it was something typical, that had started as teasing, had grown fond, become sweet, become special. It filled Aziraphale with a pure feeling appropriate for the word, which ironically could only come from hearing the demon say it.
But when Crowley called him “angel” at times like this, it was something else entirely. It was something urgent, and secret, and dangerously close to sinful. At times like this, it sounded like mine .
And oh, he loved it.
Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, and he sounded breathy when he spoke, fondly exasperated. “Why do you have to make this so… difficult ?”
Crowley pushed out his lips and shrugged. He dragged his hand round from Aziraphale back, and brushed it down his stomach, making Aziraphale tremble slightly. He imagined the glitter and the make-up smeared across his skin. “I am a demon,” he said, like it was the most reasonable thing. His hand dragged lower, lower. “My job to be trouble.”
Aziraphale grunted and pushed his face down against Crowley’s shoulder, voice muffled.
“What was that?”
Aziraphale took a deep breath and murmured. “Your mouth,” he made himself say, crushing his lips against Crowley’s ear. “Crowley, I want your mouth.” He caught the demon’s gaze at the last moment, so that he would understand.
Crowley nodded, suddenly looking very serious, and soon he was turning them, and Aziraphale was being eased onto his back on the sofa. Crowley slithered down Aziraphale, undoing his belt and trousers. Aziraphale didn’t look down at first, but he felt the air on his heated skin as Crowley pushed his trousers and pants off his hips. When he finally glanced down, it was in time to see Crowley take him into his hot, wet mouth, his red-stained lips shining.
The room was filled with sound.
*
The next occurrence came little more than a week later, when Aziraphale was still finding flecks of glitter on his sofa and his jacket. He could be annoyed, except it always prompted the memory of Crowley’s hands pinning his hips to stop them bucking, as he chased the heat of Crowley’s mouth. Generally, then, Aziraphale’s mind would go a little foggy and he would forget to be annoyed.
He had agreed to meet Crowley at St James’s, because the weather was agreeable and it was a nice, traditional meeting place. When he got there, the spring sun was high but diluted by fluffy clouds and eased by the breeze carrying the scent of the nearby flowers. It was so lovely to see colour coming back into the world, chasing away the gaunt and greyness of winter.
He recognised Crowley’s figure by posture alone, arm spread along the back of the bench. And so he didn’t fully appraise the demon until he was right beside him.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Crowley tipped his head in a lazy, noncommittal way. “Aaah, it’s all right. But there’s no ducks. How is that possible? No ducks. Where d’you suppose they are?”
Aziraphale was having trouble concentrating on Crowley’s latest duck rant. He was looking at the demon’s hair, preoccupied by the way it was starting to fall across his face on one side, an almost perfect coil of red betraying its natural, curly state. It seemed thicker at the back too, the hair at the crown of his head starting to demonstrate the same soft waves.
It wasn’t only that which was different; a long, silver earring - sort of dagger-shaped - dangled from his right earlobe, and his shirt was new. It was sort of thinner, softer, and lower cut, with two cut-outs in the fabric showing triangles of skin. The scarf was gone.
“Pond without ducks. Doesn’t seem right.” Crowley sniffed, and then seemed to realise Aziraphale’s lack of reaction. He looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
Aziraphale looked at Crowley dumbly, and then flushed. “Uh, what? Oh. Well.” He made a show of sitting down on the bench so he could avoid looking at Crowley for a moment. “Nothing, only I just thought…” He reluctantly looked up at the demon. “Is your hair different?”
Aziraphale couldn’t tell - what with the glasses - but he was fairly sure that Crowley had blinked. “Oh, well, sped up the growth process a bit.” Crowley reached up with the hand that wasn’t just behind Aziraphale’s shoulder, and ran his fingers almost experimentally through the cascade of curls. Aziraphale tracked the movement intently, as if he was witnessing some scientific breakthrough. “Time for a change.” He tilted his head at Aziraphale. “Thought about it?”
“Mm. What?”
“A change of style. I mean, that waistcoat’s seen better days, hasn’t it?”
Instinctively, Aziraphale put a hand to the garment, as if protecting it. “This?” he asked, bewildered. “I like my waistcoat.” He couldn’t help but pout a little, voice going high with affront.
Crowley grinned. “Not saying you shouldn’t. Suits you, angel.” Just as soon as it had arrived, Aziraphale’s sulk was gone, bundled up in the warmth of Crowley’s tone. He felt his heart soar a tad. “But it’s nice to shake things up once in a while.”
Aziraphale shrugged a shoulder. “I think I’ll leave that to you.”
Crowley tutted and tilted his head back, smiling to himself, knees splaying slightly. Aziraphale sometimes wondered if there were magnets in Crowley’s legs that repelled each other.
He ran his gaze sharply over the demon, and his tone was unmistakably flirtatious when he said: “I very much like the new look. By the way.”
Crowley rolled his head to face Aziraphale, eyebrows raised. His smile softened. “It’s still buffering.”
“I won’t pretend to know what that means.”
*
The look finished… buffering (?) a week later, if Aziraphale was to understand Crowley’s terminology.
Crowley had apparently gone to Forbidden Fruit again - a detail that both baffled and irked Aziraphale in equal measures, although he couldn’t discern why, exactly - and had tried in vain to prod Aziraphale into going. He had refused, relenting only as far as agreeing to meet Crowley outside the club so that they could walk to the bookshop.
Forbidden Fruit was built into a former brewery, its brick front shaped with shallow arches in which windows - now blacked out - were set. The neon sign looked strange against the aged brick, and when Aziraphale saw the neon apple with a bite missing he audibly scoffed with distaste. There were a few young adults outside smoking and giggling, and every so often someone would stagger out of the shadowed doorway, a burst of dance music chasing them before the door slammed shut again.
Aziraphale stood slightly off to one side, straightening his jacket awkwardly.
“You all right, love?”
He realised, very slowly, that this was addressed to him. He turned to see a noticeably drunk but friendly looking person giving him a concerned smile. They had a soft and pretty face and buzzed, purple hair. He realised he probably looked terribly uncomfortable, and he smiled back politely.
“I’m just waiting for someone.” He jerked his head over at the door. “He’s still in there, I believe.”
They stepped a bit closer, giving an understanding nod. “Not much for clubbing?”
“Not really my scene, no,” Aziraphale admitted, “I’m more at home… at home. With a book.”
“Yeah, I’m getting too old for it myself.” They looked at their cigarette - which was definitely not tobacco - and offered it to Aziraphale.
“Oh! Not for me, thank you,” he laughed, almost embarrassed. “And you look awfully young. I mean, not to be rude…”
They grinned and took a long pull of the joint, shrugging. “Don’t be fooled by these baby features. Life has aged me.”
Music blared once again as the doors opened, and Aziraphale turned to see Crowley saunter out. He couldn’t help but stare.
The new jacket was more or less the same cut, but muted instead of plush and shiny. The leather trousers were - to Aziraphale’s initial dismay - gone, but their replacement was just as fitting, literally, and Crowley was wearing angular black ankle boots with a red sole. Between the boots and trousers, he looked taller and longer than ever. The dangly earring had been decided against, apparently, replaced with a silver stud depicting a snake. Finally, his nails were painted black. The hair - long enough now to fit into a messy ponytail - and the cut-out top had survived the editing process, however. Above the plunging neckline, Aziraphale could see sweat on Crowley’s neck and chest. He caught sight of Aziraphale, and his mouth curved upward, but before he could speak the door opened again and a handsome, middle-aged man poked his head out.
“Crowley! You’re not leaving? I haven’t bought you a drink yet.”
He was giving the demon a look that set Aziraphale on edge. He didn’t like to think of himself as the possessive type, as jealousy seemed a close enough cousin to envy to be sinful (not that he hadn’t indulged in some of the other six), but the way the man’s eyes seems to covet, to strip Crowley… the audacity of it. He might as well have shouted his nefarious designs to the whole street.
Crowley tipped his head to one side, gave a regretful cluck of his tongue. “Next time. I’m afraid I have other plans tonight.” He made his way over to Aziraphale, a fluidity to his hips. “Ready to go, angel?”
Over Crowley’s shoulder, the man was still standing in the door, giving Aziraphale the evils. Aziraphale gifted him with a murderously sweet smile, and took Crowley’s arm, playing his fingers against Crowley’s sleeve. “Absolutely, my dear.”
Aziraphale nodded at the person who he had been chatting with, who - along with the others clustered outside - was on the verge of staring. He frowned, confused, until he turned and overheard one of them say: “So that’s Crowley’s famous other half?” He pressed his lips together to try and smother a smug smile.
Being a weeknight, Soho was not at its busiest, but there was still a warm air of revelry from the clubs and restaurants, crowds of laughing people and drunks half glimpsed down the streets and side alleys as Aziraphale and Crowley passed them. The night was cool, and there was a yellowish light from the city reflected on the clouds. As the bookshop appeared ahead of them, Aziraphale tilted his head toward Crowley.
“So, have you been talking about me at that club of yours?”
Crowley’s body language had been easy, downright lazy, but now he seemed to fidget even anchored by Aziraphale’s arm. “Uhhm, weeell. I might have mentioned you once. Or twice.”
Aziraphale felt a flush in his cheeks, creeping up his neck, and he smiled down at the pavement. “But not to that gentleman, I gather?”
They were at the door of the shop now and Crowley frowned, stepping away so that Aziraphale could unlock it. “What man?”
“The one who wanted to buy you a drink?” He looked sideways at Crowley, keeping his tone light, innocent.
Crowley’s face was blank. He stared down the dark street as if an answer might be waiting at the end of it.
“Oh him!” He stepped into the shop after Aziraphale, pushing the door shut without looking at it. “He’ll chase anything that moves, him . Especially if it’s moving away.” He made a disgusted cluck of his tongue.
Aziraphale grimaced and went into the back to fetch the wine he had been chilling. The condensation seeped against his fingers as he collected two glasses.
“You weren’t jealous, were you?” he heard Crowley say, and he puffed up slightly, and stalked back into the front of the shop.
“Don’t be ab surd , I simply…” The words died on his tongue as he caught sight of Crowley. The demon had his back to Aziraphale, peering at some new first editions. He had removed his jacket, revealing that his top plunged at the back - all the way to the waist - to show a V of skin. His shoulder blades stood out tantalizingly, and Aziraphale was seized with the desire to touch them.
How could Crowley do this to him?
“Simply…?” Crowley turned and took in Aziraphale’s borderline catatonic expression. He moved his head to the side in a curiously reptilian way, catching on. “See something you like, angel?”
“Do you do this…”
“Sorry? I can’t hear you.”
“Do you do this solely to tempt and fluster me?” Aziraphale asked, hysteria creeping into his voice. He frantically adjusted his bowtie as if he could keep his composure that way. “I mean to say, it… it hardly seems fair.”
Crowley took a long stride toward him. “And what about you? Hm? You don’t exactly play fair, either.”
He was close enough now for Aziraphale to make out those molten eyes behind the sunglasses, brilliant and hungry. They seemed to radiate a heat that tinged Aziraphale’s face.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said weakly.
Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “Ah. Very possible, I suppose. Possible it hasn’t occurred to you how much all your sweetness drives me to distraction.”
Aziraphale blinked, searched in vain for something equally smooth to say. “My sweetness can’t be a worse driver than yourself.”
Crowley grimaced, leaning back a little. “That’s a bad joke, angel.”
“I know.”
“And that’s me saying that.”
“I know but, now, listen. I am not the one swanning around in...in…” Aziraphale wafted a hand at Crowley’s ensemble, and Crowley dug his thumbs into his pockets (with some effort).
“A shirt and trousers?”
“Oh. That top is practically a chemise!”
Crowley leaned to one side, shaking his head. “You’ve… you’ve lost me now. Are you saying you don’t like my look?” There was a tinge of self-consciousness in his tone, just enough for Aziraphale to catch.
“I very much like it!” He jabbed a finger at Crowley. “As you well know! My point is you are accusing me of tempting you when I have worn no such thing.”
Crowley grinned, and stowed away his sunglasses, eyes flaring again. “Ah, well. One entity’s waistcoast is another’s chemise, angel.”
“...Now you’ve lost me , dear.”
Crowley’s smile became more soft, more subtle, and he moved slyly toward Aziraphale again. “Let’s just say that watching you potter round the bookshop, sleeves rolled up, bowtie all perky, it gets me very hot and bothered.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale looked off distantly a moment, letting that settle in. “ Oh. ”
Crowley toyed with the medal on Aziraphale’s waistcoast. “Oh, indeed. Now you know how I feel.”
"So your jibe at my waistcoat?"
"Self-preservation."
“I see,” Aziraphale reached around and dragged a finger down the exposed skin of Crowley’s back, eliciting a faint shudder. “So you’re saying that I have, in fact, been corrupting you?”
“Mmmhm.”
“Goodness. Fancy that.”
“I do, believe me.”
“Oh now, that is a bad jo--”
Crowley cut him off with an open-mouthed kiss, tongue swiping along Aziraphale’s lower lip in a way that was both agonising and delicious. He chased Crowley’s lips as he broke away, scarcely containing a whine of disappointment.
“The sofa won’t do tonight, angel,” Crowley murmured, his breath washing over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Take me upstairs.”
Aziraphale went to reply, and found that he very much needed to kiss Crowley again, instead. He slid his hands deep into red curls and tugged, drawing a moan out of the demon’s mouth as he kissed back. He lingered, just long enough for Crowley, this time, to grumble in complaint when he pulled away.
“Right away, dear.”