Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a monster in the mountains outside the city, or so people have been saying. There’s a monster, and any soul who had the misfortune to come face-to-face with it was doomed. Whispered tales of gods and monsters were always circling, but there had been soldiers that had vanished, would-be heroes who had gone to seek glory and never returned. And then a scant few had, shaking and wide-eyed and babbling about sharp teeth and serpents; glowing eyes and men, once alive, turned completely to stone. These soldiers had survived, but their disturbing state sent unease through the ranks as word spread quickly. Aziraphale had stepped up when those in charge asked, had turned desperate eyes and halting requests in his direction. He was not the highest ranking soldier among them, but his skill with the sword was well-known and he had a wide reputation as a very good fighter, even with his general distaste for violence. Aziraphale’s commanding officer Gabriel had pursed his lips, looking at a loss as he asked Aziraphale to go investigate and kill whatever threat had taken his peers. The location meant they couldn’t send a group and they needed someone who had a chance of victory. Aziraphale had simply nodded, donned his traveling cloak, and armed himself.

Aziraphale sets out in the direction the monster supposedly dwelled, ready to do his duty as expected. He would try his best to kill this beast, but if he failed...well, he’ll have died doing something more interesting than waging war, at least. The landscape changes drastically, once he’s far enough out of the city, rough and rocky, harsh lines and sharp edges. The area is wild and overgrown, an unwelcome habitat to any visitor foolish enough to wander here. Aziraphale sourly reflects that the other soldiers should have paid heed to the natural warning signs and left the area well enough alone. Now he’s the one that has to fight his way through brambles and thorns. 

He ducks his head to avoid a low-hanging branch, scowling as his cloak catches and tears; twisting himself to get free, hunkering down to push through the last stretch of foliage. He emerges in a clearing of sorts, a bare outcropping of stone that stretches towards the mouth of a cave, yawning out of the shadows. Aziraphale blinks, steps forward, and nearly trips. Under his sandal, there’s a sword, rusted and dull, but unmistakably that of a soldier. He stares at the discarded weapon blankly for a moment, then grimaces. 

Aziraphale purses his lips, tearing his eyes away only to stop short. There are several figures of stone strewn about the area, human-shaped and looking like sculptures, faces rendered in incredibly lifelike detail. The expressions are ones of fear though, eyes wide and mouths gaping open in silent cries. Aziraphale stares at them, the armor they're dressed in, and remembers the tales from the surviving soldiers. Men turned to stone, quite literally, and Aziraphale's jaw tightens. He had seen one case of this already with his own eyes, the main reason why he had been sent specifically. All the rumors had spoken of the monster high in the mountains, here in the wild and untamed wilderness, and that’s where it stayed. But there had been a man found, in an alley in the city, turned to stone like this, and the people had panicked. It was one thing to take out soldiers that went hunting for you, and another to breach the city walls and kill a citizen. Aziraphale looks back up at the mouth of the cave and feels his resolve harden. He swallows hard and draws his sword.

=

There is a monster in the mountains outside the city and his name is Crowley. Crowley slinks through the darkness of his cave; comforted by the long shadows, keeping out of the sparse patches of light. He knows there are more soldiers coming, that they will keep sending them until he either has to fully reveal himself or one of them kills him. He’s not keen on either option; for now, he settles with having to continue petrifying the men who manage to find him. Some are nervous. Some are arrogant. All of them arrive thinking they will find glory, slaying the monster, becoming a hero. All of them have failed, falling victim to his gaze or fleeing in terror.

Crowley’s sensitive ears pick up footfalls, sandals on stone, the slight creak of metal armor, a sword being drawn. Another soldier has arrived. He bares his teeth and melts further into the depths. Let them keep coming, let them find him, let them try to kill him. He did not ask for this, has not killed anyone that hasn’t come for him first. He just wants to be left alone.

The latest soldier is at the entrance of the cave, backlit and rendered indistinguishable. Their sword is drawn, held firm and steady. Not one of the nervous ones, then. And their stance is wary, posture tense. Not an arrogant one, either. This one is ready and cautious, holds his sword like someone with skill and experience. This one is dangerous. Crowley circles closer. 

The soldier is moving slow and deliberate, inching into the cave, and Crowley slips around behind rocks and stones, carefully getting himself in petrifying range. He’s done this enough now to know the best way to do it. Startle the soldier, get them off-balance, off guard, draw their wide-eyed gaze to meet his own and that was the end of that. It was almost annoyingly routine. 

Crowley watches the soldier’s silhouette, waiting for the right moment to strike, when suddenly the soldier stops, stands straight, grips his sword tighter, and takes a breath.

“I come in the name of the dead soldiers outside. If there’s a monster here, show yourself!”

Crowley freezes. 

No.

The air feels like it's been punched from his lungs, his blood feels like ice in his veins, and his thoughts fly into a frenzy. The soldier is Aziraphale. Aziraphale . Crowley finds he can barely breathe, ducking silently behind a rock cluster and sinking into a crouch, shaking. Aziraphale had never said he was a soldier, and Crowley had simply assumed he worked in the temple or somewhere else in the city. He was too soft, too kind, too giving, willing to share food with a stranger that wouldn’t even show their face, and smile freely like they were old friends. Crowley never thought he would find him here, in this horrible place he called home, dressed in uniform and holding a sword as comfortably as he’d seen him hold an apple. 

It was obvious Aziraphale was here for the same reason as all the soldiers before him, just the next in line to try to slay the monster. But Crowley had had no issue dealing with the rest, nameless intruders he defended himself against without a thought, lethal and unforgiving. But this was Aziraphale. Aziraphale who had cradled his calloused hands, laughed at his jokes, spoke his name like it was as sacred as the Gods. Aziraphale didn’t know what he was, a mess of snakes and scales and claws and fangs, hidden beneath heavy fabric, deadly gaze tucked away when he spent time in the city. Aziraphale didn’t know, had never seen his face, and had befriended him anyway, always delighted when they met up. Crowley nearly chokes, despair rising like floodwaters in his lungs. Aziraphale is here to kill him. He can’t hurt Aziraphale.

=

When Aziraphale calls out for the monster to show themselves, he doesn’t quite know what he’s expecting. No response maybe, or even an immediate attack. He shifts his grip on his sword and darts his gaze around, eyes now adjusting to the darkness. Then suddenly, there’s the faintest scuffing sound from somewhere to his left, and he’s immediately on alert. 

From the shadows, a smaller dark mass breaks off, gliding closer, slow and deliberate. Aziraphale raises his sword, but stays where he is, because even faced with a supposed monster, it isn’t in his nature to strike first. The blade catches what little light makes it into the cave, shines briefly, and the shape freezes. The air feels heavy with tension, the silence almost choking, and Aziraphale feels the adrenaline pumping in his veins. There is a quiet inhaled breath, as the shadowy shape resolves itself into a more humanoid form, and then-

“Aziraphale.”

His name, spoken reverently, quietly, brokenly. Aziraphale jolts in shock. The shape is now a person, tall and lithe and dressed like any other citizen of the city, but there is a wild mass of snakes covering their head, writhing and coiling in a parody of hair. Aziraphale can see sharp teeth behind slightly parted lips, clawed hands, and what might be scales creeping in patches on their skin, but the voice is unmistakable. It is one he has spent countless afternoons in conversation with, bantering and debating and maybe even flirting, nevermind that he has never seen their face. Aziraphale understands now, with a breathless sort of clarity, why his dear friend had always hidden themselves, donned in a heavy cloak and clinging to side streets and back alleys and shadows. There is so much to consider here, too much turmoil rising like the tide, because surely this a dream, a trick, a nightmare. There’s a multitude of things he could say now, questions and accusations, and he swallows hard.

“Crowley?”

The name slips out before Aziraphale can think, too shaken by this reveal to voice any of the other thoughts now ringing in his head. He came here on a mission, a duty as a soldier for those who had never returned. He had seen the remains of them, solid stone and very much gone, the fear in their faces forever immortalized. Crowley is the monster he had been sent to kill, responsible for these deaths, and it's clear to see that he isn’t human. Aziraphale should strike him down. Aziraphale should avenge his fallen peers. Aziraphale should follow his orders and go back to the city with proof of his victory and calm the fear that has risen among the people. He steps forward. 

Up close, the snakes are almost unnerving in their movement, weaving back and forth atop Crowley’s head. Aside from them, Crowley looks almost like any other human, the skin that doesn’t contain patches of scales is pale and unblemished, his face angular and lean. He is points and sharpness, long limbs and bony joints. He is beautiful. Even the snake-like features only serve to enhance his looks, something wild and near ethereal in his shape. Aziraphale distantly wishes he were an artist, just so he could try and capture Crowley’s form in the way it begs for, immortalized for generations to come. Aziraphale had been aware already, of his growing feelings for his secretive friend, unbothered by the way he hid himself. Aziraphale didn’t need to see him to like him, basking instead in warm conversation, shared meals, mutual commiseration, and philosophical debates. He had found a kindred spirit in Crowley, someone he understood and who understood him in return. Aziraphale hadn’t really dwelled on why Crowley might be hiding himself, content to simply accept it, but perhaps he should have. 

Because this is something else entirely. There was something terrible and tragic in the soldiers that had confronted Crowley, both surviving and not, and there was terror seeping into the city, a pained tension among his commanding officers in its wake. Crowley has shuffled forward and Aziraphale lifts his sword again, puts it between them like a barrier, and Crowley stops with his throat against the blade. Aziraphale stares, conflicted, because Crowley could have been tricking him this whole time, for all Aziraphale knows, could have been stringing him along out of amusement, Aziraphale’s foolish feelings nothing more than entertainment to him. But…

All this time Aziraphale has been here and Crowley has not attacked. He could’ve easily struck Aziraphale down from the shadows, turned his deadly gaze on him before Aziraphale knew he was in danger. But Crowley is before him now, close enough to touch, and his eyes are shut tight. Crowley is completely vulnerable here while Aziraphale is still very much armed. The blade is raised between them, and Crowley is simply waiting, and Aziraphale can see that he’s trembling. All at once, he’s ashamed. He remembers quiet nights in the temple gardens, how Crowley would stumble over his words when he was flustered, the way Crowley always brought warmth rising in his chest. Fleeting touches and bumped shoulders, teasing words and how shy Crowley had been that very first encounter in the rain. How could Aziraphlae ever doubt that Crowley had been anything but genuine, after all of that, and especially here and now. Crowley has his head tilted back, the curve of his mouth speaking of misery, and under that, Aziraphale can tell he’s afraid. Aziraphale drops the sword. 

=

When Crowley steps forward into the dim light, finally showing himself for Aziraphale to see and realize who he is, he has already made up his mind. If Aziraphale is going to kill him, he’s not going to fight him, perfectly willing to die by his hand. He keeps his eyes firmly closed as he closes the distance between them - can practically taste Aziraphale’s shock. He hears his name, spoken low and wounded and something in his chest twists. He keeps moving forward, to where he can hear Aziraphale shifting, slowly brings himself close and stops when he feels cold metal pressing against his throat. Aziraphale’s sword is raised between them, and Crowley simply lifts his chin. He will not, cannot, turn on Aziraphale, not after his friendship, not after his kindness. Maybe this is where those both turn sour, in the face of Crowley’s true nature, but Crowley had held them for a while, cherished them beyond measure, and he will not repay them with violence. 

There is a clattering sound, metal hitting stone, and Crowley startles. The pressure at his throat is gone and he realizes Aziraphale must have dropped his sword. His brows furrow in confusion, not understanding why, and then abruptly his breath leaves his lungs.

Aziraphale is touching his face. He has felt those strong hands in his before, brushed fingers as they passed food or drink or a scroll, treasured the weight of them on his knee, his arm, his back. But now those hands are cradling his face, settling gently at the curve of his jaw, and he can feel Aziraphale’s fingers lightly brushing over a patch of scales. Crowley is frozen, lost. Aziraphale draws in a breath. Crowley holds his.    

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says his name again, but now there’s something tender in the tone, almost awed. “Crowley, my dear, you are beautiful.”

Crowley chokes and screws his eyes shut even tighter. Without thinking, he half flails a hand out, something needy and desperate overtaking him. One of Aziraphale’s hands catches his, laces their fingers together like Crowley is not the monster he came to slay, and squeezes lightly. Aziraphale’s other hand remains on Crowley’s face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone, drawing a line from his ear to under his closed eye and Crowley shudders beneath the touch. Crowley can feel Aziraphale shifting, pressing closer, and suddenly there’s a feather-light press of lips to each of his eyelids. Crowley thinks he’s about to cry.

Aziraphale came here to kill him, and Crowley had made his peace with that, was ready for it, and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if this is part of it as some sort of mercy, because he cannot fathom why else Aziraphale would be holding him like this, now that he knows what he is. If this is how his end begins, he’ll take it, but at the same time, it’s too much and Crowley has to beg.

“Aziraphale, please-” and the words are wrenched out, “if you’re going to kill me, make it quick. I don’t-, I can’t -”

And Aziraphale is kissing him. 

Chapter Text

1 Year Ago :

It started in a garden. Crowley had been sneaking into the city for a while now, keeping himself concealed and covered, cautious all the while. Sometimes he desperately needed to be among people, when the isolation made his thoughts too loud and he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He didn't spend too much time within the city walls, far too wary of the general population to loiter, but he did like the temple of Athena. The priestesses were kind, clever, and accepting; the Oracle who resided there, Agnes, had told him he was always welcome. 

The temple was beautiful, as temples tended to be, but Crowley avoided most of the actual building when he could. He much preferred the garden; lush and verdant, bright and blooming, in complete contrast to his own cold and hard dwellings. When Crowley made his rare trips down from the mountains, he always found his way there.

The garden was surrounded by a wall, a barrier between Crowley and the rest of the world, tucked away in this small oasis. The sounds of life in the city still found their way in and it was nice in a way, to listen to the mundane. To the ordinary and fascinating sound of everyday living that Crowley could never have. Some part of him distantly wanted that, a normal life; but that thought was ruthlessly crushed whenever it made itself known. He was fine, as he was, to go about his business and live on the outskirts. To listen from a distance, and find his solace among plants.  To keep himself apart.

Then one day, there was someone else in the garden. 

Crowley had been rounding a corner when he heard voices, one of them unfamiliar. Crowley knew every priestess that lived in the temple and every worker that came through, but this was someone new. He paused behind a pillar, tugged his cloak around him tighter, wary of a stranger that did not know him yet as a guest here, and listened.

"There now, that ought to do it."

The voice was a pleasant baritone; smooth and warm and gentle. Crowley hesitantly peered around the corner to look, kept his gaze low on the ground at first, just in case. His eyes slowly roved up, noted two figures from their sandals and he carefully looked higher. Both of them were facing away from Crowley, but he recognized the priestess Anathema standing next to a figure dressed in a white chiton. They were taller than Anathema, with wide shoulders and a far broader build than Crowley. Their hair was short, a bright and pale color, almost like marble. For reasons he wasn't sure of, Crowley was intrigued. He kept his eyes on the stranger.

They were facing a damaged section of the garden wall, where a large stone had come loose, but the hole was no longer there. The stranger was carefully slotting the stone back into place, while Anathema guided them. Crowley blinked. The stone was most certainly heavy, far heavier than the average person could pick up, and yet this person was hefting it with ease. The stranger gave one final push, settled the stone into place, and they straightened, turned to address Anathema, and gave Crowley his first glimpse of their face. 

A man, with pale eyes and a curving jawline, and a smile that looked like it came easy to him. Even with the sky overcast, the light was hitting him perfectly like a halo, making his profile look outlined in gold. He was not the chiseled and young perfection of the gods, but he was absolutely breathtaking. 

Crowley was so entranced, he didn’t realize he had leaned forward and he stumbled, caught himself, cursed, and yanked the hood of his cloak up over his head. He heard Anathema and the man turn to look, focused on not looking back. He heard Anathema’s little ‘oh!’ of recognition. Crowley kept his eyes down, even as he heard both of them approach, peered carefully through his hood as much as he dared, and attempted to look like an ordinary human. 

“-and this is Crowley, a friend and guest of the temple,” he heard Anathema say as they stopped in front of him. Crowley suppressed the urge to back away when she put a hand on his arm, reminded himself that she was on his side. 

“Crowley, this is Aziraphale. He’s been helping us around the temple.”

Aziraphale. The name made Crowley think of scholars, poets, artists. It made a strange sort of sense, to find him in the garden of a temple to Athena. Crowley caught the glimpse of a smile, open and genuine. He could see work-worn hands clasped together, a gold ring glinting on his pinky. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Crowley.”

And Crowley wanted to bolt immediately because somehow his name sounded like music on Aziraphale’s tongue and the strange bubbly feeling that rose in his chest was absolutely terrifying. He swallowed the avalanche building in his throat, somehow found his voice.

“Y-yeah, you as well.”

A voice called from the steps of the temple and Anathema excused herself, leaving Crowley alone with Aziraphale. There was an awkward moment of silence, and Crowley tried not to panic. Aziraphale was a stranger; a very handsome stranger who has so far been very polite, but still a stranger. He could ask about the cloak, about his habit of lurking in the temple gardens, and Crowley wouldn’t know how to answer, not without revealing himself, and that’s something he will not do. Aziraphale could be dangerous; he certainly seemed strong, fixing the wall, but Anathema would not have left them alone if she didn’t trust Aziraphale, Crowley knew that much. He might not have faith in the gods, but he has some amount of faith in the priestesses. 

Crowley shifted; experience had taught him to always be wary, that he had no place in society, that people could and would turn on you, and Aziraphale could very easily be one of them. His defenses were well-shored and he readied them, tense and prepared for anything: hostility, standoffishness, suspicion. 

“So,” Aziraphale said brightly, “do you live in the city here?”

Crowley blinked. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that Aziraphale would simply continue to be nice. He cleared his throat self-consciously, nervous for a variety of reasons. 

“I’m from...outside of the city. Agnes lets me stay here, when I want to.”

“Oh, how lovely. I guess the Oracle is a friend of yours?”

Crowley grimaced, glad for the cloak that hid the movement from Aziraphale.“Ah, I think it’s more of a favor to my mother.”

“Was she a priestess?”

Crowley twitched.“Something like that.”

Aziraphale nodded, clearly understood that Crowley didn’t want to talk about it, and moved on.“Well I must say, the garden here is one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale gestured broadly around them, and Crowley had to agree. Everything was lush and blooming, like Persphone herself had come and blessed the grounds.

“It’s turned out well. I was here when the first trees were planted.”

“Oh, how lovely. The trees in the orchard are especially beautiful.”

Aziraphale turned his head to look at the cluster of fruit trees planted on one side of the garden, and Crowley risked a quick glance at his face. His expression was peaceful in a way that made Crowley envious, and at this distance, Crowley could see his eyes were some shade of blue. His stomach fluttered.  Aziraphale started to walk towards the orchard, and Crowley was startled to find himself following without thought. 

“Everything seems to bloom well.” Aziraphale remarked.

Crowley nodded in agreement as they came to a stop at the first row of trees.“All the people here talk to the plants, apparently that’s how they grow better.”

“Oh, how interesting.” Aziraphale hummed, and he actually sounded interested. “Do you talk to them?”

Crowley paused. He had been here since the garden begun; had seen every plant turn from seed or sapling into it’s fully grown state. He carefully reached for the leaves of the apple tree in front of them, remembered whispering his secrets to its young branches. The ivy in the corner always heard his frustrations, getting more aggressive as it expanded over the years. There were asphodels full of sadness, strawflowers full of calm, fennel wrapped in boredom, and a small corner of rock roses that only knew his rage. He had been filling this garden with conversations for years now. 

It was a lifeless place, where Crowley lived high in the mountains, dull and harsh and dead. It would steal everything from him, leave him as empty and drained as the landscape, nothing but dust and ashes. This garden was a reminder, as he poured pieces of himself into the soil, that there was more beyond cold stone and cold sky, a reminder of color and change, a reminder that he was alive. 

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale, thinking of all this, and answered. 

“Sometimes.”

There was a low rumble from above them, and they both glanced up. Storm clouds had gathered in the sky, rolling masses in shades of gray that promised rain in minutes. Crowley scowled at the sight - could taste the moisture in the air. He knew even moving for the temple immediately, he was still likely to get wet. He hated the rain. Sure enough, the clouds broke and a steady shower began to fall and he hunched his shoulders, very aware of how thin and worn his cloak was. But the expected cold and wet feeling didn’t come, and Crowley tilted his head curiously, peeked up past his hood and was startled to find that he was covered. A sharp look to his side and Aziraphale was standing there, holding his cloak over both their heads. It wasn’t quite big enough to fully cover them both, and Aziraphale was partially getting rained on, but he didn’t seem upset about it. Crowley drew his own cloak tighter, took extra care to keep his head covered, and shuffled closer to Aziraphale. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale smile, and Crowley felt his heart start to pound. 

=

Present:  

Beneath Aziraphale’s fingers, Crowley is only slightly cooler to the touch than any other human. He has two eyes and a nose and a mouth, the planes of his face built from the same foundations as Aziraphale. There are signs that mark him as inhuman, even more obvious this close, but Aziraphale isn’t looking at those, not now, not when Crowley is offering himself up in surrender, trembling beneath his hands. He cannot help himself, cannot stop from reaching out, stroking where the skin is smooth and leaning up to lay a kiss on Crowley’s eyes; a deadly weapon that Crowley had never drawn against him. It was only fair that Aziraphale dropped his own weapon. It is only right that he reassures Crowley. 

Crowley is so utterly different from anyone Aziraphale has met, and yet they had found a connection so deep, Aziraphale had been content to never question why Crowley had never shown himself. He understands now, and he knows there will be more things to deal with, but that’s for later, far away and back in the city. Right now, it is this dark and harsh place that makes Aziraphale’s chest tight when he thinks of Crowley living here, alone. It is Crowley, shaking apart under his hands like he’s never known a gentle touch. Crowley thinks Aziraphale is going to kill him. There is no other option but to lean forward and kiss him.

It starts as a simple press of lips, a connection, but the contact is electric and all at once, Aziraphale needs more. Both his hands are on Crowley’s face now, his own eyes shut tight as well. It’s a precaution, but he also needs to shut down at least one sense before he’s overwhelmed, needs to filter all his focus into the touch, into the taste. He does not need his eyes for this, not when he can feel Crowley dragging himself closer, not when Crowley is gasping into his mouth. There’s something of the sea in Crowley, when Aziraphale gets a taste, even though they’re nowhere near the coast, and the faint trace of salt on his tongue imprints into his senses. 

Aziraphale darts his tongue out, asks for permission; Crowley makes a keening sound and parts his lips. Aziraphale explores the shape of Crowley’s mouth, finds the sharp teeth, catalogues everything he can feel. He can sense the hesitancy in Crowley, a thrumming tension in his joints, and his hands are knotted in Aziraphale’s cloak, like he would collapse if not for Aziraphale to hang onto. Aziraphale understands, only strengthens his hold. He’s a soldier, and a damn good one at that, he has plenty of strength to spare, and he’ll pour out however much he needs to until Crowley knows for sure he won’t let go of him. 

=

=

Aziraphale kisses him with an utter sureness, a decisiveness in the press of his lips, a steadiness in the grip of his hands. Crowley is utterly helpless beneath him, overwhelmed and terrified, surging into the contact like it's his last meal. He doesn’t know what this means, doesn’t know how this will end, only knows Aziraphale is here and kissing him and it feels like a dream and harsh reality all at once. 

Aziraphale licks into his mouth, sweeps his tongue over Crowley’s teeth, and all of sudden Crowley’s knees are giving way and he throws his hands up and latches onto the folds of fabric around Aziraphale’s shoulders. One of Aziraphale’s hands moves from his jaw, settles on the small of his back and holds him securely. Crowley is practically vibrating with tension, only upright by virtue of Aziraphale keeping him there, and it's everything he could possibly want, but it's not at all peaceful, not right now.

Aziraphale leans up into him, and Crowley’s eyes flutter for just a second. He sees a flash of pale hair and abruptly he’s reminded of exactly what he is. It hits him like a tidal wave and his eyes slam shut as he cries out and wrenches himself away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale startles, and Crowley half lurches to get away, to put some space between them, because the further his horrid eyes are from Aziraphale, the better. 

A hand catches in his chiton before he can bolt, and Crowley slaps a hand over his eyes in a panic. His breaths come harsh and ragged and rapid, clawing at his throat; nothing changes the fact that he is what he is. Aziraphale can't kiss away the scales and the snakes, and one thoughtless glance could be the end of him, and there’s nothing either of them can do about that. He stays where he is, even if his mind is screaming to run and hide, because Aziraphale is holding him and he cannot stop the way he aches for Aziraphale.

They stay like that for several minutes, frozen and tense and breathing heavily. Aziraphale's grip loosens and Crowley lowers his hand, but turns his face away, eyes cracked open but downcast. He sees a glint of light on the floor, and recognizes Aziraphale's sword, dropped halfway into shadow. He stares at the blade, thinks about how Aziraphale had carried it in here, what his purpose had been. He thinks about kissing him, touching him, being touched, and the way he had almost looked. His eyes burn and he crouches, stretches out his hand, and grabs the sword. 

The metal scrapes on the ground, makes an awful noise that echoes; Crowley can feel Aziraphale's eyes on him; can almost taste his confusion. He rises carefully, keeping his face turned away, and thrusts the blade in Aziraphale's direction, hilt first. There's a beat.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale asks delicately. Hushed and concerned, concerned for Crowley . It only hardens Crowley's resolve.

"You should take this," Crowley asserts, voice rough and close to breaking. "and use it like you were intending."

Crowley can see Aziraphale recoil from the corner of his eye. 

"Crowley, what- "

"Aziraphale, look at me. I'm not human, I-I've killed people. I’m not meant to keep living, and I’d rather it be you, so please-” Crowley chokes. “The people down in the city call me a monster. That's what I am, can't you see me, Aziraphale?"

There is a weighted silence after Crowley's words, something thick in the air. Crowley hears Aziraphale step forward, feels the sword removed from his hand, and he closes his eyes, waits for the blow. 

A quiet scraping sound, metal on metal, and the click of the blade being sheathed. Crowley's breath hitches, and he can hear Aziraphale approach, hear him stop directly in front of him. A hand gently takes one of his, laces their fingers together, gives a gentle squeeze. Crowley feels like he's fracturing, cracks spiraling out from his center, and then, a deep inhale from Aziraphale.

“I see you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says carefully, intention behind every syllable. “I can see you and no matter what you look like, I can see you’re not a monster.”

“Aziraphale…" Crowley breathes the name like a prayer, not knowing how to respond. He feels torn open and exposed, he feels like a sacrifice at an altar. 

“No more secrets now, from either of us. We- we have something, the two of us." Aziraphale hesitates, something unsure creeping into his voice. "Tell me you want to keep that.”

Crowley feels a wild fluttering in his ribs. He wants this, he wants this so badly, but nothing can change the fact that he is a cursed creature, that his gaze is deadly and that he can’t control it. One wrong move, one absent glance, and Aziraphale could be lost to him forever. The thought alone sends despair rushing through him like a riptide. 

"Aziraphale I-, you have to know, of course I, you're-, we're-, we can't- "

The risk is too great, no matter how much Crowley aches for it. He had never thought he would want any kind of normal human life, any semblance of a relationship, not until he had met Aziraphale. Even then, he hadn't let himself imagine he would get more than snatches of time and affection, small moments of warmth for him to hoard in this uncaring cave. 

But here Aziraphale is, offering everything he's ever wanted and everything he didn't dare to even dream. It isn't fair that Aziraphale can so easily give himself; it isn't fair that Crowley can't give him what he deserves in return. 

"We can." Aziraphale asserts, quiet but so utterly sure. "We can have this, Crowley, and if it's what you want, we will.”

Crowley thinks this must be what flying feels like. He’s known falling - known the gut-wrenching fear of open air and only a harsh landing waiting below. But Aziraphale is holding him close, strong arms and sure heart, and for the first time, Crowley thinks he may be able to stop hiding, to stop fighting. That there’s a soft place to land.

=

Aziraphale watches as Crowley keeps his head down, the snakes helping conceal his eyes, watches as he shifts his weight and hunches his shoulders. Crowley seems to shrink into himself, and Aziraphale wonders what kind of life he’s known: offered love only to react with fear. It makes him more determined to see this through.

Aziraphale brings his other hand up, hovers for a moment, and he sees Crowley flinch. He frowns, because he can’t see Crowley’s eyes, but Crowley can still track his movements, and surely he knows by now Aziraphale isn’t going to hurt him. Carefully, so he broadcasts every move slow enough that Crowley could get away, Aziraphale reaches out and places his hand on the curve of Crowley’s neck. His thumb brushes Crowley’s pulse point and he can feel the quickening heartbeat as his fingers settle on a patch of scales. He steps forward, lightly tugging Crowley towards him, and pulls them both into an embrace. 

Aziraphale can feel the shock run through Crowley, the rigidness that takes over his spine, but he doesn’t push away, so Aziraphale tucks his face into Crowley’s shoulder and breathes in deep. Crowley smells like earth, dark and damp and rich, and perhaps Aziraphale shouldn’t find it so appealing, but he wants to bury himself in the soil and roots he’s found in this junction of Crowley’s body. 

Inch by inch, Crowley relaxes into the hold, and Aziraphale knows without asking that this kind of physical touch isn’t something Crowley has had. Not like this, not as he is. His hand on Crowley’s neck slides to cup the back of it, and the snakes converge to coil around his wrist, nudge at his fingers and bump against his palm. It should make Aziraphale recoil, living snakes where there should be hair, but he only finds it endearing. 

“Is this alright?” He murmurs, just loud enough to be heard.

Crowley inhales, pauses, and nods sharply. The hand that's in his is gripping so tight, it nearly hurts, but Aziraphale says nothing, only grips back, as Crowley's other hand hesitantly settles on Aziraphale's back. His touch is awkward and unsure, like he's not sure what he's allowed to do, and Aziraphale feels a pang of sadness, quickly overtaken by protectiveness. Crowley will never know another day without a friendly touch, not if he has anything to say about it. 

Aziraphale lifts his face from Crowley’s shoulder, presses their cheeks together, and feels the way Crowley shivers in response. There are several directions this can go, and he knows what kind of way he’d like it to, but Aziraphale also knows in this moment that all he wants is whatever Crowley chooses. He is not so vain as to assume he’s what Crowley wants, but he thinks he could at least offer something warmer than stone walls and isolation.

"Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, “You don’t have to of course, but...you could come with me."

Aziraphale feels Crowley jolt against him, tense all over again.

"With you- to the city? Aziraphale, I can't live in the city, not with," here, Aziraphale can tell he gestures broadly at himself, "that's why I'm up here in the first place."

Aziraphale knows, he really does, how dangerous it would be to bring Crowley into the city permanently, but-

"You were alone before. You won't be alone now."

Aziraphale has a home, somewhere comfortable and safe, and he wants so badly to share it. He wants so badly to give Crowley what the world has clearly denied him. He’s well-off and high-ranking and clever, and he’s already working out how they can do this, but it's up to Crowley. 

"Aziraphale…"

Crowley sounds skeptical, but there’s a longing in his voice, longing and fear and the edges of hurt born from years spent on the outskirts of society. Aziraphale can hear that he wants to say yes, but he’s hesitant, and Aziraphale understands. Crowley has never had a choice before. Aziraphale will give him that, at least. 

"Crowley, I won't leave you to fend for yourself, even if you choose to stay here. You've been on your own for far too long."

“You would come back here?”

Crowley sounds shocked at the idea, like he hadn’t thought Aziraphale would still want to see him. Like this would end the friendship they’d been building for a year. 

“As long as you wanted me to.” Aziraphale reassures, firm despite his own sudden spike of anxiety, because what if Crowley wants him gone after all this? He has his hopes for what they could have, thinks they have been slowly moving to the same place already, but maybe he’s wrong. He loosens his hold, enough that Crowley could pull away, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe he’s coming on too strong. Crowley makes a distressed noise in his ear, and Aziraphale starts to pull back even more, worried he’s overstepped, but Crowley is suddenly clinging to him. Aziraphale lets out a quiet ‘ oh ’ as he gets a faceful of snakes, Crowley’s bony arms around his shoulders, and a hug that nearly knocks him off balance. When Crowley speaks, his voice is muffled by Aziraphale’s cloak.  

“Of course I want to see you, but not here.” 

Crowley hunches his shoulders on the last word, and the snakes on his head slide around in something that might be distress. Aziraphale watches the way they move over Crowley’s back and shoulders, feels fondness for them already rising in his chest, and knows he’s definitely gone.  

“Wherever we go, we can stay as we are, and I promise I’m not going to leave you. It's like I said before: we have something, and I’d like to see where it can go, and if you want it as well, perhaps as- as more than friends.”

“Aziraphale, you-” Crowley chokes, voice high with disbelief, and he pulls back a little from Aziraphale. “...you’re serious.”

“Very much so. If I am certain of anything, it's my feelings for you. Be it here or in the city, what matters is what you want.”

There is a long pause, Crowley clearly thinking it over, weighing the options. Aziraphale simply waits, stands guard like the soldier he is, steadfast and patient. 

“Okay.” Crowley says it quietly but decisive, something resolute in that one word. But Aziraphale wants to be sure.

“Okay?” Crowley breathes deep, stands tall, and reaches for Aziraphale’s hand again. His grip is firm even as he keeps his eyes down.

“I’ll go with you.” 

=

They step into the light and Crowley squints at the brightness, tugs the hood of his cloak up, and carefully moves further outside. Aziraphale is walking ahead of him, solid and sure and confident that Crowley is behind him. He doesn’t look back, only leads them out and away from the yawning shadows and harsh stone, the cluster of petrified dead, and Crowley thinks of a poet and his lover walking out of the Underworld. While Aziraphale doesn’t turn, doesn’t leave Crowley lost, Crowley can’t help but fear they’ll end in tragedy anyway. 

The ground crunches underfoot, barren and dry, and Crowley is reminded of how dead and dreary this whole area is. Aziraphale is a bright stroke of color against the landscape in comparison, a ray of light, a ray of life. He leads them through brambles and over rocky outcroppings, further and further away from the cave, further from the place that has cradled Crowley’s misery for countless years before this. They descend from the mountains, and it's a different way than Crowley usually takes to get to the city, easier but not as quick. The steeper inclines dip into smaller slopes, then flatten completely into a wide meadow, near the base of the mountain. The path is dirt and stone until suddenly they’re surrounded by wildflowers, a bright wash of color that stretches over the earth, a narrow path cutting through the swath. They follow it, reach the middle of the expanse, daffodils and hyacinths in full bloom around them, and it is here Aziraphale pauses.  Crowley tilts his head away, watching from his periphery in case Aziraphale turns towards him, but Aziraphale only straightens a little, reaches one arm behind him and extends a hand, palm up.  

Crowley blinks, at first not comprehending, before he stares in disbelief. Slowly, hesitantly, he stretches his own hand out and slots it into Aziraphale’s, wary of being wrong. Aziraphale squeezes his hand in response, laces their fingers together and uses their joined hands to tug Crowley a step closer. Crowley’s chest bumps against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale tucks his head under Crowley’s chin, nuzzles a bit and curls himself from forehead to hip against Crowley, just for a minute, before pulling back. He hadn’t let his eyes stray to Crowley’s once, conscious of the danger, even as he’d given him the closest equivalent to a hug that he could, and Crowley is left gaping in his wake. Aziraphale so easily doles out affection, had been friendly when they would meet previously, but this is beyond that, and he makes it seem so simple, like the reveal of Crowley’s true nature shouldn’t turn him away.   

Aziraphale starts to move again, but Crowley is frozen to the spot, still trying to process everything. Aziraphale feels the resistance, tilts his head in question.

“Crowley?”

“Aziraphale…”

“Is this still alright?”

“I-, yes I-, I just-”

“Crowley, it's okay if it isn’t.”

“No, I-”

Crowley cuts himself off. He thinks that no matter what happens after this, he will carry the memory of this field with him for the rest of his life. Aziraphale, flowers, and the feeling of stepping towards something better. He takes a moment to press this scene into the folds of his heart, something to treasure if he ever needs it again, and he steps up behind Aziraphale again, doesn’t speak, can’t put his feelings into words. Aziraphale seems to understand, squeezes his hand and starts walking again. Aziraphale doesn’t let go of Crowley the entire rest of the way to the city.

When the city gates loom in sight, Aziraphale stops, just before the trees break, where they’d be in sight of anyone looking. Crowley can see the way his mouth tightens, tension rising in him now that they're here. He's most likely thinking of how to handle getting in, and Crowley is his own brand of nervous, but he knows one way to make this easier. He clears his throat, and Aziraphale's head lifts.

“I have another way that I think I should use.”

Aziraphale shifts his grip on Crowley's hand, makes a thoughtful noise and stares at the part of the gates they can see from here.

“You’re probably right." 

And Crowley can hear a note of relief in his voice, feels pleased he put it there. 

"I have to go report back to the other soldiers. We can meet at the temple after." Aziraphale pauses. "Wait for me?”

“I will. I-...I will."

As if Crowley could do anything but.

Crowley can see Aziraphale smile out of the corner of his eye, watches as his hand comes up to adjust the hood of Crowley’s cloak, before he steps away and walks to the gates. Crowley feels the loss of his presence immediately, flinches at it, and keeps narrowed eyes on the guards that greet Aziraphale. Even at this distance, Crowley can tell their approach is respectful, maybe a little awed, and he realizes Aziraphale must have some renown in the city, to be sent after him alone. More anxiety creeps its way in, and Crowley bites his lip. He might not know much about the structure of the military, but he knows Aziraphale’s uniform is high-ranking, and he’s not sure what to think of that. There’s the doubt again, the worry that this will end in tragedy. Soldiers and monsters, historically, did not get along. It’s almost enough to send him back to his cave, but Aziraphale had asked him to wait, and Crowley can’t deny him, doesn’t have it in him. He watches Aziraphale disappear into the walls of the city, and slips towards his own secret entrance, heads for the temple, waits just like he promised. 

=

Aziraphale approaches the gates, an old familiar sight that’s usually a comfort, but only has him thrumming with energy. He braces himself. The guards are the same ones that had seen him off, and they knew what he had been leaving to do. This is the start of where he twists the story until it suits his needs, and this isn’t exactly his forte, but he can talk around the truth, especially when it matters. Crowley matters more to him than anything now.

The guards approach, a bit wide-eyed, and ask after his mission. Aziraphale smiles blandly and the words come easy, somehow. Something about being successful, about ensuring the city’s safety, and nothing about what exactly he had done to slay the monster. He’s in somewhat of a daze, mind still reeling at the turn of events, at how fast he had wanted to bring Crowley with him. Though he had used the walk back to regain most of his bearings, there’s a part of him that feels like he’s floating outside of himself. He uses that to his advantage, lets himself drift along, distant but polite as he enters the walls and heads deeper inside. 

There are a few citizens that know, know him and the basics of what had been happening, and he braces himself as the first of them spots him. He spins his tale, yes they had fought, his sword at the monster’s throat, and lets them draw their own conclusions. Aziraphale wades through their excitement, nods his head and excuses himself, and wonders if he should feel guilty about any of this. But he remembers the way Crowley had reacted, so wrecked at a simple embrace, and dismisses the thought. He won’t feel guilt, not over this. 

Aziraphale makes it to the military headquarters without much further incident, grateful he doesn’t stand out much, and stops at the doorway. He has his story, has his half-truths, and he’s certain he’s ready, but he sends a quick prayer up to Ares just in case. This isn’t his usual kind of battlefield, but it’s a battlefield nonetheless. He steps inside, head held high and quickly draws the attention of the young recruits in the room. They watch him with admiration, move to let him through, and he lets that fortify him as he steps into the next room. 

Aziraphale stands before Gabriel, before Sandalphon and Uriel and Michael. He stands before fellow soldiers and his superior officers, and he feels only calm. Gabriel grins at him.

“Aziraphale, you’ve returned successful, I assume.”

“Indeed.”

“Excellent. And the monster?”

“The monster has been taken care of,” Aziraphale says carefully, “and won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

Somehow, Gabriel’s grin grows, as the other three look pleased. Aziraphale allows himself a tight smile and finishes his report, thinking of the way Crowley had poured himself into their kiss. He had said the monster had been taken care of. It’s the truth, just not the way they’re expecting. Aziraphale fully intends to continue taking care of Crowley.

Aziraphale steps back outside, surveys the city he’s known for most of his life, and breathes deep. He loves it here, and perhaps there’s an edge to it now, as he shapes the narrative to how he needs it to be, but he still sees the good in this place. The people, if given the option, generally choose to be kind, and the streets are bustling and full of life. This is a place where happiness can be found, if one knows where to look. In hidden alleys and market stalls. Aziraphale wants so desperately to show Crowley. Seized by sudden need, Aziraphale sets himself towards the temple of Athena, forces himself not to run. 

=

Crowley sits in the garden of the temple, among the familiar trees, wondering what Aziraphale is telling his fellow soldiers. He had said he would spin some story that would let them get away, a determined glint in his eye, and Crowley believed him. 

The priestesses looked relieved when Crowley had arrived, apparently aware of Aziraphale being sent after him and glad to find him still alive. It's nice, he thinks, to know there's at least a few people who don't want him dead. But when they heard he had returned with Aziraphale, Anathema had gotten a look on her face that made Crowley instantly wary. There was giggling and suggestive smiles, teasing and lighthearted, and Crowley had stood there turning red until Agnes took pity on him. She herded them all away, and he could feel her far too knowing smile, and left him to his own devices.

Now he sat here waiting for Aziraphale to return, feeling anxious and unbalanced. He had no idea how to proceed and despite Aziraphale's insistence that they would figure it out together, he wasn't sure. He had come back to the city with Aziraphale because it had seemed like the ideal answer at the time, but what was he going to do now? He had blindly followed Aziraphale back here, with no plans of any kind, when he was normally so careful. 

Crowley could stay in the temple, he knows he would be welcome here, but he feels nervous around the younger priestesses, afraid of what they could see, of what he could do without meaning to. He looks around at this dedication to Athena and only feels unease. The halls and rooms were too narrow, too much like a cage for Crowley to be comfortable here. The garden is his only safe spot and he hides himself in the corner he had first met Aziraphale, and that's where Aziraphale finds him.

At the sound of approaching footfalls, Crowley slams his eyes shut, able to pinpoint the steps as Aziraphale from sound alone. Aziraphale settles on the bench beside him, presses their thighs together, and Crowley leans into the contact without conscious thought. 

"All settled," Aziraphale says into the quiet. "You won't be bothered anymore."

Crowley cants his head towards the sound, like he always does. There's something growling and protective in Aziraphale's tone that makes Crowley's heart skip.

"That's- that's good. Thank you."

"Of course." 

And Aziraphale says those two words with such sincerity it's almost painful. Crowley feels hands grasping his, the cool metal of the ring Aziraphale wears against his wrist. Crowley wonders how much he's giving away here, because Aziraphale can surely feel his pulse hammering beneath the skin. He wonders what Aziraphale will do. Aziraphale had asked him to come with him, to take his hand and trust him, to forge their friendship into something more together. Crowley wants all of that too, but everything is still so delicate. He opens his mouth to try and get something settled before he loses his nerve.

"I was thinking of staying here." 

Crowley admits hesitantly, because he has no idea where he's supposed to start or what the boundaries are. This seems like the safe option, and he wants to give Aziraphale safe. There's a heavy pause he can nearly taste, and Crowley frantically wonders if he said something wrong, before he hears a small inhale. 

"I was thinking," Aziraphale begins slowly, "that you could stay at my place, if you like."

Chapter Text

1 Year Ago :

It started in a garden. Aziraphale liked working with his hands; always felt satisfaction at accomplishing something with nothing but his own hard work. He spent his off-duty days doing odd jobs and helping strangers where he could in the city. A chance meeting with a priestess from the temple of Athena, and he found himself following her to the walled-in garden that surrounded the building. The wall was an easy fix. A hole on the eastern side - caused by a storm, according to the priestess Anathema. She watched as Aziraphale slotted the stone back into place and he shot her a smile when he finished.

“There now, that ought to do it.”

Aziraphale straightened, absently dusting his hands off and letting his gaze roam unfocused along the wall. There was a clatter from behind them, and they both turned to look. A hooded figure was trying to find their footing some ways away. Aziraphale blinked and looked at Anathema.

Anathema grinned, trotting happily towards the figure, and Aziraphale followed, curious. The newcomer was tugging at their clothing as they stopped in front of them, and Anathema smiled broadly at Aziraphale.

“We get a few regular visitors here, and this is Crowley, a friend and guest of the temple.”

Aziraphale eyed the stranger, saw a flash of red beneath the hood, and watched the way they shifted and stuttered. Anathema introduced them, and Crowley cleared his throat to speak. His voice was lovely, if a little rough. Almost sleek in the sound,leaving something warm in Aziraphale’s chest. 

Anathema vanished to her priestess duties, leaving the two alone in the garden. It was absolutely fascinating to hear the way Crowley spoke of this place and how he would reach for the plants like they were precious jewels. The garden was lush and blooming, and Aziraphale had been taken with it when he first arrived, but he thinks he might just love it, simply for the way Crowley clearly does. 

The sky cracked, warning them of incoming rain, and Aziraphale felt the thunder rumble through his chest, an echo of his own increasing heartbeat. There was something utterly charming about Crowley, despite the way he hid himself, an awkwardness that made him real and interesting and different. Aziraphale shrugged his cloak off his shoulders, raising it over Crowley’s head, even though Crowley’s own cloak was drawn tight around him. It was the principle of the thing, really, and he saw how Crowley startled at the gesture. Aziraphale ignored the way the drizzle soaked his clothes as Crowley carefully shuffled a step closer and he smiled.

=

Present :

"You can stay at my place, if you like."

The words are still ringing in Crowley’s ears. He follows Aziraphale, like he’s been doing, like he thinks he always will. There was surely no other possible option he could take, when Aziraphale offered him his home, like he wanted him there. Crowley wants to protest; the danger of it is still very real, but it's hard to be skeptical in the face of the unwavering surety that Aziraphale seems to possess about this entire affair. Aziraphale seems so confident that they can make this work, and Crowley has no idea where this kind of faith comes from. 

Walking further from the temple fills Crowley with apprehension, but Aziraphale keeps to the outer roads, avoiding the busy city center, for which he is grateful. They had started off with Crowley a step behind, like how they had come to the city, but Aziraphale reaches back, gently tugs Crowley to walk beside him instead. He loops their arms together and Crowley can hardly breathe for the simple familiarity of it. 

They come upon a simple home, sitting on a hill and somewhat apart from the other buildings around it. Aziraphale leads them up the steps, into the courtyard and through a door, opening into a cozy living space. It’s warm and light and airy, simple and modest but lived-in. There’s a table stacked with scrolls in one corner and the furniture is worn; there are items left haphazardly in places like Aziraphale had gotten distracted and forgotten about them, and it's just a touch dusty and cluttered. Aziraphale stands in the center of the room, vaguely gestures around them.

“It isn’t much, but it's home.”

It’s perfect. 

-

Aziraphale prepares dinner, just something simple, he says almost sheepishly, used to a soldier’s diet. It’s still more decadent than anything Crowley can remember having. Roasted meat and fresh bread, cheeses and olives and wine. Crowley has been choking down whatever he can find that’s edible in the wild, half-starving among the stones. 

Crowley eats slowly, letting the flavors roll around on his tongue and carefully watching Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. He's unused to cooked food, but he's had morsels here and there enough to tell that Aziraphale knows what he’s doing. Aziraphale eats like he genuinely enjoys it, where Crowley has always found it an annoying necessity. Iit's fascinating to see. He doesn't quite understand it, but it's making Aziraphale happy, and Crowley feels himself warming to it. He wants this, he realizes, despite his nervousness, he wants to sit beside Aziraphale forever, sharing food and sharing space. A slight turn of Aziraphale's head has him snapping his gaze away in a panic, and immediately shame fills him. He's not meant to have this, this domestic and soft life, tucked away in a kitchen and pressed up against someone. He was condemned to his curse, to the mountains, to being alone, and he should stick with that. Not be greedy and selfish; putting Aziraphale in danger with every little turn of his head. 

Crowley’s thoughts darken, the familiar creeping weight of shadows in his mind. But then, suddenly, Aziraphale’s hand curves around his jaw. He nudges Crowley to turn his head and Crowley instinctively closes his eyes, but lets Aziraphale gently tilt his face until he’s facing him, and there’s a quiet inhale. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Crowley jumps, completely thrown, and takes a moment before he manages a nod. He is still overcome that Aziraphale would want to kiss him in the first place, let alone that he’s asking . There’s the soft touch of lips on his, careful at first, but more sure when Crowley reciprocates. The kiss deepens and Aziraphale has traces of vinegar on his tongue, bitter and strong, but Crowley has never tasted anything sweeter. It's as though every time he starts to doubt, Aziraphale seems to know, turning back and coming close, full of affection and reassuring warmth. Crowley wants this so bad it hurts.

=

Aziraphale has always made do with a simple life, as would be expected of a soldier. here's hardly anything high class about him or his lodgings, but Crowley still moves around like everything is a valuable. Aziraphale watches his careful tread— his wary observations, his hesitant everything — and as much as it breaks his heart at what kind of life Crowley must have known, he also feels something weightless in his chest. Crowley is here, in his home, at his table, and Aziraphale wants him to be part of his life with a yearning that's almost shocking in its strength. He wants Crowley to find comfort here; a place he can rest, a place he's wanted. 

Aziraphale makes dinner; a simple affair, but Crowley contemplates every mouthful like it's magic. Aziraphale resolves to branch out his cooking in the future, if only for the light it brings to Crowley’s face. They finish the meal, washing it down with wine, basking in companionable silence. Until Aziraphale sees the moment Crowley starts to wilt — some dark thought or another taking hold— and he moves to try and stop it if he can. Crowley jumps beneath his touch, jumps at the question, but he's willing and eager once Aziraphale actually kisses him. Crowley kisses him much like the first time, all desperate and hungry, and Aziraphale eases him into something peaceful, because they have time now, and Crowley deserves to be kissed like they're not fighting a war. Easy, slow, and quiet, Aziraphale lets his lips linger on Crowley's, cups his face and presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, his chin, his cheek. Crowley winds closer, like being closer is the only thing on his mind, and Aziraphale welcomes him. They stay like that for a while, curled together at the table, Crowley’s chin hooked over Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale hopes that it will always be like this. 

There’s something tickling at Aziraphale’s shoulder, a feather-light touch to the skin, and he turns his head to investigate, blinks in surprise to find a few of the snakes that act as Crowley’s hair have stretched out to nose at him. One of them flicks out a tongue and the tickling sensation returns. Aziraphale smiles in bemusement, watching the snakes sway and idly wondering if they have a mind of their own or not. He feels precisely when Crowley notices what he’s looking at, when he lifts his head, feels the way he goes tense with something like fear, and doesn’t look at Crowley no matter how much he wants to, only tightens his hold.  Crowley is, at the very least, self-conscious and at most, ready to fully panic, so Aziraphale chooses his words carefully and keeps his voice as level and casual as he can.

“Are they their own creature?”

“What?” 

Crowley is rigid in his arms.

“Or are they just a part of you?”

Aziraphale brings one hand up to rub absently between Crowley’s shoulder blades.

“Uh, they’re really just uh, just an extension of me, but-, you-, ghn?”

Crowley is clearly bewildered and Aziraphale tilts his head to press a kiss beside his ear, where the image of a coiling snake sits imprinted on the skin. 

“They’re part of you, then. They’re lovely.”

Crowley lets out a string of syllables that might be words but got lost on the way out. He sounds utterly lost and Aziraphale hums soothingly, reaching out to stroke a hand down one of the snakes that’s nudged his cheek, and gives him time to recover. 

Crowley relaxes inch by inch when it's clear Aziraphale isn’t bothered at all by the fact that he has living snakes attached to him, and he gradually sinks back against Aziraphale again. There’s a soft huff of breath, a puff of heat at the hinge of Aziraphale’s jaw, and Crowley mumbles low into the space there. 

“You’re still alright with this?”

“Yes. Are you still alright with this?”

“Yes.” Crowley says, a little too quick, a little bit breathless. 

Aziraphale can hear how much Crowley is more than alright with this, but still so apprehensive, his fear at what he can do outweighing his own desires. Aziraphale understands, because he adores Crowley, trusts him implicitly, but he’s still a soldier, and he was still sent to that cave in the mountains for a reason.

"Can I ask...the reason they sent me after you...there was a petrified man they found, out in the city…"

Crowley flinches and bows his head, away from Aziraphale.

"It wasn’t- I wasn’t-, I was on my way out, but I saw him attacking a young woman. I don't know for sure what he intended, but..."

Aziraphale nods, though Crowley can't see it, reaches out to rest his hands on Crowley's head and doesn’t make him continue. 

"I understand. It's alright."

And it is. Aziraphale leans forward, presses a kiss to the top of Crowley's head and lingers there, letting the snakes bump and rub against his cheek. He thinks that if he'd seen the same thing, he'd have drawn his sword. He thinks there is nothing he could fault Crowley for now. 

=

Crowley leans forward, closes his eyes, and tucks into the welcoming sun-soaked heat of Aziraphale. There is forgiveness in the slide of hands on his head; the tender touch, the lingering kiss. Aziraphale holds them together, just like that, simple and undemanding and unexpectant. 

Crowley feels his world tilt, like it had been off-balance this entire time and suddenly swung into equilibrium. Like something is slotting into place that had been missing. They stay like that until Crowley starts to drift off, lulled by the sense of safety and comfort. His head dips, slides where it had been resting on Aziraphale's shoulder and he jumps back awake. Aziraphale huffs a quiet laugh, and Crowley feels it gust by his ear. It's an action so small and insignificant, but something about it makes his chest tighten. Maybe it's the closeness. Maybe it's the casualness.

"Perhaps we ought to retire for the night."

They clean up the remnants of their meal, though Aziraphale takes care of most of it, waving off any attempt Crowley makes to help. He merely watches as Aziraphale putters, so at ease in this space, and different from how he was as both the temple visitor and the soldier. All three not so much separate, but more facets that make up who Aziraphale is. All pieces he has the privilege of seeing. Does anyone else know Aziraphale like this? Crowley feels overwhelmed.

Aziraphale guides him out of the kitchen, through another cluttered living space, and into a bedroom, cozy and warm. Crowley hesitates at the threshold, head bowed and watching Aziraphale's feet walk further into the room. It hadn't really occurred to him before, though it makes sense as to why, but there's only the single bed in the room, and Crowley is suddenly very anxious. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley flinches. Aziraphale is suddenly there again, and Crowley stares down as Aziraphale reaches for his arm. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I-”

And Crowley has no idea how to answer. He doesn’t have the words to explain the complicated mess of doubts and fears that have resided in his chest for years and how standing in Aziraphale’s bedroom, realizing that Aziraphale wants to share a bed with him is more terrifying than anything he’s faced before. 

The hand resting on his arm is suddenly gripping at the elbow, a gentle beseeching touch, and Crowley lets himself be pulled forward, despite his reservations. Aziraphale guides him to the mattress, sits him down on the worn bedding, sinks down beside him and simply waits. Crowley tugs nervously at his tunic, hesitant and terrified, but Aziraphale is a solid presence along his side, bare skin against his, and Crowley finds himself so utterly wanting. He has lived so long with nothing but coldness and severity, so long without friendliness or care, that he thinks, half hysterically, maybe he can have this, even if just for one night. 

Crowley gathers his resolve, closes his eyes, and turns into Aziraphale's embrace. Aziraphale holds him —gentle but firm— draws them down onto the bedding and beneath the covers, and for the first time, Crowley knows safety in the night.

=

=

Aziraphale opens his eyes to sunlight and warmth and the awareness of snakes lazily sliding around the pillows. He shifts carefully, easing into wakefulness, and finds Crowley is curled half on top of him, face buried against his neck. His left arm is nearly numb and there's a slight crick in his shoulder, but he's so ecstatic to wake up next to Crowley, he barely pays it mind. 

Aziraphale lets himself observe Crowley, in a rare moment that he can, when the danger of Crowley's gaze is far less present. His eyes trace the parts of Crowley’s face he can see from this angle; the shell of his ear, the corner of his jaw. He studies where the hairline would be on a human, how it becomes the body of snakes, scales fading to skin. He wonders if Crowley will let him explore sometime; find where all the scaled patches are and map them out like landmarks. 

There’s movement under Crowley’s eyelids, and Aziraphale pries his gaze away but makes no move beyond that. There’s nothing needing his attention today, no business or duties beyond perhaps a visit to the market for some supplies, and he fully intends to savor his first morning waking up with Crowley.

Crowley goes from sleeping to fully awake almost instantly and Aziraphale can sense the confused surprise rolling off of him when he realizes where he is. Crowley inhales deeply, a motion Azirpahale can feel with them lying chest to chest, and he thinks about days stretched before them, all starting like this; warm bed, tangled legs, light hearts. 

Aziraphale would love to stay like this forever, but there's the rumbling sound of hunger from one or both of them, and Aziraphale laughs. It startles a laugh out of Crowley as well, and Aziraphale feels like he’s walking on air. With a grin, he pronounces it breakfast time, hooks one arm around Crowley's waist, and swoops them both out of the bed. Crowley squawks in surprise as Aziraphale plonks him on his feet, his back is to Aziraphale. Aziraphale leans forward and presses a quick kiss right between Crowley's shoulder blades, hears the sharp inhale that results in and thinks about how he's never wanted to give so much to someone else in his life.

They get dressed together and Aziraphale leads them to the kitchen, sitting Crowley at the table while he rummages around to make them breakfast. Wheat flour, olive oil, honey, curdled milk, all tossed into a frying pan, making a flat cake, served with cheese and more honey. Not something Aziraphale typically makes, but he thinks this first morning, this first soft and sleepy morning, warrants something beyond his usual barley bread and wine. It's comfortable and quiet, this shared meal, and Aziraphale is careful where he steals glances. Crowley still seems in a state of mild shock at everything, and Aziraphale hopes there comes a day where this kind of casual domestic start to the day becomes a well-worn routine. 

They head out to the market; Crowley assures him he is fine going, though his trepidation is obvious. Aziraphale fusses over Crowley's cloak more than he needs to, pulls him close as they walk, and keeps a watchful eye around them. They reach the city center, where the bulk of the market stalls are clustered and wander the rows; Aziraphale chatting idly to vendors as he browses and buys. Crowley is both tense and curious at his side, having never done more than pass through this section of the city. 

They’re walking by a stand selling livestock when a voice calls Aziraphale’s name. Aziraphale turns to look, casual in his movement, even as he shifts to put Crowley behind him. A man in uniform strolls up to them, amiable enough, and Aziraphale nods in greeting. He recognizes his fellow soldier, though he’s part of a different unit, and he lets himself be drawn into small talk out of politeness. A tilt of the other man’s head has him eyeing Crowley, and the rush of protectiveness that immediately floods Aziraphale is almost startling in its ferocity. There’s a wolf rising in his chest, guarded and angry, and while the soldier has yet to do anything beyond look, Aziraphale trusts his instincts. He gives a smile that’s more a baring of teeth, and introduces Crowley as his companion. The other man glances between them, Aziraphale’s tight smile and Crowley obscured by his cloak, and makes the smart choice of clearly deciding it's none of his business. He bids a farewell and shoots one last look at both of them before striding off and disappearing among the crowd. Crowley is very quiet and very still beside Aziraphale, and despite Crowley’s more than adequate ability to defend himself, Aziraphale steps closer protectively. Crowley could kill that other soldier in an instant, but the point is, more than anything, that Crowley shouldn’t have to and he isn’t on his own anymore.

They move on, passing a few more stalls, when another voice beckons Aziraphale, and this one is far more welcome. His face breaks into a warm grin, and he guides them to where an older woman is selling a variety of fruit. The woman waves happily, and when Aziraphale introduces Crowley, she practically shoves a pair of ripe-red apples at them. 

“My treat”, she says with a wink, beaming away, “for all the help this angel always gives me.”  

Aziraphale feels himself flush, even as used to this behavior as he is, but he can practically feel amusement rolling off of Crowley, and something about having him here makes Aziraphale just a touch bashful. 

“‘Angel?’“ Crowley repeats, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. Aziraphale huffs at the teasing tone, even as the old woman waxes on about how Aziraphale always helps her when shipments come in that are too heavy for her to handle alone. 

“Not my idea,” Aziraphale grumbles back, but he can see a flash of a grin beneath Crowley’s hood so it's only half-hearted. 

They part from the stall with a good bit of ceremony, as the woman insists on shoving an armful of fruit at the both of them, refusing to take no for an answer. Aziraphale rolls his eyes good-naturedly and gathers it up, accepting the basket she holds out to him and pretending not to see the way Crowley is losing the fight against holding back his laughter. Aziraphale spots the glint in the woman’s eye as she assesses them both and quickly bids a cheerful farewell, pulling Crowley with him before she can make suggestive comments about what they are to each other. Maybe he’ll bring Crowley back some other day, when they’ve actually had the chance to talk about it. It’s a nice thought, the idea of getting to introduce Crowley as more than just a companion, and he lets it carry him to a courtyard nearby, out of the way of the main traffic. They sit on the edge of the fountain there, a quiet and isolated corner of the city —flowing water, bright mosaic, afternoon light— just another couple in the crowd. Now that they’re alone, Aziraphale breathes easier and Crowley’s shoulders relax. 

Aziraphale rifles through the basket, pulls out the first two apples the vendor had handed them, and holds one out to Crowley. Aziraphale can tell Crowley is a little lost in thought, but he takes the apple eventually, and there’s a beat before he speaks.

“Thanks, angel .” There’s mischief in Crowley’s voice, and it's such a nice thing to hear, Aziraphale can’t even be annoyed.

“Oh, don’t start.” But he’s half-laughing, and he bites into the apple, finds it perfectly juicy and sweet and inwardly throws thanks up to the gods. For this, for everything. For Crowley.

They finish the apples, and when Aziraphale stands, he holds a hand out to Crowley and says:

“Let’s go home.”

=

Crowley stares into the open air of the courtyard, the stillness of it all, the way the noise of the market fades into the background. Aziraphale settles on the edge of the fountain, and the light hits the water at just the right angle to reflect back, catching in Aziraphale’s curls. He looks like he’s haloed in gold, and Crowley is so distracted, he almost misses Aziraphale offering him an apple. He takes the fruit, thinks about the old woman who gave it to them, and grins as he remembers. 

“Thanks, angel .”

Aziraphale laughs, a bright and glorious sound; bells chiming, birds taking flight. The nickname suits him. 

“Let’s go home,” Aziraphale says, three simple words, but they echo like an eruption. ‘ Home ’ as in for both of them; ‘ home ’ as in a place he can call his own, safety and belonging and comfort. Something he’s never had. Crowley takes the hand Aziraphale offers, reeling but finally daring to hope. Maybe he can have a home with Aziraphale. Maybe Aziraphale can be his home.

They return as they left, Crowley's arm tucked into Aziraphale's, as Aziraphale manages the haul from the market in his other hand. Crowley gets the door and Aziraphale dumps the selection of goods on the kitchen table, and starts to put them away. Crowley would try to help but he has no idea where anything is, so he settles at the table and worries at his lip, something from earlier on his mind. He wants to ask about Aziraphale introducing him as his companion, but he's hesitant and he's not sure why. 

"Aziraphale…" He begins, quiet and unsure.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale’s head tilts; he’s listening.

"Earlier, to that soldier, you called me your companion." Crowley stops there, not quite knowing how to articulate himself. There’s a weighted pause, a shift in the line of Aziraphale’s shoulders.

"Yes, was that okay?"

Crowley swallows hard, sees his chance to get his answer, though he’s not sure he wants it. 

"Is that what you think of me as?"

If that’s all he is to Aziraphale, he’ll take it, because it's still more than he ever thought he’d get, but-

"No."

Crowley’s heart sinks.

"...no?" It comes out far more wounded than Crowley had intended and he winces.

Aziraphale lifts his head and there’s a loud thud as he abruptly sets something down. He swings around, eyes cast downward, but Crowley slams his eyes shut anyway. He can hear Aziraphale stepping closer and hopes he hasn’t ruined everything. Curses himself for daring to want more than what Aziraphale had already given. But then there are hands on his shoulders, and Aziraphale is in front of him. 

"I think of you as more than that, but we haven't really talked about it.” Aziraphale’s voice is warm and comforting, casual and fond. Crowley finds himself leaning forward without conscious thought. 

“I didn't want to say anything openly that we hadn't agreed to."

Crowley lets that sink in, can hardly fathom it.

"Oh."

One of Aziraphale’s hands curves around the back of Crowley’s head. 

"What do you want, Crowley?"

"What do I want?"

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Crowley has wanted things before, but he learned a long time ago that he’d never get them, by the nature of his very being. He stopped doing things like wishing and hoping and wanting, because there was no point, but as he sits here in this room, he thinks what if . Because there’s sunlight pouring in the windows, there’s fresh fruit still lingering on his tongue, and Aziraphale had kissed him that morning, and those are things he’d never thought he’d have. Aziraphale makes him want to wish and hope, fills him with a yearning he’s almost afraid to touch, and Aziraphale has been asking this entire time, has never let him down, and he’s asking again now. In the face of that, Crowley thinks he can be honest. 

“I want-, I want this. I want you.”

There’s a sigh above him, but it sounds like relief, like happiness.

“It’s yours. Crowley, it's yours for as long as you want it.”

Aziraphale is holding him close and Crowley just breathes and breathes and breathes, because it feels like the first time he’s been able to. He’s been trapped in ocean water, dragged beneath the waves and Aziraphale has hauled him to the surface; clean air, clear lungs.

“I’m going to kiss you now, ok?”

Crowley nods jerkily, tongue too tangled to answer in words. Aziraphale cups his face and brings them together, and they’ve done this several times now, but it still never fails to feel like standing on a cliff’s edge, thrilling and sublime. Aziraphale parts his lips and Crowley lets himself tumble. 

-

Eventually, they make it to the bed, once Crowley has stopped drowning and Aziraphale has paused long enough to move them out of the kitchen. Crowley lets him lead because he might feel confident enough to walk in the front door now, but the bedroom is something else entirely. It’s personal and intimate and very much Aziraphale’s, and walking there first still feels entirely too much like intruding. Aziraphale pulls them in, pulls them down, pulls them close, and goes back to kissing Crowley as though he simply can’t get enough. 

Crowley opens to him, blindly pushes for as much contact as he can get. Aziraphale has made it clear that he wants this, that he welcomes any advance Crowley could make, and now that it's out in the open, that they're actually something together, Crowley finds himself growing more fearless. Even without his sight, the sensation is overwhelming, beautifully explosive and wonderfully captivating. His other senses heighten in response, a slow sort of build in intensity that makes Crowley feel like he’s buzzing out of his skin. Everything narrows to Aziraphale, to his mouth on his mouth, his hands on his face, the warm and welcome weight of his body flush against his. There’s a scrape of stubble against his cheek, and the sudden roughness feels like lightning racing over his nerves. Crowley feels a sudden desperate longing to see Aziraphale, to know what kind of expression his face has pulled into, to look and see him looking back, and he wants to cry in sorrow or rage. His face must show something of his turmoil, because Aziraphale stills, though he doesn’t pull away.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry, I just-” Crowley makes an inarticulate noise in his throat, frustrated and upset. “I just wish I could see you.”

“Oh, Crowley .”

There’s a note of something upset in his voice, but it sounds directed at himself and Crowley makes a questioning noise as the bed shifts, feels Aziraphale's hands settle on his arms. 

"Crowley, you can open your eyes."

And because Aziraphale has never given him a reason not to trust him, Crowley does, slowly and carefully. He blinks against the light, then finds he has to catch his breath. Aziraphale is now sitting in front of him, but his eyes are shut tight, a calm expression on his face. Crowley has only ever had stolen glances more than any real look, the fear of accidentally turning his gaze on Aziraphale too strong to let him try for more. But now, Aziraphale waits patiently, trusting and open, granting Crowley something he’s wanted for a very long time.

"Aziraphale?"

"I'll keep my eyes closed until you tell me to open them. Promise."

“Oh,” Crowley says, barely more than a whisper. 

There’s far too much wrapped in this promise for Crowley to process at the moment, the vulnerability of it all, and he’ll deal with it later, when Aziraphale isn’t sitting in front of him and offering himself to Crowley. Crowley inhales deeply, leaning forward and letting his hands come to rest on Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale is...beautiful. Crowley knew this already, but seeing Aziraphale up close, it's almost unfair. 

Aziraphale is all soft angles and rounded curves, light and strength and life. Lines are etched onto his face, a map of all the years he’s been alive, worry and laughter leaving their mark in equal measure. Crowley thinks of the statues of gods he’s seen, the way they were carved to show power and wisdom and perfection. He thinks they cannot compare to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale lays his hands on top of Crowley’s and Crowley darts his gaze down, stares at the picture they make. Aziraphale’s hands are sturdy and worn, the hands of someone who has worked and worked hard for almost all of his life. There are signs of age across the backs of his hands, and Crowley’s eyes trace the line of the tendons from knuckle to wrist.  Aziraphale’s hands are broader and shorter than Crowley’s own, and he silently compares them, sees where the veins stand starkly in his own skin; feels how calluses have formed on Aziraphale’s palm. He lifts his hands and raises them, palm out, splays his fingers, and waits. Aziraphale, as always, doesn’t disappoint, follows the movement without hesitation, and lets their hands intertwine between them. All these differences between them, Crowley thinks, and their hands fit as perfectly together as though they had always been meant for this.

Crowley lets his eyes wander, to take in more of Aziraphale, to take in the parts of him he’d always been too afraid to let his gaze wander near. He wants to memorize this, to permanently fix every angle and plane to the back of his eyelids, know Azirpahale so well he could chisel an exact replica out of marble. He won’t ask this of Aziraphale again, when this is gift enough, and he’ll take this chance to drink his fill, though he doubts he could ever be satisfied. 

Crowley wants to reach out and touch, to trace his fingers over the hinge of Aziraphale’s jaw, down the line of his nose, then abruptly remembers that is something he can ask for. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands before releasing them.

“Can I-?”

Aziraphale makes a sound like he was waiting for this question, a pleased kind of hum, and smiles, and by the gods . His smile is an absolutely lethal thing, at this proximity and clearly seeing it for the first time, the light of the golden hour over the mountains distilled into one curving line. 

“Of course.” And Aziraphale lets his hands drop, leans in so there’s barely a breath between them.

Still a little blindsided, Crowley haltingly raises his hands, cups them around Aziraphale’s face, and strokes over the apples of his cheeks with his thumbs. Aziraphale leans into the touch, content and utterly at ease, and Crowley wonders if this is what Icarus felt like, in the moments he was soaring high and free beneath the sun. He remembers when Aziraphale came to his dark and lonely cave with a sword in his grip, but left it holding onto Crowley instead. How he had shown tenderness in the face of a monster; how he’d been so full of affection for Crowley already that he could look past everything else and want him. Crowley swallows hard, thinks about how Aziraphale has never not trusted him, and something in him breaks open. He leans forward, tugs Aziraphale’s head towards him, and lays a kiss to both his eyelids. Aziraphale half sighs half laughs, a breathless sort of sound reverberating with delight, raises his own hands to find Crowley’s face and kisses him until they both fall onto the bed.

-

It's only later in the safety of darkness, face tucked into Aziraphale's chest, that Crowley finally voices the question that had been plaguing him since they had returned to the city.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

Crowley can feel the way Aziraphale stills against him, the deeper breath he inhales, and he braces himself. Maybe Aziraphale hadn't thought about the future, maybe asking directly would make Aziraphale realize what a mistake this was, maybe he should never have left his miserable cave-

"I've never been more sure of anything. I'm more sure every time I look at you."

Crowley feels like the world is tilting beneath him. He is a twisted parody of a person, more monster than anything, suited to shadows and isolation. One look at him and most humans would recoil in horror. He swallows hard, trembling in Aziraphale's hold.

"When you look at me, what do you see?"

"I see someone stronger than me. I see someone good and beautiful. I see someone I want, in every way they'll have me."

Crowley chokes out a strangled sob, presses his face further into Aziraphale, lets the words sear into him like a firebrand and ignite, burning down the old and making room for something new. 

=

^{[SKIP SMUT]}

=

=

=




=



=



=

They pass a few days like this, languishing in the newness, savoring the way every mundane thing is made significant for being experienced together. There is a precipice they reach, eventually. Something more building between them, forged in the year-long friendship they had steadily built together and brought to blazing levels in this new and intimate exploration of theirs. They’re figuring it out together, learning the steps of a dance neither of them know but are eager to learn. 

Crowley is still so scared of letting down his guard when one small misstep could lead to disaster, but Aziraphale has faith. He draws them forward, always careful not to rush, always asking to make sure. There is a heat beginning to grow now, when they kiss or when they touch, sparks igniting with the slide of skin on skin. Aziraphale feels the stirrings of desire, is certain Crowley feels the same, and wants to stoke this fire. But here more than anywhere else, he wants to make sure they're ready and willing together. This is very much a significant next step if they want to, and no matter his own inclinations, he won't do a thing Crowley doesn't want him to do.

It feels like the inevitable direction they're heading, but nothing is for sure until they talk about it, so Aziraphale makes a point to bring it up the next time they’re intimate. Crowley freezes, and the immediate turmoil in every inch of his posture makes Aziraphale even more determined to ensure Crowley's comfort. 

"We don't have to.” He assures immediately. “I promise it's alright. I only want whatever you want Crowley, and if you don't want that, I'm perfectly fine with it."

"I-," and Crowley swallows hard, seems to be trying to stare a hole in the floor.

"I do." He chokes out. "You have no idea, I-, Aziraphale, I want to, but all this already is so risky."

There’s a yearning there, pained and mournful, and Aziraphale hears it clearly.

"I think we could find a way, if you really do want this with me, but I’m not trying to pressure you. I meant it when I said it was fine."

Aziraphale tries to infuse his words with all of the sincerity he means, because he does mean it. Just being with Crowley is more than enough. Crowley stares down at the sheets between them for a long moment. 

"Let me think about it?"

"Of course, my dear."

Crowley is quiet and Aziraphale leaves him be, doesn’t push for anything more. He lays a soft kiss to Crowley's cheek and is perfectly content for them to retire for the night.

It's only the next night that Crowley shuffles up beside him, hands worrying at a length of fabric. Aziraphale makes a questioning noise as Crowley presses up against his side and pushes the fabric into his hands.

"I want-” Crowley cuts himself off, not quite able to articulate it, and Aziraphale grips one of his hands in understanding. Crowley lets out a breath.

“And I thought, maybe, covering my eyes would work."

Aziraphale agrees. It's simple but effective, and he slips the cloth over Crowley's eyes, around the back of his head to tie it securely, mindful of the snakes there. Crowley had explained they were merely extensions of himself and not really sentient, but with how they tend to nudge against Aziraphale, he's hesitant to dismiss them entirely. He guides Crowley to the bed and they both sink to the mattress, Aziraphale grabbing Crowley’s hands in his, and feeling the tension there mixed with anticipation. Crowley is keen for this, but he’s incredibly nervous; Aziraphale ducks his head, lays kisses along Crowley’s knuckles until some of that tension eases. Crowley gives a shaky exhale.

“I’ve never done this before, not with someone else.”

There’s something terrified in the admission, and Aziraphale slides his hands up Crowley’s arms, skating over the patches of scales, and coming to rest on his shoulders.

“I’m hardly experienced in this myself, dear. We’ll figure it out together.”

Aziraphale pulls them close and kisses Crowley. He’s never been particularly concerned about pursuing pleasures of this kind, but something about being with Crowley makes him want everything. The heat pools in his stomach as he wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist, lets him shift and settle his weight until he’s straddling Aziraphale; until he’s wriggling in Aziraphale’s lap, arousal a thick haze between them. Aziraphale drags his mouth down, nips at Crowley’s throat, sucks a bruise over his pulse point, and Crowley groans loudly, tosses his head back, and clutches at Aziraphale’s shoulders. Crowley’s hands dig into the muscle there, his nails a little sharper than normal, almost enough to draw blood, and the pain contrasts beautifully with the pleasure.

Aziraphale reaches one hand out blindly, for the table beside the bed, snatches up the bottle he’d set there earlier just in case. It's a moment’s work to get what he needs, with Crowley in his lap and his own focus still more than halfway centered on dragging his tongue over Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale takes an oil-slicked hand, slides it down with a feather-light touch, and presses at Crowley's entrance. One last time asking for permission. 

“ Please .” Quiet and just a touch desperate, right against his ear. 

Aziraphale pushes in. Crowley's hips jerk, as he punches out a breathy sound, and Aziraphale eases his way deeper. Crowley is biting his lip hard enough that he's about to break skin, so Aziraphale leans up and kisses him hard, gives him something else to bite. Crowley takes the offering, drags Aziraphale’s lip between his teeth, sharp points that send jolts down Aziraphale's spine. He licks into Crowley's mouth, drags them impossibly closer, even as he adds another finger and makes Crowley gasp into his mouth. 

Aziraphale works Crowley open slowly, even though he's hard and aching, even though Crowley is already making a mess between them. He's being as gentle as he can, because this first time should be gentle; it needs to be gentle. Because this is for both of them, yes, but it’s so much for Crowley and it's important that he feels just how much Aziraphale cares. Aziraphale wants every slide and scrape, every bite and kiss and thrust to speak of love without words. 

It's maybe too soon to say it, but Aziraphale curls his fingers and presses his face against Crowley's skin, holds Crowley as he writhes in his lap and clutches at him. He presses affection into his skin, his scales—lays them out like he’s building armor; a prayer, an offering, a promise. 

When he pulls his fingers out, Crowley whines somewhere near his jaw, and Aziraphale murmurs something nonsensical back. He grips under Crowley’s thighs, shifts until they’re lined up and carefully brings them together. Crowley sinks down onto his cock with a moan, and Aziraphale moans with him. Everything is hot and tense and so, so good, sensations building higher and threatening to topple with every shift of their hips. 

Aziraphale thrusts, keeps a firm grip on Crowley’s hips, thumbs digging into the divots where they meet thigh, and Crowley hisses with pleasure. Crowley’s hands glide up Aziraphale’s neck, quick and flighty, slide over the planes of his jaw and cheeks, fingers finding where Aziraphale’s mouth is so he can lay his own mouth there, hungry and helpless. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley's voice is more of a croak. “I'm, ahhh, I'm not gonna last-”

His voice cracks on the last syllable and Aziraphale slides one hand up, rubs circles into Crowley’s back.

“It's ok,” he breathes, “it's ok, I've got you.”

Crowley wraps his arms tight around Aziraphale's shoulders, ducks his head beside Aziraphale and presses their temples together. He comes in a shuddering wave, choking Aziraphale's name, thighs shaking, and body strung taut as a bowstring. 

=

=

When Crowley reaches climax, it's a blinding kind of pleasure, a single pure note ringing in his ears as he loses himself in the bliss of it. Aziraphale takes him through it, holds him together and whispers soothingly in his ear, even as he keeps his own hips moving. With sight cut off, Crowley’s other senses had only heightened, bringing every sensation to a near dizzying level of awareness. And now, with the haze of his own climax slowly dissipating, the world narrows down to Aziraphale alone. 

There’s Aziraphale’s panting breaths, the way he’s grunting Crowley’s name, a groan in his ear that reverberates like the echo in his cave. There’s a salt-sweet taste in his mouth, a mix of wine and Aziraphale himself, and Crowley can smell sweat, oil, and the underlying scent of bread still clinging to them from dinner. His skin still feels alight, Aziraphale still moving, buried deep and chasing his release. He feels raw and oversensitive, slumped against Aziraphale, every twitch like fire, and he focuses on the slide of Aziraphale’s cock until Aziraphale’s hips stutter in their rhythm and he’s spilling hot inside him. Aziraphale cries out against Crowley’s throat, and Crowley feels the orgasm shake through them both. They stay like that, joined and too wrung out to bother moving quite yet, and Crowley lets himself drift on this feeling.

Eventually, Aziraphale moves, gathers Crowley in his arms, and lays him down on the bed. Crowley feels boneless, but heavy with a sense of peace. He can hear Aziraphale moving around, the sound of water in a bowl, and the bed dips as Aziraphale sits beside him. There’s the cool feeling of a damp cloth, a touch ghosting over his hips where he’s sure he’ll find bruises later, as Aziraphale cleans him up with care, wiping away the stick of sweat and the messy evidence of their union. A hand lights on his forehead, fingers brushing gently over what would be his hairline, a lover’s caress over twisting snakes, until it hits the knot of the blindfold. Aziraphale pulls it loose, unwinds the cloth from around Crowley’s head, careful of the few snakes in the way, and Crowley for once doesn’t feel the usual spike of panic. He only keeps his eyes closed, relaxes into the sheets, and basks in the afterglow. 

It’s not long before Aziraphale finishes his task, setting everything aside, and joining Crowley on the bed. He lays down beside him, and Crowley instinctively turns into his hold, until they’re laying together, contact from head to hip, legs in a tangle.

“Was that good for you, my dear?”

Crowley can’t help the small laugh that escapes.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Yeah, more than good. Perfect.”

He can feel Aziraphale’s smile against his cheek, the way it curves soft and fond. He’s not sure he can name the feeling currently soaking the room, the one sitting in himself, the one he thinks might be sitting in Aziraphale. If there's been any love in Crowley's life, it's been wind against a cliffside, a hammer on a nail. Not this, this soft glow of lamplight in the darkness, an open door and open arms. He doesn’t know yet, but with everything he’s been given, he thinks that maybe, after a lifetime of running and hiding, he’d like to stay and find out.

=

=

=

=

=

Crowley watches Aziraphale dress for the day. Aziraphale has to leave for business in the city, work he has to attend to as a ranked soldier, and he’s sliding into armor with a practiced ease. Crowley is still laying in the bed, sheets pooled around his hips as sunlight cuts into the room. 

Aziraphale adjusts his belt and the light shines sharply off the metal on his shoulder, hitting Crowley’s eye and he winces. The movement catches Aziraphale’s attention, and his head lifts, but he doesn’t look. 

“Crowley?”

He speaks softly, but with such a warm affection in his tone, it steals Crowley’s breath. Crowley snaps his eyes shut automatically, even as he commits the sight to memory. The line of Aziraphale’s back as he fastens his chest plate, the way his forearm flexes, how his hair catches the light. Laying his eyes on Aziraphale this close always feels like he’s tempting fate, and he is far too cautious to keep walking that road. The lack of a visual helps him catch his breath and he answers just as softly.

“Yeah.”  

There is a shuffling sound, sandals over the floor, and the bed dips. Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on his head, twining with the snakes that immediately surge around him, ensuring any act of nonchalance on Crowley’s part would be for naught. Even with some time having passed, Aziraphale still reacts with a kind of wonder, and Crowley is left asking how in anyone’s name he was granted this; someone who can look at a cluster of snakes for hair and only find delight.

Aziraphale eventually heads out, promising he won’t be long, and Crowley listens to him leave, only opening his eyes when he’s sure Aziraphale is gone. The bed is soft, warm, comfortable, all things that are still a novelty after so many years hiding out in the wilderness, and Crowley has no desire to move, even without Aziraphale there. He rolls into the spot Aziraphale had slept in, finding it still smells strongly of him. Crowley had spent the night curled into Aziraphale’s chest, face pressed into his shoulder, Aziraphale holding him close, his steady heartbeat like a lullaby. He had spent the day before at Aziraphale’s side, walking through winding streets again and stopping in the late afternoon to share wine, a hand tucked in his arm. Crowley inhales deeply. He remembers endless days of cold stone and harsh terrain, at the mercy of the elements and always faintly hungry. There was darkness and fear, loneliness and resignation. Crowley exhales.

He is curled up in a bed in a house in a city, where there is fire when it’s cold, food when he’s hungry, and he never wakes up alone. He has spent so long running and hiding and trying to survive, it is jarring to suddenly have shelter. Crowley has never wanted to protect something more in his life, the way he does when he thinks of Aziraphale. A life of struggle, a life of fighting, and now he gets to have this, gets to lay himself down and rest. He’s not sure what love feels like, if this is it, but he’s opening himself nonetheless. Aziraphale is the only peace he’s ever known. Aziraphale is the only thing he would fight for.   

=

There’s the sound of shifting armor, a nervous shuffle of feet, as Gabriel frowns to himself. This news is troubling at the very least, and certainly a dire situation. He glances back at the soldier standing before him. 

“You’re certain?”

The soldier nods fervently. 

“Aziraphale said he was his companion , but I saw scales, I know I did.” 

Gabriel hums thoughtfully. He starts to pace the room, gathering his thoughts, considering plans. He makes a decision. 

“It would seem Aziraphale has been bewitched by the monster he was supposed to kill.”

And as soldiers, they had a duty to slay monsters.

Chapter Text

“There,” Crowley murmurs quietly, “right above your hand, that’s the dog star.”

His breath puffs against Aziraphale’s ear and Aziraphale shivers just a touch, even as he follows the line of his index finger to stare up at the night sky.

They are sitting on the roof of Aziraphale’s home, a blanket spread beneath them, and Aziraphale is pressed back against Crowley, both with an arm outstretched as Crowley shows Aziraphale the constellations. Crowley holds Aziraphale’s arm, moves them both to trace patterns above them, and Aziraphale leans back into the warm, solid weight of him. His gaze idly roves across the vast firmament, finds pictures where Crowley tells him ones exist, and breathes in deep and relaxed. 

Sometimes he forgets, caught up in the busy minutiae of life, that the world is an incredible place, that they are small and brief, that they are surrounded by wonders. Lights gleam from the darkness overhead, the sea stretches out beyond the horizon, and Crowley is holding him close. Aziraphale lets that fill him, sink into his bones and bury there, so he’ll always remember what precious things he has around him. 

Crowley points out a few more constellations; Serpens, Orion, Libra, and Aziraphale sees them and thinks. About seeing, about being seen. He shifts, lowers his arm and Crowley’s by extension, and intertwines their fingers, brings their hands to rest against his chest.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“Just out of curiosity, what color are your eyes?”

There’s a weighted silence behind him, and Crowley’s other arm snakes around his waist, clutches tight.

“Ugh, Aziraphale, they’re not- they’re not anything, just a terrible yellow color. Not very appealing.”

Crowley’s voice is flippant as he speaks, but the grip he has on Aziraphale gives him away. Aziraphale wraps both their arms around himself, squeezes reassuringly. 

“I doubt that.”

Crowley grumbles, presses his face between Aziraphale’s shoulders, and Aziraphale, mindful as he is, gracefully changes the subject. When they finally descend back inside, Aziraphale wraps them in a blanket, fingertips gliding over scales as he makes his own constellation map of Crowley’s skin. 

=

=

Crowley wakes when Aziraphale gets up, though he doesn’t move, far too comfortable to bother. He can hear Aziraphale getting dressed in full uniform, armor and sword and all, and idly wonders at how the sound of steel sliding in its sheath no longer fills him with dread. There’s a brief moment of quiet, and then Aziraphale speaks, gentle but worried.

“Will you be alright while I'm gone?”

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, though he remains sprawled out on their bed, his own eyes firmly closed and face firmly buried in the pillow. As he sometimes does, Aziraphale has business to attend to in the city, and he’s supposed to be heading out now, but he always dawdles when leaving Crowley alone. 

“I always prefer it when you’re here,” Crowley drawls, “but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Maybe he’ll laze about in bed some more, or poke around the kitchen. Perhaps he’d even go nosing through some of Aziraphale’s vast collection of scrolls. Aziraphale had said before that he didn’t mind, that his home was Crowley’s home and Crowley was free to lounge and fiddle and explore. 

Aziraphale huffs bemusedly, and Crowley hears him draw close, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and a kiss dropped to his cheek. He leans into it despite himself.

“Get going, you sap,” he grumbles, “the sooner you go, the sooner you can come back.”

“Oh, my dear .” Aziraphale breathes, heavy with affection.

Another kiss dropped to Crowley’s forehead, just brushing the snakes that sit there, and Aziraphale heads out the door. Crowley sighs into the sheets, heart fluttering as he doesn’t even bother to hide his grin. 

=

Crowley spends the morning lazily, only leaving the bed when he gets bored, and rummaging through the kitchen to figure out where everything was, just so he could maybe help with meals at some point. He’s just wandered over to the sitting room, sinking down to inspect a shelf, when he hears a quiet sound from outside the front door. A lifetime of solitude and staying on alert has honed Crowley’s senses to an almost superhuman degree, and the sudden scuffing sound immediately makes him tense. It’s not a typical noise, sandals on stone, when only Aziraphale would come this close and he would hardly dither at the door. Crowley slowly rises from where he had been crouched, every muscle tense, as he ducks behind a wall to peer around the corner. There’s a rattling sound and then, abruptly, the door bursts inward. 

Crowley swears low under his breath, parsing out the outline of soldiers beyond the kicked up dust. He swings back around the corner, but one of them has spotted him and he hears yelling, footsteps charging across the room. Crowley lunges for his cloak, yanks it on, and bolts out the back door. 

=

Standing on a hill overlooking the east end of the city, Anathema frowns. She hears a door slam in the distance and she spots a cloaked figure running from what she knows is Aziraphale’s house. She sees the soldiers rushing out after them and alarm floods her chest. All the priestesses know and love Crowley and all the priestesses know he went home with Aziraphale the last time he was at the temple. She watches the cloaked figure dart into a back alley and turn sharply at a corner, just dodging a knife as it whistles past. Faintly she hears a soldier yell about a monster. Anathema scowls.

The figure she’s certain is Crowley is heading for the sea, to the empty stretch of beach far away from any innocent civilians. Anathema had just seen Aziraphale closer to the city center, dealing with some kind of military business. Sending a quick prayer up to Athena, Anathema spins on her heel and rushes back the way she had come. 

=

Crowley runs. It’s been a while, but this is nothing new, and he remembers all the twists and turns of the city streets, remembers the way down to the shore. He hates the ocean, would rather avoid it at all costs, but he can’t run for the temple of Athena, would never put the priestesses in danger like that, and the gates are too far to run for the mountains, so the sea is his best option. 

The soldiers are well-trained and they’re hot on his heels, but Crowley is a touch faster, not quite human in his strength and agility, and it keeps him just far enough ahead. He hears the ocean before he sees it, the crash of the waves sparking at a long-buried memory, but he shoves it away. He can’t afford any kind of distraction now. 

Crowley’s feet hit the sand and he keeps going towards the water, until he hits more solid ground packed tighter from the waves, and he whirls around to face his pursuers. The first soldier doesn’t stand a chance, clearly not having anticipated Crowley stopping and standing his ground, and he falls to Crowley’s deadly gaze immediately. His peers cry out in outrage and horror as he turns to stone, and Crowley lunges. 

The soldiers have the disadvantage in that they have to watch where they look, and Crowley has the disadvantage of being both outnumbered and unarmed beyond his eyes, which brings them mostly even. He slams into a body, wincing as his shoulder hits a chest plate, but his eyes catch another soldier, petrify him, and the distraction lets him toss another two men away from him. Crowley is doing fairly well, all things considered, and he knocks a man onto his back with a sharp kick, before his well-honed instincts have him whirling around.  

Another soldier is coming for him, but far more calculated than the others, using his shield to pinpoint Crowley by his reflection, and Crowley bares his teeth, sliding back a step. Water laps around his ankles, the skirmish having pushed him into the shallows, and he shudders at the feeling. The soldier before him now is dressed differently from the rest, just a bit more decorated and Crowley knows he must be some high-ranking officer and likely far more dangerous, and he needs to be completely focused. He’s done well enough so far, to the point that most of the rest of the group are incapacitated in some way, but there are shadows rearing up in his mind, threatening to drag him under and remind him precisely why he hates the ocean.  

The soldier advances, takes a swing, and Crowley darts out of the way, fast enough to unbalance his opponent, who stumbles. Another man behind them cries out ‘Gabriel!’ in concern and Crowley snarls low. Aziraphale has spoken of his commanding officer absently, always politely skirting around detail, but Crowley knows the man looks down on Aziraphale. His resolve hardens now that he knows his opponent, and he subtly weaves back and forth, watching Gabriel for his next move. 

“Monster!” Gabriel growls at him.

Crowley hisses in return, his head of snakes fanning out angrily around him. He sinks low and eyes his own reflection in the polished metal of the shield and darts forward. But Crowley realizes his mistake in focusing on Gabriel too much when he’s suddenly forced to dodge a blow from another soldier that nearly takes his head. The last second evasion makes him stumble further into the water, the waves reaching his knees now and he swears under his breath, as the echo of screams start to ring in his head. This is not the time –

Too late, and the memory comes rushing back, his breath quickening, his chest seizing, as the snakes on his head go into a frenzy in response to his emotional upheaval. He’s on this beach again, but there’s a girl and a god on the sand, and she’s crying and terrified and how could Crowley walk away from that? But interfering against a god was a stupidly brave thing to do, and while the girl had gotten away, Crowley had paid the price. 

The water rushes around him; crushing, crashing, suffocating. Poseidon rages and strikes Crowley down. There’s a curse that hits home, moves quick and painful and he thinks he screamed, can’t remember, can’t remember much of anything, just pain and fear and the feeling that the ocean was going to swallow him forever. He had woken up collapsed on the beach, feeling like he’d been dragged across the bottom of the ocean and spat back out, every muscle and nerve thrumming with pain. There had been a kind woman trying to rouse him, concern in her voice and gentleness in her hands, all of which vanished when Crowley had lifted his head. 

He remembered coming face-to-face with stone, twisted into a look of shock, and not comprehending until he’d caught sight of himself in a pool of water beside him. Horrid yellow eyes with slit pupils, fangs and claws and scales and snakes for hair. The realization that he was a monster now - that he had killed someone without meaning to, who’s only crime had been compassion - had sent him fleeing from the city; to the mountains, to his cave, far away from where he could hurt anyone else. 

But of course, they found him anyway, they always found him, didn’t they? Crowley stumbles into the water, half caught in the whirlwind of painful memories, and Gabriel presses his advantage. He surges forward, his shield as his guide, seizes Crowley by the front of his tunic, and drags them both out of the water. He flings Crowley down onto the sand, hefts his shield up to aim, and raises his sword. The setting sun catches on the edge of the blade, for a moment blinding Crowley, and he hunches his shoulders, bracing for the killing blow.

“It is our duty as soldiers to slay monsters like you.” Gabriel intones coldly. 

 The sword swings down. 

‘ Aziraphale …’ Crowley thinks mournfully; a wish, a plea, an apology. 

He closes his eyes. 

Chapter Text

Gabriel’s sword arcs downwards, ready to take Crowley’s head from his shoulders, and Crowley tenses as he hears it whistle through the air. And then-

“GABRIEL!” 

A voice like a roar, but precious and familiar, comes thundering across the sand. Crowley’s eyes snap open, just in time to see a blur of white and red slam full force into Gabriel. 

They go careening into the water, vanishing beneath the surface just as a wave crests and crashes over them. Crowley scrambles upright, poised tensely in the sand and feeling panic that echoes back across years and years. He rapidly scans the water, eyes darting back and forth as he desperately tries to find Aziraphale. 

Abruptly, a familiar head of curls bursts out of the water, and Aziraphale is grappling with Gabriel, both of them panting for air and weighed down by their now soaked armor. Aziraphale shakes his head roughly, water trailing down his face as he lashes out with a fist. He strikes Gabriel in the jaw and sends the other soldier tumbling, and takes the brief reprieve to wipe the water out of his eyes. Gabriel clambers roughly to his feet, impeded by the churning water around them, and lunges for Aziraphale. Aziraphale dodges, uses Gabriel’s own momentum against him and brings a knee up to collide with Gabriel’s gut, hard enough to send him flying back. 

They’re getting back towards shallower water, and Crowley watches in trepidation and a bit of awe as Aziraphale stalks towards his commanding officer. (He had seen Aziraphale’s shield once, when Aziraphale had been polishing it. The image of a wolf had been carefully laid into the metal, teeth bared and eyes intent. And now, steps measured and every muscle tense, coiled tension and honed focus, Crowley understands why someone as kind and gentle as Aziraphale would carry such an image into battle.)  

Gabriel is on his feet again, and they trade a few blows before Gabriel tries for a punch and Aziraphale deflects it, darting a hand out and snagging the back of Gabriel’s collar. With a mighty heave, he hauls Gabriel off his feet, over his own head, and twists to throw him down onto the sand. 

Crowley watches with careful glances, tense and terrified and tracking Aziraphale as best he can, lest he look over at Crowley at the wrong moment. Crowley remembers kindness on this beach before and how it had ended, and the thought of accidentally doing the same to Aziraphale, when Aziraphale had just saved his life again, is one too horrifying to consider.

Aziraphale is storming from the water, face set in fury, and Gabriel scrambles back, seemingly just realizing he’s losing. His hands reach back to where the other soldiers had fallen, and his fingers find the hilt of a sword. He snatches it up, shoves himself upright, and levels it in front of him. Aziraphale only draws his own sword, doesn’t falter a step, and for the first time, Gabriel looks afraid. 

Gabriel darts his gaze around, sees the other soldiers laid out, sees Aziraphale, rage and strength and more dangerous than he’s ever been, and sees Crowley, still hunched on the sand and looking at Aziraphale. With a grimace, he adjusts his grip on the sword, pivots himself around, and charges at Crowley. 

=

Aziraphale had just finished his dealings in the city center, sighing tiredly at the bureaucracy of it all. This was one reason he was perfectly content at the rank he was; any higher and he’d only have more paperwork to deal with. He wants to be home right now, where he finally has someone waiting for him, where he can cook for more than himself and his bed is never empty. Leaving Crowley that morning had been more than difficult, and he sent a muttered thanks upwards that the business had concluded rather quickly. 

Rapid footsteps suddenly sound and a figure comes swinging around the corner at full speed. He blinks in surprise as he recognizes Anathema as she nearly crashes into him, looking panicked. 

“Anathema? I just saw you, is everything alright?”

“Aziraphale, it’s Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, his blood running cold.

“What-”

“I saw him running from your house with soldiers chasing him! He was running for the beach.”

Aziraphale swears profusely, having no idea how they were found out, but already preparing to fight. In his mind, he rapidly traces the most likely path Crowley would take, and quickly calculates how fast he’d need to go to meet him. If he leaves now and uses the shortcut he knows of, he may just make it in time. No , he thinks, he’ll make it. He has to. Absently, he nods to Anathema, already pivoting on his heel.

“Thank you, my dear.”

And he takes off. 

=

When Aziraphale finally reaches the beach, he is greeted by the horrifying sight of Gabriel trying to kill Crowley.

He rushes down the beach, sprinting for the water where they’re fighting, and it catches the attention of the few soldiers still standing. He gets glimpses of the other soldiers, some petrified, some merely knocked out, and feels a brief sting of sadness, but it is far outweighed by the fierce protectiveness that howls in his chest. The soldiers rush at him, but his skill outstrips them in every aspect and it's barely any work to take them down, clearing his way just in time to see Gabriel about to swing his sword.

Aziraphale snarls, sends a quick plea to Ares, and throws himself forward.

“GABRIEL!”

=

Crowley snaps his head around as he hears the whistle of a blade coming at him once again, and stares wide-eyed as Gabriel rushes at him blindly in one last desperate gamble. The sword swings and the sight of Gabriel is suddenly gone, as his vision is filled with a chestplate up close. Blood splatters on the sand, and Crowley cries out as Aziraphale collapses in front of him. There’s a brief moment of shock, before Crowley realizes what’s happened, that the blood is coming from Aziraphale and he’s not moving and Gabriel is still standing over them, face twisting into something triumphant. 

Crowley feels rage like he’s never had before, something tumultuous and venom-sharp, and with a burst of adrenaline, he carefully slithers around Aziraphale and strikes quick as lightning, at Gabriel’s shins. Gabriel buckles and Crowley surges up, and their eyes meet. 

Crowley stares coldly at the now stone visage for only a moment, before he’s spinning around, terrified and panicked. Aziraphale is laying on the sand, breathing heavily and curled in on himself. There’s blood drenching his face. Crowley inhales sharply, because he can see now where the sword struck, right across Aziraphale’s eyes, and it looks very bad indeed. 

Crowley flings himself down beside Aziraphale, rolls him carefully onto his back, and tries to see just how bad the damage is. Aziraphale whimpers quietly, low in his throat, and brings up one arm to press at the wound on his face. Crowley grabs at the ends of his tunic, tears off a strip of fabric and replaces Aziraphale’s arm with it to try and staunch the bleeding. He cups Aziraphale’s face with his other hand, despair and desperation coiling tight in his gut. He has no idea what else to do, has never had need for medical knowledge, and certainly not for anyone other than himself.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale chokes out his name, reaching up to where Crowley is holding him.

There’s blood staining his fingers, but Crowley bends his head to kiss them anyway, feeling tears fill his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he cried, thinks he hasn’t since he got cursed, had honestly thought he wasn’t capable of it anymore, but of course it was Aziraphale who would bring it out of him. Aziraphale made him feel so much more human, and for a while he had forgotten that to the rest of the world, he was only a monster, to be feared and destroyed. And now Aziraphale had paid the price, bleeding out on an empty beach, with only Crowley to watch helplessly.

“Please,” Crowley begs quietly, to both Aziraphale and to any god listening. “Please.”

Aziraphale’s grip tightens, but he’s losing consciousness, and Crowley has never felt so helpless.  

Footsteps are suddenly coming closer, and Crowley tenses, because no, not now, not any more- , but then:

“Crowley!”

And it’s Anathema’s voice, followed by calls of the other priestesses of Athena as they spot both him and Aziraphale and the blood. Crowley keeps his head down, and he’s still crying, but now it's from relief, because Anathema is quick to assess the situation and she’s ordering the other priestesses around, clearly knowing what to do. Tracy bumps elbows with him, gently putting pressure on the wound with a clean cloth and murmuring soothingly, to him or Aziraphale, Crowley can’t tell. The other women move swiftly, calm and efficient, and for once, Crowley thinks, just once, maybe a god was listening to him. 

Under Anathema’s guidance, the group manages to lift Aziraphale, cradling him carefully between them, and they sweep Crowley into their midst, letting him stay close and shielding him among them. The rest is mostly a blur to Crowley, but they make it back to the temple without incident, and Aziraphale is soon sequestered away to be treated properly. Crowley sits outside the room, knees drawn up to his chest, staring blankly at the floor, and trying to process just what had happened. 

The door opens and closes quietly, a sandal scuffs on the floor beside him, and Anathema is sinking down to sit next to him. She doesn’t say a word, only wraps her hands around his arm and tugs him close. Crowley swallows hard, leans into the embrace, unable to voice how incredibly grateful he is to the priestess. For now, all he can do is wait and hope and wonder if Athena will grant him any more favors. 

Chapter Text

Hours pass, though Crowley can’t tell. His sense of time has warped, sitting unmoving outside the door where Aziraphale is lying injured, having taken a blow meant for him. All he knows is this corridor, these tiles, the four gray walls, and Anathema silently keeping vigil beside him.

There’s a creak of the door, purposeful and loud, and they both jump at the sudden noise. Tracy pokes her head out, spies them both and smiles tiredly. Crowley can see the corner of it from where’s avoiding her eyes, and something in his chest releases, because Tracy wouldn’t be smiling if anything was wrong. 

“Aziraphale is doing fine, dearies,” she says softly. “He’s very strong, you know.”

“What about-” Crowley manages past the lump in his throat, “what about his eyes?”

“Ah, the doctor isn’t sure on that yet. He’s still working, but Aziraphale is out of danger now.”

Tracy’s voice is soft and gentle and suddenly it's all too much. 

“Right,” Crowley says thickly, guilt clawing at him. “Right. I think I need some air.”

He squeezes Anathema’s hand, and she obligingly releases him. Swiftly, he heads for the garden, seeking the comfort of his old sanctuary. 

=

Crowley stands in the corner of the garden where Aziraphale first reached out to him, cloak over his head to shelter from the rain, and tries to breathe. Aziraphale has saved him so many times,  and while this time wasn’t fatal, he could still be paying a price. And what if there was a next time? It felt like all he did was hurt people and run; the cycle was starting again. No matter what Aziraphale said, it seemed like so much was against them; a world that didn’t understand, didn’t accept, and wouldn’t let them simply exist. All Crowley had ever wanted was to be left alone, until Aziraphale came along. Aziraphale was everything he wasn’t: bright and kind and strong and good, and Crowley despaired that he had ruined all of that by his presence. If it weren’t for him, Aziraphale would be fine, not laid up in a temple after nearly dying on a beach. 

Crowley can feel himself sinking, the kind of pain and misery that first sent him fleeing outside the city, and he feels the urge again to run. Only the thought of what Aziraphale might feel if he wakes up and finds him gone keeps him firmly where he is.

There’s a sound like wings beating, a brief flare of power, and the feel of divinity is in the air. Crowley’s spine jerks ramrod straight, and he whirls towards the presence, wary and alert. He catches a glimpse of a helmet, a spear, and a woman standing firm and proud, before he snaps his eyes shut in both panic and deference as he recognizes her. There’s a heavy silence, and then she speaks.

“You can open your eyes. Your gaze has no effect on me.”

And Crowley can’t tell if it's a reassurance or a dismissal, but he cautiously peers up anyway. He takes in the armor, the stance, the cool gray eyes that meet his own square on. The woman before him is divine might, regal strength in the line of her shoulders, power coiling beneath the skin. The goddess Athena has descended to her temple. Crowley swallows hard, voice rough and strained when he finally speaks.

“Mother.”

“Crowley.” She says, and her voice is cool and level, but there’s the barest touch of concern in her face, and Crowley relaxes minutely.

She had always been distant, but never truly uncaring, and her presence here wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, given that it was her temple and all. Athena reaches a hand out, rests it gently on the snakes and lets one settle into her palm. Her eyes soften.

“I regret,” she begins quietly, “that I couldn’t do more for you.”

Crowley blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“Poseidon’s curse was meant to kill you, painfully and completely. All I could do was alter its course. My power can only do so much against the wrath of a god like him.”

“Then you…” Crowley trails off, as he infers her meaning.

“This was all I could do to save your life, give you something to protect yourself with.”

“...oh.” 

And Crowley feels his world tilt. The curse he had thought was punishment this whole time was his mother trying to help him against a power greater than her own. Maybe being made a monster had only been a worse fate, but it was meant to save him, and Crowley feels lighter than he has in a very long time. 

“My son. You deserved so much better than what you were given.” Athena sighs, then the corners of her mouth quirk up. “Though I’m glad you have Aziraphale now, to love you as you should be loved.”

Something sharp spikes in Crowley’s chest at the reminder of why he’s hiding out here among the fruit trees.

“I almost lost him, what if-”

Athena cuts him off, voice calm and sure.

“Aziraphale will be fine, eyes and all. I’ve made sure of it.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen.

“You mean…?”

“I heard you, Crowley. You asked for my help and I won’t forsake you, not now.”

From the temple, a voice calls for Crowley.

“Go,” Athena says. “Aziraphale is a worthy match for you and now he’s waiting.” 

Crowley inhales deeply, steels himself and nods, before he turns to go.

“And Crowley?” 

Crowley turns back to Athena immediately.

“Your gaze won’t be a danger to him now.”

Crowley stares at her, disbelief and hope mixing in equal measure. 

“Mother,” he swallows hard, jaw working like he wants to say something else, but he stops himself and only says:  “Thank you.”

Athena nods sharply, jerks her head in the direction of the temple, and Crowley obeys, spinning on his heel and rushing back inside, back to Aziraphale. Behind him, unseen, Athena smiles.

=

Crowley nearly stumbles as he ascends the steps back into the temple, and Athena watches him go fondly. After everything he had been through, after all the times she should’ve been there, this was the least she could give him. The issue with being a goddess that actually worked was that she really was far busier than gods like Zeus and Poseidon. Wisdom, justice, warfare: these were not easy domains to preside over. But of course, she at least wasn’t alone on the last one. Another divine presence appears at her side and she smirks.

“Ares.”

“Athena.” 

“Come to see what my son has been up to?”

“Yours,” Ares snorts, “and mine.”

Athena doesn’t quite grin, but it's a near thing.

“Yes, they certainly had quite a time. Aziraphale is a very skilled fighter.”

“He’s my child, of course he is.”

Ares nearly looks offended and Athena makes sure he can see her amusement. They stand in companionable silence for a bit, as they have many times before, sharing a domain. They were as much friends as they could get. 

“You healed Aziraphale’s eyes, then?” Ares sounds casual, but he’s not asking casually at all.

“And then some. My son ought to get something good out of life, and Aziraphale is happy to give it to him.”

Ares hums in agreement. He doesn’t say outright, but Athena knows he approves of the couple as well.

“They suit each other,” is all he says.

They both watch the temple for a moment more, before they vanish as suddenly as they came.

=

Anathema helpfully holds the door for Crowley, because he can barely think about stopping for a door of all things, and he sweeps into the room on unsteady feet. There’s too many emotions swirling around his head, and the shock of seeing his mother has him completely off balance, but Tracy had said Aziraphale was awake-

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale calls out for him, voice quiet and rough, but he’s awake and he’s alive, and Crowley collapses at his bedside. 

“I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m here.” 

Crowley leans over and his breath catches, because he can see the mark the sword left, but it's almost healed completely, closed and clean and already scarring. The injury stretches at an angle between Aziraphale’s temples, cutting over both his eyes, but his eyelids are fluttering open and there doesn't seem to be any damage. Crowley nearly goes boneless with relief. 

Aziraphale flails a hand out, reaching for Crowley, and Crowley is quick to catch it, wrap it tight in his own and swear to himself that he’s never letting Aziraphale go again. Aziraphale sighs tiredly. 

“What happened to Gabriel?”

Crowley winces, because that had  been Aziraphale’s boss.

“Dead. Petrified. He hurt you and I just-”

Crowley cuts himself off, unable to voice the kind of frenzy the sight of Aziraphale bleeding had sent him into. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

“Good,” Aziraphale mutters. “I’d kill him myself if he wasn’t. I won’t let anyone touch you.”

Crowley can only stare at him in amazement, clinging to his hand and impossibly grateful for so much. Aziraphale brings his other hand up to rub absently at his eyes, and Crowley watches as Aziraphale squints up at the ceiling. Not that he had doubted his mother, but he’d still been a little afraid that saving Aziraphale’s eyes was beyond even a goddess’ power. But Athena had said Aziraphale would be fine, eyes and all, and clearly she was true to her word. Crowley remembers what else she had promised, and he feels both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of having that as well.

“Athena is my mother,” Crowley blurts out. “She healed you, because I asked her to, and  repaired the damage and um, she said-”

The words seem almost too good to be true and they catch in his throat. Aziraphale doesn’t push, just waits patiently.

“She said you wouldn’t be affected by my eyes now.”

Crowley can’t help but drop his gaze down, exhaling shakily. A near lifetime of having to be far too careful too hard to shake in this moment. Aziraphale is quiet, though Crowley can tell he’s surprised, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling as Aziraphale rolls onto his side.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and there’s a hand cupping Crowley’s face, tilting his chin up.

“Crowley, let me see you.”

Crowley holds his breath, lets Aziraphale lift his face, and their eyes, finally, for the first time, meet. 

Aziraphale smiles. Crowley remembers how to breathe. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are blue, somewhere between deep ocean and clear sky, and it's the most beautiful color Crowley has ever laid his eyes on. And Aziraphale is still here, still breathing and moving; soft skin, living body. Crowley has never known joy like this, and he can actually see it reflected back at him in Aziraphale’s face. 

The corners around Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle, laugh lines visible even with the new scar, and Aziraphale leans closer; he swipes a thumb to catch the tears forming in Crowley’s eyes he hadn’t even realized had formed. He beams up at Crowley.

“You’re a liar, you know?” Aziraphale says cheerfully, making Crowley pause.

“What?”

“You said your eyes were a terrible color. That they weren’t appealing. My dear, your eyes are beautiful.”

Crowley takes a moment to process that, chokes, and can’t do anything else but surge forward and kiss Aziraphale. Aziraphale makes a delighted noise against his mouth, and Crowley presses him gently back into the bed, half-laughing and half-crying. 

= 

Crowley falls asleep at Aziraphale’s bedside, and Aziraphale can hardly blame him. He only strokes through the snake hair, rubs circles over his shoulders and thinks. Once he’s recovered enough, he’ll have to go report what happened, and he may have destroyed his career, but he thinks he might be able to salvage it. Gabriel outranked him, but only because Aziraphale refused promotion, and Michael, even higher than Gabriel, had always favored him. Besides, he doubts Gabriel got any kind of permission to take a group and not only invade a private residence, but try to kill someone within the city. For all that Aziraphale hates bureaucracy, it would help him in this case. 

He’ll have to clean up the house, probably fix the door at least, and he absently makes a mental list of things he’ll need to buy next time he’s at the market. Tools and supplies, some more flour for bread, fruits and meat and cheese, and whatever wine Crowley prefers. Aziraphale glances at his sleeping partner, can’t help the soppy smile, because they get this now, he thinks. Athena has shown her favor and he sends a quick prayer to her in thanks, and his own father will likely help him if he needs it, but they get this. Peace, a quiet life together, shared meals and a shared bed. Aziraphale curls one arm over Crowley and drifts off, idly thinking how much easier teaching Crowley to cook is going to be now that they can actually look at each other. 

=

The sky looks like rain, but Aziraphale is determined to get outside, and Crowley understands. They’ve been pent up long enough and now they’re both feeling restless, so he only helps Aziraphale down the temple steps and into the garden. They find a convenient bench and drop onto it, and Aziraphale breathes deep, basking in the fresh air. Crowley watches him, still relishing in his new ability to do so without danger, and sees the exact moment Aziraphale catches him watching. Aziraphale gazes back at him, a little shy, a little amused, but so wholly full of love, and Crowley almost looks away, but this is his now, love without trappings. Still he can’t help but question.

“So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do we just...keep on like we were?”

“Well, not quite,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. Crowley blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“At the very least, the sex will be easier.”

Crowley sputters loudly, face flushing bright red.

“Aziraphale!”

“What, am I wrong?”

“We’re at my mother’s temple !”

Aziraphale laughs, throwing his head back, and after a moment of verbally juggling consonants, Crowley can’t help but smile. Still grinning, Aziraphale tilts his head and looks at him.

“You know, I’m also the child of a god. Ares is my father.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows go up, though he’s less surprised than he thinks he ought to be. Aziraphale was stronger and more skilled than most of the soldiers in general and the way he’d so easily overpowered Gabriel made his lineage make perfect sense. Crowley hums thoughtfully.

“So we’ll both be around for a while, then.”

“Mmm, longer than your average mortal, at any rate.”

“Plenty of time for plenty of things,” Crowley says, as nonchalantly as he can.

“Things like…?” Aziraphale presses, amused. Crowley grins.

“Anything we want! Maybe we can even travel.” 

“Oh? Where would we go?”

Crowley swings an arm up, gestures broadly above them. 

“Anywhere you want, Aziraphale. All the way to the stars, if you like. I’ll show you the constellations up close. I hear Alpha Centauri is lovely this time of year.”

Aziraphale smiles warm enough to light a hearth, and reaches over to take Crowley’s hand. The sky takes that moment to crack open, bringing the rain it had been promising. With a flourish, Aziraphale pulls his cloak over both their heads, and Crowley thinks about new beginnings, as he curls close. He thinks how this beginning gets to start just like the first; in the rain, in a garden, in an offer of shelter with no strings attached. The garden blooms around them, and he thinks about how he used to tell the plants his secrets-his sadness, his rage-and when he comes back here to tend to them again, he’ll tell them new stories: about seeing and being seen, about kindness, comfort, love, home .