Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aziraphale has known Anthony Crowley since they were five years old and his parents moved to the street where the Crowleys lived.

They only meet each other because Aziraphale’s parents invite the Crowleys for dinner and when they try to share the gospel, the Crowley family is so forcefully rude—citing what his parents call “Satanist literature”—that his father nearly kicks them out and subsequently forbids Aziraphale from talking to them ever again. But the Crowley’s share a fence with the Goodalls and Aziraphale likes playing under the apple tree in the backyard that brushes the dividing line between their properties. And one day, shortly after all the boxes are finally unpacked, he is outside under said apple tree when he hears a hiss come through the fence. He swings his head around with wide eyes and sees a sharp little face peering through one of the broken slats.

“Psst,” the face says.

“Tony?” Aziraphale replies standing up and wandering over.

The face scrunches up. “Don’t call me Tony. I hate that name.”

“Um…what’s it short for?”

“Just call me Crowley.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Aziraphale shrugs and does as he’s told.

“What’re you doing?” Crowley asks, nearly pressing his face through the hole in the fence. It looks uncomfortable. Or like he might get slivers in his cheeks.

“I was making a sword out of sticks.”

Crowley gives him a gap-toothed smile—he’s missing one of his front teeth—and Aziraphale rushes to say, “Don’t tell my parents. They don’t like when I play war games.”

They’d also probably give him a good spanking for even speaking to Tony.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Crowley says and Aziraphale hears the slight lisp he has on his s’s. “Maybe we can play imaginary war?”

“What?” Aziraphale asks, intrigued in spite of the fact they he knows he’ll get in trouble if he’s caught talking to the neighbor.

“We can tell each other war stories. Through the fence,” he explains.

Aziraphale considers it and decides that there really aren’t any kids on the block and a secret friend is better than none so he sits down in the dirt and leans against the fence. Crowley snickers and says, “So you have this big sword, see, and it’s on fire—”

“I don’t want it to be on fire.”

“Too bad, it’s on fire.”

Aziraphale humphs but plays along.

It ends up being quite fun.

Primary School

Aziraphale takes to school like a duck to water. The primary school is just down the block so his parents let him walk. On the very first day, he runs into Crowley, an excited bundle of energy, at the end of the street. He lost another tooth over the summer and a third one is loose. He likes to wiggle it around with his tongue, the sight of which makes Aziraphale feel a bit sick.

They have different teachers but walk home together, his parents none the wiser, Crowley flitting about in excitement about the newest thing he learned that day.

“Did you know about dolphins?” he asks one day after bursting through the front doors of the school and practically smacking straight into Aziraphale.

“What about dolphins?” Aziraphale asks through a bite of his cracker. His mom always packs him snacks for the day because she knows he gets cranky when he’s hungry.

“They’re big fish!” Crowley explains but Aziraphale is pretty sure that isn’t right. Crowley takes one of the crackers from the packet in Aziraphale’s hand and munches on it. Aziraphale scowls at him. He was going to eat that.

Sometimes when his parents are at the church working late, Aziraphale will sneak down to the park and meet Crowley by the swings where the two of them will play pretend. It usually ends with them collapsing on the ground in laughter and tracing shapes in the clouds.

It goes on like this until year 5, the walking to school and the conversations through the fence. They’re as good of friends as they can be given the fact that Aziraphale’s parents want him to have nothing to do with the “Devil Worshipers” next door. At school, Aziraphale generally spends time with the other kids who like to hang out in the library and have been put in accelerated classes.

Crowley isn’t stupid but he’s easily distracted so he doesn’t get put in the same classes as Aziraphale. It doesn’t really deter Crowley though. He’s just as excited about everything as he always is until one day he isn’t.

The summer before year 6, Crowley disappears. Aziraphale is sure that he’s just gone on holiday with his parents like some kids do, but the months stretch on and Aziraphale is fairly certain that nobody goes on three-month long vacations unless they are very rich and the Crowleys don’t seem that rich.

When he asks his parents, they surprisingly don’t reprimand him, instead they look at each other sadly and mention things like hospitals and terminal illness. Then Crowley’s dad comes back but not his mom and Crowley doesn’t come to the fence anymore and when school starts he still waits at the end of the street, but he doesn’t talk the way he used to and when Aziraphale tries to make a real effort by going over to the Crowley’s house in the middle of a Saturday, his parents do reprimand him, forcing Aziraphale to take a step back from the person he’d started to think of as his best friend. By the end of that year he and Crowley barely speak and as primary school becomes secondary school he tries to forget they were ever more than neighbors.

Year 7

A piece of paper hits Aziraphale in the back of the head. He flinches and reminds himself not to turn around, it will only egg them on. The reminder doesn’t help. When he swings around to glare at Crowley, the boy just gives him a shit-eating grin.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. French asks from the front of the room.

“Nothing, Mrs. French,” Aziraphale says before he bends back over his notebook.

“Nothing, Mrs. French,” he hears Crowley repeat quietly in a snide voice behind him.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Crowley isn’t the only person in school who likes to tease him. He knows he sticks out with his drab second-hand clothes (his parents think overconsumption is a sin) and his crooked glasses. It doesn’t help that he’s top of his class. It only took a few months for the sharks to circle, he was just surprised that Crowley was one of them.

For the most part he doesn’t mind. His mother helped him understand that children can be cruel and that, like everything else, it’s temporary, but occasionally, Aziraphale does get worn down. When that happens he retreats to the library or the band room and takes out his latest book to read a few more pages. It’s not like he doesn’t have friends, he’s got the other clarinet players in his section, and the kids in the chess club, it’s just that he prefers being alone with a good book.

He focuses on his notes for the rest of geometry class and tries to scurry from the room the minute break is called, ignoring Crowley’s faux friendly call of “Bye-bye, Zira.”

He hates when people call him Zira. Or Az. Or literally anything but his name.

Mrs. French stops him before he can get out the door. He waits while the rest of the class files out, hoping he’s not in trouble. Once the last stragglers leave, Mrs. French beckons him to her desk where he takes an uncomfortable seat in an old chair at the corner of it. “How are you doing, Aziraphale?” she asks and he relaxes minutely.

“I’m good. Is this about—”

“You’re not in trouble if that’s what you’re wondering,” Mrs. French says, picking up a pen and idly clicking it. “You and Anthony are friends, right?”

Aziraphale tries to find the right words to answer. They used to be friends, but his parents forced him to stop talking to Crowley? He isn’t sure how Mrs. French will respond to that so he shrugs. “Sort of.”

Mrs. French looks contemplative for a moment. “Well, if you have the time, maybe offer him a little help studying? I was hoping maybe a peer would have better luck than I have.”

Aziraphale considers it, his general desire to help others warring with his desire to be alone in the quiet somewhere where no one can bother him. He settles somewhere in the middle. “If it comes up, I’ll offer.”

He’s pretty sure it won’t. So he’s uniquely surprised when Crowley appears at his lunch table—where Aziraphale sits alone and eats his daily banana and peanut butter sandwich—and slams down his textbook. “Mrs. French asked you to help me, right?”

Aziraphale wishes he wasn’t eating something so sticky so he could swallow easier and maybe find the words to respond.

Crowley slides onto the bench, his recent growth spurt making him awkward and gangly—he had always been a skinny kid but this was a new level. Practically a skeleton, Aziraphale thinks viciously. Then he chastises himself. He is supposed to be helping him.

So, patiently, Aziraphale goes through the Pythagorean theorem and some long division which apparently Crowley had been struggling with for ages. The boy scowls through the whole thing, getting distracted and twitchy, and Aziraphale does his best not to snap at him. He remembers the boy from primary school who couldn’t sit still. Aziraphale knows about ADD and other learning disorders and he isn’t sure if Crowley is diagnosed but he is fairly certain something is going on there beyond a general distaste for learning—if his memories of Crowley’s intense enthusiasm were anything to go on.

His parents ask after his progress in school, and it turns out to be a ruse because Mrs. French had told them Aziraphale was helping Crowley study. His father tells him in no uncertain terms to stop associating with someone who will undoubtedly have a negative impact on his faith.

It turns out Aziraphale doesn’t have to say anything to Crowley because he stops showing up and Aziraphale goes back to eating his peanut butter and banana sandwiches in peace, a little guilty that he didn’t even have the opportunity apologize to Crowley.

Year 9

Aziraphale realizes he’s gay when he’s 14 and tells his parents after a month of self-reflection. His father looks him over and says that there is room in heaven for all God’s creations and that he should never feel guilty for who he is. His mother wistfully says that she still hopes he will consider having kids because she always wanted grandchildren. Overall, it goes pretty well and the vague concern Aziraphale had felt about coming out is swiftly washed away when his parents accept the conversation as easily as when Aziraphale announced he wanted to learn the clarinet.

Unfortunately, his classmates don’t take it quite as well.

Aziraphale isn’t out per se but he’s not in. He tells people when they ask and he feels it’s somewhat obvious given his general demeanor and the fact that he’s never expressed interest in any girls the ways his peers have. He’s also not interested in any boys but that’s because they all seem to lack his penchant for hygiene and none of them want to talk about Jane Austen. It’s all very fine since Aziraphale doesn’t think he wants to be dating. There’s a lot more to life than that, no matter what his pubescent classmates seem to think as more and more of them get caught up in moony eyes and the possibility of snogging.

So it’s not exactly shocking but it is disturbing that one of his classmates—Joseph Bernhardt—follows him home, using Aziraphale’s differences as targets for his anger, pointing out his ratty clothes, his lack of friends, his homosexuality, all because Aziraphale had refused to let him copy his homework. Aziraphale keeps walking thinking about the old adage turn the other cheek. Joseph seems to think that that means that said cheek is open for punching. When the strike lands across his cheekbone, Aziraphale falls down in shock, scraping his hands as his glasses clatter to the pavement beside him. Something old and angry rears up inside him as he stands and slams into Joseph, his heavier weight an advantage when he pushes Joseph into the telephone pole, knocking the wind out of him. It’s Joseph’s turn to blink in surprise.

“Never do that again,” Aziraphale says in a tone he didn’t think he was even capable of, equal parts violence and darkness.

Joseph scurries off and Aziraphale leans down to pick up his glasses. They aren’t cracked but the

metal frame is slightly bent. He sighs.

“You ok?” he hears from down the sidewalk.

He turns and sees Crowley slinking up the street, looking contrite for whatever unfathomable reason. It’s not as if it’s his fault that Joseph hit him.

“It’s fine. A bit scraped up.”

“I was going to step in, but you seemed to have it handled.”

Aziraphale grunts and tries to bend his glasses but his hands are covered in grit and trickles of blood. Crowley comes to his side and takes the glasses, doing his best to bend the arms until they are straight.

“My parents aren’t going to like this,” Aziraphale says as he realizes he absolutely doesn’t want to face them, scraped knees and palms, memory of unwarranted violence fresh in his mind.

Crowley cocks his head and then says, “Come with me. I can get you taken care of.”

Part of him wants to say no, my parents won’t like that at all, but Aziraphale still trails after him as the fall sun begins to dip closer to the horizon. Winter is setting in and with the cool breeze edging into cold, Aziraphale doesn’t know how Crowley stands it in his threadbare short sleeve shirts.

Crowley leads Aziraphale up the path to his front door and creaks it open. The living room is dark as they walk through it. “Where are your parents?”

“Dad’s on a business trip. Mom’s...gone,” Crowley says tightly and Aziraphale remembers those conversations about illnesses and hospitals and he pushes down a meaningless apology. Crowley flicks on the light in the kitchen and tells Aziraphale to sit down before disappearing upstairs.

When he returns, it’s with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and tweezers. Aziraphale goes to take them from him but Crowley pulls away. “Let me help.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment but then holds out his hands. Crowley pulls up a chair and then places Aziraphale’s hands palm up into his lap. He picks out the gravel piece by piece, pausing for a moment whenever Aziraphale hisses in pain.

He finishes the right hand and moves onto his left then asks, “Do you ever think about when we were kids?”

Aziraphale flexes the fingers of his free hand. It tingles. “Sometimes.”

They lapse into silence as Crowley finishes picking out the worst of the gravel and then dabs the peroxide over it. It stings more than the tweezers had, but Aziraphale grits his teeth through it.

When Crowley releases his hands, Aziraphale stares into his lap unsure of what to say, but Crowley speaks first. “See, now just dust off your trousers and your parents will be none the wiser.”

“My hands look a bit like raw meat,” he points out and Crowley emits a low laugh.

“How often do your parents inspect your hands?”

“Fair point.”

They awkwardly say goodbye to each other and Aziraphale ignores the way his stomach jumps at the memory of Crowley’s warm hands dancing over his wrists.

Year 11

Upper school is better than lower school. Everyone seems to get over their desire to mock and bully and the tide has shifted in almost the entirely opposite direction. Aziraphale’s quiet self-possessedness becomes a point of admiration among his peers and his classmates take a turn from uncomfortable to kind and a little envious. He has more friends than he knows what to do with so he spends more time retreating to the quietest corner of the library where not even the attendant seems to go.

As much as he would prefer otherwise, Aziraphale becomes aware of Crowley, noticing him in a way that he didn’t notice anyone else. He’s smart enough to know what that awareness means but he pretends otherwise. They don’t really spend time together. Occasionally saying hello when they run into each other in the street doesn’t count. It’s probably for the best. His parents would surely disapprove of Aziraphale’s newfound interest in their neighbor.

Aziraphale is reading A Tale of Two Cities in what he thinks of as his corner of the library, taking notes for his upcoming essay, when a backpack drops down onto the table in front of him. He looks up over his glasses and watches Crowley practically fall into the chair across from him. He’s scowling and his arms are crossed and he’s not looking at Aziraphale at all.

He opens his mouth and Crowley’s eyes shoot to him, stormy and angry and full of warning, so Aziraphale shuts it again. He pushes his glasses up his nose and returns to his book. There are other tables in the library, he doesn’t know why Crowley chose this one.

He tries to focus on his work for the rest of the lunch hour but when the bell rings he finds he hasn't even finished reading a page.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Crowley appears in the library, dropping into the seat across from him and never speaking. This goes on for a month before Aziraphale breaks.

He has a particularly difficult calculus problem that makes him want to crumple up his paper in frustration and when Crowley makes his typical appearance, dumping his dirty bookbag onto the table before collapsing into the chair and chewing on the end of his pen. The little sounds of the plastic slipping through his teeth make the hair on Aziraphale’s neck stand up.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, his hand clenches around his pencil and he tells himself to relax. Calm conversation is much more effective than agitated confrontation.

“Sitting here.”

Aziraphale’s teeth grind and he lets out a hot breath through his nose. “Yes. But why?”

“What’s it to you?”

“There are other tables in the library,” he says, much louder than he intends. The noise bounces off the metal shelves that shroud their corner, making him feel ashamed of his outburst.

Crowley pointedly picks up his bookbag, stands and drops it on the sad red couch next to the table and falls into the cushions. “Better?”

It’s not but Aziraphale resigns himself to whatever nonsense Crowley is up to and tries to focus on his work.

Aziraphale puts his network of weirdly friendly acquaintances to use trying to figure out what has Crowley turning into his proverbial shadow. To his surprise, it’s Newton Pulsifer—the very quiet boy from his computer science class—who provides the most useful information.

“Some of the stoner kids are trying to get Crowley to, erm, work for them if you know what I mean. And Crowley’s said no, but they keep harassing him. He probably thinks that they’d never push it around you which, you know, they probably wouldn’t. Given your whole...erm, religious deal.”

Aziraphale is privately a little shocked that Crowley wouldn’t want to join their group. He’s never seemed the type to have upstanding morals and as far as Aziraphale knows, he doesn’t really have any close friends. He’s similar to him in that way, a bit alone, but Aziraphale doesn’t know if that’s by Crowley’s preference, the way it is for him.

As per usual, Crowley appears in the library the next day and sullenly deposits himself on the couch across from the table. Aziraphle stares at him for a moment before pushing out the chair across from him with his foot. “Plenty of room at the table if you like.”

Hesitantly, Crowley approaches him, settling into the chair like it might collapse beneath him. Aziraphale rationalizes to himself that he’s really just helping Crowley out, protecting him, and his parents should have no reason to fault him for it.

Focusing on his textbook instead of looking at Crowley, Aziraphale says, “If you’re going to be

here, at least do some school work.”

And Crowley does.

Year 12

Their little arrangement continues from secondary school to college, Crowley seeking out Aziraphale for quiet study sessions. He’s no longer sure if it’s exactly for protection anymore since the stoner kids all disbanded in the transition between schools, but he finds himself growing attached to Crowley’s presence and even if they don’t have classes together sometimes they talk about their schoolwork, Crowley asking Aziraphale’s opinion on the book he’s assigned in lit class, or helping Aziraphale focus and see his way through a particularly frustrating chemistry equation.

“You know, sometimes I think you get a little stuck not seeing the forest for the trees,” Crowley observes as he munches on a candy bar.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale retorts, taking his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes. It might be time for him to get a new prescription.

“You’re all little picture and sometimes, to see the truth, you gotta be big picture.”

It’s a wildly strange thing to say and when Aziraphale looks at Crowley he’s struck by a feeling of uncanniness. Crowley has old eyes, like he’s seen too much for a 17-year-old. Aziraphale thinks he understands the feeling. Ever since he was young people have been telling him that he was wise beyond his years—sometimes he thought it was just because he was quiet and adults had a habit of confusing silence for wisdom—but he thinks maybe Crowley actually is wise beyond his years. Aziraphale doesn’t know why and he’s not sure he should ask. He thinks it’s probably related to that summer when the Crowley family disappeared and didn’t return intact, or maybe how Crowley seems to always be home alone.

Aziraphale sometimes hates his parents and their restrictive world view—there’s more to life than work and faith—but he can’t imagine where he’d be without them. It seems like Crowley has maybe made his way in the world all on his own. It’s impressive, but it makes Aziraphale very sad.

He doesn’t know what makes him say it, but it comes out anyway. “It’s too bad that we aren’t friends.”

Crowley freezes halfway through a bite of his candy bar and says, “Aren’t we?”

The nonchalant tone somehow makes Aziraphale blush. He rushes to explain, “I guess I mean not proper friends. Sitting in the library together every few days doesn’t count I don’t think.”

That’s what he’s been telling himself anyway, trying to justify their relationship without falling into guilt surrounding his parents’ opinion.

Crowley looks at him, unreadable, and then crumples the candy bar wrapper before tucking it into his pocket. “See you around, Aziraphale.”

He feels supremely stupid as he watches Crowley walk away.

Crowley stops showing up at the library and the secret feeling that Aziraphale has been protecting in his heart withers. It was silly anyway.

University

Crowley ends up at the same university as him. At some point Aziraphale just assumed that whatever strange thing caused them to swing apart and then collide would finally dissipate and they would end up at different universities, far away from each other, never to speak again. Instead Crowley—now taken to wearing only black and sunglasses, always sunglasses —is in his orientation and his first year seminar and the same dormitory building as him. Not the same floor, but it’s still close and Aziraphale continues to wonder if he should toss aside his parents’ expectations and finally be friends with this person who keeps popping up in his life. And who he genuinely likes.

It never does shake out as anything more than a passing acquaintance that lives in the same building. But it doesn’t matter too much because Aziraphale finally feels at home with the other literature and religion students. These are people that really want to learn, that are here by choice and not some social mores that force children into desks for 12 years straight. The seminars are so different than what he’s used to, the other students perking up and actually wanting to discuss the topic at hand.

Aziraphale loves it.

Late in his second year, he tries out the party scene at the behest of his friend Kim who thinks he just needs to loosen up a bit. She’s an undeclared religion major as well and at some point, decided that they were friends, no ifs, ands or buts about it. It was easier just to go along with her and Aziraphale found himself liking her brusque manners and blunt nature.

What he doesn’t like is the way she abandons him at the party for a more raucous scene. He ends up wandering around the house eyeballing threadbare couches and discarded beer cans. How does anyone live like this? He goes upstairs in hopes of finding somewhere quieter and nudges open a cracked door only to find Crowley, sprawled on one of the less threadbare sofa, cheeks hollowed as he pulls smoke from a pipe. Aziraphale watches as smoke leaves his mouth and there is curious a stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Crowley grins widely, the string lights winding across the walls twinkle in the reflection of his sunglasses. Why is he wearing sunglasses inside? “Aziraphale! Fancy seeing you here.”

The pungent smell of the room finally registers in Aziraphale’s distracted mind. “Is that marijuana?”

Crowley tosses his head back and laughs. “Don’t sound so scandalized. Want some?”

Aziraphale hesitates. He hasn’t drank more than a few sips of terrible beer and the thought of losing control isn’t exactly appealing. What would his parents think? But the earnest look on his old neighbor’s face eventually wins out and he takes the pipe from Crowley and sits down next to him.

“Can you show me?” he asks, holding up the pipe. Crowley grins and goes through the motions before handing it back.

Aziraphale gives it the old college try (pun intended) and it goes better than expected. He ends up coughing into his hand, tears welling in his eyes.

“It’s rough the first couple of times,” Crowley says carelessly before he takes another short pull.

When the fuzzy, warm feeling hits, Aziraphale finds himself leaning back against the sage cushions of the couch and smiling. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

“Ain’t it?”

Aziraphale stares up at the ceiling and asks, “What are you going to major in, you think?”

“Not sure. Business probably. Something useful. My dad wants me to go after law like him. But can you picture me? A barrister?”

Aziraphale sees the white wig perched on Crowley’s perpetually unruly hair and he bursts out laughing. “Not possible.”

They’re silent for a moment as Aziraphale giggles to himself then Crowley asks, “So how are you liking university?”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” Aziraphale says, feeling elated. “It’s what I always wanted school to be.”

Crowley snorts. “That sounds about right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were such a bookworm. So serious. I feel like I never saw you not studying.”

“I was in the band!”

“That might count as studying.”

“No. It was recreational.”

Crowley has pulled off his sunglasses and Aziraphale can see his eyes, liquid hazel and red-rimmed. “You still playing the clarinet then?”

“Haven’t had much cause.”

“If I had a clarinet, I’d make you play right now.”

“What if I said no?”

“I’m sure I could convince you.”

Aziraphale swallows as they make eye contact, his throat desperately dry and his tongue thick in his mouth. Crowley’s eyes flick over his face and his hand comes to rest on Aziraphale’s thigh. It is unbelievably warm, almost burning. Aziraphale stares down at it, his thoughts an incoherent whir.

Kim stumbles into the room and Aziraphale pulls away. She grins. “Well, who’s this then?”

“Erm,” Aziraphale looks between the two of them, still lost in the warm sensation of marijuana and Crowley’s hand, now gone from his thigh.

“I’m Anthony. Aziraphale and I were neighbors growing up.”

“Awwww,” Kim says, hands on her cheeks like that’s the cutest thing she’s ever heard. “And you’re still friends?”

Aziraphale can practically feel Crowley’s eyes boring into his skull. He looks down into his lap.

“Sure. Friends,” Crowley says before taking another lazy pull from the pipe.

Kim, in her drunken state, doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness as she tramps up and grabs Aziraphale’s hands. “C’mon! Time to go! I want chips!”

Chips do sound good so Aziraphale lets her drag him from the room. He doesn’t look back.

When third year starts, Aziraphale is shocked to run into Crowley in his Latin class. He is, of course, taking Latin to supplement his religion courses and, according to Crowley, Latin is a good foundation for pursuing law. Aziraphale thinks back on his rather glum pronouncement of not wanting to be a barrister but says nothing.

Aziraphale almost expected something to be tense between them in the very small six person Latin class, but Crowley is overly friendly in some cases and ignores him in others.

“Come on, Ziraaaaa,” Crowley whines from the desk next to his. They are completing worksheets in partners and, of course, Crowley scrambled into the seat next to him, claiming Aziraphale as his partner before anyone else could. Not that they’d try. He and Crowley were always partners.

The lead of Aziraphale’s pencil snaps and he glares at Crowley who absolutely knows Aziraphale hates that nickname.

“If you would focus, we can get this done more quickly and then we can leave,” he says primly, pulling out a sharpener and cranking his pencil through it.

“The professor’s left. We can leave too. We just need to finish this before next class and that’s two days away.” Aziraphale rubs his hand against his forehead. “Fine. When do you want to meet and finish?”

Crowley’s foot is tapping anxiously and it’s driving Aziraphale insane. He wants to reach out and slam his hand down on Crowley’s thigh just to make him stop.

Crowley snags his mobile from his desk and punches his number into it.

“I’ll text you and come by your dorm later. Ta!” Crowley says before leaping up and rushing from the room so quickly that the other pairs of students look up and then turn to glare at Aziraphale like it’s his fault Crowley is so disruptive.

Crowley appears at 8 pm, 30 minutes after he had said he would when he texted Aziraphale at 5. He strolls into Aziraphale’s dorm room and plops down on his bed. Aziraphale can tell he’s desperately trying to look cool. It’s frustrating that he kind of does. “Let’s do this.”

Aziraphale does not like the way Crowley looks on his bed because he likes it too much.

They finish their Latin worksheet within the hour and Crowley folds his up into his bag.

“Would you—”

“I heard—”

Aziraphale pauses and says, “You first.”

Crowley looks away and then asks, “I haven’t eaten anything since noon. Maybe want to grab something? Together?”

Aziraphale swallows before nodding.  He can’t shake the guilt his parents instilled in him about associating with Crowley. Years of his parents’ disapproval hanging over him. But bugger that. He’s an adult and can do whatever he wants. “What did you have in mind?”

One meal together becomes several as they meet weekly at Aziraphale’s favorite sandwich shop. Crowley’s energy from when they were younger is still there but it’s become less vulnerable, more like a weapon. It fascinates Aziraphale who can’t help but be mesmerized by the enthusiastic movements of Crowley’s hands when he speaks and the length of his legs where they are stretched out beneath the table.

The last time he speaks to Crowley is three weeks before graduation on the fire escape of the Keller house after Crowley steals a fifth of whiskey that they pass between them. Aziraphale tries to forget that night, the things he said, but he's never stops regretting it.

15 years later

Aziraphale putters around his bookshop moving the latest stack of bestsellers closer to the front. He doesn’t like stocking them but he has to keep the lights on without dipping into his trust fund too often and his occasional collector’s sale won’t do. He also hates selling the collection.

When his grandmother died and left him the bookshop—and a sizeable inheritance—his parents were horrified that he wanted to leave school to manage it. Aziraphale had only been a dissertation away from PhD, but he found he didn’t care about religion and its history as much as he had used to. And working at his grandmother's bookshop in the years before she died had been some of the happiest years of his life.

His father had tried to convince him to sell the place, leave it all to charity, and stay in school. It had been their first big fight, years of independence and finally questioning his beliefs allowing him to stand up to his parents when they called him gluttonous and greedy for refusing to sell. The same dark and old thing that sometimes reared its head in his chest had made an appearance that day and Aziraphale had looked Gabriel Goodall in the eye and said that he was an adult who could make his own choices and this was his choice and he would either deal with it and be his father or he could leave and not be part of his life.

They hadn’t spoken for a year, but eventually his father apologized and Aziraphale assured him that he made donations from his inheritance every year. That seemed to appease Gabriel. At least a little.

The bell on the door of the shop tinkles as he finishes arranging the Dan Browns in the window. He scowls at their uncracked spines and calls out, “Just a minute!”

He hurries out into the entrance and says, “How can I help—”

The words curdle in his mouth because standing on the worn carpet of the book shop is Anthony Crowley, clad in black and red, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking cool as a cucumber. The man lifts up his sunglasses and says, “Aziraphale Goodall? Small world.”

Aziraphale tries to smile but it comes out like a grimace. He thinks about the last time he spoke to Crowley, moonlight, the smell of whiskey between angry words. His stomach twists.

“Crowley, it’s a pleasure to see you again. How can I help you?”

Ignoring the question, Crowley looks around the place, a wide smile overtaking his sharp face. “A bookstore. Makes sense,” he mumbles to himself with a brief shake of his head.

“Are you in the market for a book or…”

“Actually, I’m here about the ad. For the flat,” Crowley says, pulling out his phone and showing Aziraphale the ad he posted online not two days ago.

“Oh, yes, erm, hold on. Let me just…” Aziraphale scoots around Crowley and flips the sign to closed before turning the lock on the door. “Come with me.”

“You haven’t turned into a murderer since uni, have you?” Crowley asks but Aziraphale can hear the soft scuff of his shoes as he trails behind him.

“If I had, why would I tell my next victim?” Aziraphale says, leading Crowley up the steps from the backroom. He hears Crowley’s snort of laughter. He’d forgotten that snort.

“This is the primary entrance upstairs but there’s also a separate entrance in the alley if you don’t want to come and go through the shop. It’s a little rickety, but it works. There’s two flats upstairs. I live in one, but I didn’t want the other one to go empty. It used to be storage before I took over the shop but I don’t have nearly enough things to fill it.”

They enter the hallway, lit only by a sconce and a small window in the door that leads to the alley exit. Aziraphale gestures to the right. “This is me, and this would be you.”

Crowley tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and nods as if to say go on, so Aziraphale slips the key into the lock and lets them in. There’s no denying the place is dusty and a little old-fashioned with its wooden wainscotting and flowered wallpaper. “I’d pay to get a cleaner in here and you’d be welcome to redecorate as much as you want.”

“Is this what your flat looks like?” Crowley asks, tracing a finger over a dusky peony emblazoned on the wall.

Aziraphale colors. “Something like it.”

“Well, if it isn’t this dirty, I’m sure it’s nice,” Crowley says with a low chuckle. His sunglasses are dug in the strands of his hair where it’s pushed back from his face with some sort of product. He used to wear it more tousled. Less severe.

Aziraphale nervously runs his hands through his own hair certain that the curls are all over the place. He never has reason to care about his appearance, dressing more for comfort than fashion, preferring soft knitted jumpers to tight fitting dress shirts, and Crowley seems the exact opposite in his tailored suit and red button up, tight about his body as he reaches up to fiddle with a loose lightbulb.

“So you’d get a repairman in here? Fix the place up?”

Aziraphale nods. “I haven’t got the chance yet. I just finished cleaning it out. Took me a few years to finally get around to it,” Aziraphale says on a snort of self-deprecation. It had taken about 7 if he were totally honest.

“I’ll take it,” Crowley he says before he wanders into the kitchen and plays with the taps.

“The water’s off,” Aziraphale calls after him and he hears a hum of consideration.

“Are you certain you want to live here?” he asks when Crowley comes back to stand by the window and peer out.

Crowley turns back, his face stormy, mouth twisted and fear rushes through Aziraphale. He’s not trying to open up old conversations, broken things. He tries to explain. “You just look like the type to prefer a more...modern aesthetic.”

What he wants to say is: you can’t want to live so close to me.

Crowley’s expression dips into a frown. “Let’s just say I’m trying to make a change.”

Aziraphale really wants to press, to get just a hint more information, but he was never really good at that, and Crowley was always a secret keeper so he lets it drop. “Well, I’ve got papers drawn up. You want a night to think it over?”

“No, I’ll sign now.”

It’s said with such force that Aziraphale takes an involuntary step backward.

“Ah, well, I’ll just go snag the papers from my flat,” he says, wringing his hands.

He returns with a pen and the papers and finds Crowley turning the doorknob to the bedroom back and forth. Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if it were loose.

They sign the papers huddled over the kitchen counter and Aziraphale promises Crowley a copy as soon as he can get one made. Crowley flaps a hand at him. “I trust you. Little Zira Goodall could never swindle me.”

“Little Tony Crowley is far too trusting,” Aziraphale says, tapping the papers into a neat stack.

Crowley growls low in his throat but Aziraphale ignores him, handing over the key and saying, “You can move in whenever.”

Crowley yanks the key from his hand and says, “Don’t call me Tony.”

“Well, then don’t call me Zira.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of hammering. It’s so loud that he’s out of bed, heart racing, before he can even rationalize the sound. Of course. Crowley. Moving in.

He collapses on the edge of the bed and runs his hand through his mussed curls. He glances at the clock. 1 AM. Who on God’s green earth uses a hammer at 1 in the morning?

Aziraphale slips on his house shoes and storms across the hall. Well, as much as he can storm. He’s much more of a ‘walk with purpose’ kind of person.

He knocks on the door and it takes an inordinate amount of time for it to open and when it does, Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry. Crowley’s standing there barefoot, a white a-shirt tucked into the waistband of his black jeans, all wiry muscle and slim hips and Aziraphale remembers the way it felt to look at Crowley across that table in the library all those years ago and the stirring inside him is unspeakably embarrassing.

Crowley raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. “What?”

“Could you not hammer at 1 AM?”

Crowley pushes a stray lock of hair from his forehead in consternation. “It’s 1 AM?”

That gives Aziraphale pause. “What time do you think it is?”

“Honestly, I only got home a few hours ago. I wanted to get some work done on the place. Did I wake you up?”

Aziraphale fumes, the lust he felt giving way to frustration. “Of course you did! It’s 1 AM! Can’t you do renovations during the day?”

“Can’t. Got work.”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley.

Crowley stares back.

“Fine. But can you do the quiet renovations after midnight? Please?”

Crowley cocks his head in consideration. “Fine. I’ll try to keep it down.”

The door shuts in Aziraphale’s face and he’s left feeling rather cold.

**

The next day Aziraphale is sitting by the cash register, carefully removing the spine from a second edition Whitman so he can secure some loose pages, when Crowley stumbles down the stairs looking immaculate in a suit and tie. Despite his crisp clothes, he looks wrecked. His skin is sallow, paler than usual, and his eyes are red making Aziraphale think he probably didn't sleep at all.

“Are you quite all right?” Aziraphale asks, his hands stilling above the book.

Crowley grumbles. “Time?”

“Erm…”

“Time?” Crowley repeats. He digs through his pocket and pulls out a mobile phone. He lets out a sharp, frustrated grunt.

“There’s coffee in the back room if you need some,” Aziraphale offers. The man looks like he needs more than coffee. Perhaps a shot of adrenaline right to the heart. Or a brisk slap to the face.

Crowley disappears through the curtain with the stapled “employees only” sign and Aziraphale hears a soft clattering—probably the mugs—and then Crowley comes back out, mug in hand before shuffling out the door even as Aziraphale tries to stop him.

“That was my favorite mug,” he says forlornly to the pages in front of him.

They don’t reply.

**

Feeling bad about his rather rude treatment of his neighbor the night before, Aziraphale closes the shop early on Friday—he had sold three books that day, two bestsellers and one illustrated Carroll that he didn’t give two figs about—and goes further into town to pick up some cheese and wine.

He comes to Crowley’s door at 8 PM, bottle in hand and cheese in bag, and knocks. When Crowley opens the door, he’s still in his clothes from earlier, suit jacket discarded, and white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are dirty.

Aziraphale holds up the bottle with a wavering smile. “I felt bad about yelling at you yesterday. Thought we could have some wine. And maybe I could help you with the reno?”

Crowley takes the bottle and inspects the label. He humphs and then opens the door wider.

If Aziraphale is being honest with himself, he would realize he hadn’t expected to get quite this far, and as he steps into the room he thinks to himself, oh bother, what will we talk about?

“I also brought cheese,” Aziraphale offers weakly.

Crowley laughs. Honest-to-goodness laughs, and it's such a beautiful sound that Aziraphale can't help smiling. “Well, you’re in luck. The only food I have in the house is crackers. Which I hear go well with cheese.”

They end up on the ground peeling back wainscoting to reveal wallpaper underneath which they also have to peel away to get to the plaster. They’ve poured the wine into mugs—Crowley doesn’t have wine glasses yet—and Aziraphale is relieved to note one of them is the one Crowley took with him earlier in the morning. He silently reminds himself to squirrel it back to his own apartment at some point during the evening. Settling onto the ground, Crowley hands Aziraphale a spare hammer and shows him the best way to crook the claw under the vinyl wainscoting to pull it back.

Soon enough, Aziraphale is pink cheeked and warm both from the exertion and from the wine. He doesn’t much go in for physical activity and he knows it shows on his body, his soft stomach and round face. What he’s discovered through the years is that he doesn’t particularly care. A body is just a body and he’s happy enough with his.

He puts the hammer on the ground and leans back to peel off his jumper which he folds before placing it to the side. Under it he’s wearing an old short-sleeved tartan button down with a blue bowtie. He definitely looks a bit like an old man, but he likes bowties. Sod the rest of the world for thinking they’re old fashioned.

Crowley snickers next to him and Aziraphale gives him a dark look. “You look just like you did in uni.”

“I know, I know. Fuddy duddy who doesn’t know how to change into whatever the world is expecting these days,” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t think so. I think you’ve just always known who you are so you didn’t need to experiment to figure it out. Not like the rest of us.”

Aziraphale takes a deep drink of his wine to cover up his embarrassment. They get back to peeling off the faux-wood and once the far wall is done they pause to take a break.

Crowley seems to have not taken the time to move in much furniture except a pair of black faux leather chairs that they sit down in, wine and cheese at the ready.

“Goes a bit faster with company,” Crowley remarks about their work, pouring more wine into their mugs.

“Happy to help. I should have probably spent a little time sprucing the place up before trying to rent it out.”

“You got someone to fix the worst of it and that’s what matters. This is just aesthetics.”

They lapse into silence for a moment before Aziraphale asks the question that’s been bothering him since Crowley moved in. “So, what do you do for a living now? End up in law?”

“Sort of. I was in legal consulting. I’m actually just making a career change. Part of the reason I moved, you see.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, wanting to ask more but not sure how.

“I’ve opened a plant store. 2 blocks away.”

“Plant...store?” Aziraphale asks. He’s not entirely sure how that would work.

Crowley’s eyes flash and for a moment Aziraphale glimpses that excitable kid with gap teeth waxing rhapsodic about dolphins. “It’s all the rage you know. Boutique plants for staging instagram shoots and flats for sale. I’m also thinking about adding general gardening plants and implements.”

“Like trowels?”

“Like trowels.”

“And business has been good?”

“I haven’t opened yet.”

“Oh.”

“That’s where I’ve been. Working late. I’m supposed to open next month.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what comes over him but he says, “Well, if you want any help let me know. I don’t really keep the shop open at regular hours and can spare some time.”

Crowley moves the mug in his hand as if to swirl the liquid inside, his hazel eyes shrouded as he looks down. “If you don’t keep the shop open at regular hours, how do you make money?”

“You’d be surprised what some people would pay for a first edition.”

“What do you pay for a first edition?”

Aziraphale splutters into his wine and a laugh bubbles up in his chest. This is nice.

“A bookseller never reveals his secrets,” he says sagely.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes,” Crowley says. He downs the rest of the wine from his mug, a smile about his thin lips.

“There’s a saying?” Aziraphale replies, playful, warm, and potentially happy.

Crowley shakes his head, somehow fond. “I should get to bed. I have to finish packing up my old apartment tomorrow. Move it over here.”

“Is anyone helping you? Because I can—”

“If you keep offering to help me with things, I might take you up on it you know.”

“I wish you would,” Aziraphale replies in his most earnest tones. He’s been reliably informed that playing the good old soul is the best way to get something. People tend to underestimate him, think him soft. And Aziraphale finds that it benefits him a great deal.

Crowley narrows his eyes at him like he knows what Aziraphale is trying to do but he shrugs his shoulders anyway. “I’ll let you know.”

**

Aziraphale has always been a morning person. Even in school he remembers waking up with the sunrise, making his bed and being ready downstairs even before his parents. It’s a habit that followed him into adulthood. No matter what he got up to the night before, if the sun was up, so was he.

And so he greets a rather despondent looking Crowley from the front desk. He finished fixing the Whitman the day before and is now working on unsticking the 4 button on the old register. The monstrosity has been in the shop since before his grandmother bought it and some of the keys could be rather persnickety.

“Good morning!” he calls from the desk only to be greeted by a low grunt. He looks up and sees Crowley drooping down the stairs still in a suit, pressed as ever.

“You look awful,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself. Crowley’s eyes are glassy and his skin is even paler than the day before.

He looks about ready to fall over where he stands as he holds himself up on the banister of the stairwell and glares at Aziraphale. “Thanks ever so. You look lovely as well.”

“All I’m saying is that you look like you should rest.”

Crowley bares his teeth as if the very idea is repulsive. “Can’t. Have things to do.”

“Surely moving can wait a day. When is your lease up?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley admits guiltily.

“And you’ve waited til today to start?” Aziraphale asks, his heart racing at the very thought of putting something so important off for so long.

“I’ve had things to do!” Crowley protests.

“Come along. I’m helping,” Aziraphale announces, slamming the register shut. The 4 button can wait. “And I’m calling some friends.”

**

Anathema Device appears in front of Crowley’s door looking like something of a miracle in an old gray t-shirt and leggings, an awkward Newt Pulsifer at her side. She jams her glasses up her nose and looks at Aziraphale with hard eyes. “So who’s the idiot?”

Aziraphale may have used rather strong language when he was on the phone with her.

Crowley stumbles into the foyer of his apartment. “Is that Newton Pulsifer?”

Newt blinks looking for all the world like a computer restarting. “Anthony Crowley?”

“What a surprise,” he says, balancing the large plant in his hand on his hip and reaching out to shake Newt’s hand.

“I’m Anathema,” she says with a brief wave. “You’re the idiot?”

“Idiot?” Crowley repeats looking between all of them.

“Aziraphale said some idiot had rented his flat and forgotten to move out of his old one. I presume that’s you.”

“Erm…” Crowley says as his eyes dart to Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale doesn’t blush. He doesn’t.

“Give me that,” Anathema says holding her arms out for the plant. “Are we stacking stuff in the

hallway or…”

“Yes, hallway,” Aziraphale says with a shooing motion and Anathema sets the large pot next to a stack of boxes.

When Anathema trails Crowley into the living room she says, “You live here and want to move into the bookshop?”

Her surprise is understandable. Crowley’s apartment is rather...ostentatious in its modernism. Sleek black lines with red and white accents. Rather like Crowley himself.

“Wanted a change of pace,” Crowley says through gritted teeth as he chucks throw pillows and a rather nice looking gray blanket into a box. Anathema despite her bluntness manages to sense Crowley’s irritation and settles into migrating all of Crowley’s books into a box. There are only six of them. Aziraphale notes that not a single one is a bestseller. It makes him proud.

“So how do you know Newt?” Anathema asks when she leaves the bookshelf and begins to stack coasters and other assorted knicknacks into the box. Hissing inwardly at the thought of all the pointed edges rubbing up against the covers of the books, Aziraphale tries to focus on his own task of emptying the kitchen.

“We went to secondary school together. Bit of a geek he was,” Crowley says. The sharp rip of masking tape punctuates the statement.

“Still a bit of a geek,” Anathema offers as Crowley tapes down his box and unceremoniously tosses it against the wall where it shudders under the impact and then goes still.

“Oi!” Newt cries from the bathroom. He appears in the doorway holding a box of assorted cleaning supplies.

“We both know it's true, sweetheart,” Anathema says, matter of fact.

Aziraphale hears Crowley snort but focuses on putting all the utensils in his box.

For all of Crowley’s apparent wealth, he really doesn’t have that many things. The contents of his kitchen fit in two medium size boxes, the living room in another small box. His only furniture is the bed, coffee table, and couch. The shelves are built-ins and he’s selling the stools that go with the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. Seeing it all packed up into less than 10 boxes, Aziraphale is struck by the sadness of it. Did Crowley like living with so few things? He only owns one set of dishes. Doesn’t he have friends?

Making a change. Crowley had said. Perhaps it is quite a large one.

They work together to take apart the bedframe and load the lorry with the furniture and then the boxes. It’s only one trip and they finish unloading everything around 6 and despite the mess that is his apartment, Crowley offers to buy the lot of them dinner as a thank you.

It’s only take-out and its eaten sprawled out across the disarray of Crowley’s furniture in his new flat, but Aziraphale and the rest devour it like they haven’t eaten all day. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Aziraphale when Crowley pushes an extra crab rangoon onto his plate and he beams at his new neighbor. Maybe this is the new beginning of that friendship Aziraphale’s always wanted. Maybe the skittering of his heart means nothing.

They pack up the trash and Anathema offers to toss it on her way out. Aziraphale follows her down the stairs to lock up behind her while Newt goes to get the car from the garage down the street.

Anathema stops in the doorway as Newt hurries down the sidewalk. She turns her sharp eyes on Aziraphale and he is pinned by them. She is so intelligent, so perceptive. “Be careful,” she says. “He’s practically a stranger.”

Aziraphale blusters. “I’ve known him for years!”

It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not exactly a lie either.

Anathema just looks at him, eyebrows drawn together and then sighs. “Whatever you say, Aziraphale.”

He watches the two of them leave and then turns the key in the door, feeling unsettled. The door to Crowley’s apartment is still open and Aziraphale can hear the scuffing of boxes being dragged through the apartment.

“It was nice of you to get everybody’s dinner,” Aziraphale says, shuffling into the doorway.

Crowley peeks up from behind the kitchen island and then unfolds to his full height. “I wouldn’t exactly call it nice.”

“What would you call it then?”

“A transaction. Tit for tat so to speak.”

“That’s a cold way to put it,” Aziraphale says. “Felt more friendly to me.”

“Everything feels friendly to you,” Crowley says darkly. He yanks open a drawer and tosses in a spatula before slamming it shut again. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he did to frustrate Crowley, but he doesn’t have to ask because Crowley suddenly sighs and slumps against the counter.

“Do you ever get tired?” Crowley asks.

“You’ve been working very hard—”

“No. Not tired like that. Tired like tomorrow is going to be another day and you have to face it and maybe there’s going to be something meaningful about it but there hasn’t been yet and you think maybe there never will be. And that’s tiring.”

Aziraphale blinks at the deluge of words. “I think…”

Crowley looks up at him, still wearing his ridiculous sunglasses that he seems to have forgotten about at some point during the day, and even with his eyes covered, Aziraphale can feel the earnestness of his expression. The exhaustion in it.

“I think life is tiring and sometimes boring but it's worth finding the charm in it. As hard as it can be, there's joy there too.”

They stare in silence before Crowley laughs and the moment snaps like too taut rope.

“You sound like an optimist.”

“I am an optimist!” Aziraphale says. “If I recall you were more optimistic than me. Mr. ‘I don’t study because everything will work out fine’ and ‘who cares what other people think?’”

Crowley shakes his head but he’s smiling. When Aziraphale begins to leave, Crowley stops him by saying, “Could you help me?”

“With?”

“Putting together the bedframe. I’ll probably hurt myself if I try it alone.”

Aziraphale nods before he follows Crowley into the bedroom even as his stomach is tying itself into knots.

They finish putting together the bed with minimal injury, a few scraped knuckles and bruised knees notwithstanding. Aziraphale leaves the bedroom to get some water and to rein in his treacherous heart. Why now? Why Crowley? It had been years since they’d seen each other. Years since—

Aziraphale shakes his head. He feels just as he did in secondary school when his heart would lurch whenever he looked across that library table to see Crowley chewing on a pen, eyebrows furrowed as he read.

He goes back into Crowley’s bedroom to say goodbye and finds him sprawled out on the mattress fast asleep. Aziraphale supposes that makes sense. Based on Crowley’s appearance—and the sounds in the middle of the night—he hasn’t been sleeping. Uncertain if he should do it but his kindness winning out, Aziraphale pops open a box in the living room and pulls out that soft gray blanket. He returns to the bedroom and places it over Crowley, shoes and all. He hopes he sleeps through the night.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley for several days. Sometimes he hears the sounds of work coming through the door of the flat. He rather uselessly wishes that his neighbor would ask for his help again. He still seems to be keeping strange hours and while Aziraphale wants to ask how things are going, he knows better than to stick his nose into other people’s business. Especially people like Crowley.

Anathema comes by on the Friday following the move, slamming through the door with her usual fanfare. “I’ve brought pastries,” she announces, tossing a white paper bag onto the desk.

Aziraphale looks up at her over his glasses.

“You’re a menace,” he says as he rolls open the top of the bag. Blueberry muffins. His favorite.

“Your life would be very boring without me,” Anathema says before snagging one of the muffins.

Anathema had burst into Aziraphale’s life nearly four years ago by literally bursting through the door of his bookshop in tears, an old book in hand, the cover woefully torn. Apparently, it was an old family heirloom (in the family for beyond generations) and it had torn when she moved to England. Aziraphale had offered her tea and steadily fixed the book without even charging her.

And when she appeared the very next day, demanding to learn how to keep the book in top shape herself, he found he couldn’t refuse her.

“I like boring,” Aziraphale says a little mournfully. He takes the bag and migrates them to the back room where there are less items that can be ruined by carelessly dropped crumbs.

“I know, I know,” Anathema says, trailing after him.

They munch in silence before Anathema asks, “How’s the new neighbor?”

“Quiet,” Aziraphale says. “Very strange actually. I haven’t seen him in several days.”

“When you said you were going to rent out your flat, I didn’t actually believe you,” Anathema says, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

Aziraphale hardly believes it either. He’d spent five years warring with himself over the renting the place. He didn’t exactly need to. He had enough money to support himself. But, he kept thinking how nice it would be to have someone else in the building. To feel a little less alone in his corner of the world.

So when he declared to Anathema that he was going to let the flat, she had looked at him dubiously but helped him set up the ad without comment.

“It’s nice to have a neighbor again,” Aziraphale says, shrugging before popping a bit of the muffin into his mouth.

“And you said you know him from…?” Anathema asks, trailing off with a significant look. She swipes her fingers primly across a napkin as Aziraphale is saved from answering by Crowley crashing through the curtain separating the back room from the main shop.

“Speak of the devil!” Aziraphale says with a bright smile. Anathema looks between Crowley and Aziraphale and then heaves a very dramatic sigh.

“Muffin?” Anathema asks, thrusting the bag out to Crowley who looks at it as if it may bite him.

“No, thank you,” Crowley says, his voice thick like he had just woken up. The tone makes Aziraphale actually look at him and when he does, he sees purple bags under his eyes and pale skin. Paler than usual anyway. His normally crisp button down is rumpled, hanging open over an undershirt and trousers that look like they have seen better days. Did he sleep in his suit? “Do you have any aspirin?”

Aziraphale realizes he’s the one being asked the question and says, “Erm, no I don’t think so. Are you ill?”

Crowley emits a low groan of complaint. “I’m going to have to go to the store.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, standing up. “Go back to bed. I can run down the street for you. Do you have a list?”

Crowley blinks at him.

“Of course you don’t have a list. What do sick people normally need?” He looks at Anathema who stares back. He’s sure he can figure it out.

“Mind the shop would you?” he says to her before dashing out the store and he’s halfway down the street before realizing he had perhaps been a little dramatic in his exit. He shuffles through the convenience store, feeling embarrassed as he picks up the requested aspirin as well as cough drops and tissues.

When he returns, Crowley is sprawled on the small couch he keeps in the back room and Anathema is flicking through a magazine by the register. Crowley seems to be asleep so Aziraphale drops off the bag and places a glass of water next to him on the table before retreating back into the store.

Anathema raises her eyebrows at him over the top of the magazine crinkling in her hands.

“What?” Aziraphale says, perhaps a little more sharply than he should.

“You like him,” Anathema says. She sets down the magazine and leans over the counter putting her chin in her hands.

Aziraphale splutters and drops the book he had just picked up to reshelve. It’s a Poe reprint so he’s not too concerned though he does bustle over to where it fell. “That’s preposterous. I’ve just known him a long time.”

Ignoring him, Anathema continues, “I thought you were asexual, you know.”

Aziraphale drops the book again. “Anathema Device!”

“Well, I did!”

“If you must know, it is—er, uncommon for me to feel—things.”

“Don’t give yourself a heart attack trying to explain it. I get it. Things change. You know how it was before Newt.”

What she means, Aziraphale is well acquainted with, is that prior to Newton Pulsifer, Anathema had been what she had called “a 99% lesbian” and had brought such a wide array of women past the shop (and two very forgettable men) that Aziraphale began to understand the strange turn of phrase. And though Newt was decidedly unappealing to Aziraphale, he found he liked the way he looked at Anathema, like she hung the moon. And he liked the way Anathema looked at him in turn. Like it was awfully frustrating she had fallen for him, but she was overjoyed regardless.

He smiles to himself, looking down at the book in his hands. He didn’t mind being alone. It was just that sometimes he did.

“Regardless, I’m glad you’ve found a friend.”

“I’m not sure we’re friends exactly.”

The snick of the curtain being thrown back draws their attention to the back room as Crowley stalks out of the shadows, the plastic bag in his hand.

“Thanks,” Crowley hisses through gritted teeth, his s’s dragging out, reminiscent of the lisp he had when they were young. “I’m going to bed.”

“Who put a bee up his butt?” Anathema asks in a stage whisper and Aziraphale shoots her a dark glare.

**

Aziraphale taps lightly on Crowley’s apartment door, telling himself that he’s only there to check on Crowley and that it’s the neighborly thing to do. It takes more time than Aziraphale is strictly comfortable with, but the door swings open eventually and he holds up the Tupperware that he had ladled soup into just five minutes prior, also telling himself that it was the neighborly thing to do.

Crowley looks at him blearily and then walks away, leaving the door open. Aziraphale takes it as an invitation and steps carefully into the apartment, surprised at the difference in decoration. Crowley had removed all the wainscoting in the living room and had painted the walls a dull gray.

Aziraphale isn’t exactly surprised at the monochromatic decorating scheme but he had rather thought that Crowley had been after a change. Or so he had said.

“How are you feeling? I’ve brought soup. I wasn’t sure if that was something you’d—”

Crowley makes a grumbling noise but plucks the Tupperware from his hands and clatters into the kitchen where Aziraphale sees him flick through the cupboards for a bowl before flipping off the lid and settling for spooning the contents directly out of the container into his mouth.

Ignoring the slurping noises, Aziraphale surveys the apartment. It does almost look like a home. If perhaps a little too…sleek for his tastes.

“What do you think?” Crowley says from the kitchen and Aziraphale’s gaze snaps back to him. He does look rather taken apart, all tousled and unkempt. It does something to his insides to see Crowley like that. He looks so vulnerable.

“Quite a difference,” Aziraphale declares after he clears his throat.

“Not to your taste then?” Crowley says. The spoon clatters into the sink before Crowley swings back into the living room and folds himself onto the cushions of his white couch.

Why would anyone want to own a white couch? Aziraphale thinks of all the tea and crumbs he’s spilled on his own couch and knows he would ruin something so immaculate within a week.

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale protests. But he did kind of mean it.

“It’s just what I’m used to,” Crowley says. “I barely lived at my old place. Didn’t have a lot of time to settle. I’m hoping it will be different here.”

Aziraphale shuffles for a moment before deciding to take a seat in the spare black chair. “Did you spend a lot of time at, er…your partner’s?”

Crowley shakes his head with a laugh. It sounds bitter to Aziraphale’s ears. “No. Travel. For work. Not much time for partners.”

Aziraphale is embarrassed that he asked.

“What about you? Aziraphale Goodall finally find someone who caught his eye?”

“Er, no. Not exactly.”

Crowley decidedly does not need to know exactly who had caught his eye.

“I always thought it was strange that you didn’t date. All those bookish types were after you.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t after them. I had my studies to think of.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and the nonchalant effect is ruined by an abrupt sneeze. He excuses himself for the bathroom, sneezing the entire way and when he returns his eyes are glassy and he’s rubbing at his nose with a tissue.

Aziraphale stands abruptly. “Apologies, I should let you rest. You’re ill.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You’re sick Crowley. People get sick.”

Crowley groans loudly. “I don’t get sick.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you. Are. Sick.”

Crowley makes that same groaning noise and Aziraphale unsuccessfully fights a smile.

“You should get some rest. You’ll be back on your feet faster,” Aziraphale says sagely before going to the door.

Crowley continues to groan dramatically and Aziraphale is suddenly terribly glad to have him back in his life. Foibles and all.

**

Crowley comes downstairs the next day looking relatively himself, crisper and less pale.

Anathema throws a crumpled piece of paper at Aziraphale’s head and he has to remind himself not to glare at her. She thinks she’s so funny.

Shifting from foot to foot at the edge of the counter, Crowley finally speaks, “Thanks for, erm, for yesterday.”

Aziraphale flaps his hand. “What are neighbors for?”

Aziraphale can feel Anathema staring at the back of his neck but is suitably distracted when Crowley asks, “Want to come out with me today?”

“Yes,” he hears Anathema murmur and Aziraphale thinks for a moment of all the ways he could murder his friend later that day.

Not acknowledging her, or perhaps not hearing her, Crowley continues, “You said you wanted to see the shop and it’s opening next week so I thought…”

Aziraphale claps his hands together. “Yes, of course! It’s nearly ready then?”

“As much as it can be,” Crowley replies, wide-eyed at Aziraphale’s obvious enthusiasm.

Turning to Anathema with a dark look that Crowley can’t see he adds, “Feel free to stay as long as you like, my dear, but lock up when you leave.”

Anathema salutes him and then goes back to reading her book.

Turning the sign from open to closed, Aziraphale slips his key out of the lock and turns to Crowley whose hands are tucked into his pockets, shoulders nearly to his ears. He looks nervous.

Gesturing with his thumb over one shoulder, Crowley says, “Erm...shop’s just down the block there. I thought maybe we could get coffee. I owe you.”

Not wanting to turn him down by mentioning he’d already had his coffee, Aziraphale lets Crowley lead him across the street and two blocks over to a shop Aziraphale had never been to before.

Crowley opens the door for him, and they slip inside, the smell of baked goods and fresh coffee beans rushing up to meet them. Aziraphale goes to order but Crowley stops him. “I’ve got this. Said I owed you, didn’t I?”

Normally, Aziraphale would protest—because of his old clothes people tend to forget how well-off he is—but Crowley looks like he might snap in half if Aziraphale so much as looks at him the wrong way so he agrees in his normal bright tones and lets Crowley buy him a white chocolate mocha. Of course, Crowley gets himself a coffee, black, and some mysterious baked goods that Aziraphale doesn’t quite catch sight of before they slip into a brown bag.

The autumn weather is not quite chilly but the warmth of his cup is welcome in his hands as they make the short walk to Crowley’s new store. Aziraphale can feel the nerves radiating off Crowley in waves and Aziraphale doesn’t know if it’s because they are alone or if he’s finally thinking of that disastrous conversation on the fire escape—

“Here it is,” Crowley announces loudly, full of bluster, reminding Aziraphale of when they were young and Crowley would boom his way through classroom presentations, assuming that pizzazz would make up for lack of content. Frustratingly enough, it usually worked.

Taking in the storefront, all Aziraphale can think is that it’s very Crowley. Bold white imprints of plant leaves adorn the windows, a looping snake spells out the word eden in lowercase which makes Aziraphale’s religion degree scoff and would probably make his father have a stroke.

“Did you do that?” Aziraphale asks, gesturing at the artwork.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah, outsourced that bit. Not much of an artist.”

If the doodles in Crowley’s elementary school notebook were any indication of his future lack of skill then Aziraphale’s not surprised.

“Well, let’s see it then,” Aziraphale says with what he hopes is a conspiratorial grin.

Lips going into a thin line—still nervous then—Crowley opens the door and lets Aziraphale in. His first impression is that it’s small but very clean.

It’s also very beautiful.

He sucks in a breath and he turns back to Crowley with a genuine smile. “This is lovely. What kinds of plants are these?”

The question is extremely general, but he can’t decide where to look, ferns in wonderfully imperfect pots, succulents in geometric planter boxes, some sort of exotic gigantic ficus in one corner that is partially unfurled, straining for the window.

Aziraphale rests his fingertips on top of one of the long wooden tables and looks up at Crowley expectantly.

Crowley isn’t wearing his sunglasses, and Aziraphale can study the lines of his face. It has always been a strange face, harsh angles, too big eyes and thin lips. But that never stopped Aziraphale from thinking of him as beautiful. He wishes he could be half as nice to look at.

Suddenly self-conscious, Aziraphale sets his cup down on the table and begins to fiddle with the hem of his sweatervest.

“These are spider plants,” Crowley says quietly, coming up beside him. “That’s called a burrow’s tail. And over on the wall are aloe plants.”

“So only decorative ones then?” Aziraphale asks. He steps closer to the window, his own nerves alight by Crowley’s proximity, by the strange intimacy of the moment.

“I have some herbs and seeds for vegetables if people are looking for them. But that’s not really the target audience.”

Aziraphale hums and taps one fingernail against the glass of the storefront. It pings.

“How long did all this take you?” Aziraphale asks, forcing himself to turn back and look Crowley in the eyes. He is a thirty-seven-year-old man and shouldn’t be so terrified of looking at someone he’s attracted to.

Crowley leans back against the table, long legs allowing him to perch atop it in a way that Aziraphale would have to stand on his tiptoes to manage. “Six months.”

“Did you quit your job six months ago too?”

Crowley tilts his head, the sun catching his eyes, turning them amber. “Nearly nine now.”

Aziraphale admires Crowley for that. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to uproot his life like that. “Do you…” Aziraphale trails off, afraid to ask a real question.

“Do I what?” Crowley prompts.

“Regret it? Do you regret it?” Aziraphale says, trying to sound more confident in the question than he feels. He remembers old conversations with Crowley when they were very small and how he’d thought they would always be best friends and that Aziraphale would always be able to tell him anything. Could that still be part of their relationship?

Crowley shakes his head, one strand of his carefully coiffed hair falling forward. “Don’t think I could if I wanted to.”

“What happened to, er—”

“Make me quit?” Crowley asks, finishing the sentence for him. He slurps at his coffee, reminding Aziraphale of his own which is still sitting by Crowley’s hip, most likely growing cold.

He crosses the room to retrieve it and finds himself unable to leave Crowley’s side as he begins to speak.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a living. I still don’t. I just realized it wasn’t consulting. I didn’t like it. Bureaucracy and rules and horrible people who didn’t give two shits about my opinion or anyone else’s even if they were willing to pay an arm and a leg for it.”

Aziraphale snorts. It breaks the intensity of the conversation and Crowley starts chuckling too.

“Maybe it’s a midlife crisis but I sort of thought, this isn’t it and I don’t know what is but I won’t find out standing still. And now here I am.”

“Opening a boutique plant store,” Aziraphale says in a teasing way that he hopes Crowley reads as friendly affection.

“Opening a boutique plant store,” Crowley confirms as a smile flickers over his face. “And who knows? If that fails, I own this little corner of the universe now and can make it whatever I want. Coffee shop, tattoo parlor, bookshop.”

The last he says with a mischievous grin and Aziraphale hits him on the arm with the back of his hand in faux distress. “Don’t you dare!”

“I suppose I can try the other ones first,” Crowley says. “Though you might need to ask nicely.”

His tone is teasing and flirtatious and Aziraphale thinks maybe if he raised himself on his toes and kissed Crowley that he wouldn’t be pushed away. In fact, he thinks that Crowley might—

Before Aziraphale can act on the thought Crowley steps away, pushing his hair back from his face and only tousling it more. “I suppose you need to get back to your bookshop.”

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale straightens. “Yes, you’re right.”

Crowley thrusts the paper bag from the coffee shop into Aziraphale’s free hand. “I bought these for you. Take them.”

Startled, Aziraphale just grasps at the bag and let’s Crowley’s frantic energy push him to the door.

“Erm, alright. I’ll see you tonight?” he says, hesitant and questioning.

Crowley hums in acknowledgment, Aziraphale’s only real answer the snick of the door closing behind him.

When he goes back to the shop, he opens the pastry bag. Inside are blueberry muffins.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale spends an embarrassing amount of time thinking about how he almost kissed Crowley. He thinks about it in the shower. He thinks about it while he makes cocoa, while he lies in bed, wide awake thinking about how Crowley had looked down at him, eyes fathomless and old and full of history.

He sighs as he pulls another book from the shelf. It’s been a week or so since he’s seen Crowley in more than passing. A wave as he goes off to open up his shop or when he comes home looking a bit tired, but somehow satisfied. Aziraphale wants to ask if they can have dinner together. Maybe get a drink. But it feels too much like tipping his hand, saying I like you. So he keeps to himself and gives Crowley the same friendly smile every morning and every evening, and silently wishes he had the wherewithal to go after what he wants.

The books in the nonfiction section have become entirely too organized and Aziraphale realized he needed to move them around when a little old lady had plopped a book on herbology onto the counter and said, “I’ve looked for this everywhere. Did you know it’s out of print?”

He’d sold the thing to her, but not without chagrin. She’d just looked so kind behind those wide glasses.

He may have been in the business of owning a bookshop but he didn’t like being in the business of selling books.

Looking over the tall bookshelf, he wonders if he can move some of the more valuable books to the top shelf so no one can get to them. And then move the rest around so that only the newest books were easy to find.

Pleased with his plan, Aziraphale plucks an old almanac from the bottom shelf, a book on reptiles from the pile to the left of the shelf and a handful of rare encyclopedias that are full of “facts” made up by the editor. They were a very fun read. It’s a good haul, the best to hide away from prying eyes so he fetches a stool and clambers up to place the books atop the shelf.

Perhaps he should plan on cleaning soon, he notes to himself when pulling aside a book sends a plume of dust into the air.

What he doesn’t plan for is the rickety third leg of the old stool, or the misjudged stability of the bookshelf so when he tries to slip the herpetology book onto the shelf, he falls forward, overcorrects backward, grasps at the bookshelf and brings it all down around him with a resounding crash followed by the flipping of pages as books flutter to the ground. The bookshelf collides with the wall by the window and snaps in half, depositing nearly a hundred books onto Aziraphale’s head and lap, the splintered wood slamming into his head and making him see stars even as he finds himself in the dark of a pile of books and broken shelves, wind summarily knocked from his lungs.

Aziraphale’s first thought is oh no, the books!

His second is ow.

He tries to take an inventory of his limbs to make sure nothing is broken but his whole body is already aching so it's quite an undertaking.

“What’s that noise—Aziraphale?”

He hears the worried call from the bookshop proper and grunts. “Over here,” he grates out from under the detritus of his nonfiction section.

Distantly, he hears the noise of books being tossed aside and he says, “Careful with the books please.”

“Bugger the books,” Crowley snaps. The weight of the broken shelf is lifted off him before he manages to sit up.

He puts a hand up to his head, trying to still the spinning of the room and when he pulls it away, it is wet and red. Looking up at Crowley through bleary vision, Aziraphale says, “Oh.”

It’s all he can manage.

Crowley’s wearing his sunglasses which, honestly, Aziraphale should have expected but it still disappoints him. Crowley has such nice eyes. Very pretty.

Dropping into a crouch next to him, Crowley tugs on his shoulders. “Come on, Aziraphale. You’re bleeding.”

“But the books…” Aziraphale says woefully as Crowley pushes him to the stairs.

“They’ll bloody keep,” Crowley grumbles and Aziraphale lets him manhandle him up the stairs.

“I probably got blood on the books,” Aziraphale mourns.

“C’mon,” Crowley says. He sounds irritated. Why is he irritated? “Sit yourself down.”

Aziraphale falls back onto the couch, his dizziness starting to fade and be replaced by a throbbing in his head that makes him close his eyes.

Then Crowley is pressing a rag into his hands as Aziraphale realizes they are in his apartment and Crowley’s never seen his apartment and Aziraphale feels the insane urge to run around putting away the myriad dirty teacups and folding the preponderance of blankets strewn over the couch and chairs. His apartment is filthy.

“Sorry it’s a mess in here,” Aziraphale says as his hand comes up to press the rag against the wound on his head.

“Jesus christ,” Crowley grates out. “Stop worrying about me and your books. You’re literally bleeding from a head wound. Maybe focus on yourself for one damn minute.”

Aziraphale groans and tips his head back until it rests on the back of the couch.

“Does anywhere else hurt? Limbs intact?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale can feel him hovering over him even though his eyes are closed.

“A bit bruised I’m sure. But I’m fine otherwise.”

“Lemme see your head,” Crowley says, tugging on his hand.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale pulls the rag away and Crowley hisses. “It probably looks worse than it is,” Aziraphale says, trying to waylay any of Crowley’s concern. He doesn’t need to be herded to the hospital.

“None of that,” Crowley says. “We’re going to A&E.”

“I’m fine.”

“What if it’s a concussion?” Crowley demands and when Aziraphale looks up at him, he sees that particular set to his jaw that Aziraphale knows means he’s about to lose an argument. Stubborn wanker.

“Fine. Call Newt. He has a car.”

“I’ll drive you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have the presence of mind to ask how Crowley has a car, why he hasn’t seen the car and why in heaven’s name would he rent a flat without a garage. Instead he finds himself, silent and angry, with a rag pressed to his head in an immaculately maintained old bentley that Aziraphale has no idea how Crowley got his hands on.

Crowley buzzes through a stop sign and Aziraphale scrabbles at the door handle uselessly. “Do you always drive like this?” he asks between the dull throbs of his forehead.

“No,” Crowley replies and Aziraphale can hear the lie in it. He’s too distracted to call him on it.

When Crowley finally drags him through the terrible ordeal of the waiting room, he’s eventually poked and prodded by a doctor who, at the very least, seems kind and considerate.

The doctor makes a noise of sympathy when she gets a good look at the cut. “You won't need stitches but that’s a pretty good goose egg.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley where he stands in the corner of the room. Crowley glares back.

“Let’s make sure you don’t have a concussion,” the doctor says, tilting Aziraphale’s head and peering into his eyes, first with a considerate hum and then with a light shone in each eye. “Seems fine to me. Dizziness? Trouble walking?”

She directs those last two questions at Crowley who gives a brief answer. “He seemed a little stiff but he also took a fall.”

“Mmm,” the doctor says before scribbling a note.

“I was dizzy when I first fell but not anymore. Hurts something fierce though,” Aziraphale says, resisting the urge to reach up and touch the bump.

“Right, well you don’t have a concussion, just a nasty knock to the head. That being said, I’d recommend a day—at least—of rest, plenty of fluids and protein.” The doctor nods at Crowley and says, “Your partner should pay attention for other symptoms, slurring of speech, strange behavior.”

Aziraphale is terrified to look at Crowley. Partner.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Crowley confirms, coming up to Aziraphale’s side and it makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter.

They end up leaving the hospital, Aziraphale patched up with a butterfly bandage and a bottle of prescription strength acetaminophen.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asks carefully as he pulls out onto the road.

Tired. Aziraphale is feeling tired. Instead he says, “Quite well for having fallen off a stool and being crushed under a bookshelf.”

It’s silent for a moment as Crowley actually pulls to a stop at a stop sign, Aziraphale is very proud.

“Do you need me to call Anathema? Get someone to mind the shop for you tomorrow?”

Aziraphale sighs. The doctor said bedrest but he hates not getting anything done in the shop. There are always things to do. And now he knows he needs to dust. He’s going to think about the dust all day. “No. I suppose it’s fine to close for a day or so.”

“I’ll have to run to Eden tomorrow to do a little maintenance—watering the plants and such—but will be back before you know it.”

Momentarily confused, Aziraphale wonders if the bump to his head is worse than the doctor said.

“Why would you come back?”

Crowley’s eyes flick to him and then focus back on the road. “Somebody has to take care of you.”

Goodness gracious, Aziraphale is fairly certain Crowley has no idea what such a declaration does to his poor heart. “Please don’t take time off on my account. You can call or check in. I really will be fine,” he rushes to assure him.

Crowley groans as he pulls up in front of the bookshop and turns his hazards on. “Stop being so stubborn, Aziraphale. Let people help you.”

“Please, Crowley. You just opened your shop. You have to go in. I’ll even concede to a few check-ins if you absolutely must.”

Crowley stares at him for a moment and then sighs. “Fine, but if you die, I want it on record that I tried to help you.”

“Duly recorded,” Aziraphale says with a laugh that makes his head pulse painfully. His discomfort must show on his face because Crowley shoos him out of the car with strict instructions to go upstairs and if he’s not in bed when Crowley checks on him then he’ll have hell to pay.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what that means and a little part of him wants to risk it just to find out.

**

The next day Crowley reluctantly leaves him to his own devices—“you better call if you need anything”—and Aziraphale lies on the couch with his eyes closed, feeling sorry for himself for several hours. The time crawls by in painful inches, Aziraphale dozing off and on while his head throbs. Part of him wishes he had taken Crowley up on his offer to stay with him, the other knows he would feel far too guilty if he had. When the early autumn sun is finally setting, Crowley peeks his head in through Aziraphale’s door.

“How’s the patient?”

Aziraphale groans.

“That good, huh?”

Aziraphale wants to throw a pillow at him. Instead, he opens his eyes and frowns. “You crack your head open and then tell me how you feel the next day.”

“Oh ho, cranky Aziraphale. A rare bird that is,” Crowley says. Aziraphale does throw a pillow at him. His arms are sore so it’s a weak attempt that Crowley dodges easily. “Can I get you anything?”

“Do you know that my head hurts bad enough that I can’t read? I tried. I’ve been laying here all day with nothing to do and I feel like I’m going mad with boredom.”

“Why don’t you come over to my flat, we can put on a movie and I’ll make you dinner or something. You should eat. How much water have you drank today?”

Not enough. “I am not a child who needs the telly put on and a sippy cup,” Aziraphale snaps and Crowley holds up his hands as if to say don’t shoot. The effect is somewhat ruined by his smirk.

The bastard is laughing at him.

“I think that means you need some water. C’mon.”

Grumbling, Aziraphale wraps himself in his blankets and shuffles across the hall, holding his own pillow to his chest like armor.

Crowley sets him up on the couch with a glass of water, more acetaminophen and an ice pack. “Put that on your head,” he says firmly.

Aziraphale takes the medicine gratefully but continues to scowl.

Crowley sits at the far end of the sofa, a few centimeters away from Aziraphale’s toes. “What do you want to watch?”

“No preference. Something I can just listen to?”

Crowley nods and then clicks through some screens Aziraphale doesn’t recognize before putting on an adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing that Aziraphale hasn’t seen before. “Ah, Shakespeare’s a good choice. Thank you.”

“Never say I don’t take care of you,” Crowley says blithely, tucking his legs up under him in a way that looks wildly uncomfortable.

“I don’t think I’d ever say that,” Aziraphale replies quietly as he closes his eyes and listens to Emma Thompson recite the Bard.

**

Aziraphale gets back to work the next day, but he has to take things slow. Feeling like a walking and throbbing bruise, he resigns himself to a painful day of cleaning up the mess he made when he fell. When he goes downstairs, he looks over at where the pile of nonfiction books should be and sees neat stacks of books on the floor next to the poetry section, four put on the table by the register that are clearly in need of repair, and a brand new metal stool folded and leaning against the checkout counter with a black bow tied about the top handle, a note tacked to the end of the ribbon. His hand goes to his mouth and for a second he’s certain he’s going to cry.

Take care of yourself -

AJC

**

Anathema appears later that day with a scowl. “Your neighbor called me you know. How did he get my phone number?”

Aziraphale shrugs before hissing in pain. He forgot that bit of his neck hurt so much. “He probably snagged it from my planner.”

“I can’t believe you,” Anathema says, dropping a canvas bag onto the table and moving right into a lecture. “I’ve told you a thousand time to be more careful when no one’s around. Everything in here is ancient, and a fire hazard and you need—

“Crowley’s already given me a proper lecture. You can let this one go,” Aziraphale says, peering over his glasses at her.

“I’ll let it go...for now,” she says with a hint of warning before plopping down into her normal chair by the window.

Aziraphale pauses in his work. He’d been unthreading the spine of one of the damaged books and it was taking quite a bit longer than usual. “Are you only here to reprimand me or…”

Anathema crosses her arms over her chest and jerks her chin in the direction of the bag on the table. “I brought you some stuff for the pain.”

Aziraphale flips open the bag and finds epsom salt, a hot water bottle, and a variety of blue crystals.

“What are the crystals for?”

“If you put them under your pillow before you go to bed, they’ll help reduce the swelling in your head.”

Aziraphale holds one of the stones dubiously even as he smiles to himself. Anathema is very new age-y and it’s one of the things Aziraphale loves about her. She’s the type of person his parents would never have let him spend time with and he relishes in the minor, meaningless rebellion.

“Thank you very much Anathema. Though I may not use the crystals,” Aziraphale says diplomatically.

“Whatever floats your boat, old man. How can I help?”

Rolling his eyes at Anathema referring to him as old man—she's only five years younger than him for goodness sake—he gestures for her to come to the counter.

Anathema hops out of her chair and comes up beside him, peering down at the book and Aziraphale really doesn’t have anything else to do so he walks her through the process of undoing this particular type of binding. As always, she is a fantastic pupil.

After she leaves, Aziraphale closes up shop and goes to the back room to make some tea for himself. Listening to the low burble of the electric kettle as it threatens to boil, Aziraphale smiles, thinking about that black bow and the swift stroke of Crowley’s handwriting. He wanted to return the favor. Do something for Crowley.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Turning to the doorway, Aziraphale starts. Crowley has such a knack for appearing whenever Aziraphale thinks of him for just a bit too long. Perhaps Aziraphale could put that power to better use.

“I’ve already closed up shop. What else should I do?”

“I don’t know. Sit down? Eat something?” Crowley says, leaning one shoulder against the door jamb

“Anathema brought me epsom salt. So a bath’s in the future at the very least. Tea?”

“You’re going to take a bath?” Crowley says with an arched brow as he sinks onto the couch Aziraphale has stuffed in the back room. It’s an old musty thing, but it’s comfortable.

“Do you not take baths?”

Lip curling in consideration, Crowley shakes his head. “Not since I was ten. Maybe.”

“Oh, they’re lovely,” Aziraphale says, hand going to his heart. Nothing is better than a hot bath on a long cold day, soothing his bones.

“Seems a waste of time. Inefficient.”

“Well, see that’s your problem. Baths aren’t about efficiency. They’re about relaxation.”

Crowley scoffs.

Aziraphale hands him his tea and then lowers himself into his desk chair, one aching bone at a time. “Try it sometime. Aren’t you supposed to be making a change?”

Crowley makes a noise in his throat that sounds like he finds Aziraphale unbearably irritating. It makes Aziraphale laugh.

“I forgot how self-satisfied you were,” Crowley says and it sounds affectionate to Aziraphale’s ears.

“It’s not self-satisfaction if I’m right.”

“Says the self-satisfied person.”

For some reason, that response makes him want to hug Crowley. Pushing that ill-advised impulse away, he says, “Thank you.”

Crowley cocks his head and asks, “What for?”

“Cleaning up the shop. The new stool.” His eyes start pricking again and he swallows hard. “Let me buy you lunch. Something. I owe you.”

“What is it you said?” Crowley says, lips quirking up like he wants to laugh. “What are neighbors for?”

Aziraphale lets out a long breath through his mouth and then Crowley really does laugh. “You know, if you weren’t here, I would have been stuck under those books for quite a bit longer.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m here then.”

Aziraphale smiles at him and, goodness, Crowley looks beautiful when he smiles back.

Chapter Text

It takes a week for the soreness to leave Aziraphale’s body and as it does, the weather turns unseasonably cool for fall and snow of all things is in the forecast. It’s October for goodness sake. As soon as he can lift his arm over his head without it sending a sharp pain down his whole body, Aziraphale does what he promised himself he would and begins the arduous task of cleaning his apartment. The presence of Crowley in his favorite chair, hovering in the kitchen while Aziraphale showed him how to find the right dishes, had reminded Aziraphale that his house can be seen by other people. And when it's seen by other people, it's unspeakably embarrassing. It doesn't help that it was Crowley that saw the disrepair Aziraphale had let his life fall into.

When snow does start to fall outside, nothing sounds better than keeping the store shut while he stays inside, not dealing with customers or anything else equally irritating. Looking over his flat, the actual state of it is daunting. He has no idea where to start. There are piles of papers on the entryway table. Some of them scribbled notes, others are bits of mail that he brought up for some purpose or other. Each flat surface has at least two books and one cup or bowl.

There’s a spoon under the sofa. When had he last hoovered?

Putting a hand to his face, he sighs and starts in the corner where he knows, under the pile of his jumpers with holes—yes, he knows he needs to get rid of them—is a record player.

“A-ha!” he says triumphantly as he dumps the sad jumpers to the ground. Now, to find the records.

All cleaning needs good music. Going through the closet, he finds an old Billie Holiday but that’s all he has. It was most likely his grandmother's—just like the turntable—and it’s warped badly enough that when he tries to play it, it makes an awful warbling sound.

Vaguely remembering that Crowley had gone through a record phase in college, Aziraphale wonders if it’s too early to bother his neighbor. Billie gives a little screech and Aziraphale glares at her.

Huffing his way across the hall, he knocks on Crowley’s door and when it opens Aziraphale stifles a laugh. His neighbor is wearing perhaps three jumpers and wrapped around his shoulders is—is that Aziraphale’s blanket? He’d wondered where that went.

Crowley's strange appearance is accompanied by a burst of cold air and Aziraphale's humor drains immediately.

“Is the heat out?” he asks instead of inquiring after music. Crowley scrubs at his hair, mussed like he just crawled out of bed.

“I dunno. S’chilly tho.”

Oh, he mumbles when he’s sleepy. Adorable.

Aziraphale chastises himself and tries to focus. He’s technically the landlord so if the heat’s out then its his fault. Sure enough, when he goes into Crowley’s apartment, it’s significantly colder than the rest of the building and he grimaces. “My dear, you should have said something,” Aziraphale says, only regretting the endearment when

Crowley’s jaw tightens minutely. He calls Anathema dear! And Newt!

“I can call a repairman. Oh bother, I’m very sorry. What a horrible day for it too. If, you, erm, need somewhere to warm up, my couch is always open,” Aziraphale offers, hoping it sounds friendly and not like some sort of proposition.

Crowley looks visibly relieved. “Could I? I hate the cold.”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale says and there’s that urge again. To hug him.

“What were you stopping by for? Need something?” Crowley asks as he goes over to the kitchen to grab something Aziraphale can’t see.

“I was actually, erm, going to clean my flat today and I was hoping you might have some records I could choose from.”

Crowley comes out of the kitchen with a bright grin and a bottle of scotch in one hand, Bailey’s in the other. “Do I?”

Dropping the glass bottles onto the couch cushions without a thought, Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the wrist and tugs him into his bedroom. The contact makes Aziraphale’s face heat. And the fact that it’s Crowley’s bedroom he’s being pulled into makes his stomach perform some complicated gymnastics.

Aziraphale hasn’t been in Crowley’s bedroom since he helped him set up the bedframe, but now it’s all decorated in blacks and grays, severe as ever, and a sleek record player is sat in the corner of the room, a neat stack of records in a box below the table.

“Take your pick,” Crowley says, releasing his hand and tucking his own back into the safety of his blanket. Aziraphale ducks down, a little hesitant, and rifles through the box with slowly freezing fingers.

“Any recommendations?” Aziraphale asks, overwhelmed by the options, a lot of names he doesn’t recognize.

Crowley gives him a smile that’s all teeth and it sends a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine.

**

With QUEEN pumping out of the record player’s tinny speakers, Crowley putters around the kitchen, thunking a saucepan on the burner and steadily making cocoa with ingredients Aziraphale is pretty sure did not come from his own cupboards.

“It’ll be like old times. Getting drunk on a cold day, snow coming down,” Crowley says, raising his voice so Aziraphale can here him from the living room.

Sitting down on the ground, he’s steadily stuffing his old, ruined clothes into a garbage bag, resolved to actually toss them in the bin and be done with it. Aziraphale looks out the window and, sure enough, the snow has begun to pick up, flakes fluttering down from the gray sky. He sighs.

He remembers the winter of his fourth year at university. It had been a cold one and it had been the first year where he and Crowley had been honestly spending time together. When he found out that Crowley had nowhere to go for the holidays, he had asked his parents if he could come with Aziraphale on his trip home for the winter break. They’d said no. In quite vociferous terms.

So he waited a week, made other excuses—"oh dear, it's just my thesis, I've so much research to do"—and stayed on campus with Crowley. On Christmas proper they’d made an obscene amount of boozy punch, gotten drunk while playing board games and Aziraphale vaguely remembers making a snowman.

Crowley pushes a warm mug into his hands, drawing Aziraphale’s attention as their fingers brush, the touch lingering. “Hot cocoa with Bailey’s and whiskey.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale says, pulling the mug close and inhaling the sweet scent of cocoa.

Crowley folds up onto the couch, more blankets somehow appearing in his lap as he nests into the cushions. “Your couch is much more comfortable than mine.”

Setting aside the mug so he can tie the garbage bag shut, he says primly, “Not all of us prefer fashion over function.”

“Oi!” Crowley says. The offended syllable is followed by the sound of slurping. Not that offended then. “The only way your couch would be better was if you had a TV. Why don’t you have a TV?”

“I much prefer reading,” Aziraphale says as he hauls the full bag out into the hallway. With the door open he can feel the absence of heat in Crowley’s apartment. The repairman said he would be there that afternoon. Which was woefully unspecific.

QUEEN and Crowley’s occasional slurps are the soundtrack of his cleaning efforts. The papers by the door are easy. They all go in the bin. Collecting the various dishes is straightforward, if a bit embarrassing as Crowley watches him fumble his way through nearly a dozen cups, all of which are put in the sink.

When he returns from washing them, he finds Crowley kneeling in front of his bookshelf, slipping book after book onto it, the piles of texts that had previously been strewn about his apartment, neatly stacked next to him.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks.

“Helping you clean. Obviously,” Crowley replies, not looking at him.

Flustered, Aziraphale goes to him and his hands flutter, unsure of what to do. “You don’t have to do that.”

Crowley shrugs and waves him away so, with a little guilt, Aziraphale backs away and begins his continued cleaning journey, taking fortifying sips of Crowley’s very delicious (and very boozy) hot cocoa.

“What’s got you on this spring cleaning kick? Metaphorically speaking,” Crowley asks when he finishes with the books and returns to the couch, swiftly wrapping himself in blankets.

Aziraphale puts down the duster he’d been using on the blinds and finishes the last sip of his cocoa.

“Well, I, er...I don’t have much occasion to have people over, you see—”

“What about that girl? The pretty one who looks like she could kill you.”

Aziraphale makes a note to tell Anathema about that little description. He knows it would tickle her. She loves intimidating people.

“Ah, well, we normally go to her place if we spend time together outside the bookshop.”

In fact, he doesn’t think Anathema has ever seen his apartment.

“Who are you having over then?”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a significant look.

“Me?” Crowley asks, gesturing at himself with his empty mug. “You don’t need to worry on my account.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You’ve spent nearly two hours cleaning. What would you call it then?”

“I don’t know. You made me realize it was all a bit of a mess. Your flat is so clean and I thought that I might be, I don’t know, happier if things were neater here.”

Crowley cocks his head like he’s trying to figure something out. “If it makes you happier then it’s worth it. But you’ve always been a bit messy. Part of your charm, I suppose.”

Aziraphale blushes and turns back to finish dusting the blinds. He’s starting to like Crowley far too much, all those old feelings never really went away and now he’s starting to think about kissing him all the time. There’s no way he could ever work up the nerve.

“Why did we fall out of touch?” The words leave Aziraphale before he can stop them and he wants to curl up into a ball when Crowley’s face does something complicated and painful. Aziraphale knows why they fell out of touch and he can’t blame Crowley for not wanting to talk about it.

Crowley stands up without warning, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders falling to the ground as he disregards Aziraphale's comment. “Erm, I’m going out to get lunch. Want anything?”

Without waiting for an answer, Crowley leaves and Aziraphale wonders if he goes out into the street in his pajamas.

**

“I need you to help me set up for my halloween party,” Anathema declares the minute she walks through the door the next week.

Aziraphale groans. He’s hidden away in the poetry section and Anathema tracks him down immediately. “Sometimes I forget how American you are.”

“Stop saying American like it’s a dirty word,” Anathema chides, resting her back against the bookshelf. Aziraphale eyes it warily. Maybe his next project should be replacing the bookshelves.

Aziraphale harrumphs and pulls out a pristine copy of The Changing Light at Sandover. A truly horrendous book that he’ll be happy to part with for the very nice agreed upon price.

“C’mon, Aziraphale,” Anathema whines. “You do this every year, acting like you hate it and then you show up, have a great time and then pretend you don’t.”

“How do you know I’m pretending?” Aziraphale asks, raising one eyebrow as he pushes past her to return to the register and wrap up the book.

“Because you get that bright-eyed look on your face and last year you danced,” Anathema says. She hops up on the counter next to him and smiles her most winning smile.

Aziraphale remembers that. He’d gotten quite drunk. He was mortified the next day but Anathema had only teased him good-naturedly and Aziraphale had pulled out the scribbled phone number he had in his pocket, vaguely remembering a young man named Jeremy had given it to him. They’d gone to coffee the following week and Aziraphale had glumly felt nothing except a thrill of decidedly non-romantic interest when Jeremy told him he had a pet corgi named Waffles.

“Fine but I’m not dressing up,” Aziraphale says with a sigh.

“We’ll work on that.”

**

Aziraphale knocks on Crowley’s door tentatively. They’ve spent more time together than Aziraphale had expected but it still makes him nervous to impose on his space. Not that knocking is imposing. Though it does sort of feel like it.

Crowley opens the door still dressed like he’s about to leave for a business meeting and Aziraphale’s hands itch with the desire to mess up his slicked back hair, undo his tie. Anything to bring back that less severe Crowley from that day weeks ago when they shared hot cocoa on Aziraphale’s couch and Aziraphale had run him off by mentioning things he shouldn't have.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, enunciating each word perfectly. Why is he being so awkward?

Crowley arches one eyebrow. “Yes, Aziraphale?” he replies, matching Aziraphale’s formal tone.

Aziraphale sighs and forces himself to say, “Anathema is having a Halloween party tonight and I wanted to, erm, invite you. To come with me.”

Crowley’s eyes widen in surprise. What could he be surprised about? That Aziraphale wants to spend time with him outside of their habit of only coming together when one of them is sick or injured or in need of a favor? That irritates Aziraphale because of course he wants to spend time with Crowley. He’s wanted to spend time with Crowley for over a decade even when they weren’t in touch and he only had memories to think on.

He scowls. Romantic thoughts like that will get him into trouble.

“I don’t have plans,” Crowley admits. “But I don’t exactly have a costume.”

“I don’t either,” Aziraphale says in rush. “So it’s fine. We can be not in costume together.”

Crowley cocks his head and then says, “Alright. Haven’t gone to a Halloween party since university. I didn’t think they were very fashionable.”

“Apparently, they’re all the rage in America and transplant or no, it’s something Anathema refuses to leave behind.”

“What time do you want to go?” Crowley asks, some tension going out of his body as he leans against the door. Aziraphale doesn’t know how he achieves that liquid posture, all he knows is that he finds it very alluring. Which is very silly.

“I’m actually going to Anathema’s now to help set up. I can write down the address. 7?”

“Why don’t I come with you?” Crowley offers, disappearing into his apartment and then returning with his wallet keys in hand.

Anathema is going to tease him, but it might be worth it to spend more time with Crowley.

It turns out that Crowley is rather talented in the kitchen so Anathema gleefully leaves him to making caramel apples and drags Aziraphale into the living room to set up skeletons.

“Put one in the corner there,” Anathema demands, thrusting the human-sized thing into Aziraphale’s hands and staring at him until he obeys.

She puts another against the wall by the couch and then produces a large bag of fake spider webs which she enthusiastically begins to tear up only to stretch over every surface she can reasonably reach.

Instead of forcing Aziraphale into web duty once he finishes with the skeleton, she instructs him to join Crowley in the kitchen and follow the instructions on the counter for the punch she wants to serve.

Crowley is staring into a pot, stirring steadily and the smell of caramel reaches Aziraphale’s nose. His mouth starts to water.

“Welcome to the kitchen," Crowley says magnanimously, "Can I help you?”

“I’m under strict instructions to make Anathema’s punch,” Aziraphale says going to the counter where a large plastic cauldron has a piece of paper taped to it.

They hear Anathema’s sharp tones from the living room. “Put the lights over there!”

Newt must have come home.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley chuckle before focusing on their respective tasks. Aziraphale might not be as good as Crowley in the kitchen but he makes a decent punch. Anathema even praises the final results before declaring everything perfect and ordering Indian takeaway as a thank you. They all sit in silence on the couch while they watch her rip the guts from a pumpkin and stab a face into it.

“Is it always like this?” Crowley asks Newt who nods vehemently.

“It’s Anathema’s favorite holiday,” he says, sounding nervous. Well, Newt always sounds nervous so Aziraphale doesn’t read too much into it.

Setting up the pumpkin so it looks like it’s innards are coming out of its mouth, Anathema puts the candy bowl right next to it and looks very satisfied.

“That’s disgusting,” Aziraphale says, wrinkling his nose.

“I know,” Anathema says, delighted as she jams a plastic spider into the mess of orange pulp.

The food arrives and they all dig in, Aziraphale tentatively asking how many people Anathema thinks will come and her responding excitedly that she has no idea, but she expects a good turnout because she invited everyone. Eventually, Anathema and Newt disappear to their bedroom to change into their costumes, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone on the couch.

“I—”

“Did you—”

Aziraphale gestures for Crowley to go ahead. He wasn’t going to say anything interesting anyways, he just wanted to fill the silence.

“I had a customer today. You would have hated them. Immediately made me think of you,” Crowley says, leaning back on the couch and tucking one of his legs under him. Aziraphale remembers how Crowley always seemed to be perching everywhere he went, hardly using chairs the way they were intended.

“Really? Why?”

“They were so pushy. ‘What temperature do you store your seeds at?,’ ‘This orchid has a blemish so it should be discounted.’ I think you would have thrown them out.”

“I don’t throw out customers!” Aziraphale says, offended at the implication.

“Please. Maybe not throw but I’ve seen you shame a number of people into leaving the shop with their tail between their legs.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Well, some people don’t deserve to own the books they’re after. A man came into my shop eating fast food! And tried to get me to sell him a copy of Through The Looking Glass with the original cover. Absolutely not. He had grease on his fingers when he asked to inspect it!”

Crowley starts laughing. “Of course. Of course. Very reasonable.”

Before Aziraphale can retort, Newt emerges from the bedroom dressed in a fuzzy black unitard and cat ears. He has a pink nose and whiskers drawn on his face and...he still looks nervous.

“Newton Pulsifer,” Crowley says, pressing a hand to his chest. “How very daring!”

Aziraphale snorts and Newt scowls. “It was Anathema’s idea.”

Anathema appears shortly thereafter in a spotted dog costume that makes Crowley laugh. “You are full of surprises. I thought you'd go a for a witch. But of course not. I have no idea what Newt could possibly have done to deserve you.”

“Hey!” Newt protests through a mouth full of samosa.

Anathema kisses her partner on the cheek and glares at Crowley in faux offense. “Where is your costume?”

Crowley looks to Aziraphale in a silent plea for help but Aziraphale knows exactly what Anathema is about to do and he also knows he can't stop her. Holding up her hands like she’s taking a picture of Crowley, Anathema says, “I bet you’d fit in my clothes. Maybe a bit tall.”

Crowley’s eyes go wide before Anathema has hooked him by the elbow and dragged him to the bedroom. “I have an idea,” she declares and Aziraphale has to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“She’ll get you next, you know,” Newt warns from the snack table. That sobers him up quickly enough.

**

Crowley is glowering next to him, dolled up in some Cruella de Vil black dress and fluffy white coat thing that makes him look particularly harsh, emphasizing the angles of his shoulders and hips. The effect is kind of nice but Aziraphale thinks that if he said as much he might find himself covered in punch. Which would definitely stain the white sheet wrapped around his body.

The makeshift toga is breezy and when Anathema had pinned it to his shoulder with a gold brooch, Aziraphale had complained that his arms would get cold.

“Well, if you’d choose your own costumes, you’d get to have warm arms,” she said, the severity of the reprimand somewhat ruined by her spotted dog makeup.

As Anathema had predicted, there are now about twenty people in her two-bedroom apartment, all laughing and drinking and it’s sort of nice to be a part of even though Aziraphale is on the outskirts of it. He knows having Crowley at his side is a big part of why he doesn’t hate it the way he usually does.

“I’m going to get a refill,” he says, gesturing at the snack table. “Want one?”

“Please,” Crowley says darkly. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Feeling a bit emboldened by the significant amount of rum in the punch, Aziraphale reaches out and touches Crowley’s wrist, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of Crowley’s palm as he leans closer. “I’m very glad you did.”

He imagines he can feel Crowley’s pulse speed up but it's just wishful thinking. Instead of lingering, he goes to get his punch, feeling fluttery and warm.

“Aziraphale?” says a voice at his elbow as he ladles the red punch into Crowley’s cup. Aziraphale looks to his left and startles at the smiling Sherlock next to him.

“Hello, er…” he begins. He should have known Anathema’s coworker would be here. This is what he gets for dancing with random acquaintances of his acquaintances.

“Jeremy,” the man reminds him, not put off by the fact that Aziraphale forgot. He’s a handsome young thing with a well-trimmed beard and nicely coiffed hair, but looking at him doesn’t make Aziraphale feel anything. He’d spent a long time convincing himself that was normal, not being attracted to people really, and then Crowley came back into his life and he remembered that specific kind of heat and excitement and really nothing could compare.

“Right, Jeremy. How are you? Still doing advertising?” Aziraphale asks politely, setting the two cups on the table and scooting out of the way of the other partygoers who want at the punch. Jeremy smiles with his even white teeth. Why did such a handsome man want to talk to him of all people?

Aziraphale knew his hair wasn’t stylish and that thick bodies weren’t in fashion. The toga he was wearing wasn’t doing him any favors certainly. It’s not as if his currently very on display arms were anything particularly interesting to look at.

“Yep, still at the firm with Anathema,” Jeremy says, somehow managing to pull Aziraphale off to the side without even touching him. “Still in the book business?”

“Very much so. I doubt I’ll ever leave,” Aziraphale says, trying to be polite but not overly friendly. It wouldn’t do to lead the young man on.

“Would you like to—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, appearing beside him and somehow looking even more severe than normal. Aziraphale hadn’t thought that possible really.

“Hi,” Crowley says with a very threatening looking smile. “I’m AJ.”

He sticks out his hand and for a second Aziraphale can see Crowley the slick lawyer instead of Crowley his moody neighbor and boutique plant store owner.

Jeremy takes it, looking a bit disappointed. “Nice to meet you. Jeremy. I work with Anathema.”

Crowley is pressed so close to him that the fuzzy Cruella jacket is tickling the bare skin of Aziraphale’s arms so he steps away a bit, not liking the way it gives him goosebumps and makes him even more aware of Crowley. He’s already aware enough thank you very much.

“How do you know our illustrious host?” Jeremy asks with a friendly smile even though Crowley is practically murdering him with his eyes.

“I’m actually here with Aziraphale,” Crowley says simply and Aziraphale thinks maybe he’s doing it on purpose. Making it seem like they’re together. Perhaps he noticed how uncomfortable Aziraphale was.

Or maybe he’s jealous.

That’s definitely wishful thinking.

Jeremy chuckles and shakes his head. “I knew somebody would snatch him up.”

With a good-humored wave, Jeremy walks off and joins a group of some of the younger men and women. Aziraphale stares after him.

“What was that?” Aziraphale and Crowley say to each other in unison.

“What?” Crowley repeats, surprised.

“You were very rude,” Aziraphale admonishes and Crowley gapes.

“He was flirting with you!”

“So?” Aziraphale replies archly. “Is that so bad?”

Crowley looks a bit shamefaced and says, “I thought he was making you uncomfortable. You were doing that fiddling thing with your hand.”

Crowley puts his hand to his hip and plucks at the fabric as if to illustrate Aziraphale’s nervous tick. Oh goodness, is he that obvious?

“Maybe I was uncomfortable but it’s just because I went on a date with him last year,” Aziraphale says, looking at the ground and trying not to fiddle with the fabric of his tunic now that he knows Crowley notices when he does it.

“A date,” Crowley says, high-pitched and incredulous.

Aziraphale blinks at him in surprise. “Is it that hard to believe?”

He won’t deny he feels a little hurt by Crowley’s shocked response. Even if he’s had the same thoughts himself.

“No, of course not, it’s just —”

Anathema’s voice interrupts whatever Crowley is about to say. “Ok folks! It’s time to get the party started! So for those of you who’d prefer less of the bump and grind, we’ve got movies going in the den!”

There are a few half-hearted cheers while Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look. In Da Club starts playing through Anathema’s sound system and the cheers raise in volume.

Not exactly interested in 2000s R&B, they make their way to the second bedroom which has been converted into a sort of media room with a few couches and a TV. It’s just Newt and a few other over 30s who are all nursing their drinks while arguing over what movie to watch between the assortment of horror DVDs provided.

When Aziraphale suggests they watch something else—perhaps an animated film—Newt gives him a scandalized look.

“Approved Halloween movies only,” he says, shaking Friday the 13th in Aziraphale’s face.

They land on The Blair Witch Project which makes Newt so overjoyed that it ratchets Aziraphale’s nerves.

“Have you seen this?” he asks Crowley in hushed tones.

Shaking his head, Crowley replies, “I don’t much go in for horror films.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, it’s not his nerves he should have worried about. Sure, the movie is anxiety provoking but it’s nothing like Aziraphale expected, no gore or horrifying imagery. Crowley however, quickly eats up the respectable foot of distance between them on the couch and grasps at Aziraphale’s knee.

“What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck,” he hisses into Aziraphale ear as he turns his head away from the screen and screws his eyes shut. The feel of Crowley’s hand through the thin fabric of the sheet would be exciting if the look on Crowley’s face wasn’t so hilarious.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley’s hand.

Too scared to even glare at his condescension, Crowley clenches his jaw and then jumps when a scream echoes out of the TV. “I hate this so much.”

Aziraphale almost mentions the fact that they could leave but then he has the presence of mind to shut up. He likes that Crowley is pressed against him, that his hand keeps finding its way onto Aziraphale body when he gets nervous.

Anathema busts through the door at a particularly quiet moment and Crowley lets out a choked yell as he clutches at Aziraphale’s arm.

Smirking down at them with a look that Aziraphale knows means he’s going to get a talking to, Anathema points at Newt and says, “C’mon. She-Wolf is playing and I want to boogie.”

Newt trails after her obediently and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to do something bold. He can’t even blame it on the punch anymore because he’d had one glass nearly an hour ago and he knows both him and Crowley are absolutely sober. Tugging his arm away from Crowley’s clutching, his heartbeat thuds in his ears as he slips his hand over Crowley’s shoulders effectively tucking him into his side.

For a moment, Aziraphale is once more a teenager putting the moves on his crush. Crowley tenses for a moment and Aziraphale thinks he might pull away but then something happens that makes Crowley jump again—Aziraphale hasn’t the faintest idea, he's barely paying attention because Crowley is warm and his stupid fuzzy coat dispels some of the chill on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says again, patting Crowley’s arm where his hand has finally settled and Crowley pokes him in the ribs, making him jump.

“Very rude way to treat your protector,” Aziraphale says, feeling more confident now that Crowley hasn’t pushed him away and said something awful. Not that Crowley would do that.

Well, he might do that.

Crowley makes a little mocking noise but doesn’t pull away.

Overall, it may be the best party Aziraphale has ever been to.

Chapter Text

The morning after the Halloween party, Crowley comes downstairs and casually mentions he’s going to get coffee and oh would Aziraphale like to come along.

Aziraphale definitely wants to come along.

After he locks up, Aziraphale follows Crowley through the vaguely familiar path to Eden where Crowley holds open the door to that same coffee shop they went to over a month before. Crowley orders his small black coffee and Aziraphale changes his order up, a hazelnut latte and a very delicious looking chocolate croissant.

Expecting to walk back to the bookshop, Aziraphale can’t hide his surprise when Crowley takes a seat in one of the armchairs by the window and sips at his cup. Not that Aziraphale minds. He’s very glad to spend more time with Crowley.

“Thank you for coming with me to the party last night,” Aziraphale says for lack of something better. “Anathema’s parties can be...well, it was nice to have you there.”

“She does seem a bit wild,” Crowley says. He’s wearing his sunglasses again and Aziraphale wants to rip them off because he knows there’s something in his expression that would make Aziraphale understand exactly what Crowley wants.

Instead he settles for some of the flirtation that’s started to come easy between them—and used to be so much a part of their interactions. “I thought you looked very fetching in her clothes.”

“Please, that dress hardly fit,” Crowley says. “Your little toga didn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks burn but he refuses to back down in this game of proverbial flirtation chicken. “What have you been imagining then?”

Aziraphale can see Crowley’s incisors, the beginning of a witty remark forming on his tongue, when they’re interrupted. “Crowley?”

A very pale man in a brown suit comes up to them. He’s smiling but Aziraphale doesn’t like the way the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hastur,” Crowley says, inclining his head in greeting. Aziraphale looks between the two men andis certain something terrible is about to happen.

“What a surprise,” this Hastur says, voice dripping with disdain. “What have you been up to? You left the firm pretty suddenly.”

“Just taking a break. You know the lay of the land. You work too hard, you lose your edge,” Crowley says, flopping back in the chair and affecting some person that Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s ever seen. It’s as if all of the quiet warmth has gone out of him.

Hastur grunts and he looks like he’s about to press Crowley for more information and Aziraphale can’t stand it any longer so he rises to his feet and sticks out his hand. “Hello, I’m Aziraphale. A friend of Crowley’s.”

“Hastur,” the man says, shaking Aziraphale’s hand. It makes Aziraphale feel dirty.

“How do you know Crowley?” Aziraphale says, putting on his best innocent expression. Aziraphale, friendly librarian looking fellow, very kind he is.

“Used to work together downtown before he went soft,” Hastur says with a poorly disguised sneer.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Well, we don’t want to keep you. I’m sure, if you’re still in the business, that you have all sorts of places to be.”

“Actually—”

“I believe I asked you to leave,” Aziraphale says. It’s still polite but it’s entirely driven by the black feeling in his chest he gets when he wants to protect himself. And protect those he loves.

Eyebrows going up, Hastur takes a final look at Crowley. “I hope you and your boyfriend here are happy, Crowley.” He takes no efforts to disguise his sneer this time.

The door slams shut behind the awful man and Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who looks pale as a sheet.

Picking up his cup, Aziraphale tries to sound chipper when he says, “Let’s go home, hm?”

Crowley is silent their entire way back so Aziraphale chatters mindlessly about the latest deal he’s brokering. He has two illustrated editions of A Christmas Carol and the bids are getting very high for the one he’s willing to part with.

Crowley nods along but Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s listening and even though Aziraphale was going to stay in the shop and do some cataloging, he walks up the stairs with Crowley, nervous to leave him alone.

When Crowley opens the door to his apartment, seemingly ready to disappear inside and leave the strange interaction behind him, Aziraphale says, “Do you need anything?”

“M’fine,” Crowley mumbles and then he shuts the door.

Aziraphale wrings his hands and spends an inordinate amount of time in the hallway before he convinces himself to go back downstairs.

**

It’s Monday and crawling towards the afternoon when Aziraphale realizes he hasn’t seen Crowley all day. To Aziraphale’s knowledge Crowley hasn’t missed a business day since Eden was opened and it’s starting to make him concerned.

His worry only grows as the clock strikes four—he needs to fix his clock, the cuckoo never comes out anymore—so he locks up early and goes upstairs to knock on Crowley’s door.

No response.

“Crowley? Are you home?” Aziraphale calls through the door. Again no response.

Throwing propriety out the window—oh dear, he’s going to have to apologize later—he twists the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked, and pushes into Crowley’s apartment. There are no lights on but the evening sun pours in through the half shuttered blinds on the window, allowing Aziraphale to see the blanket covered lump on the couch. “Crowley?”

The lump grumbles.

“Are you ill?” Aziraphale says, approaching the couch. Crowley rolls onto his back and looks at him blearily.

“No,” he says. “Tired.”

Feeling very worried, Aziraphale goes to the kitchen and gets a glass of water which he forces Crowley to drink when he returns to the couch. Crowley initially pushes him off and then when he realizes Aziraphale means business, rises up on one elbow and drinks the glass in one go.

When the blanket Crowley had wrapped himself in falls away, Aziraphale can see that he’s shirtless which, under normal circumstances, would certainly have Aziraphale flustered. However, his state of undress is overshadowed by the unkempt state of the rest of him.

“Have you eaten today?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley flops back down onto the cushions.

“I’m not hungry, Aziraphale.” It’s quiet and biting which Aziraphale is certain Crowley intends it to be, but Aziraphale’s not put off that easy.

“You’ll feel better if you eat,” he says firmly and stands to go to the kitchen and make some toast.

When he comes back, Crowley has sat up, the blanket that had cocooned him is now in his lap and he’s scrubbing at his face with one hand as if to remove the sleep from it.

“Toast,” Aziraphale announces, putting the plate in Crowley’s lap.

Crowley looks down at it like he’s never seen bread before.

“Eat it,” Aziraphale says and Crowley takes one bite, glaring at him before putting it back down on the plate and tossing it onto the coffee table.

Sighing, Aziraphale asks, “Is this about yesterday?”

“No,” Crowley says, petulant.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says. He knows better than to push with Crowley. He’ll be honest in time.

“Would you like me to stay or leave?”

Crowley closes his eyes and with great effort says, “I think I want to be alone.”

He should have prepared himself for that response but it still makes his stomach drop. “I’ll just be across the hall. Please drink water.”

Crowley nods and before Aziraphale can leave says, “It’s not you. It’s just—Look.” Crowley sighs and tugs at his hair before continuing, “I don’t have a lot of friends. And you—you’re the best one. You have to know that.”

Aziraphale’s disappointment and worry quickly transforms into a thrilling joy that he has to reign in lest he smile like a loon when Crowley seems so distraught. “You’re my best friend too.”

Crowley nods sharply and says, “I’ll drink water. I promise.”

“You better,” Aziraphale says, resolving to check on him in the morning.

**

The next day, Crowley comes downstairs and while he doesn’t look his normal self, he’s more put together than the Crowley Aziraphale saw on the couch.

He pauses at the door and looks at Aziraphale uncertainly. “Sorry about...er, yesterday.”

“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says, hiding the book on signs of depression and mental health under a requisition form. “Some days are harder than others.”

Crowley’s jaw tightens and he nods. “Right.”

Then he’s off and Aziraphale returns to his reading.

**

“This is Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says, plucking the phone from the receiver and pressing it to his ear. Anathema is after him to get a mobile but his landline works just as well and he hates the thought of someone being able to get ahold of him whenever they want. He’d chucked his mobile the minute he moved in with his grandmother and had never looked back.

“It’s Anathema,” comes the curt reply.

“What can I do for you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, semi-distracted as he tries to kill a spider crawling along the corner of the carpet, newspaper in hand.

“Are you busy?” Anathema asks as Aziraphale tries to scoot the carpet closer with his foot. Blasted thing.

“No, no,” Aziraphale answers, still trying to align his aim. The bell on the shop door tinkles and Aziraphale looks up, relieved to see Crowley arriving home from work. Gesturing emphatically for Crowley to come over, he throws the rolled up newspaper into Crowley’s hands and points at the spider who continues its slow crawl to Aziraphale’s desk.

“You sound busy,” Anathema says dubiously.

“No, just a little distracted,” Aziraphale says.

“Are you and Tall, Dark, and Bony finally having sex? And I’ve interrupted?” Anathema asks, clearly finding herself very funny.

Crowley has disappeared through the back curtain and if he hadn’t, Aziraphale is certain he would have had to find a hole to go die in. Instead, he only blushes, feeling as if his cheeks are hot enough to fry an egg.

“Anathema!” he cries, her crude words enough to distract him from the threatening arachnid. Crowley reappears, Aziraphale’s favorite mug in hand and with a sinking heart Aziraphale realizes what he’s about to do.

“Newt and I are planning a game night. I wanted to invite you,” Anathema says, still sounding like she’s stifling a laugh.

Aziraphale watches, horrified, as Crowley traps the spider under the mug and slides a letter under the rim to keep it there. Why couldn’t he just kill the thing and have it done?

“—it’ll be you and a few of Newt’s friends from work. I was going to ask my neighbor. She seems nice. I think you’d like her. Of course you can bring Tall and Bony if you’d like.”

Aziraphale realizes Anathema hadn’t stopped talking despite his own distraction. He tries to focus on the conversation instead of Crowley shuffling out the door, spider laden cup balanced on paper.

“Game night? When?”

“Tomorrow. 7?”

Aziraphale agrees, still distressed by what he had just witnessed. “Yes. Of course.”

“Bring snacks,” Anathema says before hanging up the phone. Aziraphale drops it on the receiver right as Crowley slips back inside the bookshop.

“What in Heaven’s name did you do?” Aziraphale cries, desperately wanting to rush over and inspect his mug but terrified that there might still be a spider in it.

Crowley seems to sense his impulse because he tilts the mug so Aziraphale can see inside. “See? All gone.”

Aziraphale shivers. “Why couldn’t you kill it?”

Crowley clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “What happened to all God’s creatures, Aziraphale?”

“That’s all well and good but not in my bookshop!”

Arching one eyebrow, Crowley deposits the mug on the counter and Aziraphale takes a step back, still not certain the little bugger is truly gone.

“Afraid of spiders then?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale is beyond glad to see his teasing smirk. Those expressions had been few and far between since the incident after Halloween.

“Not afraid,” Aziraphale corrects. “I just don’t like them. Have you ever pulled out a book and had a spider fall on your hand?”

That makes Crowley’s eyes widen.

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says smugly. He carefully lifts the mug and inspects it. It does seem to be “all gone” but he still scowls.

“Who was that on the phone?” Crowley asks, tossing the newspaper and letter on the counter.

“Anathema,” Aziraphale say, scooching both the newspaper and the letter into the trash can. “She’s having a game night tomorrow and invited us.”

“Oh?” Crowley raises one eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses which Aziraphale really wishes he would remove.

With the paper firmly in the bin, Aziraphale directs his attention back to Crowley. “Would you like to go?”

“Why not,” Crowley says with a shrug. Then he gives Aziraphale a lopsided smile. “Pick me up at seven?”

It’s flirtatious even though it didn’t have to be and Aziraphale is ashamed at what the tone does to his heart. “I think I can be on time,” he says, playing Crowley’s little game. “Where do you live again?”

Crowley leans onto his elbows on the checkout counter and smirks. “Ah, the directions can be a little complicated.”

“Perhaps you should draw me a map,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward until his elbows are on the counter as well and the world seems to be narrowing until—

The bell on the door tinkles and Aziraphale jerks back, startled.

A middle-aged man with a long coat walks in with a curious glance at Crowley and then directs his attention to Aziraphale. “I’m glad you’re open,” the man says in a gruff voice. “I called yesterday. I’m here to pick up a poetry collection? Rich?”

“Ah, yes. Adrienne. I just have that here,” Aziraphale says brightly, ducking under he counter to retrieve the book he had wrapped the day before.

Crowley retreats to the back room with a waggle of his fingers and Aziraphale wishes for a moment that he’d never opened the store that day.

Instead, he makes his money and sends the man on his way, knowing he’s going to be thinking about that interaction for the rest of the day.

**

He knocks on Crowley’s apartment door the next day, ready to pick him up as promised. When Crowley opens the door, Aziraphale blinks in surprise. Crowley’s not wearing a suit. Instead, it’s a soft looking deep maroon jumper and black jeans and Crowley looks...it makes Aziraphale want to curl into him and be held.

Crowley’s eyebrows go up and he says, “Everything alright?”

“You’re not wearing a suit,” Aziraphale blurts out. Oh, that sounds very intelligent.

Crowley runs his hand through his hair which is also free of product. He looks so soft that Aziraphale wants to melt. “Is it bad?”

“No!” Aziraphale says, too loud. “Just...different. Good different.”

“Oh, er, thanks,” Crowley says before stepping back into his apartment. “I’m finishing up the cake I'm bringing. Come in?”

Aziraphale follows Crowley into the small kitchen and leans against the counter as Crowley dices strawberries on the kitchen island. “So you were serious about making a change, weren’t you?”

“Hmm?” Crowley scrapes the sliced strawberries into a container with sugar and cream and begins to stir it slowly.

“The clothes. No more sleeping in suits?"

“Ah, yes. I’ve spent long enough wearing those.”

Crowley pulls out an angel food cake from the fridge. It’s in a plastic container, evidence that it was purchased and not made, which he slips into a bag before placing the now covered container of strawberries in with it. “You sort of inspired me actually. You always look so... yourself, and I’d like to feel like I’m more than just my suit. Hence the change. Not sure if it’s right though. Still trying stuff out.”

Aziraphale looks down at his own sweater, tan and argyle with a white button up beneath. He does feel like himself he supposes. “I think you are you regardless of what you’re wearing.”

Crowley stares down at him from where he has one hip cocked against the counter barely a foot away from Aziraphale, arms crossed over his chest and Aziraphale is unspeakably glad that his glasses are gone because he can see the way Crowley’s eyes go liquid as their gazes meet.

It might be a bad idea but Aziraphale can’t stop himself—doesn’t want to stop himself—as he reaches out, grips the front of Crowley’s sweater, and raises up on his toes to brush a soft kiss over Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale’s only ever kissed one person and it was nothing like this. The touch of Crowley’s mouth making his heart race in his chest and his belly grow somehow hot.

Crowley grunts in surprise but then one of his hands is on Aziraphale’s hip and the other is cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and every place they’re touching lights another fire inside Aziraphale and he wonders if this is what people are on about when they talk about being attracted to someone.

Crowley pulls away and Aziraphale’s world comes back into focus. His hand flies up to his mouth and an apology is on his tongue but Crowley’s moving before he can say anything.

“Let’s get a move on, Aziraphale. Don’t want to be late.”

Crowley’s so nonchalant about it all that Aziraphale spends at least a block of their walk to Anathema’s wondering if the kiss had been some elaborate fantasy on his part.

Newt answers the door with a nervous smile. With characteristic dismissal of social norms, Crowley breezes past him into Anathema’s apartment.

Anathema pops her head out of the kitchen and says, “Aziraphale! Thank goodness you’re here. Come help me in the kitchen.”

Aziraphale thinks it might be a good idea to talk to Anathema about what in Heaven’s name he had just done but then Crowley’s hand is on the small of his back, an almost possessive gesture, before he says, “Let me help, Anathema.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and then gives Aziraphale a meaningful look before saying, “Sure thing.”

Crowley’s departure leaves him alone with Newt who shifts momentarily before asking, “Can I get you anything?”

Aziraphale shakes his head but hands off the two bottles of wine he brought.

Wandering into the kitchen, he sees Anathema pointing emphatically with a spatula as Crowley calmly sprinkles cheese over the top of something in a low pan. “Oven,” she declares.

After Crowley shuts the door to the oven, Aziraphale clears his throat and Anathema whirls on him. Eyes narrowing, she jabs him in the chest with her spatula—thankfully clean. “You’re on chip duty. Take the bags and pour them in the bowls. Even you can’t fuck that up.”

“Anathema Device, language!” Aziraphale says even as he follows her instructions.

She looks at Crowley as if she’s found a new partner in crime and they both snicker. Aziraphale sniffs and leaves the kitchen with his bowls.

While he’d been in the kitchen another guest had arrived, a rather strange looking older woman in a series of floaty garments that makes it difficult to know exactly where one ends and another begins.

“Hallo,” she says brightly as she approaches Aziraphale, hand extended. Aziraphale shakes it. “I’m Tracy.”

“Aziraphale,” he says.

“Strange name.”

It’s a pretty normal comment whenever he meets new people. “My parents were a bit eccentric.”

Tracy crinkles her nose. “Religious?”

Aziraphale nods with a chuckle. “Very.”

Anathema pops out of the kitchen with the tray from the oven, cheese browned and sets it on a trivet on the side table next to the chips. “Dip is ready! Did you know AJ brought cake?” she asks

Aziraphale and for a moment he has no idea who AJ is before realizing she means Crowley. That’s how he had introduced himself on Halloween as well. AJ.

Tracy claps her hands and says, “Oh, I do love cake.”

And Aziraphale thinks they will get along swimmingly.

A knock at the door heralds a man that Aziraphale can only assume is Newt’s vaguely mentioned “coworker.” He looks about as eccentric as Tracy but in a more dour way. He’s introduced as Shadwell and Aziraphale cannot believe a man with that disposition would come to a game night. Then he sees the way the man blushes at Tracy, greeting her like they’ve met before and he thinks that Shadwell might be there for reasons other than games.

Newt offers them all drinks and Aziraphale, Crowley and Tracy both take glasses of the wine they brought. Shadwell and Anathema request beers and when Newt returns, Aziraphale sees the young man has also brought one for himself.

Anathema, ever forceful, announces, “Let’s start out with bananagrams. A personal favorite. And usually better towards the beginning of the night. Before the booze really starts flowing.”

She tosses a yellow banana-shaped bag on the table. Aziraphale’s never heard of this very strange game but when Anathema explains the rules, he realizes it’s quite a bit like scrabble. Which is a game he likes a great deal.

He notices Crowley shifting beside him. Not that Crowley moving around is all that strange, he’s always been a bundle of nervous energy, but then he says, “I’ll sit this one out. Spelling’s not my forte. I’m dyslexic.”

Aziraphale remembers how agitated Crowley used to be in reading class and everything suddenly makes sense. Anathema and Newt look at each other and Aziraphale can tell they’re about to apologize and without really thinking about it, he steps in. “What if we played teams?”

Crowley frowns and then looks like he’s considering. “I suppose I’m willing to try anything once.”

Anathema and Newt swiftly claim each other leaving Shadwell and Tracy to form their own pair.

“It’s like Latin class all over again,” Aziraphale says in a low voice and Crowley laughs while Anathema pours out all the tiles.

“I hope it’s not like Latin class or you’ll just bring me down.”

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale says, mock offended before pulling out the requisite number of letters. Crowley smirks at him and Aziraphale is reminded of how those lips felt against his and his cheeks start to burn. Focus.

It actually ends up reminding Aziraphale of the times when they laid in the park, Crowley finding animals in the clouds and making up stories to go with them. He might not be a miraculous speller but he’s so creative, pointing out options for words that Aziraphale hadn’t even considered and it’s so fun that Aziraphale isn’t even really paying attention to the others until Anathema and Newt claim victory.

Aziraphale looks down at their pile of letters and realizes they haven’t done half bad. They play another couple of rounds, Aziraphale and Crowley winning once and Shadwell and Tracy proving to be truly dismal at the game.

Taking a break to refill their drinks, Aziraphale heads to the kitchen where he is joined by Anathema who elbows him in the side. “You’re going to make me spill the wine,” he says coolly, evading her wayward arm.

“Did something happen?” she asks. “Between you and AJ?”

It’s so strange to hear someone call him AJ. Aziraphale wars with himself for a moment. Should he tell her? The desire to confess wins out and he says, “I kissed him. Before we came here.”

Anathema pushes him with both hands. “Shut up. No way.”

Flustered, he says, “I don’t see why that’s so shocking.”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema says, very serious, “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve gone on exactly one date and you told me the next day it was horrible and that kissing is disgusting and sloppy. So color me shocked that you kissed him.”

Her little tirade makes Aziraphale blush. He’s certain he didn’t put it in exactly those terms.

“How was it?” she asks.

“Anathema, you have no idea. I had no idea. It was…”

Anathema beams at him. “So he kissed you back? When are you guys going out?”

Aziraphale puts up his hands to stay her enthusiasm. “That’s a little fast don’t you think?”

“Haven’t you known each other for like twenty years?”

“Sort of.”

Aziraphale isn’t certain how to codify how long they’ve known each other. Meeting at five and then falling completely out of touch at twenty-two made counting a bit weird.

“Need any help?” Crowley says, sauntering into the kitchen. It startles Aziraphale, seeing him when they were just speaking of him. It makes his heart lurch and then warm at the possibility that Crowley feels the same way.

“Ah yes. Could you help Anathema with her drinks? I can handle the wine.”

Crowley defers to Anathema and brings out a few beers for most of the group. And Anathema ends up being right, they drink far too much and when they walk home, Aziraphale is quite buzzed. Despite that, he doesn’t think he imagines the way Crowley looks at him, hopeful and heated, before they part ways in the shared hallway.

**

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” Crowley says as he appears from the stairwell.

Aziraphale looks up at him, equal parts nervous and relieved. He may have kissed Crowley the day before but clearly it hadn’t ruined things between them. Well, he might be about to ruin them

When Crowley comes up to the counter, Aziraphale reminds himself that he is an adult who can ask for what he wants. “Are you free this evening?”

Crowley stops and cocks his head in question. “I don’t currently have plans, no,” he says slowly.

Aziraphale’s hands falter where they are playing with the cover of an old book and he closes it lest he damage it irrevocably—“Would you like to? Have plans that is?”

“You’re being weird, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes before asking. “What are you trying to say?”

Aziraphale puts his shoulders back. He can do this. “Would you like to go to dinner? With me.”

“Yes,” Crowley says immediately. Then his mouth shuts sharply as his face smoothes out. An attempt to be cool, surely. “Of course I would.”

Aziraphale’s heart is racing as he swallows and tries to think of what to say next. “Good. Well, I’ll knock. Around 7:30?”

Crowley gives him a small wave before walking out of the shop, looking very pleased.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale fiddles with his button down. Anathema had been right. When was the last time he had gone on a date? Not for a very long time. And it had been awful. What had he worn then?

Taking a deep breath, he tugs on his green sweater vest over his white button down which is all topped off with his favorite tweed blazer. He does feel very comfortable. Very himself.

He looks in the mirror and sighs at the hopelessness that is his hair. Not that it matters very much. Sometimes it feels like Crowley’s seen him in every iteration since the beginning of time and Aziraphale has always had the same unruly mop of curls.

Sitting on the bench in the entryway, he ties his shoes and tries to control the way his heart seems to be threatening to break his ribcage.

It’s just Crowley, he reminds himself.

The voice in his head practically shouts, it’s Crowley.

Hands sweating and face almost certainly red, he locks his door behind him and turns to knock on Crowley’s. When it opens, Aziraphale is surprised to see Crowley, artfully tousled hair a shocking counterpoint to his suit and tie.

“I thought you’d given up on the suit bit,” Aziraphale says without really thinking.

“I can change,” Crowley says immediately, confirmation that he might be as nervous as Aziraphale.

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant. You look lovely. As always,” Aziraphale says with a smile he hopes reads as supportive and maybe a little flirtatious.

All the tensions floods from Crowley as he sags in relief. “It took me forever to figure out what to wear.”

“It’s a weird occasion to plan for. First date with your childhood friend who you haven’t spoken with in years,” Aziraphale says while Crowley locks his own door.

When Crowley turns around, and for a moment Aziraphale sees something anxious in his expression before it morphs into a more familiar smirk. “This is a date then?”

“What else would it be?” Aziraphale replies without thinking, he’s caught up in that strange expression on Crowley’s face.

“I dunno. Two pals grabbing dinner?”

“I kissed you!”

“Maybe that was an accident,” Crowley says with a shrug and Aziraphale almost combusts before he realizes that Crowley’s actually stifling a laugh.

“You’re trying to rile me up, aren’t you?”

“Is it working?” Crowley asks as he tugs at the ends of his sleeves and rolls his shoulders. His coat settles more firmly about the lines of his body and Aziraphale is reminded of how good he looks.

“I’m not going to tell you. If I did, you’d only take advantage,” Aziraphale says with a sniff.

Crowley’s smile tilts toward the predatory. “You’d like that wouldn’t you.

Aziraphale is suddenly a bit warm under the collar.

“Well,” he says, more high-pitched than normal. “I made reservations a few blocks away. Close to your shop actually. It’s a little place I thought you’d like. Fusion cuisine is what they call it.”

Chuckling, Crowley interrupts his rambling, “I’m sure I’ll like wherever you take me.”

Aziraphale squares his shoulders, feeling relieved. Crowley did have that way about him, managing a simple statement that soothed Aziraphale’s nerves whenever they acted up.

“Do you remember the night before my History of Religion in Theater midterm?” Aziraphale begins as they leave the bookshop through the back.

Crowley hums as he tucks his hands in his pockets.

“I was so nervous,” Aziraphale says. “I had that awful Shakespeare monologue and I’d practiced nigh on a hundred times and it was truly terrible —I was never going to be an actor—and you said—”

“Why don’t we focus on now, hmm?” Crowley says, running a hand through his hair. “Talk about things that we’re doing instead of what we did?”

Aziraphale’s heart lurches and this time it’s not in excitement. Did he misstep? Perhaps Crowley’s just in one of his moods.

“Absolutely, my dear,” Aziraphale says, trying not to feel embarrassed when the endearment slips out. He kissed Crowley and Crowley kissed him back and they’re on a date so this is clearly something.

“How’s business then?” Aziraphale asks as they come upon the restaurant. Crowley opens the door for him and makes a noise of acknowledgement, conversation pausing as they are shown to their seats.

The place doesn’t exactly scream romance, what with it’s metal decorations and industrial décor, but Aziraphale supposes that’s good. It might be too much too fast if he was too romantic about things. Though how fast can one go when you’ve had feelings for the other person for what feels like forever?

They order drinks and appetizers and then Aziraphale prompts, “So...business?”

“Right,” Crowley says with a nod of his head as he pulls his cloth napkin into his lap, already fiddling with it. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley feels just as nervous as he does. “It’s alright. We’ve only been open two months or so but people do stop by, a few plants here and there. I think things will pick up come Christmas.”

“That makes sense,” Aziraphale says. “You can always advertise at the bookshop. Though I’m not sure what good that will do. It’s not as if our clientele really overlaps.”

Crowley snorts and then when he sees Aziraphale’s confused expression he explains, “I think our clientele overlaps more than you’d think. Young hipsters who want cool plants and old books for the aesthetic of it all.”

Aziraphale is horrified. “Aesthetic? You mean...just having books for decoration.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend most of your books aren’t for decoration. You can’t possibly be reading them all. And you barely sell them.”

Aziraphale huffs. Crowley doesn’t understand what the books mean to him. Aziraphale hardly understands.

Changing the subject, Crowley asks, “What about you? I’ve never asked but how long have you been in the book business.”

“Well, the shop was my grandmother’s and she left it to me. I was working for her part time before I finished my PhD and I loved it. She left me the bookshop, her collection, and a, er, sizeable inheritance.”

“Aziraphale Goodall,” Crowley says in pretend shock. “Are you rich?”

Taking a long drink of his wine, Aziraphale looks at the ground.

“Oh, you are!” Crowley says, laughing something fierce.

Aziraphale knows he’s blushing a bit, thankful when the waiter arrives with his food.

Between bites Crowley asks, “If you’re so rich, why are you letting my flat?”

“I—oh, it’s rather embarrassing,” he says, staring at his plate. Aziraphale hadn’t exactly been afraid that Crowley would ask him about this, but the minute he does, he knows that, somewhere inside himself, he’d dreaded it. He thinks about how honest Crowley has been about his own recent struggles and questions so he decides to return that honesty with some of his own.

Crowley cocks his head and looks at him. Just looks at him. It’s the nonjudgmental expression on his face that breaks Aziraphale.

“I was lonely, I suppose,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I’d been living alone since my grandmother died and I moved into the shop. That was nearly ten years ago. And Anathema comes by sometimes and usually I’m fine being alone but for some reason it’s been harder for the last year or so. And even just having someone across the hall seemed better than another year alone.”

Crowley nods, blinking slowly. “And now?”

“And now what?”

“Are you lonely?”

“No, I—I suppose I’m not,” Aziraphale says and Crowley smiles at him, calm and supportive

When is Crowley ever calm? “Good,” he says firmly before digging in to his own food.

They talk about work and fall into an old conversations about literature—Crowley may not read much but he has firm opinions on Bronte, all three of them—and Crowley tells him stories about traveling around Europe, some of his more ridiculous assignments. It’s funny and it warms Aziraphale’s heart. But whenever he brings up shared memories, Crowley immediately shies away, drawing them back to a different thing and it makes Aziraphale wonder what’s going on. But he’s not sure how to ask.

**

Aziraphale had been certain that he would be the one who was too romantic, showing his feelings too fast, but he has nothing on Crowley.

The day after their first date (or first real date, Aziraphale’s pretty sure that all the stuff before that had been sort of dates) Crowley comes home from the plant shop with flowers, daisies that Aziraphale sets up next to the register so he can see them all the time. He absolutely gushes over them and Crowley looks embarrassed but pleased.

Shortly thereafter, Crowley invites him for an evening walk in the park and they sit on a bench stargazing when Crowley takes his hand for the first time, making Aziraphale’s stomach flip and twist but in a good way. Pointing out some of the constellations, Crowley stalwartly does not look at him so Aziraphale strokes his thumb over the back of Crowley’s knuckles to make sure he knows that it’s ok. That Aziraphale likes holding his hand.

They walk back to the bookshop with their fingers intertwined.

And after every romantic gesture, Aziraphale thinks back on that last conversation in university. Why they stopped speaking and how much he wants to apologize, but the longer he waits, the more terrified he is to bring it up.

The only time he had tried—when Crowley’d helped him clean his apartment—Crowley had run from the room like it was on fire. And Aziraphale didn’t like that at all.

He doesn’t want Crowley to run from him like that ever again.

**

It takes a week and a half before Aziraphale breaks.

They’re sitting on Crowley’s couch, leaning into each other, watching some movie when the main characters get into a fight and break up and Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore.

“We need to talk,” he says, pulling away from Crowley who pulls away in turn, pressing himself into the far cushions and looking at Aziraphale with a frown.

“Ah. Right,” Crowley says, facing forward. The blue light of the television plays over the harsh planes of his face, emphasizing the lines around his mouth. He laughs bitterly and cold dread takes up residence in Aziraphale's belly. “Suppose I thought this would last a little longer. What’s it been? 2 weeks?”

“What?” Aziraphale asks around the gummy feeling in his mouth. He needs water. Fumbling for the glass, he takes a few gulps. It doesn’t really help.

“Thought you’d give me a bit more of a chance before you dumped me,” Crowley says, rubbing a hand over his jaw and standing up. He looks so resigned to the fact that Aziraphale is ending the relationship that Aziraphale can’t help floundering.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale says, feeling both terrified and like he might cry.

Crowley flicks on the overhead light and then turns back to him, face an emotionless mask.

“I’m not—I’m not breaking up with you ,” Aziraphale says. “Why would I do that?”

Shrugging, Crowley replies, “I dunno. Take your pick. I’m boring, moody, needy. Not good enough. Whatever.”

It’s still so emotionless that Aziraphale’s heart breaks a little and he just has to touch Crowley, reassure him. Or something. Crossing the room, to pull him into a hug, Aziraphale says, “No. Stop saying those things about yourself. I don’t think them at all.”

But you said them once.

Aziraphale can’t think about that now even though now he knows he can’t avoid the conversation about their falling out any longer. He tucks his nose into Crowley’s neck and he smells like grass and woodsmoke.

Crowley’s hands tentatively come up to his back and Aziraphale holds him tighter.

“What did you want to talk about then?” Crowley asks, voice still tight after they pull apart.

After the emotional charge of their exchange, Aziraphale’s resolve falters. “We can talk about it later. It’s not important.”

**

The next day Aziraphale slumps over to Anathema’s apartment in a foul mood. He needs to talk to someone, and his real friends are thin on the ground and he’s absolutely not going to talk to his parents about this.

Anathema opens the door in surprise but lets him inside regardless. “Are you alright, Aziraphale?”

“I need advice,” he says glumly, and Anathema’s perfectly groomed eyebrows draw together.

Newt ambles out of the hallway and takes one look at him before asking, “You don’t look so good.”

“I think he’s upset,” Anathema says.

“Aziraphale’s never upset,” Newt says in awe and Aziraphale wants to snap at him, prove how upset he is. But he supposes Newt’s right, Aziraphale does always try to be positive.

Regardless, Anathema chides Newt for him. “Everybody has bad days, Newton.”

Duly chagrined, Newt plucks the bottles of wine that Aziraphale brought as a sort of offering and takes them to the kitchen to open them.

Aziraphale takes a seat in the living room and Anathema looks at him expectantly. He fiddles with the sleeves of his jumper when he knows he should be talking, but he doesn’t know where to start.

“If you want advice, you’re going to have to speak eventually.”

Aziraphale knows that so he shoots her a glare.

Newt returns, pressing a glass of wine in his hand before ducking his head and saying, “I suppose I’ll just…”

“No, stay,” Aziraphale says, surprising himself—and Newt if his expression is anything to go by. “Two opinions are better than one.”

Now there are two pairs of bespectacled eyes looking at him and Aziraphale bites the metaphorical bullet.

“Crowley and I are dating,” he says in a rush.

“Duh,” Anathema and Newt say in unison and then they look at each other, clearly not expecting the other’s response.

“Sorry,” Newt says. “It’s just...I remember you guys from secondary school. You two were always, erm, looking at each other like...I don’t know. Everybody thought there was something going on. And then lately you’ve been...”

“We’ve only been dating for a few weeks,” Aziraphale huffs, but his heart thrills at the possibility that Crowley had feelings for him, even back then.

“And there’s a problem?” Anathema asks, getting straight to the point as always.

“I’m very serious about this, you see,” Aziraphale begins. “I’ve had feelings for him for a very long time and it’s—I never thought it could happen. But...”

He pauses for a long moment and Newt prompts him, “But?”

“In university, right before graduation, we had a fight. Crowley tried to...initiate things between us and I...well, things have been going so well since he moved in and I thought it would stay that way, but when I tried to clear the air, Crowley thought I was breaking up with him and now he’s being strange and I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, AJ’s always been bad at talking about stuff. Got all angry when anyone mentioned his family or anything back in secondary,” Newt says thoughtfully.

There it is. AJ.

“It sounds like you know what you need to do. Talk to him about what happened.”

Aziraphale’s palms go sweaty. He knows that but for some reason he’d hoped Anathema would have a different answer.

Anathema looks at him with her warm and liquid eyes and does that thing that makes Aziraphale feel like they’re the only two people in the world. “What happened, Aziraphale?” she asks softly.

So he tells her.

**

“Well, what do you think Aziraphale? Ready to graduate?” Crowley asks, head leaned back against the rail of the very precarious fire escape while distantly, music thuds in the basement of the Keller house. Aziraphale’s head is muzzy and he thinks that, in the starlight, Crowley is beautiful.

“I suppose,” he answers instead of saying one of the many awkward things that are running through his mind. “I’m looking forward to graduate school.”

Crowley groans and yanks back the bottle to take another pull. “That’s the thing I’m least looking forward to.”

Aziraphale tucks his legs up and wraps his arms around them, the cool spring air making him shiver despite his sweater. Suddenly, a warm jacket settles around his shoulders and he looks over at Crowley who is nonchalantly sitting back into his position on the other side of the fire escape.

Aziraphale tugs on the sleeves and burrows deeper into the jacket. It’s too small, but it’s warm, and it smells like Crowley which makes his traitorous heart race.

“You don’t have to keep going to school you know,” Aziraphale says, trying to be subtle as he tucks his nose into the collar of the faded black jacket.

Crowley’s silent for a moment and Aziraphale is too embarrassed to look at him. The intimacy of the moment, caught up in Crowley’s scent and the taste of whiskey makes Aziraphale feel like he might crawl out of his skin with nervous anticipation. He nearly jumps when Crowley’s hand, cool and dry, slips into his.

As their fingers catch, a series of possibilities go through Aziraphale’s mind: kissing Crowley, holding him, laughing just the two of them, summer on holiday together, bringing Crowley home to his parents for Christmas...his parents…

Don’t spend time with that boy.

Aziraphale pulls his hand away. Crowley is...Crowley can’t be.

Dimly, he realizes his initial fear about his parent's reaction holds nothing to the terror at the thought of things changing between him and Crowley. Aziraphale wants more but...it would ruin everything.

Crowley takes the hint and just thrusts the bottle into Aziraphale’s open hand. He takes it gladly, hoping the liquor will burn the regret from his stomach. Instead of letting it lie, which Crowley seems content to do, staring off over the yard and frowning, Aziraphale opens his big mouth and says, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I got the picture, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aziraphale hardly understands. He fumbles for some excuse to prevent Crowley from being hurt. From leaving. “It’s not—my parents would never…”

“Your parents?” Crowley asks, louder than either of them had been in hours and Aziraphale shakes with surprise for a moment. “Is it because you’re gay? We can figure it out tog—”

“No! It’s because of you.”

That wasn't at all what he meant to say.

Crowley’s mouth clicks shut and Aziraphale scrambles to be clearer. His brain provides nothing as fear claws its way up his throat. “They don’t like me spending time with you. I don’t think they’d like if—”

“You’re an adult! Why do you give a shit what your parents think?”

“I don’t expect you of all people to understand,” Aziraphale says harshly, frustrated by Crowley’s aggressive tone. What he means is that Crowley has always been aloof, independent, self possessed and that he doesn’t know what it’s like to care so much about someone’s approval. But as soon as he says it, he realizes how Crowley’s going to take it.

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath and distantly Aziraphale hears the shattering of glass from inside the house. “What’s that supposed to mean? Poor Anthony Crowley, the latchkey kid with the dead mom doesn’t know what it's like to have parents? Well not everyone is attached to their parents by the apron strings.”

Anger flares in Aziraphale, it’s that same darkness he tries to avoid. The one that made him push Joe Bernhardt and makes him fight with his parents more and more as he gets older and he snaps. “Maybe I’m trying to spare your feelings, Anthony. We both know you’re hardly relationship material.”

"Oh that's what this is about then? Should have known," Crowley says bitterly. He's pulled in on himself, legs tucked up tight to his chest like he wants to take up as little space as possible.

The words keep coming out of Aziraphale, helped along by alcohol and frustration and fear. "What? I know you, Crowley. You're moody and forgetful and mean. What kind of boyfriend would you be?"

"If I'm that awful how can you stand being friends with me?" Crowley spits.

"We're not friends," Aziraphale says just as angry as Crowley and immediately regretting it. It's that old conversation, that old fear, and he wants to stuff it back down inside himself.

Crowley’s eyes spark but instead of fighting back he says, “Right. Of course.”

Watching Crowley climb down the fire escape makes something in Aziraphale tear into pieces and he wants him to come back but he doesn’t think he can make that happen.

The next day he stops by Crowley’s apartmen,t but he doesn’t answer the door so he leaves Crowley’s jacket on the porch and hopes that, eventually, Crowley will reach out so he can apologize and things will return to how they used to be.

He never does.

So Aziraphale doesn’t either.

**

Anathema sucks a long breath in through her teeth and then exchanges a look with Newt. “That’s not great.”

“I bloody know that!” Aziraphale snaps.

Newt puts his hand to his mouth as he gasps. “Oh god, he’s swearing. It’s invasion of the body snatchers.”

Anathema elbows him without taking her eyes from Aziraphale’s face. “Have you apologized?”

“I don’t even know how to start.”

“You know, if you want to be together you have to communicate.”

Gulping at his wine, Aziraphale’s hand clenches in the fabric of his trousers. “I keep trying to but I’m—”

“Afraid?” Anathema offers and Aziraphale nods. “It’s not going to get better if you don’t say anything.”

Aziraphale knows she’s right.

**

Aziraphale walks with significant purpose the two blocks to Crowley’s plant shop. He’d missed him that morning when he left and they needed to speak before Aziraphale lost his nerve.

Stomping through the door, Aziraphale makes so much noise that Crowley looks up from the check-out counter in surprise, face quickly shifting from consternation to excitement as he realizes it’s Aziraphale infiltrating his shop.

“I need to talk to you,” Aziraphale announces. The same words he’d used before but this time he won’t back down. He can’t.

A woman considering an aloe plant turns and looks at him.

“No, not you,” Aziraphale says. “Him.”

She looks between them and then says, “Yeah. I’ll just, erm, go.”

“You cost me a customer!” Crowley says as the door swings shut, coming around the counter to cross his arms over his chest and glower.

Ignoring his tepid complaint, Aziraphale says, “I like you.”

Crowley raises one eyebrow. “Yes. I thought that was clear.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. In for a penny, in for a pound. “No. You don’t understand. I like you. Very much. I have since...well, since forever.”

That catches Crowley off guard which Aziraphale finds unfairly satisfying. “I want to talk about what happened in university. Why we stopped speaking to each other.”

Crowley cocks his head and his expression closes off. “We don’t need to. Let it go.”

“That!” Aziraphale cries with a frustrated gesture. “You clearly haven’t let it go. You’ve been acting like a skittish deer every time I try to bring it up but we have to talk.”

“This sounds like it’s your problem, Aziraphale.”

“It’s our problem,” Aziraphale counters, trying to control his frustration. Crowley scoffs and it breaks the tentative leash on his emotions. “No. You can’t dismiss it like that. What are we going to do? Spend however long we last avoiding talking about our past even though it clearly bothers you? Do you want to pretend I didn’t say those awful things I didn’t even mean?”

Crowley sighs and blinks slowly, looking very tired. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to let me apologize.” Crowley gives him a lazy go ahead gesture and Aziraphale sighs. “I’m sorry I used my parents as an excuse for us to not be together.”

Eyebrows going up, Crowley’s mouth goes tight. He says nothing so Aziraphale continues, “And I’m sorry I said you weren’t good enough for me. You were. I was scared. I’d never had a romantic relationship before and I had this ridiculous thought that you were too important to me to ruin our friendship. And then I did it anyway.”

Crowley puts a hand to his face, covering his eyes and then sliding it down to rub at his jaw. Aziraphale knows he's trying to cover up whatever response he's having and he hopes it gives Crowley time to come up with an answer. A real one.

When he finally speaks, it’s simple. It’s quiet.

“I was angry at you for a long time, you know.”

“I think that’s reasonable,” Aziraphale admits as his stomach twists with guilt.

“Let me talk,” Crowley says, and it’s harsh but Aziraphale nods in acknowledgment because he thinks he deserves a little harshness.

“I was angry at you for rejecting me. And then I was angry that you didn’t reach out. And then I realized that I was angry at myself for not forgiving you because I knew why you said what you said because I knew you. And I should have done something but by then it had been years and it felt too late to say anything.”

“It wouldn’t have been too late,” Aziraphale says after a pause, letting Crowley’s silence confirm he was done speaking.

Crowley slips his hands into his pockets and looks away, something shy about the way his eyes flutter. “I thought about you all the time. What would Aziraphale Goodall think of me now? Bigshot lawyer, traveling the world.”

Aziraphale laughs and says, “You know, when my grandmother left me my bookshop it helped me realize I don’t have to do what my parents want. I didn’t get my PhD and I’m glad and I kept running the bookshop even though they wanted me to sell it. And all that happened and the world didn’t end and it made me regret what happened between us even more than before. Please forgive me. I’m unbearably glad you came back into my life."

“Never seemed able to avoid each other,” Crowley says and he huffs like he wants to laugh but thinks he shouldn’t.

Aziraphale can’t stand the five feet between them so he crosses the shop and pulls Crowley into a hug. It’s perhaps a little tight but it’s full of about fifteen years of emotion so Aziraphale gives himself a pass.

Crowley’s hands come up to his back hesitantly, and then they them fist in the thick fabric of his jumper until they’re both holding each other and it’s so good to be so close. It feels intimate and raw.

“This is what you wanted to talk about the other day, wasn't it?” Crowley asks after a few moments.

Aziraphale nods against the shoulder of Crowley's shirt, refusing to let go. “I knew we were already drifting apart even though I’d just gotten you and Anathema told me I had to talk to you about it. Apparently, communication is important."

Crowley laughs again and the breathe stirs the curls atop his head, making him shiver. “We’ve never been great at communicating.”

“We can practice together.”

The door to the plant shop opens and they step away from each other.

"Welcome to Eden," Crowley says to the new customer, all slick businessman, but Aziraphale can see the blush on his cheeks and it makes him smile.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale takes his leave of Crowley and returns to the bookshop where he immediately calls Anathema to relay the good news.

“I told you it would be fine,” she says in a very self-satisfied manner. “That guy looks at you like the sun shines out your ass. He wasn’t about to let you fuck it up.”

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale says, unable to really process all the excessively strange things Anathema had just said but objecting on principle.

“Whatever. I’m right and you know it. Now when can we go on a double date?” she says, brushing through all of Aziraphale’s bluster.

“Perhaps we should take some time to figure things out on our end,” Aziraphale manages, thinking a double date is not a good idea right then and may never be a good idea. “We really only just started really talking about all the things we need to talk about.”

Anathema humphs. “Fine, but I still want you both to come to Newt’s surprise party.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, He’d forgotten Newt’s birthday was coming up so he scribbles a note to pick up a gift. Maybe Crowley will have a good idea.

Aziraphale, happier than he has been in a very long time, sells five books that afternoon, more than he’s sold in the last four weeks combined. He goes upstairs, humming, and sets to making dinner, interrupted by a knock at the door just as he sets the pasta boiling.

Crowley stands in the doorway with a box of chocolates which he holds up with a smirk. “S’pose I owe you an apology too. Thought I could start with this.”

Aziraphale takes the box, smiling down at it like its the best thing he's ever received. It’s so...sweet.

“Can I come in?” Crowley asks, shifting on his feet, a nervous habit that Aziraphale recognizes.

“Of course,” Aziraphale hurries to say, stepping back. “I’m making fettuccine alfredo. Would you like some?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You’re cooking?”

“I’ve gotten better than I was in college,” Aziraphale insists, setting the chocolates on the clean coffee table—he’s gotten remarkably good at keeping his flat neat. Perhaps all he’d needed was to get started.

“Sure thing, angel,” Crowley says and Aziraphale stubs his toe on the couch.

Grunting in pain, he turns back to Crowley. “What did you say?”

Looking a bit stricken, Crowley repeats himself slowly, “Angel?”

“I thought—”

“Do you hate it? I suppose you don’t go in for pet names, makes sense really—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale says, heart skipping at the thought that Crowley might never say that again. Oh goodness, he’s a goner. “It’s fine. I was just surprised. I’ve never really been with anyone so there was no one to—”

“You’ve never...dated?” Crowley asks, incredulous. Aziraphale hears the telltale hiss of boiling water overflowing and hitting the burner so he scurries into the kitchen. Crowley trails behind him and leans against the counter.

Aziraphale stirs the pot to keep the boil under control before he answers, thankful to have a reason not to look at Crowley. “I’ve never been interested.”

“Never,” Crowley repeats in a tone Aziraphale can’t read without looking at him.

“Present company excluded, obviously,” Aziraphale says and his cheeks are burning. “I’ve gone on a few dates but they were all disastrous. Awful men really.”

He’s rambling again and he knows it but then Crowley’s hands are on his shoulders pulling him away from the stove and into a deep kiss that Aziraphale can feel all the way down to his toes, his knees going weak. He pushes at Crowley’s arms and pulls away. “The noodles.”

Crowley groans low in his throat but lets him return to the stove. “You can’t tell me that you’ve never wanted to date anyone except me and then talk about noodles.”

“It’s the truth, Crowley. I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” Aziraphale says. The noodles are done so he moves them to the strainer in the sink.

“Maybe it’s not a big deal to you—which, yeah right, I’m calling bullshit—but it’s a big deal to me.”

Aziraphale’s heart gives another of its pathetic lurches but he ignores it as he adds the noodles to a pan with sauce. “What about you? Date much?”

“Do you really want to know?” Crowley asks and that does make Aziraphale look at him, wooden spoon pausing in the pan.

“It’s about your life, Crowley. I want to know as much about you as you’re willing to share. I want to know you. I’ve missed fifteen years and I’d like to hear about them.”

“Well, you know in college there wasn’t really anyone—I mean I had the occasional whatever at parties but it was always you that I—well, we’ve covered that. In law school I was with this girl for about six months but she—she decided she didn’t have time to keep up the relationship. After that, I traveled a lot, went on some dates in the cities I visited but I didn’t—nothing ever worked out the way I wanted it to.”

Aziraphale can’t stop the surge of jealousy that rises at the story. But he knew that. At least vaguely. Crowley wasn’t like him. He was interested in people. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

Crowley’s brows furrow. “Why?”

“It sounds lonely, my dear. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Crowley stares at him, the silence in the kitchen is thick and Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be working up the nerve to say something. He switches off the burner and pulls down two plates.

“You talked about how you were lonely sometimes,” Crowley says from the far side of the kitchen and Aziraphale gives him a considering look. He sounds like he’s about to say something very serious, so he puts down the pasta spoon and gives Crowley his full attention.

“It’s—I know what that’s like. There’s something about being on planes morning, afternoon, and night that sucks the life from you. I felt...empty. It’s why I quit. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Aziraphale goes to Crowley’s side, wrapping his hand around his wrist and giving it a squeeze. He doesn’t feel like he should say anything quite yet.

Crowley looks at the ceiling and then closes his eyes. “These last few months, opening the store, you, it reminded me that I used to enjoy life. So much. And I miss that. I want it again.”

“Maybe we can figure that out together,” Aziraphale offers, thinking back on that book about depression. It’s not something he totally understands, that feeling of meaninglessness that Crowley has mentioned a few times, but he wants to help. He knows he'll have to say something about his concerns eventually but he doesn't think it's the right time. “Try new things. Have fun again.”

“We do have fun, don’t we?” Crowley asks, one corner of his mouth quirking.

“I always thought so,” Aziraphale says with a final squeeze to Crowley’s wrist before pulling away.

“You’re ridiculously nice and I hate it,” Crowley grumbles as they take their plates to the table.

“Lying isn’t very becoming, Crowley,” Aziraphale says before he digs into his meal.

He’s rewarded by one of Crowley’s snorts and instead of feeling irritated by it, he feels ridiculously happy.

**

“You know, you have improved,” Crowley says from where he’s lounged on Aziraphale’s sofa sometime later, head dropped into Aziraphale’s lap.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Cooking. Improved at cooking,” Crowley amends.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale asks, distracted by the slip of Crowley’s hair through his fingers. “You’ve improved at being less of a bastard.”

Crowley tilts his head back and looks at him with an openness Aziraphale hasn’t seen before. When did Crowley close himself off from the world?

“I could say that about you too,” Crowley says.

“I was never a bastard,” Aziraphale retorts, pausing the movement of his hands. Crowley grunts and reaches up to poke his hand in a gesture to ask him to keep going.

“Whatever you say, dear,” Crowley replies condescendingly and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

It’s nice like this. Bickering without the weight of the past over them. Aziraphale doesn’t exactly feel like the conversation from Eden is over, but this is a much better start than whatever they had been trying to do for the last few weeks.

Aziraphale’s thoughts drift as he plays with Crowley’s hair and then he asks a question that had been bothering him since he went to talk to Anathema and Newt. “Why does everyone call you AJ? I thought you liked going by Crowley?”

Crowley sits up and Aziraphale immediately regrets asking the question as the warmth of Crowley’s body quickly fades from his thighs.

“Everybody called me Crowley. At work. And they acted like it was the best thing that I was cunning and ruthless and for years I thought that was a good thing too and now...I don’t really want to be Crowley anymore.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, feeling guilty. He doesn’t know if he can stop calling him Crowley. He’s been Crowley for 30 years in all of Aziraphale’s thoughts.

“Do you want me to call you something else?”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley says sharply.

Taken aback, Aziraphale involuntarily flinches.

Crowley apologizes immediately. “No, it’s—I like when you say it. Like it’s special.”

Red stains Crowley’s cheeks and Aziraphale wonders how much it took for Crowley to say that. He’s much more forthcoming than he used to be, but he always showed his feelings with actions and not words. “You are special,” Aziraphale says and then he blushes. “Oh dear, that was very cheesy wasn’t it.”

Crowley laughs and the seriousness of the moment breaks. “I think I liked it.”

“There’s more where that came from,” Aziraphale assures him.

Crowley leans over and kisses him briefly. “Good,” he says firmly, barely an inch away from Aziraphale’s mouth and he wants to kiss him again but— “I should go home. Get some rest.”

Aziraphale brushes his fingers over Crowley’s when he stands up, looking up at him and is once again shocked by how beautiful he thinks Crowley is. Angles and all.

“I’m glad we talked,” he says and Crowley hesitates, smile faltering. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Can we do this again tomorrow?”

Aziraphale stands and kisses him again. “Of course.”

**

Anathema insists on throwing Newt a surprise party every year. However, she has no qualms about throwing it any day of November, firmly believing that moving it around will throw Newt off the scent. All it does is make Newt open the door to their apartment more nervously than normal for an entire month.

Aziraphale explains this all to Crowley while they duck into various shops trying to pick something out for the birthday boy.

Inspecting a porcelain squirrel, Crowley asks, “What do you normally get him?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m truly terrible at gifts. The first year I was invited I got him a subscription to a cheese of the month club and found out after he was lactose intolerant!”

Crowley snorts and replaces the squirrel on the shelf. “You would like a cheese of the month club.”

“That is besides the point,” Aziraphale says and he looks despondently at another useless statue.

“Last year I asked Anathema and ended up getting him socks.”

Crowley cocks his head and asks, “What’s wrong with socks?”

“It felt awfully impersonal,” Aziraphale says as they leave yet another shop.

Clucking his tongue thoughtfully, Crowley falls into step beside him. “Well, what do you know about Newt? All I really remember from secondary school is that he was bad with computers. What about a book?”

“Tried that two years ago.”

“Wait,” Crowley says, pausing in his stride. “What about at the party? Halloween? He said something about those horror films.”

Aziraphale remembers how excited Newt had been about the Blair Witch Project and brightens immediately. That might actually be a good idea. “I’ll call Anathema when I get back to the shop to see which ones he has so we don’t get a duplicate.”

Crowley waves a hand. “Nah. I can text her.”

He pulls out his phone and types out a quick text. Aziraphale had known that Crowley had Anathema’s phone number but knowing was one thing and seeing his boyfriend—partner, oh dear, do they have a term for it?—text his friend made Aziraphale feel warm all over. Crowley was a real part of his life now, integrated into it, texting his friends.

Crowley shoves his phone back into his pocket and when he looks up he frowns. “Why do you look all goofy?”

Aziraphale kisses him and Crowley makes a pleased sound before pulling away and looking at him quizzically. “You should really get a phone you know.”

“I hate mobiles,” Aziraphale huffs. “People can reach you no matter where you are. Don’t you think that’s horrifying?”

“Not people. Friends, loved ones. You wouldn’t have to use it all the time, but I’d like to be able to get ahold of you,” Crowley says, turning to peer in a shop window, a very obvious misdirection if the color staining his cheeks is anything to go by.

“I’m sure Anathema would like it too,” Crowley rushes to say, pushing a hand through his hair. He’d put product in it that morning and had clearly forgotten because now it’s standing up everywhere. “What if something happens? And you need help or…I don’t know…”

Reaching up to smooth Crowley’s hair back into a semblance of a style, Aziraphale says, “If it would make you feel better, I will get a mobile.”

“It’s not about making me feel better,” Crowley grumbles and Aziraphale pats his arm.

“Of course not, my dear.”

Crowley’s phone chirps and he reads something on the screen. “Anathema says Newt has been planning to buy a movie called Session 9? Think we could track it down?”

Aziraphale knows where they have to go but he definitely does not want to.

The bookstore is huge and full of bestsellers and Aziraphale hates it. But he knows they have a media section with records and CDs and films and it’s their best bet to find an older film. Crowley sees Aziraphale’s face and starts laughing so hard that some of the customers glare at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding up a hand. “You look like someone spat on you.”

Aziraphale tugs on his sweatervest and glares at him. “Forgive me for not appreciating mass production.”

“Right, right. That’s what it is,” Crowley says, shoving his hands in his pockets as they walk over to the large sign declaring MOVIES.

He leaves Aziraphale to search through the movies and goes to the music section to flip through the records. Even though Aziraphale knows he’s supposed to be seeking out the horror section to find this “Session 9,” he can’t help staring after Crowley who, even fifteen years later, still looks so much like the young man he’d fallen in love with over long conversations in coffee shops and terrible alcohol in his dorm room. His face has more lines about the mouth and his five o’clock shadows comes in earlier, but he feels the same.

Fallen in love with.

Aziraphale blinks. He supposes he hadn’t thought about it in quite those terms but it was the truth wasn’t it. He loved Crowley and he had for a very long time.

As if sensing his gaze, Crowley looks up and while he doesn’t smile, his expression warms and Aziraphale has the sudden desire to press him up against the nearest surface just to get his hands on him.

Crowley gives him a little sarcastic wave like why are you staring at me and Aziraphale realizes he needs to focus on his task or else he may develop an embarrassing problem in front of the horror movie section.

After finally tracking down the film—they’d had to ask for assistance—they step out onto the street and a new brand of nerves rattles inside him.

They stop at a coffeeshop where Crowley gets him a blueberry muffin and when they settle into their seats, Aziraphale blurts, “Do you want to have sex with me?

Crowley spits his mouthful of coffee back into his cup.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, apologizing for his outburst. “I—”

“What?” Crowley asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Aziraphale picks at his muffin. “It’s...I’m not very good at this.”

“No, you’re not,” Crowley confirms but he doesn’t sound angry or judgmental so Aziraphale doesn’t bristle the way he should.

“It’s just that I’ve not—I’ve not done that before and haven’t really been interested before you and I’m not sure what you expect regarding my level of experience or interest and I don’t want to disappoint you—”

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“You’re rambling.”

“Ah, I suppose I am.”

Aziraphale fiddles with his napkin, wholly aware that Crowley knows his fiddling is a sign of his nerves.

Crowley heaves a very dramatic sigh. “Look, I’m not going run off if you need time to er...decide you want that, er, with me. Alright?”

“Really?” Aziraphale asks, his heart feeling like it might be glowing in his chest.

“Yes. Now can we stop having this embarrassing conversation?” Crowley asks, lifting his cup to his mouth and sipping loudly.

Feeling much better when they arrive back at the bookshop, Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s mouth in the hallway before they part ways and that’s all he meant for it to be, a goodbye kiss, but then he has no idea who starts it— it’s probably him though because he’s still thrilling over Crowley stuttered assurances at the cafe—because Crowley’s tongue is in his mouth, and he’s being pushed back against his own door, head tilted up as Crowley’s nose pushes into his cheek and his hands fist in Crowley’s far too nice suit jacket. Crowley’s hands—well one of them is at his hip and the other is on his face, sliding into his hair as Aziraphale tries to give as good as he’s getting, scraping his teeth over Crowley’s lower lip and flicking his tongue inside.

It’s messy because Aziraphale hasn’t done this before—made out with someone—but he follows Crowley’s lead. It’s almost like what he imagined in the bookstore but that had been distinctly more horizontal. Scrabbling with his hand behind his back he manages to twist the doorknob and yank Crowley inside. The door slams against the wall and Aziraphale pushes Crowley against his sideboard, stepping between his thighs without even breaking the kiss. Crowley’s little oof is more surprised than pained so he counts the move a success. The hand on his hip rucks up the back of his sweatervest and settles, warm against his lower back, so warm even through the fabric of his button up and undershirt.

“Can we—can you…”

He doesn’t even really know what he’s asking for when he pulls back but Crowley presses a kiss to the side of his neck and says, “Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale takes off his glasses. “Couch.”

He thinks Crowley might laugh at his inability to express himself but he just looks hungry as he pushes him back, around the coffee table. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Falling down onto the cushions, Aziraphale tugs Crowley down and is already licking into his mouth by the time he feels Crowley fully on top of him. Bony as he is, Crowley is still a comforting weight, entirely different than anything Aziraphale has experienced before. Their legs tangle as they find a comfortable position. Aziraphale can feel the heat of Crowley’s...well, he knew that Crowley was interested in sex so he shouldn’t be surprised at the hardness between his thighs but somehow he still is. Crowley’s hands come up to his bow tie and pause, waiting for permission or perhaps unsure so Aziraphale kisses him harder as he pushes at Crowley’s jacket.

“I thought about this all the time you know,” Crowley says, coming up on his knees to take off his suit coat. “There was that musty couch in the library. In secondary school. And I thought about coming around that table and kissing you and hoping we’d end up on that couch.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “That couch was disgusting.”

Fingers hooking under his bow tie, Crowley undoes the knot and the ends flop to either side of Aziraphale’s neck. “I was a horny teenager. What can I say?”

They kiss for a long moment but some of the urgency has gone out of it. When they pull apart again, Aziraphale said, “I thought about it too, you know. In university.”

Crowley sits up. “Really?”

Licking his lips, Aziraphale lifts himself up into a sitting position. “Remember that time in fourth year, we stayed on campus for the holidays and we got drunk—so drunk, do you remember that— and we went outside and you got snow in your hair and you looked like you were enjoying yourself in a way I’d never seen before and I wanted you so much.”

Crowley looks away, expression pained for a moment. “I can’t believe you felt the same way I did.”

“I did my dear. I do,” Aziraphale says, changing positions so he can pull Crowley against his side, satisfied when he feels the tension release from Crowley’s shoulders. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley says but he doesn’t pull away, just tucks up his legs onto the couch and somehow gets closer.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the top of his head as hope blooms in his chest.

Chapter Text

“Surprise!” Anathema screams. She’s the only one. The rest of the people in her living room give a mumbled echo as Newt drops his water bottle.

It rolls over to Aziraphale’s foot where it comes to a stop before he bends over to pick it up.

“Happy birthday,” he says with a fond smile when Newt wanders over to take it from him.

“You could have told me it was today,” he grumbles before Anathema buzzes over to his side.

“Were you surprised?” she asks, smiling her shark smile and Newt nods.

“I don’t know how you manage it. Every. Year.”

“Careful planning,” she replies, very serious. Then she boops his nose before kissing him. “Happy birthday, love.”

Newt melts, all the nerves going out of him. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, quite besotted.

“I know!” Anathema chirps before flitting off to talk to someone else.

Newt turns back to Aziraphale with a dopey smile on his face. “I’m going to marry that girl.” His eyes widen and he shakes his hands in front of him. “I didn’t say that! Forget I said it.”

“Nope,” Crowley says coolly as he comes up to Aziraphale’s side, hand settling on his lower back as if to say hello, I’m here with you.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a quick smile. I want to marry him, he thinks, mindlessly echoing Newt’s sentiment.

Too fast! his mind screams and Aziraphale agrees wholeheartedly. His heart is tripping all over itself these days. He clears his throat. “Does she know that?”

“Yeah, we talked about it once and she said that marriage is a symbol of the patriarchy and that we don’t have to be married to be committed to each other.”

That sounds very like Anathema.

Newt looks wistfully over to her where she’s standing by the window laughing at something Tracy is saying to her. “But I dunno. I want to marry her. I’d even take her last name if she really wanted!”

Crowley snorts. “You should tell her that. Think she’d fancy it to be honest.”

“You think so?” Newt asks hopefully. “I bought a ring and I was thinking I might ask her at Christmas—well, the solstice.”

Newt continues to stare after Anathema who waves him over, he mumbles an apology to the two of them before going to her and Crowley turns to Aziraphale, laughing.

“Solstice,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, what do you celebrate? Certainly not Christmas if I recall,” Aziraphale says, thinking back on the view of the very despondent Crowley household on Poplar Street as his parents and he trimmed the tree, hymns playing on the radio.

Crowley shrugged, the lines in his face deepening. “Nothing really. Just another day of the year for the Crowleys.”

“Would you like to?” Aziraphale asks. “Celebrate that is.”

Crowley’s head whips so fast on his neck that Aziraphale thinks it might snap. “Nothing big or grandiose,” Aziraphale explains. “But I do usually decorate and I’d love to get you a gift and, erm, I visit my parents on the actual day.”

“If you’d like to celebrate we can. I suppose it doesn’t really matter to me if it’s on the actual day or not.”

Oh, that’s not what Aziraphale means at all. “No, I mean, yes. We can celebrate whenever. But I was hoping you might come with me…”

Crowley’s steps back abruptly and his tie flaps with the force of the movement. “Come with you?” he repeats, incredulous.

“Is that...do you not want to?”

“Why would you want me to come to your parents’ house?”

Their conversation is escalating in volume and Aziraphale doesn’t want to attract too much attention—even though Shadwell is already eyeing them suspiciously—so he drags Crowley back through the hallway and into the bathroom where he snaps the lock shut.

“Because! You’re my...you’re important to me and we should be together on a holiday,” Aziraphale hisses, thinking this was a horrible time to bring this up. He’s absurdly good at putting his foot in things. He should have known it would be a touchy subject.

“A holiday I don’t celebrate,” Crowley sneers and Aziraphale had forgotten exactly how harsh that expression could be.

Not quailing under Crowley’s gaze as he surely intends Aziraphale to do, he stands up straight as he says, “We are properly together now and I want you there for birthdays and holidays and weddings and everything in between.”

“Oh really?” Crowley says and those old, tired eyes are blazing in a way that makes Aziraphale’s chest go tight with sympathy. “Even the Christian holidays? How are Mr. and Mrs. Goodall going to feel about their beloved son’s heathen boyfriend.”

Realization flashes through Aziraphale and with it a tendril of guilt curls in his belly. “This isn’t about Christmas is it? It’s about that night.”

Crowley’s knuckles go white as he clenches his hands into fists. “What if it is? You said I wasn’t relationship material. That your parents would hate you for dating me.”

“I did not say that!” Aziraphale protests, but it's a flimsy excuse because while those had not been his words, it wasn’t too far from them.

Crowley slams his hand into the counter and then looks horrified at his own outburst before collapsing onto the lid of the toilet, putting his head in his hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale has no idea what to do. But he’s spared making the decision by Crowley who begins to speak, muffled, into his hands.

“Do you know how many years I’ve been playing that back in my head? Every time a relationship didn’t work out. Every time something went wrong it was there rattling in my head. That disgusted look on your face. It’s still in there sometimes, along with all the other awful things I’ve done, every person that I fucked over for my clients. You’re right. I’m just…I’m a bad person.”

Aziraphale approaches him and puts his hand on Crowley’s back, relieved when he doesn't pull away. He thinks on those books he read on depression and anxiety and hopes he doesn't upset Crowley by saying this. “I’m sorry if this isn’t my place but...perhaps you should see a doctor.”

Crowley looks up, face screwed up. “I’m not sick.”

“Crowley, I...I think you might be depressed.”

Instead of lashing out the way Aziraphale half expected him to, Crowley starts laughing. He laughs for so long that he has to wipe tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says after he finally calms down. “You’re so right. Fuck.”

Aziraphale kneels down in front of him and says, “One: we’re going to handle it. We’ll set up an appointment tomorrow. Two: I’m here for you. Whatever you need. Three:—”

“This is a very long list,” Crowley interjects and Aziraphale scowls him into silence.

“Three,” he repeats. “I’m sorry I ever said that to you. Whatever you remember from that night, every bit of it came from my own fears about relationships and my parents and had absolutely nothing to do with you and who you are. You are not a bad person. I love you. Very much. And want you in my life. So, fuck my parents and their opinion. Please spend Christmas with me.”

Crowley’s eyes go wide and the golden hazel of them looks fathomless in the evening light. Can you drown in something that isn’t water?

Then Crowley is pulling him into his lap so that Aziraphale is effectively straddling him, and kissing the bloody life from him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, trying to tug away but Crowley won’t let him.

“Hm?” Crowley hums against his mouth.

Putting his hand on Crowley’s chest, he pushes him back. “We are snogging in Anathema’s bathroom. On a toilet.”

“Don’t care,” Crowley says before pulling him even closer and flicking his tongue against Aziraphale’s lips, making him gasp as their mouth’s slot together.

Crowley grasps at Aziraphale’s hips and pushes up under his sweatervest, this time tugging at the button down and undershirt beneath so they slip from the waistband of his trousers and grant Crowley access to the vulnerable skin of his back. Groaning into his mouth, Crowley spreads his fingers over the dip in Aziraphale’s lower back, second hand coming up to grip his buttocks.

Aziraphale doesn’t think anyone has ever touched him there on purpose.

“You’re so—” Crowley breaks off into a groan as he tears Aziraphale’s glasses away, tossing them on the counter where they clatter into the sink and Aziraphale should protest but he finds he doesn’t care whatsoever.

“I’m what?” Aziraphale asks, breathing hard.

Crowley tucks his nose into his neck and breathes deeply. “Soft, bright, beautiful. Pick a pretty word. I’m sure it applies.”

Face burning—Crowley can’t just say things like that—Aziraphale says, “Kiss me again. Please.”

They come together again and the slide of Crowley’s tongue in his mouth has him aching, that unfamiliar pulse in his belly coming tenfold. He needs something and he doesn’t know what but oh, how he needs.

A knock at the door makes Aziraphale pull away. Crowley grumbles but helps him to his feet.

They open the door and find Tracy on the other side. She beams at them and says, “Snogging in a toilet? I remember those days.”

“It was rather brilliant,” Aziraphale says and Crowley looks at him with wide eyes before clearing his throat and pushing his way back to the living room.

Tracy and Aziraphale share a look and the woman giggles. “Your young man is easily flustered.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Tracy hums and then goes into the bathroom, leaving Aziraphale to go after Crowley and perhaps find new ways to fluster him.

**

The walk back to the bookshop is quiet. Crowley has shoved his hands so far into his pockets that his wrists have disappeared. Aziraphale himself is a little overwhelmed by everything that happened at Anathema’s. Crowley’s coming with him to his parents’ house. He told Crowley he loved him. Which, if the following kiss had been any indication, Crowley was very enthusiastic about.

Aziraphale lets them into the bookshop and they pass through the stacks, the welcoming smell of dust and old paper greeting them. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley likes that smell as much as he does. He hasn’t complained yet so he must not mind it at the very least. The question is on the tip of his tongue but he isn’t able to ask it because Aziraphale has barely locked the front door behind them when Crowley is kissing him again. It’s just as nice as before. Well, a bit better because it doesn’t smell like Anathema’s coconut shampoo or the bitter smell of freshly bleached tile.

Instead it’s just Crowley who smells like Crowley and now he tastes like vanilla frosting from Newt’s cake and he is soft and firm under the press of Aziraphale’s hands on his chest. Crowley licks along his lower lip so that Aziraphale can’t help but open under him, the tenderness of it all making him want to collapse on the ground under the sensation. Thankfully, Crowley holds him up, firm hand on his hip, the other on his neck as he tilts Aziraphale’s face back to kiss him deeper.

“I want to go to bed with you,” Aziraphale says, shocking himself. Crowley looks down at him, golden-brown eyes dark and thoughtful. He draws in a shaky breath.

“We don’t have to er, do anything. I just...want to wake up with you," Aziraphale admits, even though he thinks he does want to do things. Sex things. But the waking up bit? That's all he can think about. "Unless you want...the other things."

Crowley pulls him closer and for a moment Aziraphale thinks he’s going to kiss him again but instead he’s folded into another tight hug. “You don’t seem real sometimes, you know that?”

“I’m very real, my dear,” Aziraphale says, running a soothing hand down Crowley’s spine even as his own heart races and he might need some soothing for himself.

They make their way up the stairs but it’s slow going, pausing as they do to kiss and touch and undo buttons. Crowley takes them into his apartment and then they’re making that trek to Crowley’s bedroom, something Aziraphale had known he wanted but was now confronted by. He pauses.

Crowley drops a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Alright?”

“I believe so. Nerves if you’d believe it,” Aziraphale says before decisively tugging off his sweatervest and throwing it onto the couch.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m nervous too.”

Aziraphale snorts. “You? Why would you be nervous? You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, but not with you.”

And Aziraphale can’t not kiss him after that and so he does. And it turns out the whole sex thing isn’t that big of a deal but when it's with someone he wants, really wants, it’s amazing. And having Crowley curl against him after they clean up is even better.

Crowley tucks his face into Aziraphale’s chest and takes a deep breath. Aziraphale knows that breath now. It means Crowley’s about to say something serious.

“I love you too, you know,” Crowley says. Aziraphale’s heart skips. It’s one thing to know and another thing to hear it.

“Might be a bit fast. I dunno,” Crowley adds, still not looking at him. The words are muffled against Aziraphale’s skin, but they echo through his ribcage which seems somehow fitting.

“I’m not so sure,” Aziraphale says, his smile wide and uncontainable. “What’s it been? 30 some[1]odd years?”

“Depends on when you start counting.” Crowley finally tips his head back to look at Aziraphale's face.

“I think when a scrawny hook-nosed kid stuck his face through my fence and demanded we play together.”

Crowley smirks. “Thirty-two years then.”

“Well, then, I think thirty-two years means we’ve gone unbearably slow.”

“Turned out ok.” Crowley’s hand tightens around his hip where his arm is thrown over Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Indeed it did.”

**

Crowley puts a small box on the counter when he comes back to the shop after work the following Monday. Aziraphale looks down at it and then back at Crowley.

“Open it,” Crowley says, clearly holding back a smile.

Setting aside his catalogue—he had gotten a few new editions and was making sure they were marked down—Aziraphale takes the box and opens it. Inside is a shiny mobile phone. Aziraphale puts it down immediately. “Crowley, this is far too expensive.”

“Hush,” Crowley says, swinging around the desk and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Aziraphale huffs. “If this is a Christmas present, you best buy me something immensely less fancy for the actual day.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley plucks the mobile from the box and waggles it in front of Aziraphale. “Want me to show you how to use it?”

“You won’t let me say no, will you?” Aziraphale asks, resigned.

“Nope,” Crowley says, a bit wicked, booting up the miniature computer with a careless play of his fingers over the screen.

Sighing, Aziraphale puts away his work and turns to Crowley. “Best show me how it works.”

Leaning into Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale peers down at the screen as it lights up and shifts between images.

“Well, you can do loads with it but I’m just going to show you the phone functions because I don’t think you're ready to traipse over the internet or use apps and things.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Know that I’m only doing this for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Crowley throws him a knowing grin so full of affection that Aziraphale wants to kiss him. So he does. Crowley hums into the kiss, but doesn’t comment on Aziraphale’s sudden brazenness. Like maybe it’s ok. Well, it probably is. They love each other. Aziraphale can kiss him whenever he’d like. In fact, he thinks Crowley loves it when Aziraphale initiates affection. Years of Aziraphale being terrified of even being his friend seems to have created some anxiety on that front. Aziraphale feels bad about it sometimes, but he’s trying his best now.

“So, I have a phone now then?” Aziraphale says when Crowley places the skinny brick-sized thing in his palm.

“You’ve got my number. Anathema’s and Newt’s. You probably want to add, er, your parents, but you can keep it limited if you prefer.”

“I do prefer,” Aziraphale says darkly as he slips the phone into the pocket of his trousers.

Crowley smirks at him and Aziraphale wants to wipe that know-it-all expression off his face.

“Well, since you’re here,” he says innocently and Crowley begins to look nervous. Good. “I was planning on picking up a Christmas tree when I closed the shop. If I close early, we can go right now.”

Crowley groans dramatically but he doesn’t say no which is how they end up at a tree lot with

Aziraphale flitting between small pines and asking Crowley’s opinion on the space between the boughs and, oh do you think this one is too tall?

“Just pick a bloody tree,” Crowley says, hands stuffed into the pockets of his peacoat, nose turning pink.

Eventually Aziraphale takes pity on him and selects a small tree that he gets tied up in a hideous orange net, and together they heft it back to Aziraphale’s apartment. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it at yours?” Aziraphale teases. Crowley scowls at him.

“And get needles everywhere? No, thank you.”

He convinces Crowley to make them some of that boozy hot chocolate—"It really is delicious, sweetheart." — Crowley absolutely melts when Aziraphale calls him sweetheart which is a weapon if Aziraphale ever saw one. And once they each have a cup in their hands, Aziraphale digs up the ornaments from the closet and they spend the evening trimming the tree. It’s a little bit of a fantasy of Aziraphale’s, having his own significant other to do this with. And yes, maybe Crowley grumbles more than he’d always thought, but he still helps and sometimes he’ll brush his hand over Aziraphale’s lower back while they pass by each other and that feels almost perfect.

“Look at how festive it is!” Aziraphale declares while they sit on the couch, each with a second cup of cocoa in their hands.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, sticking his feet in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Your hardened heart will have to melt eventually. I’m not letting up on the Christmas cheer.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Maybe we should go caroling—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Or a midnight service?”

“Stop.”

“I think I might have a nativity set somewhere.”

“You’re killing me.”

Aziraphale tickles the underside of Crowley’s knee, making him jerk back and nearly spill his cocoa which in turn makes Crowley glare at him. “You’re a terrible boyfriend. Mistreating me like this.”

Aziraphale tries to suppress a smile and fails utterly. “Boyfriends then?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “What the bloody else would we be?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Seems strange to have my first boyfriend at thirty-seven.”

“People exist on different timetables, Aziraphale,” Crowley admonishes.

That’s very true. It doesn’t stop Aziraphale from lamenting lost time sometimes. If only he’d been less of an idiot.

There’s a ringing noise that startles Aziraphale. He looks at Crowley with wide eyes and Crowley points to his pocket. Oh. The mobile phone. Aziraphale fishes it out and sees Mother flash across the screen. Of course. He sends her one message with his new number and on the very day gets a call. She’s never been one for patience.

“Hullo,” he says when he answers the phone, an apologetic smile sent Crowley’s way.

“Aziraphale. It is your mother.”

“Yes, mum, I know,” Aziraphale responds.

“You’ve gotten a mobile phone?”

“Yes, my, er...boyfriend wanted me to have one so he’d have a way to contact me more easily.”

“Boyfriend?” his mother asks sharply. Aziraphale wishes he hadn’t had two shots of whiskey to loosen his tongue. Or maybe it was for the best. He’d need a little liquid courage to have this conversation with his mother.

“Yes,” he says firmly.

“Oh. Oh! Are you bringing him to Christmas? How long have you been together? What does he look like? Is it very serious?”

“Mother. Take a breath.”

He hears her purposefully inhale.

Moving Crowley’s feet off his lap, he stands up and goes into the kitchen, not sure if Crowley should hear this part of the conversation. He feels his curious eyes follow him all the way out of the room. “I was hoping to bring him to Christmas, yes. We’ve been together for three months now. I like to think it’s serious.”

“And what does he look like?”

“Er.” Don’t back down now. “Tall. Skinny. Strong features. Dark hair.”

His mother hums in acknowledgment. “What’s his name?”

“Anthony Crowley.” Aziraphale nearly winces when he hears the receiver hit something as if his mother dropped the phone.

“Crowley? As in our neighbors from Poplar Street? The Satanists?”

“Mother, they weren’t Satanists.”

“You were always hanging around him. Were you together then? Did you lie to me and your father?”

“No, mother,” Aziraphale says, feeling a headache behind his eyes. “We barely knew each other. We’ve just reconnected recently.”

His mother sucks in another breath. “Your father is not going to be happy.”

“Well, screw him.”

“Aziraphale!”

“I’m happy, Mother, and you and Father can either be happy for me or buzz off. I want to bring him home to Christmas because I love him and I’d like him to be part of the family and if you refuse then you don’t get either of us.”

He can picture his mother’s face, pinched and tired and he does feel a little bad for raising his voice but he meant what he said and he’s not going to take it back.

She sighs, a rough exhalation through the receiver. “Aziraphale. I love you and support you and if you're happy then I’m happy.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says through an acute surge of relief.

“I’ll talk to your father. Please bring your young man for Christmas. I’m sure...he’s...lovely.”

It sounds like pulling teeth but it’s better than nothing.

“I’ll send you travel details when I have them.”

“Right.”

They stay on the line in awkward silence for a moment before his mother says. “I love you, Aziraphale.”

“I love you too.”

Then he hangs up and when he turns back he sees Crowley leaning against the counter looking very serious. “Are you fighting with your mum?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not exactly. My parents are very close-minded. As you know.”

Crowley nods.

“And they still think of you as the satanist kid next door.”

That’s when Crowley starts to look nervous. “I don’t have to go with you. Family’s important. At least to you, and I won’t—I don’t want to get between—”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says, coming up to Crowley to hold him loosely in his arms. “My parents will get over themselves. They always do. They might be right bastards sometimes but they do just want me to be happy.”

Crowley scoffs, a tight laugh, so Aziraphale continues, “I’m not going to let them scare me off you again.”

Crowley sighs. “Alright. I’ll try to, er, let this go. Best I can, you know.”

“All I can ask. You know I’m very thankful you’re willing to go with me. To Christmas.”

“I wouldn’t say willing,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale knows he’s teasing.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says and Crowley melts again and they get a bit distracted, kissing in the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Crowley clutches his overnight bag tightly and grits his teeth.

“You know, I’d feel much better if you didn’t look like I was sending you to the hangman,”

Aziraphale says, tucking his scarf into the collar of his coat. It’s a bit chilly out and Crowley’s offered to drive him—far and away better than the normal train he has to take—but he doesn’t want to freeze during the ten-minute walk to the car.

“I don’t know your Christmas traditions.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I’ve told you. Dinner, one gift after, caroling and then midnight service. Then, morning service the next day, lunch, gifts.”

“You know, when you joked about all those Christmas things we could do, I didn’t know you meant them,” Crowley says but he lets Aziraphale kiss his cheek before they shuffle down the stairs.

“It’s tradition, Crowley,” Aziraphale sniffs, holding open the front door for him.

They go out of the city in Crowley’s car, Crowley white-knuckling the whole way. Aziraphale does not comment on his obvious nerves because he’s certain he will just make it worse if he points it out.

They pull up to his parents' house, a modest white thing with blue shutters and Crowley carefully navigates to park near the hedges, looking like he might open the door and puke at any moment.

Aziraphale reaches out and squeezes his knee. “You will be fine. We will be fine.”

Crowley gives him a very plaintive look.

“I love you, my dear and we are only here for three days.”

“Three days,” Crowley groans like the mere thought is sucking the life from him.

“Two and a half really. And you’ve weathered Anathema’s Halloween party. This will be easy in comparison.”

“I doubt it,” Crowley grumbles but he gets out of the car and they take their small bags from the backseat, Crowley snagging the slightly larger bag of presents before Aziraphale can.

The front door is open before Aziraphale even reaches it, his mother stepping outside with her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, a loose cream sweater on over her dark jeans. She smiles when she sees him and it’s so genuine that Aziraphale practically blooms with relief. “Hullo, mum.”

She must feel similar because the tight lines of her face give way to her own relief and she pulls him into a hug. “I’m so glad to see you, darling. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Aziraphale echoes before picking up his bag again. “Mother, this is Cr—” he breaks off and looks to Crowley. He’s not sure what he’d like to go by with Aziraphale’s parents and he doesn’t want to assume.

Crowley steps forward and reaches out a hand with a smile that is just the barest flash of teeth. “Anthony. Crowley. But I’m sure you remember.”

“The young man from Poplar Street. Yes. You can call me Michael. If you’d like,” his mother says, her smile a bit brittle but she’s smiling all the same. She gives him an appraising look as she shakes his hand. “You’ve grown up well.”

Crowley clears his throat. “Well, er, thank you. I suppose.”

They share an awkward pause on the porch before Michael says, “Oh! You must be freezing. Please come in.”

Aziraphale gratefully hustles inside, thankful for a respite from the chilly air and the awkwardness of that little interaction on the porch. “And Dad…” Aziraphale asks hesitantly.

“In his office downstairs,” Michael answers, but there’s clearly more to the situation. Aziraphale wonders if his father is avoiding him or if he’s simply working.

Aziraphale nods and doesn’t say anything, following his mother back to one of the guest rooms where he sets his things and then obediently moves to the next room where Crowley will be staying. As much as he would have liked for them to have stayed in the same room, there were some battles not worth fighting with his parents. He’s overjoyed Crowley’s there at all.

“Your home is lovely,” Crowley says, very tense and polite and not at all Crowley. It makes Aziraphale want to laugh, but he bites it back since he knows it will only get him an embarrassed glare.

“Let me make you some tea. It’ll be in the kitchen when you get settled,” Michael says, stepping away and then hesitating before leaving the room. She doesn't say what's clearly on her mind and Aziraphale doesn't know if he should be relieved or not.

As her footsteps retreat along the wooden floor of the hallway, Crowley drops to the powder blue duvet and looks up at Aziraphale with a distraught expression. “This is awful, isn’t it?”

“I thought it went quite well,” Aziraphale said, stepping between Crowley’s knees and cupping his chin in his hands. He leans down and brushes a soft kiss over Crowley’s lips. He melts a bit at the affection. It’s something Aziraphale isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to. The way Crowley leans into the smallest touch.

“I love you,” he says, very seriously before kissing Crowley again and pulling away. “I’m going to go help my mother in the kitchen. Feel free to settle in.”

Crowley nods. “I’ll be down in a few.”

Aziraphale leaves him to it, moving through the house with practiced ease. His parents have only lived here for a few years but it’s already started to feel like a second home to Aziraphale.

“Mum,” Aziraphale ventures as he walks into the kitchen, its white tiles cold under his socked feet. Michael looks up from pouring water into the perfectly matched light blue tea set and gives him a smile.

“Do you need any help?” he offers.

“Of course not,” she says, “Go take a seat. Will your young man be joining us?”

Aziraphale snorts. Sometimes his parents are hopelessly old fashioned. He supposes that's where he gets it. “Young man.”

Crowley chooses that moment to join him. He looks more relaxed. Or he would look more relaxed if Aziraphale hadn’t recognized the wild way his eyes dart around the room.

“Ah, Anthony,” Michael says without really looking at him. “Can you take Aziraphale into the sitting room? He insists on hovering.”

“Of course,” Crowley says politely, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm and dragging him through the house even though he has no idea where's he going and eventually Aziraphale has to lead him in the right direction.

When Michael joins them, handing out the cups quietly, Crowley looks at Aziraphale clearly asking him to ease whatever perceived awkwardness Crowley is suffering from. It is actually Michael who breaks the silence.

She leans back in her favorite reading chair—a red thing that had followed the Goodalls from house to house despite its steadily declining quality.

“So, Anthony, what do you do for a living?”

“Ah, er, I own a plant store,” Crowley answers, fiddling with the handle of his teacup.

“Oh really. Is there money in that?” his mother asks carefully. “Seems very niche.”

“It does alright for itself, I suppose,” Crowley replies in equally strained tones.

“Actually,” Aziraphale interrupts, “Crow—Anthony recently changed fields. He used to be in law.”

Michael’s eyebrows go up. “Quite a change.”

Crowley glares at Aziraphale but still answers politely, “Yeah, I, er, got tired of traveling.”

Nodding in understanding, Michael says, “Oh yes, in my younger days, Gabriel and I did missionary work. As rewarding as it was, traveling can really exhaust the spirit.”

“Er, yes,” Crowley says. “I’m glad to have settled down.”

“And you two met because…”

“Anthony let the spare flat above the bookstore,” Aziraphale answers before Crowley can stumble through a response. His nerves are adorable but even Aziraphale doesn’t want to see him suffer that much.

They make polite conversation over tea until Michael announces that it's time to begin cooking dinner.

“I could, er, help if you like,” Crowley offers, nervously wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Anthony is very talented in the kitchen,” Aziraphale says to his mother.

“Thank goodness,” Michael said, voice full of laughter. “Aziraphale is an absolute travesty. I usually try to keep him out of the way.”

Crowley burst out laughing and then looks at Aziraphale with a poorly feigned apology. “Sorry, she’s right you know.”

Huffing, Aziraphale says, “Fine, bond over my lack of kitchen skills. I’m going to speak to father.”

Michael takes a deep breath. “Your aunt is coming to dinner so he’s a bit stressed. Just so you know.”

Oh that will make for an... interesting evening certainly.

Aziraphale finds Gabriel in his study, reading his Bible and clearly working on a sermon. In his younger days, Gabriel had been a truly handsome man with strong features and a full head of hair. His hair is thinning in places these days, fully gray, but he still has the air of a confident man, someone who knows his worth.

Aziraphale taps on the door lightly and Gabriel looks up, a frown darting over his face before smoothing out into something welcoming. “Aziraphale,” he says warmly, “Welcome home.”

“Mum said Aunt Bee is coming for dinner.”

The frown immediately reappears, cutting deep grooves around Gabriel's mouth. “Yes, Beatrice is coming for dinner. Your mother invited them.”

“Mum means well,” Aziraphale points out, moving into the study and gravitating towards Gabriel’s bookshelves. His father’s book collection is something to behold. This love of books is something Gabriel had surely inherited from his mother and which Aziraphale has inherited in turn.

At the very least, Aziraphale has that in common with his father.

“Are you doing the sermon tonight?” Aziraphale asks politely. Any effort to get his father to talk about Aunt Bee will surely be met with upset and it’s not worth the drama. Briefly, Aziraphale wonders how Crowley is doing in the kitchen, he can picture his mother handing off ingredients impatiently and with minimal instruction. The way she always did with Aziraphale. It’s no wonder he struggled with cooking.

“No,” Gabriel says. He gestures at the papers in front of him. “These are for next Sunday. Uriel is handling the sermon tonight.”

Aziraphale has always been terrified of Uriel. She is a talented orator and truly a servant of God, but she also managed to look at you in a way that made you feel like she could read your thoughts. Though he supposes his father has a bit of that too.

“And how’s your young man?” Gabriel asks tightly. He’s not pleased and Aziraphale knows it, but he’s glad his father is at least willing to ask after Crowley.

“Why do you and mum insist on calling him my young man?”

Gabriel wrinkles his nose and Aziraphale recognizes the expression from the mirror. He really is like his father sometimes. “Boyfriend seems needlessly plebeian.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Alright. Well, my young man is currently being subjected to mother’s kitchen.”

“Hopefully he survives,” Gabriel says sagely and then he looks back at his papers and picks up his pen. A subtle dismissal.

So far the visit isn’t the disaster Aziraphale expected.

**

Aunt Bee arrives in their usual flurry of fly away hair and unusual fashion sense. Today is an all black ensemble surely meant to irritate Gabriel by looking something like gender nonconforming widow’s weeds.

“Aziraphale,” Aunt Bee says when they see him. “Lovely as always. You look happy.”

Aziraphale goes pink as he puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Ah, yes, er, Aunt Bee this is my boyfriend, Anthony.”

Aunt Bee’s eyes dart to Crowley and they give him a thin-lipped smile. “You’re the one putting up

with our Zira. Patient, are we?”

“I think Aziraphale’s the patient one.”

Bee humphs and marches into the living room where Aziraphale can hear them begin chattering with his mother. His father is still hiding in the study.

“Black sheep of the family?” Crowley asks in a low voice.

“Something like that,” Aziraphale admits. Aunt Bee had never been around when Aziraphale was young and he doesn't exactly know the details but when Grandmother had gotten sick, Aunt Bee had suddenly reappeared and had yet to leave.

During dinner, Michael matter-of-factly points out everything Crowley helped with as if taking full credit for dinner would be unfair to both of them and Aziraphale watches as Crowley steadily becomes more and more uncomfortable with the praise.

“You’d make a good husband then,” Bee says around a mouthful of pie, making Crowley splutter into his wine.

Probably best if Aziraphale doesn’t agree too enthusiastically then.

Aziraphale helps clean in the kitchen alongside his father which, along with dinner, is tradition. They work in silence and Aziraphale listens to the low strain of conversation in the living room. He can’t quite hear what they’re talking about but it doesn’t sound too tense.

“So…” Gabriel begins awkwardly, a bad sign. “Anthony Crowley…”

“What about him?” Aziraphale asks, immediately defensive. Things had been going so well. No mention of Satanism or heathens.

“How did you two get back in touch?” Gabriel asks carefully, not looking at him.

“He rented the spare flat above Grandmother’s shop. We’d always sort of...we got on well in university. In the classes we had together. It wasn’t too hard to pick up where we left off.”

Gabriel makes a noise of acknowledgment and passes him another dish to try. “And does he follow the word of God?”

Aziraphale slams the cup in his hand into the drying rack which shakes with the impact. “What does it matter?”

“I won’t have my son living in a non-Christian household,” Gabriel growls. The tap runs even though he’s not even washing anything anymore, the shushing of the water somehow violent in the backdrop.

“Your son can do as he pleases.”

“Does he go to church with you?” Gabriel demands.

“I don’t even go to church!” Aziraphale nearly yells. Gabriel sucks in a breath and then shuts off the tap aggressively.

“Is it because of him? I always said the Crowleys would be a bad influence—”

“No, it’s not because of him,” Aziraphale interrupts angrily. “I haven’t gone regularly in years!”

The sound of clapping in the doorway distracts both of them. Bee is standing there looking pleased as they applaud. “Never thought you had it in you, Zira.”

“Don’t call me, Zira,” Aziraphale snaps, marching out of the kitchen to get Crowley. He wants to get out of the house.

Aziraphale finds him on the couch, sitting awkwardly with his mother, both of whom clearly heard the conversation in the kitchen.

“Mother, Crowley and I are going into town,” he says decisively, looking at Crowley who stands and follows him out of the room.

“Do you have your car keys?” Aziraphale hisses, grabbing both their jackets from the entryway closet.

Crowley plucks them out of the pocket of his coat and nods.

“C’mon then. Let’s go into town.”

They drive around for a while, Crowley silent as Aziraphale fumes in the front seat. He wants to apologize, to rant and rave, but instead he just thinks. Eventually snow begins to fall and he admits they should go home.

Crowley pulls back up to the house and they sit in silence, the motor running. “Your mum seems nice,” Crowley says eventually.

“She’s trying,” Aziraphale admits. “Honestly, I expected worse.”

“But your dad…”

“But my dad,” Aziraphale confirms and let’s his head thunk back against the headrest. “I don’t know why I care so much about his approval.”

Crowley’s hands slide of the steering wheel. “If I could, I think I’d care about what my parents thought,” Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale realizes they haven’t really spoken about Crowley’s father and Aziraphale has no idea what that relationship is even like. “Is your dad…”

“Yeah, died a couple years back,” Crowley says. Aziraphale takes his hand.

“Maybe we should just go back to London. Do Christmas, you and me,” Aziraphale says but

Crowley shakes his head.

“No. We came here and we are going to stay. I’ll even sing the carols.”

Aziraphale smacks his arm playfully. “You wouldn’t!”

“If it’ll make you happy,” Crowley says and Aziraphale wants to make love to him right there on the bench seat of his car but restrains himself because his parents are inside the house and it's getting quite cold.

“I suppose we have to go face the music then,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shuts off the engine and they go inside.

**

Aziraphale glances at Crowley out of the corner of his eye and bites back a smile. He’s holding his battery-powered candle and half-heartedly mouthing the words to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. He looks like he’d rather be asleep somewhere warm but he’s there, next to Aziraphale and doing his best to participate in this silly caroling tradition. It sets off something wild in Aziraphale’s chest and he wishes they weren’t two hours away from going back to his parent’s house. Well, and that he could get Crowley somewhere horizontal because he looks so bloody cute with his mittens and pink nose and too big red scarf.

Aziraphale elbows him when the song draws to a close and the people in the doorway clap, one of the little girls jumping up and down like she’s at a concert and not on a cold stoop listening to mediocre versions of overdone carols. “C’mon, there’s a pub down the road. We can meet my parents at the church.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow but doesn’t complain as they trudge over the half-melted snow and back to the sidewalk. His parents are in another caroling group and never have to know about his and Crowley’s little moment of truancy.

The pub is warm and the only concession to Christmas is the multicolored lights displayed behind the bar. Which might honestly be a year-round thing but Aziraphale’s not going to ask.

Without even asking, Crowley orders them coffee with whiskey and Aziraphale smiles mildly as Crowley unwinds the scarf from around his neck like he’s unfurling in the warmth. It feels domestic, sneaking off on Christmas Eve to have their own little moment alone. Aziraphale hopes this is what it’s like for a very long time.

“So,” Crowley begins, wrapping his hands around the ceramic blue mug that’s been placed in front of him. There’s a chip in the handle but there’s something charming about that, this accidental imperfection. “You doing alright?”

Aziraphale snorts before taking a big gulp of coffee which is terrible but burns just right as he swallows. “Can I have some cream please?” he asks the man behind the counter who turns to rummage around in a low refrigerator before handing off a half-full bottle of milk. Aziraphale supposes it will do.

“You know, I knew what to expect when we came here and yet I suppose I hoped it would be different, but my father…” Aziraphale trails off. It’s not worth rehashing it. It’s Christmas and they’ll be in church in under an hour.

Crowley hums, that little noise he makes when he’s thinking about something serious but might not say it.

“What?” Aziraphale prompts. He wants Crowley to say things to him, serious things.

“I guess I thought I’d be the one under fire but...your parents have pretty high expectations, huh?” As he speaks, Crowley runs his finger over the missing chunk of ceramic in the handle.

“Always have,” Aziraphale replies, only a little bitter. “You know I was so glad to get out from under their thumb but I suppose I’ll never be free of their judgment. Not if I want them in my life.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything to that, just clinks their mugs together like they’re celebrating. “Well, you’ve got me. I’ll only judge you a little when you’re being stupid.”

“Oh thank you very much,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes but pleased all the same.

They share another drink, just enough to warm their insides before settling their tab and taking off for the church. The midnight service is always short, a retelling of the bible story before they light candles and sing a hymn. Aziraphale had loved the whole thing when he was a kid. It always felt so magical.

Once they get inside the church, Crowley’s nerves seem to return, every step accompanied by a furtive glance like someone might smite him. Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him to the Goodall’s pew where he gets a curious glance from his mother and frown from his father. Aziraphale doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hand all the way through the service and when they get back to the house, he gives him a brief kiss.

“Thank you,” he says quietly after he pulls away.

Crowley squeezes his hand. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

**

The next day is much the same. Gabriel sends them furtive frowns and Michael tries too hard to be accommodating. Aunt Bee seems to be the only one unaffected by the tension and happily eats leftovers for breakfast, some horrifying combination of ham and pudding that has Crowley staring at them in disbelief. Aziraphale’s more accustomed to the behavior even if it is a bit disgusting.

They hand out presents — two per person as always. No need to get attached to worldly objects — Aziraphale gets his traditional socks and a nice bow tie. Unsurprisingly, Crowley also gets socks. When he opens his second gift, he turns to Aziraphale, eyes wide, pushing a picture frame into his hands. Aziraphale looks at the photo and his heart stops.

His mother immediately begins to speak, “When you said you were bringing Anthony, I wanted to do something special so I looked through all your old things and you had this picture. I was going to just put a picture of you but I thought - well I suppose I thought this might be better.”

In the frame is a picture of Aziraphale and Crowley around the time they were six years old. Crowley doesn’t have his front teeth but his smile is huge while he holds up the camera to take a photo of both of them. Aziraphale is frowning beside him.

“I don’t remember taking this,” Aziraphale says, knees going a bit weak as tears begin to prickle behind his eyes.

“I do,” Crowley says, taking back the frame. “My mum gave me a disposable camera. We took this at the park after school.”

Aziraphale shuffles through his memories of Crowley and tries to remember but comes up blank.

“This...thank you, Mrs. Goodall,” Crowley says, still staring at the picture. “It’s...thank you.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t throw this out,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself.

His mother looks at him oddly. “I’d never throw out a picture of you.”

Aunt Bee glances at the picture over Crowley’s shoulder and snorts. “Must be glad you grew into your nose.”

That breaks the solemnity of the room and Aziraphale bursts out laughing, followed shortly by Michael and Crowley. Even Gabriel cracks a smile.

It’s not perfect but for a split second, Aziraphale doesn’t wish things were different.

Chapter Text

The return journey always feels shorter. Or that at least seems true to Aziraphale as Crowley pulls up in front of the bookshop to drop him off.

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand for a final time and says, “Thank you for coming. I know it was—”

“Not as bad as you made it out be,” Crowley finishes for him with a lopsided smile.

Aziraphale laughs. “I’m glad you think so. I found it all rather stressful.”

Crowley shrugs. “Get a move on. I’ve got some errands to run.”

Aziraphale takes himself out of the car and hefts their bags with him, glad to be home as he opens the bookshop and takes in the comforting smell. It’s strange to think that this is their home now, even with their separate flats. Sixteen-year-old Aziraphale would have cowered in shame at the thought of living with Anthony Crowley. And yet here they are.

Before their little trip north for Christmas proper, he and Crowley had agreed to have their own Christmas when they got back. Something about alleviating the pressure of giving gifts in front of Aziraphale’s parents and maybe something about how romantic Christmas could be, just the two of them. It’s hard to remember because the agreement had been made between kisses in the middle of the night. Aziraphale can hardly be held responsible for the silly things he says when Crowley’s hands are on him.

His cell phone pings in his trouser pocket and he looks at it accusingly before fishing it out to see Anathema’s name has appeared on the screen, a message beneath it.

This pie is for you and you will be eating it tomorrow

There’s a little picture of a tart that looks to be made of blueberries. Aziraphale loves Anathema’s blueberry tarts.

He types out a reply slowly.

Would you like to come to the bookshop or should Crowley and I visit your flat?

One word comes through.

Bookshop

Aziraphale slips his phone in his pocket just as it pings again. Sighing, he pulls it back out and there’s a little thrill to see Crowley’s name come through. At some point Crowley hadc hanged his picture on the device to a tiny picture of a horned face. An emoji or something.

Regardless, it makes Aziraphale smile.

At the cafe. Cocoa or coffee?

Aziraphale feels so very loved in that moment that he’s fairly certain he might burst.

Peppermint mocha, please.

Crowley’s reply comes through and Aziraphale can practically hear the smirk in it.

Festive of you

Anathema arrives with tart in hand and Newt in tow, bustling them up the stairs as soon as they’ve stepped inside.

They settle into Crowley’s flat because he has more seating and Aziraphale’s newfound efforts at cleanliness or no, Crowley’s place will always be neater. Aziraphale’s accepted that. Once they’ve all got a slice, Anathema claps her hands together and says, “I have an announcement.”

Aziraphale and Crowley share a look. Anathema’s announcements are usually...interesting.

“Newt and I are having a commitment ceremony.”

Newt shuffles on his feet but he’s smiling wider than Aziraphale’s ever seen.

“I thought you were against marriage,” Aziraphale says, half-teasing and Anathema gives him a sharp look.

“We aren’t getting married ,” Anathema retorts like it’s a dirty word. “It’s a party to celebrate our relationship.”

Crowley makes a noise that Aziraphale is certain was about to be a laugh. Aziraphale bites his own lip to keep from laughing and asks, “Well, when is this party?”

“New Year’s eve,” Anathema says, tilting up her chin as if daring Aziraphale or Crowley to say something. When they don’t, she flops down in one of Crowley’s chairs and shovels a bite of pie into her mouth.

Aziraphale gives Newt a friendly pat on the arm and says in a low voice, “Good on you for asking.”

Newt and Anathema leave well into the evening, all of them pleasantly tipsy on a bottle of champagne Aziraphale had saved for special occasions. Once the door is shut behind them, Aziraphale pulls Crowley into a kiss. He tastes of blueberries as he hums against Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Happy Christmas,” Aziraphale says, feeling blindingly bright. “I can’t believe they’re getting married.”

Crowley laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t you listen? Not married.”

Aziraphale knows Crowley is right, but it’s still awfully romantic. “Come upstairs. I want to give you your Christmas gift.”

Crowley gets shifty then which Aziraphale attributes to his general discomfort with acts of kindness. Regardless, Aziraphale tugs on his hand and holds it the entire way upstairs until they part ways so he can retrieve the little box from his apartment.

It’s a silly thing and Aziraphale knows it. Part of him thinks it might be presumptuous, but he pushes through it. Fear controlled his life for a long time and he won’t have it anymore.

When he pushes the box into Crowley’s hands, sat together as they are on Crowley’s couch, Crowley holds it carefully. Like it’s something delicate and precious.

“The point is to open it you know,” Aziraphale teases even though the air between them is oddly serious.

When Crowley does, he stares at the piece of paper inside the small box and then looks up at Aziraphale with wide hazel eyes. “You got me tickets to a garden show?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale replies nervously, no longer sure of himself. Not that he was all that sure to begin with. “I thought we could go together. You know...a summer holiday…”

Crowley’s frozen expression crumples and Aziraphale panics. “Crowley, are you—oh dear…”

“Jesus christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, red faced with shining eyes. Aziraphale reaches out to touch him, but he holds out a hand. “No, I’m having a moment. Just…you’re already planning for bloody June…I never thought—”

Taking a deep breath, Crowley sets the box aside before putting his own gift in Aziraphale’s lap. “Go ahead. Not as good as yours but you’ll like it.”

Aziraphale carefully unwraps it and finds a bow tie in light blue. It’s lovely and despite what Crowley said, Aziraphale gets a bit choked up. He can’t believe they're here, exchanging Christmas gifts and loving each other in a way Aziraphale fantasized about for years when he was young. He never thought he’d have this. Let alone with Crowley.

“My dear, it’s perfect,” he says and means more than the gift. He means everything.

**

Anathema and Newt’s commitment party is every inch as ridiculous as Anathema’s Halloween party. Though this time there aren’t any stand up skeletons or pumpkins puking their innards on the table.

Just Anathema, holding Newt’s arm and a glass of champagne and glowing as she explains and explains that no, they’re not getting married. This is different.

“You ever think about it?” Aziraphale asks after his first glass of champagne.

“Hmm?” Crowley asks, redirecting his attention from someone with a Christmas cracker back to Aziraphale.

“Getting married.”

Crowley is silent and Aziraphale hopes he hasn’t misstepped. He doesn’t mean now. He just means in the general sense. Maybe not even to him. Though that thought makes his heart hurt.

“More now than I used to,” Crowley admits before taking a long drink.

And that’s the end of that conversation.

Not that Aziraphale doesn’t replay it in his mind once a month for the next year.

**

“Stop fussing,” Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley away from the mirror where he keeps trying to rearrange his hair.

“Maybe I want to look nice for our first Valentine’s Day,” Crowley sniffs and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“I just watched you get ready. That takes some of the mystique out of it, don’t you think?”

Crowley sits on the edge of the bed and shoves his feet into his boots. They spend most of their time at Crowley’s flat these days. Aziraphale practically lives there. If he sometimes fantasizes about knocking down walls and combining their lives entirely, Crowley doesn’t need to know. Though Aziraphale doesn’t think he’d be particularly opposed.

**

Crowley loves the flower show. And Aziraphale loves Crowley. He particularly loves watching him flit between the booths and occasionally look up at Aziraphale in excitement as he explains something about a particular plant that Aziraphale doesn’t entirely follow. It’s that gapped tooth kid again. The one so excited about everything.

Crowley’s started going to therapy and he’s been taking some medication that Aziraphale has to remind him about in the evenings. To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale hasn’t noticed too much of a difference. Though his eyes go distant less and he wakes up earlier in the mornings. Both good things by Aziraphale’s estimation.

It’s also meant that sometimes Aziraphale gets to see him excited like this. Truly excited. Not that guarded look like someone might snatch the moment out from under him.

**

A year to the day that Crowley moved into Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley comes home with tulips and sheepishly says, “For our anniversary.”

Aziraphale laughs out loud. He’d already reserved a table at Crowley’s favorite restaurant, feeling sentimental and silly since, in truth, they hadn’t discussed celebrating.

Over a slice of lemon cake—it goes perfectly with the champagne—Aziraphale gathers his nerves.

“It’s been a year, you know.”

Crowley arches one eyebrow. “Thought that was why we were out.”

Aziraphale shoots him a long suffering look and continues, stomach fluttering, “I know we it a very long time ago. Well, not really discussed it but you did say you’d thought about it. In a general sense—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says patiently and Aziraphale takes a deep breath to stop his rambling.

“I was wondering what you’d think about getting married.” He says it quickly before he sicks up on the table. He’s not really proposing. More like starting the conversation.

Crowley stares at him and then his lips slowly pull back into a smile before his head tips back and he’s laughing. Aziraphale has no idea if he should be offended or not.

Putting down his fork, Aziraphale wipes at his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say to this. It’s not what he expected in the least.

Noticing his reaction, Crowley reaches out and puts his hand flat on the table. “No. No,” he says, a little apologetic. “Don’t look like that. It’s just—fuck, you’re going to laugh.”

And then Crowley pulls a small box out of his pocket and slides it across the table. “I was going to ask you tonight.”

Aziraphale thinks he genuinely might sick up on the table.

**

In the end, they almost don’t have a wedding.

They have it all planned. A short thing. A filing of papers. But when Aziraphale calls his mother, her excitement is contagious. Or rather her pushiness is contagious and Aziraphale finds himself on speaker phone with Michael while Crowley sits next to him, wide-eyed but supportive as she runs through all the options.

It results in a fight with Gabriel when Aziraphale refuses to have a church wedding. Crowley doesn’t want it so neither does Aziraphale.

They meet in the middle. A vaguely religious service in the field behind Aunt Bee’s farmhouse of all places. Aunt Bee crows about being asked to host and makes all sorts of teasing threats about ruining the whole thing. It makes Crowley laugh something fierce.

It ends up being semi-disastrous and semi-perfect because it is disastrous. Aziraphale would have nothing less and he revels in how delighted it makes Crowley to watch things fall apart. Michael ends up a bit too tipsy and says all sorts of hilarious things about how glad she is her only son is finally getting married. A lot of grateful hugs are exchanged as Aziraphale and Crowley awkwardly laugh under her attentions.

The whole thing still manages to be small. Less than thirty people. Most of them are his parent's friends. A few folks from Crowley's past that Aziraphale is happy to meet. He's mostly happy that Anathema and Newt make it, tearing it up on a makeshift dancefloor and bringing joy the way only Anathema can.

And really, even with all the excitement, Aziraphale thinks that ceremony or no, it means more to know that Crowley wants to be here, always wants to be here. That they’re in this together now.

For as long as they can be.

The honeymoon isn’t so much a honeymoon, rather money spent on remodeling their flats, finally mingling them together so that’s it’s one place. A home.