Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley staggered into the bookshop. He tipped the wine bottle up for another drink, found it empty, and cast it aside.

“Where’s the bloody book?” he grumbled.

Muriel sprang from their chair, clutching their book to their chest. “Oh! Mr. Crowley.” Their brow furrowed. “Or should I be saying, ‘Back, foul demon’? I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s proper. Oh, but I did learn how to set a table for a proper human dinner from a book by an American named Emily Post. Human customs are so inter—”

“Yes, yes, lotta manners and nonsense.” Crowley waved both hands. “But I need the book.” He stomped across the room, nearly tripping over… well, he wasn’t sure what, because it looked like nothing was there, but obviously something had gotten in his way. “And another bottle of wine. Where does he keep the wine?”

Did. Where did he keep it. He’s gone.

Crowley’s shoulder banged into a bookshelf, and a book tumbled down onto his head. “Fuck!”

Muriel scampered over. “Can I help you, Mr. Crowley? Is there something particular you’re looking for?”

“A book. I need the bloody book.”

“We have a lot of books. Do you know the, um, title? Author?”

“Right.” Crowley braced himself against the shelf, sifting through the fuzziness of the alcohol for the memory. “Clerkenwell diamond heist.” He snapped his fingers. “Austen. That’s it. Jane Austen. Pride and something. Need to read it. Figure out what I did wrong.”

Muriel smiled so brightly Crowley offered down a curse of thanks for his dark glasses. “I’m sure we can find it! Um, do you know how these volumes are organized?”

Crowley tilted his head toward the shelf beside him, scanning a few titles. “Not a sodding clue. Sorry.”

“Oh. Well.” Muriel shrugged one shoulder. “How long can it take?”

***

Crowley flung himself into Aziraphale’s favorite armchair. He was appallingly sober, and now everything hurt again. It had never stopped hurting, to be honest, but it hadn’t been quite as stabby when he’d been drunk. Now it felt like knives through his heart and needles in his eyes, and something kind of bluntly pointed digging into his arse…

He jerked up and reached for the book he’d been sitting on, prepared to fling it across the room in disgust. Glinting gold letters mocked him. Pride and Prejudice.

“Aw, bugger me.” He rolled his eyes Heavenward. This was all their fault somehow. He just knew it. “Found it!”

“Wonderful!” Muriel appeared from between rows of books, lifting a bottle in triumph. “And I found your wine!”

“Oh, thank Satan.”

The angel’s eyes went wide.

“Er… Thank… God?” Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “Terrible choices all ‘round.” He beckoned Muriel closer. “Thank you .”

They blushed as they held out the bottle. “You’re welcome.”

Crowley popped the cork with a thought and took a long swig. “Ah.” He sighed and sank back against the seat cushions. “A pre-phylloxera Bordeaux. Those were the days.”

A memory flashed through his mind: Aziraphale, at a Paris cafe, sighing in pleasure as he sipped from a crystal glass, cheeks adorably flushed and lips stained red from the wine.

Crowley’s entire body went as hot as if he’d walked into hellfire. He downed more of the wine, then opened the Austen book and flipped to the beginning of the story.

“‘It is a truth…’ Hang on. I’m going to need pen and paper.”

“I can fetch you some!” Muriel bounded over to Aziraphale’s desk, rummaged around for a few moments, then returned with a pencil and a battered notebook. “Will this do?”

“Perfect.”

Muriel beamed.

Crowley set down his wine—temporarily—and tore a page from the notebook. “Muriel,” he addressed the angel. “We’re… almost sort of somewhat friends, eh?”

Muriel’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and then they gave a little bobbing nod.

“Right. So, I am going to write a very important letter here, and I am going to need you to deliver it for me. Just slip it right onto Aziraphale’s desk, hmm? He’ll be fine with that. New protocol.”

“O-of course. You would know… yes?”

Crowley gave them his best flirtatious smile. “Would I lie?”

“Well… you’re a demon.”

“Yes, but I’m not a very good one. Bad. Not a very bad one.”

Muriel chuckled. “That’s okay, then.”

“You’re such a dear. I’ll only be a moment.” Crowley scanned the first few lines of Pride and Prejudice again, then set pencil to paper.

Chapter Text

Heaven was… nice. Very… well, clean. And white. And… fine. It was all fine. Quite fine indeed.

Aziraphale forced his clenched jaw into a semblance of a smile.

There was no tea.

But that was fine. Absolutely fine. He didn’t need tea. He didn’t need… any— any thing . Nothing at all.

He stared down at the blank desk. Dash it all, why couldn’t there at least be some bloody tea up here?

The click of footsteps announced the presence of an angel, a fresh-faced, male-presenting person Aziraphale didn’t recognize. They walked up to his desk and placed what looked like a single sheet of paper squarely in the center.

“Here you are, sir,” they said in a chipper, youthful voice. “New paperwork for you to review and sign. If you need anything else, sir, I’ll be just over there.” They strode a few meters away and stood with their hands folded neatly in front of them.

Well. That was… interesting.

Aziraphale looked down at the paper. Bold letters at the top read, “Amendment to Code of Celestial Conduct for Cherubim, Class C, Part 17(a), Section 3-45, lines (i)-(lxxvi).”

“There are classes of Cherubim?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” the eager young angel answered from their rigid pose. “Seven of them, of course, A to G. Very important to keep them separate for good balance in the choir, you know.”

“Right.” Aziraphale forced a laugh. “I knew that, obviously. Plenty of knowledge up here.” He tapped his temple, then decided this was probably a bit too much. “Good on you for, um, knowing it as well.”

He turned back to the paper. “‘In accordance with Divine Decree 447294857264 (Synergistic Best Practices as pertains to Holistic Paradigms) an Actionable Strategy is hereby and forthwith implemented for all parties…’ What the…”

What did this even mean ? How was he supposed to read through all—he touched a finger to the paper and the text began to scroll—444 pages of this document when even the first sentence made him feel like he’d been hit over the head with a cast-iron cricket bat. 

“Did Gabriel do this sort of thing often?” he asked the other angel.

“I don’t know, sir. I was never assigned to—” They coughed. “To a certain being we are instructed to no longer speak of. Sir.”

“I see. Right, then.” Perhaps this was why Gabriel had always seemed out-of-sorts. Headaches could do that to a person.

Aziraphale touched the paper again, scrolling further without catching more than a word here and there. Surely he wasn’t meant to read all this? It would have been examined carefully before being presented for his signature. He needed only to scroll to the end, sign with a flourish, and send it on its way.

Unless…

444 pages was rather a lot. It could contain mistakes. Hidden clauses snuck in by someone with nefarious intent. He could be signing the authorization for another apocalypse and never know it!

“Fine. It’s fine.” He squared his shoulders. “I only need to become accustomed to it, is all. Can’t be so hard.” He attempted a chuckle, but it came out sounding almost like a moan. He turned to the young angel. “Uh, you there. Are you my, er, minion?”

The youth laughed. “Oh, no, sir. Only demons have minions. I’m your Junior Auxiliary Intern.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted. That sounded almost worse than minion. But, no matter. “Could you, Junior Auxiliary Intern, be so good as to fetch me a cup of tea?”

“Pardon? Fetch you a… what?”

“A cup of tea.” Aziraphale precisely enunciated each word. “Ask around. I’m sure someone will be able to tell you what it is. There’s a good fellow. Run along now.”

The intern’s brows lifted, but they executed an obedient bow. “Yes, sir. I’ll find it for you. Back in a jiffy.”

“No hurry!” Aziraphale called as they scurried away. Alone once again, he rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. “Oh, bollocks.”

He froze for a moment, waiting for something to happen, but no alarms sounded, Michael did not appear to scold him, and the Almighty didn’t smite him for the crass language.

Well. That was one good thing to happen today.

This was not fine. Not at all.

“How am I supposed to do any good, when I have to wade through all this?” He swiped irritably at the paper, sending it tumbling to the floor. He instinctively reached to pick it back up, but stopped himself halfway. The space looked better with that bit of disorder. As if someone might actually live here. He kicked one leg of the desk, pushing it out of alignment with the perfect grid of the floor.

Again he waited, expecting the desk to move back to its original location, or the intern to return and tidy everything up. And again, nothing happened.

“Hmm. If it’s really my office, perhaps I can do what I want with it?”

That sounded wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. But if he was going to read those 444 pages, comfortable surroundings would make it easier. That was simply a fact. He’d give himself a better chair, to begin with. And an elegant desk. Something made of wood, with a nice finish that brought out the grain. Books, of course, for atmosphere. Old ones with the smell of being well-loved. A phonograph to play music. Maybe a few plants here and there.

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. Plants reminded him of someone. Someone he missed. A pang of loneliness struck him so hard he flinched. Why was he here when… when…

He retrieved the paperwork and straightened his desk. He had a job to do. He was the Archangel Aziraphale. He even had a min— an intern to do his bidding.

Something on the desk caught his eye. A small slip of paper had appeared while he’d been woolgathering. An Earth paper.

He pinched the edge of the paper between thumb and forefinger and lifted it from the table. It had ragged edges and had been folded in haste, so the corners didn’t align neatly. Slowly, he unfolded it and spread it on the table.

The note contained only a single sentence, in a familiar scrawl.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a demon in possession of a Bentley (and not much more), must be in want of an Angel.

Aziraphale jolted, nearly knocking his chair over.

“C-Crowley?”

He ran his fingers over each word, picturing his friend hunched over the paper, pencil in hand. He took a furtive glance around, then refolded the note and tucked it into a hidden pocket on the inside of his waistcoat.

He had the oddest sense that he wasn’t supposed to think about Crowley while he was here. Which, in turn, made his chest feel strangely tight.

The paperwork on the desk blinked, calling for his attention.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

Chapter Text

Crowley watched the thin wisps of smoke curl upward as his latest failed attempt at a letter burned away. A door banged closed behind him. He jumped, the letter dissolving to ash in a sudden whoosh of flame.

He turned around to see Muriel entering the bookshop, arms full of assorted volumes. They paused and sniffed.

“Why does it smell like smoke?”

Crowley sat up straighter, dusting ashes from his trousers. “Must be the weather. Climate change and all that.”

Muriel tilted their head to gesture out the window. “But it’s, um, raining.”

Crowley hopped up from his seat. “Course it is! Acid rain. Catches all that soot. Terrible stuff. Demons love it. Not me, though. Obviously.”

“Oh. Good.” Muriel set the stack of books atop another similar stack. “How are you today, Mr. Crowley? Written any more important messages?” Their eyes were wide and hopeful.

Crowley groaned. He picked up Pride and Prejudice and shook it in frustration. “I do not understand this book.”

Muriel glanced at the floor, then shyly back up. “Could I help you? You could tell me about it, maybe?”

Crowley really didn’t think anyone could help him, let alone a naive, young angel, but he also needed someone, anyone , to talk to.

“Right, so there’s this man, Bingley. Unquestionably an angel. Nice to everyone, always smiling, always being Good.”

Muriel bounced happily. “He sounds lovely.”

Crowley held up a hand. “But he has this friend, Darcy. Darcy’s proud and irritable and he likes to scowl and complain and insult people.”

“Oh.” Muriel frowned at the book. “Is he a demon?”

“Exactly!” Crowley waved the book. “But they’re friends, see? Best friends, even though they’re opposites. So you’d expect they would fall in love, wouldn’t you?”

“Um…” Muriel thought for a moment, then brightened. “Yes! Like Gabriel and Beelzebub did!”

Crowley flung himself back into the chair. “Something like that,” he grumbled. “But I flipped ahead, and it doesn’t happen! They don’t fall in love! Bingley loves a woman named Jane, who’s just another angel like he is. It doesn’t make any sense!”

He let the book fall to the floor, next to the half-empty bottle of Bordeaux. The same Bordeaux he’d drunk yesterday. Even in a state of drunken despair, he wasn’t about to let an excellent vintage go to waste.

“Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Or maybe it’s all hopeless. I don’t know.”

A stack of mail slid through the slot in the front door, and Muriel hurried over to retrieve it. They shuffled through the papers. “Do you know what I am supposed to do with these? This one says it’s for ‘Resident.’ That’s… is that me?” They examined the colorful leaflet. “Am I supposed to purchase garden furniture? Do we have a garden?”

“Throw it all away. You don’t need any of that.”

“Are you sure? Oh! This one is for you!”

Crowley stiffened. “Me? Can’t be.”

“Yes. For you and Mr. Fell.” Muriel skipped over. “It’s from friends.”

“I don’t have any…”

He trailed off as Muriel pressed the postcard into his hand. It was a bluish-purple, dotted with white stars. A cartoon rocket ship streaked across the top of the image, above the words “Greetings From Alpha Centauri” in red block letters.

Crowley flipped the card over. It had been addressed to “Aziraphale and Crowley, The Bookshop, Earth.”

Crowley glowered at the message, his scowl growing deeper with every word.

Stellar Greetings, friends!

Bee and I are having a wonderful time on our honeymoon. The views of the galaxy are spectacular here, and I highly recommend the planets of the AB binary system as locations for a romantic dinner. Bee and I wish to thank you both for providing such a fine example of what might be possible for us, as well as for watching over me while my memory fly was loose. (The hot chocolate here is not as good as on Earth, so we may return for a brief visit soon.) We’ve never been so happy, and it wouldn’t have been possible without the both of you.

Best wishes,

Gabriel

Bzzzt! -B

The edges of the postcard began to smoke and blacken. Crowley shook it until the smoke dissipated, then got up and shoved it into a drawer in Aziraphale’s desk.

“I hate him. So. Much.”

He clenched his fists, trying to tamp down the fury and envy and pain threatening to explode in a ball of hellfire.

Do not burn down the shop again. Do not burn down the shop again.

There was only one solution. He was going to read that damned book until it started to make sense, and then he was going to write the most perfect love letter anyone had ever written, and nothing and no one in Hell or Heaven or Earth or Alpha Fucking Centauri was going to stop him.

Chapter Text

Dearest Angel,

I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty angel can bestow. Your eyes, I mean. Oh, bugger, I’m rubbish at this. You’re probably thinking that a demon’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. (Did you see that semicolon? I told you Jane Austen was a genius, even if this book continues to perplex me.) Honestly, my imagination is the opposite of rapid. I needed 6,000 bloody blasted years. I wonder if it would have made a difference if I’d said something sooner. Just know that if I should die, it was all in pursuit of Mr. Fell. Does he have £5,000 a year? I haven’t the foggiest. But he does have a nice bookshop and good wine. I would have him with nothing at all.

Yours,

Crowley

Aziraphale stuffed the new letter into the hidden pocket, his heart racing. He didn’t even need a heart. Or blood. Or a human body. But he did love the feelings it created. The shivers of excitement. The bubbliness of laughter and joy. Even the sharp pangs of loss and regret were magical.

Although, at the moment, they were also making him queasy.

He slid his hand beneath his waistcoat again, feeling the ragged edge of the paper. Like the previous missive, it had appeared on his desk while he was swamped in paperwork. Already, he was forgetting the words, as the endless tattoo of duty, duty, duty echoed in his mind, pushing all else aside. But the paper had the feel of Crowley, a sense of comfort and rightness that—for a few moments at least—pushed aside the need to do more, be more. More, more, more.

Duty. Duty. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Aziraphale pressed his free hand to his throbbing temple. He was going mad. He’d never heard of an angel going mad before. But, then, he’d also never heard of an Archangel and a Dark Lord of Hell falling in love and running away together. There was a first time for everything.

A throat cleared, and he yanked his hand out of his clothing.

Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

He smoothed down his lapels. “May I help you?”

The intern pointed at their clipboard. “It’s time for your meeting, sir. If you would follow me?”

“Yes.” A smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “I’d love to.”

That was a lie, though, wasn’t it? He didn’t love this at all. In fact, he disliked it rather intensely. How peculiar. He wouldn’t have expected to tell more lies in Heaven than on Earth. He trailed after the intern, puzzling it over and wondering why there was a strange itching sensation in the vicinity of his heart.

“Ah, the Archangel Aziraphale,” Michael greeted him.

Uriel and Saraqael nodded at him.

“Hello.” He gave them a tight smile. “Good to see you all.” A half-laugh escaped his throat. “Obviously it’s good. This is Heaven. Everything’s Good here.”

Uriel gestured, and a chair materialized. “Sit down. Welcome to your first official meeting as an Archangel.”

Aziraphale sat. A small, rectangular table materialized in front of him, then two more chairs. Saraqael rolled up to one side of the table, and Uriel took the place across from them. Michael sat last, facing Aziraphale down the length of the table.

“Now.” Michael folded their hands and fixed Aziraphale with their unrelenting stare. “Since you are new to this position, we will be… helping you along for a time. In case you’ve forgotten during your time away, we have ways of doing things here. Ways that must be adhered to, for the good of all.”

“Yes! Naturally!” His mouth seemed to curve of its own accord, showing his teeth. “Cheers to law and order and all that, I always say!”

Did he always say that? It was difficult to think over the pounding in his head.

“We are pleased you agree,” Uriel said. They tipped their head a fraction of an inch and locked eyes with Aziraphale. “Therefore we will begin with a matter that has come to our attention just now.”

“We are informed,” Saraqael continued, “That you may have received an unauthorized missive.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Aziraphale replied. He scratched idly at an itch near the center of his chest. “Documents to sign, mostly. Got to do my duty and get the paperwork done!” The words brought a wave of relief to his headache, so he continued on. “Glad to be here, just doing my job. Fulfilling obligations!”

“Yes.” Michael tapped their fingers with careful deliberation. “As we all must.”

“Indeed! The last document was 777 pages long, but I persevered! All for the glory of Heaven and whatnot, eh?”

Aziraphale squirmed. The itch was getting worse.

“It sounds as though you’re doing a fine job thus far.” The tone of Saraqael’s voice was funny, somehow. As if the words might not be the exact truth. Which was silly. They were an angel. Everything they said was the truth.

He folded his hands atop the table. “And to think, I used to believe none of you liked me.”

The other three exchanged glances.

“Personal affections or lack thereof have no place here,” Michael declared.

Uriel nodded. “Such human-like sentiments are inconsequential in relation to the Divine Plan.”

“Very true, very true.” Aziraphale dug one finger beneath his waistcoat to scratch at the incessant itch. The smooth grain of writing paper met his skin and he flinched.

Crowley!

“I-I have fine eyes!” He could feel the sparkle in them, for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long. And the smile that formed on his mouth was pure and true.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m fine!” Aziraphale cried, trying to echo the strange giddiness that had overtaken him only moments ago. “Everything’s fine!”

Everything was, to be perfectly frank, a disaster. He was here , doing bloody paperwork, when he could have been at home drinking tea with Crowley. The headache had redoubled its efforts and his stomach was beginning to heave. Words throbbed in his brain, hammering against the inside of his skull.

Do good. Obey orders. Do your duty.

He leapt to his feet, his hand still stuffed under his jacket like a Napoleonic-era portrait. “Please excuse me. I need to return to my paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Love the paperwork!”

He offered the other angels a toothy smile, then fled the room. The words kept on pummeling him.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

But even the heaviest blow couldn’t drown out the singing in his heart.

Crowley. Crowley. Crowley!

Chapter Text

Crowley strode into the bookshop, six cups of espresso humming pleasantly in his veins. He caught sight of Muriel and stopped in his tracks. The angel was seated in his chair, reading his copy of Pride and Prejudice .

All right, technically, they were Aziraphale’s chair and Aziraphale’s book, but if he could call the Bentley “our car,” then Crowley could claim whatever he pleased from the bookshop. And if Aziraphale couldn’t bother to be here in the first place…

Aw, fuck.

Crowley dashed away a tear and adjusted his glasses. He wasn’t going to think like that. He was going to keep writing letters until Aziraphale brought his sorry arse back down here and… and… 

Fine, he had no idea what he’d do if Aziraphale showed up, except maybe burst into tears and start throwing things. After that, it was anyone’s guess.

“You’re reading my book.”

Muriel glanced up. “It’s very good. You should try using some quotes from this Mr. Wickham. He’s very charming and everyone likes him.”

Crowley’s lips pulled back in a twisted grimace. “Absolutely not! He’s a villain.”

Muriel cocked their head to one side. “How do you know?” They flicked a dog-earred page with one finger. “You haven’t read any further than I have.”

“I know evil when I see it. He’s a villain. A demon. And not the fun kind. He’s a lying liarface, and I’m going to burn his name right out of the book if he hurts Bingley.”

Muriel’s smile turned tight. “I see.” They shrugged and resumed reading. “I suppose we’ll have to keep reading until we find out who is right.”

“I’m right.” Crowley held out his hand. “Give it here. I’ll do the reading. I can do the voices better.”

“Yes, please! But don’t give Mr. Wickham an evil voice in case you’re wrong.”

Crowley resolved to give Wickham the smarmiest voice any narcissistic libertine had ever possessed. Muriel didn’t seem to notice.

Two hours later, Crowley snapped the book closed at the half-way mark. “Right, then. I’ve learned two ways not to propose, and if I have to read a third, I am actually going to explode.”

“That sounds… messy.” Muriel hurried toward the front door. “I’ll just fetch the post, then. Oh, look, another card from Gabriel and Beelzebub!”

Crowley shied away from the postcard when Muriel held it out to him. This one had a view of reddish rock, with narrow text at the bottom saying, “View from Olympus Mons, largest volcano in the solar system.”

“I’m not reading that.”

“But…”

Crowley took a step back. “Nope. Not a chance. No way. Not happening.” He moved to the desk and opened the drawer. “You can leave it in here.”

He snatched up his notebook and pencil and headed upstairs to write another letter.

The half-written missive on the first page was all wrong, of course. He ripped it out, crumpled it, and sent the paper up in flames. This was hopeless. All hopeless.

What did he even expect to happen? For Aziraphale to write him back?

Hi, yes, sorry for not writing sooner, but I’ve been busy with my dream job, which as you know is vastly more important than you…

“Fuck that,” Crowley snarled, then repeated the invective—or something near to it—in twenty-five different languages. “You love me. I know you love me.”

The memories played out in his head like a movie. Sly glances. Tiny touches. Secret smiles. Their eyes meeting and holding for a little too long. It all meant something.

My Angel , he wrote at the top of a fresh sheet of paper

I do not suffer by accident. Either 1) you’re a bloody fool and need time to hide because feelings are hard (this is valid and I will eventually forgive you, but hurry the fuck up, please) or 2) you’re still a bloody fool, but you’ve fallen victim to some scheme because Heaven and Hell still have their knickers in a twist over the failed apocalypse (highly plausible, and I will never forgive them).

The more I consider this while sober (less fun, more productive), the more likely option 2) seems. After all, it does not often happen that the interference of friends Heaven will persuade an angel of independent lifestyle to think no more of a demon whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.

I must believe you violently in love, because anything less is unbearable. Get your angelic arse back down here before I do something I can never take back.

Like writing poetry.

Come save me, White Knight.

Your damsel in distress,

Crowley

Chapter Text

The Junior Auxiliary Intern was no longer smiling. They held their clipboard out at arm’s length, shying away from the list of blinking red boxes all down it.

“Sir?” They turned pleading eyes on Aziraphale. “You’re late for another meeting, fourteen newly promoted angels need training ASAP, and no disciplinary action has been agreed upon for the angel who… ah…” They tapped the clipboard to check something. “…Accidentally convinced a group of humans to make Moon Boots fashionable again.”

Aziraphale did his best interpretation of Gabriel’s unsympathetic stare. “I am the Archangel Aziraphale. I am not the fashion police.”

If he’d been on Earth, he could have asked Crowley about that particular issue. Crowley probably knew what Moon Boots were. He’d always had an eye for fashion. No matter the era, he always looked gorgeous and modern. To Aziraphale, at least. But, then, it had begun to dawn on him that Crowley would almost certainly look gorgeous to him wearing anything at all.

“Assign the task to someone else,” he ordered.

The intern frowned so hard their eyebrows converged into one. “S-someone else?”

“Yes. I’m delegating. Isn’t that a key component of my position? I tell you what to do, and you do it.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Now run along and don’t come back until you’ve found someone for every one of those tasks. I’ll be here with the paperwork.” He indicated the files piled all over the desk. He hadn’t looked at a single one, and a number of them were flashing and beeping at him.

The intern stood helplessly frozen until Aziraphale quirked a single eyebrow, whereupon they bowed stiffly and ran from the office.

Aziraphale let out a breath of relief. Step one accomplished. He unfolded Crowley’s latest letter and read it one more time. It didn’t ease the headache, but so long as he kept in contact with the paper, he could resist the siren’s call of “Supreme Archangel.”

He pushed all the paperwork off the desk, so he no longer had to see the blinking lights, then rose to his feet.

“Step two, get to the elevator. Without being seen.”

He’d considered miracling himself there, but that would alert absolutely everyone and possibly bar the elevator door. Even a minor miracle would probably cause Michael or one of the others to check up on him. He would have to do this the Earth way.

Aziraphale picked up the largest paperwork file and opened it in front of him like a newspaper. He couldn’t help the giddy smile that rose to his lips. There was always something so thrilling about being in disguise. On a mission. His damsel had called for help and he was needed.

You’re needed here! The other voice shouted. You have obligations! There’s Good to be done!

Aziraphale held the paper up in front of his face and walked out.

He ducked behind the paper at least a dozen times between the office and the elevator, but no one stopped him. Most didn’t even glance his way, being too busy with their own duties. So busy. Everyone was always busy here, never stopping to relax. No long breaks for tea or evenings by a fire. No losing themselves in books or strolling through a park.

A desperate, almost panicked homesickness struck him as he stood before the elevator. He clutched Crowley’s letter like a candle in the darkness, beautiful and fragile and vital to his survival.

The elevator dinged its arrival a second before alarms began to wail.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Aziraphale dashed into the elevator and smacked the button. The screaming in his head grew louder. He didn’t have to do this. He could still jump through the open doors. Stay in Heaven. Be an angel like he was supposed to. Like someone truly Good would do.

You’re a bloody fool , said yet another voice. One that sounded exactly like Crowley: exasperated but hopelessly fond.

The doors closed and the elevator started down.

***

Hands shaking, Aziraphale pushed open the front door and stepped into the bookshop. He heard Crowley’s voice before spotting him, sprawled in the desk chair, reading aloud to Muriel.

Aziraphale’s heart did somersaults in his chest. How was it even possible to love someone this much? The whole of his being gravitated toward Crowley, drawn by a force more irresistible than any he’d ever known. They’d stopped the apocalypse, for goodness sake. But he could no sooner stop needing Crowley than he could unmake time.

“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!” Crowley cooed, in a rather effective imitation of an excitable girl. It was not unlike his voice the first time he’d ever driven the Bentley.

“You’re reading Pride and Prejudice ,” Aziraphale blurted, which should have been obvious, given the letters tucked safely into his pocket.

Crowley leapt to his feet and whirled around so abruptly, he sent both the book and the chair flying.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale couldn’t look away from those golden eyes. They burned like stars, luminous and fierce and infinitely beautiful. They could destroy him, those eyes, as surely as hellfire.

He offered a sheepish shrug. “Um, I’m back.”

Muriel waved. “Hello, Mr. Fell!”

“Out.” Crowley pointed at the door.

Aziraphale drew back in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Get out of my bookshop.”

“You mean my bookshop. No, our bookshop. It’s ours, naturally.” He raised his brows in a question. “Right?”

Muriel’s gaze darted back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale. “I… forgot something.” They ran up the stairs and out of sight.

Crowley folded his arms across his chest and glowered. “ My bookshop. You left me for your career, darling. I get the house. That’s how divorce works.”

“I-I—” Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth several times, but words wouldn’t form. The heart that had jumped for joy moments ago now wailed in agony. What if Crowley couldn’t forgive him? What if Crowley didn’t want him back? What if this was the end? A real end. The apocalypse that couldn’t be overcome. What if it was all his fault ?

“B-b-ut,” Aziraphale’s jaw quivered. “Your letters!”

Crowley’s posture relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tiniest lowering of his shoulders. He waved a hand flippantly. “I’m not finished.”

“You have more to write?” A flicker of hope buoyed Aziraphale’s spirits. He glanced down at the copy of Pride and Prejudice and felt the stirrings of a smile. “Must I allow you to tell me how ardently you admire and love me?”

“No!” Crowley stalked furiously toward him. “Not that line. I would never use that line.” He began to wave his hands about for emphasis. “Oh, sure, it sounds all romantic. ‘I love you. Isn’t that fabulous?’ But it’s not. It’s the beginning of the worst fucking proposal humans have ever conceived!”

“Well—” Aziraphale started to interject with a few examples he’d encountered in his Mills & Boon collection, but thankfully recalled that the last time he’d interrupted, he’d broken both their hearts.

Crowley didn’t halt his rant. “Is that what you think love is, Angel? Is that what you want in a proposal? Maybe I’ll try it.” He made a sweeping mock bow. “I’ll start by insulting your family. Because I can go on all day about those wankers.” He pointed Heavenward.

Come back to Heaven. Do Good. You belong here.

Aziraphale squinted against the pain of the headache. “Crowley, I’m so sorry. I was wrong to leave you. Horribly wrong. I should have listened to you and not to them.” He rubbed his temple. He ached all over, and arguing only made the hurt worse. “But I’m back. I don’t want to leave ever again.”

At the moment he only wanted one single thing: to throw his arms around Crowley and hold him forever. Or perhaps two things, because now he was staring at Crowley’s lips and his own lips were tingling, and he would have given away every book in the shop at that moment, just for the tiniest kiss.

Aziraphale closed the gap between them and placed his hand lightly on the demon’s chest. Longing flowed through him. To touch. To taste. To have everything.

“Crowley. Sweetheart. I’m here. You asked me to come save you.”

Crowley spun away from the touch, and when he turned back, he was pushing his glasses up to hide his eyes. “I’m a demon. I lied.”

He pushed past Aziraphale and stormed out of the bookshop. A few seconds later, he stormed back in, picked up the copy of Pride and Prejudice , a notebook, and a pencil, and stormed out again.

Aziraphale stared at the door for several minutes before a proper thought formed. And when at last it did, he asked, “Does this mean it’s our bookshop again?”

Chapter Text

“Up next,” the Bentley’s radio announced in a revoltingly chipper voice, “It’s ‘Touch Me Like You Do’ from the Fifty Shades of Grey soundtrack!”

Crowley glared at the dash as Ellie Goulding gave voice and a peppy beat to the secret depths of his heart.

“Enough of that,” he growled after the fourth time through the chorus.

The radio clicked and switched to the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

“Ulp…” Crowley gaped at the dials for about a minute and a half before snapping, “Stop that!”

“ Erotica ,” purred Madonna.

A knock on the window startled him. Nina stood next to the car, a cup of coffee in hand. He rolled down the window.

“You looked like you could use this.” She passed him his usual six shots and he gulped them down. “Mr. Fell’s back, is he?”

“Yup. Tried to throw him out and accidentally threw myself out instead.” When her brows lifted, he added, “We’ll be fine. I’m writing him love letters.”

“You?”

Crowley patted the book on the seat beside him. “Me and Jane Austen.”

“ Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” the Bentley trilled.

Crowley dove at the dash, clamping both hands over the speakers. “Shush,” he hissed.

Marvin Gaye’s luscious voice slipped between Crowley’s fingers, sending out the lyrics to “Let’s Get It On” to all passers by.

“Shut. Up.” Crowley spun dials and pushed buttons.

“Sexy radio station you have there,” Nina observed.

He held up a finger. “Excuse me a minute.” He rolled up the window and addressed the car in the sternest tone he could bring himself to use when talking to his baby. “This behavior is unacceptable, do you understand?”

Queen’s “Get Down, Make Love” boomed from the speakers.

Crowley let his head fall back against the headrest. “Look, I know , okay? I’m all hot and bothered for him. I’ve been horny as a five-headed goat since he walked through that door. My hands are shaking, do you see that? I do not need to be reminded. And I’m not going back in there yet. I’m not ready.”

He reached for the notebook, hastily scrawled a note, and miracled it through the mail slot of the bookshop.

You are the last angel in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

At present.

Write me back.

-C

The paper reappeared shortly, with a reply written neatly on the back.

I question your usage of the word “ever” here, as it seems you contradict it in your next sentence. Please clarify.

-A

Sod off. You know what I meant. When I want to mean forever, I’ll bloody well make it obvious. Like ‘Forever and Ever, Amen’ and all that rot.

You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing us from each other… and involving us both in misery of the acutest kind.

Still angry, but still yours,

C

You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings.

You are entirely right in your accusation. Please forgive me. I miss you terribly. I will be here whenever you wish.

Affectionately,

A

You’re not handsome enough to tempt me.

C

Are you lying? - A

I’m a demon, love. I lie a lot. You’re beautiful. One of the handsomest angels of my acquaintance.

-Crowley

I’m blushing. -A

Oh, are you? I love it when you blush. Such a pretty color on your pale skin. And I haven’t even mentioned how captivating your eyes are. How soft your skin is. How pink and plump your lips are and how much I want to taste them every time I see you smile. How much I want to touch you all over and learn the shape of your body with my hands and my mouth and my whole body against yours.

Fuck, Angel, I should tear this up and start over, but I keep thinking of how you might look reading it and blushing even harder and pressing your teeth into your bottom lip. You’re so fucking gorgeous and I’m going out of my mind thinking about you.

(There are no lies here. I am half-mad with desire for you. The other half was mad already.)

Desperately yours,

Crowley

Get in here this instant.

-A

The driver’s side door flew open, and Crowley had to grab the wheel to prevent himself from tumbling out onto the street. The disco strains of KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Get Down Tonight” filled the air, loud enough that several passersby turned to stare.

Crowley scrambled out of the car and slammed the door. “You are in time out. Now sit there and think about what you’ve done.”

The Bentley honked cheekily.

Crowley sauntered toward the bookshop, pretending his trousers weren’t uncomfortably tight and he didn’t have dozens of humans gawking at him. The door opened before he could reach for it. Aziraphale’s hand shot out, grabbed his arm, and hauled him inside.

“Angel,” he rasped. “You—” Aziraphale shoved him up against the wall. “—Oof! Summoned me?”

“I did.”

Aziraphale was flushed a perfect pink, and his blue eyes blazed with longing. Crowley wanted to devour him. Or be devoured by him; it didn’t much matter. He only needed a taste. Just a taste.

Aziraphale leaned in and crushed their mouths together in a bruising, ravenous kiss. His lips were hot and wet and perfect, and Crowley moaned in ecstatic relief. Aziraphale rewarded this response with an exploratory slide of his tongue between Crowley’s parted lips. Crowley’s knees almost buckled.

This. Heaven, Hell, God, Satan, THIS.

This was how Heaven was supposed to be. Not bureaucracy and endless uniformity at the whim of some unknowable entity. But this messy, grasping, helpless feeling . Want and need and pleasure and love, so much love. Love that could turn him inside-out one second and make everything right the next. Love that could undo him and remake him, over and over. A million mini-apocalypses in the space of a heartbeat.

Aziraphale whimpered into Crowley’s mouth, fingers digging into Crowley’s arms as his grip tightened.

Crowley paused long enough to ask, “Bedroom?” And then they were kissing again, stumbling through the shop, clutching one another as they tripped over piles of books and knocked into furniture. Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s tie, decided it was too tricky to manage in his present state, and miracled it away.

“Need you. Need you so much.”

Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s throat, his lips catching each pounding heartbeat. Aziraphale let out a delighted gasp, and Crowley nearly combusted. His hands slid down his angel’s back, over his hips, up his torso.

Yes. Heaven, yes.

Crowley’s fingers flew over buttons, opening the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, desperate to see more of him, touch more of him. To sate millenia of pent-up desire for this gorgeous, absurd, wonderful being. He worked one hand beneath the fabric, splaying his palm over Aziraphale’s warm, bare skin.

Aziraphale flinched.

Crowley froze. He withdrew his hand and straightened up. 

“Angel?” They locked eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I-I don’t know.” Aziraphale drew back and hugged his arms across his partially-exposed chest. His eyes were glazed with lust, his brows knitted in confusion. “I’m not sure if…” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m not sure if I can be wicked enough for you.”

“Oh, love.” Crowley gathered him into a gentle embrace. “Love, we don’t have to do anything at all. This is enough. You’re enough. Anything you want.”

“But I… Well, I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, then brought his mouth almost all the way to Crowley’s ear. “I do want to,” he whispered in a rush. “With you. You know. Do… S-E-X things.”

Crowley managed to hold off his laughter for exactly 1.796 seconds. “Angel, you’re going to discorporate me,” he wheezed. “If you want to fuck, you can say fuck.”

Aziraphale harrumphed and stepped out of Crowley’s grasp. “I most certainly will not. If it happens to escape accidentally in a moment of unanticipated passion, that is one thing, but it’s quite another to—”

“Fine, fine.” Crowley held his arms open. “How about ‘make love’? Will you make love to me, Angel? Love isn’t wicked. It’s magnificent. Magical. Love brings good things like joy and peace. Friends. Family. Love is like sunlight and stars and everything that makes Earth beautiful. Love is—”

Aziraphale seized two fistfuls of Crowley’s shirt, shoved him against the nearest bookshelf, and kissed him until he couldn’t see straight.

“Make love to me, Crowley. Right now.”

It was really something, that Archangel Aziraphale voice. It made Crowley want to drop to his knees and do exactly as he was told. For perhaps the first time ever, he wanted to be a very good boy.

“Yeah,” he panted. “Let’s do that.”

Chapter Text

They were in the bedroom. Near an actual bed. By now, Aziraphale was wearing approximately half the clothing he’d started with. Which was terrifying. And thrilling.

And extremely strange.

He simply wasn’t accustomed to being… exposed. It was a bit chilly, to be honest, but Crowley was very warm and that made Aziraphale press closer to him, and the touching made his skin tingle from the top of his head to the very tips of his toes, which was extremely pleasant indeed. As pleasant as Crowley’s tongue and the way it kept sliding and stroking over his own as they kissed and kissed.

If anyone had asked him in that moment whether he’d like to kiss Crowley for eternity, his answer would have been a resounding yes.

Crowley sucked hard on Aziraphale’s lower lip, then slowly released it. “You gonna undress me, or what?”

Aziraphale stepped back and observed his… well, his lover , he supposed. Crowley’s eyes were golden fire. His lips were red and swollen from all the kissing, and the sight aroused a riot of pulsing sensations in Aziraphale’s nether-regions. Crowley was also, however, fully dressed, the snug black jeans and turtleneck plastered to his tall, lean form.

“Good heavens, it ought to be illegal for you to go about dressed like that,” the angel blustered. “Just one look at you and everyone will be… well, they’ll be…”

Crowley raised one eyebrow. “Standing at attention?” he supplied. “Hefting a bit of wood? In need of a stiff—”

“Yes. That. My point is, how could I not have noticed that you… Or, I suppose I did notice—now and then—but I didn’t really think… I mean… Oh, bugger it all.” He cleared his throat. “Remove your clothing, please.”

Crowley chuckled. “Whatever you wish, Angel.” He snapped his fingers and all the clothes vanished, leaving him very, very naked.

“Oh, my.” Aziraphale pressed a hand to his lips. His gaze tracked up and down the entire length of Crowley’s body. Had he thought it was chilly in here? How odd. It seemed warm now. Too warm, in fact. He was perspiring, and his remaining clothes were extremely… pinchy.

“I can change things around, if you like,” Crowley offered with a slight shrug. “Don’t have to look exactly like this if you want it a little different.”

Aziraphale considered this for a moment. “But you like you this way. Correct?”

“I do, yeah.”

“Good.” He beamed, suddenly greatly less embarrassed about his ogling. “Then this is how I like you too.” His cheeks flamed. “You are quite beautiful, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a gift.” He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t think my knees are too knobby or anything?”

“I think they’re the exact right amount of knobbiness. Perfectly… kneelike.”

Crowley burst into nervous laughter. “Heaven, this is awkward. How do humans do this? I’ve forgotten every sexy film I’ve ever watched.”

“You mean you don’t know? I, um, thought you might tell me what to do.” Aziraphale shifted his weight as he looked from Crowley to the bed and then back to Crowley.

The demon shook his head. “Sorry, Angel. Never done this before.”

“Never?”

“Nope. I mean, I’ve watched pornography. It’s boring mostly. Humans making funny noises and contorting themselves into uncomfortable positions, and none of them ever look like you, and even if they did, I wouldn’t like it, because someone else would be touching you, and I really don’t like that idea at all, and—gah!” He flailed as Aziraphale pushed him onto the bed.

“You only want me.” Aziraphale miracled away the rest of his clothes and climbed on top of Crowley, straddling his hips.

“Obviously.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse now. “I’ve been in love with you for 6,000 years. Why the heaven would I want anyone else?”

Aziraphale turned both palms up in a Gallic shrug. “Humans are pretty.”

“And?” Crowley’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “Are you saying that if you weren’t ‘Good’—” He made finger quotes, a sure sign of his demonic nature. “—You’d have had sex with other people?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Huh.”

Aziraphale smiled down at his beloved. His chest expanded with unbounded adoration for the sweet, mischievous, unconventional demon who had somehow wormed his way to the very center of an angel’s heart.

“You are precious.” He slid his fingers through the thick red strands of Crowley’s hair, leaving him adorably mussed. “You’ve truly never wanted anyone but me in all these millennia?”

“Yes. Why is that so weird—”

Aziraphale pressed a finger to Crowley’s lips. “It’s not weird. It’s remarkable. It’s you and I love it. I love you, Crowley, my darling fallen angel, with my whole heart.”

Crowley’s demon eyes went a little misty. “Love you too, Angel.”

“May I touch you?”

Crowley gave him a puzzled look. “Don’t I look like I want to be touched?” He gestured at his extremely erect phallus.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched. He licked his lips. “Well, now that you mention it…” He touched a fingertip to Crowley’s sternum and dragged it down his torso, enjoying the smooth skin and the dusting of soft ginger hair.

Crowley made an inarticulate noise. “Nah,” he choked out. “Love of my immortal life. Can’t imagine why I’d want him to—oh, fuck, do that again—touch me.”

The “that” in question had been a small pinch to one of Crowley’s nipples, something Aziraphale had read about in many a steamy novel.

“You needn’t be so sarcastic,” he retorted, pinching a bit harder.

Crowley arched his back, which had the effect of thrusting his erection against Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale’s mind went temporarily blank.

“I… really… think I do,” Crowley panted.

Eventually the words permeated Aziraphale’s lust-addled brain, and one side of his mouth hitched up. “I suppose it’s… cute.”

He thrust his hips experimentally against Crowley, and very nearly blasphemed. How had he not realized how sensitive bodies could be? How could he not have done this before? How…

“Kiss me, Angel. Please,” Crowley moaned.

Aziraphale obliged him, lowering himself onto one elbow to keep his other hand free. He kissed languidly, thoroughly, savoring every flavor of Crowley’s lips and mouth. He was finer than aged wine, richer than the darkest chocolate. Every bit as delectable as a perfectly brewed cup of tea.

Aziraphale couldn’t get enough. He moved from Crowley’s mouth to his jaw, his neck, the jut of his clavicle. He soaked up every plea and whimper, every twitch and squirm. He reached down between them while he kissed, wrapping a hand around them where they were both hard and aching.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked. His eyes were glazed, and a pink flush colored his skin. “Angel.”

They began thrusting in time to Aziraphale’s strokes, the rhythm coming as naturally to them as anything they did together. Two gears meshing. Two notes in harmony. Two lives perfectly in sync, different and the same. Better together. Straining for heights yet unsurmounted that they could only reach as a pair.

He almost slowed down, contemplating living in this haze of yearning and pleasure forever. But Crowley sounded desperate and trembled so beautifully beneath him. He clutched Aziraphale’s back as if holding on for dear life.

“Crowley, sweetheart.” He pressed his lips to Crowley’s neck, letting his teeth graze the delicate skin. “Come for me, love.”

Aziraphale had read the phrase in a novel, where it had seemed to take the characters to new heights of pleasure. Whether or not it worked on Crowley, it certainly worked on him, because the moment he said it, his own body went impossibly tight and his fingers clenched and he was filled with the sensation of a firework right before it exploded, when it still wasn’t certain whether it would be red or green or maybe even in the shape of a heart.

Crowley let out a keening wail that only a demon in the throes of ecstasy could have produced, and shuddered beneath Aziraphale, coating him with sticky spend. It was more than enough to push the angel past the brink. He cried Crowley’s name and jerked and bucked, spilling orgasmic fluid over his hand and their shafts and bellies.

He went limp atop his lover. Crowley’s hands began to glide up and down his back, softly, lovingly.

Crowley’s chest rose and fell heavily. “I hope you liked that, Angel,” he murmured. “Because I want to do it again and again.”

“It was…” Aziraphale groped for an appropriate word. Intoxicating? Exhilarating? Mind-bending? “Perfect,” he concluded. He wriggled his hand out from between them and frowned at the sticky fluid coating his fingers. “Though it is rather messy.”

Crowley miracled them clean. “All better. Now you go to sleep in my arms and I hold you all night. This is my favorite part.”

Aziraphale rolled off Crowley and lay on his side, contemplating him. “How can you know that if you’ve never done it before?”

“I just do.” He rolled over as well, and shimmed up against Aziraphale until they were tucked together like a pair of spoons. He probably ought to have been the big spoon, since he was taller, but he seemed content to curl up tight and let Aziraphale wrap his arms and legs around him.

“I appear to be the one holding you .”

Crowley yawned. “Whatever. Just don’t let me go, ‘k, Angel?”

Aziraphale pressed a kiss into his hair. “Not for all the angels in Heaven.”

Chapter Text

Crowley had always enjoyed lounging in bed after a long sleep. It had, on occasion, caused him to miss key historical events, such as the Battle of Hastings in 1066. He’d gotten a commendation from Hell for that one, since the Norman victory had bollocksed up the English language so thoroughly that this narrative probably appears to a keen student of linguistics much like a trio of rabid raccoons in a trenchcoat. Crowley loved taking credit for peculiar things humans did to themselves.

This morning, however, he had learned that what he enjoyed above anything in existence was lounging in bed after a long sleep in Aziraphale’s arms.

He twisted around until they were face-to-face, giving him a close-up view of his heart’s greatest desire. Aziraphale asleep ought to have been added to the OED as a definition of “angelic.” His long eyelashes fanned out beneath his closed lids, fluttering slightly. A gentle smile played over lips that tasted of tea and chocolate biscuits. He was transcendently lovely, from his tousled hair to the cherubic lines of his face. His body, soft and pliant, molded to Crowley’s angular form like it had been designed for that purpose alone.

Which maybe it had. Maybe this was part of God’s cosmic joke. The wanker.

Crowley inhaled deeply. Aziraphale smelled like sex—a bit musky and a bit sweaty, he now knew—and the prissy citrus scent of a designer shampoo or shaving lotion that he didn’t need, but probably thought made him dashing.

“What’s that, then? Bergamot?” It was rather dashing, actually. Which was probably a sign that Crowley had lost whatever traces of rationality he’d ever possessed. But if the choice was to be sensible or to lay here with Aziraphale in a state of blissed-out happiness better than anything produced by the psychedelics of the 1960s and 70s, Crowley was choosing madness.

“Unfh?” Aziraphale’s arms tightened around Crowley.

“Morning, Angel.” This was going to be his new normal. He would wake up every morning like this, and if anyone told him it was a boring way to spend eternity, they could go hang. Or maybe just suffer through a two hour daily commute in gridlock traffic in a 1990s Ford Mondeo. He didn’t like killing people.

“Unfh,” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley nuzzled the angel’s neck. “You’re so beautiful. I want to make love to you all day. You haven’t got anywhere to be, have you?”

“Paperwork,” Aziraphale muttered. “Needs my signature.”

“Right, paperwork.” Crowley licked the spot where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder. He tasted like the best kind of sin. The pleasurable kind that didn’t hurt anyone but made you feel incredible. Crowley’s cock stirred. He’d never have even bothered with the thing if he hadn’t hoped Aziraphale might enjoy it someday. Best decision of his life. “We could get a marriage license. Make it official.”

“What?” Aziraphale wriggled free of the embrace and sat up.

“What what?” Crowley couldn’t decide whether he wanted to stare at Aziraphale’s naked chest or at his rosy lips, so he settled for flicking his gaze back and forth between the two.

“What are you talking about?” The angel winced and rubbed his forehead.

“Paperwork. What are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure. I have a rather terrible headache.”

“No.” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Seriously? You’re an angel. Angels don’t get headaches.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, obviously they do, because I have one now!”

“Right. It’s not… my fault, is it?”

“I don’t think so. It went away when we were—” He flapped a hand. “—You know.”

“Fucking?”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Yeah, I must. It’s fun. You should try it. You just say, ‘Crowley, I would love you to get down on your knees and suck my cock until I’m pulling your hair and coming so hard down your throat you choke on it.’ That’s the sort of thing they say in pornographic movies.”

Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed closed and he doubled over in pain. “Bloody bollocking hell!”

Terror knifed through Crowley. He bolted upright and seized Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Angel? What’s happening? Talk to me.”

“Head. Hurts.” He exhaled slowly. “Don’t… let go. It’s worse when you’re not touching me.”

“Okay. Okay.” Crowley’s heart hammered. Panic clawed at his chest. Something was hurting his Angel, and he didn’t know what it was or how to fight it.

Breathe. Breathe.

He twisted around to sit propped up against the headboard, then tugged Aziraphale into his lap, bringing as much of their bodies into contact as he could.

“Tell me everything you can about it.” Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder and pressed their cheeks together. “What does it feel like? When did it start? Has anything weird happened to you lately? Weirder than normal. Unexpected.”

“I had sex with a demon,” he joked, his voice still tight.

“Lucky demon.” Crowley tried not to squirm or to think about the way his aching cock was pressing against Aziraphale’s lush, round arse.

“Lucky me. So much better than—” He winced. “—Paperwork.”

“Right.” Crowley let his hands meander over Aziraphale’s torso in soothing whorls. “Tell me about the paperwork.”

“I was up there.” He flicked a single finger toward the sky. “Doing all the paperwork. So much of it. And meetings and delegating. Things that were doing Good, but not doing good, if you understand.”

Crowley had to bite his lip to keep from singing, “Told you so, I told you so.”

“I think that’s when the headaches started. When I didn’t want to do the things I was Supposed To Do.” Aziraphale rubbed his temple again.

Crowley kissed his cheek. “Go on, love. I’m listening.”

“It would go away, or get better if I was doing those things or talking about Doing Good or obeying the Divine Plan or what have you. And part of me was excited about that and wanted to dive in, be an Archangel, fight for the side of Heaven. That part didn’t want to think about you. But then every time I touched one of your letters, you were all I could think of. I kept the letters in my waistcoat pocket.” He touched his chest right over his heart. “And the headaches have only grown worse. I knew something was wrong. And then you asked me to come save you and I couldn’t say no.”

“And the headaches also went away when we were making love?” Crowley couldn’t make sense of any of this, but he was rather used to that where Aziraphale was concerned.

“They stopped the moment you kissed me.”

“ You kissed me , Angel.”

“A technicality. The point is that when I’m, well, engaging with you, in a physical manner, the headaches go away. They’ve diminished already since you started holding me like this.”

Crowley’s mind raced, sifting through possibilities. “Do you think you’ve been drugged? Cursed? Brain-washed? Why do they call it brain-washing, anyway? It’s not making your brain cleaner. If anything, it’s making it messier. It should be brain-dirtying or brain-befouling.”

Aziraphale, darling that he was, ignored the sidetrack Crowley’s ever-erratic train of thought had taken. “I don’t feel as if I’ve been drugged. Everything feels like me, except that part of me is shouting one thing and the other part is shouting another, and they’re getting angrier and angrier and pushing and shoving one another, which drives them further apart, which makes them shout louder—”

Crowley snapped his fingers. “Contaminate. That’s the word I wanted. Brain-contaminating. Sorry, go on.”

“Well, that’s it, really. My head feels like two people fighting, and the only way to make them stop is to let one side or the other win.”

Crowley closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headboard. “Angel, I know you have a lot of conflict inside your pretty head, but this seems extreme, even for you.” He let out a long breath. “We’ll just have to fix it. Because I am not giving up an eternity of this.” He kissed Aziraphale’s neck again and snaked his hands down between his legs.

A door banged downstairs and they both jumped.

“Mr. Fell?” Muriel’s muffled voice called. “Mr. Crowley? Is anyone here?”

“Shit!” Crowley scrambled from the bed, gaze darting around the room in search of his clothes.

“Did I give you enough time to finish your argument?” Muriel let out a small gasp. “That’s Mr. Fell’s tie! Mr. Fell? Are you here? Are you all right?”

Crowley stumbled over Aziraphale’s discarded shirt. “Fucking. Bugger. Shite. Fuck.” He gave up searching and miracled his clothes on. “Ow, ooh, tight.” He reached down to adjust himself.

Aziraphale slipped from the bed and began to dress himself as if he were a perfectly normal human. “You realize that wouldn’t happen if you didn’t dress like a teasing little slut,” he murmured.

Crowley’s skin burned. “ Now you want to talk dirty to me?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I’m sorry. It’s the clothes. They’re rather…” He let his gaze travel over Crowley’s body. “Flattering.”

“Mr. Crowley?” Muriel sounded more anxious with every word. Their footsteps rang from the metal staircase.

Crowley squirmed and tried again to adjust his jeans. “There is an angel coming up the stairs,” he hissed.

“I know.” Aziraphale calmly fastened his trousers, his gaze never leaving Crowley. An affectionate smile lit his face and made his eyes sparkle.

“And you won’t stop looking at me like… like… that !”

“This is how I always look at you.”

“Well, it’s different now!” He jerked one hand in frustration and Aziraphale’s clothes miracled back on.

“Really!” the angel huffed, adjusting his tie. “I’m going to have wrinkles.”

“Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale opened the door and stepped out. “Muriel. Good morning. We’re here. Everything’s fine. Perfectly— Agh!” He grabbed for his head and swooned into Crowley’s arms.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 - Advice From Friends

Aziraphale suspected he was as comfortable as an immortal being with a debilitating migraine could possibly be. He lay on his favorite couch in a cozy nook near the back of the shop, with his head in Crowley’s lap. Crowley had one hand in Aziraphale’s hair, idly petting and twining strands around his fingers. He was reading aloud from Pride and Prejudice while Aziraphale dozed off and on. It would have all been quite lovely, were it not for the feeling of red-hot knives being jabbed repeatedly through his temple.

“Chapter forty,” Crowley read. “Bingley’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, he wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with him.”

“Elizabeth,” Aziraphale corrected sleepily. “Darcy loves Elizabeth.”

“No, I changed it. Had to completely rework some parts. You slept through the pirates.”

Aziraphale tried to sit up, only to have Crowley push him firmly back down. “There aren’t any pirates in Pride and Prejudice !”

“Elizabeth and Charlotte lead the pirates. They kidnapped Wickham and marooned him in Greenland. And while that was happening, Bingley realized he was in love with Darcy.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I must be dreaming.”

“It makes much better sense this way, Angel. Bingley’s the soft, sweet, cuddly angelic one. Darcy’s the grumpy one who doesn’t know how to talk to people and doesn’t want to in the first place. They’re made for each other.”

Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered open and he smiled up at Crowley. “Are you inserting us into this story?”

“Course not. Why’d I do a thing like that?”

“Hmm.” He waved a hand. “Go on then. What happens to Bingley and Darcy?”

“I dunno, they, uh…” Crowley’s voice dropped to a near-inaudible mumble. “Get married or some such.” He snapped the book closed. “Doesn’t matter. The end.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale beamed fondly at the demon. “You’re such a romantic.”

“Am not.”

“Knock, knock!” Muriel called. Their head poked out from behind a bookshelf. “Guess what? We have visitors! I’ll go make tea while you all say hello!”

“Visitors?” Aziraphale again tried unsuccessfully to sit up.

“No,” Crowley insisted. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if this was directed at him or at Muriel. Or perhaps at the world in general.

“Greetings, friends!” Gabriel wafted into the nook, arms spread wide. Beelzebub slunk in behind him.

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Crowley scrambled to his feet. “Not you. Not here. Out of my bookshop.”

Aziraphale finally wormed his way into a semi-upright position, trying not to grimace at the jolts of pain every movement caused. “ Our bookshop, darling.”

“Not until we’re married again.”

Aziraphale’s head began to throb in an entirely different way. “But we weren’t married before!”

“Irregular Marriage. Scottish law. Remember Edinburgh, 1827? Pretty sure you called me your wife.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I did. And you need witnesses!”

Crowley made a gesture of dismissal. “It was a cemetery. There were people everywhere.”

“Dead people! And you were high on laudanum!”

“Only a little.”

Gabriel glanced back and forth between them. “Do you two need a minute?”

Crowley glared at him. “We are fine. We’re great . But you need to get out of my bookshop, right now.” Invisible energy began to crackle around him.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale reached for the demon’s hand. Crowley’s fingers interlaced with his, holding on for dear life.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Gabriel asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

Crowley’s laugh was incredulous. “Have you… Do you even hear yourself? You tried to murder Aziraphale! My only friend and my only love and you wanted him dead! He is the kindest, most loving, most extraordinary being in all existence and you. Tried. To. Kill. Him.” Crowley’s hand squeezed Aziraphale’s so hard it might have broken bones had he been human. “All because he didn’t let you kill a whole Earth full of people! That’s… well, it’s pure evil, is what it is! It’s so evil I can’t even comprehend it! Your ‘Good’ is nothing but capital E Evil in a nice suit, and I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anything in my literally-god-damned life!”

Flames crackled around Crowley’s feet, and sparks of lightning danced from the fingers of the hand Aziraphale wasn’t clutching.

Gabriel’s mouth opened into a perfect O.

Beelzebub put a hand on his arm. “He’s not wrong. But that’s all in the past, innit, luv?”

Gabriel’s jaw quivered. “I… I’m so sorry. That’s not who I am anymore.”

Crowley trembled with rage. The flames crept higher. “But it’s who you were.”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel repeated. “I was wrong. Very, very wrong. You have every right to hate me. I’d hate me, if I were you.”

Aziraphale climbed to his feet and wrapped himself around Crowley. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I have you.”

“Right.” The fire and lightning coursing through Crowley’s body began to ebb, but his eyes remained locked on Gabriel. “Stay away from me and my Angel, got it?” His crushing grip on Aziraphale’s hand slackened and he finally noticed he was being hugged. “Aziraphale! What are you doing up! Lie down before you hurt yourself again!”

“I’m—” A bolt of pain caused him to see stars. “Well enough.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Gabriel asked. “Is he sick? Can we even get sick?”

“This is your fault too.” Crowley jabbed the former archangel in the chest. “He started getting these headaches after the Metatron made him Supreme Archangel to take your place.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub exchanged a glance. “Contract issue,” they said as one.

Aziraphale leaned heavily on Crowley as another wave of pain overtook him. “Contract? How do you mean?”

“Fucking bureaucracy,” Crowley grumbled. “Fine. Stay. Sit down and tell us everything you know.”

Muriel reappeared, carrying a large tray laden with a full Afternoon Tea spread, including sandwiches, scones, and an array of biscuits in at least half a dozen flavors. “I made tea. Who’s hungry?”

***

“No one ever reads the contract,” Gabriel lamented. He took a small bite of a cucumber sandwich. “Mmm.”

Beelzebub nodded. “Ain’t it the truth.” Ze scooped up a glob of marmalade with one finger and sniffed it curiously.

The five immortal beings had arranged a cozy circle for themselves. Gabriel and Beelzebub snuggled together on the couch, Muriel perched atop a plush footstool, and Crowley sat in a newly-upholstered—well, new as of 1969—Victorian armchair, Aziraphale in his lap.

Between the cuddles from his favorite demon and the restorative properties of a brisk English tea, Aziraphale was feeling as close to his usual self as he had in some time.

Crowley brandished a biscuit at Gabriel and Beelzebub. “Explain.” He brought the biscuit to Aziraphale’s lips. “Here, eat this, Angel.”

Aziraphale took a bite. “Mmm, strawberry!”

Gabriel attempted to reply around a mouthful of sandwich.

Beelzebub elbowed him. “The headaches sound like what happens when you’re not abiding by the terms of a diabolical contract.”

Gabriel swallowed hard. “Right. Or a divine contract. They work in the same fashion.”

“Course they do.” The teacup in Crowley’s hand transformed into a glass of whisky and he gulped down half the contents. “But what does that mean ? It all started when he was Up There being Supreme Archangel, so you can’t say it’s because he’s here.”

“Well, it really all depends on the wording of the contract.” Gabriel picked up another sandwich.

“It’s like this,” Beelzebub took over. “If you don’t wanna obey a contract, what do you do? You rip it up, right? But we can’t have that or there’d be demons running amok and bits of paper everywhere, and nobody wants that. So we have the contracts do it instead. It thinks you’re not abiding by the terms, it rips you up, see?”

Aziraphale fumbled his biscuit. “Rips me up? But I never even signed any contract!”

Crowley’s arm snaked around his waist. “I knew I should have killed them all. I knew it!”

“There’s always a contract,” Gabriel said. “Though I suppose I didn’t have a contract, but that’s because I was there before we invented contracts. It was my first assignment as Supreme Archangel, actually. Did a bang-up job, if I do say so myself.” He smiled proudly, then nervously chuckled when he realized the others were glaring at him. “Oh. Of course, it’s all been changed since then. Totally different.”

“How do we undo it?” Crowley asked through gritted teeth.

“I don’t think you can undo it,” Muriel answered. “I mean, I’m only a level 37 scrivener, but all the contracts I’ve seen are written on ineffable paper with indelible ink. If you make a mistake you can’t erase it. You have to start all over.” They brightened. “Or turn the mistake into a cute animal drawing so no one can tell it was ever there.”

“Um, excuse me.” Aziraphale raised a hand. “I don’t know if you all heard me before, but I never signed a contract!”

Beelzebub gave a little shrug, causing a handful of flies to buzz around zir head. “Franchise tag.”

Gabriel nodded sagely.

“Never heard of it,” Crowley said.

Beelzebub leaned forward, resting zir elbows on zir knees. “Like in American football.”

Crowley looked thoughtful. “Is that the one with the owl?”

Aziraphale twisted around to look at him. “Owl?”

“Yeah, they got like this Great Owl or something. I read about it on the internet. Superb. That’s what it is. The Superb Owl.”

“Do owls even have feet?” Gabriel wondered. “Or balls?”

Beelzebub hissed, drawing everyone’s attention back to zem. “It’s a rule. They can put a ‘franchise tag’ on a player whose  contract is ending to stop them going anywhere else for a full year. We liked it, so we stole it. Then Heaven stole it from us.”

Gabriel brushed a kiss to zir hair. “Heaven doesn’t steal, sunshine. They appropriate.”

“To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me. Are you saying that even if I haven’t signed anything, they can use this ‘franchise’ to give me a contract?”

“It’s temporary,” Gabriel replied. “But, yes. Oh, but you do get fair compensation.”

Crowley shifted beneath Aziraphale, leaning toward Gabriel in a manner that probably would have been more menacing without an angel in his arms. “And what, pray tell, is ‘fair compensation’ for a Supreme Archangel?”

“No idea. We don’t really get compensated Up There, you know. Just doing it for love of God. But, uh, if I had to guess, I’d say the contract probably offers something he wants. Heavenly views. An extra intern. Maybe even a trade. You know, one level 2 angel for three level 5 imps.”

Beelzebub nudged Gabriel and gave a tiny rapid shake of zir head.

Gabriel held up both hands. “Kidding. Kidding. We totally don’t do trades between Heaven and Hell. Not ever.”

Aziraphale reached for his cup of tea, but his hands were shaking so much that the cup rattled in the saucer. “Could it…” He steeled himself with a deep breath. “Could such an offer involve making someone my, er, second-in-command?” He shot a nervous glance at Crowley.

Gabriel’s lips pursed. “Yes.”

Beelzebub nodded. “Yeah.”

“It does sound like something they would do,” Muriel agreed.

Crowley hurled his whisky glass across the room. It exploded in mid-air, showering a large portion of the bookshop with tiny shards of glass. “Fucking Metatron that fucking manipulative son of… And of course the fucker would write it so he only needs to make the offer, and then you’re…” He pushed Aziraphale up. “Get off me, Angel. I’m going to kill him.” He squirmed free and got to his feet. “I’m going up there and I’m going to burn him in hellfire, and I’m going to make it last a long, long—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s archangel voice boomed so loud everyone in the room froze. “Sit down. This is not productive. I need a solution.” He settled back into the chair and held his arms out. Crowley growled, then crawled into his lap. “Now, what do I do to end this… questionably binding contract?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It expires in a year. Then you’ll be free to negotiate a new contract.”

“He doesn’t have a year!” Crowley spat. “It’s getting worse, and you said it’s going to rip him apart !”

“That is a problem, yeah.”

“You could negotiate a contract with someone else,” Beelzebub suggested. “That’s the other way to end it. You show them a new contract offer, they have to match it or pay a forfeit.”

“What forfeit?” Muriel asked.

“Draft picks,” Beelzebub explained. “Took that from the Americans too. Sports are full of hellish rules. Humans make most of the best ones. But it’s easy to slip in new ones from our side that make the game more dangerous.”

“Ze’s right,” Crowley agreed. “I once changed a single word in the rules for golf, and boom! 13% increase in the number of spectators struck by balls.”

Beelzebub narrowed zir eyes at him. “Didn’t that also reduce the severity of the average spectator injury by more than 50%?”

“Well…” Crowley turned up one palm helplessly. Aziraphale kissed him.

“Right.” Gabriel dusted crumbs from his hands and rose from his seat. “Seems all you need to do is negotiate a better contract somewhere else, Heaven rejects the offer to match, takes their draft picks, no more rips in your fragile angel brain. Our work is done. I’m going to go make some hot chocolate, and then Bee and I are off to Niagara Falls.” He whispered conspiratorially, “It’s supposed to be very romantic.”

“But I can’t negotiate a better contract,” Aziraphale blustered. “There’s no one else to contract with! I can’t make a deal with Hell !”

“Don’t think they’d want you anyway,” Crowley mumbled. “They like you even less than they like me.”

“You’ll think of something,” Gabriel said, with supreme confidence. “You’re much smarter than I am. Shall we, sunshine?” He crooked an arm. Beelzebub stood and linked zir arm with his.

“Bye, boyzzz,” ze hissed.

The former-adversaries-turned-lovers shimmered and vanished.

“That was fun… I think,” Muriel said cheerfully. “And helpful?”

Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley’s neck and squeezed him tight. “I don’t know what to do. Every time I let go of you, I’m afraid it’s going to be for the last time. And now I know why, but it only seems more hopeless.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Angel,” Crowley vowed. “Even if I have to destroy the Ineffable Contract myself. We’ll find a way. But first, Muriel, here, is going to go on an important errand.”

The young angel frowned. “I am?”

Crowley did his “I am very serious” nod. “Yes. Give us… oh, three, four hours? Aziraphale needs to go up to bed and rest.”

“Yes, rest.” His lips grazed Crowley’s skin and his penis did that excited twitching thing in response. “Jolly good.”

Muriel sprang from their seat. “Right! I’ll just pop off, then. Bye!”

The moment they were gone, Aziraphale began kissing Crowley in earnest, his hands wandering over his lover’s body.

“What was it you wanted me to say to you? Get on your knees and suck my prick until I pull your hair, or something like that? But I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Crowley groaned and slid to the floor. “Close enough.”

Chapter Text

“I’m going to make you feel so good, Angel.” Crowley fumbled with the button on Aziraphale’s trousers. “I’ve been wanting to do this for centuries.”

“Really?” The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth hitched up in a shy smile.

“Maybe longer.” He eased the zipper down and worked his hand beneath the layers of cloth. His fingers curled around Aziraphale’s cock, and the angel’s breath hitched. “Can’t remember when I learned humans did this sort of thing. God, you feel good.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned mischievous. “Well, I do try to be good. Though I am on occasion vulnerable to your… ooh! …wicked temptations.”

“ My temptations.” Crowley laughed and tugged Aziraphale’s trousers down to give himself better access. “Angel, you are the most tempting thing in all creation. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“You’re just being—” He broke off on a whimper as Crowley slicked his tongue over the tip of his shaft. “S-silly.”

“No.” Crowley licked a slow circle around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, then teased the slit with the very tip of his tongue. The angel tasted of ambrosia and musk and sweat, neither earthly nor ethereal, but rather an intoxicating in-between. A growl of need rumbled deep in Crowley’s throat. “When it comes to you, Angel. I am always serious.” Then he parted his lips and took the sleek, hard length of his beloved inside him.

Aziraphale’s fingers delved into Crowley’s hair and he let out a delirious mewl of pleasure.

Crowley had to admit—to himself; he wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else be privy to this information—that he had no idea what he was doing. Human depictions of blowjobs had never held his attention long enough to allow much opportunity for study, and while he’d imagined performing this act—among others—on Aziraphale, the reality of it went beyond what even he could conceive.

Everything was more. So much more. Harder, hotter, wetter. His senses burned with it: the taste of perfection on his tongue, the clenching of Aziraphale’s thighs under his hands, the scent of passion, the sound of unquenched yearning. And when he glanced up and their eyes met, the sight of adoration and lust in eyes like the hottest of blue stars.

Crowley did the only thing he could do in that moment. He licked and sucked and explored, searching for the things that elicited more gasps, more trembles. Aziraphale moaned Crowley’s name, and his fingers clenched hard enough in Crowley’s hair to cause tiny pricks of pain across his scalp.

“Crowley, oh, fuck, Crowley.” The angel’s voice cracked as he spoke, and shudders of pleasure coursed through Crowley’s body in response. “You’re so good. So wicked. So perfect.”

Angel, my Angel.

Crowley redoubled his efforts, alternating long, slow licks with deep, hard sucks, until Aziraphale’s hips bucked and he cried out, “Bloody fucking hell!”

“Please.” Aziraphale began to thrust into Crowley’s mouth, gently at first, then becoming increasingly frantic. “Please more. Yes, oh, God, yes. That’s it, love. My darling demon. My brilliant fallen angel. You’re so good. So very… very… good.”

Aziraphale tensed beneath Crowley’s ministrations, and Crowley gave him a long, firm suck.

Inside me. Come inside me, love.

With a final burst of swearing, Aziraphale lost control, filling Crowley’s mouth with a gush of warm spend. Crowley swallowed it down greedily, licking away the last drops before finally letting Aziraphale slide from between his lips.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair, flattening the bits he’d pushed up in his passionate grasping. “Thank you, darling,” he rasped.

“A pleasure to be of service, Angel.”

Aziraphale stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, his chest rising and falling as Crowley looked up from between his knees. Then he seemed to recover, and he stood up, tugging his trousers back over his hips.

“Your turn,” he declared.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh?”

Aziraphale bent down, scooped Crowley into his arms, and carried him toward the stairs.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to our bedroom,” the angel replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Where I will pleasure you until you scream my name. Did I get that right? I haven’t watched enough pornography to know the precise phrasing, but I have read a number of romantic novels.”

Crowley’s body, already taut with longing from bringing Aziraphale off, somehow tightened further still. “You can quote the phonebook for all I care, as long as you don’t stop touching me.”

“And tasting you, I hope. I do like how you taste.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes closed. “Aziraphale. I need you.”

“You have me.” He laid Crowley on the bed and gave a brisk downward snap of his fingers. Crowley’s clothes vanished. “Lovely.”

Hands and mouth met Crowley’s skin, and his head swam. Lust-drink words rolled from his lips, pleas for more, for everything, now, now, now, even though he knew he was already close and wouldn’t last long. When Aziraphale’s mouth closed over his cock, he jerked, white-hot flashes of ecstasy dancing in his vision.

“Aziraphale. Angel. Love,” he babbled. He clawed at the bedsheets, writhing uncontrollably, trying to stave off the inevitable, even as he begged for it.

“Need you. Need you. God. Fuck. Hell. Angel !”

His body spasmed as he came, the pleasure liquifying him from the inside, until he was nothing but a puddle of exhausted joy.

“I love you so fucking much.” He reached out with shaking arms, and Aziraphale crawled up the bed to embrace him. “You are my world. My everything.”

Aziraphale’s lips brushed his forehead. “And you are my world. My candlelight dinners at the Ritz. My cup of tea. My whole shop of books. You are all of it and more.”

Tears gathered in Crowley’s eyes. “Shut up, Angel. I can only handle so many emotions at once.”

Aziraphale laughed gently and squeezed him.

“I was thinking,” the angel said sometime later, as they cuddled beneath the sheets.

“You do that. What about?”

“The contract… thingy. When I act Good-with-a-capital-G, the contract likes it. If I listen to the part of me that still worries I have a duty to Heaven and I’m betraying God if I don’t follow the other angels, the headache goes away. The worries fade and that part stops screaming. Especially when I don’t think about you. I don’t think the contract wants me to think about you.”

“Well, yeah, makes sense. I mean, if I were trying to keep you Up There, I’d add a clause like, ‘Any thoughts, spoken or unspoken, pertaining to the demon Crowley, his life on Earth, and any relationship with him (including any of the following: love, friendship, romance, non-specific partnership, sexual intimacy, platonic companionship, and/or any combination thereof), shall be strictly prohibited, blah, blah, blah.’”

Aziraphale’s gaze fixed on a distant point, his mouth pressing into a contemplative frown. “Yes, but what about you?’

Crowley trailed a finger up his lover’s arm. “What about me?”

“Why does the headache go away when I’m with you? We don’t have a contract.”

“Obviously some part of you thinks we do. Are you sure you don’t remember marrying me in Edinburgh?”

Aziraphale bolted upright. “That’s it! Crowley, darling, you’re a genius!” He hauled Crowley up to a sitting position and kissed him for a full fifth of a minute.

“I really don’t think I am,” Crowley answered, dazed.

“Marriage is a contract!”

Crowley nodded. A spark of giddy hope flickered inside him, but he studiously avoided grasping onto it. “True, but it’s not exactly ‘Supreme Archangel’ stuff, is it? Doesn’t give you any powers over Heaven or Hell, or anything.”

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and tugged him close. “But don’t you see? It’s better than any of that. It’s a sacred vow before God! You can’t get any higher!”

Crowley blinked. His heart began to race and his palms to sweat. Aziraphale’s eyes shone with such radiant certainty that Crowley’s body seized up. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

Not that he wanted to look away. Not ever. He could gaze into Aziraphale’s eyes forever and be happier than he’d ever dared to dream.

Aziraphale turned Crowley to face him directly, and took hold of both his hands. “We can fix this. Together, the way we’ve always done. I don’t need an offer from Hell. I need an offer from you.”

A tear trickled down Crowley’s cheek, and for the first time, he didn’t care about it. He didn’t care who saw or who knew. The one single thing he cared about was right in front of him, holding his hands and asking for what Crowley wanted to give him above all else. An Eternity of Us.

“A-Aziraphale,” he stammered. “I love you. I adore you.” Every word came out rough and thick, almost too much to bear, but Crowley plowed relentlessly on, choking out every sentence though cascading waves of emotion. “We’ve been together for so long and it’s not enough. It’s never enough, because no matter what happens, I always want more. I always want always. You are my sunshine and moonlight. You are the air I breathe—and never mind that I don’t need to breathe, you understand the sentiment. You are everything to me, and there is nothing I have ever wanted more than to spend Eternity with you. Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale quivered with excitement. “Yes!” He dropped Crowley’s hands and flung both arms around him. “Yes, yes! Yes a million times! Infinite times! Oh, Crowley, I’m so happy!” He buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck and began to sob.

For a moment, Crowley sat frozen in bewilderment. Then he folded his arms around his beloved and stroked his hair.

“I’m here, Angel.” Tears streamed down his cheeks, unchecked. “I will always be here.”

Eventually, Aziraphale straightened up, and they gazed at one another with watery eyes. Aziraphale’s smile was miles wide, and Crowley could feel his own face stretching to match it. He hadn’t realized it was even possible for him to smile like this. It almost hurt, in the same glorious way it had hurt when Aziraphale had tugged on his hair while telling him he was perfect.

He tipped his head until their foreheads were touching. “Here’s to us.”

“To us.”

And then they were kissing and falling down onto the bed, and Earth-above-and-below it was amazing to have an immortal lover with angelic stamina.

“Angel?” he mused hours later, as he lay with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest.

“Yes, darling?”

“About my proposal…”

“Should we go out to buy rings? I know a lovely little shop just around the block.”

“Great. But I was just thinking… Do I have to put it in writing?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. Downstairs a door rattled, and he brightened. “Not a problem. There’s our Scrivener now.”

Chapter Text

Ding!

Aziraphale stepped out of the elevator, Crowley’s hand firmly clasped in his. Muriel followed. The shiny, open corridors of Heaven spread out in all directions, a vast, featureless expanse where everything was impeccable and nothing had substance. He might have called it beautiful, long ago when he didn’t know any better. Now the perfection poked at him like a thorn in his skin. It was stale. Lifeless. And to be absolutely honest with himself, he didn’t ever want to see it again.

Crowley’s appearance changed in a blink, from his usual black to Archangel gray. Aziraphale stared at him for several seconds, taking in the edgy styling and slim tailoring that screamed Crowley, despite the Heavenly color palette.

“Lovely outfit. The gold tie is a particularly nice touch.”

“Glad you like it, Angel.” Crowley glanced at Muriel and winked. “No murder hornets.”

Muriel clutched the envelope with Crowley’s official offer of marriage to their chest. Despite their nervous demeanor, they were smiling. “Ready whenever you are, friends.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale nodded to his right. “Follow me, please. This way to my office.”

Surprisingly, the office was exactly as he’d left it, down to the scattered pile of paperwork on the floor. He started for the desk, only to jerk to a stop when Crowley didn’t follow.

He frowned at his fiancé. “Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly. Why do you have a fancy wooden desk that looks like the one in your bookshop instead of one of those empty transparent whatsits?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I thought this style looked more scholarly, so I changed it.”

Crowley snickered. “Oh, Angel, you never fit in here any more than I did.” He leaned over and pecked Aziraphale on the cheek. “Let’s get this done with so I can take you back home where you belong.”

“Yes, let’s. Muriel, could you pull my file, please?”

Muriel concentrated and plucked a file folder from the air. They laid it on the desk. “Employment Agreement, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. There you are.”

“Thank you.” Even with his fingers entwined with Crowley’s, his head was beginning to throb. He reached to flip the file open, only to find it resistant to his touch. “What?” He tried again. “But I’m Supreme Archangel! How can they not allow me access to my own file! Do you think they revoked my access? If they were firing me, wouldn’t the headaches have stopped?”

Crowley nudged him aside. “Allow me.” He opened the file and the contents flickered into sight above the desk.

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong look. “How did you do that?”

Crowley smirked. “I’m good. Ooh…” He reared back. “But that contract is not. They didn’t just want you to forget me. Looks like they wanted you to forget Earth entirely. ‘Assume all duties of Supreme Archangel,’ blah, blah. ‘Adhere to all protocols established by the training committee for the duration of the interim period.’ Ergh. That doesn’t sound good. Blah, blah, boring, boring.  ‘…Full participation in the Second Coming, as directed by the Metatron—’” Crowley snapped the file closed and the display winked out of existence. “Seriously. What the actual fuck?”

Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and composed himself. “Yes, I quite agree. I’ve had more than enough of this nonsense. Intern!” His voice boomed so loud even Crowley winced.

The intern raced into the office, clipboard in their hand. “Sir!” They bowed. “You’re back! I have your agenda for today, sir.” Their gaze flicked over Aziraphale, snagging on the hand that held Crowley’s. “Who…” Their eyes widened in horror. “A-are you that d-d—”

Crowley hissed at them.

The intern fumbled the clipboard and it clattered to the ground.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale drew the name out into a warning. “Behave.”

“Then get on with it before I burn this place to ashes,” he growled.

“Now,” Aziraphale addressed the quaking intern. “Junior Auxiliary Intern, uh, what’s your name?”

“M-melek, sir.”

“Melek. Wonderful. Send a summons to Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael, requesting their immediate presence here in my office. I believe it is in my authority as Supreme Archangel to call a meeting.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good. The matter is urgent and I expect them here at once. You may relay the message now, and thank you for your assistance.”

Melek snatched up the clipboard and scampered away.

Crowley bumped shoulders with Aziraphale. “Very nice, Angel. This ‘I am the boss’ thing really works for you. Kinda sexy.” His dark glasses couldn’t conceal the way his hot gaze traveled up and down Aziraphale’s body.

Aziraphale blushed. “Do you think so? Maybe I—” The scattered paperwork flashed angrily in his peripheral vision, and a bolt of agony slammed into his head. His knees buckled.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley caught him before he could fall, holding him steady as the old echoes in his head grew to a clamor.

Do your Duty! Do not betray God! You must obey the Plan! Obey, obey, obey!

Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s lapels. “Kiss me,”  he pleaded.

Crowley’s eyebrow shot up. “What? Here?”

“Please.” He squeezed his eyes closed against the pain.

Crowley’s mouth came down on his, drawing him into a slow, drugging kiss. In an instant, the pain faded and died, leaving only the sweep of Crowley’s clever tongue and the press of his soft lips. And Aziraphale knew, deep in his immortal soul, that nothing Heaven could offer would ever be a fraction as good as this. This was love. This was life.

“Merciful heavens!”

It took a moment for Aziraphale to process the outraged voice as Michael’s, and by the time he opened his eyes, Crowley was already pulling away. Except he didn’t so much break the kiss as ease out of it, his tongue sliding from between Aziraphale’s lips in a languid stroke everyone could see, his hands lingering on the angel’s body.

Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael stood in their customary neat line, mouths agape. Melek the intern huddled behind them.

“You. Demon,” Uriel snapped. “How dare you enter this realm and ply your foul temptations!”

Crowley turned his nose up at the Archangel. “I don’t think my temptations are foul. Did you think that was foul, Angel? Because I thought you were rather enjoying it.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale turned to the trio of angry angels. “Welcome. I have called this meeting in order to discuss a matter of some urgency.” He gestured and a Hepplewhite table of exquisitely-polished mahogany appeared, along with a set of matching chairs. “If you would care to join me at the table?” He gave them a pointed look, daring them to refuse.

They did not. Michael took a seat in the middle, flanked by Uriel and Saraqael. Aziraphale and Crowley sat side-by-side, facing the others. Muriel bounded over to them, contract brandished.

Saraqael pointed a finger at Crowley. “The traitor is not welcome here.”

Crowley clucked his tongue. “They do hold a grudge here, don’t they? You’d think with a God who loves forgiveness they might be a little less—”

Michael slapped a hand on the table. “Shut up!”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. “ I invited Crowley here, which is fully within my right as Supreme Archangel.” He fixed his gaze on Michael. “Apologize.”

The Archangel’s eyes went wide. “What? No.”

“Apologize,” Aziraphale repeated, mimicking the voice that hammered in his mind.

Obey me. Do your duty.

“I’m. Sorry,” Michael bit out.

Crowley smirked. “I will graciously forgive you for telling me to shut up. Not for any of the rest of it, though.”

It was in moments like these that Aziraphale always felt torn between kissing Crowley and kicking him under the table. Over the years there had been rather a lot of kicking. He would have to start making up for that.

“This meeting is now called to order,” he declared, rendering the matter moot. “I have summoned you here to discuss the matter of my agreement of employment, as contracted under the franchise tag, and the negotiated offer I have received from another interested party. An offer for Eternity.”

Uriel rocked back in shock. “A contract with Hell?”

“You wouldn’t,” Saraqael challenged.

Aziraphale quirked a single eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I? Muriel, the papers, if you please.”

“Yes! Here you are Mr. Fell! Um, I mean, uh, Your Supreme- ness.” They placed the envelope with Crowley’s contract on the table, then fetched Aziraphale’s file from the desk and set it beside the other document.

“Thank you, Muriel. Crowley, if you would open my employment file and display the relevant section of the contract?”

Crowley casually flipped the file open and began scrolling through. “Right. Here we are. Blab, blah, party of the first part, that’s him.” He nodded in Aziraphale’s direction. “Is permitted to negotiate with a third party, that’s me. ‘Whereupon Heaven must either match the offer or reject it,’ and so on and so forth.”

Uriel folded their hands neatly atop the table. “I’m sure we can match anything Hell can offer you.”

Crowley leaned over the table. “Hell’s not offering. I am.” He flattened his left hand on the table. A gold band encircled his fourth finger. Light danced from the heart-shaped white diamond set into it.

The angels exchanged puzzled looks. Michael pointedly ignored Crowley and addressed Aziraphale. “This is Heaven,” they said with utmost confidence. “Whatever the traitor is offering you, we can match it.”

Aziraphale shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “I really don’t think you can.” He placed his left hand beside Crowley’s, displaying his own ring, identical to the demon’s except for the black color of the diamond. “Muriel, please read Crowley’s offer.”

“Yay!” They clapped their hands and plucked a paper from the envelope. “I’ve been waiting for this part! It’s so romantic!”

They shimmied a little, then stood tall and adopted a formal voice. “I, Muriel, as Level 37 Scrivener, have inscribed this offer from the Demon Crowley to Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel of Heaven in accordance with the laws of Heaven.”

As Muriel began to read the offer, an image of the words appeared above the table, large enough for all to see.

The Fallen Angel known as Crowley, formerly of Heaven and of Hell, does hereby extend an offer of Holy Matrimony for the duration of Eternity to the Angel Aziraphale, currently Supreme Archangel of Heaven.

Upon entering into this contract, Aziraphale agrees to:

• marry Crowley, for better or for worse

In return, Crowley will provide Aziraphale with the following:

• a strength in need

• a counselor in perplexity

• a comfort in sorrow

• a companion in joy

• devotion in life

• true fidelity

• steadfast love

• sarcastic banter

• gentle teasing

• lots of kisses

• smiles of adoration

• sly glances

• [REDACTED]

• a small percentage of ownership of the Bentley

“Um, excuse me, about that one that says ‘redacted,’” Crowley spoke up. “What I actually said was—”

Aziraphale elbowed him. “Not now, dear.” He smiled at Uriel, Michael, and Saraqael each in turn. “So. There you have it. Crowley has made me an offer. I have accepted it.”

Michael banged a fist on the table. “You can’t do this!”

Saraqael looked grim. “Actually…”

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own. Stabs of pain continued shooting through his head, but he smiled through them. “We can, and we have.” They’d won. Together.

The employment agreement began to flicker.

“No.” Michael’s plea lacked their previous conviction.

Crowley flipped his hand over beneath Aziraphale’s and their fingers intertwined. The contract gave one last helpless flicker, then dissolved.

All traces of headache vanished. Aziraphale’s entire body unclenched at once, suddenly so light he thought he might float away like a cloud. Only Crowley’s hand kept him grounded, forever his link to home.

Michael sprang to their feet. “What have you done?”

Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “As the humans like to say, sorry not sorry. Shall we be off, Angel? I’m bored of this place.”

“Absolutely. The meeting is adjourned. Thank you all for coming. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to attend.”

Chapter Text

“Dearly beloved…”

The wedding began as so many weddings do, with these two simple words. Given the solemn authority with which these words were spoken, one might imagine the setting as a village chapel, packed with local parishioners who dabbed at their eyes as they snapped photos of a bride in a flowing white dress on their mobile phones.

One would imagine incorrectly.

For one thing, there were no mobile phones. For another, the wedding was taking place in a bookshop. Three angels (two being ex-Supreme Archangels) and two demons stood around a summoning circle, inscribed on the floor and activated with neatly-arrayed battery-operated candles. A beam of blue light rose from the circle to the heavens.

“We have come here in the presence of God.” Gabriel gestured at the column of light. “Literally. To witness and bless the union of this angel and this demon in Holy Matrimony.”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Ordinary human weddings made him a little misty-eyed. He ought to have known that his own wedding would make him weep like a willow tree. It wouldn’t have been a problem, except that the tears interfered with his ability to look at Crowley. And since his greatest desire at the moment was to stare at Crowley if not for Eternity, then at least for the duration of this ceremony, his body’s predilection to leak from the eyes in moments of extreme emotion was highly inconvenient.

Aziraphale miracled away the tears and turned an adoring smile on his soon-to-be spouse. Crowley looked radiant. A slinky black dress clung to his torso and down over his hips, before flaring into a wide skirt with a ten-foot train fanned out behind him. A snake, embroidered in gold, ran all down his left side, its body coiled protectively around a winged heart. Matching gold bangles encircled his wrists. His dark glasses were likewise rimmed in gold, and a sliver of sparkling gold eyeshadow was visible above the lenses.

Crowley’s face was as beautiful as always, though it was currently twisted into a scowl aimed at Gabriel. Aziraphale adored Crowley’s scowls. He adored his eyerolls and smirks, his protective glares, and sidelong glances. But more than anything, he adored Crowley’s smiles, rare and precious and as breathtaking as anything in the universe.

When Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze, his scowl vanished, replaced by one of those perfect smiles.

All for me.

Aziraphale began to cry again.

Crowley turned his attention back to Gabriel. “Can we skip to the part where we do the vows? Aziraphale is going to drip all over his pretty clothes, and he hates that.” A lacy black handkerchief appeared in his hand. “Here, Angel.”

Aziraphale shifted his massive bouquet to a single hand and accepted the handkerchief. He might possibly have been a bit too enthusiastic about the flowers. In seconds, his arm was aching with the weight of dozens of white roses, forget-me-nots, and wild tansies—which he had chosen because the yellow was the color of Crowley’s eyes, only to discover too late that they carried the meaning “I declare war on you.”

Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes. “Thank you. I would hate to ruin my suit before we get to the dancing.” As this was the most formal of formal occasions, he’d chosen an ivory-white tuxedo with tails, naturally, and small touches of gold trim. He had meticulously tied his cravat, and fixed it in place with a small angel-wing pin. He was, in his own estimation, fabulously dashing.

“Skip ahead. Right, right.” Gabriel frowned in thought for a moment. “Ah! If anyone can show just cause—”

Crowley tipped his glasses down and glared across the circle at the Archangel. “The vows.”

“The vows. Okay. So… join hands.”

Aziraphale handed his bouquet off to Beelzebub, who took it and held it out at arm’s length, as if it might contaminate zir. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”

“Uh.” Gabriel shrugged. “I think you just hold it?”

“Got it.” Ze contemplated the flowers for a second. “It is pretty, I suppose.”

Crowley handed his single red rose to Muriel, who tucked it carefully into their basket of flower petals. They bounced happily in place, swirling the skirt of their long white dress.

“Weddings are so lovely,” they said, beaming at all their companions. “Or, at least I think they are. This is my first one! I hope I always get to be the flower-angel.”

“You’re doing brilliantly,” Crowley replied.

Muriel blushed and gave a happy little squeal.

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale. He removed his glasses and held out both his hands. “Shall we, Angel?”

Aziraphale grabbed hold and squeezed. “Yes!” His whole body vibrated with giddy delight. His eyes were still moist, but no amount of tears could prevent him from grinning besottedly at the magnificent being he had the great fortune to call his own.

Gabriel motioned at Aziraphale. “You may begin the vows.”

“Yes. Good. Ahem.” He tried to steel himself, but when the words came out, his voice trembled. “I, Aziraphale, take you, Crowley, to be my spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse.” Tears began to drip from Crowley’s dazzling eyes, and Aziraphale choked. “F-for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “To love and to cherish , now and for all Eternity.”

He burst into tears. His tuxedo was doomed, but he was happy. So happy. He released one of Crowley’s hands and wiped his eyes again.

Beelzebub sniffled and drew the bouquet up to zir chest. Several flies landed on the flowers.

“Crowley,” Gabriel addressed the demon. “You may proceed.”

“Right.” Crowley looked everywhere but at Aziraphale. “So, um.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then said in a rush, “I, Crowley, take you, Aziraphale, to be my spouse.” More tears were falling now, running down his cheeks and splashing on the floor at his feet. “To have and to hold, etc. etc. and all that stuff in the contract.” He blew out a heavy breath, then looked Aziraphale in the eye at last. “But mostly, I just promise to love you. I’ll love you when you smile at me and when you’re cross with me. I’ll love you when you do something stupid and when I do something even stupider. I’ll love you when we kiss and when we argue and when you’re being your ridiculous, adorable self so much I can’t stand it anymore and my heart wants to burst.” He exhaled again, then vowed, with as much conviction as Aziraphale had ever heard, “I will love you forever .”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sobbed, pulling him closer.

Gabriel coughed and swiped at his eyes. “Dusty books. But, great! I pronounce you married. Those whom God has joined let no one put asunder.”

Muriel cheered and clapped, jumping up and down and sending rose petals flying in all directions.

Aziraphale and Crowley fell into each other’s arms. Their lips met in a glorious, joyful, triumphant kiss. Their mouths moved together, their hearts beat as one, and the whole world seemed to sing in unison. The singing was slightly off-key, because people can’t hope to match an angel choir, and not everyone knew the words, or even the tune, but it was the sound of Earth and humanity, and neither the angel nor the demon would have wished for anything different.

“Wait, why are you kissing?” Gabriel protested. “Did I say you could kiss? Did I tell them they could kiss?”

“Sod off, Gabriel,” Crowley grumbled against Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale pulled back long enough to address Gabriel more directly. “Yes, do sod off, now there’s a chap. Jolly good.”

And he went right back to kissing his husband.

***

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The maitre d’ at the Ritz nodded at Crowley and Aziraphale. “Your usual table is ready.” He eyed the roses pinned to their lapels. “Are we celebrating anything tonight?”

Aziraphale bounced, his smile growing into a goofy grin. “We got married!” he squeaked.

Crowley’s heart began to somersault. Blast it all, he was going to start crying again, and he’d had more than enough tears today to last him a few decades, if not centuries.

“Ah! Congratulations,” said the maitre d’. “Shall I have a bottle of champagne sent ‘round?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly. He practically danced across the room to their table, which was bedecked, as always, with candles and flowers.

Crowley waggled his fingers at the piano as they passed, and the pianist smoothly transitioned into “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s arm. “And they’re playing our song!”

“Funny, that.”

Aziraphale frowned at him as they slid into their seats. “You did that, didn’t you?”

“Eh. Maybe a little. Hope everyone here likes nightingales.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled at his husband. Never had his heart felt so full or his soul so free. “You are remarkable.” He reached for Aziraphale’s hand. “I don’t think I’ve told you that enough.”

“Oh. Well.” Pink stained the angel’s cheeks. “You’re rather remarkable yourself.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale’s fingers a squeeze. “I’m tolerable, I suppose.”

Aziraphale did a little happy squirm. “Did you enjoy Pride and Prejudice? I mean, aside from Bingley not marrying Darcy.”

“It was all right. But to be honest, Angel, nothing can compare to us. No story can show me how to love you, because only you can do that. You taught me love, Angel, and I’m the luckiest bastard in Heaven, Hell, or Earth, because I get to keep on learning how to love you now and beyond the end of time.”

Aziraphale fumbled for his handkerchief, the same black lace-trimmed one Crowley had given him earlier that day. “You keep making me cry!” he protested.

“Yeah. Told you I was a bastard.”

Aziraphale patted his eyes and tucked the handkerchief away. “But you’re my bastard. And I get to keep you forever and share our bookshop with you, and even, on occasion, drive our car. And I know you’ll let me because I know you love me, and that is…” His expression turned contemplative. “Well, it’s miraculous. Here we are, in a world full of wondrous things. Food and drink, plants and animals, music, dancing, and so many books! But you, Crowley, are my most favorite thing of all. And you always will be.”

“Champagne for the newlyweds?” a sommelier asked. “About time you boys made things official, if you ask me.”

“Yeah.” Crowley exchanged a secret smile with his husband. “Bit of a slow burn, this one.”

“Well.” Aziraphale waited for the sommelier to pour their drinks, then picked up his glass. “If you wanted faster, perhaps you ought to have said something, oh, four thousand years ago?”

“I was waiting for you to make a move. Can’t go around pressing unwanted advances on innocent angels.”

“It would hardly have been unwanted.”

Crowley had to admit he had a point. “And you’re not entirely innocent, either.”

“Certainly not now.” Aziraphale tilted his glass toward Crowley. “Happy wedding day, my love.”

Crowley clinked their glasses together. “Happy wedding day.”

They were deep into their third bottle of champagne and the thirty-eighth rendition of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” when Aziraphale tipped his head to one side and slurred, “Crowley?”

“Wha’ is’t, Angel?”

“I think Heaven is angry.”

“Mmm. Prob’ly. Do you care?”

“Nope.”

They clinked glasses again.

“But, Crowley?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“What if they go through with it? Another apocalypse?”

“I… suppose we’ll stop it. Together.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s kinda our thing.”

As their lips met in a kiss, a choir of nightingales lifted their voices. And they will sing on for all Eternity.