Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Anthony, answer your bloody phone! I know you’re there, it’s not like you have anywhere else to be at this time of night. You can’t keep avoiding me forever, you know!”

The old answerphone on the counter beeped loudly as the caller gave a frustrated grunt and hung up. Laura. Must have given up on reaching his mobile and started calling the shop line. Crowley dragged a hand over his haggard face. Great pustulent, mangled bollocks. She was the last thing he needed right now.

He turned his attention back to the large green iguana in the tank in front of him. "Come here, sweetheart,” he whispered to the iguana as he lowered some extra dandelion greens into her tank. “There’s a love.”

Ioanna hadn’t been eating well lately and he was beginning to worry about her. Suddenly, she reared up and bobbed her head forward, and Crowley yanked his hand away just fast enough that her teeth snapped closed over empty air. Definitely something wrong. He would have to ring the veterinarian. Tomorrow, though, as it had already gone ten p.m. It had been several hours since he had locked up the shop to customers for the night, but he was putting off returning to the dark, empty flat above it. Crowley rubbed his eyes with a sigh. Couldn’t avoid it forever.

He had just begun moving towards the back of the shop floor when a polite knock sounded against the glass door at the entrance. He whirled around with a start and was rewarded with the vision of a halo of white-blond hair backlit by a street lamp. Crowley’s heart jumped at the sight. The prim, bow-tied figure attached to the halo smiled delightedly at Crowley and gave him a little wave.

Crowley felt his face break into an answering grin despite his sour mood and the late hour. He strode across the shop floor and unlocked the door, holding it open for his visitor.

“Hiya, angel,” he offered, as Aziraphale bustled in past him. “Having a late one tonight?”

“You’re one to talk,” huffed Aziraphale. “Shouldn’t you have been upstairs ages ago? Really, my dear. I’m sure the snakes and lizards and whatnot can get along without you for a few hours.”

Crowley waved this off awkwardly. "We-e-elll,” he drawled. “Wouldn't want to deny them my charming company.” Now that Aziraphale was inside, Crowley could see signs of anxiety behind his benevolent grey-blue gaze. Crowley’s eyebrows came down sharply. "What’s wrong?”

A mild smile clung valiantly to Aziraphale’s face, but his hands were twisting together and his eyes had alighted somewhere over Crowley’s left shoulder. "Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, darling. I just-- well, I just noticed your shop lights were still on and I thought, as we are both closed up for the evening, perhaps I might join you for a little tipple?”

Aziraphale’s eyes finally found Crowley’s, and his pale eyebrows rose in gentle inquiry. Crowley could feel the strain emanating from him. Not that it mattered; he hardly needed an excuse to invite Aziraphale into his flat.

“Yeah, all right. Come on up.”

The sitting room at the top of the narrow staircase behind the door marked ‘Private’ was sparsely furnished -- Spartan, Crowley told himself -- and rather cramped. But the necessaries were there: a small drinks cabinet with some decent bottles, an angular loveseat that was dark enough to hide the occasional splash of red wine, and a softly-padded leather armchair that he liked to think of as Aziraphale’s Chair. It had a striped lap blanket slung across the back of it and a small side table close at hand to rest a drink on. The most comfortable seat in the house. Crowley never sat there.

“A bit of pinot noir do, tonight? ‘S from Burgundy, even.” Crowley was already pulling two wine glasses out of the cabinet as he spoke.

“Oh, yes please. A good pinot is always such a balm for the soul, I find.”

Crowley turned with the bottle to find Aziraphale wiggling happily into the armchair. He seemed to radiate a gentle light that warmed the cold corners of the room. "Does your soul need balming tonight, angel?” He handed Aziraphale a generous glass and leaned back to paste his long limbs across the loveseat.

Aziraphale sighed and wiggled a little deeper into the armchair. "Well truth be told, it has been a rather trying day. I could stand a little loosening of the limbs, as it were."

Crowley gestured expansively with his glass. "Well, you've come to the right place. Welcome to Crowley's Den of Limb-Loosening Iniquity."

Aziraphale was cracking a small smile. Success. He lifted his glass in a careless toast. "Here's to the healing power of a good red."

"I'll drink to that." Crowley swallowed his wine and regarded his friend carefully. "This wouldn’t have anything to do with Gabriel, would it?” His tone had a studied carelessness that was betrayed by his intent gaze.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. "Well, no, I mean, yes, but not directly, you understand. It's more that I…" -- he waved his glass towards himself -- "and my, well, it's not as though it's his fault that I can't seem to…" He broke off with a moue of frustration. "Do you mind if we talk about something else?"

"Sure thing, angel. The D. of L.L.I. is here to please. My day was shit too, wanna hear me whine about that instead?"

Aziraphale seemed relieved to grasp at this change of topic. "Was it? I’m sorry to hear it. What happened?”

Crowley hung his head over the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "The usual bloody nonsense. Loads of teenagers wandering into the shop to knock on the animals’ tanks and scare the shit out of them, but never spend a penny, ‘course. Shipment of food for the tarantulas is late and I’m not sure how I’m going to tide them over.” He tipped his head forward. "And, well… fucking Laura. Don’t want to talk about her, though,” he mumbled into his wine.

“Say no more, dear. It seems we could both use some more of this excellent vintage in us.” Aziraphale drained his glass and held it out with an expectant smile. "Shall we?”

Crowley gladly topped him up, and the conversation turned to lighter things. At some point, Crowley got up to grab a second -- third? -- bottle, which seemed as good an excuse as any to turn off the overhead light in favour of a small table lamp, and set the needle to a Velvet Underground LP. Aziraphale must have been ahead of him on the wine because he didn't even make a comment about the dreadfulness of modern music.

Sometimes I feel so happy
Sometimes I feel so sad

“...and thass why you should never- ” Crowley waggled his finger, “-never, ever even think of eating a newt. Toxic as anything, newts. S’why witches use ‘em in their- their- big bowl thingies.” He shook his head, knowingly. “Poison children.”

Aziraphale looked suitably impressed. “Phhw. Very whatsit, that. Shakespeherian. Can’t say I’d fancy a newt.” He looked blearily thoughtful. “Sounds… chewy.”

Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes

Crowley flopped backwards on the loveseat, his head at one end and his feet hanging well off the other.

Aziraphale was smiling wistfully into the middle distance. "I did eat snake once."

"I'm sorry, you what?"

"Not chewy at all, that. Rather tender, in fact."

"Apff- bugh- how could you?!" Crowley spluttered. "They're so sweet an' brilliant, an'-- an' harmless!"

"Except for the dreadfully poisonous ones, presumably."

"Only if you bother them! If you leave them well enough alone they just, y'know. Do the thing." He undulated his supine body in brief demonstration.

"Are you wiggling?"

Crowley gaped at him in indignation for a moment, then they both dissolved into giggles.

Eventually, the LP ended with a scratch.

"Shit. What timessit?”

Aziraphale pulled out his affectation of a pocket watch from his waistcoat and squinted at it with a serious expression. "Goodness. Something… quite late, I should imagine.”

Crowley dropped his head off the edge of the loveseat at an angle and looked up at him. He noticed with distant surprise that Aziraphale’s eyes were rather more blue than usual when they were upside down.

Crowley found himself considering Aziraphale in silence for a few beats too long. The air seemed thick and slow, wrapping around him like a constrictor. Stop staring at him, you fool.

“I suppose I had better, well.” The blue eyes disappeared from sight as Aziraphale levered himself up from the armchair and began to make his way to the stairs, preparing to return to his own flat above the antique bookshop across the road. "Do try to make it to bed this time, that awful sofa will play hell on your neck. Good night, my dear.”

The door snicked shut behind him. Crowley, still hanging off the edge of the loveseat, listened to the stairs creak as Aziraphale made his way carefully down them. The flat was silent again.

“Night, angel.”

Chapter Text

Something was stabbing Crowley in the eyes. Oh. Sunlight. He shifted to block it with his arm, and pain shot down his neck. Fuck. The crick seized up the muscles in his back as he tried to roll over, and he fell off the loveseat face down onto the floor. Good bloody morning to him. How much had he had to drink last night?

He tried to think past the throbbing in his head. His brain helpfully presented him with a patchwork of images: soft fingers curled around a glass stem, a wine-stained pout, knowing blue eyes… the last were upside down, for some reason.

Of course. Aziraphale had shown up at the shop, late, with stress and exhaustion written into his face. Not the first time. They’d had some wine, as usual. Then Aziraphale had gone, as usual. Crowley had kept drinking to drown out the empty space the angel had left behind. As usual. Crowley hoped he hadn’t said anything too stupid, his tongue loosened by alcohol. It wouldn’t do to fuck up his friendship with Aziraphale, which was easily the high point of his life these days.

He groaned and sat up, head in his hands, and fumbled at the side table for his sunglasses to cut the murderous glare seeping around his curtains. At least it was Sunday, so the shop wouldn’t need opening.

His mouth tasted like a tanned hide. He got unsteadily to his feet and groped his way to the kitchenette for a glass of water and a paracetamol or three. He was definitely getting too old for this.

After draining the glass and leaning against the counter for a few moments, his surroundings started to come into better focus. He patted at the pockets of his tight black jeans for his mobile, pulled it out, and held the screen up in front of his face. 9:17 am. Three missed calls and a pile of text messages, all from Laura.

She-Devil (yesterday, 8:23 pm): Anthony, this is childish. Even for you.
She-Devil (yesterday, 8:24 pm): Just answer your goddamn phone, don’t make me do this over text.
She-Devil (yesterday, 10:46 pm): Fine, have it your way. But if I find any more of your shit lying around my house I’m just dumping it in the street.
She-Devil (7:14 am): I want my key back. I’ll be out all afternoon today, you can come by and drop it through the mail slot while I’m away.
She-Devil (7:15 am): If it’s not there when I get back tonight I’m sending Jezza round to yours to collect it. He won’t like that and neither will you.

Crowley cursed under his breath and threw the mobile against the loveseat. She could have her bloody key back; it wasn’t like he had any intention of stepping foot in her house again. Best avoid that visit from her lump of a brother, though.

He started dragging himself towards the bathroom, peeling off the previous day's clothes as he went. They were clammy and disgusting from being drunkenly slept in.

He tossed his sunglasses in the direction of the bathroom counter and stepped into the small corner shower, drawing the flimsy curtain around him. There was just enough room to stand and turn around in the quarter-circle of the shower base. Even with the holder at the highest position, the handheld shower head was barely high enough for his tall frame to dip under properly. But it was good enough.

Crowley sighed with relief as the hot water kicked in properly and began scouring down his skin in long rivers. It traced through the spray of auburn hair on his narrow chest, and down along the black lines of the snake tattoo that wound up his left arm and over the back of his shoulder to bite at his collarbone. More pieces of Aziraphale's visit the night before started to return to him, although anything past the whiskey he had afterwards turned to remained determinedly black.

He had to get himself under control. Aziraphale needed him. That prick boyfriend of his drained so much of Aziraphale's time and energy, dampened so much of the gentle, beaming happiness that Crowley had always adored about him. He needed Crowley there to support him, to do the things a best friend should be there to do.

And, well, if Crowley needed him too, if he had to subsume his own pain to focus on making Aziraphale happy, that was something he could bear quietly. He could do it for his angel.

Crowley groaned and dropped his head against the tiled wall of the shower. His angel. He had to stop thinking of him like that.

The nickname had come about the very day they had met, a couple of years previously, when Crowley was new to the neighbourhood and still busy setting up his exotic animal shop. Aziraphale had wandered in one morning to introduce himself to the newest Whickber Street shopkeeper, bearing a hot americano from the café next door like a tribute.

Crowley had been so thrown by the soft, radiant stranger and his unexpected generosity that he'd embarrassed himself by breathing, "oh… you're an angel." Aziraphale had laughed and flapped his hands at him in self-deprecation, but he seemed pleased by it, and came in with another coffee the very next day. So, Crowley leaned into the embarrassment and repeated the nickname until it stuck, as though it had been intentional.

Crowley knew very well that the only reason he could even remotely get away with the endearment, especially around Aziraphale's suspicious boyfriend, was that Crowley had only really happened to date women during the time they had known each other. It wasn't that he had been intentionally deceptive; Aziraphale had never asked, and Crowley had never offered. If Aziraphale knew about the other part of Crowley's life, it might make things awkward between them. It might take away the plausible deniability that allowed Crowley his easy, public affections. And it would definitely create tension in Aziraphale’s relationship, which Aziraphale would of course end up paying for.

So Crowley had chatted to him nonchalantly about whatever future ex-girlfriend he was seeing from time to time, and if he pulled the occasional bloke at a bar he always made sure to go to theirs for the night. Aziraphale didn't need to know every detail of his sex life. And he certainly didn't need to know that those blokes were invariably pale-skinned and pale-haired, with invitingly soft bodies.

Head still against the tiles, Crowley thought back to the most recent of those one-night conquests. It had been about three weeks ago, when things with Laura had started going from bad to irreparable. He had stormed out of her house after a particularly vicious row, feeling as though his head were on fire, and strode angrily and aimlessly through the dark streets until he found himself in front of a building with a flickering neon sign and blacked out windows…

The muffled pulsing of house music drew him inexorably in. As soon as he opened the door, the full force of the music crashed over him, drowning out every bitter thought in his head. Flashes of coloured light illuminated the darkness like a chaotic lightning storm, resonating sympathetically with something dark and shaky inside of him. He made his way through the tightly-packed crowd of bodies until he reached the bar, and draped himself against its glossy surface.

One of the benefits of his habitually all-black, tight-fitting wardrobe was that he could fit in at a place like this at a moment's notice. More than fit in, in fact. He knew the clothing complemented his spare figure and unusually red hair in a way that tended to draw admiring attention in certain environments.

Crowley scooped up the whiskey and cola that the bartender had pushed toward him and turned to survey the dance floor, keeping his long limbs artfully arranged against the bar like a large spider. It was dark enough in here that he could dispense with his usual sunglasses without worrying about his eyes being too clearly visible. That was just as well, since he couldn't make much out in the dark club even without the glasses on. It didn't end up mattering, though, as the man had obligingly come up to him before Crowley was halfway through his second cocktail.

He was young -- certainly younger than Crowley -- maybe in his late twenties, of average height, with dark blond hair casually swept up with product, and pleasingly sloping shoulders. It was difficult to hear much over the music, but the man stood closely enough that his body language came through loud and clear. He bit his bottom lip and looked up at Crowley, one eyebrow raised, and boldly ran a thumb over Crowley's shoulder. Crowley stared at the man's soft lips, which mouthed a "hi" at him, and let a smirk break across his face as he leaned in. He put his own lips against the man's ear and breathed directly into it.

"Hello, gorgeous."

The man opened his eyes wider in pleased triumph and grabbed Crowley's hand, intending to pull him toward the dance floor. Crowley held fast against the bar, let his arm be pulled out to its furthest extent, and then at the last moment yanked the man sharply back against him. The man immediately flushed so red that it was visible even in the dim lighting. Oh yes, thought Crowley, this one would do nicely.

He wound his other hand into the man's hair and pulled gently to tip his head back. He paused a moment and looked into the man's eyes, giving him a final chance to back out, to disentangle himself from Crowley's web even as it spun ever tighter. Then he leaned down and sank his teeth softly into the exposed column of the man's neck. Crowley felt a groan against his chest as he continued to suck kisses over the man's neck and jaw, and finally his mouth. When he pulled back, he could see that the man's eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily. Good enough, he thought, slung an arm around the man's waist, and started for the door.

Crowley let the memory wash over him along with the hot water of the shower. He thought of the way he had held the man face down against his own bed, one long hand sinking into a soft shoulder and the other into a soft hip. In his mind's eye, the man's coiffed hair loosened into platinum curls that shook with the rhythm of Crowley's relentless thrusts.

He held that image in his head as he slipped his hand down and over his persistent erection and began pulling hard and fast, his other arm cushioning his forehead against the shower wall. The man in his fantasy was moaning into the mattress, taking everything Crowley could give. When he bit out Crowley's name as he climaxed, it was with Aziraphale's voice.

Crowley shuddered and came over his hand, face still buried in his forearm. He really had to cut down on the drinking.

Chapter Text

The sign outside the bookshop read "Very Closed". Crowley ignored it and rapped a smart rhythm against the door, then shoved his hands into his pockets and waited. It only took a moment for Aziraphale to appear, hands fluttering at the doorknob as he bent to unlock it from the inside.

"Oh, good morning!" Aziraphale waved him in. "Come, come. I was just, ah, doing a little stock-taking."

Crowley stepped into the warm, dusty air of the bookshop and cast his eyes over its familiar clutter of books, statuettes, and all manner of bric-a-brac. He landed on a steaming cup of tea, a half-eaten éclair, and an open book on the low table in front of the worn sofa at the back of the shop. "Stock-taking, eh?"

Aziraphale followed his gaze and coloured slightly. "Well. One does need some fortification now and then against the rigours of merchantry." He rubbed a hand absently over the soft contours of his abdomen. "Can I offer you something? The kettle is still hot, if you don't mind instant coffee."

Crowley gazed at him a moment, allowing his eyes to wander from behind the safety of his sunglasses. Aziraphale was wearing his usual waistcoat and bowtie, like the living anachronism that he was, with a soft grey cardigan over top. The cardigan was rather long and the bottom of it curved fetchingly against his thighs, right where they filled out most against his trousers. The shirt was new -- not the usual cream, but a very pale blue that brought out his eyes and contrasted pleasingly with his white-blond hair. He looked like a lamb. Crowley wanted to bite him.

"Nah, 'm fine. Listen angel, you free this afternoon? Only, I thought you might like to do lunch. Seeing as we're both closed for the day. That little deli in Clapham with the smoked meat sandwiches you like? Bentley's finally back from the shop and she could do with a little test drive." He took a breath. "F'you want."

"Clapham?" Aziraphale's tone was suspicious. "Any chance we'll be passing near Laura's?"

"Ahh, wellllll… myuh, nfffg," Crowley mumbled, losing vowels as he went. His hands were still stuffed into his pockets and he flexed his fingers as he spoke. "Suppose we might, now you mention it. Guess I could take the opportunity to, ah. Return her key and all. She won't be there," he finished quickly. "So… that's…" He trailed off awkwardly.

"Oh, my dear. I am sorry." Aziraphale did sound rather sorry, even though Crowley knew he had never liked Laura much. "Are you all right? Are you sure you don't want a coffee and a chat?" Aziraphale's eyes were large and sincere, and his hand reached out to hover uncertainly near Crowley's arm. Crowley bunched his shoulders up by his ears and leaned away from the gesture.

"S’fine. I’m fine. Better off, really. So… lunch?"

"Well, how could I resist such a tempting offer, hmm? Although…" he broke off, hesitantly. "Gabriel did want us to go to the park this afternoon. For a jog, you see. Well, a jog for him. He knows I'm too much of a lump to do more than watch from a park bench. I don't know how he puts up with me, really, all… soft." The smoothing of the abdomen was back, more nervously this time.

Crowley was indignant. "Is that what he said? That prick, he--"

"Please, Crowley! For the last time, he is not a-- a that. And he is perfectly right to want to, ah, encourage me to live more healthfully. In any case," he rushed on, as Crowley was opening his mouth again, "that's not until three. I'm certain we have time to eat and be back before then."

"Fine. Right. Well, let's get started soonest, then. You ready to go now?"

Aziraphale glanced longingly at the éclair. "Just let me finish up some business in here, and I'll be with you in two shakes."

Crowley smiled in spite of himself and collapsed bonelessly across an armchair. He was happy to wait.

The stop-off at Laura's had turned out to be blessedly uneventful. Crowley had poured his nervous energy into the gas pedal and made record time to Clapham, chucked the key through the mail slot in her door, and retreated quickly back to the safety of the Bentley. No sign of Jezza, thank god.

He had breathed a sigh of relief at having completed his task, and was silently grateful to Aziraphale for his company. Somehow, just being near him always made Crowley feel that everything would be fine. Soppy bastard.

Now they were in the corner booth at the deli, Aziraphale humming happily around mouthfuls of smoked meat and Crowley absently stirring a coffee and staring at him.

"Are you certain you don't want to try any of my sandwich? It has the most delightful grainy mustard." Aziraphale licked some off his finger with a delicate swipe of his pink tongue.

Crowley goggled from behind his sunglasses and forgot to respond.

"Crowley? Are you quite all right? You look… peaky."

Crowley dragged his attention back into the local dimension and dismissed the question with a tilt of his jaw in what he hoped was a careless manner. "S'nothing. Bit too much wine last night. Anyway." He cast about for a change of topic that would get Aziraphale talking so that Crowley could go back to concentrating on watching his mouth move. He decided to go with a safe bet. "Any interesting new books come in lately?"

"Oh, have I told you about the complete set of Jane Austens that came in last week? Late 19th century, bound in the most charming blue and gold. I've had to hide them at the back to stop people threatening to buy them…."

Crowley watched his friend's eyes light up with pleasure as he chattered on, and wondered for the thousandth time how A.Z. Fell & Co., purveyor of books to the gentry, managed to stay in business whilst doing so little purveying.

Though Aziraphale loved to discuss his books, he was reluctant to discuss business. In the nearly three years they'd known each other, Crowley had managed to learn very little about the shop itself except that it was open rarely and unpredictably, and that its owner rather hated parting with the books. If pressed too hard, Aziraphale would dismiss the subject as vulgar and change it.

Crowley had often wondered if he didn't come from some kind of money that allowed him to run his comfortable Soho shop as more of a hobby than an enterprise. Perhaps he was an earl. Crowley began picturing him in jodhpurs with no little satisfaction. Maybe a riding crop…

He turned back in just in time to realise that Aziraphale had somehow wandered onto the topic of a darling little patisserie he had heard about that wasn't too far away and had a reputation for profiteroles.

"...sinful mouthfuls of cream, Crowley! That's what I've heard, at least."

Crowley was motionless for a moment, then clapped his hands decisively and made to stand. "Right! Profiteroles it is. Let's go, angel."

It was well into the afternoon by the time Crowley's limits had been tested to destruction by creampuff-related moaning and the Bentley had pulled back into Whickber Street.

Aziraphale checked his pocket-watch as he disembarked from the car, and visibly paled. "Oh, good lord, it's already ten past three! I can't believe how the time went! I was so busy gadding about with you that I… " His hands went from panicked fluttering to panicked wringing. "Goodness, what a terrible excuse for a partner I am."

Crowley recognised this spiralling self-flagellation tinged with fear. He saw it often enough and he loathed it desperately every time. It made him wonder what exactly happened behind closed doors between Aziraphale and Gabriel. "Oi, hey, none of that! It's only ten minutes, the park will still be there. The Pr-- I mean, he can stand to wait a little."

"Crowley, he’s my partner! The least I owe him is respect for his time."

Suddenly, Crowley couldn't take it anymore. "Really? Because he never seems to respect you at all, and apparently that's fine with you!"

That had obviously crossed a line. Aziraphale looked shocked and furious. "How dare you judge me? You don't know what you're talking about, seeing as you are not, in fact, part of my relationship."

"Oh come off it, Aziraphale. You're better than this! What will it bloody take for you to see that?" He was practically shouting now. "You don't come crying to me all the time for a drink and a distraction because you're happy!"

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. They stared at each other for a moment in tense silence. Then Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and set his mouth into a thin line. "I'm sorry to hear that you consider our evenings together to be the result of my personal failings. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t take relationship advice from someone who… well.”

Crowley stiffened, daring him to finish that sentence.

“I’m sorry, I-- I can’t have this argument with you right now. I really must go immediately. Thank you for a lovely afternoon." The door to the shop closed behind Aziraphale with a tinkle.

Crowley stood frozen in indignation for another moment, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. Of course Aziraphale was right. Crowley was the expert in being a terrible excuse for a partner -- what right did he have to try to tell others what to do?

He should have known better than to monopolise his friend's time so presumptuously. It was his fault, really. He had selfishly drawn out their afternoon together, even though he knew it would upset his friend to be late.

Aziraphale should rightly prioritise the man he loved. And Crowley, despite the pathetic hope that might flicker from time to time in the deepest part of his heart, knew that wasn’t him.

He dithered uselessly on the pavement a little longer. Finally, unable to do anything else, he turned his back and went home.

Chapter Text

Crowley didn't see Aziraphale again that day, nor the next. He didn't call the bookshop landline, figuring that Aziraphale would have called first if he had wanted to do so, as they rarely went this long without speaking.

He tried to distract himself by tending to his animals, repeating unnecessary chores well after closing to keep himself occupied. At least the she-devil had finally gone silent. Crowley didn't think he could bear anymore from her on top of this.

Aziraphale was clearly angry with him, and he couldn't help but feel that it was justified. He had been over-stepping. Calling another man's partner "angel", taking up so much of his time, buying him lunches… you had to admit, it looked bad.

Even if Aziraphale was oblivious to his infatuation, it didn't change the fact that Crowley coveted him fiercely. He selfishly spent time with him to fuel his own unwelcome crush. He secretly fantasised about him right before his very eyes, barely listening to him. Were those the actions of a friend? Surely, not of a good one.

By the evening of the third day, Crowley found his hand hovering once more above the whiskey bottle in his cabinet. He growled at himself in frustration and stalked over to the door instead, grabbing his coat off its hook as he went and shoving his sunglasses onto his face. If he was going to drown his sorrows, there were better ways to do it than alone in his flat like some kind of sad drunk.

Crowley slipped out the side door and into the welcoming hum of the London night. He always felt more powerful in the dark. It was another reason he favoured black clothing; in the nighttime, he was a black-on-black smudge, impenetrable to the invasive gaze of the world, with even the flash of his eyes safely hidden behind his glasses.

He felt himself disintegrate into the shadows, a welcome relief. The stress in his gut that had been strangling his appetite the past few days finally started to relax its grip by inches. And he knew just what would shake it the rest of the way loose, at least for a while.

The street under Crowley’s feet was dark and wet with recent rain. He pulled his wool coat around himself more snugly against the chill that was combing its fingers through the autumn wind.

Before long, he found himself slipping through an unlit arcade into a courtyard terrace that was not visible from the street. The terrace was mostly empty at this time of year, but warm light was seeping out around a pair of double doors.

Crowley pushed through them and found himself inside a dim cocktail bar. The bar itself was of dark wood, polished smooth by the fashionable sleeves of countless men, and above it ran shelves of artfully lit bottles. There was music playing, but it wasn't overwhelming; the brick walls and dark leather furniture seemed to absorb it.

Crowley’s eyes ran over the chalkboard list of eye-wateringly priced cocktails before ordering a double whiskey and melting into the shadows of a corner seat.

He took a slug of the whiskey and twisted his mouth in frustration. It was getting worse -- he could tell it was getting worse. He didn’t think he could stomach any more doomed relationships. He had never had much trouble finding company, but the ones who stuck around inevitably grew frustrated with him. Too distant. Too moody. The one before Laura had called him “emotionally unavailable”. The more they had pounded at the shell of his heart, the thicker and spikier it became, until he felt like there was a sea urchin lodged in him.

He couldn’t keep dashing himself on the same rocks, over and over, as he had done for most of his adult life. He was staring fifty in the face, and what did he have to show for it? A middling business, a sad excuse for a flat, and a string of exes who hated him. The only light shining through the cracked pavement of his life was Aziraphale, and he was fucking that up, too.

He reached up and mindlessly rubbed his left collarbone where the snake tattoo was just visible, right where it was sinking its fangs into his flesh. He turned his fingernails inward, pressing them into the bite until it hurt.

Aziraphale. The very first time he had seen that razor-sharp gaze wrapped in cotton wool, he had known he was in trouble. A million tiny hooks had sunk into the soft parts of him and begun the slow but relentless process of tearing him apart.

God, he was such a coward.

Through the fog of the whiskey, Crowley suddenly knew with terrible clarity that his future relationships would all fail before they began, for the simple reason that he had no heart left to give. It had already found its final resting place in the hands of someone who did not love him.

He stared into the amber depths of his glass. The future stretched before him, predetermined, inexorable, and he decided he could no longer offer his empty chest to strangers. All that was left to him was to live off the scraps of Aziraphale’s tolerant affections. That would have to be enough.

Crowley flagged the waiter for yet another drink and noted disinterestedly that the room had begun to swim. Sometime much later, he became conscious that he was speaking to someone, but it seemed to be happening at a distance. He leaned into the warmth of the body pressed into his side and briefly shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, all was dark. The air had changed - no longer the warmth of the bar, but sharp and clear night. He felt wet bricks at his back and fingers clutching at his waist. Someone was pushing against him, hard and hot. Then there were kisses being pressed against his neck, so he tipped his head up, and saw stars.

Crowley was halfway through his morning tasks at the shop before he saw the note. He had just finished changing out the bedding in the black palm cockatoo's enclosure when his eye caught on the folded and sealed piece of cream cardstock that had come in through the mail slot. His name was written on the outside in a careful hand.

He already knew who it was from - there was only one person who would send him expensive stationery instead of a text message.

He slipped the note into his pocket and forced himself to ignore it and continue with his chores until the shop was ready to be opened. Then he ignored it some more while customers wandered in and out over the course of the day. Only when the store was locked up for the evening did he finally fish it out and allow himself to read.

My dear C.,

I called the last few evenings but you did not answer. Please, come to my shop tonight after closing so that we can talk. 

Yours,

A.

Crowley slowly folded the note shut again and stared at it. It had been nearly a week since he'd seen his friend. Fine. He could do this. He was ready to apologise.

He threw his coat on and beat out the familiar path across the street to the bookshop. He had scarcely lifted his hand to knock, when the door opened suddenly inward and revealed a startled angel.

"Oh, Crowley! Oh, I'm ever so glad you came. Please come in. I was beginning to worry about you."

Crowley felt himself being shepherded into the warmth of the bookshop and towards his usual seat on the sofa at the back. Aziraphale looked tired and slightly dishevelled, and his eyes were beseeching. He sat on the armchair opposite the sofa and started fiddling with his shirt cuff.

"I er, I've been calling you…"

Crowley pulled his legs up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them like a child. "Yeah. Sorry. I've been… out. The past few nights."

Aziraphale looked oddly wounded at that. "I see. Of course, none of my business what you… well. In any case, I-- I just wanted to apologise."

Crowley snapped his head up from where it had been resting on his bent knees. "What? Apologise for what? I'm the one who should be-- no, it's true! I… ngh." He rearranged himself restlessly across the sofa and rubbed at his face under his sunglasses. "I've been doing some thinking, and. Listen," he told the floor, "you were right, what you said about me. M'the last person who should be giving anyone advice on relationships. Expert screw-up, me. And the last thing you need is me screwing up your relationship as well. So, I… I understand if you need to. See less of me. In future."

He swallowed against the thing trying to crawl up his throat, and risked looking up. Aziraphale was sitting bolt upright in the armchair with his hands over his mouth.

"Oh, my dear," he breathed. "Is that what you think? You're not responsible for the, the problems in my relationship. Quite the contrary, in fact. I don't know what on earth I would do without you." Aziraphale abruptly stood up and crossed to the sofa to sit next to him. Crowley could smell his cologne. Bergamot and citrus. Underneath it was something elemental and masculine. Aziraphale turned towards him and continued, softly. "Crowley, you are my dearest friend. The time we spend together, it… it fortifies me, you fortify me, against my problems. You make them easier to bear. Not harder. Do you believe me?"

Crowley was staring at him, just inches away. He opened his mouth and closed it again. "I… ngk." Eloquent as always.

Aziraphale sighed. "After we quarrelled, I went to the park to meet up with Gabriel as planned. He never showed up. I told myself he must have given up waiting for me and gone home, thinking I had stood him up. I felt just dreadful about it. When I returned, I tried to call him, but he didn't answer. You can't imagine how distressed I was, how guilty I felt that I'd upset him so."

He folded his hands in his lap and took a deep breath before continuing.

"The next day, he showed up out of the blue as though nothing had happened. When I tried to apologise and explain, he… he laughed at me. He had completely forgotten about our rendezvous at the park. He had gone out with some friends for the day and ended up staying out all evening."

His voice got smaller.

"He told me I was being ridiculous and needy. Normally I would have accepted that and chastised myself for it. But this time, I thought, really thought, about the things you always say to me about standing up for myself. And… and about how you believed so much in my ability to do so, even when I didn't…." Aziraphale broke off with a sniff, and Crowley watched with horror as his eyes filled with tears. "And I… well, I finally found the strength I needed to end things with him, for good. You gave that to me. Do you understand?"

Aziraphale was looking at him now, his eyes wide and wet. Crowley stared back at him helplessly and nodded. He felt a familiar fury at the Prick but it was distant and muted. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and gently brushed away the tear that had escaped down Aziraphale's cheek. He pulled his hand back guiltily. "Sorry. Shit. Sorry."

Aziraphale gave him a strange look for one long moment, then relaxed into a gentle smile and patted his knee briefly before shifting away from him. "You're a good friend, Crowley. Thank you. And I… I hope we can continue as we always have."

Crowley felt hollowed out. "Of course." He cleared his throat, and said more loudly, "of course, angel. Friends, always."

Chapter Text

Things had returned to normal between them. Better than normal, really, because the Prick was finally out of the picture and Aziraphale was more relaxed, happier, and more available.

Crowley held onto this with both hands, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Aziraphale found another partner. He hoped it would be a better one than the last, but either way, it was bound to happen eventually. Until then, Crowley had resolved to enjoy being able to pretend that Aziraphale was his. 

And so, when the spectre of Christmas inevitably breached the horizon, Crowley began to plan. 

There were a few factors that informed his planning. For one thing, this was the first year of their acquaintance that both of them were single. For another, Crowley hadn’t spoken to his mother in years, and as far as he could tell Aziraphale never seemed to visit with family at all. And finally, Crowley happened to know one very important thing about Aziraphale: he absolutely loved Christmas.

Aziraphale in winter was a sight to behold. He seemed purpose-built to wear cardigans and overcoats and tartan scarves, to cradle mugs of hot chocolate in his hands and hang tinsel in his windows. His cheeks flushed pink in the cold and he seemed to soak up and radiate holiday cheer at everyone he passed. Snowflakes caught in his lashes. He unironically said things like “oh, aren’t these decorations just darling!" and hummed along to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen on the gramophone in his shop. In short, Crowley thought, an angel in its natural habitat. 

Crowley himself was too thin for the cold and stood out like a dirty smudge against the twinkly aesthetics of the season, but the image of Aziraphale exclaiming over a rum-soaked cake made him think that perhaps Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.

One day in early December, Crowley had casually suggested they spend the afternoon at the Christmas market in Covent Garden. Aziraphale had lit up like he’d swallowed a firecracker, just as Crowley knew he would. 

They had spent hours wandering the overpriced market stalls and ludicrous decorative installations, Crowley gently basking in the joy radiating from Aziraphale like a snake on a sunny rock.  Now, chilled and footsore, they were stopped in a small café for some hot coffee (Crowley) and an entire pot of earl grey alongside a slab of pink-iced cake (Aziraphale). 

“Oh, this was a wonderful afternoon. What a lovely idea this was.” Aziraphale took a tiny bite of his cake and closed his eyes in reverent enjoyment. His ears were still pink at the tips from the cold. 

Crowley was watching him with his chin propped up on his hand. He seemed appropriately softened up and into the spirit of things. This was as good a time as any, Crowley supposed. Best play it casual. "Glad you enjoyed it, angel. Hey, listen, I was thinking… any plans for Christmas this year?”

“Oh… I suppose not. I haven’t been without, er, a partner over the holidays for a while now. Hadn’t really thought about that… And, well, you’ve probably realised by now that I don’t have quite what you would call a close relationship with my family. So no, I’m afraid I’m in for a rather lonely one this time around.” 

“Hmm. Well, I don’t really have any plans myself, so if you don’t either, p’rhaps… we should do something together?"

Aziraphale put down his cake fork and regarded him. A complicated series of expressions crossed his face. "I would love that, Crowley. But surely, your family…?” 

Crowley shook his head sharply. "Nah. It’s always just been me and my mum, and we’re… not on speaking terms, as such.” He cleared his throat and returned his attention to his coffee mug. 

“Oh, I didn’t know. I suppose I never really asked. Thoughtless of me, I’m sorry. Goodness, what a sad pair we make! All the more reason to be family to each other, I suppose.”

If he noticed Crowley choke on his coffee at this, he tactfully ignored it.

“Right. Anyway, I was thinking we could do it in your bookshop. Get sloshed on the good stuff, wreck a pavlova, et cetera.”

"That's a wonderful idea! It’ll be ever so festive. We can cook in my flat and hang lights all over. Oh, brilliant!”

Crowley blushed with pleasure and deployed a defensively grouchy affect to hide it. "Yeah all right, no need to come over all giddy.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were gleaming. "You don’t fool me, you Scrooge. I’m going to buy you the most marvellous present.” He clapped his hands together in delight. 

“Nnnh. Yeah. Well, I’m not much of a gift giver, so don’t get your hopes up. It’ll be a bottle of M&S wine if you’re lucky.”

Aziraphale laughed and ate the last of his cake in a single bite.

When he got home that evening, Crowley kicked off his shoes, poured a large brandy, and flopped across the loveseat in front of some bad telly. But it wasn’t long before his attention started to drift away from Geordie Shore.

The day had gone well. Better than he had let himself hope it would. Aziraphale had been so thrilled at his proposal to spend Christmas together that he had called them family. Crowley couldn’t remember ever feeling like he had a family. There had only been her, and then not even that. 

Buoyed by this success, his traitorous imagination started drifting back over the events of the day and dreamily re-casting them.

They were wandering through the stalls of Covent Garden, but this time he had slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s and they had strolled around with their fingers intertwined. When they stopped in front of one of the displays and Aziraphale exclaimed in pleasure at the giant Christmas bells, Crowley gazed at him with open adoration and drew him into his arms. His angel’s lips were soft against his as they embraced in the cold, heedless of the crowds streaming around them. Aziraphale loved him, and it was easy, and comfortable, and when they went home that night they would go home together, and they would eat dinner together, and they would climb into bed together, and, and, and…

Shit. Fuck. He downed his drink and scrambled for the remote to turn the sodding television off.  Definitely shouldn’t be doing that. If he was ever going to be happy with what he could get from Aziraphale, he couldn’t torture himself with what he couldn’t get.

Crowley felt a familiar itch under his skin, but he was tired and cold from being out on foot all day, and didn't fancy going back out again. So, his defences battered by Aziraphale’s enthusiasm and the brandy, he grabbed his phone and did something he had not done in a long time.

It didn’t take long for Crowley to find someone receptive and relatively nearby. While he waited, he took the opportunity to turn off most of the lights and ingest a great deal more of the brandy. By the time the man knocked at his side door, Crowley was ready for him. 

He only got a vague look at the man before he seized him by the lapels and pushed him up against the barely-closed door. Crowley felt the man’s hands on his face as he crushed their lips together, wet and desperate. The man kissed back enthusiastically. He was slightly shorter than Crowley and pleasingly soft under his hands. Crowley felt like he was losing his mind. He dropped to his knees and scrabbled at the man’s belt buckle and flies. He could already feel the hard heat of him radiating through his jeans. 

“Holy shit,” said the man, banging his head back against the door. “Listen, I’m not being funny, it’s hot as fuck that you’re so into this, but I haven't even got my coat off yet, mate.” Crowley shot back up with a growl, pulled his own shirt off in one smooth motion, and turned to give the man something to watch as he walked away. “Bedroom’s this way”, he said, without turning around. The man chucked off his coat and shoes and scrambled after him.

By the time the man caught up to him in the bedroom, Crowley had stripped the rest of the way down. The man frantically pulled his own clothes off while Crowley concentrated on sucking the man's tongue into his mouth as hard as he could. Then he shoved the man onto the bed on his back and climbed over him. 

He bit at the man’s lips, neck, chest, stomach, and thighs like a starving animal before sucking him down without warning. He distantly registered the man’s shouts as he worked his cock with his tongue. Crowley loved doing this, and he knew he was good at it. 

After a few moments, he pulled off and spread himself over the man’s body. "I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispered into the man’s ear. The man moaned his assent and Crowley rolled him over. "Get on your hands and knees.” 

The man had, of course, come over for exactly this, so there was blessedly little preparation needed. Crowley pushed into him, carefully but relentlessly, and quickly worked up to a punishing pace. He held the man down by the shoulder and snapped his slim hips against him hard and fast, with no goal but to push them both to the edge as soon as possible. 

When he could tell by the man’s cries that he was starting to become desperate, he reached down and gave him his fist to fuck while Crowley continued to pound into him mercilessly.

It wasn’t much longer before the man was seizing hard around him, and then, for one brief and wonderful moment, Crowley’s mind was wiped entirely clean.

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke nude and aching, face down on the sheets. He cracked an eye open and saw that the bedside clock read 10:13 a.m. Shit, the shop. It should have been open at ten today, and he was meant to get his morning rounds of the animals done before then. Well, he’d need to cut into opening hours this time.

He reluctantly threw his legs over the side of the bed, turned to head towards the shower, and yelped in surprise. "What the fuck are you still doing here?!”

His shout had startled awake the man on the other side of his bed, who was groggily rubbing his eyes and trying to get his bearings.

“Oh, sorry mate, guess I passed out. To be fair, you did shag the entire fuck out of me,” he grinned. “All right, all right!” He raised his arms in defence as Crowley started chucking his clothes at him. "I’m gone. But er, feel free to message me again any time, aye?” He winked at Crowley cheekily as he pulled his pants on.

“Get. OUT!”

Crowley stood in the middle of his bedroom in the altogether, breathing heavily, until he heard the door slam shut. Then he stumbled for the bathroom, trying and failing to get his breathing under control.

What the fuck had he done? This wasn’t supposed to be how it worked. Some stranger had slept in his bed, and now he knew what the stranger’s face looked like in the morning light. He didn’t want to know that. He scrubbed at his own face as though he could erase the sight of it. Oh, shit. Of course, the man had also seen his face clearly, and without the sunglasses. This was a disaster.

Crowley peered at himself in the bathroom mirror. The same awful eyes as ever peered back at him. They were an exceedingly strange yellow colour with dark edges. His father’s eyes, his mother would tell him bitterly, and she never let him forget it. They made him look -- and feel -- cursed. Most people he knew as an adult had never really seen his eyes clearly. Even Aziraphale had never properly seen them. And now some random berk from Grindr had.

Crowley slammed his fist on the countertop, which hurt, then hosed himself down as quickly as possible in the shower and threw on his glasses and the first clothes he could find. The morning was off to a dreadful start and it was completely his own stupid fault. What had he been thinking, inviting a stranger into his own space, letting himself be caught with his guard down?

He hurried down the stairs that led to the shop with wet hair still a disaster and shirt half on. And then, somehow, unimaginably, his morning got even worse.

Aziraphale was standing outside the shop with a takeaway cup in each hand and his eyebrows practically in his hairline.

Bugger it all.

He quickly ran a hand through the long tangle of his hair to bring it under some kind of control, pulled his shirt down from where it had stuck to his damp torso, and sauntered over to unlock the shop door with an affected casualness. "Heyyya, Aziraphale! Little late getting started this morning, sorry. Is that for me?” He reached for the cup without the teabag string. Aziraphale let him take it, but didn’t move. "Umm… thanks. So, what’s –”

“Who was that young man who came out your side door a few minutes ago?”

“Hmmmnnn??” Fuck fuck bloody buggering shitting fuck. He took a swig of the coffee, which was so hot that he almost spit it back out.

“The young man. Coming out of your flat first thing in the morning tucking his shirt in.” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to his shower-damp hair.

“Ohh, yeah. Young man. That was, y’know, nggh. Nobody important. So um, how're the books today?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was starting to look increasingly stricken.

Crowley dropped the act with a sag. "Look, can we talk about this later? I’m really sorry, but I’m really, really behind this morning and I have to get to --” He waved his hand at the tanks behind him.

Aziraphale stared at him another long moment and then suddenly seemed to remember himself. He drew himself up with a breath and pasted on a smile. "Of course, dear. Wouldn’t want you to get… any further behind. Well, then. Best get a wiggle on. Turrah!” And with a slightly manic look, he spun around and fairly ran back to his own shop.

As soon as Aziraphale was out of sight, Crowley dropped the coffee cup and grabbed his hair with both hands. He stood in the middle of the spreading puddle of hot coffee, tipped his head back, and let out a roar of frustration at the uncaring heavens.

Crowley had mopped up the coffee in a daze, fed the animals in a daze, and was now sitting behind the counter, wishing he’d drunk the coffee instead of dropping it, in a daze.

A boy of about eleven had come into the shop, pulling his mother by the hand, and plastered himself against the tarantula tank in fascination.

“Scuse me, sir? What do tarantulas eat?”

Crowley dragged his eyeballs over to the boy and scowled at him. The boy was not put off.

“Do they eat crickets? There are loads of crickets in our garden. How big do they get? If I put one on my sister, will it bite her? My friend Brian at school says –"

Crowley suddenly made a decision. "Right, shop's closed. Out you go."

The mother looked up at him in surprise. "What? It's not even noon and Google said you're meant to be open until five --"

Crowley was standing now and crowding them out the front door. "Yes, terribly sorry, shop emergency you see, can't be helped. Bye!" He slammed the door behind them and locked it, turning the 'open' sign over with a flourish.

He ran up the stairs to his flat to tie his hair up properly into a neat bun and throw on a blazer. That would have to do.

About twenty minutes later, he was pushing open the door of the bookshop. Alerted by the tinkle of the bell, Aziraphale looked up from his desk, where he had been sitting and staring at a blank piece of paper through a small pair of reading spectacles.

Crowley stood awkwardly in the middle of the shop and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah… hi."

Aziraphale stood and carefully arranged his hands behind his back. "Hello, Crowley. How may I help you?" His voice was terribly polite.

Crowley hoisted the peace offering he was holding in his left hand. "Brought some sushi. Kind you like, with the jiggly yellow bits." He looked at Aziraphale uncertainly. "Thought we might, um, do lunch?"

Aziraphale eyed the box and sighed. "Of course. That's very kind of you. Let me flip the sign and we can take lunch in the back room."

Crowley dipped his head in relief and headed to the back to unpack the box.

They settled in to the lunch in a brittle silence. Crowley was stabbing a maki roll to pieces with a chopstick.

"Listen --"

"You don't owe me an explanation, Crowley. Your personal life is your own business. I apologise for my reaction. I was just… a little wrong-footed."

Aziraphale looked calm as he said this, but Crowley knew his expressions inside and out and could read a stoic melancholy there. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Nah, s'not… I know I don't owe you an explanation, angel. But I'd like to give you one anyway, if you'll let me."

Aziraphale kept his eyes on his food and gave a small nod.

Crowley chewed on his lip and tried to think how to start. "Aziraphale, I wasn't trying to keep anything from you. We-ell, I was, but not, y'know, that, necessarily." He finished dismembering the maki roll and started swirling some wasabi around pointlessly. "I've had all kinds of partners in my life. Been a long time since I was ashamed of that part of me."

Aziraphale looked at him earnestly and opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and remained silent.

"If you'd have asked, I wouldn't have hidden it from you. Just never came up, did it. And I thought… maybe it was just as well you didn't know. You were in a relationship, and I didn't want to be seen as some kind of… potential intruder. Not that there was any actual risk of that," he added quickly. "You know, friends and all, just… didn't want anyone getting the wrong impression." He swallowed and cast a glance sideways at his friend.

Aziraphale was looking unhappier by the moment. "Right. We wouldn't… we wouldn't have wanted that. The wrong impression."

"Yeah."

A silence.

Aziraphale frowned at his plate. "But… my relationship ended months ago. Surely you could have told me since then that you're seeing someone?"

Crowley gaped at him. "Seeing some--? Aziraphale, I'm not seeing anyone. I don't even know that bloke's name."

"Oh."

"I'm just... I'm just a fucking mess." He ran a hand over his mouth. "That's more the part I wasn't too keen on sharing, honestly. It's a little embarrassing at my age to be drunkenly pulling strangers because I can't…" He didn't know how to end that sentence.

Aziraphale was still staring at his food. "I see," he said quietly.

His eyes were sad. It made Crowley's gut twist horribly. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"My dear, there's no need to apologise. Like I said, it's not really any of my business. I just didn't-- I never thought that... well, anyway. Thank you for sharing with me." He pursed his lips and considered his lunch another moment before finally looking up. "Would you like a bite of this unagi? It's quite good."

Crowley conceded and popped a piece into his mouth. It was good.

Chapter Text

The bookshop had been transformed into something uncommonly wonderful.

The whole place was strung with fairy lights, low and warm. These reflected in the golden tinsel hung in delicate loops between the tops of the tall bookshelves, creating the effect of a shimmering canopy. Gentle hymns floated from the gramophone and the air smelled of baking.

Crowley paused a moment to soak it in as he shouldered the door of the shop open. It was like a tiny piece of a cosy heaven dreamt up by a hobbit.

The effect was heightened by the gentle fall of snowflakes outside the tall windows of the shop. It would be a white Christmas, or at least as close as London was likely to get to such a thing.

Crowley shook the snow from his hair like a dog, his arms being otherwise occupied with several grocery bags, and made his way up the metal spiral staircase to Aziraphale's living quarters. "Oi, angel! I'm here!"

"Come through to the kitchen! Oh, you certainly are here, along with half of Sainsbury's apparently."

Crowley grinned from behind the armful of shopping. "I come bearing provisions."

"My hero."

"Where d'you want these? I think I found everything on your list."

"And a little more besides, I imagine."

"I admit nothing." Crowley watched with pleasure as Aziraphale sorted through the bags, uncovering all the extra bits Crowley had included on impulse because he knew Aziraphale would like them.

"Hang on, this bag is from Fortnum's. Oh, you didn't! You shouldn't have!" Aziraphale clutched a large tin of Royal Blend tea to his chest and gave a delighted little shimmer.

"Wait'll you see what's in the pastry box."

"You wiley old serpent, how dare you spoil me so shamelessly?"

"S'Christmas, angel. I'm obligated by law."

"Is this my present, then?"

"You wish."

Aziraphale was holding the Fortnum & Mason pastry box at arm's length like it might bite him. "I can't open this now or dinner will never get made."

"It'll keep. Hand me the potatoes, will you?"

Crowley started peeling while Aziraphale checked the oven and unpacked the rest of the bags. They had never cooked together before, but it felt effortless to coordinate their movements around the kitchen - chopping, stirring, handing each other ingredients unbidden, moving things in and out of the oven like a ballet, the whole thing pleasantly lubricated with an excellent Shiraz from Crowley's haul.

By the time evening had truly settled in, Aziraphale's small kitchen was laden with fragrant dishes: squash soup, roast quail with Brussels sprouts and chestnuts, caramelised onion mash, honeyed carrots, and cranberry sauce. Aziraphale had also baked some fresh bread and a sheet of ginger cookies. It was all much more than two people could possibly hope to eat.

Aziraphale had set up a table on the charmingly decorated main floor of the bookshop as promised, complete with a white table cloth and a candelabra that had appeared from god knew where. If Crowley were the type to torture himself, he might describe it as romantic.

They settled in at the table to enjoy the fruits of their labour, and even Crowley couldn't help but tuck in with vigour.

"Whaddya think, angel, food good enough to make up for being stuck with me at Christmas?"

Aziraphale made to protest, until he saw the little smirk on Crowley's face. "You know perfectly well how charming your company is, you fiend. As well as your cooking. Now stop fishing for compliments and pass me the carrots.”

They ate their fill, chatting and laughing easily. Afterwards, they relocated to the sitting area with a glass each of port and the box of delicate pastries. Aziraphale lit a fire in the grate of the small hearth, and the light it cast danced over their faces as they reclined next to each other on the sofa.

Aziraphale sighed with contentment into his port glass. "This has been so lovely." He was silent a moment before continuing. "I don't think I ever told you this, but Gabriel and I got into such a terrible row last Christmas that he left in the middle of dinner and didn't come back until the next afternoon. I don't even remember what the argument was about. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"God, what a wanker. I can't tell you how glad I am that you chucked him, 'ziraphale."

"Ah well, bygones." He twisted his mouth and picked at an invisible spot on his sleeve. A slow flush had spread up his neck and face. "You know, it's funny. I'm so much happier here with you, tonight, than I ever was with him."

Crowley didn't know what to say to that. He felt something hot seeping through his chest. Perhaps he'd been stabbed.

Aziraphale finally looked up from his sleeve and over at Crowley. "May I… may I ask you something?"

"Anything, angel." Crowley's voice wasn't working right.

"You needn't answer if you don't want to. I don't mean to overstep. But, why do you…" He reached out and gently touched the side of Crowley's sunglasses, near his temple.

Crowley stared at him, unmoving.

"I'm sorry, that was too presumptuous of me, wasn't it? I've always assumed it was something quite personal."

"No, s'fine," Crowley croaked. "You can, um. Take them off, if you like."

Aziraphale's eyes were very wide and grey in the firelight. His hand returned to hover at the side of Crowley's head. "Are you quite sure? You really don't have to --"

"Yeah, said it's fine, din'I, just…"

Aziraphale paused for another moment and then brought up both his hands to carefully slip the glasses off of Crowley's face.

They stared at each other. Crowley felt completely flayed open, like he had shed his very skin and was presenting his pink and vulnerable insides for Aziraphale to devour.

"Oh," Aziraphale whispered, barely audible.

Crowley collapsed under the weight of the eye contact and turned his head away. "Yeah. I don't. Ggk. Try not to subject people to. This. More than necessary."

Aziraphale hadn't moved, and seemed to have stopped breathing as well. He reached out to Crowley's face where it was turned away, and gently cupped his chin to turn it back towards him. His fingers burned hot against Crowley's skin. Crowley let his face be turned, but squeezed his eyes shut helplessly in cowardice.

"Crowley. Your-- they're stunning, why do you..."

Crowley took a shuddering breath and snatched up his glasses where they had fallen on the sofa, and slipped them back on before Aziraphale could protest. "You don't need to do that, Aziraphale. S'all right. I'm used to it."

"But…"

"Just drop it, would you?" It came out harsher than he intended. "Sorry, m'sorry."

"Of course. I shouldn't have pushed."

Aziraphale. Always so patient and kind. Crowley couldn't begin to imagine what he had done to earn this gentle presence in his life. Of course he wouldn't push Crowley's boundaries, much less make snide comments about his weird eyes. Suddenly Crowley couldn't remember what he had been afraid of.

"You didn't. I'm just. Mff. Not used to people seeing 'em. My mother used to tell me they were a curse from my useless, deadbeat father, and then I was bullied over them at school, and I just... yeah. Prefer not to show 'em to people. Unless it's, er, someone I really trust, which..." his voice died out. 

"Oh, my dear. Well, I think they're a blessing," Aziraphale beamed. "Like sunlight itself."

Crowley scoffed and elbowed him, but his face betrayed his shy pleasure at the compliment.

They stared at the fire in comfortable silence for a few more moments.

"Oh, er-- d'you want your present?"

"Oh, yes please! But, one moment, let me go get yours as well."

Aziraphale went over to his desk and unlocked one of the drawers. When he returned to the sofa, he was holding a small oblong box wrapped in reflective silver foil and tied with a red ribbon. He handed it to Crowley, who in turn reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and produced a thin envelope.

"Er, you go first."

Aziraphale didn't need to be told twice. He quickly opened the envelope with an excited little scrunch of his face and pulled out two tickets. "Rebecca?! Oh, Crowley! How did you know?"

Crowley felt a blush creeping over him. Knowing Aziraphale's pleasure was his favourite hobby. Too obvious? "You love du Maurier and the West End. Seemed appropriate."

"Well I absolutely cannot wait. We can make an evening out of it!"

"Oh, well, I didn't mean-- that is, you can give the second ticket to whoever you like… a date, or…"

"Nonsense," Aziraphale cut him off. "You're coming with me and we're going to have a splendid time. Thank you ever so much. Now, yours."

Crowley pulled distractedly on the ribbon, his mind still on the way Aziraphale's eyes had lit up at the tickets. That was all the present he needed. Whatever was in this box would just be --

Oh. They were… beautiful. The lenses were round and very black, attached to the front side of the frame by small screws rather than being set into it, and the sides bore shields of filigreed metal. A work of art. He could tell right away they had cost far more than he ever would have spent himself.

Crowley felt a terrible choking sensation starting up.

Aziraphale was looking at him with a little pinch of worry on his brow. "Do you like them? They, er, reminded me of you."

He hadn't even known why the sunglasses were important to Crowley. Just that they were.

"Ange-- they… yes, I, that is to say…" He swallowed hard. "They're gorgeous. You shouldn't have -- I mean, I don't --" He raised his eyebrows in supplication.

Aziraphale huffed a small laugh of relief and came to his rescue. "You're welcome, my dear. Happy Christmas."

Crowley slid the cheap plastic frames off his face for the second time that night and looked Aziraphale in the eyes, unguarded, shameless. "Happy Christmas, angel." Then he slipped on his new shades and broke into a wide grin. "How do I look?"

Aziraphale raised one cheeky eyebrow and smiled back at him. "Like trouble."

Chapter Text

"Double espresso, extra long I think."

Nina nodded curtly and began packing the grinds. Crowley saw her glance over his shoulder. "Oi, your man friend's just walked in, and he's in a bit of a state."

"He's not my -- what?" He turned around and saw Aziraphale walking into the café, looking stricken. His hair was rumpled on one side in a way that Crowley knew meant he'd been nervously running his hand through it. He turned back to Nina. "Better add a large earl grey and a couple of chocolate biscuits to that."

Nina gave him a knowing look and got to work.

"Hey angel, what's cracking? You look like you've been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Oh, hello Crowley. Funny you should say that. I…" He didn't seem to be about to finish his sentence, so Crowley took him by the elbow and steered him to a table.

"Sit. Talk. No, wait a moment --" He turned to Nina as she approached and helped her unload their drinks and the plate of biscuits onto the table, then sprawled himself across the chair opposite. "Okay, now talk."

Aziraphale looked down at the big mug of tea in front of him as though it had materialised from thin air. "Yes, quite," he said to himself. "That's what I came… tea." He stared at it another moment, as though trying to recall what to do with it.

"Yeah, I find a nice long look at a cuppa tea always helps. You might even consider drinking it." He waited until Aziraphale started back into action and took a restorative draught, eyes closing briefly in relief. "Right. What's wrong?"

"I've just received something very peculiar in the post."

"How peculiar are we talking? Scientology DVD? Catalogue of women's underthings?"

"Invitation to Gabriel's wedding."

"What?"

Aziraphale took another sip of tea, his hand shaking slightly. He placed it carefully back on the saucer before he spoke again. "Yes. Rather short notice. It seems he got engaged about six weeks after we… parted ways."

Crowley goggled at him, several questions wrestling their way towards his mouth at once. "To who? And why the fuck is he inviting you?!"

Aziraphale chewed slowly on a bite of biscuit. "To a… friend of ours. Of his. Quite a close friend. It seemed to me. Someone we knew for years. Crowley, I can't help but wonder -- that is to say, so quickly --? Surely it wasn't, I mean, he didn't…"

Crowley was going to pull that prick's limbs off with hot pincers. "Jesus Christ. I'm sorry, angel."

Aziraphale nodded slowly and started in on the second biscuit. "I rather think I've been even more of a fool than I realised, these past few years." He ignored Crowley's indignant vocalisations at this. "And to your other question, I can't imagine there was any purpose to the invitation other than to, what's the expression, rub it in my face. He can't possibly expect me to actually attend. The wedding's just this weekend, on New Year's Eve."

Crowley was vibrating with rage now. He slammed his espresso back and jumped to his feet to pace around, feeling like an attack dog on a short leash. "I'll fucking kill him. That great, bloody… I'll kill him."

Aziraphale caught his sleeve and looked up at him pleadingly. "Crowley, dear. Do sit down. He's not worth your righteous fury, although I appreciate the sentiment."

Crowley dropped back into his seat with a growl and channelled his energy into his left leg, bouncing it up and down so aggressively that it shook the table. "Fuck him. He can't treat you like this. You can't let him get to you. We'll… we'll do something extra special for New Year's, keep your mind off it."

Aziraphale stared desolately at the empty biscuit plate. "I'm not sure I'm going to be up for that, actually. I think I might just need... a night in to myself." He made a rueful noise that tried to be a laugh. "Perhaps a bottle of wine and some Shostakovich, give myself a good talking to for having wasted so much of my life on him."

"No. No. Listen -- Aziraphale, listen to me. Getting pissed by yourself in your flat over some bloke isn't going to make you feel better. Er… take it from me." He flushed suddenly at that last bit and rubbed at his jaw self-consciously. Better power through. "He made you feel like shit so many times, don't let him do it again."

"Perhaps. Let me think on it?"

"Course. But… dinner tonight, at least? Keep your mind off it for a little? We could try that new Korean place."

"I'm sorry, Crowley, I really do appreciate you wanting to make things better, but I think I need a little time to myself, to have a good think."

"Right. Yeah." Of course he needed some time to himself. This whole thing wasn't, in fact, actually any of Crowley's business. "Well… let me know," he finished, lamely.

"Yes." Aziraphale was starting to look absent again. "Thank you for the tea..."

Crowley watched him wander back out of the café with a growing sense of unease.

By the afternoon of the 31st, Crowley still hadn't heard another word from his friend. That settled that, he supposed. Aziraphale obviously needed some time alone to deal with his personal problems without Crowley clinging to him like a limpet.

That was fine. It would be fine. He was used to doing this alone. He would disappear into the wild anonymity of the night and commit the latest wasted year to oblivion.

He picked up his phone and started browsing for the type of nightclub event he usually favoured at New Year's. There was certainly no shortage of choices in Soho.

By nightfall, he was putting the finishing touches on his outfit. He always felt extra dramatic at New Year's, but this year his desperation to forget made him feel as though he were possessed by a wild and dark spirit.

The spirit had chosen something from the back of Crowley's closet that he hadn't taken out in ages: a stunning kaftan made of soft, heavy, black satin that flowed all the way down to his ankles and had dramatically wide sleeves. The satin was shot through in places with fine red threads that formed sweeping sections of intricate patterns. The front was fully open, but secured at his waist with a silver clasp in the form of a snake, creating a deep V over his exposed chest.

It had been a gift from a fashion designer that he had dated briefly many years prior. Back then he had worn it with nothing underneath. Tonight, though, he layered it over skintight black leather trousers and tall black suede boots with heels that added a few more decadent inches to his long legs. The bare slice of his chest he overlaid with several necklaces of different lengths in black and silver.

He had been growing out his auburn hair recently, pulling it back into a neat bun every day. Tonight, though, he let it flow loosely over his shoulders, interrupted only by a single dramatic braid arching over his right ear that strategically kept his hair back so that the small tattoo below his sideburn remained visible.

His fingernails and lips were painted dark red to match the subtle designs on his kaftan. The beautiful black and silver sunglasses from Aziraphale finished off the look.

Crowley appraised himself in the full-length mirror.  Indulging in a bit of androgyny always made him feel sexy and powerful. When he moved, the sleeves of the kaftan trailed behind him like enormous black wings. 

He was ready.

As soon as he strode into the club, he knew he had chosen well. The chaos of a very gothic, very queer party was in full swing. Crowds of elaborately made-up people were dancing with wild delirium in the flashing lights, while others draped themselves languidly over ornate furniture in dark corners with their lovers.

It was like a drag party in hell. Crowley was in his element.

He quickly downed two shots of vodka and made his way to the dance floor. Eager bodies pressed against his, and curious hands slipped under his kaftan to feel the spare lines of him. Crowley let them do as they pleased while he danced with abandon. There were no angels here.

He lost track of time in the windowless void of the club, drifting from one dance partner to another as they clutched at him. Eventually, he was following someone into a shadowy corner for a couple of lines of something wonderful. A rush of sparkling, liquid ecstasy broke over the top of his skull and cascaded down his body. He felt blissfully free.

When the someone started running their hands over his body and kissing his skin, it sent electric bolts zinging through him. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, chasing the feeling.

But after only a few minutes, the synthetic pleasure had already begun to fade.

He opened his eyes and found himself on his back on a maroon brocade chaise longue, with a stranger pressing down on him. Their eyes are the wrong colour, he thought wildly.

Then, the stranger made the fatal mistake of reaching for his sunglasses. Panic raced through him. He sat up abruptly and pushed the person off.

This was all wrong. What am I doing here?

Crowley bolted for the door and pushed his way into the night, gulping at the fresh air. He had to get out of there.

He pulled his mobile out of his back pocket to check the time. A cab would certainly be impossible at this hour, but it wasn't terribly far, and the night air would help him sober up.

He crossed his arms over his chest, covering himself in the long satin sleeves, and started walking.

Chapter Text

By the time he reached the bookshop, his head was feeling considerably clearer. The door was locked, but it didn't take Aziraphale long to respond to his urgent rapping.

Aziraphale pulled open the door and gaped at him. "Crowley? Is that you? Good lord." His eyes travelled up and down, taking in the dramatic get-up, before he stepped aside and let him in.

There was an open bottle of wine on the table by the sofa and Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2 was playing on the gramophone, as promised. He did love his predictable pleasures.

"Hiya, angel."

"What in heaven's name are you doing here, and where exactly did you come from? Good lord," he repeated, taking another visual tour of Crowley's ensemble. "I can't believe I ever thought you were straight."

Crowley barked out a laugh at that. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me. Aziraphale," he continued more seriously, "I'm sorry I'm late. I should have come directly here."

"What do you mean? I told you I would be having a night in. I don't actually know why you're here at all, instead of out having… fun." He sounded doubtful about that last part.

"Yeah, I know, but forget all that. I made a mistake, going out and leaving you here to deal with… with today on your own. I told myself I was just giving you what you wanted, but… I know what it feels like, to suffer heartbreak alone. If you ever needed a friend, it’s now. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Aziraphale's eyes were tired and red-rimmed, and Crowley could see intoxication and barely-dried tears in them. "Oh, Crowley. Thank you, but you really don't need to ruin your evening to babysit my pity party. I'll be fine. You go back out and have fun, as you should. As you… as you deserve."

"And what do you deserve, angel?"

Aziraphale stared at him helplessly, unable to answer.

Emboldened by the remains of the substances in his bloodstream, Crowley pulled him roughly into a hug, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing him close. Aziraphale carefully brought his arms up as well, hesitating on how to handle the kaftan and finally deciding to go around the outside of it to encircle Crowley’s waist.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and drank in the solid warmth of him against his body for a moment. Then, he released him, but kept his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and dipped down to peer into his eyes. "It’s love, angel.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale replied faintly.

“What you deserve. What you’ve always deserved. And to hell with anyone who can’t see that.”

Aziraphale cast his eyes downward. "Yes. Well. Be that as it may, we don’t always get what we deserve.”

Crowley grunted in frustration. "Grab your coat, right now. We're going out."

Aziraphale appraised him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision and went to do as he was told.

Crowley swiped the mostly-full bottle of wine from the table. "Come on then, follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?"

They wandered together through Soho and down into St. James Park in companionable silence. The evening was cool and still, and the sound of distant revellers floated through the air. As they walked, their hands bumped lightly together from time to time. Crowley couldn’t believe he had almost given this up.

They passed the pond where they had once spent a summer afternoon feeding frozen peas to the ducks. Crowley remembered Aziraphale’s easy laugh at the ducks’ antics, and, later, the way the sun’s last rays had caught his face.

On impulse, Crowley led them down past Westminster to the shore of the Thames. By silent agreement they gravitated to the nearest bench and sat together to look out over the water. Across the river, the London Eye was lit dramatically against the night sky. They handed the wine bottle back and forth, drinking directly out of it.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, who looked wan and tired. He inched a little closer and bumped him with his shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts, angel?"

Aziraphale kept his eyes on the river, but pressed back against the warmth of Crowley's arm. He looked as though he were having difficulty gathering himself. "I told you a few days ago that I needed a think," he started slowly. "And I had one. A long one. I thought about Gabriel, and who I had been when I was with him, how weak and unhappy I was. And I thought about how you saw a different version of me, a braver, more worthy one, and helped me to see it too. And how that set me free from him. I thought about… about that stronger version of me, and I realised that I've been very unfair to you." He paused and took a deep drink from the bottle.

"Unfair? To me? What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Aziraphale, "I mean, that I used your gift of courage to benefit myself, but I have not been giving you the same courtesy." Aziraphale finally turned and looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes. He was only a few inches away.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up off his face and into his hair. With the dark lenses out of the way, he was hit with the full splendour of London's festive lights. They were reflecting off the water and streaking the halo of Aziraphale's hair with pink and blue. Crowley's heart squeezed hard in his chest.

Aziraphale peered at him earnestly with a small, pained smile. "There you are. Hello."

"Hello," Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale's expressive face was wretched. "Crowley. My dearest friend. You make me a better version of myself than I ever knew was possible. And in return, I’m afraid I have repaid you only with cowardice. The very least that I owe you is the truth. Even if it is painful. Even if… even if it takes you away from me."

Aziraphale gazed at him beseechingly and it finally hit Crowley, with staggering force, that what was pouring out of Aziraphale's eyes was adoration. Undeniable. Fierce. Crowley felt unmoored in the tide of it.

But it was also heavily tinged with sadness. No, no no no. No more sadness for his angel.

"Crowley." Aziraphale drew in a deep, fortifying breath. "I…"

Crowley kissed him.

Distantly, in another world, the sky above the river erupted in fireworks.

Chapter Text

Crowley was falling, falling, through a great swirling dark vortex, a rushing sound in his ears, every nerve on fire. Aziraphale’s lips were soft and cold, and sweet with wine.

Crowley’s hands came up to cup his angel’s face as he kissed him gently. He felt an answering hand slip into his long, loose hair, while another slid under his kaftan and gripped his ribcage. Their knees pressed together on the worn bench. 

Aziraphale broke the kiss and came up for air like a drowning man, but didn’t remove his hands. 

They stared at each other helplessly.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, rather dumbly. 

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Always, angel.”

“Then… kiss me.”

Crowley did as he was told. 

The second kiss warmed quickly into something less chaste. They opened their mouths against each other and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s tongue, hot and wet, lick assertively into him.  Crowley’s narrow chest was heaving with the effort of getting enough oxygen to his frantic heart. 

Aziraphale pressed hot, open kisses along Crowley’s jaw and behind his ear, sending tremors through his limbs.

“My darling Crowley," he murmured brokenly. "How I have wanted you.” His voice was low, lower than Crowley had heard it before, adoring and possessive. Crowley was lost to it. The kisses travelled softly across his face like a benediction. 

Crowley couldn’t answer with words. He lifted his arms and wrapped the long, draping sleeves of the robe around Aziraphale in a warm, dark cocoon, clutching him as closely as possible.

The hand that was in Crowley’s hair tightened, and the other began to run slowly up the length of his thigh. He thought that perhaps his atoms were beginning to drift apart. 

A jeering whoop suddenly jolted them back into reality. Crowley noticed for the first time that drunken party-goers were streaming past their bench, dispersing from the midnight celebrations to finish their evenings somewhere warmer.

Aziraphale released his hair with a little laugh and leaned into the circle of his arms. They sat a few moments longer, quietly, a black satin huddle against the dark bench, before Aziraphale sighed and stood up. "Come on. Take me home.”

They rose and joined the stream of bodies winding its way into Westminster. Aziraphale’s hand was in his, fingers intertwined. He couldn’t stop glancing over at his angel, at the beautiful flush on his cheeks and that gentle radiance he always seemed to emanate. Aziraphale caught him at it, and they both broke into embarrassed and relieved laughter. It felt so easy.

The crowds were too loud around them to allow for much talking, so Crowley took a moment to give his rushing thoughts a chance to catch up. They all came colliding against each other at once, like a rubber band snapping back against itself.

He thought back to Aziraphale’s interrupted confession, replaying it in his mind like a film of someone else’s life. Aziraphale had thought Crowley was going to reject him and push him away. Regret burned through his chest as he realised he had given him every reason to expect that. The casual lovers, the secrecy around his own inclinations. The careful physical distance.

But somehow, somehow, he had earned the love of this fussy, brilliant, kind creature. He resolved to make himself worthy of it. 

They eventually reached the bookshop door, hands still intertwined. Crowley finally realised that they had abandoned the wine bottle by the bench, and that he had not replaced his sunglasses on his face. He couldn’t bring himself to care about either, because Aziraphale was looking at him with the entire evening written on his face. 

“You’ll come in, of course.” It wasn’t a question. 

He suddenly felt strangely shy. "If you want.”

“I do.”

It was dark and low again. Crowley flushed. 

Aziraphale unlocked the door and led him into the darkened bookshop. The door clicked shut behind them. Aziraphale slowly removed his coat, returning it carefully to its hook behind the door, and turned back to where Crowley was rooted to the floor.

“You said that I deserve love.” He stepped closer. "Perhaps you were right.” Another step. "But I wonder whether you also believe that of yourself.” He had reached Crowley now, and was slowly slipping his hands below the robe to hold him by the hips. "You precious creature. Has anyone ever loved you as you deserve?”

His fingers tightened and he started to walk Crowley backwards, towards the sofa, all the while kissing him softly on his long neck, his sharp collarbones, the exposed part of his chest. 

Crowley was at sea. He had never felt like this with a lover, this overwhelming feeling of certainty and safety that was breaking him open. It was like letting out a breath he had been holding his whole life. He was drunk on it, his head dizzy, his body loose and pliant.

He felt the backs of his legs hit the sofa, and Aziraphale pushed at his hips lightly so that he fell bonelessly backward onto the seat. 

Aziraphale stepped between his open knees and looked down at him with soft eyes. Crowley was hooked, helpless.

The angel’s hand came down on his head like a blessing, plucking his glasses off and placing them carefully aside. Fingers slipped back into his long hair, gentle but sure. "Gorgeous. You are so gorgeous, my own.”

The words slid through Crowley like syrup.

Aziraphale’s trousers were inches from his face, and in the moonlight that streamed through the windows of the darkened shop, Crowley could see them straining with his arousal. It was for him. His angel wanted him. He locked his eyes back onto Aziraphale’s and slowly tipped forward to close the gap. 

Aziraphale inhaled sharply when Crowley’s hot mouth made contact with the fabric over his hardness. Crowley caught the lust flashing across his grey-blue eyes.

The hand in his hair tightened again, and Crowley groaned against him. Aziraphale jerked at the sensation. 

“Please,” Crowley whispered. “Please let me…”

“Very well, darling. Anything for you.” Aziraphale opened his flies with his free hand and drew himself out. Crowley barely had a chance to see the cock before it was fed into his open mouth, but he could feel how it sat heavy and thick on his tongue, how his lips distorted around it. He placed his shaking hands on Aziraphale’s hips, not pulling or squeezing, just resting lightly as though bound in place. 

Crowley moved slowly on his cock, keeping his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s, trying desperately to communicate just the smallest piece of the feelings that were flooding through him. 

Both of Aziraphale’s hands were in his hair now, holding him on each side, fingers curling tightly against his scalp. Crowley heard himself whine in frustration.

“More?”

He nodded as best he could, drool seeping from the stretched corners of his mouth. Aziraphale held his head in place and began to thrust, gently, careful not to choke him. 

It had been a long time since Crowley had done it like this. He usually took charge, never relaxed or trusting enough with partners to really cede any control to them. But this, this felt like floating underwater. He trusted his angel implicitly.

Aziraphale’s thumbs were at the sides of his jaw, rubbing small circles there, while he took his pleasure. Crowley could tell he was taking care not to hurt or overwhelm him.

He shut his eyes and let himself be used, revelling in the sounds Aziraphale was making, and suffering the sharp, delicious agony of being desperately hard in his tight trousers with no relief in sight. 

At length, Aziraphale reluctantly stopped and withdrew, pulling himself back from the edge. Crowley panted like he had just run a mile while Aziraphale released his hair and ran soothing hands across his head and his face. "Let’s go upstairs, you extraordinary thing.” 

Crowley nodded in agreement but was not sure he would be able to comply. Every muscle in his body felt loose and liquid. Aziraphale laughed and tugged at his hand.

“Come on, up you come.”

Crowley’s every thought was on pleasing his angel, so he sternly commanded his body to make best efforts. Aziraphale held him around the waist, and together they made their way up.

He had never seen Aziraphale’s bedroom before. He didn’t register much of it now, in the semi-darkness, except for the softly furnished double bed. 

Aziraphale ran his hands over the satiny folds of the kaftan. "This is beautiful, by the way. Could you… could you keep it on a while longer?” 

Crowley smiled impishly at him and sat on the edge of the bed to unzip his boots. Aziraphale watched him, transfixed, as he lifted off his necklaces and stripped away the leather trousers, under which he wore no pants. He unclasped the kaftan at his waist and sprawled backwards on the bed, displaying himself against the black satin of the open robe, cock hard, hair spread out around his head in tousled red waves.

Aziraphale took him in with a hungry look in his eyes that made Crowley feel like a feast.

"You are temptation incarnate, my dear," Aziraphale whispered reverently.

A pang of arousal zipped through Crowley's pelvis.

Aziraphale leaned over him, one knee on the bed. He ran his fingertips curiously over what was visible of the snake tattoo, tracing from its head on Crowley's collarbone to where it disappeared under the shoulder of the kaftan. Then he leaned in and gently bit at the spot where its tattooed fangs appeared to sink into flesh. Crowley gasped and felt his nipples pebble.

Aziraphale’s hands slid down his nude sides. "What do you want, dearest? Tell me what you desire.” 

Crowley gulped air. "Can I… can I see you?” 

Aziraphale laughed musically. "Of course, darling, that’s a given.” He started unbuttoning and removing layers of clothing. There were so many of them. Crowley sat up and watched as they slowly disappeared. Then Aziraphale was standing before him, unselfconsciously, gloriously naked. 

Crowley took in the soft, strong curves of him silhouetted in moonlight. The kind of body the Italians had desperately painted over and over. Crowley thought he had never looked more angelic. Not in the manner of a cherub, but of the kind of powerful angel that you’d expect to be carrying a flaming sword. 

For a moment, Crowley felt like a small and craven thing next to him, with his boney shoulders and cursed eyes. Then Aziraphale sat next to him and ran the back of his hand over his face like he was something precious, and stared into those unlucky eyes with the same unfiltered adoration Crowley had seen by the river.

Aziraphale held the eye contact while he ran a hand up the inside of Crowley’s thigh. "I will ask you again. What do you want, Crowley?”

“I… I want…" His voice shook. He felt embarrassingly shy, nothing like his usual confident and aggressive persona. He cleared his throat and briefly closed his eyes. "I want you in me." He whispered it like a confession.

He heard Aziraphale’s breath hitch. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was rough velvet in Crowley’s ear. “I was hoping you would say that.” Aziraphale kissed him hungrily, sucking on his tongue and nipping at his swollen lips. Crowley wondered if he could taste himself there.

He took the opportunity to get his own hands on Aziraphale’s skin, finally, running them down his sides and through his blond chest hair.

Aziraphale pressed him back against the mattress and slid a heavy thigh between his, cupping Crowley’s head with both hands as he kissed him. “You always take such good care of me,” Aziraphale whispered against his mouth. “Now you need someone to take care of you, don’t you?”

Crowley whimpered. Please, he thought. Please please please.

Aziraphale seemed to understand. He wrapped his hand around Crowley’s straining cock and gently but firmly pulled over it from root to tip a couple of times. It jolted through Crowley’s system, making him keen against Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Just beautiful. My perfect darling,” Aziraphale mumbled. 

None of this was going anything like Crowley had ever imagined it might. It was surprising and brilliant, and precisely what he never knew he needed.

Aziraphale tore himself away and stood. "Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Oh, and you may want to take that lovely robe off now, so we don’t make a mess of it.”

Crowley shivered and shoved the kaftan carelessly off his shoulders and onto the floor. Then he climbed properly up the bed and reclined with his head against the pillows, waiting for his lover. 

Aziraphale rummaged briefly through a bedside drawer, and then returned to him. They lay facing each other on their sides, Aziraphale’s face pillowed against one bent arm, his other hand stroking long and gentle lines down Crowley’s side.

Crowley wrapped his arms around his angel’s neck and nuzzled against his face. Aziraphale started rubbing soothing circles on his flank.

“Are you ready, darling?” 

Crowley hummed contentedly, feeling drugged. He hitched his upper leg over Aziraphale’s soft hip and shifted closer until their bodies were fully pressed together. 

Aziraphale busied himself with something behind him, then turned back and ran his hand under Crowley’s elevated leg. They resumed kissing, softly and slowly this time, just drinking each other in. Crowley felt one slick finger sweep gently through the valley of his flesh and over his pucker.

The sensations of being prepared melted into the swirling fog of touch stimulus that was enveloping his entire body. Aziraphale was methodical and slow, taking great care while he worked him thoroughly open. 

Crowley jerked his hips and gasped, unable to take much more. "Angel,” he moaned. “Want you, please.” 

“Of course, my love.” Aziraphale’s voice was raspy with desire. He withdrew his hand and sat up, and Crowley could see that he was stained pink from the tops of his cheeks all the way down his torso. Aziraphale arranged a couple of pillows in front of the headboard and reclined against them, then pulled Crowley easily into his lap. "Come here, you beautiful creature.” 

They kissed, desperate and messy now, as Crowley shakily lifted himself on his knees. The air felt heavy and liquid around him. Aziraphale reached down and guided him onto his cock, which was wet with slick and fluid.

Crowley remembered the girth that had stretched his lips earlier as he slowly lowered himself. He willed himself to take deep breaths and relax, bearing down as the cockhead breached him.

Aziraphale’s fingers were digging into his spare thighs with the effort of holding still. Crowley groaned urgently as he continued to push downward, slowly spearing himself open. 

He felt his muscles fluttering and spasming as they struggled to accommodate the cock inside him. After a few moments, they began to relax.

“All right?” asked Aziraphale tightly.

Crowley nodded, unable to spare the brainpower to form words. Aziraphale’s soft hands wrapped around his narrow hips and encouraged them as Crowley began to move slowly up and down on him.

“There you are, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

Crowley was only too happy to comply. He hadn’t bottomed in years and his body was letting him know it, but in the haze of his lust the burning drag was exquisite.

He leaned forward to plant one hand next to Aziraphale’s head and slip the other under his neck, holding him close as he ground his hips in slow circles.

Aziraphale panted and groaned against his mouth as they breathed each other's breath. The sensation of closeness was intoxicating. They moved together like one creature, a being that had been cleaved in two and was desperate to reunite. He never wanted it to end.

Eventually though, his need built enough that he had no choice but to chase it. He sat up and reached back with one hand, bracing himself on Aziraphale’s leg. The change in angle had him gasping, and he began to move more intentionally.

He threw his head back and arched his spine as he rode, putting himself on display for his angel from his flat stomach to the long curve of his neck. 

“Fuck,” bit out Aziraphale with an uncharacteristic loss of control, “oh fuck, my jewel, if only you could see yourself.”

His grip tightened around Crowley’s pelvis and he planted his feet into the mattress and began to push up into him more forcefully. Crowley was keening with every thrust now, his cock leaking freely, as his angel drove into him, desperate and relentless.

Aziraphale sat up from his semi-reclining position and clutched Crowley to him as they continued to move. The position trapped Crowley's neglected erection between their bellies, and he bucked frantically in his angel's lap to chase the friction.

It didn't take much. Crowley curled inwards as he came, arms thrown around Aziraphale's shoulders and face buried in his neck, his whole body shaking.

The intensity of his orgasm seemed to pushed Aziraphale to the edge as well. He jerked Crowley's twitching body sharply downwards, once, twice, and Crowley felt him stiffen and moan as he spent inside him. 

Aziraphale collapsed backwards, bringing Crowley with him, and their chests heaved together as they both fought to catch their breath. Crowley whined into Aziraphale's neck when he pulled out.

He finally rolled off Aziraphale and sprawled across the mattress at his side. He felt strangely absolved, like a curse had been lifted from him. "Turns out you’re awfully sinful for an angel," he said. His eyes were closed but he could feel himself smiling.

"Mmm. Yes, well, I don’t think God himself could resist you.”

Crowley laughed and wrapped his limbs around the reassuring warmth of his angel. And so they slept, twined together, waiting to be delivered into the dawn of a new year.

Chapter Text

“Oi! I’ve told you to quit knocking on her tank!”

They were getting Ioanna all riled up. She was definitely going to try to bite him later, at this rate. Bloody teenagers.

“Yeah Derek, quit knocking on the tank, you wanker!”

Now they were shoving each other and laughing. It was barely midday and Crowley was already done with this.

“All right. You, and you, get the fuck out of my shop.”

“Hey, you can’t talk to us like that!”

“Aw, are you going to go tell your mum on me? While you’re at it, why don’t you tell her I– “

But Derek never found out what to tell his mum, because at that moment the door tinkled and Aziraphale stepped into the shop.

Crowley looked over from where he was standing with his finger in Derek’s face. 

“Oh, hello darling. Who are these lovely gentlemen?”

“What’re you meant to be, some sort of reject Hogwarts professor?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that university, young man.”

“OUT!”

Derek and his friend finally fucked off, presumably to go shave a few days off the life of some other unfortunate Whickber street shopkeeper.

“Fuck. I swear, they get worse every year.”

“Or possibly you’re more of a crotchety old man every year.” Aziraphale kissed the tip of his nose in greeting.

“Hiya, angel. Wanna do lunch? I need a break.”

“My thoughts exactly. In fact, I came over to ask whether you wanted to have lunch in your flat.”

“Erm, could do, I suppose, but I don’t have much in.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ve already eaten,” he said with a benign smile.

Crowley blinked at him. "Christ, you’re going to be the death of me. Hang on, let me just lock up.”

By the time Crowley had flipped the sign and locked the door, Aziraphale was halfway up the stairs to his flat. Crowley ran to catch up to him and interfere with his ability to finish climbing the stairs by getting his hands all over his arse. 

He should have known Aziraphale would be like this, the bloody hedonist, but a couple months in, it still managed to catch him off guard. It was that combination of fussy, academic appearance and big, innocent eyes – didn't give a bloke a sporting chance to prepare himself.

They'd barely gotten into the flat before Aziraphale had him up against the counter in the kitchenette and was pulling urgently at the zip of his jeans, as though Crowley had been gone for a year rather than having just spent the night at his. He was licking into Crowley’s mouth and biting his bottom lip, and Crowley, as usual, was too overwhelmed to do much more than take it. 

Aziraphale yanked his open jeans down impatiently a few inches and pushed him up to sit on the edge of the worktop, stepping between his legs and making himself known against the inside of Crowley's thigh. Crowley wrapped his legs tightly around his soft waist, drawing him in.

“Am I lunch, then?” he managed to quip, through the battering sensations of Aziraphale’s teeth on his jaw and the thing his hand was doing.

Aziraphale pulled back a little. His hair was mussed from Crowley's hands and his hungry eyes were showing only thin circles of blue. His hand was still doing something maddening that was drawing embarrassing little whimpers out of Crowley.

“Hmm, still talking? Must not be doing my job properly.” He put his hands under Crowley's arse and lifted him easily, Crowley's legs still gripped around his middle. He got them as far as the loveseat while Crowley helped by sucking at the delicious, warm skin of his neck. Aziraphale sat heavily, bringing Crowley down with him onto his lap, jeans still hanging below his arse. "Lord, this thing is uncomfortable.”

“S’why I always give you th’armchair,” Crowley mumbled into this neck.

“Get up on your knees for me, darling,” Aziraphale encouraged him. Crowley could see where this was going and let out a noise even more embarrassing than the whimpers. He obeyed, planting one knee on either side of Aziraphale where he sat, and Aziraphale slid down the seat a bit and took him into his mouth. 

Crowley threaded his fingers through his angel’s soft hair with a groan and tried to keep the roll of his hips under some kind of control. This noble endeavour was not helped by the hand that was gripping one of his arse cheeks and encouraging him forward. 

He looked down exactly once, saw the mischief in those big eyes and the stretch of soft pink lips, and decided he should maybe just close his eyes instead.

It didn't help much. He was cresting soon anyway, head thrown back, hands clutching tightly at that head of platinum curls as he came.

He finally pulled away and opened his eyes, trying to catch his breath. Aziraphale's face was beautifully flushed and his head was tipped back over the low back of the love seat, mouth open and breathing heavily. Crowley finally had the wherewithal to figure out where Aziraphale's other hand had gone, and quickly slid to the floor between his knees to help. But Aziraphale just grabbed him by the hair and held him in place a few inches away.

“Almost there, love,” he breathed, and pulled hard on Crowley's hair. The noise Crowley made - definitely the most embarrassing one yet - seemed to push him over the edge, and he came across Crowley's face with a cry. 

Aziraphale sighed in contentment and ran a thumb through the mess on Crowley's cheek. "How lovely. Thank you for lunch, my dear. See you at dinner?"

Crowley thought he'd been in love before, once or twice. He certainly remembered feeling a desperate sort of wanting for another person. But either he'd been mistaken, or this was something else entirely. 

The desperate wanting was there, of course, but this time it was paired with an ecstatic sort of having. Everything he put out seemed to be reflected right back to him, as though he were somehow equally wanted in return. It was disorientating, and addictive. 

“Are you quite all right, darling?”

Oh, he’d been staring. He almost blushed, before he remembered that he was allowed to do this, now: stare at Aziraphale across the table like a lovesick teenager, watching him eat dinner and daydreaming about him. "Never better, angel,” he said, truthfully. “How's the japchae?”

He knew exactly how the japchae was, because the sounds Aziraphale had been making over it had already had him reliving a very specific personal moment between them from the other week.

“Mmnnf. Truly delightful. I'm glad we finally got around to trying this place.”

“Me too,” he croaked, and took a steadying gulp of his soju.

Aziraphale was looking at him from underneath his lashes, a smug little smile on his lips. The bastard was doing it on purpose. "Would you like to come over to my place after this? We can have a nightcap and watch your Inspector Who programme.”

He was definitely also doing that on purpose. "Yeah, all right, why not.”

It was a silly dance. They both already knew Crowley would be coming over for the evening, and staying the night, and barely getting back to his own place the next morning in time to change his clothes and open the shop. It had been happening most nights for the past few weeks. Aziraphale had the more comfortable bed.

Once the japchae had suffered the rest of its undignified fate, they argued at length over the bill and then walked home hand-in-hand through the chilly London evening. 

Crowley’s world had tipped so precipitously at New Year's that he still felt like he was seeing his familiar neighbourhood through someone else's eyes. Were these really the same streets he had walked before he knew Aziraphale’s love? He tried to picture himself coming down that bit of pavement, turning that corner, but that frustrated and miserable person was fading out of his mind’s eye like smoke.

He felt the grip on his hand tighten briefly. Aziraphale was looking at him out of the side of his eye.

“Are you sure you're all right? You're being very quiet tonight.”

“Nah, m’fine. Just bein’ a maudlin old fart.”

“You, maudlin? Heaven forfend.”

Crowley bumped him with his hip in mock indignation. "S’just… hm. World still seems all… new and shiny. You know, that kind of bollocks.”

Aziraphale let go of his hand and moved to hold him by the waist instead, tipping his head against Crowley's shoulder as they strolled. Crowley put his arm around him. "Yes, I'm familiar with that kind of bollocks.” There was a smile in his voice. “It just seems so… right, doesn't it? Makes one wonder what one was doing for so long, in relationships where all the pieces needed so much forcing.”

Crowley swallowed at the lump in his throat. It was still hard to wrap his head around the fact that this all felt the same way for Aziraphale as it did for him. But he didn't know how to say that, so he just squeezed his angel to him and they walked the rest of the way home in an easy silence.

They skipped the Inspector Who after all, and went straight to the nightcap, talking and laughing into the small hours together, and then they climbed into bed together, and made slow and undemanding love together, and it was easy, and comfortable, and Aziraphale loved him.