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Ineffable AUs, Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Ineffable Cats, Good Omens Ineffable Animals
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2024-10-01
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2025-07-15
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Dead Right

Summary:

“You are not selling your books to try to get back what’s already yours! Listen, Aziraphale. I know you’re opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage—”

“A fake marriage,” he clarified, voice like ice. Ana ignored him.

“—but it’s time you see sense. You will find someone, and you will marry him. You will inherit your property properly, and after a reasonable amount of time to deal with any legal challenges, you will divorce. It won’t destroy anyone’s future, and hell, maybe you’ll actually fall in love.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Don’t count on it.”

Notes:

Surprise! It's my fanfic anniversary, so it's time for me to celebrate. When I joined ao3 a year ago today, it was with the intention to 1) post my first-ever fanfic, 2) get the GO hyperfixation out of my head, and 3) be done with this. Ha! Now, here I am, many novels under my belt and so many more in my head. Y'all, this place is wonderful, this fandom is wonderful, and I have really enjoyed reading and writing and making friends here.

In celebration, I'm posting the start of a soft, fluffy pining-while-married AU. Hope you enjoy! Updates should release weekly.

Note: This fic is rated E, HOWEVER all E sections will be skippable with a skip button, and content is rated T without those.

Thanks so much to my two lovely betas for this fic, beerok23 and unicornbeck. I appreciate your feedback and enthusiasm. 💕

Chapter 1: Part and Parcel

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Aziraphale bit back a groan as the night veered toward erotic. Every part of him ached, consumed by the need to touch and be touched. Crowley was pressed up against his back, tucked around him, arms holding him tight. The low growl in his ear: Angel. Aziraphale wanted him. He wanted his husband, wanted him more than anything he could ever remember wanting in the whole of his forty-five years. The irony, that he was not allowed to have him.

“Angel,” came the whisper again, more urgent.

Crowley pulled him closer, and this time, Aziraphale couldn’t help the moan that dripped from his lips. “Crowley!”

“That’s right, angel. It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe here.”

That was wrong, somehow. The cocoon of warmth began to dissipate.

“Breathe, darling. You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare. It can’t hurt you.”

Nightmare. Night terrors. Crowley’s arms holding him tightly, grounding him. Crowley’s voice in his ear, bringing him back to consciousness. Crowley’s legs pinning his, knee inching higher where it might accidentally brush against—

Aziraphale gasped and sat up abruptly, freeing himself from the cage of Crowley’s body. He didn’t like to swear, even in his head, but right now his thoughts were a cacophony of overlapping fuck-fuck-fucks. With a whine, he grabbed his pillow and held it across his abdomen. It gave him something to cling to that wasn’t the man he shouldn’t be lusting after, and conveniently, it hid any evidence of said lust.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped.

Crowley’s hands started rubbing soft circles into his back. “It’s fine. Really. Don’t apologize.”

Aziraphale jerked forward, away from the touch that was too light, too sensitive. “I can’t,” he began, then stopped himself and tried again. “Sorry. Would you mind not touching so softly? It’s overstimulating.”

“Of course.” Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s hips, holding there tightly instead. “Is this better?”

He nodded quickly. God, what was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he take what was offered like a normal person? Nothing was ever good enough for him. “Sorry,” he said again.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m going to run my fingernail lightly down your neck. I won’t even warn you first.”

Aziraphale repressed a shudder. It wasn’t that he disliked that particular sensation. Under the right circumstances, it was delightful. Right now, however, it would be like drawing a knife across his skin, a thin line of wrong that would hurt deep in his stomach in a way that he couldn’t describe. The fact that Crowley knew this, that Crowley knew him, made the ache inside him worsen. “Crowley,” he said, and it was almost a sob.

Crowley leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. Or, around the pillow that still covered Aziraphale’s middle. He leaned his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t. You know that, right?”

Another hasty nod. He wouldn’t, because Crowley was the kindest, most thoughtful, generous, tolerant, beautiful person that Aziraphale had ever known. And he wasn’t allowed to love him—not romantically, anyway. How was he meant to get through another six years like this? Would it even be possible to keep his desire, his love, his oh-so-messy feelings hidden until the scheduled divorce?

“Was it the Gabriel dream?” Crowley asked, breaking into the cycle of Aziraphale’s thoughts.

He hated lying. He could prevaricate, sure, but outright lying made his voice splinter into questionable shards. Crowley would hear the wrongness of it, he would know, he would know, he would— “Not exactly,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was normal, because it was not entirely a lie. “I don’t want to talk about it.” That part was very, very true.

“Alright. Anything I can do? Water? Tea? Shoulder massage?”

Another ache, this one settling unhelpfully in Aziraphale’s groin. “No,” he said, perhaps a bit too hastily. He took a breath. “No, thank you, dear. I’m fine. You should head back to sleep. I’ll pop into the bathroom and then perhaps read a book for a little while until I’m resettled for lying down again.”

Crowley pulled away, the sudden lack of his warmth startling, and gently tilted Aziraphale’s head toward his to look him in the eye. His face was open and searching, pupils so dilated in the dark that his colobomas were almost undetectable. Aziraphale tried to read his expression: caring, questioning, evaluating, hesitance, desire…no, that last one was wrong. That last one was merely the effect of his erotic dream lingering in the contours of his body. Dream delusion.

His heart lurched, however, when Crowley leaned forward to kiss him. His lips made contact with Aziraphale’s forehead, a brief touch that burned and intensified every ache. Oh why hadn’t he kept his options open? Why had he deliberately excluded sexual gratification from their arrangement? He had to escape.

“Alright,” Crowley said. “But promise to wake me if you need to talk, or even if you just want a hug, okay?”

Aziraphale wouldn’t get away with a nod this time. He tried to keep any hint of shaking from his voice as he said, “I promise.”

Crowley leaned back with a smile, and Aziraphale fled the bedroom, hoping that his husband didn’t see the evidence of want so clearly visible on his body.

 


 

Ten months earlier

The overhead light came on. Aziraphale threw an arm up over his eyes as the room flooded with artificial brightness. It was as shocking as being awoken with a pail of cold water, and just as disorienting. He barely registered the voice that followed.

“What are you doing here? Are you a squatter?”

Aziraphale turned sideways and squinted at the clock on his bedside table. It was barely past 5:30 in the morning. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise. He groaned.

“I asked what you are doing in this flat!”

Lowering his arm, Aziraphale peered at the person in his bedroom doorway. The man was still hazy as his eyes adjusted, but he looked to be some kind of business person in a suit. Definitely a stranger. Could this be a dream?

As he watched, the man looked around and grabbed a book from the closest table. “I’m warning you,” he began.

The sight of unfamiliar hands on his precious book caused Aziraphale to snap. He sat up abruptly. “Kindly put that down right now,” he demanded. “That is a first edition hardcopy of Lucky Jim, and it is in poor enough condition without being manhandled by the likes of you.”

The man stared at him, wide-eyed. When he didn’t move, Aziraphale tried again.

“Unhand my property, you complete pillock, and explain to me, if you please, what you are doing in my bedroom at this ungodly hour!”

“Your bedroom?” The man looked at the book in his hand and hastily replaced it on the table. “So you’re not a squatter?”

“I beg your pardon? This is my flat. I’ve lived here for over twenty years!”

The man shuffled uneasily. Aziraphale had had enough by now. The stranger still hadn’t explained why he’d broken into the flat and woken its occupant so rudely, and that was without getting into the whole mess of using a valuable book as a makeshift weapon. He turned his best glare on the man, who finally said, “Mr Malaika gave me a key. He said the property would go up onto the market in a couple months. I’m here to appraise its value.”

Aziraphale groaned. “The bookshop will be for sale, not my flat. You’re trespassing.”

“Mr Malaika said it would be the entire building. Shop, flat, everything.”

Alarm bells rang in Aziraphale’s gut. This was new. He wasn’t sure how to process his father’s apparent proclamation. “A miscommunication,” he tried. “Perhaps my father believed I would be leaving the flat, since I would no longer have ownership of the bookshop. Rest assured, I plan to stay put in my home. Now, if you could please leave me to try to recover some morning peace before opening hours?”

For a moment, it looked like the man—realtor? Solicitor? Business manager?—would argue. Then he nodded and said, “Yes. I shall come back to do my inspection at a more convenient time.”

He turned and sped from the bedroom. Aziraphale listened to the footsteps retreat, and then to the slam of the front door. What on earth had his father been thinking, giving his key to a random stranger? He should have at least asked if Aziraphale was planning to change residences.

Well. Asking was not something his father was very good at. Aziraphale sighed and got out of bed. There would be no point in trying to sleep again. He might as well brew a strong pot of tea and get ready for a long, long day.

 


 

“What do you mean, the flat is part and parcel of the bookshop?

Thank goodness he was already sitting down. What his father was saying made no sense.

“Come now, Aziraphale,” Mr Malaika said. “There’s no reason to get into hysterics over this. It’s not like you’ve been ignorant of your grandfather’s wishes for the last twenty-one years. I admit, Mr Tyler ought to have knocked and gotten your permission before he entered this morning, but you won’t deny him entry altogether, will you? It would put your mother and me in a bind when the property reverts to us in a few months.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale said. “Just… Can you please hold on a moment, give me some time to catch up?”

His father let out an impatient tut. “Nothing has changed, son. You’ve had plenty of time to do your duty to the family and fulfil your grandfather’s wishes. You’ve chosen not to. Life isn’t going to pause because you’re living in denial.”

Except Aziraphale wasn’t living in denial. He had accepted long ago that he would lose the bookshop on his forty-fifth birthday at the end of March. The countdown that would end his career and catapult him into unemployment had moved into the realm of months rather than years, and soon that would spiral into weeks. Days. Never, though, had he believed that he would lose his cozy little home over the shop! There was nothing in the will about the flat, was there?

“Where will I go?” he asked, his voice small. London was far too expensive for him to find someplace new, especially as he would then be unemployed. Sure, he had his savings, but it wasn’t enough.

“If your mother and I were planning to keep the property, we would have rented the flat to you at a discount, of course. I’m afraid we’re far too old to be relocating to London and running a shop, however. The property should fetch a decent price in that area. It will ensure that your mother and I have plenty to live on for the rest of our days. You won’t have to worry about taking care of us financially in our elder years. That’s a good thing, Aziraphale! Less to land on your shoulders. Think of this as an opportunity to start a new life!”

He didn’t want to start a new life. “But…it’s my home.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. His father’s voice was colder when he spoke again. “You made this choice, son. You made it with your eyes open. Please don’t try to shift your guilt onto your mother and me.”

The line went dead, and with it, a part of Aziraphale’s heart. He couldn’t lose his flat. It would be all he had left of the life he’d built. His father had to be wrong. All the stipulations about Aziraphale being married by his forty-fifth birthday—they were wrapped up in the ownership of the bookshop. Oh, he needed to consult the will itself, find out if there was any way around this whole part and parcel thing.

Shakily, he flipped through his rolodex and called a rarely-used number, praying that it wouldn’t ring through to voicemail…

“Device Law, this is Ana. How can I assist you?”

Relief flooded his system. “Ana! It’s Aziraphale. I’m so very glad to have caught you in the office.”

“Hello! It’s lovely to hear from you. Wait—why are you calling on this line? I have my cell on me. Do I have it silenced again?” She said this last part mostly to herself, her voice going distant as she must be pulling the mobile out to check.

“Actually, this is business-related, so I thought it more appropriate to use the office line.”

His voice must have tipped her off, as her own sharpened. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

The concern and protectiveness in her tone almost undid Aziraphale. He covered his mouth for a moment. They’d been friends for twenty-five years now, since she’d come to the UK on a yearlong study abroad program while at university. When his grandad had passed away and left the bookshop and flat to him, Ana had been the first person he’d told. She was barely out of law school at the time, still studying for the bar, but he needed someone less reserved and stoic than the family solicitor—an imperious and intimidating woman called Ms Uriel—to explain to him what everything meant. While she hadn’t been able to untangle the unfair stipulations, Ana had at least been able to give him honest answers about what was and wasn’t possible.

Eventually, he said, “I need you to check over the will again for me.”

He could hear the weariness in her sigh from over 5,000 miles away. “You know what it says. My hands are tied. If you’re not married by March 28th, the bookshop reverts ownership to your closest living relatives. In this case, your parents. There’s no getting around that.”

“Yes. I know. The bookshop is a lost cause.”

“It’s not—” Ana began.

“What about the flat above it?” he cut across her, effectively silencing her protest. He didn’t need to hear it again. “I don’t remember my grandad being specific about the flat.”

A pause. “Aziraphale. The flat literally exits into the shop.”

“I know, but I have a few more months. Perhaps I could hire a contractor to divert the exit. Possibly down the current fire escape route. Though I’m not sure there would be another good spot to move the fire escape… Still. I’m sure something can be done. If it’s allowed. If the flat isn’t part and parcel of the bookshop.”

There were a few minutes of silence. Aziraphale let her think. Eventually, she said, “You know, I’m actually not sure. I don’t believe I’ve ever read through the details with that specific question in mind. And I think it’s been over a decade since I last read through it at all. Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a loophole in the whole thing that will keep you comfortably settled in a few months. I’ve got quite a bit more experience under my belt than before!”

“I appreciate your optimism,” Aziraphale said. “But honestly, I worry far less about the shop and much more about my flat. I had not realized until today that I was potentially losing my home.”

“What happened?”

He took a moment to explain the morning’s incident and then the phone call with his father.

“You know,” Ana said after a moment of thought, “you could probably sue your parents for giving someone the key to your flat without your permission. Instead of asking for damages, ask for the bookshop. Might be a way to keep it all.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t want to war with them, dear. They’re just doing what they think is best. Besides, I long ago resigned myself to losing the shop. It’s only the flat that concerns me. I need options. Options that don’t,” he added, before she could argue, “involve me finding a wife. Or pretending to find one. I won’t ruin some poor woman’s life with that kind of ill-fated arrangement.”

Fine, you stubborn, frustrating man! I’ll dig out the will from my files this afternoon and see what I can find. I doubt I’ll have anything for you before you’re in bed, but if you don’t mind getting up a little early, perhaps I can chat with you before I sleep tonight? You really need a cell phone, you know. Texting would make this whole eight-hour-time-difference thing easier.”

Feeling relieved already, he said, “I’ll make a deal with you. If you find a way to keep me in my home, I’ll buy whatever mobile you recommend.”

“Deal!”

He could practically hear her grin. “Is eleven too late for me to call you? Your time, of course.”

“Should be fine, as long as you call my cell. I will not be in the office that late!”

“I should hope not, dear girl!”

“Go. Go on, have a nice dinner or whatever. Try not to worry. We’ll figure this out. Somehow.”

Nothing was different, really, on the other end of that phone call. Yet, Aziraphale hummed to himself as he sauteed chicken and vegetables, toasted a bit of French bread, poured himself a glass of chilled Chardonnay. No, it was not the life his grandad had wanted for him, an old bachelor living alone, but it was a good life. A peaceful life. And he would do whatever it took to preserve it.

Notes:

Sensory Processing Disorder affects the way a person responds to sensory input. It’s often categorized under the neurodivergent umbrella (sometimes as a primary diagnosis, sometimes as a related symptom). Understanding of SPD is still evolving. Twenty years ago, it was called Sensory Integration Dysfunction, for example, and while study of the condition goes back to the early 70s, it wasn’t often treated (or even known) by doctors until the 2000s. People with SPD all present differently in how they experience the condition. My portrayal of Aziraphale in this story is not meant to represent SPD in general, but my specific experience of it.

Note: I’m currently in an airport so I hope this posts properly!!

Chapter 2: The Plan

Summary:

There is an unexpected loophole in the will.

***
“I can’t say too much yet about the Bigger Picture,” Aziraphale said, lowering his voice to a whisper on the last two words. “My lawyer friend from California, Ana—she’s come up with a Plan. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure I approve, nor am I convinced that it will work out, but…”

Notes:

Chapter uses a workskin, should be readable without but keep it on for best results!

There is brief, vague mention of a grandparent’s homophobia, but nothing descriptive or detailed as this story is an angst-free zone.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

As much as he didn’t wish to get up so early, Aziraphale set the alarm for 6:30 so that he had half an hour to fully wake up before the call with Anathema. He dressed, cleaned his teeth, brewed tea, and sat down at the ancient computer in his makeshift home office. His inbox was full of the usual daily spam offerings from mailing lists he never bothered to unsubscribe from. He quickly deleted the lot. His eyes skipped over a new auction invite and the message from his father headed 4pm Appointment, landing—as it was meant to—on a note from Ana.

Subject line: CALL ME CALL ME I HAVE THE ANSWER!!!!!!!!!!!

He clicked open the message.

Aziraphale!! Omg I figured it out, I have your answer, call me the second you get this even if it’s 2 in the morning and you have insomnia and you’re worried I’m still at work just CALL ME!!!

A quick glance at the miniature clock at the top of his screen said that it was almost the appointed time anyway. Aziraphale took off his reading spectacles and left the office, tea in hand, his heart fluttering with hope.

Ana answered on the first ring. “Aziraphale!”

He pulled the phone away from his ear. “Jesus, Ana. How much coffee have you had?”

“Too much! That doesn’t matter! I have the answer. Listen, listen, listen. The will was written before the turn of the century. Last updated in 2002, executed the next year.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what the point of this was. “Yes?”

“Listen. There is nothing in this will about you needing a wife!”

He blinked. That made no sense. His grandad’s instructions had been quite straightforward. Aziraphale inherited the family business upon his death. It was Aziraphale’s to keep forever, if and only if he stopped being stubborn and settled into a traditional family life. He had until his forty-fifth birthday to find and marry a wife. If he refused, ownership of the shop would revert to his closest living relatives.

Long ago, Aziraphale had decided not to give in to the pressure to live a lie. His grandad may not have approved of his sexual orientation, but Aziraphale would not let that dictate his choices in life. He’d filled his decades at the shop with building a network in the rare books community, learning the business, and mastering the delicate skill of restoration. He had a few first editions set aside for last-minute sales that would help him to start over in a new establishment. Of course, he wished to keep alive the family tradition, but he would not do so at the expense of his dignity. Nor at some poor woman’s future, even if (as Ana had suggested so many times) she volunteered in full knowledge of the situation.

“I’m sorry, dear girl. I’m not following. My grandad was quite clear, he wanted me properly married off.”

“Exactly!” Ana yelled. “This will was written so long ago, and I probably haven’t looked at it since 2010. Az—he didn’t specify that you had to marry a woman! He didn’t think he needed to. Gay marriage wasn’t legal back then. He only specified that you needed to be legally married!”

Aziraphale sat back, stunned. “Are…are you sure?”

In reply, Ana whooped and cheered for several minutes, far enough away from her mobile that at least he didn’t need to cringe from the earpiece again. When she stopped celebrating, she said, “This is phenomenal!”

“Well,” Aziraphale said as excitement dimmed into resignation, “I suppose it could have been, yes. A bit late now, though.”

“Of course it isn’t!”

He rubbed his hand over tired eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Be reasonable, dear. Where am I meant to find a husband in the next two months? Besides, my family knows the intentions behind that will. They’ll contest it.”

“They can try, but the legal terms are clear cut. Unambiguous. They won’t win.”

“Still… Ana, two months is…impossible. Even if I’d been seeking a husband for the last twenty years, do you know how unlikely I would’ve been to find him? It’s not like I haven’t dated, for heaven’s sake.”

“You always had this sword of Damocles hanging over you! You couldn’t even think about marrying one of your exes, not with the threat of your livelihood being ripped away from you.”

She wasn’t wrong, and yet, Aziraphale doubted that any of the half-dozen relationships he’d been in over the years would have led to marriage even without the stipulations of the will. Certainly, none of his exes could even be considered as possible partners now. Aziraphale was not an easy person to live with. He knew that, and he had no desire to foist himself and his difficulties on someone who had already once grown tired of him.

A stranger would be even worse. With a sigh, he changed the subject. “What did you learn about the flat?”

“Oh that. Yeah, sorry, it really is part and parcel. Even if you changed the exit, it would still be considered a single unit with the shop.” Aziraphale barely had time to let out a defeated whine before she added, “That doesn’t matter, though, because you’re keeping all of it.”

He ignored this. “I suppose I’ll have to let go of a few of the more valuable books. I certainly have plenty. You know, if I sold enough, I might even have the money to buy the property back off my parents when it goes onto the market. I’d need a proxy lawyer for that. They wouldn’t sell it to me knowingly. Of course, the collection would be left almost worthless if I had to sell that many books…”

Still. He could keep his home, even if he had to stay elsewhere temporarily. Aziraphale was warming to the idea, so engrossed in his thoughts that it took several calls of his name for him to register that Ana was addressing him.

“You are not selling your books to try to get back what’s already yours! Listen, Aziraphale. I know you’re opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage—”

“A fake marriage,” he clarified, voice like ice. Ana ignored him.

“—but it’s time you see sense. You will find someone, and you will marry him. You will inherit your property properly, and after a reasonable amount of time to deal with any legal challenges, you will divorce. It won’t destroy anyone’s future, and hell, maybe you’ll actually fall in love.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Don’t count on it.”

“Even if you don’t, it will only be for a few years. Then you’ll have your freedom back, as well as your home and your family’s business.”

With a sniff, he said, “You make it sound so easy, as if men were falling all around me, desperate to marry this awkward and idiosyncratic rare books dealer.”

“Oh, you leave that part to me. I think I know the perfect guy. Just need to make a few phone calls. Won’t be the first time I’ve pulled an all-nighter!”

“Ana, no, I beg you—”

“You sit tight. Get your locks changed. Whatever your father thinks, giving your key to someone and sending them onto the property without your permission is a crime. Even if you don’t get married—and you will—you are the sole legal owner of that building until your birthday. No trespassers allowed!”

Aziraphale’s head was spinning. This was all happening too fast. Was Ana actually planning to push him and some poor bloke into a fake marriage? A marriage, presumably, that they’d have to pretend was real in order to beat any legal challenges? This was an absolute nightmare.

“Call a locksmith,” Ana repeated. “Buy a goddamn cell phone. I’ll call you in a few hours when I’ve spoken with my friend. Ciao!”

“No, wait!” Aziraphale said, but it was far too late. The call had already disconnected. A strange feeling swirled in his gut, like he’d stepped onto some Alice in Wonderland type carousel and now couldn’t escape. It was going to be another very exhausting day.

 


 

Aziraphale didn’t open the bookshop. He put out a “closed due to unforeseen circumstances” note and concentrated on the tasks he had been assigned. Locksmith. Mobile. Wait for Ana’s call. Now if that last one wasn’t the true sword of Damocles…

He laughed aloud at the thought. Unfortunately, that was when the poor locksmith was doing her work. She glanced at him, wary, so he pretended the book in his hands had amused him. Hopefully, she was too far away to see the worn title stamp: Grammar of the Gothic Language. Certainly not the pinnacle of humor, this one.

Once he had the new keys—and had tested both sets several times, just in case—Aziraphale left the shop and marched with purpose toward Coffee or Death across the road. Ana had not specified the type of mobile he should buy. He did not have the mental bandwidth to research mobiles and service plans and whatever else this entailed. Normally, he did not like delegating tasks without at least a little personal knowledge on what he was delegating. These were apparently extraordinary times, however.

“Aziraphale!” Maggie called when he entered Coffee or Death. She must be having a slow day at the record shop; he noted as he smiled at her.

“Good afternoon, my dear woman! How are you today?”

“Lovely,” she said, but there was a crease between her brows that said that the answer may not be entirely truthful. “Is everything alright with you? We noticed that you were changing the locks. Did something happen?”

Ah! She was concerned for him. Aziraphale felt better now that he understood. “Yes, there was a minor break-in yesterday.” At Maggie’s gasp and Nina’s quick glance in his direction, he realized that perhaps he’d phrased that more strongly than he’d meant to. “Not to worry, my dear. I dealt with the rapscallion. The only damage was to the first edition of Lucky Jim that he tried to use as a weapon, and it was minimal at that. Nothing I can’t repair.”

Maggie still looked concerned. “That must’ve been harrowing! I’m so sorry.”

“It certainly felt harrowing, being awoken at that ungodly hour. Beastly man. No manners whatsoever.” Aziraphale waved aside the incident, the concern, the questions. “It’s all over and done with. Now, I’m on a mission, and I’m afraid I need your help. Yours or Nina’s.”

At that moment, a plate slid onto the table at which Maggie had coaxed Aziraphale into sitting. He looked down to see a hearty egg and cress sandwich and two ginger biscuits, then up at the woman who had delivered them. “What’s all this?”

“Given what you’ve been through,” Nina said, “I thought you may have forgotten to eat lunch today.”

At her words, Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that indeed, he had not eaten yet today. A bit of moisture stung his eyes. It was so very lovely to have friends. “Thank you, my dear. You’re absolutely right. It completely slipped my mind.”

“Café’s slow right now. Mind if I join you two? Then I don’t have to try to eavesdrop from the counter to learn about this mission you’re on?”

Aziraphale chuckled at that as Maggie hopped up to pull over a third chair. The three of them settled around the small, round table. Nina had brought over ginger biscuits for her and Maggie as well, so that Aziraphale didn’t have to eat alone. She really was an absolute gem, Nina.

“I can’t say too much yet about the Bigger Picture,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper on the last two words. “My lawyer friend from California, Ana—she’s come up with a Plan. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure I approve, nor am I convinced that it will work out, but…”

He trailed off with a sigh, but it was hard to stay morose while eating Nina’s excellent food. The whole idea of Ana finding a man that would willingly shackle himself to Aziraphale of all people—it was too absurd for belief. He’d begun to feel like Scrooge McDuck in one of those old Ducktales cartoons, defending his property with ever more elaborate schemes. It didn’t seem real, and that disconnect kept panic at bay.

Maggie’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Do you mean… Are you saying… Aziraphale? Will you—will the bookshop—will you be keeping the bookshop?”

He swallowed a thick bite of egg and cress. “It’s possible.”

Maggie clapped her hands giddily, trying to keep her excitement quiet. Nina looked more contemplative. “What can we do to help?”

The pair had long been outraged by his situation. Aziraphale had been an established trader on Whickber Street for years before Maggie opened The Small Back Room about a decade back. When Nina’s Coffee or Death opened four years after that, there had been a bit of mutual pining that Aziraphale somehow got caught in the middle of. Nina had just left a toxic relationship. Maggie seemed to catch Aziraphale’s awkwardness every time she tried to talk to her crush across the road. (Perhaps because she kept asking for his advice, which he tried to explain was not her smartest decision.) There was a period of rebounding and misunderstandings and general messiness before the two women had gone to karaoke night at a gay bar together. One drunken wall-slam later, they’d become inseparable.

Both raged against his grandad’s homophobia and advocated extreme measures for keeping his inheritance. They would certainly approve of Ana’s Plan. However, Aziraphale didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, especially his own. Better to focus on the tasks he could control.

“Ana insists that I get a mobile phone. The thing is, I don’t know how to go about doing that. I don’t even know what I might need to purchase alongside it. Should I simply walk down to one of those shops that sells touristy London detritus? That seems wrong, but I’ve seen mobile phones advertised in those places.” Their horrified expressions told him that he was right to feel dubious. “I need help. Normally, I would take my time and do some proper research into exactly how to go about this task. But Ana has asked me to follow through today, and to tell you the truth, my head is rather spinning with everything that has happened since the break-in yesterday. I really do need help.”

Maggie and Nina looked at each other, then the latter said, “I’ll go. If you don’t mind, Maggie?”

She shook her head. “I can watch the register here if Theo will make the drinks. It’s a Thursday. Unlikely I’ll get any customers until the evening at my shop.”

“Hey Theo!” Nina called. The young man who worked as her assistant looked over, popping an earbud out to listen. “Maggie’s gonna work the register for a bit while I run an errand. You good with handling the drink orders?”

He shrugged his agreement, replaced the earbud, and went back to cleaning.

“Well, that’s settled!” Maggie said. She reached over and took one of Aziraphale’s hands. “This must be a very exciting and overwhelming time for you. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. Anything.”

He squeezed her hand in return. “You’re a good friend, dear. Both of you. I know I’m a bit of an odd duck—”

“It’s Soho, love,” Nina said. “We’re all odd ducks. It’s why we love it here.”

Yes. This was his home! This was what Aziraphale couldn’t lose. He felt his spine straighten incrementally. No, he didn’t like the idea of marrying a stranger and all the kerfuffle it would entail. But Ana was right. If she could find him someone decent, someone who could be a friend like these two women sitting beside him, that would be…nice, actually. A friend. They would simply need to make that clear from the beginning: no expectation of romance or sexual intimacy. With those aspects off the table, it would be easier. And Aziraphale wouldn’t have to sell off his grandad’s entire collection in the hopes that he could buy back the building just to stay in his flat.

“Right,” he said, taking his last bite of ginger biscuit. “Lead on, good woman. I shall defer to your expertise in this matter.”

Nina grinned and, after removing her apron, offered her arm to him as they set off on their adventure.

 


 

By mid-afternoon, Aziraphale was the somewhat-wary owner of an iPhone. Not the newest model, but one several years out of date, as it came at a reduced price when coupled with a service plan that he needed anyway.

“Maggie would have gotten you an android,” Nina had told him. “It’s one of our few disagreements. But hey, you’re gonna have to be on my side for this one, Az. I know fuck-all about androids, so we’re going the Apple route.”

He’d had no opinion on the subject—truth be told, he hadn’t known there was a difference between androids and iPhones—so his only reply had been, “I like apples.”

Nina had giggled for five minutes after that.

The most distressing part of the transaction had been when the salesperson tried to assign a random phone number to the mobile. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t expected to be able to dictate the whole number he wished. He wasn’t unreasonable. But in the past, he’d been given a list of options for his landline and was able to choose the one that felt best. He’d expected the same for this new mobile line. When the salesperson had handed over a card with his number, he’d become quite agitated.

Thankfully, Nina had swiftly come to his rescue. She’d been able to see the problem and advocate for him when Aziraphale was too tongue-tied to do so himself. The salesperson’s annoyance was no match for Nina’s forceful attitude, and the latter had won out in the end. When presented with an array of choices, Aziraphale’s heart had calmed on seeing one that included the number series 1-9-4-1. Something about that number, 1941, had always appealed to him. Obviously, that should be the number assigned to his new mobile phone.

He needed to order a gift of some kind to repay Nina’s kindness. Aziraphale added this to his mental to-do list.

In the meantime, he entered Ana’s contact information the way that Nina had shown him when entering her own and Maggie’s. Then he navigated over to the Messages square—no, App, that’s what it was called—and slowly typed a note to his friend.

[Text from Anathema Device ]

Aziraphale: Dear Ana,

Aziraphale: I have acquired the mobile that you asked me to acquire. I have also changed the locks to both the bookshop and the flat. Thank you for your advice.

Anathema: Aziraphale! Woohoo!

Aziraphale: Since our call this morning, I’ve had time to consi

Anathema: Great job, and I have news for you too, are you sitting down?

Aziraphale: Oh, drat. I don’t know what I did. Somehow I sent that message before I finished typing it.

Aziraphale: Ana? Can you see me typing as I type? This is very fast.

Anathema: Want me to give you a call instead?

Anathema: Think of this like a conversation, not like an email.

Aziraphale: No, I shall learn. Sorry to be so slow.

Anathema: It’s really no problem, what did you have time to consider?

Aziraphale: Oh! Okay. I think I could marry someone under the condition that we agree to keep the arrangement as just friends.

Anathema: PERFECT!!! I have just the man for you.
[End]

Her next message was a photo of the most intimidating man that Aziraphale had ever seen. He had long, dark hair pulled back from his face, some stray curls escaping. His clothes were black and sleek and slim and stylish, and he wore dark sunglasses that hid any hint of his eyes. He was smiling, but the smile involved sharp teeth and did not exactly look friendly.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said aloud. What on earth was he getting himself into?

Notes:

Next chapter, we get to meet Crowley!

Chapter 3: The Most Intimidating Man

Summary:

Time to meet Crowley! (And Bee. And one of Crowley's cats.)

***
“So let me get this straight,” Crowley said, setting the empty mug aside. “Your friend owns a bookshop, but he’ll lose it on his birthday unless he gets married, and he’s left it to the last minute, and you want me to fill the vacant husband position.”

Notes:

Chapter uses a workskin, should be readable without but keep it on for best results!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hey. Loser.”

A semi-soft object, probably a throw pillow, thwapped against Crowley’s shoulder. He grunted and pulled his blanket more firmly over his head.

“Get. Up.” Both words were punctuated by hits. “You’ve got a very insistent caller.”

Nick. The thought exploded in his gut in a cross-section of hope and dread. “Whossit?” he slurred, trying to pull himself from the depths of sleep. The couch was not comfortable, and Crowley had struggled to get adequate rest on it for the last few weeks.

Bee sat down on his calves, causing him to squawk. “Someone called Anathema. What the hell kind of name is Anathema?”

“Get off my fucking legs.”

“Get off my fucking couch.”

He wriggled his feet and managed to get close enough to their calf to pinch it with his toes, grinning as his little sibling hopped away with an indignant yelp. One good thing he’d inherited from his father: ridiculously dexterous toes. Crowley sat up and stretched with a yawn as Bee glared at him. “Ana is my friend from California. Met her at uni, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah, her. Well, she keeps calling. The damn vibrations from your phone were bothering me all the way in my bedroom. Don’t know how the fuck you slept through that.”

“After several years of living with Nick’s snoring, I can sleep through anything.”

Bee snorted and tossed his mobile toward him. There were a half-dozen missed calls and a flurry of texts from Ana. It wasn’t quite 9:30 in the morning. What the fuck was Ana doing still awake? The texts didn’t give him any real information. They were mostly variations on ‘call me’ and ‘pls tell me you aren’t asleep don’t you have a day job?’ Rolling his eyes, Crowley returned the call.

“Finally! Do you have any idea what time it is here?”

“You say that like I asked you to call and then made you wait!”

“Were you working on a body or something?”

Crowley rubbed his face and suppressed another yawn. “I was still asleep. Only have one deceased to take care of today and Muriel is embalming him this morning. I don’t need to be there until after lunch.”

Bee, who had retreated to their bedroom, now walked to the kitchen in nothing but a sports bra and boxers. Crowley rolled his eyes and lay back against the arm of the couch. Ana said, “Oh. Well, sorry to wake you, but I have a question.”

“Must be important if you’re up this late.” Viola hopped onto his stomach and began to knead at the blanket. Crowley scratched behind her ear.

Very important. Tell me—you’re not planning to go back to Nick, are you?”

Crowley made a face even though she couldn’t see him. No, he was not that foolish. No matter how hard his heart leapt at the idea of returning, he wouldn’t do it. Three years, he’d wasted on that man. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been so blind. “You always do believe the best of everyone,” his mother had soothed when Crowley received the news that his partner, the man he had hoped to marry, was not eligible for marriage. Turns out that having two wives, one illegally, neither of whom knew about each other (or him), precluded you from further nuptials. And got you in quite a bit of trouble with the law.

“Of course not,” he said wearily. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

A mug of coffee suddenly appeared at his side. He gently sat up to take it, careful not to jostle Viola. Bee patted the cat’s head, took a bite of toast, and returned to their bedroom. Hopefully to finish getting dressed. Crowley gulped down half the contents of the mug, savoring the blissful burn.

“Good,” Ana said, blithely ignoring his self-pitying tone. “I have a proposition for you.”

He grunted to indicate she should go on, then sipped at his coffee as she talked him through the strangest scenario that he’d heard in quite some time. (At least from the living. When it came to the deceased, there were often very strange stories that led up to death.) The coffee was gone by the time she finished.

“So let me get this straight,” Crowley said, setting the empty mug aside. “Your friend owns a bookshop, but he’ll lose it on his birthday unless he gets married, and he’s left it to the last minute, and you want me to fill the vacant husband position.”

Bee popped their head out of their room and raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged. He had no idea what the fuck Ana was smoking.

“You’re oversimplifying,” Ana said. “He didn’t wait until the last minute. His grandfather was a homophobe. The whole point was to try to force Aziraphale into marrying a woman. I only realized today—well, technically yesterday—that the terms allow him to marry a man. The will was written before gay marriage was legal. I know, that’s on me, I should have been checking that stupid thing over more often. But I’m not actually his lawyer. It wasn’t on my docket. And the family lawyer didn’t bother to let him in on the loophole, probably because she’s in his family’s pocket and they aren’t the best people.”

“Not the point. Point is, you want me to marry a guy I’ve never met.”

“Well, technically, you have met. I introduced you to each other once, back in school. Not sure you ever spoke again, though.” She made a noise like she was shaking herself back awake. “Crowley. He needs help. He’s about to lose not only the family business, but the flat he’s lived in for over twenty years. He steadfastly refused to marry a woman, even if she knew what she was getting into, because he refused to give in to homophobia.”

Crowley flapped one hand. “Doesn’t he have someone he knows that he can ask? Ex-boyfriends or whatever? Why’re you asking me?”

“Good question,” Bee said. They were seated on the other side of the couch now, grinning and trying to listen in as if this were a good tv program. Crowley waved to them to be quiet.

“Is that one of your siblings?” Ana asked.

“Bee. I’ve been crashing on their couch since the whole Nick thing went down.”

“Hi Ana!” Bee called. Viola got up and casually strolled over to sit in their lap instead. Traitor.

“Tell them hi for me,” Ana said, and Crowley relayed the message. “Sounds like you need a more permanent living solution anyway. The flat is in Soho…”

He didn’t want to tell her how enticing that prospect was. “Stop dangling bait. Again, why me?”

There were a few moments of silence from the other line. Ana’s voice was quiet when she spoke. “Aziraphale is like Muriel, Crowley. Neurodivergent, not really good with social cues, lots of sensory issues. He hasn’t fared well with partners in the past, and it’s difficult for him to make friends. He’s a lovely, wonderful man and I think that you in particular will really like him. But I also thought that if anyone can jump in and spend a few years in this sort of living situation without going crazy, it would be you. And if there was anyone that wouldn’t hurt Aziraphale more than he’s already been hurt, it would also be you.”

Crowley sighed and ran fingers through his hair. Muriel, the youngest of the five siblings in their family, held a special place in his heart. It was almost cruel of Ana to make the comparison.

“It would only be for a few years,” Ana continued. “Long enough that it looks like a real marriage and any legal challenges will be put to bed.”

“Can I have a bit of time to think about it?” he said. Bee’s eyes widened and they mouthed, what the fuck?

“Of course! We still have a few months, so maybe the two of you can meet and talk. Sort out details and such.”

“Send me his info. Picture, social media, whatever you’ve got. I’d like to check him out a bit, get a feel for him, before I make any decisions. Even about meeting him in person.”

Bee brushed the cat aside, stood up, and went to the kitchen to pour more coffee. Ana said, “Yup, sure, I’ll text it to you. Then I’m going to try to get a few hours of sleep before my alarm goes off at five. Will that give you enough time? Can I call you then?”

Crowley blinked. Did she seriously expect him to decide this morning? “Uh, yeah, you can call. Can’t guarantee a decision by then, Ana. You’re asking a lot.”

“Just about meeting him. Please, Crowley?”

“Fine. Call me when you get up.”

He ended the call and dropped his mobile into his lap. Bee handed him a second mug of coffee. “You’re an idiot,” they said.

“I know.”

“You can stay on my couch as long as you like. You know that, right?”

He nodded. Of course they’d let him stay. If for some reason that changed, he could crash with Mary and Muriel, or squeeze in somewhere at Freddie’s place in a pinch. The flat in Soho, while a motivating factor, wasn’t the primary reason Crowley was considering the insane proposition.

Three years. Three years he’d spent living with Nick, wasting time on someone who had never been even remotely honest. Before that, a string of one-or-two-night stands, then five years with Jean-Luc, who had been even worse than Nick. Every time Crowley extricated himself from a long, painful, toxic relationship, he promised to spend some time alone. Not dating. Boy-free. He was incapable of resisting temptation, though. The crook of a smile and a finger, and he’d find himself in a club bathroom stall, or in the backseat of a car, or on a good night, in an actual bed. There was always the hope that maybe this one would be the one. Little miniature heartbreaks to buffer the time between the larger crashes.

“You are such a good person,” his friend Sara had said to him once. “I don’t understand how you keep gravitating toward these losers.”

Crowley was tired of the cycle. Tired of predatory men taking advantage of him. Tired of trying to parse out who may or may not be a good person when he tended to believe everyone had potential to be good under the right circumstances. If he married this Aziraphale, then he would be forced to keep the promise to himself—to spend some time alone. Technically, he wouldn’t be alone, but this relationship wouldn’t be real. A fake marriage, one that had to keep up appearances, so Crowley couldn’t go off and dive into something new. It would keep him in check for a few years.

He would just need to make his boundaries clear. Sex would be off the table. They had to agree to that upfront, or he would cave at the first temptation.

“I’m going to do it,” he said aloud.

“Fucking goblin-tits. You’re an idiot!”

“I know,” he repeated, texting Ana, who was still sending the information he’d requested.

[Text from Anathema ]

Crowley: I’ll do it. But no sex. I’ll make it look real when we’re with people, but I don’t want to blur the lines

Anathema: That’s fine he’s ace anyway

Crowley: You know ace people still have sex sometimes right?

Anathema: not stupid

Crowley: Just making sure. Ace or not, sex is off the table. Friends only. And I want to meet him first

Crowley: gotta make sure he’s good with cats, he’s not allergic is he?

Anathema: I have no idea

Crowley: Because Portia and Viola are non-negotiable

Anathema: ofc, np. I’ll set sth up for tonight to meet, if you’re ont busy

Crowley: yeah fine, make it after five though ok?
[End]

Bee was still watching him. “Why?” they asked when he looked up.

Crowley shrugged. “It’s about time I let someone else pick my partner.”

He got a pillow to the face for that one, barely managing not to spill the rest of his coffee.

 


 

Agreeing to meet with Aziraphale Malaika did not mean that Crowley was agreeing to marry him. He repeated this mantra to himself as he drove to the funeral home, as he worked to get Mr Fernsby ready for his viewing, as he changed out of his work clothes and showered the smell of the morgue off of him. Marriage was a possibility, not an inevitability. He would go into this tête-à-tête with a rational, level head. It was entirely plausible, Crowley thought as he sped through London in his wildly impractical vintage Bentley, that Aziraphale himself would object to the arrangement. Could be the cats; could be the no-sex boundary; hell, he might take one look at Crowley and say, nope, not that one.

He wished he had more information. The paltry bits that Ana had provided amounted to almost nothing beyond a name, age, and business website that was at least ten years out of date. She didn’t even have a photo.

“He’s like platinum blond,” she’d told him when he’d complained on their call that afternoon. “Natural, not dyed. Don’t worry, you can’t miss him.”

So Crowley had nothing to go on, not really. He hoped the Dirty Donkey wasn’t too crowded and that there weren’t too many platinum blond patrons. It was Soho, after all.

He was late. Ana hadn’t given him Aziraphale’s number, so he gritted his teeth and broke more traffic laws in an attempt to get to the pub before his potential-future-husband gave up on him. Fuck, Bee was right. Crowley was an idiot. This whole harebrained scheme of Ana’s was ludicrous at best. He was going to walk into this pub, hopefully find this guy, and discover a new level of abject rejection. He should turn around and give up, text Ana and apologize.

Aziraphale is like Muriel. The statement kept him driving forward. Crowley would never forgive himself for hurting someone like Muriel, even inadvertently. Ana might be wrong about this guy—after all, she’d only met Muriel a few times, and his sibling had still been a teenager back then—but if she wasn’t, Crowley couldn’t leave him anxiously waiting.

He screeched into a parking spot at eleven after the hour. Gritting his teeth and hoping Aziraphale hadn’t already bailed on him, Crowley stepped into the pub. The light was kept absurdly low, which wasn’t great for his vision behind the dark glasses, but he certainly wasn’t going to take them off when there were this many people around. He squinted and peered over the tops of the crowded tables, finally spotting a blond head at a green bench near the back of the room. That must be him.

He set off with a purposeful stride, trying to project more confidence than he felt. Aziraphale—assuming this was Aziraphale—didn’t look up until Crowley was two tables away. He suddenly sat up straight, his mouth opening in a silent gasp, fingers clasping together on the table.

Crowley felt an unfamiliar tug in his gut, and for a moment, it was as if time itself came to a stop. He registered little details: the worn velvet waistcoat, the gold pocket watch, the beige frock coat, the pale tartan bow tie. Then there was the man himself, his babyface cheeks and upturned nose and those whiter-than-blond curls that seemed to go every which way. This was a man who either knew himself well and didn’t care one iota what anyone thought of him, or who was entirely oblivious to the way the world saw him. Crowley didn’t care which was true. Both were equally intriguing.

He gave his best grin and a little wave as he approached the table. Aziraphale snapped his jaw shut, then rearranged his face into what was likely meant to be a return smile. It came out more like a grimace and caused Crowley’s stomach to flutter.

“Aziraphale Malaika?” he said, though he knew the answer already. At the man’s quick nod, he held out his hand and said, “I’m Crowley.”

“Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale said as he took Crowley’s hand. He immediately blushed and added, “Sorry.”

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. He shrugged and sat on the opposite side of the table. “Technically, it’s Antonio, though I don’t tell most people that. Figured my future husband should know.” He would have winked if his sunglasses weren’t on, but it was probably best that he didn’t. Aziraphale had already gone an alarming shade of red at the word husband. “Please, call me Crowley.”

“Alright. You may call me Aziraphale.”

Charming. The man was charming. Why hadn’t Ana said so? “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“Surreal is the word that has kept coming to me all day.”

“Ana said she introduced us once, back at uni.”

Aziraphale looked away and began to fidget with the edge of his frock coat. “I’m afraid I don’t remember that. I apologize. Sometimes, when I meet too many people at one time, I struggle to keep track of all the details.”

“No need to apologize. I don’t remember either.”

The grateful look he received in response melted Crowley’s heart.

“Maybe this would be less awkward if we had a drink?” he said, gesturing toward the bar. “I’ll buy first round.” When Aziraphale looked torn between appreciation and obligation, Crowley added, “You can get the second.”

After a moment, Aziraphale held out his hand to shake again. “You have yourself a deal.”

Crowley grinned and resisted the urge to kiss that hand. He wasn’t allowed to flirt.

But as he went to the bar to order a sherry for Aziraphale—even his drink choice was a hundred years out of date—and a whisky for himself, Crowley had to admit: This was going to be a hard temptation to resist. Everything from the man’s quirky outfit to his attempt to smile when uncomfortable was adorable.

He couldn’t help letting his hips lightly sway as he returned to the table with their drinks. Stupid.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, automatically raising the delicate glass to his lips.

“Hold on,” Crowley said. The other man froze, wide-eyed. “We should toast first.”

Aziraphale slowly lowered his glass, the alarm in his face disappearing. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. What shall we toast to?”

“Dunno. Ana’s insane ideas?”

“To having someone with whom to share the burden of Kafkaesque days, perhaps.”

Crowley let out a delighted guffaw at the joke. Aziraphale’s lips twitched like he was holding back a genuine smile, and very suddenly, Crowley knew he had to see it, had to coax it into the open. “To thwarting the evil wiles of homophobia and saving family businesses.”

“Businesses? In the plural?”

He shrugged. “If we’re going to tilt at windmills, we might as well try to get them all.”

Aziraphale’s expression warped into a cross between outrage and indignation. “That’s not… Complete misunderstanding of… Your metaphor doesn’t even make sense!” He noticed Crowley’s grin and narrowed his eyes. “You muddled that on purpose, didn’t you? Fiend.”

“Guilty,” Crowley said, laughing.

“Well.” Aziraphale gave him a supercilious sniff. “I suppose I could toast to company that is well-versed enough in literature to deliberately misinterpret it.”

“And to company with a rather sly sense of humor.” He tilted his tumbler toward Aziraphale. “Cheers!”

“Cheers, Crowley,” he said, tapping their glasses together. They both sipped at their drinks, and then Aziraphale added, “I’m not sure I would have described your sense of humor as sly, myself.”

“I meant yours.”

For a second, Aziraphale seemed startled. Then his face lit up and he positively beamed at Crowley, who blinked rapidly under the sudden glow. His heart squeezed and his insides went all liquidy. It was ironic, really. The most beautiful man he had ever met sat in front of him, vouched for as a good person by one of his oldest friends, potentially going to be his legal husband…and Crowley couldn’t allow any kind of relationship to develop between them. No matter how much he might want it.

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

Notes:

So if your reaction to this chapter is, “Oh, Crowley is sooooo gone,” you’re absolutely right. 😄 He is the biggest softie ever in this story.

I have zero experience with funeral homes and the things they do. Everything I know is from haphazard google searches and a few references on true crime shows, and most likely I'll get 99% of the details wrong. Just gonna ask y'all to pretend I know what I'm talking about, heh. And hey, if any of you have firsthand experience, hit me up on Tumblr if you'd like to be a fic resource! 💕

Chapter 4: Hot and Cold

Summary:

Aziraphale and Crowley continue to get to know each other, migrating to the bookshop after a time.

***
It was too much. Aziraphale had to look away. He covered his mouth to hold in any strong feelings. In his peripheral vision, Crowley also looked away, ostensibly to peer around the pub, but Aziraphale knew he was being given more space to recover. It was perfect and overwhelming and potentially dangerous. He had never met anyone this in tune with him, especially not so quickly.

Notes:

This chapter mentions a deceased sibling and the circumstances surrounding the death, which occurred decades in the past, as well as some of the emotional fallout on child-Aziraphale. It’s a brief discussion of long-ago pain that ends in present-day comfort.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Aziraphale almost never went to the pub. Every once in a while, he was talked into a night at the Dirty Donkey. There was always enough time between visits that he would wonder why he didn’t go more often. Then he would take the first sip of his drink and remember.

This time, he barely noticed the poor quality of his sherry in the wake of Crowley’s compliment. The man was nice. He looked scary, with his all-black clothes and sharply-angled face, and especially with those dark glasses that hid his eyes. He came across like the type of ruthless, sadistic man who would normally target Aziraphale within minutes of acquaintance, but appearances could be deceiving. Of course Ana wouldn’t have put him at the mercy of a bully. He should have known better.

Somehow, Aziraphale felt calm. Despite the incident at the shop as he’d prepared for this appointment. Despite being three minutes late (and then counting every second of the next eight minutes until Crowley arrived, afraid that he’d already come and gone, unsure how long he should sit here like a fool…). Despite the bad sherry. He felt calm—the very last thing he expected to feel. It filled his body with warmth not unlike a good glass of wine, and likewise loosened his tongue.

“May I ask you something?”

“Go on,” Crowley said with a grin. “That’s what we’re here for, yeah?”

Aziraphale noticed that Crowley hid a grimace after another sip of his drink and wondered if it was as bad as the sherry. “Why would you entertain a scheme like this? For me, obviously, there would be tremendous benefit, enough to outweigh the fuss and inconvenience.”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitched. Aziraphale realized how rude that sounded and tried to backpedal.

“Not that you would be an inconvenience, of course! I only meant, it’s an unusual situation, high pressure, and marriage even of the common type will inevitably cause stress as lives enjoin…”

“No, you’re right, it’s messy and far from convenient. It’ll be difficult. We’ll both be difficult. Have to get used to each other’s idiosyncrasies. Might not be fun at times.”

“Precisely! Thank you. And so I wonder, how did Ana persuade you? Please tell me that it wasn’t blackmail.”

Aziraphale held his breath, hoping that the words would come across jokingly like he meant them, and relaxed when Crowley laughed. “Nah,” he said. “Though she attempted bribery. I’m currently crashing on my sibling’s couch after the dumpster-fire end of my last relationship, so the prospect of a flat—in Soho, no less—is enticing.”

After a momentary debate about whether he should address Ana’s bribery, Aziraphale decided to trust the jovial tone more than the words. He wanted to coax out Crowley’s laugh again. “I’m glad I bring something to the table then.”

Crowley chuckled. It was extraordinarily pleasant to have his jokes land properly! He better not push his luck too far, though.

“Humor aside, how can you possibly consider this? With me, of all people. I don’t understand why anyone would agree to even entertain this foolishness.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Crowley growled, pointing at him. “Ana told me a few things, and while I’m not going to simply accept her armchair diagnoses, you should know something important. Two of my siblings are on the spectrum. One of them also presents with ADHD and sensory processing disorder. That particular sibling is quirky and socially awkward and kind and upbeat and honest and loyal. They are literally my favorite person on the planet. Anyone who claims that something is wrong with you because of whatever neurodivergence or sensory issues you have, they’re saying the same about my siblings, and that’s not on.”

Aziraphale’s mouth was hanging open by the end of this speech. He couldn’t think to close it. There were too many conflicting emotions vying for top priority. Crowley’s words were likely the nicest thing anyone had ever said about him. They also gave him a lot more hope for their probable success rate for living together. It might also explain why the man seemed to understand his jokes and not take offense when he was accidentally rude. But also, Aziraphale had inadvertently insulted people who were important to Crowley.

Mortification at this last part won out. “I am so sorry,” he said when he got his voice back. “I meant no harm toward either of your siblings.”

Crowley waved his apology away with one long-fingered hand. “No need. Just promise me to stop talking like you deserve less because you’re unique. The world could use less homogeny.”

It was too much. Aziraphale had to look away. He covered his mouth to hold in any strong feelings. In his peripheral vision, Crowley also looked away, ostensibly to peer around the pub, but Aziraphale knew he was being given more space to recover. It was perfect and overwhelming and potentially dangerous. He had never met anyone this in tune with him, especially not so quickly.

Still facing away, Crowley said, “So what do I get out of this, apart from a kick-arse living situation? Well, I grew up in a very large family that was crowded into a very small flat. We were all on top of each other, and while some of us grew up craving more space and solitude, others prefer closeness and company. I find it difficult to be alone, and that has historically led to me diving headfirst into shitty relationships. This gives me a bit of break. I won’t be alone, but I also won’t be in an unsafe environment.”

It really was perfect. Bless Ana. “So you don’t mind that we will have a platonic partnership? I assume that Ana relayed that stipulation, that we approach this in a ‘friends only’ fashion?”

He looked back at Crowley now and caught a hint of something inscrutable in his expression, quickly smoothed away. “Yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Is everything… Are you sure?”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I need right now.” He took a large gulp of his drink and couldn’t contain the grimace this time. “God, that’s shit. How did they fuck up whisky? Is this really your local?”

“I guess? I rarely go to the pub. Ana chose the meeting location. I admit, I always forget how bad the drinks are here. Would’ve preferred to choose a nice red from my wine collection, but Ana thought neutral space would be best.”

“In this instance, she was wrong. Is it far, your bookshop? I have my car. I could drive us if you’d like.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he was so embarrassed, but his face burned as he admitted, “It’s literally across the street.”

“Oh! Brilliant! Do you want to go? Or, I suppose I shouldn’t invite myself over, should I?”

“Why not? It might be your place soon.” The words slipped out before he thought them through. At least he was already blushing. “I know I agreed to buy second round, but perhaps I can make it up to you with a good vintage. Do you like wine?”

“That I do, Aziraphale.” Crowley stood and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

He almost objected. They were meant to be friends. Then he remembered that Nina had offered her arm exactly like this mere hours ago, and he’d taken it without hesitation. Aziraphale shouldn’t assume that the gesture was made romantically. Especially since they’d just discussed this. He smiled and took the proffered arm.

 


 

The most beautiful man that Crowley had ever met was on his arm, tucked close to his side, warm and lightly scented with old things: paper, ink, sandalwood, wool, sherry. Crowley hoped he didn’t smell of formaldehyde. He wondered if Ana had told Aziraphale what he did for a living, and if not, whether it might put the man off. Especially if his sensory disorder centered on olfactory stimuli.

The bookshop was a large building that took up the corner lot, a two-storied construction with ostentatious pillars out front. A weathered sign over the double doors read Malaika Books. Crowley noticed a large pride flag in the window and laughed delightedly. “Your grandad wouldn’t approve,” he said, pointing.

Aziraphale’s gaze followed the line of his finger and he smirked. “No, he would not.” He looked up and down the street as if checking for spies before he put the key in the lock.

“Everything alright?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said as he opened the door. He stepped back and waved Crowley inside with a little bow. “A minor scuffle earlier. Not to worry. After you.”

Crowley wanted to ask about the minor scuffle, but the question died on his lips as he crossed the shop’s threshold and staggered to a halt. This was not what he’d had in mind when Ana said bookshop, not even when the out-of-date website specified that Malaika Books specialized in rare and vintage texts. He’d expected the rare and vintage part to be a small supplement to a larger commercial business. There had to be thousands, hundreds of thousands, of old books crammed on shelves. The aisles were narrow and the ceiling high, giving the impression of vast, antique-lined corridors. It looked like a magic library in a fantasy novel.

As Aziraphale locked the door behind them, Crowley whistled. “So…you’re rich?”

Aziraphale turned. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Crowley gestured to the many, many shelves of books. “Your website said ‘rare,’ but I didn’t realize how many you had. This must be worth a fortune!”

With a smile, Aziraphale shed his frock coat and hung it on the rack by the door. “Not as much as it seems. The truly valuable editions are kept in a controlled environment where they won’t be subject to moisture, too much light, grubby fingers… These out here are less precious. Here, let me show you.” He grabbed a book from a nearby stack. “Would you mind if I put a lamp on? Or will it hurt your eyes too badly?”

“My eyes? Oh!” Crowley touched his sunglasses and grinned. “No, I’m not light sensitive. They have a different purpose. I’ll show you in a minute. Finish your demonstration first.”

With a delighted wiggle—and oh, that was going to haunt Crowley’s dreams—Aziraphale switched on a lamp and scanned the volume he’d selected. “The Magician, William Somerset Maugham. Not a first edition, but still an early copy. Hardback, missing the original dust jacket, internal pages in good condition, spine needs repair.”

He showed the book to Crowley, open to a page with a light pencil mark giving a price of 35£.

“If I can restore the spine, I’ll be able to double the asking price. It’s not a high priority, though.”

“You restore the books, too?” Aziraphale was becoming more fascinating by the minute. “Not just sell them?”

“I only sell the more common ones unless I absolutely have no other choice.” He shot a sly grin at Crowley. “There might be several collectors with their knickers in a twist if we get married. I’ve all but agreed to sell off a few valuable items to earn some money to start over with. If I don’t have to do that, though…”

God, he already liked this man so much. “You bastard,” he said through giggles.

“That’s assuming that I don’t send you running.”

“I’m more likely to turn you off me. You restore books. I restore bodies.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Are you a plastic surgeon?”

Crowley was so overcome by laughter at that point that his legs went weak. He migrated over to what looked like a seating area under the window with the Pride flag, giggling the whole way. Aziraphale sat across from him, the Maugham book still in his hand.

Eventually, Crowley controlled his voice long enough to say, “No. Not a plastic surgeon. I’m a mortician.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sat back, and his expression was caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Crowley rushed to assure him.

“It’s not as creepy or off-putting as the media makes it out to be. Family business, and all five of us contribute. Muriel, the youngest and also the one I mentioned with sensory issues, takes care of the embalming portion. They don’t mind the smell of formaldehyde, though honestly, all of us are used to it. The funeral home was practically our second home, we were there so often growing up. Anyway, after they’re done, it’s my job to make the deceased presentable, recognizable, and palatable to the family. They need to look right, but not too alive. To look good but still like themselves. It’s a delicate balance, especially when there are visible wounds or injuries to contend with.”

“And you, um, enjoy your vocation?”

At least he didn’t sound put off. Crowley nodded. “On one hand, it’s a big, complex puzzle that I need to solve. On the other, my work will make or break a family’s experience with their departed loved one, and I take a lot of pride in serving families in this way.” He ducked his head, blushing. “Have I mentioned how important family is to me?”

Aziraphale smiled, but before he had a chance to respond, a phone rang upstairs. “Speaking of family,” he muttered with an eyeroll. He sat back and said, “Ignore that. It’s my father. I don’t feel like dealing with him right now. Unfortunately, my family is not quite as warm as yours sounds.”

Crowley smiled, and then tapped his sunglasses. “I’m going to take these off now, if you don’t mind. I have a birth defect. Well, it’s more like a birthmark, because it doesn’t cause any real vision problems. But it looks odd and I don’t like dealing with the stares in public. Have you heard of bilateral colobomas?”

The other man shook his head and said, “I apologize in advance for however my face reacts to your condition, and I promise that regardless of whatever expression I might make, I do not judge on things like birthmarks or defects. It simply takes me a moment to incorporate new information into my perception of a person.”

Why, why, why couldn’t he have met this man years ago? When it was safe to fall in love? Crowley nodded his understanding and pulled off the glasses. His pupils constricted in the increased light, which would make the colobomas more prominent.

Across the seating area, Aziraphale stared at him. His face danced, but Crowley detected no disgust, only a bit of fascination as he leaned forward to get a better look. It took a great deal of willpower not to also lean in.

After a moment, Aziraphale sat up straight. “Are you sure the light is no problem, with the extra pupillary exposure?”

Crowley shook his head. “My eyes adapt like anyone else’s, as far as I can tell. My dad had a singular coloboma, but Bee and I—we’re the only two kids who share a dad—both got the double version. Not that you can tell on Bee. Their eyes are so dark brown that it’s hard to see where the pupils begin. Whereas I have this…” He waved vaguely toward the muddy brown-yellow color of his eyes.

“Honey,” Aziraphale supplied, then blushed.

With a smirk, Crowley said, “Angel. If we’re choosing pet names.”

“I meant the color of your eyes,” Aziraphale whined.

“I know. And I meant your name. Malaika. It means angel. I assume you know?”

For some reason, this made Aziraphale drop eye contact. “I know,” he muttered. “It’s why my mother named us after angels. She had a book of angel names back in the seventies. Gabriel got something traditional. I got something esoteric. What she didn’t realize was that Aziraphale isn’t a name from the bible. There’s an angel in Islam called Israfil. Of course, the original spelling is in Arabic, so whoever published that book of angel names got creative with the English spelling. Made it look more Christian. I’m still not sure if my mother knows, and I’m certainly not going to tell her.”

As interesting as that whole story was, Crowley’s thoughts fixated on one point. “You have a brother? Why didn’t your grandad leave the shop to him if he didn’t approve of you? Or is your brother also gay?”

Aziraphale gave him a soft, sad smile. “He’s not gay. He’s dead.”

 


 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley’s reaction to the grenade he’d lobbed into the conversation. There was a standard set of responses he received when people learned that his brother was deceased. Most common, of course, was sympathy. Some variation on sorry for your loss. Then there were the curious types. They wanted to know when it happened, how it happened—context to tell them how to respond. The worst were the religious people who gave him some variation of god’s will and he’s in heaven now and I’ll pray for you/him. Aziraphale doubted Crowley would fall into that last category, but he was intensely curious how the man’s profession might influence his response.

To his surprise, Crowley was the second person ever to go down an unexpected route. (The first was Ana back at uni, who had responded with, “Did you like your brother?”) Crowley raised an eyebrow and said, “That’ll certainly fuck with the family dynamics. Is that what brought on the lack of warmth? Or was it already that way?”

“It didn’t help,” Aziraphale said, surprised to realize just how comfortable he felt in Crowley’s presence. He never spoke about this part. “My parents were always a bit stiff and reserved. After Gabriel—well, it was very sudden, you see. Hit-and-run while out on his bicyle. He was eleven and I was eight. Our mother sent us to play outside. I think she expected us both to ride, but it was hot and rather damp, so I snuck a book out to read under my favorite shade tree.”

“Did they ever catch the driver?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, and after the initial upheaval, my parents’ grief grew quiet. My dad was stern, Mother withdrawn. Gabriel became the golden child who could never do any wrong, and I…” He spread his fingers in a helpless gesture.

“S’not right. Not uncommon, mind, but it’s not okay that they placed that burden on your shoulders.”

With a half-smile, Aziraphale said, “When I was a child, I thought they blamed me. I blamed myself, honestly. If I’d gone with Gabriel, he wouldn’t have been in that exact place at that time. I was slower on the bicycle, see? I would’ve held him back. Even if he had been there, the car was more likely to hit me.”

The noise out of Crowley’s mouth was like the yowl of an angry cat. Aziraphale held out a quelling hand.

“Please don’t be upset. As I said, I was a child. Those types of thoughts no longer torment me. And I understand that my parents’ reactions to Gabriel’s death had nothing to do with me. My dad had a lot of anger about the situation, and Mother… I think she blamed herself for sending us outside in the first place.”

Crowley stood and strode over to him in three long strides. Slightly alarmed, Aziraphale also made his way to his feet.

“What—?”

“May I hug you?”

“I…” He wasn’t sure how to respond. It was such an unexpected turn of events, and Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly hugged anyone.

“If you would rather not be touched, that’s fine,” Crowley said. “I would like to hug you, but I won’t do it if it makes you uncomfortable at all.”

He waited another second, but when Aziraphale still didn’t speak, Crowley nodded and took a step back.

“Sorry,” he said. “Won’t ask again.”

Once more, Aziraphale held up a hand, begging him to wait. He needed time. He needed to sort out the sudden onrush of unfamiliarity that had come with the man’s request.

To his credit, Crowley didn’t speak. The only noise in the bookshop, apart from Aziraphale’s own breathing and the slight ring in his ears, was the tick of the grandfather clock behind him. He rubbed his thumb across the weathered cloth binding of The Magician. Had Crowley understood the significance of the book he’d chosen to share? Did he know that Maugham had written the novel as a thinly-veiled caricature of Aleister Crowley? Aziraphale shoved the thought aside. He was meant to be concentrating on the matter at hand.

A hug. Arms encircling him, presumably in a gesture of sympathy or protectiveness, if he could guess from context clues. He didn’t see any other reason for the sudden request. There would be warmth. Some of Crowley’s scent would be left on him, though they’d already linked arms earlier in the night, so that was fine. The warmth might be nice. A contrast to the talk of his parents’ coldness. Perhaps that was the motive behind the question. If he understood correctly, Crowley was from a warm family. Was he inviting Aziraphale in? Fitting, for this marriage thing.

He dropped the hand that had been keeping Crowley silent and met the man’s eyes. “I think a hug could be nice.”

Crowley’s brow creased. “Are you sure? I don’t mean to pressure you.”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling decisive now. “It’s been ever so many years since I’ve had one.”

This time, Crowley’s utterance sounded like the cry of some strange, sad bird. A hawk perhaps? Aziraphale rather liked this form of nonverbal expression! He was about to say so when he was enfolded by long, strong arms and pulled tightly into the other man’s embrace. It took him an embarrassingly long time to remember to return the hug. And oh, once he did… He’d forgotten how nice this could be, a hug that wasn’t the sort of perfunctory greeting he was obliged to give at the annual celebration of Gabriel’s birthday. A hug that meant something. That mattered.

Crowley pulled back, and Aziraphale was sure he was imagining the watery shine in his honey-colored eyes. The sharp-toothed grin returned, only it no longer looked scary.

“I think I would like to ask you to marry me,” Crowley said, his voice lighthearted enough for Aziraphale to hear the unspoken for the arrangement. “Before I do, I have a very important question about logistics.”

Oh dear, Aziraphale thought. He wants to discuss the bed situation.

He was completely taken aback when Crowley said, “How do you feel about cats?”

Notes:

A good mortician makes a huge difference. I’ve attended four wakes in the last twenty years. Two of the deceased were attended to by wonderful morticians. My relatives looked like themselves but not in an uncanny-valley type of way. The other two were attended to by a mortician who made them look good and presentable but not even slightly like themselves. Like, almost unrecognizable. It was creepy and off-putting, and everyone in the family was disturbed by it.

Fun story: Aleister Crowley responded to The Magician by writing a review, under his character’s name, accusing Maugham of plagiarism and generally lambasting him. Maugham, in turn, claimed to have not read the review, saying “I daresay it was a pretty piece of vituperation, but probably, like his poems, intolerably verbose.” I find Aleister Crowley a rather ludicrous historical figure (have you read the story about him fighting a “duel” of “magic spells” with other occultists of the time, which may or may not have ended with him being kicked down a flight of stairs?) and this whole back-and-forth between him and Maugham cracks me up. It’s more amusing than the book itself, which is one of few in Maugham’s repertoire that I’m not really a fan of. (Maugham, in spite of his own response being rather intolerably verbose, is one of my favorite authors ever.)

Chapter 5: Meet the Family

Summary:

Crowley tells Aziraphale all about his big, crazy family, interrupted partway through by a not-so-nice phone call from Aziraphale’s dad.

***
The indignant growl out of Crowley’s mouth was both immediate and involuntary. He pointed and said, “You are keeping your damn property!”

Aziraphale cocked his head, grinning. “You sound like a cat. One of those big cats at the zoo. I like when you do that.”

Notes:

TW: mention of infant death; mention of attempted violence toward an animal (brief, non-graphic, and no actual harm accomplished)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Portia was a tuxedo cat, Aziraphale learned. She was smart, “but in a way that makes her seem stupid,” Crowley explained. When Aziraphale looked at him blankly, he said, “Like, when she wants to chase a toy but I haven’t thrown one, she’ll kick one with her back feet. As if she’s throwing it for herself. Or if I throw it and it’s not a long enough run, she’ll ‘miss’ and make a loop back to get it. Then she’ll drop it near me and start looking around with this distressed meow as if, oh no, she can’t find her toy. Where could it be?”

Crowley’s voice rose to a high, singsong pitch for this last bit, making Aziraphale smile. “I see,” he said. He swiped to the next photo, a black cat sitting in what could only be described as an imperious stance, tail wrapped neatly around her front paws. “This one is Viola?”

“Yeah. Smartest and most considerate cat I’ve ever known. Steps around my things, which if you know cats, you’ll know is very unusual. They’re more often the ‘step on everything because it’s theirs’ type. She’s also extremely lazy, unless you present her with a feather or laser pointer, and easily offended.”

Aziraphale looked up from the photo, bemused. “Do cats get offended?”

“Viola does, and she holds a grudge forever. If you laugh at her, she will stop doing whatever you found funny and never repeat it. She knows the difference between laughter near her and laughter at her. I tell you, she’s the smartest cat that has ever existed. If you told me that she was a person trapped in feline form, I’d believe you.”

The soft expression on Crowley’s face was extraordinarily endearing. How had Aziraphale ever found the man intimidating? “They’re sisters?” he asked, simply to have something to say.

“Yup,” Crowley said, popping the p. “I’ve had them from two months old. Almost six years now. They’re my babies.”

This was a test, Aziraphale knew. Crowley and the cats were a package deal. Like the bookshop and the flat. Part and parcel. Truth be told, Aziraphale was a little intimidated by cats—by most animals, in fact. His parents had never allowed pets, so he’d never learned how to interpret their behavior. What if Crowley brought his babies to the flat and they took a disliking to him? What if they attacked him? What if, in his ignorance, he did something that hurt one of them?

“You’re fretting,” Crowley said. It wasn’t a question. “Want to tell me your concerns?”

Crowley’s glass was empty. They’d migrated up to the flat and opened a bottle of Pinot noir before looking at cat photos. Aziraphale gave himself a bit of thinking time by picking up the bottle to pour refills. Crowley waited patiently as Aziraphale took a sip of his own wine.

“I don’t know anything about cats,” he said eventually. “I suppose my worry comes down to this. Say I agree, and you all move in. We marry, the bookshop stays in my name, and my family tries to contest the will. Maybe they even challenge the legality of our wedding. It’s important that we stay together for a decent chunk of time. Make it look real. What happens if it turns out that your babies and I are incompatible? That this flat isn’t a good space for them? I would never ask you to turn them out, but if you all go, my family wins. What would the alternative be? Keeping the cats sequestered in the office for a few years? No, I couldn’t be so cruel. No creatures should be so confined.”

“Aziraphale.” Perhaps because he was almost two glasses into the wine now, Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm without thinking. He froze the moment he did so, eyes widening. “Sorry! Is this okay?”

Aziraphale nodded quickly and was happy to see the man relax. His arm was squeezed.

“You haven’t even met Portia and Viola, and you’re already showing more concern for them than some of the people I’ve lived with. Hell, I left Jean-Luc after he aimed a kick at Viola when he was annoyed. His aim was wildly off, thank fuck, but that was the last straw for me. I could put up with his shit when it was directed my way, but leave my fucking cats out of it!”

Whoever this Jean-Luc man was, Aziraphale had a burning desire to run a flaming sword through his gut.

Crowley must’ve seen the anger and indignation on his face, because he shook his head and said, “I’d rather not talk about him, if you don’t mind. Not yet.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. He had no idea how to comfort another person, so he awkwardly patted the hand that was still tight on his arm.

Shaking himself, Crowley said, “I understand your concern. It would certainly put us all in a bad place if we discovered after marrying that our living arrangement was untenable. When is the deadline?”

“My forty-fifth birthday. March 28th.”

“That gives us about two and a half months, like Ana said. Probably closer to six weeks if we don’t want it to look suspicious with a last second union.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I imagine it’s going to look suspicious regardless.”

“We’ll have to get all our ducks in a row.” His eyes lit up. “We can say an old friend introduced us, and on our first date, we fed the ducks at St James!”

“Wouldn’t our first ‘date’ have been at that godawful pub?”

Crowley waved that away. “No, that’s where our friend introduced us! Tomorrow, we’ll go on a proper date to St James. I’ll bring peas, and we’ll feed the ducks. Then, if you’d like, I can take you to meet Bee and the cats. We can work out the details, and maybe we’ll have a trial move-in. Spend some time living together, make sure it’s not an utter disaster, before the actual wedding.”

“You want to take me on a date?” Aziraphale’s heart was fluttering, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to nerves, excitement, or confusion.

“A friend-date,” Crowley said with a shrug. “We don’t have to tell anyone that part.”

He gave another sharp-toothed grin, squeezed Aziraphale’s arm one more time, and let go to drain the last of his glass of wine.

“I probably shouldn’t have any more if I’m driving back home tonight.”

Aziraphale barely caught himself from inviting the man to stay over. What was wrong with him all of a sudden? He supposed there was a part of him that simply wanted to get the Plan started. Forcing his tongue into obedience, he said, “Surely you shouldn’t leave yet, not after you quite literally just finished that glass.”

Crowley stretched. “S’true. Want me to tell you about the rest of my insane family?”

“Very much! I should learn all about them anyway, if we’re to make this marriage convincing.”

On impulse, Aziraphale scooted his chair closer to Crowley’s, and with a shy smile, the other man mimicked him. They were almost close enough to touch, making it easy for them both to see the mobile’s screen as Crowley scrolled through photos.

“Freddie is our funeral director,” he began, angling the mobile toward Aziraphale. “He’s the oldest sibling and set to inherit the business. He’s the only one married with kids, you see? The rest of us are unlikely to have families of our own to pass it down to. And none of us mind. Freddie is a hard worker. His wife, Gemma, is a star, and their two boys are lovely. Austin and Johnny. I’m happy to see them inherit, if they wish, once the rest of us get old and retire.”

He flipped through photos of a smiling woman and two young boys whose ages Aziraphale wouldn’t even begin to try to guess, then moved to one of a woman with long dreadlocks. She looked a bit like Nina from Coffee or Death. Her eyes didn’t quite meet the camera.

“This is Mary, the second oldest. She handles our contracts, supplies, PR, appointments, social media, etc. Basically all the miscellaneous contact with outside folks. Freddie interacts with our clients; Mary works with everyone else. She’s hyper-focused on her job. The funeral home is everything to her. She’s like a nun, except her belief is in the business. Just don’t get her talking unless you’re prepared to be trapped for a long time. She never shuts up, can talk anyone right into the ground.”

“Does Mary not want to inherit the business, if she believes so strongly in it?”

Crowley grinned. “That’s not what I expected you to ask.”

“Oh? Is there something more…ah…neurotypical that has passed me by?”

“A lot of people ask why my brother is white and my sister is black.”

Aziraphale blinked. “You already told me that none of your siblings share a father except you and Bee. Why should I be curious as to their differing skin tones?”

With a laugh, Crowley said, “I forgot I mentioned that already. You didn’t comment at the time. Most people have some reaction to the fact. Five kids, four dads, you know…”

“I don’t know, actually,” Aziraphale said with a sniff, though honestly, he understood what Crowley meant. “My late brother and I share parents who are still married, and your family sounds a great deal kinder than mine. And happier. Though I suppose that latter could be blamed on mitigating factors, with Gabriel gone.”

At his words, Crowley went unnaturally still. Aziraphale barely had to turn his head to see his expression. It was…conflicted, perhaps? Crowley cleared his throat. “Freddie had a full sister. This was before any of the rest of us were born. Her name was Joan. Johnny was named for her, after Gemma knew she wouldn’t be having more children. Joan had a heart defect. She was three months old when she died. I don’t normally tell people about her. I’m sure you’re well aware of the sorts of things people say when they learn you’ve lost a sibling.”

“Can I give you a hug?”

Aziraphale had never said those words in his entire life. Crowley’s mouth opened in a silent gasp, and then he made a sound like air being let out of a balloon. Really, his emotional communication was fascinating! This time, Aziraphale didn’t bother to think about telling him so, because he expected the arms that encircled him and he didn’t forget to do the same in return. He wondered if Ana knew about Joan. Perhaps she really was trying to play matchmaker here.

It was a lovely embrace, and Aziraphale was just wondering how long he might get away with holding it when his landline rang.

 


 

In Crowley’s arms, Aziraphale jumped at the shrill ring of his phone. “Oh, bother,” the man said, pulling back with a sigh. “That’ll be my father again. I suppose I’d better answer.”

Crowley bit back the instinct to say that he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to. Aziraphale was an almost-stranger. He didn’t need advice from someone he’d met that night. Instead, he stood and trailed behind the man as he approached the (corded!) landline.

With a sigh, Aziraphale picked up the phone and said, “Hello, Malaika residence.”

The voice on the other line was too muffled for Crowley to make out. Besides, this was none of his business. He only wanted to remain close in case Aziraphale needed him for support. The little he’d said of his family made Crowley think this was a possibility.

“Hello, Father. No, I’m sorry that I missed your calls. Yes, I had an appointment this evening. I was out.” A pause. “Not that appointment, no.” Pause. “Because he didn’t schedule with me! He showed up at my door and tried to break in!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but Aziraphale was frowning down at the phone and didn’t see him. The voice on the other line rose a bit in volume.

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, “it is considered breaking and entering when a person goes onto private property without permission from the owner. The owner being me. That man—” Pause. Another sigh. “It doesn’t matter if he has a key. You gave it to him, not me. Besides, he doesn’t have one any longer. After yesterday’s incident, I was advised by a solicitor to change the locks.”

Aziraphale was growing agitated. Crowley stepped forward and waved to get his attention. He mimed putting a hand on his back. When Aziraphale nodded, Crowley pressed his hand between his shoulder blades. The man leaned back against him gently, so Crowley kept his hand firm and unmoving.

The voice on the other line seemed to be lecturing. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he interrupted. “You do not have the legal right to send people into my home. If you’d asked and set up the appointment with me beforehand, I would have been happy to allow Mr Tyler access to do the appraisal.” Pause. “Sending me an email with a set appointment time is not the same thing as checking my availability and seeing what works best for me! This is still my property, Father, regardless of what may or may not happen at the end of March!”

“Jesus,” Crowley whispered. He was starting to get a picture of the situation.

“I gave you that key for emergency purposes. Not to hand off to strangers who decide to accost me while I’m still in my bedclothes.” Pause. “No. I don’t think I will. If the property reverts to your possession in March, you will receive all copies of the keys at that point. Then you will be able to arrange for whatever business you need.”

This time, the voice on the other line was loud enough that Crowley could hear every word distinctly. “What do you mean, if?

Aziraphale pulled the earpiece away from his ear. “There’s really no need to shout, Father.” Pause. “I’m sorry if this causes you temporary inconvenience. Perhaps you should have considered my convenience before you sent someone into my home without consulting me first.”

The words were barely audible this time, but Crowley was close enough to catch them. “You’re speaking like a child, Aziraphale.”

He couldn’t help himself. “I don’t think you’re the one behaving like a child, angel.”

Aziraphale looked at him, wide-eyed, as the voice from the other end of the line cut off completely. There was silence, and Crowley mouthed, Sorry!

When Mr Malaika spoke again, his words had returned to that indistinguishable level. Aziraphale grimaced and said, “Yes, I have a guest. I did tell you that I had an appointment this evening.” Pause. “Of course. I imagine so.” Pause. “No. I’m sorry, but you’ll simply have to wait. Please do not send Mr Tyler here again. I’ve already told him that should he return, even during business hours, he would be trespassing and I will inform the police. The same goes for any other realtor, appraiser, or associate you may send instead. I do not give permission for any evaluation to be done on my business while it is still under my ownership.”

Crowley could imagine the voice on the other line telling Aziraphale to be reasonable, but the words were too quiet to hear even indistinctly now.

“Well, I’m sorry to have disappointed you. If it’s any consolation, I’m sure the feeling is familiar to you by now. Goodbye.”

He dropped the handset onto the cradle, leaned forward to cover his face with his hands, and groaned. Crowley wanted to cheer—that last bitchy comment had been so fucking perfect—but Aziraphale’s shoulders were shaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

Aziraphale stood abruptly and uncovered his face, which shone with mirth. Relief flooded Crowley at the realization—he had been laughing, not crying. “That was brilliant!” Aziraphale said. “I’ve never heard him so embarrassed. Even if nothing else comes of this arrangement, that alone was worth letting Ana introduce us.”

Crowley felt a pang. He wanted something to come of this arrangement. Needed it. “Hey, I’m invested now. We can’t let someone like that—” He pointed to the phone. “—win, can we? Did he really send someone to break in here?”

“Gave him a key and neglected to tell him that the flat was still occupied. The same man showed up this afternoon, having been told that he had an appointment with me, only I’d changed the locks since then and refused to let him in. He grew rather blustery and aggressive until I threatened to call emergency services. Apparently, he was under the impression that my father owned the property and I was merely allowed to live here.”

The indignant growl out of Crowley’s mouth was both immediate and involuntary. He pointed and said, “You are keeping your damn property!”

Aziraphale cocked his head, grinning. “You sound like a cat. One of those big cats at the zoo. I like when you do that.”

It was like a key clicking open a lock, the slotting together of two puzzle pieces, the transmutation from water to wine. Crowley’s heart settled, and he knew. He had been in relationships before. He had felt love before. But Aziraphale…Aziraphale was different. He was family. It didn’t matter that they’d only known each other for a couple of hours. This man was right. He was the one. He was…everything.

Crowley cleared his throat and smiled back. “Rawrrr,” he said, holding up both hands like claws. As Aziraphale dissolved into giggles, Crowley sent a little prayer to whatever deity may be listening. Please, let me have this one. Even if it’s only to be by his side as his friend and support. It’s enough. It’ll be enough. Just please, let me have him.

 


 

Aziraphale sat back at the table where he’d been before the irritating call had interrupted them. He wasn’t ready for Crowley to leave yet. His insides weren’t settled from the confrontation with his father. He doubted Crowley even knew how much strength he’d taken from the hand placed on his back. Without it, Aziraphale likely would have folded.

“Could you tell me about the rest of your family, now that you’ve met mine?” He waved back toward the phone.

“Sure, angel.”

Aziraphale felt a little flutter at that, but he didn’t dwell on it. They’d made the boundaries clear. If Crowley wanted to call him by a pet name, he didn’t mind, and besides, it might make the marriage seem more legitimate.

They settled back into their chairs, almost but not quite touching.

“You asked if Mary was upset about not inheriting the family business. No, she isn’t. As much as she enjoys talking and is good with contractors and business associates, she could not handle Freddie’s job. Emotions make her very uncomfortable, especially those of the negative variety. Grief, anger, confrontation. It’s a funeral home, yeah? So the clientele is going to have a wide range of the exact sort of emotions that Mary avoids dealing with. She is great at the back end of things, does her job brilliantly. Freddie will let her stay as long as she wishes.”

“They are so supportive of each other,” Aziraphale said. “Your siblings. It’s nice. Gabriel and I were still kids when he died, so I have no idea how we would have been with each other when we grew up. Maybe we would have been the same way. It’s a nice thought.”

“It is,” Crowley said with a smile. “So I’m the next kid in line. Hi! Middle child, gay trainwreck weirdo with snake eyes and cats for kids.”

He waved for emphasis, and Aziraphale giggled again. “I like your eyes. I’d stare at them except I know you don’t like that.”

For some reason, this made Crowley blush and look away. Oh dear. Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t embarrassed the man. Before he had a chance to apologize, though, Crowley continued.

“I’m the mortician at our funeral home. Technically, I split and share the job with the youngest sibling, Muriel, like I described to you earlier. They take care of embalming; I handle the cosmetic portion. Which leaves the fourth sibling, Bee, the one who shares a father with me. Their full name is actually Beatrice—spelled the same as in English, but they’ll murder you with eye-daggers if you don’t pronounce it the proper Italian way. Easier to just say Bee! They handle the financial and legal parts of the business. Here. Let me show you pictures.”

Aziraphale could tell immediately that the first photo presented was of Bee. They were wiry and compact like Crowley, with an angular face and a sharp-toothed grin. Even knowing that Crowley was nowhere near as dangerous as his photo looked, Aziraphale felt a tremor of unease looking at Bee. “Scary,” he said before he could stop himself, then covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Crowley said with a laugh. “Bee is scary. At first. Once they like you, they…well, they’re still scary but it’s no longer directed at you.”

“I hope I can get into their good graces, then,” Aziraphale said, though he doubted it.

“Bee will love you. Eventually. They’re gonna be a bit wary at first, because they heard the call with Ana and they know this whole thing is a ruse. You know how you asked what kind of man would willingly enter into an arrangement with you? Bee is asking what kind of man would require an arrangement in the first place. They’re very protective. But once they see you for who you are, they’re going to love you. I know it.”

Aziraphale didn’t believe him, but he nodded to keep the peace. “And Muriel?”

With a gentle smile, Crowley navigated to a photo of a person who seemed to be the opposite of Bee in almost every way. Their dark curls were pulled back, wisps escaping everywhere to float around their head like a halo. Their brown eyes crinkled at the corners and their smile radiated kindness and joy. Rather than angles and sharpness, they were all curves and softness and tenderness as they hugged a giant, fluffy cat to their chest. Their expressive face hid nothing. Aziraphale felt an instant kinship with them for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“They’re beautiful,” he said, and again felt immediately embarrassed for the sentiment, but Crowley only nodded his agreement.

“So there you have it. The five of us. One big puppy pile of contradictions and personality clashes that somehow manages to make it all work.”

“And your mother? Is she an active part of your lives?” Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t put his foot in his mouth. What if the poor man’s mother was deceased already, and that explained why the five siblings were running the funeral home?

Crowley laughed. “Absolutely. Do you want to see a photo of her blond? Or with red hair, looking like a fifties pin-up model? With short and spiky black hair? When she’s thin? Chubby? Dressed like she’s leading a séance? Or perhaps like the leader of a mob?”

Aziraphale blinked, nonplussed.

“Mum changes up her look all the time. She always has. When she was young, she wanted to be on stage, so she learned hair and makeup and costuming, and when the stage proved to be illusive, she decided that life was her stage. Here, let me find the most natural-looking photo I have of her.”

He thumbed through his mobile, biting his lip as he checked and discarded possibilities. Aziraphale should have been looking at the screen, seeing all the different iterations of his future mother-in-law, but he was mesmerized by that sharp tooth digging into red flesh.

“Got one!” Crowley suddenly announced, shaking Aziraphale from his hypnosis.

The woman on the screen had wavy blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore little makeup, so that her face crinkled with age and showed the pleasant laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. The photo had been taken without her knowledge, as she laughed at something off-camera, one arm held out to the side and motion-blurred. Behind her, only partially captured by the photo, Bee leaned against her shoulder, eyes closed. The casual closeness gave Aziraphale a warm feeling (as well as allayed his fears, slightly, about Bee).

“Freddie looks a lot like her,” he said. “More than the rest of you.”

“The rest of us have a bit of non-British ethnicity thrown into the mix. But honestly, when we’re together, you start to see how much we resemble each other, despite all our differences. If nothing else, we make the same facial expressions. Muriel and I would play a game with it in clothes shops. We’d find a mirror, and one of us would make a funny face, and the other would contort their features until we were identical. The moment we were exactly the same, we’d both crack up laughing. Still makes me laugh to think about.”

There was an ache in Aziraphale’s breastbone, and after a moment, he recognized it as yearning. “That sounds incredible.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet everyone,” Crowley said with a grin. “You will fit right in with us. I know it.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “I do hope you’re right. It would be nice to fit in somewhere.”

Crowley put his hand on his forearm again and squeezed. “Trust me.”

It surprised Aziraphale to discover that he did.

Notes:

Once again, I beg you to just pretend I know what I’m talking about when it comes to funeral homes.

Portia and Viola are based on two of my babies (Gavroche and Ash (🌈), respectively). The artwork comes from actual photos of those two cats. Somehow, I often forget about including pets in my stories despite living with a bajillion cats, and I credit But, Soft! for helping me remember how integral they can be to a story. (If you haven’t read that fic, I highly recommend it!) And speaking of cats, my regular readers might recognize Muriel’s baby here! Cookies 🍪🍪🍪 for anyone who mentions her name in their comments. 😄

I’m the oldest of many siblings, and the second-oldest and I used to play the game Crowley references playing with Muriel at clothes shops. She and I are opposite in nearly every feature, and yet we can become identical in expression, and it makes us laugh every time.

Chapter 6: First Date

Summary:

Crowley and Aziraphale meet at St James to act out their first “date.”

***
“What do you take me for?” The sly look in Aziraphale’s eye belied the pretense of offense everywhere else in his face and posture. “Nuts, seeds, and oats. Our ducks will have a feast.”

Our. “Ngk,” Crowley managed, earning a giggle in return. He offered an arm. “Shall we?”

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“You’re doing this?”

Crowley ran a lint roller over his shirt, trying to get rid of as much visible cat hair as possible. Apparently, Portia had slept on his last batch of clean laundry before he could put it away. Not that he really had much of a place to store his clean laundry, what with living on his sibling’s couch. “Yes,” he said, not looking up.

“You’re really doing this?”

(His very annoyed sibling’s couch.)

“Bee. I’ve already said yes ten times. Even you should understand by now.” He tossed the lint roller onto the bathroom counter and went through his mental checklist. Keys. Jacket. Phone. Frozen peas. Sunglasses. “I’m gonna bring him to meet the cats after our date.”

Bee crossed their arms and leaned against the wall. “Does it count as a date if you’ve already agreed to get married?”

“Married folks go on dates.”

“Not ones that are ‘friends only;’ not the kind of dates you mean.”

Crowley ignored that. “Be nice to him when he’s over. He’s like Muriel.”

“That may have worked on you,” Bee said with a snort, “but I don’t fall so easily.”

“Yup. That’s me. Easy faller. Wait, that’s not a word, is it? Someone who falls. A fall guy? No, definitely not that.” Crowley shrugged. “Wish me luck?”

“No.”

With a grin, he gave them a loud kiss on the cheek, earning an emphatic Bleurgh! as he waltzed out of the flat.

The plan was to meet at the Boer War Memorial at the corner of St James’ an hour before noon. Crowley hoped to take Aziraphale to lunch before they returned to his flat to meet (Bee and) the cats. He was equal parts excited and anxious, and as a result, arrived at the rendezvous point almost a quarter hour early. Not knowing which direction Aziraphale might appear from, he took to prowling around the memorial.

After a few minutes of restlessness, he came to a sudden halt. “Crowley, you idiot!” He knew where Aziraphale lived. Most likely, the man would come by the direct route, down the wide stairs right across the mall from the memorial. He straightened and leaned onto a pillar with one elbow, ankles crossed, the epitome of cool as he peered intently through sunglasses.

His mobile buzzed against his hip. Fucking Bee…

Crowley wrestled the phone from too-tight pockets as he tried not to look away from the stairs. He was not successful. Cursing himself and his tendency to favor slim-fit jeans, he tore his eyes from across the street to pick up the dropped mobile. Thankfully, no cracks this time. It seemed he’d finally invested in a proper protective case. Unlike the last three.

A quick scan of the stairs again—still no sign of blonde curls—and he finally glanced at the text. It was not from Bee.

‘Look to your left,’ Aziraphale had written. Crowley’s head whipped up and sideways so fast that his neck cracked. The angel was walking toward him, a cloth bag hung over one forearm. He wore a similar outfit as the previous night, complete with bow tie and jacket, though the latter seemed less formal somehow. (Crowley knew nothing about fashion from time periods that he hadn’t lived through himself.) It was, once again, the type of outfit that screamed either confident or oblivious. He grinned.

Aziraphale beamed and waved to him. Crowley hopped down the memorial steps. “Angel!” he said as their paths converged. “I expected you to come from that direction.” He nodded toward the stairwell.

“Not today. I thought I should pop ‘round to the shops. Get something to contribute to the duck-feeding adventure!”

Gods, he was adorable. “Not bread?”

“What do you take me for?” The sly look in his eye belied the pretense of offense everywhere else in Aziraphale’s face and posture. “Nuts, seeds, and oats. Our ducks will have a feast.”

Our. “Ngk,” Crowley managed, earning a giggle in return. He offered an arm. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale took it, and they walked into the park together. Their steps synced up easily. Crowley did his best to stay cool with an angel touching him.

“Thank you for this, dear,” Aziraphale said as they approached Duck Island.

“For this—” He hesitated. “—ah, date? Or whatever we’re calling it?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to register the slight hitch halfway through the words. “That, too. But I meant this.” He squeezed Crowley’s arm. “If we’re to present this as our first date, I need to make sure to get the details correct. I’m not very convincing when I lie, you see. Never have been. However, if I can speak at least a partial truth, then I’m far more competent. Letting me hold your arm as if this were a real date will make the ruse more convincing.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. Of course.” Crowley tried not to sound disappointed. They were going to be friends, and that was perfectly acceptable. Better than acceptable, actually. Good. It was good.

“Do you have a particular spot in mind?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hmm? Oh! Not as such. Anywhere we can find a free bench is fine.” He considered. “Be easier to talk openly if our bench isn’t too close to any others.”

“Right you are!” Aziraphale giggled again. “I feel a bit like a spy.”

“Secret Service. MI6. A regular James Bond.”

“Agent Malaika. That doesn’t sound right.”

“That’s because you need a code name! You could be Secret Agent Angel Fell.”

Aziraphale turned puzzled eyes on him. “Fell?”

“Yeah, see? It sounds a bit like -phale, and then there’s the pun. Like a fallen angel.”

This time, Aziraphale gave a full-belly laugh. “And you, dear? Crowley almost sounds like a code name already, especially with the throwback to Aleister. I suppose you could go by Tony.”

Crowley made a face. “Too American mafia movie.” Another laugh, this time accompanied by a brief press of Aziraphale’s cheek against his shoulder. “Anton Crow. Another pun, that.”

By the time they found the perfect bench, they’d decided that all spies had puns for code names.

“Well, angel, shall we give these birds a feast?” Crowley looked around. “There are fewer ducks than I expected.”

“It is January. I assume some migrate. Either away from here, or maybe there are more in summer because they come here. I couldn’t say. Perhaps something I should look up.”

“Tell you what—I’ll do that and report back to you on our second date.” Crowley lowered his sunglasses enough to give an exaggerated wink, making Aziraphale giggle again. He was glad. He’d worried that the joke would come across as pressure.

“Second date? You mean our wedding?”

Crowley laughed so abruptly that he snorted. Perhaps he ought not to have worried. “As long as Portia and Viola give us their approval,” he said. “I know you think you’re making that decision, but the girls are in charge. Basic cat fact: They’re always in charge.”

“Noted.” Aziraphale pulled out his nut-seed-oat mixture. “You brought peas, right?”

He produced the (slightly soggy) bag of Sainsbury’s frozen peas with a flourish. Immediately, a tight line of apprehension appeared on the other man’s brow. “Wot’s wrong?”

Aziraphale looked startled that he’d noticed. Free hand fluttering, he said, “Nothing! Nothing at all! Why would you think to ask such a silly question?”

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, Crowley said, “Right. I see what you mean. You’re no good at lying.”

“Oh bother.” Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to lie, per se. It’s only that in reading about duck nutrition today, to see what I should purchase, I found numerous articles that say to defrost the peas before using them for feed. Though other articles said that frozen was perfectly fine. Because you were handling the vegetable, I didn’t research well enough to know which is correct.”

Aziraphale was worrying the hem of his waistcoat with one hand, and he stared at the ground to avoid Crowley’s eyes. Crowley stilled his hand with a light touch. “You’ll damage this beautiful fabric, angel. Don’t fret too much. I imagine that if there’s debate, probably either is fine. Besides, mine are half melted by now anyway. Next time, we can get fresh ones. Just in case.”

For a few moments, Aziraphale sat without moving, considering the words. Crowley was about to remove his hand—he didn’t want to overstep—when the other man flipped his over and interlaced their fingers. He smiled at Crowley and said, “I believe you’re right. That seems a very reasonable resolution.”

“Ngk.” It was all he could manage, given the sudden thunder-beat of his heart.

 


 

When Crowley’s skin touched his, something in Aziraphale settled. He’d felt itchy all over, the sensation particularly bad from shoulders to fingertips. First, being unsure about the peas, and then, lying to the man who was doing the favor of a lifetime for him! They’d known each other less than a day, and already Aziraphale was failing him. His cuffs were too tight around his wrists. The cheap polyester of the shopping bag was like tiny thorns where he gripped it. He fought the urge to scratch, rubbing against the worn faux-velvet of his waistcoat instead.

Until Crowley touched him. Touched him, and the itching ceased. His body returned to normal.

It was a gift, Aziraphale decided. The man must have some innate magic, to sense what Aziraphale needed when even he didn’t know. A talent, a gift, a superpower. And somehow, he’d chosen Aziraphale to receive the benefits of this gift. There wasn’t even a conscious thought about the movement when he turned his hand and embraced Crowley’s. He wanted to feel their palms together. To close the gaps between their fingers.

Of course, neither of them could feed the ducks with clasped hands, so Aziraphale reluctantly let go after they both got to their feet. They approached the low rail, where several ducks already waited in lazy anticipation. It wasn’t long before they had a cacophony of squabbling waterfowl begging for treats.

“You’d think they never get fed,” he said as he dumped the last of his mixture onto the spongy ground at the water’s edge. “Yet I happen to have it on great authority that they receive plenty from tourists.”

“Bread,” Crowley said, flinging a handful of soggy peas far out into the pond. “’Course they’re hungry, eating all that junk food.”

“I once saw an unusual pair fighting over some ice creams they must’ve stolen from children. One was black and the other white—the ducks, I mean. I never saw the children. And the ice creams were red and white—a fruit lolly that was mostly melted on the sidewalk and a vanilla cone that had splattered into pieces. It was a right mess.”

“Sounds more like something the geese would do, steal from kids.” Crowley folded up his now-empty bag. “Gotta find a recycle bin. Then I wondered, could I tempt you to a spot of lunch before we go back to mine?”

“Yours? I thought it was Bee’s. Have you been tricking me, Secret Agent Anton Crow?”

“Nghhh, you found me out, Secret Agent Angel Fell.” He grinned. “Don’t tell Bee that I called it mine; they’d hate that. Might make me bunk with Mary and Muriel next time.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the sound of next time. “Our marriage had better last long enough for Bee to forget, then.”

“Ha! You’d have to keep me forever if you wanted that. Bee’s got a memory like an elephant.”

Forever didn’t sound so bad. Not if it meant getting the right touches when he needed them, and having a friend besides. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had enjoyed himself as much as in the last day. It was incredible how different he felt now compared to the call with Ana yesterday morning.

“So…lunch?” Crowley asked again, and this time he sounded hesitant.

Well. Aziraphale could fix that. He took the man’s hand again and said, “Temptation accomplished! I know the best Uzbek place just up the road.”

“Hmm, I’ve never eaten Uzbek food before.”

“It’s delicious! The plov, and the samsy, and ohhhh Crowley, you simply have to try their peach tea. Mmmm, it is to die for!”

“Lead the way, angel. Dunno what those first two are, but I’m happy to try anything once.”

They meandered back toward the war memorial and had almost left the park when a thought occurred to Aziraphale. He stopped. Crowley paused and turned to him a moment later.

“All right?”

Aziraphale nodded quickly. “Only, I wondered, could I kiss you?”

The noise out of Crowley’s mouth was not unlike one of the ducks they’d just fed. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes. “Wha…ffftttz…hrrrn?”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “I was thinking, for the story. Then I could say where we had our first kiss. Like the arm-in-arm earlier. It’s fine, I’ll find a way to—”

“No!” Crowley said, then hastily added, “I mean yes. I mean, you’re right, s’a good idea, a kiss in the park. For the story. Right. So yes. You can. Kiss me, I mean.”

He was adorably easy to fluster. So unlike the cool, suave image he tried to project. Aziraphale smiled and went up on tiptoe to kiss the man’s cheek. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Breathy and embarrassed. The poor boy. It would be wonderful when they could move past all the hurdles—like lying to his family—and get on with the business of being friends. Then Aziraphale could stop embarrassing Crowley with things like kissing.

They crossed the road and traveled up Regent Street to OshPaz. The restaurant had few patrons, and they chose a table right next to the front window. Crowley looked over the menu while Aziraphale ordered them a pot of the peach tea to share. “Trust me,” he said when Crowley admitted that he wasn’t a big fan of tea.

“This is a strange mixture of food,” he said after their server moved away. “S’like half of the menu is similar to Chinese, the other half like Afghan.”

Aziraphale wiggled in pleasure. “Do you know where Uzbekistan is on the map?”

“Nnnngh, somewhere over that way.” He gestured vaguely eastward. “Geography’s never been my strong suit.”

“Central Asia, fairly close to China, though not touching, and it borders Afghanistan to the south. So your analysis is perfect!” He wiggled again. He loved Uzbek food. “The flavors are a unique blend, with their own special touch added as well, of course.”

Crowley put his menu down. “You order for us, then. We’ll share. I’ll try a bit of everything.”

That was a lot of pressure, but Aziraphale sat up straight and made their selections strategically. Chicken plov (a rice and vegetable dish), beef manty (steamed dumplings), and pumpkin samsy (savory filled pastry). He didn’t yet know if Crowley had food preferences, allergies, or intolerances, and he hoped that this spread (one gluten-free item, one vegan, three different flavor profiles) would meet his needs.

To his delight, Crowley seemed to enjoy all his choices, including the tea (“Huh, that doesn’t taste like tea at all! More like a Korean gummy candy.”). Aziraphale was filled with warmth and contentment, his palate sated, heart basking in friendship. He insisted on getting the bill as he’d chosen the restaurant, Crowley grumbling the whole time about how lunch had been his idea.

“Don’t be cross, dear,” he said, taking Crowley’s arm again. “You can choose and pay next time, and I promise not to argue.”

“Even if I take you to the Ritz?”

“Now that might be excessively vengeful after a meal that cost me a mere thirty pounds. I might have to order the cheapest item on the menu to spite you.”

“That would be a bastard move. I’d have to counter by ordering everything I think you might like, then trying to tempt you into tasting each dish.”

“Fiend.”

They’d reached the end of the street, where a black vintage car was parked. Aziraphale thought he vaguely recognized it, then realized it had been on Whickber Street the previous evening. He only made the connection when Crowley stopped and said, “This is me!”

“Wow! No wonder you don’t have your own flat—this thing must’ve cost a fortune!” Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth. What an inappropriate thing to say! “Oh, Crowley! I’m so sorry. What a frightfully rude statement. I—”

“Nah,” Crowley interrupted. “You’re not wrong about the cost, but you got the order reversed. I preferred to move in with my boyfriends because it was cheaper than getting my own place, and it let me save up for this beauty. She’s a 1959 S2. Surprisingly comfortable. If I had to, I could find a side street to park on and bunk down in the backseat.”

Aziraphale ran a finger along the smooth chrome finish. “So you’re saying that you have somewhere to go if you get tired of managing me one night.”

It was meant as a joke, but some of his fear must’ve shown through because Crowley slung an arm over his shoulder and said, “More like if you kick me out overnight because you’re sick of my antics.”

“I would never!” Aziraphale bit his lip. “Has that happened to you before?”

Crowley made a sound like a dying lawnmower. “Mmmyeah. On occasion.” He rubbed his nose and stepped away from Aziraphale. “Jean-Luc once kicked me out starkers. I was terrified that I would be arrested before I reached the Bentley. Started keeping a spare set of clothes in my trunk after that.”

Once again, Aziraphale wanted to commit murder. How dare anyone treat another human being like that! Much less someone as kind and lovely as Crowley. He fought the urge to wrap Crowley in a tight embrace, not wanting to humiliate him or have him mistake compassion for pity. Instead, he said, “Secret Agent Angel Fell thinks he would like to sign this man up for every conservative political fundraising call list available. Do you still have his number?”

With a laugh, Crowley clapped him on the back and said, “Come on, let’s go meet my feline children.”

 


 

Crowley was learning. Aziraphale had a tendency to flirt by accident. The little touches, the jokes, the compliments—they were friendly, not a nudge toward something more. He had to rein in his infatuation before the man cottoned on. It was bloody difficult when the angel was so open and honest with him.

Like Muriel, he told himself. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to comfort his youngest sibling after they’d accidentally broken someone’s heart. Muriel always assumed that they’d done something wrong by being friendly when a new acquaintance treated them in a manner that indicated it was safe to do so.

“It’s not your fault,” he would tell them. “You never said you were interested in that way. It’s not on you to control others’ assumptions. You always tell them exactly what you want and need from the beginning. I know you do.”

“I lead them on,” Muriel had said on more than one occasion. “He/She/They told me so.”

“Leading someone on requires intent,” Crowley would say, and eventually, Muriel would calm, but it broke their spirit a bit more each time. He didn’t know if Aziraphale experienced a similar disorientation upon learning that their friendly gestures were interpreted as romantic overtures, but he wasn’t going to be that person. Unless Aziraphale told him in no uncertain terms that he’d developed feelings, Crowley would keep his attraction quietly inside.

“Crowley? Are you feeling well? I’m sorry if I made you think about an unpleasant memory.”

They were halfway back to Bee’s flat, Crowley realized with a start. He’d been lost in thought and completely silent for the entire drive so far. Shit. “Sorry, angel. No, it’s not that. I’m not used to having a passenger, so silence comes naturally to me in the Bentley.”

“Oh, of course. I don’t mind at all.”

Crowley grinned. “I didn’t mean we needed to keep quiet. Only that I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“If you need to concentrate… I mean, I couldn’t drive one of these infernal beasts, even if I wasn’t in central London where the drivers are more animal than human. Most of them, anyway.”

A quick sideways glance showed Crowley that Aziraphale had his hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles were white. He eased off on the gas pedal. Right. Best behavior. “So you’ve never owned a car?”

He shook his head. “They scared me, after Gabriel. I was always worried that I’d be the next to hit someone, and that I’d panic and run off, leaving some poor family miserable like mine. My parents could barely convince me to ride in the backseat for the first few years after the accident. Another reason I was so tiresome, I suppose. I had to learn to stop commenting on things that scared me about their driving. Which was everything, really.”

Crowley eased off the pedal a bit more. Shit, shit, shit. “Well, you’re free to complain about my driving all you want. I learned on a hearse when I was thirteen, as soon as I was tall enough to see over the steering wheel. Probably makes me a bit overconfident on the road. So yell at me to slow down or whatever you need, as often as you like.”

“Your driving seems perfectly adequate,” Aziraphale said, but he hadn’t unclenched his hands. Perhaps he would always be tense in a car. He certainly had reason to be.

Distraction was in order. “Tell me to fuck off if this is too personal a question, but earlier, you mentioned me leaving overnight if I was tired of ‘managing’ you. Is this something former partners have said to you?”

“I am difficult to live with.” He shrugged. “I’m particular and I have a lot of quirks. Partners get tired of living with someone who jumps when they’re touched incorrectly, or who cannot cope with an ice cube sticking to their finger, or who gets irrationally anxious at the sound of water hitting a surface from too high. Maybe I couldn’t sleep in the same bed as a partner on certain nights because it was too warm, or maybe I’d keep him awake by tossing and turning because my pyjamas or pillow or blanket didn’t lay exactly right. Maybe he would make a special dinner, only for me to be unable to tolerate the textures that night, when the meal would have been perfectly fine on another. Those little things add up. I don’t believe any of my former relationships made it beyond the three-year mark, and even that involved at least a few months of partners staying away more nights than they slept over.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to do this, Crowley. I do have another option to save my flat, even if it means giving up the business—”

“No. Aziraphale. That wasn’t directed at you. That was directed at your idiot partners. Three years and they couldn’t figure out what triggers set you off? Couldn’t figure out when they needed to ask first before making plans that might be affected by your sensitivities? I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’ve dated a lot of arseholes. I mean, clearly, so have I, so no judgement on that. And I’m not saying I’m gonna be perfect. I’m sure I’ll touch you wrong, or not touch you when you need it, or do something else that hits a trigger from time to time. That’s just life. I’m sure you’ll hit my buttons, too, even though I don’t have the same type. The whole point of a relationship is to learn and grow together, though!”

Aziraphale was quiet for a few minutes. Crowley gave him that space, letting him think. Eventually, he pulled his hands apart and tentatively put a hand on Crowley’s knee. “I think you’re the angel, actually. For all you pretend that you’re a fiend.”

Crowley dropped one hand down to cover his. Aziraphale jerked his hand into his own lap.

“The road, the road, the road!” he yelled, and Crowley realized his mistake. He put his hand back on the wheel. Aziraphale exhaled shakily. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“That was offensive—”

“I’m not offended. I should’ve known better than to let go of the wheel like that. Especially without warning. You just told me about your fear of cars, for fuck’s sake. I’m an idiot sometimes.”

With an irritated huff, Aziraphale said, “You’re not an idiot. I’m the one who needs managing.”

“Aziraphale. Please. Don’t apologize to me for being you. I…” Crowley swallowed. “I really like you, full stop. Just as you are. Please believe me, angel.”

A fraught moment of tension, and then Aziraphale reached out and replaced his hand on Crowley’s knee. He squeezed and said, “I really like you, too.”

Without looking away from the road, Crowley smiled. In his peripheral vision, Aziraphale beamed at him.

Notes:

OshPaz is a real Uzbek restaurant just north of the park. I ate there last March on my first visit to the UK (my first experience with Uzbek food!). At the time, I didn’t realize what street I was on, or that when I continued the rest of the way down, I’d find the staircase that Crowley and Aziraphale walk up in Season 1 as Crowley is trying to convince Az to work with him against the apocalypse. When they miracle away the tire lock and speed up the road? They pass right by OshPaz! And yes, the food/restaurant is absolutely delicious, and absolutely that inexpensive. Highly recommended if you ever find yourself in that area!

The paragraph where Az describes the range of triggers that has caused issues with former partners? Every single one of those is a personal SPD trigger. I cannot even think about ice sticking to skin without full-body goosebumps (it's like how other people feel about nails on a chalkboard). I can't get in a shower without angling my body to break the spray so that it doesn't thunder on the ground from too high. Everything about fabric and pillows and blanket coverage is a Problem at night. And so on. I am *also* difficult. 🤷‍♀️

To note: I’m traveling to Glasgow to visit a friend soon – hopefully next week’s chapter will post without issue, but in case it doesn’t, I promise to get it up asap! I also might be slow to respond to comments for a week or so, but you know I'll get to them eventually!

Chapter 7: Meet the Cats

Summary:

Aziraphale meets Bee, Portia, and Viola.

***
Aziraphale barely heard the words. That purr was vibrating through his entire body, radiating out in both directions from the tops of his thighs, and he had never felt anything so lovely. He was in love. Absolutely in love with this creature that he’d only known for two minutes. He continued to trail fingers down her soft coat, finding the places she seemed to like best, like the spot under her chin. “She’s so beautiful,” he finally managed to say.

Notes:

There’s one sentence of Italian in this chapter (thank you beerok23!) – if you hover over it, it should be visible in the English translation. Note that if you have author's workskin off, the translation will simply appear as a second (English) sentence afterwards.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Bee-ah-tree-cheh, Bee-ah-tree-cheh, Bee-ah-tree-cheh,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath as they mounted the stairs to Bee’s flat. He couldn’t get the flipped r right.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked.

Flushing, Aziraphale said, “Trying to make sure I get your sibling’s name correct when we meet. I listened to a pronunciation guide last night on my mobile—something called YouTube, I believe? But I can’t seem to say it well enough.”

Crowley’s face was dancing with amusement. Oh dear, maybe he hadn’t gotten the name of that website correct. Before he could attempt to correct himself, though, Crowley said, “Since they’re nonbinary, they prefer Bee anyway. Like the insect. Simple and easy.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Alright. Sorry. I’m nervous. I don’t want them to dislike me.”

“Bee hates everyone,” Crowley said, taking his arm. “It’s their default stance until you change their mind. So don’t worry about that. Besides, you’re not here to win their approval. You’re here to get Portia and Viola’s permission to marry me.”

Well. He still wanted Bee’s approval, but Aziraphale kept that to himself. They stopped on the top floor and strolled down the hall. “What would Bee’s code name be?” he found himself asking.

Crowley hummed for a moment, then his face broke into a wicked grin. “Secret Agent Bee Trudy. Get it? Like beetroot-y?”

They were both laughing when the door at the end of the corridor opened. Aziraphale recognized Bee at once. Their scowl was even more intimidating in person.

“Bee!” Crowley said, nearly dragging Aziraphale forward as he stumbled in his nervousness. “We have a spy name for you!”

“Oh don’t,” Aziraphale protested, his face burning now. Bee hadn’t even looked at their brother, gaze locked onto him like they were burrowing into his soul and dissecting him. Wait—did they do dissections at the funeral home? Or was that done before the bodies were delivered? This was absolutely not the time to think about this, not the time to ask— “Have you ever performed an autopsy?”

The world went absolutely still. His vision turned white. Oh god, why couldn’t he control his tongue? They hadn’t even entered the flat yet. Crowley was going to change his mind and not invite him in and the wedding would be off and Aziraphale would have to tell Ana that he absolutely could not do this, could not risk getting his hopes up again—

A laugh broke through the rushing in his ears. Bee’s voice was surprisingly melodic. “You told him to say that, didn’t you?” they said through giggles, smacking Crowley’s chest. “Arsehole.”

“I didn’t!” Crowley protested. His arm was still linked with Aziraphale’s. “I told you he was funny!”

The tunnel vision started to splinter. The numbness that had shot through Aziraphale’s body began to dissipate, turning to burn instead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered through frozen lips.

“Whatever for?” Crowley said, putting his arm around his back instead. “That was brilliant, angel. I told you. You’re going to fit right in with this family.”

Aziraphale managed to look up into his eyes. They were shining with laughter—and he realized with a jolt that it was not directed at him. His neck turned with a jerk, and he looked at Bee, who was no longer scowling at him, but grinning. They held out a hand.

“I’m Bee. But you already know that. And for the record, while I’ve never performed an autopsy, I have dissected a body. A number of times. Quite fascinating, bodies.”

He shook their hand, still mortified by the words that had managed to tumble from his mouth against his will.

“Now what’s this about a spy name?”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, seemed to take stock of his frazzled state, and said, “Nah, it’s a secret. Inside joke. Right, angel?” He squeezed Aziraphale tighter. “Come in, or Portia’s going to try to escape.”

“I locked her in the loo,” Bee said with a smirk, but they stepped aside so that the two men could enter the flat.

Now Crowley was scowling. He led Aziraphale over to a sofa. “Have a seat, angel. I’ll go rescue my cat.”

He obeyed, and was a bit startled when Bee sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “So you’re going to marry my brother,” they said without preamble.

“T-that’s…” His throat stuck. He cleared it a few times and tried again. “That’s the intention. If we can get the details worked out.”

“This is a weird setup, though, innit? Like, why my brother? Why not marry someone else over the years? Why wait until the last minute? I mean, I know the whole bit about discovering the loophole in the will. But if you were refusing to marry a woman for the family business before, why not marry someone you loved instead?”

“Do you really need to ask him about his romantic history the moment you meet?” Crowley said as he re-entered the room and sat on the couch, a complaining tuxedo cat in his arms. He dumped her into the space between him and Aziraphale.

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale said before Bee could respond. He stared at Portia, who was sniffing at his knee. “The answer is twofold. The obvious part is that I never found the right person. But also, I suspected that if I married, my family would try to reclaim the business early. Something along the lines of, ‘obviously, since he married a man, he didn’t fulfil the terms of the will.’ Perhaps they would’ve been kinder than that and given me the rest of my owed time, but there was a chance, and I wasn’t willing to risk it. Not without the right person, anyway.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Crowley reach a hand toward him, offering. He looked up, smiled, and took it. “Want to pet her?” Crowley said, nodding down at the cat, who was now kneading at the blanket thrown over the back of the couch.

“Will she mind?”

Crowley shook his head and pulled Aziraphale’s hand close to Portia. “Here, show her the backs of your fingers.”

When Crowley let go, Aziraphale did as instructed. Portia inspected his skin, nose twitching, and then made a tiny chirruping sound before returning to the blanket. He looked at Crowley for clarification, feeling a bit stupid with his hand hanging in midair.

“You can pet her now. I promise.”

He did so, trying to remember if he’d ever touched a cat before in the whole of his almost-forty-five years. The softness of Portia’s fur surprised him. He thought it would be bristly.

Portia stretched and squeaked as she yawned. She turned quickly and ran the side of her face along his skin, teeth grazing it. He jumped, thinking he was about to get bitten, and pulled away.

“S’alright, angel. They have scent glands there. Portia likes to claim things. She just marked you with her scent, and got yours on her as well. See, watch.”

The cat hopped off the sofa, tail in the air like a question mark, and trotted into the next room. “Where’s she going?” Aziraphale asked.

“To brag to Viola that she has a new friend. Give it five minutes and you’ll get to meet the other princess.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Portia and Viola. Did you name them from Shakespeare? I meant to ask you last night.”

“Yes!” Crowley said, eyes lighting up. “Both from comedies—I’ll be honest, I’m not much of a fan of his gloomy ones—and they’re both characters who pretend to be men. When I adopted them, the poor woman whose cat had kittens thought both of my girls were male. Surprise!”

Aziraphale wondered if he ought to argue about the merits of Shakespeare’s works. Hamlet! No one could argue that Hamlet wasn’t brilliant playwriting! But Crowley’s eyes were shining and his grin so open and excited. He had no desire to dim either. “Both plays had an Antonio, too.”

Scoffing, Crowley waved a hand and said, “There are soooooo many Antonios in Shakespeare. The guy probably had a thing for someone with that name or summat.”

There was a devilish twist to the corners of his mouth. “Oh, now you’re trying to provoke me,” Aziraphale said, sitting up straighter and pointing at Crowley. “If you want to point out cross-play thematic repetitions—”

“Ooooookay,” Bee interrupted, standing abruptly. Aziraphale had almost forgotten they were there. “If you two are going to nerd out about old shite together, I’m outta here. Antonio—a word with you, when you have a minute?”

“Yes, sir,” Crowley said with a salute, getting a two-finger version in reply. He snickered and looked over his shoulder. “Here comes Viola.”

The sinuous black cat strolled casually over to the sofa, rubbing her tail along Crowley’s leg before she jumped up onto the cushions. There, she sat exactly like she had been posed in her photo, upright with tail wrapped around her front paws as she looked at Aziraphale. He was disconcerted by her stare. Her eyes looked too human to belong to a cat. He remembered Crowley’s declaration that she could easily be a person trapped in feline form.

“Should I do the same with her?” he asked. “Show her my fingers?”

“Give her a minute. See the way her ears are flicking a little? She’s evaluating the situation. If you approach too fast, she’ll run.”

So Aziraphale stared, and the black cat stared back at him with golden eyes that seemed to look right into his soul. Eventually, both her ears moved forward, and he guessed that he was safe to reach out. He presented his fingers. Viola sniffed him a few times before headbutting his hand. It was natural to continue the movement down her neck and back.

“Nothing to it,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Hello, Viola,” he said, petting her again, and the cat began to purr loudly. She stood and walked over to his legs, lifting one of hers almost like a question. “Yes, go on,” he said, feeling a bit silly, and patted his lap. The cat immediately responded, climbing on top of him and circling a few times before she curled into a ball. Aziraphale could swear she was smiling.

“Oh, she really likes you, angel. Viola is picky about her people. I’ve never seen her choose someone so quickly. Hell, I lived with Nick for several years, and she never once consented to lay on his lap.”

Aziraphale barely heard the words. That purr was vibrating through his entire body, radiating out in both directions from the tops of his thighs, and he had never felt anything so lovely. He was in love. Absolutely in love with this creature that he’d only known for two minutes. He continued to trail fingers down her soft coat, finding the places she seemed to like best, like the spot under her chin. “She’s so beautiful,” he finally managed to say.

“I’m glad you like her,” Crowley said, and his voice sounded thick.

Aziraphale looked up to see if there was something wrong, but Crowley was no longer looking at him. Portia had returned and jumped up into his lap. She was standing oddly, a little lopsided in a way that made her look like she was trying not to fall. Aziraphale couldn’t understand why. Portia gave a distressed meow, turned in a circle, stumbled briefly only to pop back up into that barely-balanced stance. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, alarmed. “Is she sick?”

Crowley snickered and poked Portia, making her jump off his lap with a flick of her tail. She got right back on, repeating the same movements. “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s a big, fat liar. She wants me to sit up straight like you’re doing, so she’s ‘teaching’ me how ‘dangerous’ my current posture is for her. Told you. She’s weird.”

Aziraphale must’ve still looked worried, so Crowley scootched until he was upright. Portia immediately settled down and chirped.

“Spoiled brat,” Crowley said with a fond pat to the cat’s head.

His babies. Aziraphale felt that yearning sensation that he’d had several times in Crowley’s presence already. He wanted them to be his babies, too. How had he never understood how wonderful cats could be?

“Antonio!” Bee called from the other room.

With a sigh, he gave Portia a gentle push to get her to step off his lap and onto the sofa. “You go say hello to ‘Ziraphale. I’m being summoned.” He stood and asked, “You’ll be fine here?”

Aziraphale nodded and beamed at him.

 


 

Whatever Crowley was expecting from his sibling, it wasn’t for them to look at him with wide eyes and say, “Holy shit.”

Fireworks went off inside his chest. So he wasn’t the only one to see it. “I know.”

“If you married him tomorrow, I’d give even odds of it working out, even knowing that this whole thing is orchestrated and that you’re meant to be ‘just friends’ with a planned divorce.”

“God, why did I say the ‘just friends’ thing to Ana?” He fell back onto Bee’s bed and covered his face with his hands. “I mean, he said it, too, but still. Bee. How am I going to survive this? I’ve literally spent two days with him and I’m more in love than I’ve ever been with anyone. And he fits.”

“Wait ‘til he meets Muriel.”

Crowley groaned.

“You really didn’t tell him to ask me if I’d performed an autopsy?”

“No. And he wasn’t trying to be funny. He was mortified. I think—I need to apologize to him later. I think he thought I was laughing at him for a minute there.”

Bee swiped a hand through their hair. Beh, Antonio, sei fregato.” “Well, Antonio, you're screwed.”

“I’m not going to make a move on him.” He sat up and looked at them seriously. “He flirts accidentally. For fuck’s sake, this morning he asked if he could kiss me in the park, so that when he tells the story about our first date, he can say honestly that it’s where we had our first kiss. Then he gave me a peck on the cheek. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing to me.”

“Like Muriel,” Bee said. “Fuck, Ana was right.”

“Exactly. And I’m not going to do to him what people have done to Muriel over the years. We’re friends. That’s all.”

“You don’t think it would be better to admit up front that you have feelings for him? Say that you won’t act on them, but acknowledge that they’re there?”

Crowley scoffed. “Imagine someone saying that to Muriel. Do you think they’d ever be comfortable enough to be themself around that person afterwards? They’d always worry that they would be giving off the wrong impression. No. I’m not going to make him think he has to hide from me.”

“You’ll hide from him, instead.”

“Better me than him,” he said stubbornly.

“Idiot.”

Crowley popped off the bed. “That’s me! Now, unless you have something else, I need to get back out to my future husband.”

Bee gave him a sarcastic bow and swiped a hand toward the door. He began to leave the room, freezing in the doorway. Aziraphale still had Viola on his lap, but Portia was lying on her back next to him, chirruping as the man petted her belly. He cooed down at her, the words too quiet to make out, and then he turned back to Viola. In a stage whisper, he said, “You’re my favorite. Don’t tell your dad or your sister.”

Behind Crowley, Bee patted his shoulder. “You’re breaking your own heart, you know.”

Better mine than his, he thought in an echo of his earlier statement. Aziraphale looked up at that moment and beamed at him.

“Oh Crowley, they are wonderful!”

Right. He could do this. He hitched a cocky grin onto his face and swayed his way over to the sofa. “Told you so.”

“You did!”

Viola took that moment to leap up from Aziraphale’s lap to sit on the back of the couch. He looked slightly crestfallen, and Crowley found himself improvising wildly. “She thinks it’s time for me to sleep.”

Portia also got up, looking at him intently. He scooped up a toy mouse from the ground and tossed it into the kitchen. The cat streaked off after it. Viola only thumped her tail a few times onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Sleep?” the man asked.

On impulse, Crowley dropped onto the couch to lay on his back with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. While Aziraphale blinked down at him, startled, he said, “Technically, you’re sitting on my bed. Your lap is where my pillow goes.”

He grinned, hoping very much that Aziraphale wouldn’t kick him off. The man only frowned and hummed slightly before he said, “Seems a bit small for someone your height.”

Crowley was about to answer when Aziraphale’s fingers began to stroke at his locks exactly like he’d been petting Viola. All thought disappeared. All semblance of speech deserted him. He could only feel.

“Oh, you purr like a cat, too!”

Bee came to his rescue. Returning to the living room, they said, “Yeah, get playing with his hair and he becomes putty in your hand. You can convince him to do anything you want.”

“Anything?” Aziraphale said, and now his expression was positively wicked. “What fascinating knowledge to tuck away for later use.”

Crowley whined, and it came out sounding like Portia.

“Don’t worry.” The words were a whisper. “I’ll only use this power for good.”

“Angel,” Crowley managed.

“You two already make me sick,” Bee said. “I gotta go into the office for a meeting this afternoon. Fuckers are insisting on in-person. You need anything else from me before I shower?”

Aziraphale’s fingers had stilled, allowing Crowley to pull himself out of his precarious situation and sit up. “Nah, we’ll get out of your hair. Text me if any new jobs come in, yeah? It’s been too slow this week. I have a feeling…”

“Don’t jinx it, fucker.”

He waited until Bee left the room before whispering, “We’re going to be swamped soon. These things tend to come in waves.”

Aziraphale did not appear to be listening. He wrung his hands together in his lap, brows drawn down. Viola stood and headbutted his ear, pulling him out of thought to pet her. “Sorry,” he said. “What was that?”

Crowley waved the question aside. “Doesn’t matter. Anything wrong?”

“Do you really sleep on this sofa? Crowley, you’re too long for it.”

“I curl up a bit. Better than the floor, yeah? There isn’t a guest bedroom here. No room for one. London,” he said, as if that explained everything, and Aziraphale nodded.

“London,” he repeated. “One big reason I’d prefer to keep my flat! Only, I was thinking… You see, I also don’t have a guest bedroom. I have an office. It’s tiny, but I suppose I could convert it into a bedroom if you prefer. Though that might look suspicious. And I’d hate to have you stuck on my sofa. Not for—no, it wouldn’t do. We’ll need to… Bother. I don’t know how to discuss the bed situation.”

Crowley tried not to grin, he really did, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t laugh at me, please.”

“Never, angel.” He held out a hand, holding his breath until Aziraphale took it. “I don’t mind sharing a bed. We can even keep separate blankets, if it makes you feel better about the situation. And if I end up curling around you in the night, just kick me and I’ll roll over. I admit, I have a tendency to gravitate toward warmth in my sleep.”

Aziraphale’s brows were still knitted, lips still downturned. Crowley waited. Finally, in a rush of breath, Aziraphale said, “Do you want to give it a try? Tonight, I mean. If you’re not busy, of course. Or is that too fast? Should we get to know each other better first?” He waved the hand that wasn’t holding Crowley’s. “I’m messing this up. I have no idea how to do this!”

“You’re not messing anything up. I promise. And yeah, I would. Not gonna say no to a real bed.” He winked. “In all seriousness, though, it’s a good idea. Spend the day, spend the night, make sure we won’t kill each other by morning, right? Like meeting the cats. Then, if it all works well, we can decide when to start our pre-wedding trial live-in. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll find out if it’s sustainable. Then if it’s not, you’ll have time to find someone else to try with.”

“No.” Aziraphale sucked in a breath and shook his head. “I didn’t think this was going to work at all. Ana sent me your photo and I was scared of you. I expected you to walk into that pub last night and be disgusted by me. Or to hate the idea of a platonic marriage. Or to want to take advantage of the situation, with a prime spot of London real estate. I didn’t expect to like you, much less feel…connected. At ease. You know that expression: ‘Lightning never strikes twice’? It's utter balderdash, of course. Lightning strikes multiple times in the same place. The sentiment behind that phrase, though—well, I can’t imagine finding anyone better than you to accompany me on this journey, so if this turns out to be unsustainable, then I’ll default to Plan C.”

Crowley tried desperately not to let his feelings show. His heart was bursting. “I want to be Plan C,” he said. “Because I’m Crowley. I can be Plan A for Antonio or Plan C for Crowley, but my sibling is obviously Plan B.”

That got Aziraphale giggling. “That’s a better spy name than Bee Trudy.”

“I heard that!” Bee called from the bedroom, making them both laugh. They collapsed against each other, and when the laughter subsided, they were sitting much closer than before. Crowley took a deep breath.

“Want me to drive us home? Or would you prefer the tube? I can leave the Bentley here.”

Aziraphale blinked at him a few times, then broke into a wide smile. “You called it home.”

“Ngk! Oh. I guess I did.”

He covered his mouth to stifle another giggle. “I suppose you can drive us. Just…slow? If you don’t mind?”

Crowley gave him a cocky grin. “No guarantees, angel. But I’ll do my best.”

“Fiend,” he said, but didn’t let go of Crowley’s hand.

Notes:

My cat Ash (Viola’s model) was an extraordinary animal. He knew friend from stranger instinctively. Many cats do, but Ash was particularly impressive. If someone came to the door, he would hide if it was a stranger and run to greet the person if it was a friend, long before the door was open. This was true even with friends who had never been to the house before and visitors we weren't expecting. Maybe he just had extremely powerful scent glands – after all, he used to alert us to whenever my middle child was almost home after school when she was still ten minutes away, and her schedule varied by day. Ash’s ability to know people was uncanny, even up until the end, when he was near death. He only left his hiding spot twice, when his two favorite human friends showed up to tell him goodbye. He made his way over to each of them, gave them a few minutes of petting time, and then returned to his space. Saying goodbye in his own way. I’ve had a lot of pet cats in my life and I’ve fostered dozens and dozens of kittens, and I’ve never found another who was as intuitive and uncanny as Ash. I’ve loved memorializing him this way. ❤️‍🩹

Chapter 8: A Cup of Death

Summary:

These two have some important conversations, and Crowley meets Aziraphale’s Soho family.

***
They reached the front of the line. Nina smiled at Aziraphale. “Same as usual?” He nodded, and she turned to Crowley. “And for you, Mr—?”

“Just Crowley,” he supplied, then pointed to one of the large, mismatched mugs that lined one shelf. “Take one of those big cups and give me as much espresso as you can fit. Only espresso, nothing else.”

Nina raised an eyebrow. “I see. You’re one of those.”

Notes:

These two discuss sex (in a general way, in relation to Az’s past partners), aftercare, and sexuality in this chapter. It’s not explicit, but it probably straddles the M line. It’s not skippable because it’s a really important part of character development, so I hope that’s okay!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They made it back to Soho without Crowley triggering any panic along the way. He kept Aziraphale entertained with stories about the cats rather than trying to discuss anything more important. The distraction seemed to help, and though Aziraphale didn’t comment, he shot Crowley a grateful look when they both exited the Bentley.

“Hey, Az!” called a voice from across the street. Crowley turned to see a tall black woman in an apron standing outside a coffeeshop. “You had a visitor about an hour ago.”

“Probably Mr Tyler or one of his ilk again,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath before hitching an unconvincing smile onto his face. “I’ll come by in a tick, my dear!”

The coffeeshop woman nodded, then appeared to look Crowley up and down. Even from across the street, he could feel her judgement. “Bring your friend.”

“We’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Aziraphale said, turning to the bookshop.

Crowley saluted the woman, who continued to watch them, arms crossed over her apron, as he followed Aziraphale inside. “Friend of yours?”

“Oh yes. That’s Nina. She and her partner, Maggie, are lovely people. I think you’ll like them.” He considered for a moment. “They’re more like family than my actual family, I suppose.”

So Crowley wasn’t incorrect in his assumption: This Nina woman was definitely going to interrogate him. “Do they know about this, ah, ruse?” he asked as he followed Aziraphale upstairs to the flat.

“Well, they know something is happening, but when I spoke to them yesterday, you and I hadn’t met yet. I didn’t want to get their hopes up. They know about the will’s stipulations, though not about the loophole. They’ve been on Ana’s side for years now, telling me I should marry a beard to keep the business. I never would have done that, though. My partners found me difficult enough to live with. What business did I have putting that trouble on some poor woman? I’m struggling enough with the idea of you being willing to do this.”

“More than willing,” Crowley said too quickly. He coughed and looked away before Aziraphale could catch any sign of longing in his expression. “Where should I put my bag?”

Aziraphale immediately began to fidget. “I suppose… Let me show you the bedroom.”

He led Crowley to a door that had been kept closed on his previous visit. One hand on the doorknob, he hesitated again.

“The bed is a bit ridiculous. It’s alright if you laugh at me for it.”

Crowley was not going to laugh. No matter how small, how fussy, how anything this bed was. Not when Aziraphale sounded like he might shake apart with embarrassment. He was preparing himself so much for an old lady’s room straight out of the eighties—complete with floral quilts and crocheted pillows covers—that the messy, sparse king-sized bed took him by surprise. The sheets and bedspread were utilitarian and unadorned, and Aziraphale clearly hadn’t bothered to make the bed that morning. His pajamas lay in a crumpled heap on top of a single pillow on the right side of the mattress.

“I know it’s silly,” Aziraphale said when Crowley didn’t speak. “Who needs something this big when they’re single, right? My last partner, though—we had so many problems due to the sleeping arrangements, and eventually I thought, what if I get something larger? Maybe that will help? Only by the time it was delivered, William had left me. That was six years ago, and I’m still the only person who has ever slept on this mattress.”

“Can I lay on it?” Crowley asked eagerly. He didn’t want to simply hop onto it the way he often did with Bee’s.

Looking puzzled, Aziraphale said, “Now?” His expression turned bemused when Crowley grinned and nodded. “I suppose, sure?”

“Whee!” Crowley cried, and threw himself across the left side of the bed, his arms and legs spread out like a starfish. “Oh, angel, it’s so soft! Oh fuck, I can’t remember the last time I slept on anything so nice.”

He rolled onto his side, propping up on one elbow, and grinned. Aziraphale cautiously sat on the edge of the mattress. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Fuck, no! If I had the money and space, I’d have one just like this! Even if I had no one to share it with. When you told me that it was ridiculous, I was picturing some tiny double bed covered in floral print or summat.”

The disgusted twist of Aziraphale’s mouth was a delight. Crowley patted the mattress.

“Come up, let’s see how we fit together.” When the other man hesitated, he added, “I won’t touch you. Promise.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and climbed up to lie on his back. “I don’t mind you touching me, Crowley.”

Crowley poked his shoulder, snickering when his hand got smacked in reply. “I’ll need a pillow. Doubt you want me to share yours.”

“I have an entire closet full of pillows, most of them practically new,” Aziraphale said, his face reddening again. “To tell you the truth, I struggle the most at night. Fabric, blankets, pyjamas, pillows…it’s too easy for them to feel wrong. Will would get so angry about it. He wanted to cuddle at night, so we’d cuddle, and then he’d be mad that I couldn’t hold still. My skin would itch, or I’d need to tuck my sheet up around my neck because there was a draft—often from him breathing on me—or I’d wiggle to take pressure off a folded bit of clothing.” He sighed. “I struggle to sleep with all of that as it is, and then Will would demand impossible things from me. I’d try not to move and disturb him, and the itching would get worse until it felt like my skin was crawling with insects. Then I’d have to pretend to need the loo in order to escape.”

“He sounds like a nightmare,” Crowley said, resisting the urge to reach out.

“It wasn’t his fault, really. He was a light sleeper, so he would wake every time I moved, which would make him grouchier, and then I’d be more awake, trying not to disturb him.” He closed his eyes and put a hand over them. “It was worse after sex, because he wanted to go right from the act into cuddling and sleep. And I just couldn’t. Not naked and…messy. Sorry, that’s entirely too much for me to say, isn’t it?”

This time, Crowley couldn’t help himself. He wriggled closer and gently pried the man’s hand from his face. Aziraphale turned to look at him, eyes vulnerable. “He didn’t provide any aftercare for you?”

“I… To tell you the truth, I understand what you must mean by ‘aftercare,’ but I’ve never heard the term.”

“Ngh. Oh, angel. Has no one ever taken care of you after sex?”

Aziraphale gave a dismissive wave. “Will was the only one who got offended if I showered afterwards.”

“That’s not—Aziraphale, has anyone ever taken care of you, not simply let you take care of yourself? Helped you clean up after? Brought you water? Made sure that you felt comfortable, both physically and emotionally? Wrapped you up how you needed and held you the way you wanted to be held? Asked you what you wanted or needed? Showed you—ngh—any kind of kindness afterwards?”

Aziraphale was frowning at him. “Is that normal? I admit, I don’t have a lot of experience with sex. I haven’t dated often, and only with a few men has it gotten far enough into the relationship to become intimate. I never minded taking care of myself. Besides, wouldn’t it have been part of Will’s ‘aftercare’ for me to cuddle with him the way he liked?”

“Eh, yeah, I mean, sure, but…not overnight? Not to the point where your own care gets neglected, or dismissed outright? Aftercare involves wanting to care for your partner, giving them what they need, and getting what you need in return.” Crowley remembered another thing Ana had told him the previous day. “Though I don’t know how you being ace might affect the dynamics of that, to be honest. Don’t have a lot of personal experience with asexuality.”

“What makes you think that I’m ace?” Aziraphale asked, brow furrowed.

Fuck. He’d just put his foot in his mouth, hadn’t he? Crowley tripped over himself to explain. “Shit. Sorry. Ana told me. She wasn’t trying to reveal secrets or anything. She told me because I said that I could only consider this arrangement if—ngh—sex was off the table. Friends only. Like we’ve discussed.” No, he hadn’t put his foot in his mouth. He’d dug his own grave. Later, he was going to kick his own arse. This was where curiosity got him.

“Oh, I don’t mind that she talked to you,” Aziraphale said. He reached over and patted Crowley’s arm awkwardly. “She’s wrong, though. I’m not ace, or not exactly ace? When I have researched my own feelings about sex, romance, and attraction, I think the closest ‘label’ that I seem to fit under is demisexual. It’s not perfect, because it’s not that I don’t feel sexual attraction except to people I’m close to. It’s that I experience attraction based on other things than appearance, and often, I need to know someone to at least some degree before I ever have a chance to see those things. But I can, for example, feel attracted to a movie character based on how he’s portrayed. And obviously, there must be some element of physicality, because I’ve never had sexual feelings for a woman. None of that really fits under a label.”

Crowley had to forcefully bite back everything he wanted to gush in response. “Labels are overrated, anyway. Thank you for telling me all that.”

With a smile, Aziraphale said, “You make me feel very comfortable. Like you won’t take advantage of me, or laugh at me, or judge me for being different.”

“Eh. I grew up different, too.” He pointed to his eyes. “Not to mention being a kid in the eighties with a mom who went through marriages like they were seasonal outfits and a bunch of siblings who looked and acted ‘weird.’ That and the whole ‘growing up in a funeral home’ thing. Believe me, we were not exactly popular. We took care of each other, though. I don’t mean to make it sound like we suffered. My family was—is—wonderful.”

“I can’t wait to meet everyone else.” Aziraphale reached over and took his hand. “I would have been your friend back then, if we’d met. As long as you didn’t make me play sports.”

Crowley laughed. “Not a big sports guy, me.”

They stared at each other for a few moments, each lying sideways on opposite sides of the mattress. Aziraphale smiled. “Come. I promised Nina I’d introduce you.”

Right. Time to meet the family that mattered. Crowley left his overnight bag on the bed and followed Aziraphale back downstairs into the bookshop. Before they stepped outside, he asked, “How are we doing this? Do you want to pretend we’re already together? Even if your friends are let in on the trick, everyone else will see us. Or should we take it more slowly in terms of exposure?”

Aziraphale paused with his hand on the front door to consider it. With a nod, he said, “Together, I think. We had our first date this morning, and after all, you’re staying the night. It will have to be a whirlwind romance.”

“Whirlwind romances are my specialty,” Crowley said with a wink, then slid on his sunglasses. He offered his arm. “Alright, angel?”

There were quite a number of people out that afternoon, taking advantage of the mild weather. They crossed to the coffeeshop, which Crowley was amused to note was called Coffee or Death. The woman—Nina—now stood behind the counter, taking and filling orders. They got in line.

Crowley leaned over to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “What’s good here?”

“The Eccles cakes.”

Once Crowley started giggling, he couldn’t stop. “I meant to drink,” he managed.

“Shush, you. I’m not a coffee drinker, so Nina makes me spiced black tea. You’ll have to ask her for a recommendation yourself. We will be eating Eccles cakes, though.”

“Are you going to hate me if I admit that I’m not a fan?”

Aziraphale sighed and gave him a put-upon look. “Well, I can’t hate you for having bad taste, dear. But I knew there must be something wrong with you. You were too perfect to be real.”

“Ngh,” he grumbled. “That’s more cake for you.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale said with a pat to his arm.

They reached the front of the line. Nina smiled at Aziraphale. “Same as usual?” He nodded, and she turned to Crowley. “And for you, Mr—?”

“Just Crowley,” he supplied, then pointed to one of the large, mismatched mugs that lined one shelf. “Take one of those big cups and give me as much espresso as you can fit. Only espresso, nothing else.”

Nina raised an eyebrow. “I see. You’re one of those.”

“Nnngh,” Crowley said, setting off a wave of laughter from his companion. “Okay, what do I sound like now?”

“A delivery truck that keeps idling on the curb for ages,” Aziraphale quipped. Crowley leaned over and kissed his temple. If he hadn’t known that they were pretending, he would’ve been lost in the besotted look he received in reply.

“Right,” Nina said. “I’ll get that ready for you. Find a table. I’ll join you, and then you can properly introduce me to your friend, Az.”

“I’d be delighted,” Aziraphale said, oblivious—or at least feigning obliviousness—to her undertone.

They settled at a small table in the corner of the café, where Crowley made sure to position himself with his back to the wall. He could watch Nina better that way, while pretending not to as he hid behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale chattered about how he’d met the two women and how they’d all gotten to be friends some time back, and Crowley listened with half an ear. Most of his attention was focused on the woman who kept turning to glare at him. He wasn’t sure if he ought to tell Aziraphale or not. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter after the truth was revealed. He kept his mouth shut, and Nina joined them a few minutes later.

“Tea for you,” she said, setting a mug down in front of Aziraphale, then a plate of Eccles cakes. A second mug was plonked in front of Crowley, overfull and sloshing a bit over the sides. “A cup of Death for you.”

He couldn’t help snort-laughing at this. “Cheers,” he said, holding the mug aloft with an attempt not to spill anything more. “How many shots did you put in this?”

“Six,” Nina said, deadpan. “You’ll be bouncing off the walls tonight.”

“Nah,” he said after a gulp of admittedly-delicious espresso. “I’ll sleep like a baby. I always do!”

Nina pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backwards, resting her chin on her arms. “So, not-Mr Crowley, what brings you to Soho?”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, an eyebrow slightly raised over his glasses to ask the question. The other man nodded and touched Nina’s hand to get her attention. In a low voice, he said, “Remember how I told you and Maggie yesterday that my lawyer friend, Ana, had a Plan for keeping me in the bookshop?”

Nina nodded, her eyes flicking suspiciously to Crowley a few times as Aziraphale spoke.

With a sly grin, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and said, “Meet my soon-to-be husband.”

As Nina seemed temporarily speechless, Crowley flashed a cocky grin and said, “Charmed.”

Nina squinted at him. “Are you trans or something? Some kind of loophole in the whole have-to-marry-a-woman bit his grandfather laid out for him?”

Aziraphale was giggling. Crowley said, “Trans? Nope. Loophole? Yes.” With a wave, he ceded the conversation back to the other man.

“It turns out that since the will predated legal gay marriage by a good many years, my grandfather never specified that I must marry a woman! He only specified that I must be legally married. So Ana set me up with an old friend of hers that she thought would be open to the Plan and agreeable to me—”

The look on Aziraphale’s face, so full of gratitude and joy and guileless excitement, nearly caused Crowley to melt into a puddle on the café floor. His heart raced, though he supposed that might be partly because of the six shots of espresso. Whatever he claimed otherwise, he didn’t usually drink so much caffeine in a single serving.

“—and if all goes well, Crowley and I will soon be wed. It will be a platonic marriage, of course, though in public, we’ll have to pretend. We must make sure that no one suspects otherwise.”

“Why tell me, then?”

Aziraphale looked taken aback. “Why, because you and Maggie are the closest thing I have to true family, my dear. I trust you won’t spread the truth further.”

As tough as she pretended to be, Nina was not immune to the man’s sweetness. Crowley watched her face shift slightly into fondness before it hardened when she looked at him again. She opened her mouth as if to ask him something, narrowed her eyes, then set her expression carefully neutral as she turned back to Aziraphale.

“Can you be a dear and pop over to Maggie’s?” she asked. “Ask her to join us if the shop isn’t busy? I believe she has the business card for your visitor as well.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. He stood. “You and Crowley can get to know each other a little whilst I’m gone.”

Crowley bit back a laugh at that. He knew what was coming. It was interrogation time.

Nina watched Aziraphale cross the café and leave with a tinkling of the bell over the door. Then she turned to Crowley with a fierce expression. “Right. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing…what? The whole marriage thing?”

“Obviously. I know what he gets out of the arrangement. What’s in it for you?”

Crowley didn’t want to go into his disastrous dating history and the whole “need to be alone but not alone” bit with this woman. He was pretty sure she’d call bullshit if he claimed to be altruistic, though. Still, he tried. “I’m helping out a friend—”

Nina cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Not buying it. No one agrees to get married to a stranger without motive. Are you a rival bookseller? Planning to take over his business?”

“Not even at gunpoint,” Crowley said. “God, I couldn’t do retail. Too many customers. Besides, do I look like someone who could be in sales?”

“Maybe if you lost the wanker-sunglasses and dressed less funereal.”

He grinned with all his teeth showing. “Funny, that. I’m a mortician, so the clothes fit.”

For the first time, he seemed to have surprised her.

“I’m not here to fuck over Aziraphale,” he said seriously. “I don’t want to go into all the reasons why this arrangement is good for me, too, but I swear to you that it has nothing to do with hurting him or his business. He is an incredible person—kind and smart and interesting and funny and sweet and honest and…what would the adjective be for having integrity? Integral? No, that’s not it. Anyway. That. I have no desire to hurt him.”

“He is all of those things,” Nina said slowly. She seemed to be evaluating him differently now. “A platonic marriage, he said?”

Crowley felt his cheeks warming up, but he was saved from answering by the tinkle of the bell and Aziraphale entering the café with a blond woman, presumably Maggie. Nina got up at once to fetch another chair. Introductions were made, and Crowley felt no suspicion whatsoever coming from the newcomer. She seemed to be as angelic as his own angel.

“Are you sure you’re okay in that seat?” she asked Crowley, frowning slightly. “It looks right to the window. We can trade if you’d prefer less sunlight.”

Right! His glasses. He touched the rims. “I’m good, thanks. Not light-sensitive. I have weird eyes and I prefer to avoid public stares and commentary.”

“They’re beautiful, actually,” Aziraphale said.

It was so hard not to dissolve into a puddle of goo when he said things like that! “Ngk. We’ll need to have you both over for dinner sometime, after we get everything arranged. I don’t mind showing you—just not in this type of setting.”

“This is so exciting,” Maggie said, clasping her hands together. “You must be a good man, Crowley, to do this type of favor for our Az.”

He shook his head, cheeks really hot now. “M’not good,” he mumbled. He fiddled with his now-empty mug. “S’entirely selfish o’me.”

They all ignored this, though thankfully, the conversation passed on to Aziraphale’s visitor (some solicitor called Ms Uriel), and eventually, the two men returned to the bookshop. Despite the excess caffeine—perhaps because of the excess caffeine—Crowley was exhausted. He tossed his sunglasses carelessly onto an end-table and fell sprawled onto one side of the sofa. Without opening his eyes, he said, “I could go to sleep right here and now.”

“Dear, it’s late afternoon.”

The couch dipped as Aziraphale sat on the other end. Crowley still didn’t open his eyes. “Ngh.”

“The hard part is over. My friends like you. Well, Maggie likes you. Nina does, too, but it’ll take her longer to get over her suspicions.”

Crowley grinned and finally looked at him. He was not nearly as oblivious as people suspected. “She gave me a right interrogation when you left.”

“Yes, I suspected she would.” He patted his lap. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was meant to put his head or feet there, but chose to spin and lay like he had in Bee’s flat earlier. Aziraphale immediately began to stroke his hair. “She’ll come around quickly.”

He only hummed in response. That was all the angel was going to get with fingers in his hair.

“So while I have you trapped,” Aziraphale began, causing Crowley to laugh, “is there anything else I should know before we spend the rest of the night together? Food allergies or preferences? I thought about that at the Uzbek place and worried I would get something wrong. Any triggers that I should watch for? Are you going to sleepwalk and scare the life out of me?”

“Nah. I sleep like the dead. Honestly, I’m pretty laidback on most things. Only major food thing is that I have a shellfish allergy, so no shrimp or lobster or whatever. But otherwise, if you’re good to my cats, my car, and my family, and you’re not a bigot or a generally mean person, I can get along with you.”

“Oh, I’m sad that you can’t eat oysters.”

“Oysters are mollusks. I’m allergic to crustaceans. Different category of shellfish. Though you can keep the oysters. Blurgh.”

Aziraphale tugged on his hair. “Philistine.”

“I’m surprised you can swallow them, honestly. My impression so far is that your sensory issues center on tactile stimuli.”

“Mostly, yes. I don’t mind the texture of them, though. I was warned beforehand and I approached them cautiously the first time. It helps to be prepared. God help me if I bite into an unexpected piece of gristle in meat or an errant eggshell in an omelet.” He shuddered with his entire body. “It’s like my stomach turns off at once. Doesn’t matter if I’ve only taken a single bite. I’m done.”

“Got it. Note to Crowley: Be extra careful trimming meat and cracking eggs.”

“I don’t mind cooking,” Aziraphale began at once. Crowley put a finger to his lips.

“Listen. We don’t have to figure out all those details tonight. It’s our first night at this. The main point is to make sure we can sleep in the same bed without you losing sleep.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Me? Both of us—”

“Trust me. I’m not going to have any trouble. I’m a very heavy sleeper, so it’s not going to bother me if you fidget. Or snore. Or play music. Whatever. The only thing that’ll wake me is if you have night terrors or summat.”

“Night terrors?”

Crowley nodded. “Mary had them growing up. Freddie and I shared a room, and the ‘girls’ as they were called then shared another. Only Bee got fed up with Mary screaming in the night and forced me to trade places with them. So I slept next to Mary, and whenever she got scared, I’d comfort her. I got hardwired to instant alertness when someone has a nightmare of any kind.”

Aziraphale’s fingers had gone still. He cleared his throat. “I… Well, I do actually have night terrors on occasion. They started when I was young, after Gabriel—you know. It’s not as common now, but if I’m under a lot of stress, they tend to recur. I don’t know how much they might happen, what with the false marriage and my family’s reaction and all the rest.”

Sitting up, Crowley took his hand. “That’s fine. I’ll fall right back to sleep once you no longer need me. Just… ‘Ziraphale? Let me know what you need when it happens, all right? How to comfort you properly. I want to be there for you. And the rest of the time, at night. Tell me what you need. Want. I can cuddle you or wrap up in my own blanket or even come sleep on the couch on a night when you’re craving more space. I’m extremely flexible.”

The other man looked as if he wanted to ask for a hug but couldn’t. Crowley raised his free arm in a gesture to ask instead, and received a grateful smile in reply. They moved closer together until Aziraphale’s head rested on Crowley’s chest. For the first time, Crowley put his fingers in those soft, blond curls.

“I think you’re going to be a wonderful husband,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley closed his eyes. If only he could stop wanting husband to be something more than friend. “I’ll do my best for you, angel.”

Notes:

You might have expected Aziraphale to be fastidious with his bed, but this is another part of his SPD – sheets, blankets, pillows, and pyjamas are all more comfortable when they’re “worn in” so to speak, rather than stiff and laid out in perfect arrangement that he would just have to mess up to use again anyway. Sigh. The sleep struggle is very, very real.

The word Crowley is looking for is “honorable.” However, there is an adjective form of integrity, though it’s rarely used: integrous.

I promise there will be movement in the plot in the next chapter. I’m letting this story unfold very slowly, but it’s gonna shake up soon. Not an angsty shake up. I promised an angst-free fluffy story, and I will deliver that!

Chapter 9: Meet the Solicitor

Summary:

An unexpected visitor to the bookshop makes an unexpected offer, and plans are (unexpectedly) accelerated.

***
Aziraphale’s senses were misfiring again. He had no idea if having Crowley here would be better or worse for this discussion, and there was the extra sensation of being caught despite not doing anything wrong. Ms Uriel’s curious expression didn’t help, and as Crowley reached him and put a casual arm around his waist, Aziraphale’s fluttering nerves crescendoed.

“Crowley! This is Ms Uriel, my parents’ solicitor,” he said in an attempt to smooth over the moment with banalities. “Ms Uriel, this is Antonio Crowley, my husband.”

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Crowley woke slowly, not fully aware of his surroundings. He had plenty of practice waking up in unfamiliar settings, so he was unbothered by this. The bed he was in was soft and warm, his return into reality not marred by cushions aimed at his head. A light brush of air ghosted across his face, and the memory clicked into place.

He was at Aziraphale’s flat, in Aziraphale’s bed…with his arms and legs tangled around Aziraphale like tentacles. There had been no intent in the snuggling, done unconsciously in his sleep, but the man hadn’t kicked him away. In fact, he seemed to still be asleep, breath slow and even, each exhale a warm breeze over Crowley’s skin. He basked in the rightness of this moment. Not for the first time, he begged any deities that might be listening to allow him to keep this. To keep him.

Aziraphale stirred and stretched. Crowley began to pull back, to give him space, but Aziraphale ended the stretch with an arm around Crowley, drawing him in again. Well, then. Crowley settled in, burying his nose into the other man’s neck.

“Morning,” he croaked. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than expected. Better than I have in years, to tell you the truth. It was nice to share your warmth.”

“Ngh,” Crowley murmured. “Your bedroom gets chilly.”

“Warm in the summer, though. I might have to kick you out of bed then.”

Crowley heard the teasing tone and responded by wrapping himself more closely against the man. That, unfortunately, caused him to rub up against Aziraphale’s hip, and Crowley realized that he was half-hard. “Shit,” he said, and immediately disentangled himself to turn over. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“You do know that I’m an adult who has lived in a male body for nearly forty-five years? I know all about ‘morning wood.’ You don’t need to apologize for biology.”

“Yeah, well, still a bit awkward, first morning together an’ all.” Crowley shook his tangled hair out and sat up. “Probably need to stop lazing about anyway. Don’t you have a bookshop to open? I’m sure the funeral home will need me soon, too.”

Aziraphale groaned and stayed right where he was. “Bookshop opens whenever I want to open it. I do most of my business online, anyway.”

“With that horrendous website that looks like it still has Flash built into it? That thing is operable?

“I have a website?”

They were both up then, Crowley pulling out his phone to show him the (non-mobile-functional) website, Aziraphale leading him to the (ancient) computer in the office.

“Time to upgrade,” Crowley said after learning that the site was built by an ex in the late 00s, and Aziraphale paid the nominal domain fee yearly without realizing what that meant. “I know someone. Trust me.”

“I don’t really need extra business through a website.”

“Never know when it might come in handy.” Crowley winked at him. “Is there coffee available?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Only tea, I’m afraid.”

“Right. I’ll change that in the near future, assuming we keep going with all this.” Crowley vaguely circled his hand in the air. “I guess for today, I’ll shower first if that’s alright with you? Then I can go across the road and buy some espresso off your friend.”

Immediately, Aziraphale bustled him toward the shower, pulling clean towels from a tiny linen closet, giving him tips about the temperamental nature of the taps. Before he left the bathroom, he said, “I’ll get dressed and pop over to Nina’s for you. A cup of Death for when you’re out.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh. “Perhaps not that much espresso. A large americano with an extra shot will be fine.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just don’t tell Nina that Death was too much for me. That can be our secret.”

Aziraphale giggled and actually waved as Crowley shut the bathroom door. He looked at himself in the mirror, the rumpled t-shirt he’d slept in and his hair sticking out on one side. There were still cloth imprints on the cheek that had been lying against Aziraphale. He grinned at his reflection and turned his attention to the fiddly taps.

 


 

Aziraphale hadn’t been lying when he said he’d slept better than in years. What he hadn’t admitted—not directly, anyway—was that he’d never slept so well with another person beside him. Crowley had fallen asleep within minutes, and it wasn’t long before his unconscious form wriggled over to cuddle. Aziraphale was simultaneously amused—the man had warned him, after all—and worried. He held as still as he could, but the need to be still immediately made him feel every uncomfortable itching, scratching, and bruising press of cloth against his skin. There was a cold draft on his shoulder from where one of Crowley’s arms had accidentally pulled the blanket down. His neck was growing sore from his need to rearrange the pillow for better support.

Aziraphale managed to wait thirteen minutes by the bedside clock before he shifted to ease the worst of the discomfort. Then he had to scratch. The itchy spots migrated as they always did, and Aziraphale chased them, trying not to jostle Crowley’s sleeping form. At one point, he’d practically sat up to deal with a sharp itch-pain on one knee, but even then, the other man didn’t stir. He simply rolled onto his back, mouth opening with a very quiet snore, completely unbothered. Aziraphale tested his limits and found that he could move as freely as if he were alone. Furthermore, Crowley’s breathing and warmth lulled him to sleep much faster than usual, and Aziraphale only woke up once in the night. It had been a very restful night indeed.

Energized, he changed into day clothes, dropping his rumpled pajamas on top of his pillow. He wished he’d thought to brush his teeth and hair before making the offer to pop over to Nina’s. Well, his curls would be fine. They were rather unruly at the best of times, and some finger-combing would do. As for his breath, Aziraphale popped a peppermint into his mouth. He tucked the wrapper into his pocket and hoped that he would be safely back into the bookshop before the flavor grew too strong and he had to spit out the candy.

He almost ran into the person waiting on the other side of the bookshop doors.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said in surprise. His hands automatically began to flutter as he recognized the stern face of the family solicitor.

“I stopped by yesterday,” Ms Uriel said, stepping into the shop without invitation. Aziraphale quickly locked the doors behind her. “Gave my business card to the café owner across the road. She said she’d pass it along, but I didn’t hear from you last night.”

“Yes. Right. Yes. She gave it to me. I was, ah, busy in the evening.” He’d forgotten about Ms Uriel entirely once he and Crowley had gone back to the flat. Inspiration hit. “Besides, I didn’t learn about your visit until it was after business hours.”

Ms Uriel waved that aside. “I’m always available for my clients.”

It took all of Aziraphale’s fortitude not to say “I’m not your client” aloud.

“I’m here on your father’s behalf,” the solicitor continued.

She moved to the counter on which sat his antique register. Not that Aziraphale ever used said register. It was purely for show. The bookshop had an aesthetic. He smothered the thought as Ms Uriel pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it to reveal a stack of paperwork. “This is about Mr Tyler, I suppose?” he said. God, he hated paperwork.

The look she gave him was inscrutable. “I don’t know who that is. No. Actually, your father said that you had some concerns about the flat. About whether it is tied to the bookshop and included in the terms of your grandfather’s will.”

“Oh. That.” Aziraphale shrugged. The taste of peppermint was suddenly overwhelming. He needed to get rid of the candy now. He turned his back, slipping the wrapper out of his pocket and bringing it up to his mouth to discard the half-finished mint, then popping it in the nearby wastebasket. “I checked up on that already. I understand that the flat is part and parcel.”

The solicitor let out a sound that might have been a huff and might have been a laugh. “And you understand what part and parcel means?”

Aziraphale turned back to her and glared. “I’m not an imbecile. If I hadn’t known what it meant, I would’ve asked the lawyer I spoke to.”

Ms Uriel looked taken aback that he’d consulted another solicitor. Perhaps she thought he would retain her services simply because his parents had. Grandfathered in, so to speak. (He had to force himself not to laugh at the play on words.) Either way, she lost the scoffing lilt of her tone when she spoke again. “Very good. Your father and I spoke at length about what we could do, legally, to help you stay in the flat.”

“You—what?” This time, Aziraphale was taken aback. His father was trying to help him? “We already spoke. My father and I. I know that the only way to keep the property is t-to get married.”

“Yes,” the solicitor confirmed. “However, there’s the matter of what happens after the property reverts to your parents. Their wishes are to sell it and set the money aside as their retirement fund. To make sure they’re taken care of as they grow older. A shop and flat like this one in central London will definitely give them that security.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the implication that he didn’t care about his parents’ future or wellbeing.

“We believe we’ve come to a compromise that will work for all of you.”

Glancing at the stairs that led to his flat, Aziraphale said, “Can you wait for a moment? This is all very…new.”

“As you pointed out earlier,” Ms Uriel said, voice frosty and clipped, “these aren’t my normal business hours. I’ve trekked down to Soho twice in the last two days to speak with you, and I don’t have time to be at your leisure.”

Aziraphale’s ears stopped functioning properly and his heartrate sped up. He looked toward the stairs again several times, not sure if he was hoping that Crowley would come to his rescue or stay safely ensconced in the flat. Ms Uriel pulled various bits of paperwork from her folder to sort into piles as she spoke.

“After the property reverts to your parents’ ownership, they are willing to sell the bookshop as a separate entity from the flat, provided that you follow through with a few stipulations before that time. Part and parcel will no longer apply, as the property will no longer be under the legal control of your grandfather’s will. And while splitting the property into two entities will obviously decrease the saleable value of both, your parents are willing to accept that so that you may stay in your home as you wish.”

He could not be hearing this right. The words were all jumbled up, and Ms Uriel was speaking too fast for him. “Wait,” he tried, but she plowed on.

“In order for that to happen, you would need to have the flat evaluated for renovation. Obviously, it can’t exit into the retail property if the two parcels are split. If a new exit point is not a possibility, then there’s nothing we can do about that, and the building will need to be sold as a single unit. However, if it can be renovated, and you are willing to take on that expense and get it done before the legal processes are finalized—likely later than the end of March, so you’ll have a bit more time than you might be thinking—”

“Not sure I’m thinking at all,” Aziraphale muttered.

The solicitor either didn’t hear or completely ignored the comment. “If all that can be sorted properly, then your parents will rent the flat to you at ninety percent of the market value for as long as you want to stay. If you are still living here at the time of their deaths, they will bequeath the property to you, and you’ll own it free and clear, without any further stipulations.”

He blinked. That was…unexpected.

“Those terms will guarantee retirement income for your parents even without the larger sale, while you remain in the flat as you wish—and at a below market value rate. Though, if I were your solicitor—” She leaned in and raised one eyebrow at him. “—I would suggest that you negotiate to drop the rate to eighty percent. I think your parents would be persuadable.”

“Eighty,” he said. The white noise in his ears was worse now. Random phrases ran through his head. Market value and splitting the property and time of their deaths. Where would he possibly come up with enough rent to pay for a flat in Soho, even at a reduced rate? Especially once the bookshop sold? Would they want to sell the books with the shop? Was that stipulated by the will, too? He would need to ask Ana…

“Of course, before any rental price could be agreed upon, the property would need to be appraised. Market value isn’t solely dependent on location and square meterage.”

Appraisal. The word penetrated the fog in Aziraphale’s head. Was this all a ploy to get Mr Tyler into the bookshop before the end of March? He narrowed his eyes. “They could change their minds.”

“I’m sorry?” Ms Uriel said, head cocked like he was speaking French all of a sudden.

“Say I let someone in to do an appraisal and they find out how much it’s all worth as a package deal. They could change their minds about renting to me.”

Brow still furrowed, she said, “There would be a contract, of course. Once all the conditions were worked out. A contract before you even bring in an appraiser. Aziraphale—”

She cut off as a door opened and slammed shut above them, followed by rapid footsteps on the stairs. Crowley spoke before he came into view. “Angel! I heard your voice down here. Did you get lost on the way to—oh!” The teasing note dropped off as he entered the shop and caught sight of Ms Uriel. “Sorry, I didn’t know we had company.”

Aziraphale’s senses were misfiring again. He had no idea if having Crowley here would be better or worse for this discussion, and there was the extra sensation of being caught despite not doing anything wrong. Ms Uriel’s curious expression didn’t help, and as Crowley reached him and put a casual arm around his waist, Aziraphale’s fluttering nerves crescendoed.

“Crowley! This is Ms Uriel, my parents’ solicitor,” he said in an attempt to smooth over the moment with banalities. “Ms Uriel, this is Antonio Crowley, my husband.”

The hand on his waist tightened abruptly, and Crowley let out a choked sputtering. Aziraphale’s anxiety ratcheted up to emergency levels. He hadn’t meant to say that word.

“My fiancé!” The correction was shouted, far too loud, as Aziraphale backpedaled frantically. “Future husband, that is. Soon-to-be. I mean, before the—it’s rather n—oh dear…”

His brain-to-tongue connection had short-circuited completely. He wanted to melt into the floor. The day had begun so well, too.

“Nice to meet you,” Crowley said, offering the solicitor his hand and squeezing Aziraphale tighter to his side with the other. “Sorry. We haven’t made an official announcement yet. Brand new engagement; we’re a bit overly giddy at the moment, I think.”

He offered Aziraphale a syrupy smile, and Aziraphale was pretty sure that his “thank you for being my knight in shining armor” return smile could be interpreted as equally smitten.

Ms Uriel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your father didn’t mention that you were seeing someone.”

Crowley spoke before Aziraphale could come up with a reply. “Considering that he didn’t tell the appraiser that the flat was occupied before sending the man here with a key, I expect that sometimes he forgets important details.”

“That’s a crucial detail to leave out, that there are two occupants in the flat. That might change the offer negotiations.”

This time, when Aziraphale’s ears went staticky and his vision white, it was with anger. “I don’t see how this offer will matter soon anyway, given that I will stay the legal owner of both shop and flat at the end of March. As Crowley and I literally just told you, we’re to be married soon.”

Crowley leaned over and kissed his temple. The hand at Aziraphale’s waist remained firm and solid, holding him safe and steady. “Probably a bit faster than we would have done things normally, but under the circumstances, you do what you have to do, right? Besides—”

The look he showered on Aziraphale was like a spotlight gaze of love. Even knowing that this was pretend, Aziraphale struggled not to believe it.

“—when you meet the right person, not much point in waiting, is there?”

The solicitor was glaring at Crowley now. Aziraphale didn’t understand why and made a mental note to see if Crowley did, once they got themselves out of this situation. Ms Uriel said, “When did you two meet?”

“Funny thing,” Aziraphale said. He’d practiced this part! “We actually met back at uni. Didn’t know each other more than to say hello at the time, but it was a mutual friend that introduced us. She recently put us back into contact, and we ‘clicked.’”

“Love at first sight,” Crowley added. “Or second sight, I suppose? No, that's a witch thing, innit?”

Ms Uriel’s frown deepened. She looked at Aziraphale. “I’d like to talk with you further about this paperwork, and about what your parents want to do for you. Perhaps we can set up a lunch for all of us? You can bring your lawyer, and—”

“There really is no need. I appreciate my parents’ intentions, but they’re no longer necessary. Please thank them for me.”

“Aziraphale,” she said, her voice urgent. She glanced to Crowley and then back at him with a sigh. “How about I leave the paperwork here in case you change your mind?”

“By all means.” Aziraphale slid out from Crowley’s embrace and walked the solicitor to the door. He didn’t like the look she was giving him, so he chattered platitudes the entire time and put the lock on as soon as he got rid of her. It took everything in him not to collapse against the glass when she was gone.

“Hey,” Crowley said, voice soft. He took Aziraphale’s hand and led him back toward the counter with the register. There was a stool there, but he resisted sitting. He could see Ms Uriel standing by the window with the pride flag, alternately tapping on her mobile and frowning at the two of them.

“She’s still watching us,” he said, trying to keep his lips as unreadable as possible.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s not buying it.”

“Maybe we should kiss.”

Crowley was wearing his sunglasses, but Aziraphale could tell that his eyes went wide at the words. “I’m not sure…”

“We’ll have to eventually, if we want to sell this story,” Aziraphale said. There was a feeling uncomfortably close to hurt at the idea that Crowley didn’t want to kiss him. A thought occurred to him. “I had a mint, so I shouldn’t taste too badly of morning breath.”

At that, Crowley’s face melted into tenderness. “Oh, angel,” he said with a soft laugh. He leaned in and touched their lips together. Light fingers landed in his hair. Aziraphale could taste the ghost of unfamiliar toothpaste as their lips dragged gently together. It was as lovely as everything else had been with this man, and over after only a few seconds.

The solicitor was still outside. She frowned down at her mobile. It was possible she hadn’t even seen the kiss, it had been so short. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “I think we’ll have to be…well, a bit more explicit.”

“What exactly—?”

“Kiss me properly. Like a fiancé would.”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times. Aziraphale seemed to have struck him speechless. Or…soundless? No little nonverbal utterances to catalogue this time. Eventually, he found his voice and said, “You don’t want to kiss me.”

Oh, the silly man. “Why?” Aziraphale said, and made the words as playful and joking as he could manage. “Do you have weird bumps on your tongue or something?”

Crowley laughed, though it sounded a bit strained. Aziraphale supposed there was pressure here, so that made sense. He was prepared to call the whole thing off when the man said, “No, just the normal bumps.”

“There. That’s all right, then.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ms Uriel begin to walk away. He was about to tell Crowley that he needn’t bother with the kiss after all when lips met lips again, not as soft this time. Opening, Crowley’s tongue touching him briefly, asking. Aziraphale responded in kind. He was not immune to the allure of a kiss, the feel of tongue sliding over tongue, and they really did need to practice this. To be ready to prove that yes, they were in a relationship, it was real, thank you very much. He put a hand on Crowley’s lower back and drew him closer, but at that moment, the man broke off the kiss and pulled away with a distressed cry.

“I…” Crowley said, not looking at him. “Must…need to…need a minute, angel. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said automatically, trying not to let his own distress show in his voice. “She’s gone now, anyway.”

“Thass not, isss not—”

“Crowley? Did I do something wrong? Did I…hurt you? Or touch you wrong? Hit a trigger?”

He shook his head quickly, but still didn’t look at Aziraphale. Instead, he melted onto the stool and put his face in his hands. “Give me a second, please?”

That very much sounded like he’d hit a trigger, but Aziraphale kept this inside. “Of course.”

He waited, stomach churning with regret, until Crowley sat up straight and looked at him at last. “I can’t do that again. Not, ngh, unless it’s absolutely necessary to make people believe us. The first kiss was alright. I can do that. But any deeper…”

Aziraphale waited, but there didn’t seem to be anything more forthcoming. He wasn’t sure what to think. Feeling a bit vulnerable, he asked, “Am I that poor of a kisser? I know I don’t have nearly the experience that—”

“No,” Crowley interrupted firmly. “Angel, this has nothing to do with you.”

His words and his actions did not add up. Aziraphale dithered, wringing his hands nervously. Crowley reached out and stilled them with a gentle touch.

“I told you that I fall into temptation very easily. Dive headfirst into relationships an’ all that. Kissing like we did there… I won’t be able to keep this in a platonic headspace if we do that.”

The pieces clicked into place. Once again, Crowley was protecting him. “I see,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him. Well. He could protect Crowley, too. “I’m sorry to have asked then. I won’t ask it of you again.”

This time, Crowley made the sad-hawk noise. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it, but he welcomed the hug that followed.

 


 

[Text from Plan Bee ]

Crowley: I am marrying an actual angel

Crowley: he even tastes ambrosal

Crowley: FUCK wht am i goign to do B

Bee: the fuck?

Crowley: had to kiss bc the fam solicitor wsa here

Crowley: gooooooood B hes so fucking perfect whyyyyyyyyyyyy

Bee: yeah ur so fucked bro
[End]

Notes:

I need to apologize to all of you who wanted a blow-by-blow of their first night in bed together. Nothing much happened, and what did is all described here. I hope their first kiss made up for it! Even though the aftermath wasn't as fun.

I’m not a legal expert, especially not for a country I don’t live in, so let’s just suspend disbelief about contracts and real estate law in addition to the whole funeral home business stuff.

Chapter 10: Too Fast

Summary:

Our dynamic duo scramble to figure out what they need to do, now that the Malaika family solicitor knows about the upcoming nuptials and may be up to her own plotting.

***
Crowley stared at Aziraphale. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Muriel showed constant remarkable insight into his moods and internal needs without him ever having to say a word. But Muriel had known him all their life. They were best friends. Aziraphale had known him for all of thirty-six hours or so.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Coffee or Death was quite busy, what with it being a Saturday morning. By the time their drinks were ready, however, Crowley had miraculously managed to claim a table right as its previous occupants stood to leave. Nina followed Aziraphale over and ran a damp rag over the surface.

“Can I get either of you anything more? Enough espresso for you, mortician-boy?”

Crowley smirked and raised the steaming mug to her in salute.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t discuss this at my shop?” Aziraphale said once they were alone. “It’s rather loud here.”

“I know. Will that be alright for you?”

Aziraphale considered him, head cocked slightly as if he was trying to read Crowley’s face like a foreign language. He hesitated, then set the hand that wasn’t curled around his tea mug onto the table between them. Crowley took it gently and smiled at him.

“You need the noise right now,” Aziraphale said, each word slow and measured. “This morning was…a lot. You need time to process everything. The other day, you told me that some members of your family craved space and silence, while others needed the opposite. Like you. The background noise helps you to think. Am I interpreting that correctly?”

Crowley stared at him. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Muriel showed constant remarkable insight into his moods and internal needs without him ever having to say a word. But Muriel had known him all their life. They were best friends. Aziraphale had known him for all of thirty-six hours or so. “Um. Y-yeah. That’s. Wow.”

“Wow?” Aziraphale’s brow scrunched. “What do you mean?”

“Most people can’t read me like an open book after so short a time. Hell, Jean-Luc—”

“The less you say of that utter arse, the better. He’s subhuman. Of course he couldn’t spot the obvious.”

Crowley grinned. It was a soppy and besotted grin, but he couldn’t rein it in. “Even besides him, few people outside my family would have the insight you just showed. And definitely not after two days.”

“One and a half,” Aziraphale corrected.

“Potato, tomato.”

“You ridiculous man. Drink your coffee and process. Do you want me to go back to the shop so you have some time to yourself before we discuss our next steps? I can make sure I have my mobile on me.”

Crowley was frozen, caught between two desires. Yes, he needed time to regroup. His mind hadn’t stopped whirring since he’d come downstairs to find Aziraphale practically frozen in the solicitor’s presence. Everything that had come after—the declaration of their engagement, Ms Uriel’s obvious suspicion of his motives, Aziraphale’s insistence that they share a real kiss… It had all happened so fast. Too fast. He was struggling to make sense of it all.

But Aziraphale was sitting across from him with his baby-blue eyes and his earnest expression and his soft, warm hand a perfect fit in Crowley’s.

“No,” he said finally. “Stay. I only need a little time to wrap my head around…” He waved a vague circle in the air with his mug, somehow managing not to spill anything. “…everything?”

Aziraphale smiled. “All right, dear. Give me a moment, then. I think Nina could…”

He trailed off as he stood and wandered back toward the order counter, leaving Crowley smiling after him without even attempting to hide his infatuation. His eyes flicked down to the man’s arse, not covered by a jacket at the moment, and Crowley was quite glad he’d had a moment to himself in the shower. Otherwise, between that stellar kiss and his current view—not to mention Aziraphale’s mind-boggling astuteness—he would have a problem.

Unfortunately, Nina caught his ogling and raised an eyebrow at him when Crowley met her eye. He blushed and looked out the window toward the bookshop. Right. He was meant to be thinking.

Clearly, he needed to avoid kissing Aziraphale as much as he could. The man had been wrong—he was a phenomenal kisser: sensuous, tender, responsive. He treated the act as a dance or conversation, not a mere tussle of tongues. It was intensely arousing; made Crowley forget everything but the desire to have and hold. He would be unable to resist reaching out if he spent more than a few moments in that embrace.

Still, it had hurt to hear Aziraphale’s response. I won’t ask you again. The man had been so kind and understanding—and so final. Crowley had wanted to beg. No, please. Ask me again, ask me whenever you want this, let me taste you every day for the rest of our lives! The need to stay silent had squashed that response into a ridiculous, pouting whine.

Aziraphale returned to the table and sat down with a plate of Eccles cakes. Crowley shook himself out of his pointless pining. Sure, that kiss was the thought foremost in his mind, but definitely not the most important. The Malaikas’ solicitor knew about them now. Knew about their upcoming nuptials—nuptials they hadn’t yet agreed on. They hadn’t done their trial move-in, but that option might now be off the table. Ana had called this a loophole. The lawyer lady didn’t trust him. Might there be an attempt to close the loophole before Aziraphale could claim his property?

He frowned and pulled out his mobile. Ana wouldn’t be awake yet but they would need to talk to her once she was. He sent off a text requesting a call, then opened his notes app to make a list.

  • Talk to Ana
  • How quickly can we arrange a ceremony?
  • Tell the families
  • —the Malaikas? Meet A’s fam?
  • We have to at least call them right?
  • Rings
  • Officiant, maybe Matt? Check availability
  • Cat-proof the flat
  • Coffeemaker
  • Need to talk to Muriel
  • Who will we invite?
  • —ask Aziraphale preferences on ceremony type. Indoors, outdoors, religious (??)
  • Rent a tux? How fancy will this be? He’s ALWAYS fancy
  • Do we need a special license like in all those historical romance books?
  • What paperwork did the solicitor leave?
  • If we don’t need to marry immediately, what is the plan moving forward?
  • Shit what kind of kiss in front of whoever marries us?
  • Ana: Is there a length of time we must stay married?
  • Mum is gonna kill me…

It was a haphazard list at best, but Crowley’s spinning thoughts had calmed by the time he reached the end of it. He looked up at Aziraphale, who seemed to be humming under his breath in between tiny nibbles on his cake. His lips were turned up slightly at the corners—a true resting-happy face. Nothing at all like the resting scowl Crowley shared with Bee.

“Angel.” When Aziraphale didn’t respond, Crowley reached across the table and tapped his plate. “Angel?”

“Oh! One moment!” he said, voice overloud. He reached up and pulled an earbud from one ear. “Marvelous things! I must invest in a pair for myself. Nina fixed them to play music from her mobile for me. Isn’t that splendid?”

“She, um, gave you her AirPods? Is that what you went to ask her?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “Wrong on both counts, I’m afraid. I simply went to order my Eccles cakes. They calm the nervous system, I tell you. Nina knows that I don’t usually come by when her shop is this busy, so she offered to set me up to listen to some lovely Debussy. Apparently, these pod-thingies—ear-pods, I think you called them? They’ve been in the Lost and Found for weeks. She said that I could keep them, but obviously that would be unfair to the owner if ever they tried to claim them. Certainly, though, I must purchase my own.”

“I can help you with that,” Crowley said. He added “AirPods” to his list.

“What have you been working on, if I may ask?”

Crowley smiled. “‘Course you can, angel. Sorting this morning’s whirlwind into a to-do list. Well, and a question list. And a ‘things to think about’ list.”

“A ‘get all the thoughts on paper’ list. Metaphorical paper, I suppose. You’ll have to show me where I can make such lists on my mobile. I haven’t explored much of its functionality yet. I’m rather new to it.”

“Considering it’s not perpetually in your hand or pocket, I guessed that.”

“Oh, I’d never,” Aziraphale scoffed.

With a laugh, Crowley said, “One day, I’m going to say, ‘Told you so.’”

“Never.”

“And I’m definitely contacting my friend Chris to update your website.” He added that to the list, too. “At very least, it should have a mobile version!”

Aziraphale sighed but didn’t object to this last part. “Well, dear. Is there anything I can help with regarding your notes?”

“Why don’t we take your pastries back to the shop, now that I’m all sorted. I can read through this with you and see what you might have to add.”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said. He stood while Crowley drained the last lukewarm remnants of his coffee. As they moved toward the exit, Nina shoved a takeaway cup into his hand.

“Just in case,” she said with a wink. “Never too much caffeine, right?”

Crowley smiled. He wouldn’t drink it. Probably. But who knew? It was a peculiar morning.

The bell tinkled as they left the shop. Crowley said, “Thank you for that, by the way. It really helped.”

Aziraphale beamed and took his hand. “Glad I can bring something to the table.”

Oh angel, Crowley thought. If only you knew.

 


 

The takeaway cup contained hot chocolate. Crowley gifted it to Aziraphale, but stole several sips while they planned.

 


 

They sat on the cozy sofas under the pride flag—in the exact same spots they’d chosen on their first evening together. Aziraphale explained, to the best of his recollection, his father’s proposal. Crowley skimmed through the paperwork and tossed the lot in the wastebasket.

“Rent? A place like this rents for thousands of pounds each month!”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, looking wistfully toward the staircase that led to the flat. “I need to talk to Ana. Find out if the books are also part and parcel of the bookshop, or if I get to keep them. Sell them off for rent as needed.”

“You do know that I never said I wanted to back out of this arrangement, yeah? My proposal came before your father’s.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the best time for humor, but Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. “Technically, you haven’t proposed.”

“Ngk!” Crowley said, sounding like a squeeze toy. He began to pace, making Aziraphale worry that his joke was very poorly timed. Before he could apologize, though, Crowley turned and dropped to one knee in front of him. “Don’t have a ring for you, angel, but m’gonna ask anyway.” He took Aziraphale’s hand. “Will you marry me?”

“My dear, you don’t need to do this. I was teasing.”

Crowley only responded by brushing his lips across Aziraphale’s knuckles. He didn’t look away; he barely blinked. As if he needed an answer. As if Aziraphale could possibly say no.

“Yes,” he said, and the word came out breathier than normal. Aziraphale fought the urge to lean forward and kiss him again. That would not be kind, and it wasn’t as if the formalizing of their agreement needed a kiss any more than it needed rings.

“When?”

“Goodness. That is the question, isn’t it? No word from Ana yet?”

Crowley shook his head. They’d gone over his list, discussing details to the best of their ability, but they needed legal advice before anything more could be decided. Crowley was getting antsy again. He got off his knee and began to positively prowl around the shop. Aziraphale tried not to worry about the books. They weren’t the most important thing here.

“Is there anything I can… Crowley? Sit with me?”

The look he received in response was so vulnerable. “Angel?”

Aziraphale patted the empty seat next to him. “I have a theory. Would you like to lie down?”

Crowley approached cautiously. Without words, they arranged themselves so that he lay on his side, head on a small cushion on Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale began to stroke the dark red curls gently with one hand, using the other to run his fingernails softly over Crowley’s arm. The man whined under the touch and curled up closer against him.

“This isn’t just a weapon, is it?” he asked, thinking about what he’d been told, that Crowley would agree to anything while in this vulnerable place.

With a huffed laugh, Crowley said, “Bee. That’s all they understand of it. Everyone seems to have different ideas. Nick always used it to initiate sex. To him, my reactions were erotic.”

“Hrm,” Aziraphale said, trying hard not to growl or sniff. He couldn’t keep the tartness from his voice, though. “I have a difficult time believing that you behave like a sleepy cat when you’re aroused.”

At that, Crowley burst into startled laughter and shifted so that he was on his back, looking up at Aziraphale. “My mum used to do this for me when I was a kid an’ I couldn’t sleep.”

Aziraphale bit back his instinct to say something extremely rude about the ex who had turned a parent’s comfort into a game of lust. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Now, I know I’ve only known you briefly, but I have a hard time imagining you ever struggling with sleep.”

“Was after m’dad left. I was scared that if I slept, someone else would be gone in the morning. It didn’t last a long time—he got back in contact after a few weeks, and no one else disappeared, so I stopped being afraid. But I loved it so much that I still would climb into Mum’s lap every night.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, running feather-light fingertips along the man’s brow. “This is an easy thing for me to give. You can ask me anytime.”

He watched as the tension slowly left Crowley’s body, as his breathing deepened, as his eyes drifted shut. Aziraphale ached. It felt so strange, to connect this way. To understand someone so easily and completely. It was almost stranger than being understood and accepted in return.

And it was lovely. Aziraphale still felt guilty about the trouble he’d caused with his poorly-timed announcement that morning, but a small part of him was positively gleeful that it was pushing them toward each other even sooner.

The landline rang upstairs, a distant trill that broke through Aziraphale’s contentment. He squirmed slightly and slipped a hand under Crowley as gently as possible to scratch the side of his thigh. The itching stopped as soon as the call ended. He wondered how many times his father had phoned already today.

Well. He wouldn’t be answering until after they spoke with Ana.

He looked down at the man fast asleep in his lap and brushed his nails across his sleeping brow again. “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “I hope you know that. I’m glad that you’re here with me.”

Crowley gave a little snort-snore as a muscle twitched under his eye, and Aziraphale smiled.

 


 

“Let me get this straight.”

It was late Saturday afternoon, and Ana was not exactly happy about being put on the spot. Her voice vibrated over the speakerphone of Crowley’s mobile.

“You told the lawyer that you were engaged. And she didn’t believe it. Or, well, she believes that Crowley is up to no good, so she’s probably scrambling to protect Aziraphale from him, possibly by trying to clarify that his grandfather’s intentions were for a straight marriage. Thus closing up the loophole.”

“Yeeeah that’s about it,” Crowley said. “I didn’t make the best impression on her, clearly. Can she do that? Get the will reinterpreted?”

“My instinct is to say no, but guys, I practice law in California! And this isn’t my area of expertise. You need someone out your way to advocate for you.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, eyebrow raised in question. He shook his head. Crowley said, “Any clue on how to find a solicitor? Preferably without Aziraphale having to sell off his collection to afford it?”

“My grandfather’s collection,” Aziraphale corrected quietly.

“Yours,” Crowley insisted.

“Only if it’s not part and parcel—”

“Guys!” Ana yelled, breaking into the argument. “Stop. Crowley, do you have any contacts through work? Doesn’t Bee coordinate legal matters? Maybe they’ll know someone. Or someone who knows someone. Or maybe you two can head over to the Malaika’s and put on a helluva convincing performance of being in love. Especially you, Crowley.”

“Ngh.”

“Aziraphale, I can check the will again. Somehow I doubt the books are included as part of the property, otherwise your hands would’ve been tied for decades. I imagine that if you moved them out of the building, they’d be considered yours. I’ll double check, but really, you two, isn’t the solution obvious?”

They looked at each other again. The silence answered her question, and Ana’s long-suffering sigh was as loud as her words.

“You get married before the lawyer can make any corrections to the will. It’s not that hard.” After a few more beats of silence, she added, “Unless you don’t want to marry.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale began at the same time that Crowley said, “Of course we—” They both cut off and grinned at each other.

Halfway across the world, Ana said, “Am I good, or am I good?”

“Ana,” Crowley warned.

“Teasing, you old grump. Anyway, text me with how you two get on finding that lawyer. Send me pictures from the wedding. You’ll have to throw a late reception this summer when I can plan a flight over.”

The line went dead. For a few heartbeats, there was only more silence. Then Crowley took a breath and a chance. “How do you feel about next Saturday?”

 


 

Aziraphale used Crowley’s mobile to call his parents. He kept it on speakerphone (after being shown how) as it went through. His mother answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Malaika residence.”

“Mother? It’s Aziraphale and—”

“Aziraphale?” she interrupted. “This isn’t your number. What’s going on with you? We’ve been trying to reach you all day. Let me get your father!”

The phone clunked as if being placed on a table before Aziraphale could stop her. He sighed and looked at Crowley. “They never stop to listen,” he whispered.

Crowley slid closer to him on the sofa and put an arm around his waist. “This okay?”

Aziraphale nodded rapidly. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to manage this conversation, even with his friend—fiancé!—beside him.

There were a few more clunks, and then his dad came on the line. “Azira—”

“Father,” he interrupted. “Is Mother there? There’s something I need to tell the both of you.”

“Perhaps you ought to have—”

This time, Crowley cut him off. “Mr Malaika, we’re calling from this number because my mobile has a speakerphone option and we both wished to speak to the two of you.”

There were a few moments of silence, followed by a sigh. Muffled voices, then Mr Malaika said, “Your mother has gone to pick up the other line.” He waited until a second voice said hello, then continued, “I take it that we’re speaking to, ah, Crowley?”

He pronounced it to rhyme with cow. “Crow-ley,” Aziraphale corrected. “Like the bird. My fiancé, yes. This is his phone.”

“Hello,” Crowley said. The hand that wasn’t around Aziraphale’s waist gave an awkward wave despite there being no video component. Aziraphale covered his mouth so as not to giggle.

“Ms Uriel mentioned a fiancé,” his mother said. “Oh, my sweet boy, what’s happening? I don’t mean any offense, Crowley, I’m sure you’re a lovely person, but darling, this is all so sudden.”

“Foolhardy,” his dad grumbled. “Reckless. Aziraphale, I’ve been working with our solicitor to find a solution—”

“Father. Stop. I don’t need a lecture right now. Crowley and I have called to invite you to our wedding. This is not how we intended to tell you, but we knew that Ms Uriel would’ve ruined the surprise…”

He looked sideways at Crowley, who added, “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m afraid that solicitor caught us off-guard this morning.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said. “That’s why we’re calling. So I can introduce you to—”

“Introduce?” his mother shrieked. Aziraphale winced, glad the mobile was open on the table in front of him, not by his ear. “You don’t just…just…just introduce a fiancé! Who is this person? Why have we never met him?”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but Aziraphale shook his head and said, “Why would I have introduced you before now? You’ve never been interested in meeting my other partners.”

Silence fell. Crowley gave him an encouraging smile. When his parents finally spoke again, it was his father who said, “Ms Uriel is…ah…concerned about the situation.”

“I don’t see why,” Crowley said. “She doesn’t know anything about either of us, or our relationship. If she did, she’d have no reason for concern.”

“Of course she would. Aziraphale stands to inherit a valuable piece of property.”

“Another one?” Crowley turned to him and winked. “Angel, you didn’t tell me you had more property joining this one.”

Trying very hard not to let his laughter bubble out into his words, Aziraphale said, “I don’t. My father sometimes forgets that I inherited this shop over twenty years ago.”

More silence met this exchange. Aziraphale covered his mouth again, smothering mirth. Was this actually fun? How different everything felt with Crowley beside him!

“Come for dinner tomorrow,” his mother eventually said. “After church. We’ll make a whole day of it. We need to meet you properly, Crowley.”

“I’m afraid we won’t have time to travel out to Colchester right now, what with our preparations,” Aziraphale said. “That’s the other reason we’re calling. You should receive an invitation in the post, but since this is all last minute, we decided to give you advance warning. Our wedding will be on Saturday.”

“Preposterous,” Mr Malaika blustered at the same time as Mrs Malaika’s high-pitched squeak of, “This Saturday?”

“This Saturday, yes,” Crowley said. “I suppose if you came to London, we could have dinner with you here before the wedding. Depending on the day.”

Aziraphale jumped in before his parents could respond. “I’ll email you the details of when and where.”

“Son—”

“Do RSVP quickly. It will help coordinate the wedding planning and details ever so much.”

There was a crash, a clunk, and then his father’s side of the line went dead. Mrs Malaika said, “I’ll talk to him, darling boy. He’s only worried, you know. We both love you very, very much.”

She put down the phone before he could respond. The mobile beeped as the call ended. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

“Best you could hope for?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I didn’t expect much.” He leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Now we need to plan how to present this to your family.”

Notes:

If you’re reading along with my other WIP, The Regret List, you’ll know that I’m struggling to keep up with both of these stories simultaneously, especially with all the other things going on in my life atm. I’m doing my best to keep both stories posting on schedule as much as I can. Hopefully this one won’t miss a week, but if it does, I promise to return with an installment ASAP. Both stories are fully planned and outlined – it’s only that the writing and editing take time, especially since the fics are very different in vibe/tone and it takes effort to get into the right headspace as I switch from one to the other. Right now, I don’t have any skipped weeks planned and I still have a small number (as in, one) of buffer chapters on it, but I wanted to let y’all know, just in case! Especially as December is generally a pretty busy month what with Christmas, kiddos coming home, etc. I'm not going anywhere, but I might be a bit looser about my publishing schedule on both fics going forward.

Chapter 11: Symphony

Summary:

There’s a lot of work and prep needed if they’re going to be married in a week…

***
Maggie had an old pickup truck stored close by that she used for larger deliveries. As they drove, Aziraphale relayed the developments from the last day and a half, as well as his intentions for that afternoon. She was happy to help, and together, they picked up cat supplies (beds, toys, and a climbing tree), a video-monitoring system (so they could check in on the cats when no one was home), and a coffeemaker (Aziraphale argued with Crowley about whose “responsibility” this was before the man gave in and told him his preferred type). Maggie practically squealed when he told her of his last stop for the day: the jewelry shop.

Notes:

Chapter uses a workskin, but should be readable without it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They split up for Sunday, each with specific tasks to arrange. Aziraphale was mainly in charge of getting the flat ready for Crowley and the cats to move in. He also needed to fix a time, date, and location of the dinner with his parents, assuming they came. And though they’d decided that it wasn’t strictly necessary, he wanted to get Crowley a wedding band. To acquire quick money for this purchase, Aziraphale chose a mid-tier book (an early edition of Bleak House by Dickens, without a jacket cover, some slight wear and tear) from his collection and contacted his best (but least favorite) customer.

Sandalphon—not his actual name, but the moniker he insisted on going by even in person—tried to haggle with him. It wasn’t a better price he wanted, but a more valuable book than what he’d been offered. Aziraphale point-blank refused and told him that this was a one-time offer that was only available if Sandalphon brought the money that day. The older man was put out but still complied, sneering his gold-toothed smile as he gave Aziraphale a fake bow at the end of the transaction.

Good lord, he thought as he locked the bookshop back up afterwards. He would be happy to never have to work with that man again. Still, Aziraphale felt positively giddy at the accomplishment and upcoming shopping trip.

Cat-proofing the flat was more difficult. He wasn’t sure what all he needed to do, and he didn’t want to bother Crowley about it. The other man had far more tasks on his list. He didn’t need Aziraphale to prove incompetent in the one big item he was in charge of.

And Aziraphale wanted to get this right. Those two precious felines deserved a nice home. He couldn’t bear it if they got hurt because he was ignorant.

That was how he found himself on his ancient computer, wishing webpages would load faster. Maybe it was time to upgrade. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine that Crowley would be happy with the slow speeds. He wouldn’t say anything, of course; the man was too kind for complaints of that nature. But it would frustrate him, and Aziraphale had no desire to cause frustration when a solution was both simple and easily attainable.

That could wait until after the wedding, however. He couldn’t let himself be sidetracked by research into the best choices for a new computer. Right now, he needed to cat-proof his—their—flat.

After almost two hours, Aziraphale had a list that he felt was comprehensible enough to work with. If there was more that he needed to do, Crowley could inform him. He printed the list and went straight to work.

In the office, he bundled electrical cords away from the reach of curious paws and stored supplies in containers with lids. Then, he moved on to the bathroom and the kitchen, locking up cleaning supplies and tucking further electrical cords away. Some items in the bathroom had to be rearranged to make space for a litterbox. That seemed the most appropriate room for it. Aziraphale took special care when he reorganized his linens and medicine cabinet to make space for anything Crowley might bring.

In the living room, he evaluated the curtain situation, making a mental note to ask his future husband if the floor-length drape provided too much climbing access. Perhaps Portia and Viola weren’t climbers? There were long curtains in the bedroom, too…

And oh, goodness—the bedroom was so messy! Had he actually let Crowley sleep over when his things were scattered everywhere? How horribly embarrassing. And the man hadn’t said a word. What must the poor dear think of him? Aziraphale picked up the floor, then straightened the dresser and wardrobe, hoping that he had enough room for Crowley’s belongings.

He didn’t really keep a lot of breakable items around the house, so there wasn’t much more to move to higher places, but there was the matter of the books left in varying states of repair. Once he’d relocated all of the books-in-progress down into the shop where they actually belonged, into the back room he should use as a workspace (though he rarely did), the flat looked so empty. Too empty. Aziraphale evaluated and made another list. Then, he went next door.

The Small Back Room, Maggie’s music shop, closed early on Sundays. Aziraphale caught her just as she was finishing for the day—a serendipitous sign. “Good afternoon, Maggie,” he said with a wave as she locked up behind herself.

“Oh hello, Aziraphale! Where’s your fri—fiancé?”

“We’re both attending to separate tasks today. Wedding-related, as it turns out this will be happening sooner rather than later. Next weekend, in fact. I’ll get an invitation to you and Nina both soon.”

Maggie looked taken aback. “Goodness! What brought that on?”

“Could I possibly ask a favor of you, dear? And I can tell you the whole story on the way?”

Thankfully, it turned out that Maggie had a few free hours that she’d planned to wait out in the coffeeshop. Nina waved her off with a raised eyebrow at Aziraphale for the sudden wedding date (“I’ll give you the details tonight,” Maggie told her), and the two of them set out.

Maggie had an old pickup truck stored close by that she used for larger deliveries. As they drove, Aziraphale relayed the developments from the last day and a half, as well as his intentions for that afternoon. She was happy to help, and together, they picked up cat supplies (beds, toys, and a climbing tree), a video-monitoring system (so they could check in on the cats when no one was home), and a coffeemaker (Aziraphale argued with Crowley about whose “responsibility” this was before the man gave in and told him his preferred type). Maggie practically squealed when he told her of his last stop for the day: the jewelry shop. They walked in, arm-in-arm.

“How may I help you?” a sales associate asked at once.

“I’m looking for a wedding ring,” Aziraphale said.

The associate gave a titter and said, “How delightful! Do you have anything specific in mind, ma’am?”

He directed this last part toward Maggie. She and Aziraphale looked at each other and burst into laughter. “No, no,” he said. “This is my friend. She’s here to help me choose a ring. For my husband.”

“Of course! My apologies.” His face had turned bright red. “Right this way, sir, ma’am.”

Thankfully, the embarrassment kept the associate from pushing them too hard—Aziraphale got so flustered when retailers tried to persuade him—and, left to his own devices, it wasn’t hard to find the right ring. White gold, a simple band with a waving pattern down the middle that looked a bit like an undulating snake. A little inside joke in deference to how Crowley referred to his eyes.

“It’s perfect,” he said, showing Maggie.

The sales associate, sensing that he was ready to make a decision, said, “Are you sure that ring isn’t too plain? I could show you—”

“Didn’t you hear him say it was perfect?” Maggie interrupted.

“Why, of course, but—”

“There’s no need to up-sale then, is there?”

Aziraphale frowned at her. “Up-sale? I don’t even know how much this ring costs. It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay whatever the price. It’s perfect.”

Maggie and Nina both helped him to carry all his new purchases up to the flat and get them arranged. They discussed the wedding plans—Crowley had texted to say that his friend Matt did indeed have an available spot on Saturday afternoon when he could officiate—and the two women began to make arrangements so that they could attend.

Aziraphale looked around his newly-clean, newly-furnished flat, with his friends beside him, and felt more content than he had in years. For once, the deadline of his birthday didn’t loom over him as a sharp end to life-as-he-knew-it. With someone as wonderful as Crowley beside him, his world not only felt permanent, but right.

“Hey Az,” Nina said, pulling him from his thoughts. “Did your solicitor friend say how long you and Crowley needed to stay married to pull off this caper?”

There was an immediate unpleasant buzz in his belly, and he unconsciously rubbed one wrist along the hem of his waistcoat. “We haven’t asked, but I assume it needs to be a fairly long time. A few years, perhaps? He and I have yet to discuss that. I wouldn’t want to tie him to me for any longer than necessary…”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind,” Nina said with a wry smile.

Probably not, the man was such a kind soul, but Aziraphale couldn’t in good conscience force their marriage to go on for too long, no matter how comfortable it made him feel. Crowley deserved to have his years of quiet and then to find someone to love. It would be entirely selfish to keep him longer than necessary.

To that end, Aziraphale brought the subject up that evening when Crowley came by the flat for dinner. He’d put it off before, but that was also selfish, so he forced the words out. “How long do you think we need to stay married?”

Crowley startled, probably because Aziraphale had spoken too loudly in his nervousness, and made a few consonant-heavy sounds before he managed, “Oh, um, I’m not sure? What were you thinking?”

Forever, he wanted to say, but schooled his tongue. “I think… How does five years sound?” That seemed reasonable, if intolerably short.

The sad-hawk noise again. Aziraphale really needed to figure that one out!

“Or—” he began, intending to cut that “five” down to “three” when Crowley interrupted.

“I think seven might be better.”

Aziraphale stopped short. He had no idea what expression was on his face, but Crowley was staring at him almost desperately, as if scared that he would be offended. Aziraphale reached a hand out and smiled. “You think you can put up with me for seven years?”

Relief crossed Crowley’s face as he took the proffered hand, immediately replaced by an obvious attempt at casual cockiness. “Pffft. I could put up with you forever, angel.”

An ache spread out in a pulse from Aziraphale’s belly. Yearning. Oh goodness. That almost felt like desire. How inappropriate. He shook himself and said, “Well. Let’s see how the next seven years go before we revisit the idea of forever.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to lock you in with me,” Crowley said.

As if that was Aziraphale’s concern. He forced back the words he wanted to say, and instead only asked, “Would you like to stay over again tonight?”

“I will never say no to your bed, angel.”

Another pulse of yearning. Aziraphale squirmed slightly in his seat. “Consider it your bed now, too, then.”

 


 

Viola despised cat carriers. Crowley had tried several types over the years, but it didn’t matter if the carrier was hard-sided, soft, top-loading, etc. She hated all of them, and being as smart as she was, she knew he would be pulling one out before he even began to. As such, she knew how and when to hide.

A bit over a year ago, her paw had gotten temporarily stuck in the grate door of her last carrier, causing pain (for Viola), fear (for Viola and Crowley), and a lot of tears (for Crowley). After that, Crowley grew desperate and brought home a medium-sized dog crate. The cat was absurdly undersized for the crate, but she didn’t protest traveling within it. She didn’t like traveling, especially to the vet, but she no longer hid and squirmed and scratched her way out of his arms (much) when it was time to put her in the “carrier.”

The only bonus was that Portia easily fit into the same crate, so both cats could travel together.

Crowley had spent Sunday in busy work for the upcoming wedding, tracking down details like date/time, officiant, location, legalities, etc. It turned out there was a limit to how quickly you could get married in the UK, a month-long wait that frankly, they didn’t have time for in their current situation. Matt, their officiant, assured him that he had plenty of contacts and favors to cash in to get him a special license—indeed, just like in an old novel. Aziraphale was going to love that.

Now, after a full day of work—Crowley had been right to think they would be swamped at the funeral home soon—he went back to Bee’s flat without bothering to shower. He was moving his meagre possessions to Soho this evening. No point in showering when he had to lug boxes (and a ridiculous cat carrier) down several flights of stairs and then back up a spiral staircase before his manual labor was done for the night.

“Need help?” Bee asked as Crowley stacked his things in front of the sofa he’d been sleeping on.

“Just trying to make sure I don’t forget anything,” he said. He bent over and scooped up the remains of a cat toy. “I think this one has seen better days.”

Bee grabbed a wastebasket and held it in his direction. “Not with the packing. That doesn’t matter. I mean, I’m not leaving. If you miss anything, I’ll just bring it to work with me. S’not like you won’t see me, yeah?”

“I know.” Crowley stopped and took a deep breath. “Bee. Seven years. I know that I always think it will be forever, like with Nick—”

“Fuck Nick,” Bee said. “Never liked him. Never liked any of them much, Antonio. I always expected you to end up on my couch again. And I mean, you might, still? But I’m not counting on it this time. That’s why I’m asking. Can I help? Not just here. Can I go with you, help you move in? Make it a whole family thing, with as much of the family that knows so far.”

Bee was not the biggest fan of physical affection, but they allowed the hug that followed, grumbling the entire time that Crowley smelled like a dead body. “Yeah,” he said once he let go of his sibling. “I should warn him about that. And that you’re coming along. So it doesn’t surprise him.”

Crowley thought he heard Bee mutter something about Muriel under their breath as he texted a quick message to let Aziraphale know that he would be on the way soon. There was a fraught moment when the other man took a few minutes to respond to the news that Bee would join them, but when he did reply, it was only to ask if he could invite Maggie and Nina as well.

[Text from Aziraphale 😇]

Aziraphale: I can prepare a large-batch dinner for the five of us, if you like? Does Bee have any food things that I should know about?

Crowley: We cn order in, you dont have to worry abt all that

Aziraphale: My dear, your typing skills are absolutely atrocious.

Aziraphale: I will enjoy cooking for my family, if you don’t mind. It will give me something to do to keep my nerves occupied.

Crowley: ofc, np! B is a vegetarian but otherwise no allergies etc

Aziraphale: I’m sorry, my dear, but what does “ofc, np” mean?

Crowley: Whoops! I forget you’re new to th whole txt thing: “of course, no problem”

Crowley: still have to load the benltey, will msg when we’re otw

Crowley: on the way, that’s wht that means sry

Aziraphale: Funnily enough, I figured that one out easily. Perhaps my poor brain will adapt in time to your strange ways of speaking.

Crowley: one day youll. be glued to your mobilt, I swear

Aziraphale: NEVER!!!
[End]

At the end of the conversation, Crowley spent a few moments simply smiling down at the exchange. Bee kicked his calf, so he put the mobile away. “You look ridiculously besotted,” they said.

“I am,” he said with a shrug. “Well, I think this is all my stuff. Shall we round up the cats?”

Viola grumbled and clung to his jacket tighter than necessary, ears and tail both flicking, but she didn’t try to escape as Crowley set her down inside the crate. He held the door closed while Bee wrestled with a wriggling, screaming Portia (who never liked to be picked up regardless of the circumstances). She quieted down the moment Bee put her in the carrier with her sister, happy to chirp and curl up on the blanket that lined the crate tray.

“This is going to take up half the backseat,” he said with a sigh. It was the most ridiculous cat carrier ever.

“Then let’s get the boxes downstairs and try to load them up strategically first. And remember, you can always bring more with you tomorrow after work.”

“Before our announcement dinner.” Crowley still had no idea how exactly he was going to explain to his family that he was getting married on Saturday to a man he’d known for less than a week. At least he’d been able to persuade Freddie to host, and the entire family would be there. “I do hope the uproar won’t be too bad, at least not toward Aziraphale.”

Bee waited until they’d loaded the first set of boxes into the Bentley’s boot before answering. “Easy. Get there slightly later than the rest of us—I can text when everyone’s arrived—and let them all see him interact with Muriel first. You know they’ll get on like formaldehyde and a corpse.”

“S’not a bad idea. Everyone will expect me to be introducing a new boyfriend. They’re used to that. And then if they see how well he fits into the family, it’ll make more sense when I say we’re engaged.”

“Not sure it’ll make that much of a difference, but I guess every little bit counts. At least they won’t go after him if they see that he’s like Muriel.”

“Good enough for me!”

Two more trips from the flat down to the Bentley, and then there was only enough room left for the crate and passengers. Bee carried the last box on their lap as they drove to Soho. They didn’t speak. Portia yowled enough for both of them, only partly covered by the Best of Queen cassette Bee shoved into the tape deck.

“You need better music,” they said when the car stopped in front of Malaika Books.

“Do you know how hard it is to get cassettes these days?”

“Then you need to upgrade your console.”

Crowley rounded to the side of the car where Portia had finally quieted down, now that the car wasn’t moving. “That’s on the someday list.”

He hauled the crate out from the backseat, twisting it side to side to get it through the gap without jostling the cats too much. By the time he freed it, Aziraphale had joined them on the pavement. The man stared at the ludicrous cage and said, “Did you used to own a tiger?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. This would only hold a tiger cub. And even I’m not that reckless.”

Aziraphale went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “How can we help?”

Crowley suddenly noticed that Maggie and Nina had arrived as well. “Oh. Well, there isn’t much. Boxes in the backseat and in the boot. Leave the duffel bag; it stays with the car.” Aziraphale frowned at him suddenly, so Crowley spoke quickly to avoid any question or remonstration about this. “Angel, where would you like me to settle the girls? One of the rooms where I can close the door would be best. They need to get used to the scent of the place.”

“Speaking of scent,” Nina said as she passed him, eyebrow raised. “What the fuck is that cologne you’re wearing?”

“I know, I know. I’ll shower it off as soon as I get everything settled.”

“It’s fine, dear,” Aziraphale said. He had two boxes stacked in his arms, the top one hiding half his face. “The cats can go in the office or the bedroom, whichever you think will be best for them. I think I cat-proofed the rooms well enough.”

Crowley led the way into the bookshop and up the stairs. He chose the bedroom, simply because the scents there would be stronger, and opened the door for Viola and Portia. The latter streaked out at once and began to explore. The other looked up at him, thumping her tail. “All right,” he said to her. “On your own time.” He left the room to join the others, who had all trooped upstairs with various boxes now. “Anything still left in the Bentley?”

“Nah,” Bee said. “With five of us, it only took the one trip. You have almost nothing, Antonio.”

He shrugged. “Nomadic living, I guess.”

“Not anymore,” Aziraphale said, coming to interlink their arms. “I should introduce everyone! Maggie, Nina, this is Crowley’s sibling, Bee. Bee, Maggie and Nina both own shops in the area and are my closest confidants, practically my family. You three, as well as the lawyer-friend who put Crowley and me in touch, are the only people who know about this arrangement.”

“Technically a few others,” Crowley added. “The officiant, Matt, and likely his husband, too. And I think Bee found a local solicitor to help out, like Ana suggested?”

Bee nodded. “Lucine Kejora. She’s good. And she’ll be there on Saturday to make sure everything is legal when the ceremony concludes.”

“But of our friends and family,” Aziraphale continued, “you are the core group. Thank you for being in our corner. I hope you’ll stay for dinner.”

Agreements were murmured, and Aziraphale led the three guests—Crowley marveled that he no longer counted as a guest here!—to the dining table. He turned down all offers of assistance, even when Maggie tried to insist.

Crowley followed him into the kitchen. “Angel, I need to shower the morgue off me before we eat. This is not a particularly appetizing scent.”

Aziraphale looked startled, cocking his head. “I hardly noticed. You just smell a bit stronger today than on previous days. Is that not simply part of you?”

With a laugh, Crowley said, “I suppose it might as well be, given my job. But no, that’s primarily formaldehyde. I’m glad you don’t mind it, because depending on how much work I have going on, it’s going to be stronger at times.”

Aziraphale opened the larder to pull out ingredients. “Pish posh. It only reminds me of you, dear.”

He began to hum contentedly as he arranged food and dishes on the counter. Crowley ached to kiss him. Instead, he said, “I’ll come help you as soon as I’m out of the shower. And don’t tell me to stay out with the guests. I’m not a guest any longer.”

Beaming, Aziraphale said, “Quite right! I’ll put you to work as soon as you’re ready.”

“Ngk.” Crowley turned quickly to avoid spilling a sloppy grin over his face, and met Nina’s sharp gaze.

“Oi. Mortician-boy. You promised Maggie and me that you’d show us why you’re wearing those sunglasses when we came over.”

As usual, he’d completely forgotten he was wearing them. “Oh! Of course.” With a flourish, he took them off and tossed them onto the table, leaning toward the two women as Bee muttered, “Fucking wanker.” There were a few muffled sounds of surprise, and Crowley grinned. “I look too much like I have snake eyes to go around in public like this. Mostly people just lose their heads, or try to get in my face to get a better look, but I once had a man accuse me of being a witch when I was younger.”

Bee began to laugh. “I remember that! We were out with Mary, right? And what was that he asked you, something about nipples?”

“What the fuck?” Nina said.

Crowley pointed to her. “Exactly. How many times do you need to get asked the number of nipples you have before you start wearing sunglasses in public?” He gave a dramatic shrug. “Anyway, I need to shower before dinner. Bee can explain about colobomas; they have them too.”

Both women looked over at his sibling, who glared at him. He waved and sauntered over to the temperamental shower that was now his. His! How much life had changed in the last week!

 


 

Aziraphale wanted to ask about the duffel bag, but refrained throughout dinner and the after-dinner drinks. The question soured, unanswered and gnawing in the pit of his stomach, for so long that he couldn’t bring himself to ask even after the guests were gone. They cleaned up the flat together, Crowley humming some bebop that Aziraphale didn’t recognize.

“When should we let the cats out?” Aziraphale asked once they were done.

“Let me check how they’re doing,” Crowley said. He approached the bedroom door and cautiously opened it. Portia shot out as if she’d been waiting for the first opportunity. “I guess she’s ready to explore more thoroughly!”

He flipped on the light and stepped into the room. Aziraphale followed. Viola was curled up on top of his pillow.

“Told you that she likes you,” Crowley said with a cocky grin. “You feline traitor,” he said to the black cat, moving to the bed to pet her. “You’re supposed to be on my pillow.”

Viola ignored him completely.

It was a brief distraction, allowing Aziraphale to reach an internal equilibrium as they got ready for bed and settled under the blankets in the dark. Crowley reached around him at once, rather than waiting for his sleeping body to do so, and Aziraphale held him close. He didn’t feel even slightly itchy, but his nerves were still fraught and tense. That must have manifested in his body, because Crowley suddenly sat up. “What’s wrong, angel? Is it the cats? Do you want me to make sure they stay out of the bedroom at night?”

“What? No, not at all. Let them wander tonight. If it proves too much trouble, we can shut the door tomorrow.” He bit his lip, then decided to be brave. “The bag in your car—that’s the one you told me about, isn’t it? The one with a change of clothes and some essentials?”

It took a moment for Crowley to answer. He sighed and said, “My go-bag, yes.”

“I understand why you want to keep one. We still haven’t spent enough time together to know if you’ll want to get away from me one night. Only, I wanted—”

“Shhh.” A finger touched his lips. “Hey. ‘Ziraphale. That’s not why it’s in my car. Not why I’m, ngh, keeping it there. It’s… This is an old fear. I know you aren’t going to kick me out. I know you’re not like the others. But I need to keep the bag there for now, to feel safe. It’s not about you, though. I promise.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and a tear spilled from the corner of one eye. He pulled the man down against him again. “I hope in time that you can feel safe here. Not just with me, but generally. But I understand. It takes time. I needed to tell you, though. I will never force you to use that bag. If you choose to for your own reasons, I won’t try to stop you, but I will never lock you out of your home. Family doesn’t do that, and you’re my family now.”

This time, he couldn’t classify the sound that tumbled out of Crowley’s mouth. There were too many notes to give it a singular name, too many emotions to pick apart and identify. It sounded of relief and disbelief and hope and yearning. Pain and glory combined. It was a sound that Aziraphale immediately wanted to swallow and consume and make a part of his soul. Like music, he thought, and decided at once that he would call it symphony. As he pulled Crowley closer to him under the blanket, he prayed that one day, he would hear such a special cry again.

Notes:

The interesting things you learn while researching fiction! So it turns out that in the UK, you need about a month’s notice to get legally married. There are a few exceptions to the rule (like it’s unlikely one party will live out that month). You can get a special license, but it takes dispensation from a high clergy member and it sounds like it’s difficult to get, at least according to web sources. When I originally wrote that they’d be marrying in a week, I guess I was thinking more along US lines, where the license delay is something like three days (and where you can literally get that time waived just by having a sympathetic clerk). So let’s all just pretend that Crowley knows people who know people, and they get it all done legally without too much worry about the actual rules. Heh.

Being based on my cat Ash, Viola’s hatred of cat carriers is the same. I did have to take Ash around in a medium-sized dog crate in order to prevent accidental injury to both human and feline, up until he was too sick with cancer and accepted a soft-sided carrier. Here’s a photo of three of my cats (Ash, Gavroche, and Nimi) traveling via crate on a cross-country move. Now imagine taking a single cat to the vet in this giant thing. Ha!

Kejora = Venus (morning star) in Indonesian. According to web sources, anyway. *hint, hint* There's also another minor character making an appearance from one of my other fave fics!

Special thanks in this chapter to beerok23, who took my messy cat-proofing section and made it flow. 💕

Chapter 12: Meet the In-laws

Summary:

Crowley takes Aziraphale to meet his family and announce their upcoming wedding.

***
“Believe me. You’re perfect. No, you’re right.” Crowley leaned in, grin growing wicked and sharp. “Or as we say in this family, dead right.” He stood up straight again, and now he looked every bit as goofy as the joke had been. “Get it? Because we run a funeral home?”

“Of course I get it, you silly man,” Aziraphale said through giggles. He didn’t know if he was laughing at the joke or at Crowley’s ridiculous self-satisfaction. Either way, he didn’t fight the instinct to put his arms around his friend—fiancé!—and pull him into an embrace.

Notes:

I am ridiculously excited about this chapter and have been looking forward to writing and sharing it since I first began drafting notes on this WIP in September. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was more nervous about meeting his future in-laws than he had been before the original pub meet with Crowley. He could usually handle one-on-one meetings well enough. Sure, he might blurt out stupid questions about autopsies or accidentally announce nuptials that had yet to be decided on, but at least he could speak. In a group, his tongue was more likely to turn off altogether, making him look like a scared, wide-eyed rabbit.

And this was a large group. Crowley said everyone would be there. All nine family members plus Aziraphale. And seven of those nine would be strangers. Strangers who were probably going to hate him for stealing Crowley away from them in this unconventional way.

“You’re going to be fine,” Crowley said. “I promise. They might be confused and upset at first, but they will love you. Just let me handle the introductions and when we announce the wedding. They’ll all think you’re my new boyfriend at first. They’re used to me going from one to the next quickly. It’s expected.”

Aziraphale took his hand. He would do his best to make sure Crowley didn’t have to go through that negative cycle any longer. Once the requisite years were over, Crowley could take as long as he wanted to find a safe, stable, wonderful relationship before the divorce was finalized.

The two of them sat in the Bentley several blocks away from Freddie’s house, waiting for Bee’s signal. (“Since all three of us have spy names, we might as well take advantage!” Crowley had said, trying to make Aziraphale laugh. He’d only managed a weak chuckle.)

“Will you remind me again of everyone’s names?” he asked, not for the first time. Though he knew them, he was terrified that he would forget as soon as he walked through the front door.

Crowley pulled out his mobile and opened the photo folder he’d created for this purpose. He ran through the family calmly, showing pictures for each name. “Mum, who likes to be called Tracy by her children’s friends. Freddie, the oldest. His wife, Gemma. Their boys, Austin and Johnny.”

“Ages eleven and nine, correct?”

“Exactly.” Crowley nodded and grinned at him. “Then Mary, and you know both me and Bee, and Muriel, who may or may not have their cat, Mary Meowgdalene, with them tonight.”

“A cat?” This was new information. “You didn’t mention a cat before. Why does she share your sister’s name?”

“Not a clue. I never thought to ask. But Mary Meowgdalene gets called by her full name so there’s never any confusion.”

Crowley shrugged, giving him that sharp-toothed grin, and Aziraphale felt himself relax a little. A cat. If nothing else, he might pet another cat tonight. “Do you have any photos of—”

A ding on Crowley’s mobile interrupted. “That’s Bee. Everyone’s in place. Are you ready?”

“No,” he said, “but I doubt I’ll ever be, so let’s get it over with.”

“Aww, angel. Hey.” Crowley reached out toward him, then seemed to think better of it and withdrew. “They’re going to love you. I promise.”

Aziraphale wanted to know how Crowley had almost touched him. He swallowed the question and nodded. “Stay close, please? Hold my hand? When we get there, of course. Not while you’re driving.”

“Won’t leave your side unless you say it’s okay.”

Freddie’s house was a terraced two-story place on a tree-lined street in Stratford. Crowley squeezed his hand as they approached the door and knocked in a rhythm that Aziraphale vaguely recognized. “What was that?” he whispered.

“It’s from ‘Under Pressure.’ Queen and Bowie. Freddie Mercury is Freddie’s namesake.” He snickered. “Honestly, I could just open the door, but I do this to annoy him.”

Aziraphale was about to say that annoying the host was probably not the best way to start tonight’s introductions when the door swung open. Bee grinned at them both, as sharp as Crowley’s grin ever got. It looked even more wicked on them, and Aziraphale was glad he’d already met them and won their approval.

“Told you!” Bee shouted over their shoulder, then winked at the two of them. “He brought a new boyfriend!”

“Oh, fucking fuck,” Crowley muttered as Bee laughed and trotted away down the hall, leaving them to take off and hang their own coats. “Come. Quickly.”

Alarmed, Aziraphale let Crowley drag him through a doorway into a room filled with people. It appeared to be a combination of kitchen, dining, and living room area. Every wall was painted in pale lemon yellow. A mix of art prints, framed photographs, and children’s drawings hung on them. A large table that was far too big for the space separated kitchen appliances from sofas, and most of the seating around the table consisted of benches and folding chairs. All of Crowley’s family gathered there, most standing, a few already sprawled in place.

Bee was leaning over the table toward Mary, pointing. “Pay up! I told you it was time for him to get a new boyfriend.”

As Mary fidgeted with her purse, clearly hesitant to actually pay out on whatever bet they’d made, Crowley groaned. He grabbed Bee’s collar and pulled them away from their sister. “Mary, don’t listen to them. They already knew he was coming. Not a fair wager.”

“Bee!” Mary said. She didn’t look up from the table, but her face scrunched in consternation.

“You fucker,” Bee said, swatting Crowley’s arm.

“Language,” someone said, though Aziraphale was too overwhelmed by now to tell whose mouth it came from.

Mary raised her hand. “I want an apology!”

Fuck, no,” Bee said, clearly ignoring the admonishment about language, but the refusal could barely be heard anyway over the sudden cacophony that was the two young boys jumping around the table, fists in the air, yelling, “Apology! Apology!”

Aziraphale was going to die. He was either going to faint right onto the floor—or into Crowley’s arms, if he was lucky and the man’s reflexes were good—or he was going to run right back out the front door into the blissfully silent evening. What had he gotten himself into? Crowley had told him that his family was loud, but this was…

The children’s chanting cut off suddenly as their mother appeared between them, one hand clamped over each of their mouths. “Boys. We have a guest. Perhaps we don’t need to scare him away within five minutes of his arrival?” She looked at Aziraphale then and smiled. “I’m Gemma. Freddie’s wife and mother to these two monsters. I’d offer to shake your hand, but…” She shrugged to indicate where both hands were still lightly covering the boys’ mouths.

The silence that had fallen in the wake of the boys’ shushing felt almost louder than their yells. Every eye was on him. No. Almost every eye. Mary stared at the wall to his left.

Freddie stepped forward and put his hand out. “I’m Freddie. I assume Antonio warned you about all of us.”

Aziraphale shook his hand and managed to find his voice. “Y-yes. Well, no, not warned, only told, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, it was definitely a warning, angel,” Crowley said, smiling at him in a way that calmed Aziraphale’s nerves. He turned to his family. “Though I didn’t expect quite so much upheaval on arrival. Mostly I expected giant hugs from my nephews, but I guess they’re too busy being little ars—”

“Language!” three people shouted in unison, making Crowley grin.

The boys wriggled out from where they stood with Gemma and ran over to hug him. Crowley gathered them up together, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand momentarily to lift them both off the ground at the same time. They squawked at the unexpected crush, yelling to put them down. When he complied, the shorter one ran off to the living area and hopped onto one of the sofas, a video game console of some sort miraculously in his hands. The taller one looked up at Aziraphale.

“What’s your name?”

Embarrassed that he could no longer remember which boy was which, he could barely get the words past his lips. “I’m Aziraphale Malaika. What’s yours?”

“Austin!” he shouted, then ran to join his brother.

“Aziraphale Malaika,” someone murmured, and for the first time, Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s mother sitting at the table. She had been almost hidden behind where Bee stood. It was a relief to identify her, given her many different looks. Today, her hair was strawberry blond and loose under a beanie, contrasting nicely with her black turtleneck. “That sounds familiar somehow.”

Before he could explain about his namesake, Mary said, “Malaika. Angel. Swahili, but similar to other languages. Turkish, Indonesian and Malay, Hausa, Azerbaijani, and Arabic and Hebrew of course, since you’re Aziraphale. Like Israfil. Archangel, Islamic tradition. He blows the trumpet on the Day of Judgement.” Her gaze moved from the wall to the table near where Aziraphale stood. “Do you play the trumpet?”

For the first time all evening, Aziraphale felt like he was on solid ground. The recitation of facts calmed him. He smiled at her, even if she wasn’t quite looking at him and might not see it. “I’m afraid my parents wanted me to learn how to play the piano, and I proved to be a poor student. I don’t believe I’ve ever even held a trumpet.”

Mary grinned at the table. “We shouldn’t put one in your hands, then. You might start Armageddon by accident.”

Aziraphale laughed and said, “Quite right. You’d probably wish for Armageddon if you heard me play, anyway. Dreadful, I tell you.”

Laughing as well, Mary darted a quick look at his face and averted her eyes again. “I’m Mary.”

She held out a hand. As he shook it, he noticed that her fingernails were designed with detailed purple flowers. “Nice to meet you, Mary. Your nails are beautiful. Did you paint them?”

“No, I did!” came another voice, and Aziraphale looked up to see Muriel enter from a doorway at the back of the kitchen. “I love doing nail art. Sorry not to be here when you came in; I had to get Mary Meowgdalene squared away. I heard the whole conversation though. You’re Antonio’s new boyfriend? I’m his baby sibling, Muriel Lucas!”

Rather than shake hands, they waved from the other side of the table, where they’d stopped next to their mother. Aziraphale returned the wave. He hadn’t realized that Crowley wasn’t their family name. He’d just assumed they’d all taken their mother’s name instead of the various fathers’ names. Especially since everyone called him Antonio instead of Crowley. If they were all Crowleys, that would get confusing.

“I did Mary’s nails this afternoon. They’re violets. I’m trying to learn different flowers.”

“They’re so intricate. I can’t imagine how you manage in such a small space.”

Muriel’s face lit up. “I can do yours sometimes, if you want!”

Bee snorted, but Aziraphale was delighted by the offer. “Oh yes, please!” He realized suddenly that he was neglecting the rest of the family. And that everyone was still staring at him. Feeling unsure all of a sudden, he looked over at Crowley. The man was smiling at him tenderly, and squeezed his hand again.

“How did you two meet?” Bee asked.

That must’ve been a preplanned inquiry. Crowley spoke before Aziraphale could give his practiced speech. Probably a good thing, considering how well it had gone over with Ms Uriel…

“Uni, so it was ages ago. You remember Ana, my American friend? She introduced us. We lost touch after school but recently ran into each other again. In that godawful pub across from your bookshop—what’s it called again, angel?”

He knew. Of course he knew. The lies were so smooth, hidden inside the truth of his words. “The Dirty Donkey. Dreadful place. Don’t know why I ever bother to go in there.”

Crowley let go of his hand and put an arm around him instead. Aziraphale couldn’t look away from the besotted expression on his face. He was so very good at acting! “Whirlwind romance,” Crowley said, the words so quiet they could have been for Aziraphale alone. He leaned in, raising an eyebrow subtly to ask, and Aziraphale followed his lead. Their lips met, and he closed his eyes, wanting to forget they had an audience, wanting to just feel—

“No kissing!” the two boys yelled in unison, then cracked up laughing when Aziraphale jumped guiltily away from Crowley.

Crowley turned sassy eyes on his nephews. “One day, I’m going to do that to whoever you bring home.”

“So, you have a bookshop?”

Aziraphale turned and barely managed not to jump. Crowley’s mother had stood and circled the table, now standing right in front of them. She peered at him, and while her face was perfectly pleasant, her eyes were sharp and evaluating. He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. Inherited from my grandfather. It’s a family business, specializing in restoration and the sale of rare and valuable books.”

“Oh, please call me Tracy. None of that ma’am stuff. Makes me feel old.” She glanced at Crowley, then returned those penetrating eyes to Aziraphale. “Ours is a family business, too. I assume Antonio has mentioned it?”

“Of course. He told me a little about everyone’s parts in it, too.”

“And it doesn’t put you off, dating someone who works on dead bodies?”

Aziraphale darted a helpless look at Crowley. He didn’t quite understand what she was asking. “Should it?” Another look at his fiancé. “He says he enjoys his job. And that’s…good?”

Tracy’s smile suddenly grew more sincere. She patted Aziraphale’s cheek. “Yes. It’s good.” She abruptly turned away, clapping her hands thrice over her head. “Alright, kids. Enough dilly-dallying. Let’s eat!”

The boys abandoned their video games and ran toward the kitchen counter, where Gemma and Freddie had laid out platters and serving dishes. The adults followed, all except Mary, and Aziraphale stopped Crowley from moving that direction. He needed to check in. That last conversation had thrown him far off balance.

“Angel?” Crowley said, then seemed to notice his worry. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Hey. You’re doing well, alright? Better than anyone else I’ve brought home. Mum already likes you, and you didn’t act weird with Mary.”

“Why would I be weird with—” He stopped, not wanting to say her name while she was sitting right there, even in whisper. “She was the easiest person here to talk to. Made me feel calm.”

Crowley shook his head, not in negation, but as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. “I swear, angel. You have no idea how perfect you are. You fit into this family like you’ve always been here.”

“I don’t know about that,” Aziraphale demurred, but Crowley stopped him with a hand on his cheek.

“Believe me. You’re perfect. No, you’re right.” He leaned in, grin growing wicked and sharp. “Or as we say in this family, dead right.” Crowley stood up straight again, and now he looked every bit as goofy as the joke had been. “Get it? Because we run a funeral home?”

“Of course I get it, you silly man,” Aziraphale said through giggles. He didn’t know if he was laughing at the joke or at Crowley’s ridiculous self-satisfaction. Either way, he didn’t fight the instinct to put his arms around his friend—fiancé!—and pull him into an embrace.

 


 

Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully through dinner. Because Muriel had sensory issues that Freddie was careful about, the food shouldn’t trigger any of Aziraphale’s sensitivities, especially as there were a range of choices to pick from.

So far, all had gone well. Early during the meal, Aziraphale had somehow gotten into a conversation with Muriel, who was on his other side, about the color of the walls. (“Such a beautiful yellow,” he’d said, to which they’d responded, “So bright, yes! That’s what my last name means. Shining bright!” “How delightful!”) Just like Bee had predicted, they got on like formaldehyde and a corpse.

Bee, however, kept kicking Crowley’s foot and muttering, “When are you going to tell them?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he hissed at them, hiding behind his wine glass. “Soon. Let us get through dinner first, okay?”

“If you chicken out…”

Crowley was waiting for the perfect moment. Surely, there would be a time when announcing your upcoming wedding—less than a week away—would go down a little better than mid-dessert? Maybe once everyone was done eating, but they hadn’t yet put their dishes away?

“Would you like to meet my cat?” Muriel asked Aziraphale the moment he finished his final bite. “She has to stay in the back room, else she’ll jump up on the counter and try to eat some of Freddie’s yummy cooking.”

So much for that plan. Aziraphale agreed enthusiastically, and the others took this as a cue to leave the table quicker than usual. Crowley followed their lead, volunteering to clear Aziraphale’s plate for him (“Oh, thank you, my dear!”), and entered the chaos that was post-dinner cleaning at his brother’s house.

“Let me take those,” Gemma said. When Crowley tried to protest, she added, “You have a special guest today. Go on.”

She spun him around one-handed and pushed him in the direction of the back room. Muriel had left the door open now that dinner was over. Crowley stopped on the threshold, mesmerized by what he saw. Both Muriel and Aziraphale knelt on the ground, sitting on their heels, as Mary Meowgdalene—a grey Maine coon mix—sprawled on her back between them. She batted at Aziraphale’s fingers lazily. Crowley couldn’t hear what the two were saying, but they were clearly enthusiastic, beaming and interrupting each other, Muriel bouncing up and down, Aziraphale nodding fervently.

“He’s not like other men you’ve dated,” Freddie said quietly from behind him.

Crowley looked over his shoulder at his brother. He could see Bee glaring at him from further in the kitchen. “No, he’s not.”

“You met at university?”

“Briefly. I wish I’d gotten to know him better then. Might’ve saved me years of heartache.” There wasn’t ever going to be a right time, was there? Crowley looked back at Muriel and Aziraphale. They were slow-blinking at each other. Muriel was obviously teaching him this cat trick. Crowley bit his lip to keep from grinning, then wondered why he was holding back. He let his full smile unfurl. “I’m going to marry him, Freddie.”

His brother laughed. “Always so optimistic, Antonio.”

Crowley looked to Bee, who raised an eyebrow. They were clearly listening for him to tell the truth. “Not optimism this time. The wedding is set for Saturday.”

The next few minutes seemed to happen in slow motion. The kitchen-chaos ground to a halt as whispers filtered through to the other members of the family. Crowley still stood in the door frame, and all eyes slowly turned to him, each face a different mixture of skepticism, confusion, and alarm. Even Mary managed to look at him for a few seconds. The spotlight of so many gazes caused Crowley to feel very hot. He didn’t often experience this level of anxiety, but…

“Uncle Antonio!” Johnny yelled. “Are you really getting married or is that a big joke?”

“Johnny,” Gemma chided.

Crowley couldn’t speak. He made some kind of sound—part of his brain wondered how Aziraphale would describe it—but words wouldn’t come.

Then there was a hand on his back, and a soft, calm voice from beside him said, “Not a joke, no. We are indeed getting married.”

“Saturday?” Bee asked, overly loud. They knew the answer, of course, but this made the situation very clear for everyone else.

Somehow, Crowley found his voice. “Yes. Saturday. This next Saturday.”

Chaos erupted again. A myriad of questions were thrown at the two of them, and no one waited for answers. Why so quickly? How long had they been dating again? Why was this the first time everyone was meeting Aziraphale? Did this have something to do with Nick?

Crowley held up both hands, trying to calm the onslaught. If he was overwhelmed, he could only imagine how his fiancé was faring. Aziraphale still had one hand on his back, though, firm and solid, strengthening him. “Maybe…give us a chance to speak?”

His mum stepped forward, drawing all eyes to her instead. She approached Crowley, looking deep into his eyes. Everyone else fell silent. Long minutes of scrutiny passed, and then she said, “Are you happy, Antonio?”

“Nghn. I am.” Beyond happy, he wanted to say, and then decided, why not? “Beyond happy.”

She nodded. “And you, Aziraphale Malaika?” she asked, looking at him. “Are you happy?”

“More than I ever knew it was possible to be.” The words were quiet but firm.

With a step back, she said, “I’ve been through enough whirlwind romances to know how they feel. I know the draw toward forever and how very easy it is to get sucked in that direction. And everyone in this room knows how often forever failed me. Or how often I failed it. Antonio, I will never judge you or anyone else for rash decisions in love. I won’t say this doesn’t worry me, because I have been where you stand and the end is often painful. But I also know that you’ve had plenty of opportunities for rash decisions in the past, and haven’t acted on them. I trust you to know your heart. And I will love you no matter how many stupid choices you make.”

She smiled at him, and Crowley grinned back. “This one isn’t a stupid choice. I promise.”

After a pat to his cheek, she turned to Aziraphale. “If you were anyone else, I’d have a stern warning for you not to hurt my child. But I’ve watched you for the last couple hours, and I don’t believe you would intentionally hurt him. So instead, I’ll warn you to be careful with him. Antonio deserves far more than he’s ever received from partners in the past—”

“Mum,” Crowley protested with a groan. She ignored him.

“—and it’s very easy to break his heart. He trusts so readily. Please respect that, and be worthy of that trust.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, embarrassed, but the look on the other man’s face was solemn. “Yes,” he said with a single nod. “I will.” He took Crowley’s hand and squeezed it.

“Right then.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone? Let’s finish cleaning up from dinner, and then Antonio and Aziraphale can give us all the wedding details!”

 


 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he’d managed to stay grounded during the confrontation. Something about seeing Crowley in distress had dampened all his own physical reactions to conflict. And really, other than a few questions, everything had been fine. Tracy had welcomed him, even if she believed the marriage to be foolhardy. Her acceptance was lovely, but also guilt-inducing. He wished they could tell her the truth. No, he had no desire to hurt her son, but they were not marrying for love the way she believed, either.

He kept his mouth shut. Crowley was his friend. Crowley was a man he was coming to love already, even if it wasn’t in the way that “marriage” implied. He would do everything he could to be polite, respectful, caring, kind, and nurturing. He would be especially careful not to cross the lines that they’d laid out as part of their agreement.

It didn’t take long until the kitchen clean-up was finished and the family migrated to the sofa area, some dragging chairs from the dining table over, others sitting directly on the floor. Aziraphale thought he ought to join in on the floor, but Crowley pushed him into the corner of one couch. He then proceeded to grab a pillow and sit on the floor in front of Aziraphale, head resting on one knee. If Aziraphale understood correctly, this was an ask. He gently traced the spot where hair met temple. Crowley’s eyes closed with a soft, contented whine.

The peaceful moment was broken almost immediately, though, as Mary raised her hand and said, “Antonio, it was very rude of you to announce your wedding like this. Make us rush around. There’s going to be so much to get ready—”

Crowley waved one arm, then let it drop limply to his lap. “Nah. Simple wedding. Just family and a few friends. Matt’s gonna officiate. We don’t need more.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary said, crossing her arms. “We’re going to throw you a reception afterwards, at the very least. There’s going to be cake and dancing and champagne, and we all need to figure out how to make sure we can be where we need to be, and get new clothes and hair appointments, and Muriel will want to do your nails, and—”

“Mary,” Crowley began, but the protest was weak. Several family members shushed him.

“You owe us an apology. That’s the least you can do.”

The two boys sat up straight, eyes gleaming. Their mother preemptively put her finger to her lips to warn them. Crowley also sat up straight. “No.”

Aziraphale didn’t understand. “Why not? We’re sorry. You’re right, this is ever so rude of us.”

“That’s not what she’s asking for, angel. No, Mary. Out of the question.”

Mary tapped her foot impatiently. “Antonio.” She turned abruptly in Bee’s direction. “And you! Trying to trick me out of twenty pounds. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Bee groaned. They looked at Crowley as the boys took up the same chant from earlier. Before Gemma could silence them, Muriel joined in, banging fists on their knees and laughing.

“What is this all about?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep the words quiet enough that only Crowley could hear them.

He flopped his head back to look up at Aziraphale. “She’s gonna make us dance.”

“Just get it over with, you two,” Freddie said.

Still groaning, Bee stood and offered a hand to Crowley, who accepted it and got to his feet with an almost identical noise. Everyone began to clap as they moved to the center of the room. With a look at each other, they began to dance and chant in unison. “You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right.”

The dance ended with a bow in Mary’s direction. She regarded them as they stayed low, waiting. Then she nodded. “Very well. I accept your apologies.”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale with an eye roll, his face red. “Mum made us do it as kids when we fought. Used to make us laugh. Now it’s just humiliating.”

But Aziraphale was delighted. What a charming thing! He’d never had anything like this with his own family. He stood, squeezing out in front of Crowley, and said, “I think it’s unfair that Crowley had to apologize, but I did not.” Several voices protested, but he ignored them all. To the best of his ability, he mimicked the dance and chant, giggling the whole time. Applause and several whoops, likely from the boys, followed this.

Aziraphale looked around. He saw Bee’s expression first, astonished and delighted, and then his eyes met Crowley’s. It was like a lightning bolt shot through him, burning him up from inside. He was frozen, enchanted, as Crowley stood and joined him in the center of the room. Crowley rested his forehead on his and said, “Didn’t know you could dance, angel.”

“I can’t, clearly. But it was ever so much fun to try.”

Crowley kissed him then, without warning, and it caught Aziraphale so off-guard that he melted into the embrace without thinking about the potential consequences. Their tongues met in a tangle of endorphins, and Crowley pulled their bodies close.

“Stooooooop!” yelled one of the boys, as the other cried, “How many times do we have to tell you? No kissing!

Crowley pulled away, but kept their foreheads pressed together. To the boys, he said, “Whoops. Sorry, I forgot!” He grinned at Aziraphale. The next words were a whisper. “Thank you for joining my family. Not just for being here, not just the marriage thing. For, you know, really being a part of them. Of all this.”

“You can’t thank me for a gift you’ve given me.”

Ignoring his nephews, Crowley leaned in and kissed him again, not stopping until the boys began to whack them with pillows in protest.

Notes:

Y’all. I need to say a couple things here. First off, this may be my favorite chapter I’ve ever written in any of my fanfics ever. (Yes, I wrote “ever” twice. I’m THAT emphatic about this.) (I’m also well aware that I’ve said that about multiple chapters from the last year-plus of writing. *puts on Azi voice* Hush, you.) Writing Crowley’s silly little family has been absolutely the best. They came out exactly as I wanted them to, just letting them interact organically. I’m usually *terrible* at writing group scenes, but this one essentially wrote itself. You’ll have to wait and see how I’m gonna dig myself out of the grave I put myself in there at the end, ha!

Second, there are certain canon things that are very difficult to work into human AUs. Why tf does Crowley yell at his plants, for instance? How can I make that into something that happens naturally in a real-world story? Or should I simply let go of that little tidbit of characterization? One thing I’ve never been able to bring into a human-AU story until now is the apology dance. The sheer joy of discovering a way to make it not only possible, but believable, made this whole chapter for me.

Little notes: 1. Freddie’s house is based on a current real-estate listing in Stratford. (Side note: London is ridiculously expensive.) 2. Freddie is both a nod to Mr Mercury and inspired from another non-GO source. There’s a reason he’s the funeral director. Cookies 🍪🍪🍪 to anyone who catches the reference! 3. Long time readers will recognize Mary Meowgdalene! 4. Credit goes to scullyphile for the slow-blinking scene! Thank you sooooo much for that idea, it was perfect!

I am taking a break for the next two weeks to get caught up on both my WIPs and with life stuff – gotta hang out with the family sometime, right? So I’ll see y’all in January with a new update to this fic, and in the meantime, I hope this was a delightful note to pause on!

Chapter 13: The Accident

Summary:

After meeting Crowley’s family, a few unexpected surprises interrupt domestic bliss.

***
“I’m not safe to be around right now,” Aziraphale said before Crowley could answer his previous question.

“I work with dangerous chemicals almost daily.” Crowley’s arm tightened around him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Notes:

First: Happy New Year! I hope you all made it through the holidays unscathed and will join me here on the other side!

Second: My friends, I’m sorry to do this, but this will be a slightly darker chapter than the fluff this story usually provides. I promise that I will carry these two through carefully and they are still going to work toward their perfect happy ending. This is not relationship angst as they continue to take care of each other, and I have very purposely tried to keep all the darker stuff limited to this one chapter.

<— click here for potential trigger warnings for this chapter (which contain chapter spoilers)

TWs: narrowly avoided car accident, PTSD flashback with sensory overload and loss of reality, minor injury (scraped palm), minor unintentional self-harm (fingernails digging into skin, used as an attempt at soothing/grounding), night terror with description of a nightmare involving a corpse with blood and injuries, bribery, nasty things said about both Crowley and his mother

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Crowley’s nerves were on fire, every part of him alight. Everything about the meeting with his family had gone right. Far better than he could have imagined. Before he’d even gotten into the Bentley at the end of the night, he’d received texts from Mary, Freddie, and his mother, each of them positive. Muriel hadn’t texted him, but they had sent a message to Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale… God. The man fit in so well, even better than Crowley had hoped. If he wasn’t already sure he’d been in love, that dance would have tipped him over the edge. Aziraphale’s face was practically beatific as he attempted to join in on their stupid family tradition, one that Crowley had wished for decades would die out. Now, he never wanted it to go away. He would apologize like that every time in his marriage, if for no other reason than to make his husband smile. And if they could kiss like that afterwards each time…

Those kisses. Those lips! The taste of him—pure ambrosia. Crowley had kissed plenty of men in his life, but there had never been anything like this. He wanted to drown in the man’s embrace, hold him forever. And somehow, after tonight, he didn’t think Aziraphale would object.

He couldn’t be imagining it, could he? Aziraphale had kissed him back just as enthusiastically. It couldn’t be a ruse. He had to be feeling something, too. As soon as they reached their flat, Crowley was going to ask. He was going to sweep his fiancé up into an embrace and ask if he could kiss him, no eyes on them, no reason to act. Maybe it was too early or too hasty or too something, but Crowley couldn’t shake the image of those blue eyes staring into his, burning with love and joy.

 


 

The text from Muriel said, ‘I’m so glad you and Antonio found each other again. You’re the best new brother I could ever hope for! Mary Meowgdalene says she misses you already!’

A tiny reminder that the whole night had been real. There really had been a big, boisterous, loud, chaotic family, one that had brought him into their fold rather than shutting him out or sending him running. Aziraphale had been so worried, so afraid, but Crowley had been right. Of course he had. The man always seemed to know exactly what was right for Aziraphale, from the correct touches to the perfect way to kiss.

And oh, those kisses. Aziraphale had never kissed anyone like that! Definitely not in front of other people—children, in fact! He’d lost all sense of propriety, and yet, no one truly seemed to mind. Everyone had been genuinely happy for the two of them. Even Tracy’s warnings had come over stern but loving.

That was when the worry set in. Crowley, as usual while driving, had gone silent and lost in his own thoughts. Aziraphale didn’t want to interrupt, and now he began to question if he’d taken things too far. Got caught up in the tide of euphoria that came from a family accepting him as-is. From belonging.

Falling in love with a family was a lot like falling in love with cats—it held no romance. One didn’t fall instantly in love on a romantic level, or at least, Aziraphale didn’t. His love for Crowley, which had developed almost as spontaneously, was no different from that for his family or his cats.

It was harder, however, to separate that love from the romantic love they were meant to pretend and portray. Aziraphale understood a little better now why the man thought kissing was dangerous. He himself might not be prone to obsessive, sweeping infatuation, but he did struggle not to confuse the nature of their love. It was impossible to have a romantic love this quickly, and yet it felt romantic. Perhaps it would be a good idea to talk when they returned home.

He was concentrating so hard on what he might say to Crowley—he would need to phrase this in a way that wouldn’t sound like blame or displeasure—that he didn’t register the approaching headlights.

 


 

They were halfway back to the bookshop when another driver careened through a red light, heading right toward them. Crowley’s focus went into slow motion as his foot slammed on the brake. He didn’t bother with the horn, but swerved them into a dangerous arc, praying that they didn’t hit anyone or anything else.

Shit shit shit shit shit!” The Bentley screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection. The other car hadn’t seemed to notice the near-collision, continuing on without even a pause. “Fuck!”

Every sense on high alert, Crowley took stock of the situation. All the lights were too bright; Aziraphale’s panicked gasping too loud; his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. He forced his breathing to slow as he made sure they weren’t about to be hit by other cars entering the intersection. There were only a few others nearby, but they’d all pulled to a stop.

“Right,” he said, half to himself, half to his companion. “We’re okay. Let’s get out of the intersection. We’re okay. We’re okay.”

His heartrate began to slow as he steered the Bentley back toward the proper lane.

“Fuuuuck,” he whined as time returned to normal speed, along with his car. Every nerve in his body was jittery, as if he’d drunk several of Nina’s Deaths in rapid succession.

“Pull over.”

The words were quiet but firm, and caused Crowley to flinch. He glanced at Aziraphale, who was hunched into a ball in the passenger seat. “We’re okay, angel. I saw him in time.”

“Pull over. Please.”

 


 

Headlights. Distant horns. The screech of brakes. Screaming. Glass shattering. Metal splintering.

Crowley swore, and the world spun. Aziraphale’s fingernails bit into the skin of his thighs through his trousers. His head hit the passenger side window lightly as the car came to an abrupt stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his body tense as he waited for impact.

Only there was no impact. The Bentley began to move again, righting itself in the lane and moving slowly away from the intersection.

Aziraphale opened one eye. They were driving again. As if nothing had happened. And what had happened? He’d heard the screams, the glass, the splintering metal, but the car was perfectly intact. Had someone else collided? Were they…were they fleeing the scene? Or had he imagined the entire thing?

It took four attempts to speak before he got the words out. “Pull over.”

 


 

Crowley did so at the first available spot. Aziraphale practically fell out of the Bentley in his haste to escape. He didn’t wait for Crowley to join him, but charged down the street at a rapid pace, back stiff and hands still clasped together tightly. “Angel! Wait!”

The man didn’t slow. Crowley swore, slammed his door shut, and jogged after him. It took almost two blocks to catch up. When he touched Aziraphale’s shoulder, the man flinched and cried out. Fuck.

“Hey. Stop. Please, Aziraphale.”

He didn’t stop, but he glanced at Crowley, not quite meeting his eye. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t walk to your bookshop from here.”

“I’ll take the train. As soon as I find a stop.”

They reached the end of the block, traffic forcing Aziraphale to halt. Crowley stepped in front of him. “Talk to me. I know that was terrifying. Believe me, it was for me, too. But we survived. We can take the train. Give me a second to open my maps, and I’ll find the nearest. I’ll come back for the Bentley another time. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale had his arms wrapped around himself now, as if keeping himself from falling apart. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Don’t…don’t what? I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Tears started to streak down Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he angrily wiped them away. “Don’t coddle me.”

“I’m not! Angel— Fuck!” This last as the light changed and Aziraphale sped across the crosswalk. Again, he jogged after the man. He had no idea what to do or say. Couldn’t tell if Aziraphale was angry with him, having some kind of panic attack, or simply trying to run as far away from the almost-crash as possible. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but tripped over a loose paving stone and crashed into the side of a bus stop with a squawk.

 


 

Aziraphale didn’t know what was real. The pavement beneath his feet—that, he could feel. The cold night air? Probably, but he was so cold deep within that he wasn’t sure. The voice calling to him—that was Crowley! But Aziraphale was not a safe person to be near right now, not while his senses were overloaded and his brain kept putting out false signals. He needed space, needed Crowley to use his superpower to know exactly what he needed in that moment, but instead he kept following, kept talking, and he was angry and hurt and it was all Aziraphale’s fault!

There was a crash and a yelp behind him. He froze and looked over his shoulder to see Crowley sprawled on the concrete, clothing and hair disheveled. The man lifted his left hand to examine a badly scraped palm that was seeping blood, and Aziraphale’s heart gave a pang. He’d done this. He’d caused injury by his stupid inability to process sensory overload properly.

“Crowley,” he croaked.

 


 

Crowley groaned. He was way too old to be doing swan dives to the ground, especially while he was already undergoing an intense adrenaline surge from avoiding a major accident. His wrist hurt, but as he shook it out, he didn’t think it was broken. He pushed himself to his feet with a hiss. Nothing else seemed to be broken, either.

Aziraphale hovered in front of him, hands wringing together, nails biting into the flesh. “Oh dear, oh dear, are you hurt? Besides your hand? Did you hit your head? I could maybe…” He looked around frantically. “I’m sure there must be a Boots or something nearby.”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, a bit angry and more than a little embarrassed. This whole night had gone way off script in a matter of minutes. Some arsehole had nearly smashed into the Bentley, then his fiancé had run away from him as if it had been Crowley’s fault—wait. “You know I didn’t cause that back there, right? I had right-of-way. That guy ran the light. I only barely saw him in time to get us out of the way.”

“And the others?” Aziraphale asked, but the question didn’t sound accusatory. “I don’t understand why we kept going. Even if we managed to avoid being hit, shouldn’t we have stayed to help those who didn’t?”

Crowley blinked. Another mental hurdle in a chain of them. So many in such a short time span were not easy to jump. “What others?”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it was certainly not for Aziraphale to suddenly slump against the back panel of the bus stop as if it were the only thing preventing him from collapsing to the ground. Though he knew it might cause the man to flinch away from him again, Crowley put an arm around him to support his weight.

“Come on,” he said, guiding Aziraphale’s unprotesting form around to the other side of the stop. The bench there was thankfully unoccupied. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

Aziraphale obeyed robotically. Crowley kept an arm around him. After a few seconds, the man looked up with tears in his eyes. “I imagined it, didn’t I?”

 


 

The metal of the bench was cold. That was real. Crowley’s arm around him—that was also real. All the rest of it…

“I’m not safe to be around right now,” Aziraphale said before Crowley could answer his previous question.

“I work with dangerous chemicals almost daily.” Crowley’s arm tightened around him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

You should be, Aziraphale thought, but he didn’t say the words aloud. “No one got hit? I heard screaming, and…and glass, the sounds of an accident, I…”

“No one got hit,” Crowley confirmed. “Other than us and the arse who ran the light, no one else was in the intersection. All other cars were far enough away to slow down when they saw what was happening, and there were no pedestrians, not that I saw.”

They sat in silence for a time. Aziraphale tried to process this. His head was still full of screaming and exaggerated sounds of shatter-and-rend. But they had not hit anyone. They had not been hit. No one had been hit. No one had been hurt. Crowley had not only avoided an accident caused by someone else’s reckless driving, he had kept them safe. “You are a good driver.”

Crowley made his dying lawnmower noise. “Eh, well, I don’t know that I would say that. I’m competent, is all.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his free hand. “’Ziraphale? Is that why you ran away from me? Because you thought I left the scene of an accident?”

“I… Maybe a little? But no, not really. Mostly, I was overwhelmed. Sensory overload. Everything had gone unreal. Surreal? I don’t know. All I could think was that I needed to get on a train and process what just happened. I hardly knew where I was.” He paused and added, “I’m still overwhelmed, but it’s not quite as bad now.”

“Like a flashback,” Crowley said quietly.

“Can it be a flashback if you’ve never lived through anything like that?”

Crowley shrugged. “Given how traumatic your brother’s death was, I’d guess you spent plenty of time imagining it. Sounds like it could be a flashback to me.”

Aziraphale thought that over. “I never looked at it that way before.”

More silence. Crowley put his hand over Aziraphale’s, bringing attention to the fact that he was digging his nails into his skin. He tried to loosen his grip. “Do you still want to take the train home?” Crowley asked. “I can, I don’t know—what do you need from me? To come with you? To drive home separately? To give you the night to yourself and come back tomorrow? Bee will understand if I show up at their flat.”

Tears pricked Aziraphale’s eyes again at the idea. “No, don’t. Not for me. It’s your home, too, and I always want you to come home. I understand if you need time after, well, after me, but I always want you to come home. Everyone else—they always leave when I…when I…when I short-circuit like this.”

“I don’t need time away from you,” Crowley said, and his voice was very firm. “I’m happy to take the train with you. Or keep sitting here. Or give you space for as long as you need it. You just have to talk to me.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then leaned in slightly. Crowley took the cue at once and pulled him close, letting Aziraphale rest his head on Crowley’s chest. He was warm and solid. Real. “I’m not good at talking,” he said. “Especially not when I get like this.”

Crowley kissed the top of his head. “So let’s wait to talk until you’re in a steadier mental space, and then we can have a discussion. Make a plan for how I can recognize it in the future, this short-circuiting thing. So I know what I need to know, and you won’t have to worry about trying to communicate when your nervous system goes offline. As best as we can manage, anyway.”

Face buried in Crowley’s warm coat, an arm around him like an anchor to the real world, Aziraphale sighed and said, “Thank you. You know, I think perhaps all this time, what I really needed was a friend at home, rather than a partner. Thank you for understanding me, Crowley.”

 


 

It was a good thing that Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, because Crowley couldn’t hide the devastation on his face at the man’s words. Earlier thoughts about an embrace, another lingering kiss, an intimate connection that grew until they were wrapped around each other in bed—all of that fled. He had misunderstood completely.

Friends only. That had been the instruction from the beginning. Clearly, Aziraphale had proven that he could kiss without being stirred romantically. Unlike Crowley. And now he’d dug his grave too deep to climb out. He would be buried there under the weight of his own secrets.

“Crowley? Will you drive us home?”

“I… Are you sure, angel? I don’t mind if you take the train, now that I understand.”

Aziraphale nodded, face still pressed into his chest. “This is a thing I need to face, and I think I can do that with you.”

The words made Crowley want to sob, so he bit his tongue to prevent the natural whine that tried to escape from his throat. He could not let this man see or hear his sloppy, besotted, painful emotions. He’d already thrown himself on the ground for his angel once tonight. No need to do the same metaphorically. At least that was one good thing about the near-accident. He’d been prevented from making a fool of himself once they got to the flat. Clearing his throat, he said, “Alright. Let’s go home.”

They walked the blocks back to the Bentley in silence. Crowley kept his arm around Aziraphale, who stayed close, though his hands continued to wring together nervously.

“Are you sure you’re alright to get back in a car so soon?” he checked when they reached the Bentley.

A beat of hesitation, and then Aziraphale nodded quickly.

Crowley reached out his free hand to open the car door for him and hissed as his left palm touched the metal. Right. Stupid scrapes and stupid dirty wounds…

Frowning, Aziraphale said, “Will you be able to drive like that?”

“I’ve driven under worse conditions.”

After a moment, Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his jacket. “It’s clean. Let’s at least get you wrapped up, so you don’t dirty the wounds further. Perhaps we can stop somewhere to get bandages and some antiseptic cream on the way.” He tied the cloth around Crowley’s hand as he spoke, pulling it tight but not painfully so, keeping the fingers clear for mobility.

“Angel,” he said, and if the word was even fonder than usual, fuck it. They’d gone through a lot tonight. “S’okay. Really. Let’s just go home.”

 


 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and hunched into himself the moment they began driving. He bit his lip to keep from asking to pull over a second time. Perhaps he had overestimated his readiness to be in an automobile again.

The Bentley’s radio crackled to life. It was tuned to some sort of guitar-heavy bebop that scraped along his nerves like static electricity. That was worse, to have two unpleasant sensations to manage. Instead of canceling each other out, they multiplied and expanded until Aziraphale’s brain felt like it was going to explode. He dug his fingernails into his skin. This was not his car. He could not request a change (or cessation) of music.

The guitars lasted only a few seconds. Then Crowley was tuning the radio, scrolling through stations that passed in fragments until he hit a channel that hummed with a symphony of strings. Haydn, Aziraphale recognized at once, though he couldn’t immediately place which composition. The crawling sensation on his skin receded.

Crowley didn’t say anything. He didn’t reach over to touch Aziraphale, whose eyes were still tightly closed. He simply sharpened the tuning until the string quartet came through crystal clear, bathing the Bentley in cool, calming, soothing music. Music that Crowley probably despised, given what the channel had been set to before, but music that he somehow intuited that Aziraphale would need.

Once again, Aziraphale’s chest and abdomen ached with an emotion far too complex to examine in the current circumstances.

 


 

They made it back to the bookshop without further incident. Crowley managed to numb up all his complicated feelings from the evening by the time he exited the Bentley. Perhaps his cheerful smile wouldn’t have held up to intense scrutiny, but Aziraphale was too overwhelmed at the moment to pay close attention. He insisted on tending to Crowley’s scraped hand and then fixing them both a cup of soothing chamomile tea (which Crowley only pretended to drink).

By the time Aziraphale had finished his tea, his eyelids were drooping shut. Crowley suggested they turn in early even though he himself was wired and wide awake. He fed Portia and Viola while his fiancé modestly changed into nightclothes in the bathroom, then kicked off his trousers before crawling into bed.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, not for the first time tonight, once Aziraphale joined him. “Should I try to keep from smothering you, or would you prefer to be held?”

Aziraphale was silent for a few moments. “Crowley? What about your needs? It doesn’t always need to be about me.”

At that, Crowley managed a real smile, even though the room was too dark for anyone to see. “Well, if there was ever a night when I should consider you first, angel, this would be it. Besides, once I’m asleep, I’m dead to the world. You should know that by now.”

“I do.” Aziraphale reached over and took his hand. “But you struggled plenty tonight, too, and you held the weight of it all the way home. So if you need something in particular—”

He cut off as Crowley wriggled close and snuggled into his side, letting out a contented whine at the contact. Aziraphale pulled the blanket up around them both, holding him close. It felt so good, and even though Crowley was wide awake, he thought the warmth and comfort of the embrace might send him sweetly into dreams anyway.

 


 

Aziraphale screamed. Gabriel was crawling out of the coffin, his face a bloody mess, reaching for him. Invisible hands held Aziraphale in place. He couldn’t run, and his brother’s body, somehow now on the floor, moved toward him on all fours…

“You’re okay,” came a voice in his ear. “I’ve got you, ‘Ziraphale. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Crowley. That was Crowley. The vision in front of him began to splinter. Gabriel’s body howled, and Aziraphale whimpered.

“Shhh. It’s just a dream, angel. S’okay. I’ve got you.”

Darkness. Warmth. Arms tight around him, but these ones comforting, not constraining. He was in his bedroom, not at the chapel, not watching his brother come back to life to punish him for letting him die. Aziraphale began to sob.

Crowley continued to whisper nonsense as Aziraphale clung to him. Eventually, the sorrow and panic and dread receded, and he could breathe calmly again.

“I’m alright now,” he said, his voice rough from the crying. Crowley pulled him tighter. “Night terror. Probably because tonight was, hmm, a lot.”

“Yeah. It was.” Crowley gave a little sigh, and shifted slightly. “Want to talk about it? Or…?”

“They didn’t let me see him,” Aziraphale said, surprising himself. He’d never told anyone about the content of his nightmare, or the roots of where it came from.

“Your brother?”

“My parents said I was too young to see a dea—deceased person.”

Crowley made a low hum that was like a clipped version of his idling-truck noise. “A dead body. Too young to see a dead body. That’s what they said, isn’t it? No wonder you don’t like the idea of being coddled.”

The connection surprised Aziraphale. He blinked rapidly in the dark for a few moments. “I suppose so.” Crowley didn’t reply, giving him space to either say more or leave his explanation there. Aziraphale’s heart swelled. “They let me come to the memorial, but I had a minder. She kept me in the back row. All I could see was the coffin. No one seemed to understand. I would have been less frightened to see my brother. I was a child, yes, but I knew about death. The sight of the coffin, without seeing him directly, led me to imagine all sorts of reasons that my parents would want to shield me from him. Skull smashed in. Blood on his face. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, angel…”

“Of course, I know now that it wouldn’t have been like that, but I was eight years old. With a vivid imagination. So instead of keeping me from harm like they believed they were doing, I developed night terrors where Gabriel would crawl out of the coffin and come for me.”

“I know you know this, and I don’t mean it in a coddling way, but you’re safe, angel. I’ve got you. Always.”

It might well have been the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. No judgement. No fragile caution. No attempt to heal him. “Thank you.”

Neither of them spoke again. Crowley held him, and eventually, Aziraphale drifted back into a far more peaceful sleep.

 


 

In the next room, Crowley’s mobile rang.

“Ah, fuck,” he said quietly as Aziraphale startled. Apparently, the man had already fallen into sleep. “I’ll get that. Be back in a mo’.”

Crowley managed to trip only once (over his own trousers) as he left the bedroom. He didn’t manage to reach his mobile before the call went to voicemail. The missed call notification was from a number he didn’t recognize.

Frowning, he considered whether or not this might be the new solicitor calling, though he doubted that she would contact him so far out of business hours. When he navigated to the call log, however, he saw that the number wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. There had been an outgoing call to said number a few days back, one lasting a quarter-hour. It hit him: the Malaikas.

Crowley moved into the office. If the Malaikas had dialed his mobile directly without trying the landline first, he wasn’t sure he wanted Aziraphale to overhear whatever conversation might follow. The man had gone through enough tonight as it was. If his family was looking for him, Crowley would tell them to call back tomorrow. Most likely, they were canceling the upcoming dinner plans. Crowley had never actually expected them to come to London.

He dialed. Mr Malaika answered on the second ring. “Malaika residence.”

“Sorry to have missed your call,” Crowley said, eyes narrowing at the formal greeting. He knew the man could see his number. “Aziraphale isn’t available at the moment. You’ll need to—”

“I wanted to speak with you, actually, Mr Crowley.”

The alarm bell in his head was really clanging now. Thank someone he was still wide awake after the night terror. “Right. How may I help you?”

“How does two hundred thousand pounds sound?”

Crowley blinked. He had to be misunderstanding. “Excuse me?”

“Two hundred thousand pounds. Come on, now. I know you’re not stupid. Will that be enough to persuade you to leave my son in peace, or do I need to offer more?”

“You’re genuinely trying to bribe me out of my marriage?” Each word landed oddly, as if Crowley couldn’t quite speak properly. Things like this didn’t happen in real life, did they? Surely this was a movie trope. “With a couple hundred thousand pounds?”

“More, then. I see. Well, I can offer double, but the second half would only come after the sale of the property.”

Crowley began to laugh hysterically, covering his mouth with one hand to muffle the sound. Mr Malaika misinterpreted, and his next words were smug.

“I thought that would get your attention. I don’t know how you found out about my son’s prospects and wheedled your greedy little hands into his—”

“Please stop,” Crowley interrupted, wheezing now in his attempt not to wake Aziraphale. “Just…just stop before you cause even more legal trouble for yourself.” He took a moment to collect himself, the other line thankfully silent. “You do realize that bribery is illegal?”

“No more illegal than this con you’re pulling,” Mr Malaika blustered.

“Sir,” Crowley said, trying to keep any bite from his voice, “I assure you; I’m not marrying Aziraphale for some con. I don’t want his property any more than I want your money. I love him.”

“For the love of all that is holy, you may have fooled my son with that act—he’s always been on the naïve side—but I’m not so gullible. My lawyer has been looking into your family and has reported back some very disturbing information. Like mother, like son? Is my lawyer going to find other money-grubbing marriages in your past as well, or are you only now taking over the family business?”

The voice in Crowley’s head, the one that normally warned him to be rational, to breathe, to count to ten before he said anything stupid, was every bit as enraged as the rest of him. Heedless of volume, he growled into the mobile. “You know, I had planned to keep this conversation between us. I didn’t think Aziraphale would like the idea of his father offering to pay off his fiancé to leave him, especially as the offer is a mere fraction of the millions you would receive selling off this business that he loves so much. But you brought my family into this. Family, you should know, who accepted Aziraphale with open arms, unlike his own parents, who continue to treat him like a burden and a nuisance. So fuck you, Mr Malaika. Fuck you, and fuck off. I will inform both Aziraphale and our lawyer about your bribery attempt in the morning.”

Instinct told Crowley not to hang up, and after a moment, Mr Malaika responded. “I see. I could offer you fifty percent of the sale. But no more. Final offer.”

Crowley laughed contemptuously. “You could offer me the property itself, and I still wouldn’t leave him.”

He hung up and tossed the phone carelessly onto Aziraphale’s desk. Though he knew he ought to take a moment to compose himself, all he could think in that moment was that he needed to be in his angel’s arms again.

Crowley returned to the bedroom, all excess energy, and found Aziraphale snoring softly, Viola curled up on his chest. The sight melted his anger on the spot. This. This was worth everything, even dealing with shitty in-laws who, hopefully, they could cut out of their lives completely in the near future.

He slipped into bed, careful not to jostle the cat, and settled in beside the man that he loved.

Notes:

Special thank you to beerok23 for fixing the pacing at the beginning of this chapter! Also, I need to give a special shoutout to one of my readers, who suggested the idea of Az’s family trying to pay Crowley off. Unfortunately, I can’t find where they did that, so I can’t properly attribute! Gah. [ETA: this was HolRose! Thank you!!! It was exactly what the story needed!] Last shoutout is to IneffableRainstorm, who unknowingly changed the order of the last few sections of this chapter with an offhand comment. Even when you're not beta-ing for me, dear, you're somehow acting as a beta! 💕

Again, I’m so sorry about the darkness in this chapter. Next week, it’s time for wedding bells!

Chapter 14: The Wedding

Summary:

It’s time!

***
Crowley’s fingers glided across his curls, and his gaze sharpened. “I don’t mind a bit of practice. Honestly. Come on. ‘I now pronounce you married,’ blah blah blah, ‘you may kiss.’”

A few seconds passed in which they stared at each other, Crowley allowing Aziraphale to make the decision. So he smiled and leaned in, and Crowley followed, and their lips touched. Soft and gentle, no heat, but also no trickery or falseness. A kiss shared between friends. Aziraphale pulled away, and Crowley gave him that lovely crooked grin.

Notes:

If you’re reading this story as it releases, I’m posting the night before normal schedule because I have minor surgery scheduled for tomorrow. (All is well! It's routine, but I'll be out on anesthesia until afternoon and groggy after that.) I figured earlier is better than later!

There are a few sentences of Italian in this chapter (thank you beerok23) – if you hover over them, they should be visible in the English translation. Note that if you have author's workskin off, the translation will simply appear as a second (English) sentence afterwards.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When Crowley woke the next morning, he was alone in the bed. Aziraphale was humming to himself in the kitchen. He smiled at the noise and stretched, then winced. Right. Swan dive to the pavement the previous evening.

The rest of the night flooded back to him then. The almost-accident, chasing his fiancé in a panic, the night terror, the bribe. He scowled. Lucine Kejora was going to be his first call this morning.

For now, though, coffee. Crowley stumbled to his feet and left the bedroom. The humming ceased abruptly, and Aziraphale called, “Morning, dear! Breakfast won’t be long. Sit down and I’ll bring you coffee.”

Crowley ignored the order and joined him in the kitchen. “I can make my own coffee.”

Aziraphale grabbed him around the ribs and turned him, then gave him a light push. “Out. Go on. It’s my kitchen this morning.”

With a grin, Crowley let himself be shooed from the room. He went into the office in search of his mobile, but didn’t see it where he’d tossed it the night before. Well, he would deal with that later. He dropped onto the sofa, hissing a little as his hip throbbed at the contact. Stupid, clumsy—

“Here you are, my dear,” Aziraphale said, plonking a glass of orange juice onto the small table beside him. “It’s from a bottle, I’m afraid. Not fresh-squeezed. I cannot abide the texture of pulp. I do apologize.”

Crowley stared at the not coffee juice and then looked up at his fiancé. “Ngh?”

“Coffee will be out shortly. This will help start your day off fresh!”

He rumpled Crowley’s hair before returning to the kitchen. Soon, he was singing to the same tune that he’d been humming. Crowley thought it might be from a musical. “Angel? Have you seen my mobile?”

Aziraphale bustled back into the room, phone in hand. “It was dinging every few seconds and I worried that it would wake you. Then I saw the battery was low when I went to turn off the sound, so I plugged it in.”

For a second, Crowley was afraid that the Malaikas had somehow started texting and Aziraphale would know something was wrong. Whatever he’d said last night, he didn’t actually want to devastate Aziraphale with the truth of his father’s actions, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Before he could ask, though, Aziraphale continued.

“Goodness, your family sends out a lot of texts, don’t they? Muriel added me to a group thread, it appears. They’re all talking about wedding details. Asking us questions about the plans. It would be rather alarming, I think, if I hadn’t just met them all. I imagine the dings on your mobile were from the same thread.”

Crowley looked at his screen. There were indeed just under fifty unread messages from his family. Of course. He grinned. “I guess we need to do some planning today. Let me text everyone to let them know I’m out sick for the day. The pavement won last night’s fight.”

“Oh dear. Are you very sore this morning? I have some Epsom salts. Perhaps a hot bath?”

“Nah, just coffee and I’ll be good.”

“Almost ready, dear!”

Crowley leaned his head against the back of the sofa and grinned. This man was so entirely ridiculous and so absolutely perfect. He shook the thought away, not wanting to taint the morning with thoughts of something more. This was lovely without anything further. As Aziraphale began to sing again, Crowley caught a few of the words. Consider yourself part of the furniture. Huh. He googled the lyric, and the smile on his face went completely sappy. Fuck, he was perfect.

A few seconds later, “Consider Yourself” from the musical Oliver! was playing on his mobile.

Consider yourself at home
Consider yourself one of the family
We’ve taken to you so strong
It’s clear we’re going to get along

Aziraphale beamed as he brought Crowley’s coffee into the room, clearly trying not to dance and spill. Crowley stood to take it from him, setting it aside and grabbing his angel’s hand so that they could dance together. Giggling, Aziraphale let himself be twirled and then pulled into Crowley’s arms, only stopping when the latter let out another oof as a bruised rib twinged.

“Dancing when you’re too sore to work,” Aziraphale said with an actual tut. “Naughty boy.”

“I danced for all of five seconds,” Crowley said, trying to control the blush rising to his cheeks. He gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee, burning the roof of his mouth.

“I didn’t know that you enjoyed musicals! What a delightful surprise.”

“Ah, well, I have to admit, I didn’t know the song. I did a search for it.” Crowley raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

At that, Aziraphale bopped him on the nose playfully. “Sometimes, everything simply fits!”

Like you, Crowley wanted to say.

 


 

The next few days passed in a blur. Crowley’s family took over the minutiae of wedding- and reception-planning. Aziraphale let himself be carried along their tide. Suit-shopping with Freddie (separately from Crowley, of course!). Nails with Muriel. A meeting with their new solicitor, an intimidating woman who seemed to exist along angles. Tailored suit, slim tie, sharp cheekbones, sleek black hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid that fell to mid-back. Her eyes were a startlingly bright green set against long, black lashes and light tan skin. Aziraphale was glad that Crowley asked for a few minutes alone with her to discuss a private situation. It allowed him to escape that piercing gaze. He was glad she was on their side!

All things considered, the week leading up to the wedding wasn’t nearly as stressful as he expected it to be. The only hiccup came from his parents’ email. It informed him that they wouldn’t make it to London for the dinner they’d planned—no surprise there—nor would they attend the wedding itself.

Your mother and I are hurt that you would act in such a rash and impulsive way, Aziraphale. We’re worried for your safety with this stranger, who we believe to be using this wedding as a way to get access to your wealth. We pray that you have consulted your own solicitor to at least sign some sort of prenuptial agreement that keeps his money-hungry hands off your inheritance. And if we are wrong about him, which I highly doubt, we still can’t abide a rushed and improper marriage, performed outside a church and without any religious backing. You know better than to act like this, son. I’m not sure what your mother and I have done to earn this sort of treatment. We can forgive it, but we will not condone it with our attendance. Perhaps some time in the future, we can meet for dinner and try to mend fences.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley was looking at him anxiously, as if worried the email was going to cause him true pain. “Why in the world would my parents expect me to have a religious wedding? My very existence offends their church.” He reached over and patted Crowley’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I know these hands of yours aren’t ‘money-hungry.’ That has never once crossed my mind.”

Crowley hummed and put his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale began to stroke his hair at once.

“Are you nervous about Saturday?”

“No,” Crowley said. “Well, maybe a little. Not about the wedding part. S’all just moving very fast, and I want to make sure that it’s legal and aboveboard and that that other solicitor can’t challenge it. Can’t help picturing Matt asking if anyone has a reason why we can’t be married, and Ms Uriel or whatever she’s called running in with papers, yelling about an injunction to stop it. Can you get an injunction against a wedding?”

Aziraphale had no idea. Instead of answering, he confessed, “I’m nervous about the kiss.”

Rolling onto his back, Crowley said, “How come?”

“I want to get it right.” He couldn’t say that he was worried about crossing a line, not really knowing where the line would be between safe and too much. “I’ve never performed a kiss for an audience before.”

Crowley sat up. “Want to practice?”

“Oh… I… Um…”

Grinning, Crowley said, “Teasing you, angel. It’ll be fine. Like—ooh! No, you have performed for an audience! With your parents’ solicitor. That first kiss. That’s exactly what we need this weekend.”

Aziraphale had forgotten about that particular performance, probably because it had been confusing and messy and fraught with fear afterwards. “I…”

Crowley’s fingers glided across his curls, and his gaze sharpened. “I don’t mind a bit of practice. Honestly. Come on. ‘I now pronounce you married,’ blah blah blah, ‘you may kiss.’”

A few seconds passed in which they stared at each other, Crowley allowing Aziraphale to make the decision. So he smiled and leaned in, and Crowley followed, and their lips touched. Soft and gentle, no heat, but also no trickery or falseness. A kiss shared between friends. Aziraphale pulled away, and Crowley gave him that lovely crooked grin.

“See? Nothing to it.”

The words were soft and a bit gravelly, causing Aziraphale’s heart to flutter traitorously. He locked away the inappropriate sensation. “Hopefully, I’ll be this relaxed with everyone watching us. Your whole family…”

“I’ll make sure the boys don’t shout about kissing.”

“Tell them that if they do, I’ll make them perform an apology dance.”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Ooh and they’re right at that age when they love humiliating others, but don’t want to do it themselves. Perfect.”

Aziraphale glowed in the praise of that word. Perfect. No one had ever found him perfect before, not in any way. He couldn’t lose this. Couldn’t risk it, especially not before the wedding tied the two of them together.

With a start, he realized that the marriage itself had become more important to him than the bookshop. If his parents’ solicitor won and Aziraphale lost his business and flat, it wouldn’t matter so much, so long as he could stay with Crowley.

And that… Well. That mindset felt dangerous. He tried not to dwell on it as the days passed. After all, it didn’t matter where his priorities lay. On Saturday, he would marry the best person he’d ever known, and in under two months, the bookshop would—should—remain in his name. No matter what his parents thought of this marriage, it would be legal. That they were not a romantic couple didn’t matter one iota. Just like the will said nothing about marrying a woman, it said nothing about marrying for love.

At dinner on Friday evening, Crowley announced that he would spend the night with Mary and Muriel, who insisted that the two didn’t see each other until they met at the hall they’d rented for the ceremony. Aziraphale simultaneously felt a pang of loss and giddiness at the prospect.

“Do you have anyone coming over to help you get ready?” Crowley asked as he packed a small overnight bag.

“I don’t need—” Aziraphale began, then cut himself off with a sigh. He’d already had this argument with Maggie and Nina, both of whom insisted on coming to the flat in the morning. Aziraphale informed Crowley of the plan.

“Excellent! I’m sure Mary and Muriel will doll me up, and Freddie will tone it all down. Hopefully, I’ll be recognizable when you see me!”

“Dear lord. Will you be extra glamourous? I’ll look dull beside you.”

“Nonsense! You could never look dull. You shine, especially when you smile.”

He smiled now, unable to help himself. Crowley stood from the table and offered a hand.

“Dance with me, angel?”

There was no music—as it turned out, the two of them shared nothing (that they’d found so far, at least) in common, musically—but Crowley still spun Aziraphale across the small living room space until they were both giggling. It helped to enhance the giddiness and calm the feeling of loss in having Crowley say goodbye at the end of the night. They would see each other soon enough the next day.

The wedding. Aziraphale’s nerves had increased a hundredfold by the time he woke up in the morning. It was only the cats that helped him to keep calm. They were both snuggled up on Crowley’s side of the bed, pressed into his side. Of course, he knew it was a warmth thing, but a part of him believed that Portia and Viola knew how much he missed their dad and had cuddled him on purpose.

Maggie and Nina came over mid-morning. Aziraphale had only managed to choke down a piece of toast for breakfast. He’d showered and then put too much product in his hair, taking it from its normal fluff to a flattened, haphazard wave. It was awful, and he might have cried except that Maggie took one look at him and marched him into the bathroom to re-wash and style it herself. Nina took over making sure his clothes were perfect (and free of cat hair), and then both women pushed a cup of tea and a scone on him.

“It won’t do to faint while you’re putting the ring on his finger,” Maggie said.

The ring! Aziraphale panicked for a moment, but Nina held out the little box with the ring in it, and he calmed again. For goodness’ sake, why was he getting so worked up? This wasn’t even a real marriage! His parents wouldn’t even be there to witness the show!

Finally, it was time to head out. Maggie drove them—Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly shut in the back seat—and then they had arrived, and he was entering the hall, being ushered to a room off to the side to wait, only…

Aziraphale froze, having caught sight of Crowley in his peripheral vision. One word dropped from his mouth, whispered and wholly inadequate. “Pretty.”

Crowley’s back was turned, but he was dressed up already in a long, black tailcoat with split hem, black trousers, and shiny boots with a slight heel on them. His hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail at the base of his neck, the dark red of it contrasting wonderfully with the coat. A few strands were loose at the top, likely to frame his face, but—

Nina tugged on his arm, trying to get him to his designated waiting room before Crowley could turn and see him as well. Aziraphale, however, did not budge. He couldn’t wait any longer. A second more, and his fiancé would—

Crowley turned. His shirt was a dark burgundy red, with black waistcoat and tie. Aziraphale had been right; a few strands of hair artfully framed his face. That wasn’t what made his breath catch, though. Crowley’s eyes were lined in black, eyelashes darkened, lips and cheeks enhanced with the tiniest bit of blush and lipstick. He could have been straight off the set of a vampire movie, the tempter, the bad-boy love interest, the character you weren’t meant to root for but secretly did.

Only then he smiled. He locked eyes with Aziraphale from across the lobby and his beautiful red lips pulled back to reveal a giddy, toothy grin. As he rushed over to say hello, he made a noise Aziraphale had yet to hear, something akin to a dolphin squeal that spoke of pure excitement. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hands when he got close enough.

“Look at you! You’re gorgeous!”

Aziraphale blushed and looked away. He loved the vintage-style suit he’d picked with Freddie: beige trousers with matching long jacket, with heavy embroidery along the collar; slightly darker waistcoat cut with a straight hemline; white shirt and gloves; pale blue bow tie; and an actual pocket watch that Freddie had lent him.

“My father gave this to me when I turned eighteen,” he’d told Aziraphale, insisting that he wear it as the something borrowed part of wedding superstitions. “I know you’re not a bride, but since there is no bride, you and Antonio will both need to follow the tradition.”

Now, Aziraphale felt a bit unsure of his clothes next to Crowley’s sharp look. “You don’t think I look, well, dowdy beside you? Old-fashioned?”

“Angel! We’ve both gone vintage! It’s old-fashioned deliberately.”

“But you look so…so suave and sleek and dangerous and—”

“And you,” Crowley interrupted, “look like a literal angel come from heaven, gracing us mere mortals by choosing to walk among us. You’re beautiful. And this bow tie! You and Freddie picked out the perfect color to enhance your eyes!”

“Where’s your blue? Freddie said we both had to follow the full wedding tradition. Something old, something new…”

Crowley laughed and leaned in. “My pants are blue,” he whispered, and oh good lord, that did things to Aziraphale that he hadn’t expected. “But don’t tell anyone. Our little secret.”

“Y-yes. No. Of course not,” Aziraphale stammered. It was easier, then, to let Maggie and Nina drag him away from Crowley into the prep-room. He rather needed a few minutes to cool off and recompose himself.

 


 

The ceremony passed in a blur. Crowley only remembered fragments: the way Aziraphale had leaned in before they walked down the aisle together and asked if he was sure he wanted to do this. The light in his angel’s eyes as Crowley produced a gold band carved with wings, a sapphire set in the center. The way his hand shook as the ring slipped onto his finger. Aziraphale’s trembling voice as he recited his vows.

Later, he would go back and hear the words themselves, captured by the videographer. See the expressions on the faces of friends and family. Watch the cold disapproval from the Malaikas’ solicitor (whom Crowley had asked Bee to surreptitiously film).

For now, though, Crowley basked under the adoring gaze of his new husband. Husband! A thought unfathomable and yet undeniable. Ineffable.

“You’ve met almost everyone here, of course,” he said as the ceremony transitioned to reception, “but let me introduce you to the few you haven’t.”

Matt, their officiant and a longtime family friend. His husband, Reece Furman, who preferred to go by his surname. Antonio Crowley, Crowley’s father, who had flown in from Italy last minute.

Auguri e figli maschi! “Congratulations, and may you have sons!” his father said, clasping him on both shoulders. Crowley stared at him, confused and a little dumbfounded by the inappropriate expression, until Antonio began to laugh. “I’m kidding, son! Just a little joke from your papà.”

Ma sei fuori?! “Are you out of your mind?!” Bee called as they passed behind the group.

Ti sembra il modo di parlare al tuo vecchio?! “Is that how you talk to your father?!” He laughed again, turned to Aziraphale, and shook his hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you before. You seem like a nice lad. You’ll treat my son well? Unlike his old man did?”

Crowley cut in before Aziraphale responded. “Eh, you were fine. You’re here, aren’t you? Even with the rushed invite?”

Aziraphale beamed at him, radiant. “More than one way to be a family, right?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” said a voice from behind them. Crowley turned to his mother, who wrapped first him, then Aziraphale in an embrace. “And now that you’re a part of this family, Aziraphale Malaika, you always will be. No matter what. Understand?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, kissing her cheek. His eyes were shining with tears, and Crowley’s heart broke a little to know that his husband’s parents had flat-out refused to attend today. Even their lawyer had left immediately after Matt pronounced them married.

Music began to play overhead. Crowley looked over to where Bee had set up a makeshift DJ booth. Earlier in the week, they’d asked both men to text their ten favorite songs (“As if I could pick only ten!” Crowley scoffed, and Aziraphale agreed). Since receiving the (randomly chosen) selections, Bee had put together a playlist with a mixture of their tastes.

“It’s called ‘Secret Agent Songs.’ For my two favorite secret agents,” they said to Crowley that morning. He groaned in response.

The first song played was one of Aziraphale’s choices: “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” The angel’s eyes met his, alight, and Crowley offered his hand. They joined others on the dance floor.

“Oh! Your nails!” Aziraphale said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

His own white gloves were off now, exposing his own beautifully painted fingernails. Muriel had chosen a pattern of cornflowers in a blue that perfectly matched his bow tie. Crowley’s, on the other hand, were mostly painted with black flames.

“Muriel did well, didn’t they?” he said. “And look over here, angel.” He wriggled the ring finger of his right hand, where the nail was painted to match Aziraphale’s.

“Oh, you fiend!” Aziraphale said, and for a moment, Crowley didn’t understand. “Telling me about your blue pants when you could’ve shown me this!”

Understanding dawned. “Isn’t that what they say to do if you’re nervous? Imagine someone in their pants?” Crowley laughed and winked. “Thought you might need distraction from wedding jitters.”

It was a lie, of course, and they both knew it, but Aziraphale was still smiling and Crowley didn’t even care that Ella Fitzgerald’s voice usually grated on him. They danced through the end of that song and through one of Crowley’s selections—The Velvet Underground’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror”—before taking a break to accept congratulations from guests.

Toasts and speeches, food and cake, and then Bee asked everyone to clear the dance floor for the grooms.

“Antonio, Aziraphale,” they said into the mic as the two men stood alone in the middle of the room. “You two have wildly different musical tastes, as everyone has heard tonight. It was difficult to find a place where they converge. But Antonio, you’re worth the trouble, and Aziraphale, you deserve a proper welcome to the family. I hope I’ve chosen well. This song is for you.”

The lights dimmed and notes began to play from the speakers. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and Crowley grinned. “I know this one!” he said, then cocked his head. “Or, I know a modern cover of it. It’s good.”

“This version is also good,” Aziraphale whispered as Frank Sinatra began to sing.

That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

Crowley swept Aziraphale in a circle, holding him tight around the waist. Aziraphale sung softly, the words only for Crowley’s ear.

I may be right, I may be wrong
But I’m perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

It was perfect, Crowley thought, putting his cheek to his husband’s. “I guess we have a song,” he said.

“I’ve never shared a song with someone before.” Aziraphale sighed happily. “Our song. How lovely.”

The streets of town were paved in stars
It was such a romantic affair
And as we kissed and said goodnight
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

Cheek to cheek, they sang the last line together.

 


 

Aziraphale was still humming “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” to himself as the reception ended and Crowley drove them carefully home in the Bentley. He didn’t even need to close his eyes this time.

“Don’t get changed,” Crowley said as they entered the flat. “We have plans.”

“We do?”

Crowley didn’t enlighten him. “Can you feed the babies while I touch up?”

He gestured to his face, where his makeup still looked, to Aziraphale’s eyes, absolutely perfect. “Of course!”

Half an hour later, they were back on the street, arm and arm as they strolled along the pavement. Normally, Aziraphale didn’t enjoy surprises, but this felt less dangerous—more like opening a gift at Christmas not knowing what was inside. The longer they walked, the more he suspected where they were going, and it wasn’t long before lights in the dark confirmed it.

“The Ritz? Crowley! How on earth did you manage this?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is this payback for OshPaz? Because you know that I believe that to be unfair, dear.”

“Not payback, I promise. This is my family’s gift to us. Since we aren’t having a honeymoon or anything, they’re pooling together to pay for our meal here. Mary worked a miracle with the maître d’. Normally, reservations on Saturday nights are booked months in advance at the very least. I have no idea how she pulled it off.”

“Your family,” Aziraphale began, but he was too choked up to continue. They were, oh, so wonderful!

Our family,” Crowley said. “They’re your family now, too. You’ve been welcomed with open arms. Even my father—”

Crowley cut off, sounding choked up himself. “It was a beautiful day, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale asked softly.

They stopped in front of the entrance, collecting themselves before they went inside. Crowley leaned down and gave him another of those friend-kisses, then wiped from Aziraphale’s lips the slight trace of lipstick he’d left behind. He grinned. “It really was. Come on, angel. Let’s go celebrate our happy union with good food and an absurdly expensive bottle of champagne! No worrying about costs tonight, either. I made a solemn vow that we wouldn’t look at the prices.”

The more anxious part of Aziraphale wanted to object, but he shoved that thought away. He was Aziraphale Malaika, married to Antonio Crowley, with a family who loved him, a business that he could keep, a flat that he’d made into a home, and two new cat-children. He would enjoy every bit of this night. Costs and worry be damned.

Notes:

I wish I had artwork of their wedding outfits!!

Dolphin-squeal noise: see angel!Crowley with wide toothy grin squeaking in pleasure at his nebula. Thanks to IneffableRainstorm for pointing out that I had yet to include any excited utterances in Crowley’s list of nonverbal communications.

Do you have any idea how many musicians have covered “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” and how many of them pick and choose which verses they take from the original lyrics? Gah. I had to work very hard to find a version that would work with both Aziraphale’s tastes and the canon version, and have lyrics they would both recognize!

*****
Life note: While I will do my best to keep publishing this story on a weekly schedule, I am still struggling to keep two WIPs going simultaneously and I have some travel coming up in February, which will make that even more difficult. Hopefully, there will be no break in publishing, but if I miss a Tuesday, I promise that I will get another chapter up asap – I’d rather the story be right than rushed, even if that means missing a week here and there!

Chapter 15: More Than One Way

Summary:

Crowley and Aziraphale adjust to married life.

***
“Valentine’s Day, angel! Come on! We’re gonna get dressed up all fancy, and then I’m taking my husband out for sushi!”

Valentine’s! He’d completely forgotten. “Oh dear, I didn’t—”

Crowley put a finger to his lips. “Let me spoil you tonight.” He suddenly planted a wet kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, smacked his arse, and then spun in a circle, giggling the whole time.

Notes:

I’m so sorry I had to miss last week’s chapter! My head has been really stuck in the headspace of The Regret List, and I didn’t want this fluff to be tainted by that. I finally got to a point where I could spend some real time with this one, headspace restored thanks to a comment by Somewhere_in_Wales. So hopefully this chapter fills the fluffy, silly void left last week. Thank you all for your patience!!

Also: Ignore my ignorance re: UK laws and the court system. It’s fluff. You’ll just have to pretend. Heh.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It surprised Aziraphale, how quickly he and Crowley fell into step with each other. He expected there to be more adjustment to living with another person, the way there always had been in the past. A part of him worried that Crowley was compromising overmuch, but each time he broached the subject, his husband reassured him that he was easy to live with despite what he’d been told.

“If your former partners struggled to remember something as simple as to tilt the showerhead back in the direction of the wall when they turned off the water, I’m afraid your expectations of me are well below what you deserve,” Crowley once told him. “I mean, seriously, how difficult is that to do?”

“They didn’t understand why,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands together. The sound of the water pounding against the shower floor—it hurt. Made his shoulders go tense and gave him irrational levels of anxiety. He knew it was stupid, and yet it helped to have the spray hit the wall instead until a body could be leveraged between showerhead and the porcelain floor.

“Who cares why? If it bothers you, it’s no skin off my back to turn it.”

With those words, Aziraphale fell just a little more into the danger zone of romantic feelings. He tried not to think about it.

“Besides, you do the same for me. Remember to keep the toilet lid closed so that Portia doesn’t use it for a water bowl. Clean up your hair in the shower after I asked if you could. It’s compromise, angel. If your other partners didn’t give you that, they don’t deserve the effort you put into them.”

Aziraphale registered the shift from former to other. Danger, danger, danger. To them both. “Maybe partners have extra expectations for changes when they live together, but friends can coexist. Like siblings do.” There. That was a good way to see it.

“Maybe so,” Crowley agreed genially. “Though I grew up with lots of siblings, and courtesy was never a priority between us. Not as kids anyway; not when we all lived together. But I suppose my former partners never gave a shit about what I needed, either. This arrangement is far better.”

Arrangement. Yes. That’s what they had. A marriage based on a specific set of needs for them both. Friendship, safety, understanding. Aziraphale curled up with Viola after that conversation, taking comfort from her warmth.

The cats were another aspect of this new life that surprised him. He expected there to be a big period of adjustment, but a month into his marriage, he realized that he couldn’t imagine life without a feline companion any longer.

“You know what that means,” he said one afternoon to Viola, booping her softly on the nose. “You’re not allowed to go. Not ever. You must stay with me, so we have to make Plans. Get Crowley to st—”

“I’m home!” Crowley’s voice preceded him as the door to the flat flung open. “Good god, people need to stop dying!”

“I believe that’s the third time you’ve said that this month, dear,” Aziraphale said. He grinned at Viola. His husband had almost caught him scheming. It would be their little secret. “I believe those deaths keep your family in business.”

“Angel!” Crowley dropped his work bag on the ground and dumped his keys onto the coffee table. “That’s downright callous of you!”

He grinned, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Between this marriage and his growing friendship with Mary and Muriel, he was getting used to his in-laws’ morbid sense of humor. “Dead right,” he said, and booped Viola on the nose again. She stood up, turned in a circle, then put a paw on his nose with a soft meow. “Oh!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Never seen her do that before.”

“Clever, precious, beautiful baby,” Aziraphale said. He resisted the urge to scoop Viola up and press kisses all over her cheeks. It was the only time she got annoyed with him, when he did that. Instead, he asked Crowley, “Any thoughts on dinner tonight? I’m afraid time got away from me in the shop today, so I haven’t prepared anything. It didn’t help that my computer is getting worse. I really ought to replace it soon.”

“Before it also dies,” Crowley said with a snicker. He stretched, revealing a sliver of his belly. Aziraphale quickly averted his eyes. “Dinner! I’m gonna come to the rescue on this one. I made reservations for us. Meant to get home early to surprise you, but as I said…”

“Too many people are dying.”

“Enough dying!” Crowley kicked off his shoes and jumped onto the couch, one foot to either side of Aziraphale’s knees. He towered over him, peering down with a grin. Viola streaked off and Aziraphale pursed his lips, trying not to let fondness show through the consternated expression. Crowley waggled a finger at him and pronounced, “No more dying! It’s just… It’s just…wrong!

“Really, dear,” Aziraphale chided as Crowley hopped back down and extended a hand to him. He took it and was hauled to his feet.

“Valentine’s Day, angel! Bad day to deal with death. Come on! We’re gonna get dressed up all fancy, and then I’m taking my husband out for sushi!”

Valentine’s! He’d completely forgotten. “Oh dear, I didn’t—”

Crowley put a finger to his lips. “Let me spoil you tonight.” He suddenly planted a wet kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, smacked his arse, and then spun in a circle, giggling the whole time.

Aziraphale tried not to smile too much as he followed him to their wardrobe to pick out a nice dinner jacket. He was married to the most ridiculous creature on the planet, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 


 

It was an unexpectedly warm and sunny day for the second half of February. Crowley took advantage of the weather to invite Aziraphale out for a stroll at St James. Together, they bought a feast for the ducks. It always made Crowley so happy to see the man’s joy at feeding them, the way he chided those that were too pushy and praised the little ones when they snatched a morsel or two. How had any of Aziraphale’s former partners found him too much? It was beyond imagination.

When all the food had been distributed, the two settled onto a nearby bench. Aziraphale beamed out over the water and said, “Such a lovely day.”

“Yeah, angel.”

“You know, I once read a book about two men who came to feed the ducks here every week. They didn’t know each other, not at first, but over time came to be the best of friends.” For some reason, he blushed and looked away. “It was a lovely story. Soft and slow and kind.”

They lapsed into silence for a time. Crowley thought about the text he’d received that morning, confirming the details for his mother’s birthday party in a few weeks. Normally, the five children pooled together for larger gifts: weekend trips and spa packages and fancy dinners. This year, Tracy had requested that they throw her a party, asking for “presence, not presents.” Crowley had taken the words literally, only to find out that morning that everyone else was getting their mother something small anyway. Now, he had to scramble to find something for the woman who already had everything she wanted.

“I need your help,” he said suddenly.

Aziraphale turned to him. “Of course, dear. How can I be of service?” Crowley quickly explained the situation, and his husband’s eyes grew round and astonished. “Why ask me? I hardly know your mother. I wouldn’t begin to know where to start looking.”

Crowley slumped against the bench, throwing his head back with a groan. “Hnnngh. I don’t know. I thought maybe you would have an outside perspective that might help.”

“Well, what are your siblings bringing?”

“Mary’s knitting something, dunno what. I haven’t heard from Muriel, but best guess is that it’ll have something to do with nail art, given their obsession at the moment. Freddie and Gemma had new family pictures taken with the boys, and had some larger portraits framed up for her. That’s not a bad idea, with you being new to the family, except of course we just had wedding photos taken. Bee is still figuring their gift out like me, last I heard.” He groaned again. “The problem is, Mum is almost seventy and already has so much stuff that she doesn’t want more random items cluttering up her home. Whatever I give her has to be personal or useable, and not generic, and I have no idea where to even begin.”

Aziraphale stared out over the water, his face thoughtful. Eventually, he asked, “Does your mother have a favorite book?”

Crowley pulled out of his slouch. “I…probably? I don’t know if she has a single favorite, but when you asked that, I immediately thought of the book she read to us kids every year when we were growing up. Still does now, actually, first because Muriel insisted, and then for my nephews. It’s become a family tradition. A Christmas Carol. She does all the voices and everything.”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him. “Oh, I do hope that I’ll be allowed to listen in this year!”

“Of course, angel! But why do you ask? Obviously, she has a copy of it. Probably more than one, in different states of use, I’d imagine.”

Aziraphale wiggled on the bench, pleasure clear in every movement. “You do remember that you’ve married a seller of rare and antique books, don’t you? A Christmas Carol. I’m sure I have a number of early editions in good condition somewhere in my shop.”

His excitement was infectious, but Crowley put a hand up to pause the conversation. “Small, remember? I won’t have you giving away a half-million-pound edition of a book just because I can’t think of a better gift.”

“Even a pristine first edition isn’t worth that much, dear.” Aziraphale wiggled again and clapped his hands. “We’ll make this one a special copy. Unique! Do you think you can get a family photo to me, preferably in digital format? I work with a man who creates custom covers for rebinding, and I have all the instructions for photo quality and size and, um, something about pixels? Might be a slight rush job, depending on when this party is, but—”

“Angel.” Crowley caught his hand, which was now waving wildly and had more than once almost hit a passing pedestrian. “As much as I adore this idea, it sounds like it’s going to be far, far too much in cost. Maybe we can do an older edition without a special new cover?”

“Oh. I suppose.”

Crowley hated saying it, hated making Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, but it was too much, this gift. He couldn’t ask this much. Not for the birthday, anyway. With that in mind, he added, “Maybe we could think of something else now, and hold this plan for Christmas? Have my siblings pitch in so we’re all sharing the cost?”

Aziraphale nodded quickly, but his face still looked troubled and he continued to stare into his lap, worrying at the edge of his waistcoat. Crowley waited, giving him space to consider what he wanted to say. Eventually, Aziraphale sighed and said, “This will be the first time I’m giving something to your mother. In a way, it’s thanking her for taking me in. For welcoming me into the family. I…”

He broke off, reached over, and took Crowley’s hand in both of his.

“This is a thing I would want to give. With you, but not with everyone else, because I have them to thank, too. Not that I don’t have you to thank also, of course. But that’s a different thing altogether. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable by spending too much money, of course, so if that’s the issue, please say so directly. But if it’s only that you are uncomfortable with it being my money, let me assure you that it would be the greatest honor to do this for you mother, and for a lovely old book, and for a family tradition that sounds like it came straight out of my childhood fantasies.”

Crowley didn’t answer at first. It was true—he was uncomfortable spending Aziraphale’s money in any way, especially after the bribery call from the Malaikas. Even if they hadn’t made him feel touchy about the whole inheritance issue, though, he had always been hyperaware of his family’s monetary situation. It had grown better since childhood, when the six—sometimes seven—of them were crowded into three bedrooms and sharing a single bathroom between them, but Crowley knew that without marrying into it, he would never have experienced wealth like his husband’s.

And yet, what Aziraphale was saying showed the situation in a different light. He had grown up starved of a family, of a place to feel safe and loved. Sure, he had money and property, but what did that matter without loved ones surrounding you? Aziraphale had made the best of his bad situation, finding a few people here and there to act as surrogate family, but it hadn’t escaped Crowley’s notice that his “side” of the wedding attendees had been woefully sparse.

So why did the idea of this choice—riches or true family—eat at him? If he was forced to choose between them, the answer would be obvious and immediate. Why did it concern him that Aziraphale wanted to make the same choice, and with Crowley’s own family, no less?

Because it’s not real, a voice inside him said. Because in seven years, they would get a divorce and go their separate ways, and the only way Crowley would survive would be by avoiding the man forever afterward. Sure, his mum had said that Aziraphale was a part of the family now, but she didn’t know that this marriage was fake, planned, schemed. And if she ever found out…

Crowley made a sound deep in his throat that caused Aziraphale’s brow to knit in concern. “Are you alright, dear?” he said.

With a hasty nod, Crowley turned to look over the water. He was glad that his sunglasses would hide any tears. Enough of this, he told himself. Stop thinking about seven years from now. You have no idea what might happen in that time or how things might change. Stop protecting yourself and just enjoy this beautiful thing you have.

“I’m good, angel,” he said, his voice a bit ragged. He attempted to smile. “I’m still getting used to…all this. Marriage and…ngh. Everything. Accepting a big gift like what you’re offering feels a bit like I’m taking advantage of a friend.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale slid closer to him on the bench and entwined their hands. “You know that you’re more than a friend, don’t you? You’re family. My partner in this arrangement. I know it may not be a romantic partnership, but there is more than one way to be together. To tell you the truth, you have come to mean more to me than the flat and bookshop combined. I would give them both up if it meant staying beside you.”

Crowley’s jaw had gone slack and he blinked rapidly behind his glasses. Aziraphale wasn’t— He couldn’t be— No. This wasn’t the time or place to consider all the nuances of those statements. His husband was waiting for him to make a decision, and all of a sudden, it was a much easier decision to make. Aziraphale was family, after all.

“Sure, angel. I can get an appropriate photo to you. I already know exactly which one to locate.”

 


 

“What do you mean, they’re contesting the wedding?” Crowley exclaimed. He shoved back in his chair with a loud scrape, causing Aziraphale to wince, and began to pace. “I checked and rechecked and—”

Aziraphale understood his frustration. The unexpected visit from their solicitor had been worrisome even before she dropped this bomb on them.

Unlike Crowley, Ms Kejora sat perfectly calm across from Aziraphale at the table. “And this is merely a delaying tactic. The real goal is to try to prove that this union violates the spirit of Mr Malaika’s will. The longer Ms Uriel has to bolster that argument, the greater her chances of finding a loophole to counteract your loophole. If the validity of your marriage is in question, it ties up the inheritance in paperwork for longer. Possibly months longer. This only means that the Malaikas will have more than the next month to contest the will.”

Months? Aziraphale held in a whimper at that. He’d thought that all would be settled after his forty-fifth birthday. How long were they going to have to live with this metaphorical sword above their heads?

“Crowley,” he said quietly, holding out a hand. He needed comfort. His husband stopped pacing and took the proffered hand at once, squeezing it. Aziraphale felt slightly better as he turned back to Ms Kejora. “What do we need to do? Is there some, ah, proof that we need to provide?”

The solicitor’s lips twitched. “Well, we’re not talking about medieval times. No one is requiring proof of bedding or purity or whatever. Mostly, this is about contract legality—that all the formalities were performed to the absolute letter of the law, which I confirmed at the time. Ms Uriel can try to prove that the two of you married under false pretenses with an eye toward fraud, but she will have a harder time with that argument given that Aziraphale already owned the bookshop and flat in question. But she can tie up the courts for a time, which gives her longer to plan her next attack.”

“Fraud?” Aziraphale exclaimed. His voice rose up an octave. “My parents think that I’m committing fraud to keep money from them? Of all the preposterous things!”

“Not necessarily.” Ms Kejora leaned toward him. Crowley squeezed his hand again. “There are many types of fraud. Obviously, I checked up on a few things before I took you both on as clients. Made sure there was nothing obvious—bigamy, identity fraud, immigration fraud. That sort of thing. What Ms Uriel will attempt to prove is that Crowley has tricked you into marriage in order to steal your inheritance. It’s why I made sure that you both signed a prenuptial agreement, even though that was not your first choice, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale slumped onto the table and put his face in his hands. “My parents are so very frustrating!”

“It’s fine, angel,” Crowley said. He let go of his hand and put it on his back instead, rubbing slow circles there. Aziraphale relaxed into the touch. “This is why we hired a solicitor in the first place.”

He jumped suddenly. Aziraphale looked up at him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Stupid tight jean pocket.” Crowley shoved a hand into said pocket and rearranged the phone inside. “My mobile buzzed right on my hipbone. Hate when that happens.”

“Do you need to answer?”

“Nah. Bee said they’d be texting me.” Crowley jumped again as another audible buzz came from his pocket. He pulled the mobile free and put it face down on the table. “It can wait.”

Ms Kejora stood. “Well. I won’t take up any more of your time. Only wanted to touch base with you both and let you know what’s happening on the legal end. Please, Aziraphale, try not to worry too much. This is exactly what I expected to happen. There have been no surprises yet, and I’m well prepared to argue this woman into the ground.”

They both shook her hand and then accompanied her down to street level. As soon as they were in sight of the locked bookshop entryway, a person Aziraphale didn’t recognize began to wave and knock loudly. “Who in heaven’s name…?” he began.

“Ah shit!” Crowley said and bounded forward to unlock the door. “Buggering bugger, I forgot.”

When the door opened, a whirlwind of a—man? woman? person? Aziraphale settled on person, just to be safe—shoved their way inside. They wore loose black trousers paired with a tight black tank top, chains draping from both neck and waist. A plaid burgundy flannel was thrown on the top, presumably for warmth, and they wore chunky combat boots. Their dreadlocked hair cascaded halfway down their back, tied into a loose ponytail by some of the dreads themselves. As the person removed their messenger bag and set it next to the antique cash register, Aziraphale caught sight of a dark thatch of hair under their arm and the tip of a tattoo too vague to identify.

“Fuck, it’s cold outside, Crowley!” they exclaimed. “I’ve been texting and texting. Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

“Yeeeaaah, sorry ‘bout that, Chris.”

“Bastard.” The person—Chris—punched Crowley’s shoulder and then hugged him. “Good to see you again. Would’ve been better to see you five minutes ago before I froze to death on your front step.”

They turned to the other two in the bookshop, both of whom stood back. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure of Ms Kejora’s reasons for the reticence, but for himself, he was afraid this stranger would hug him. Or clap him on the back. Or any number of uncomfortable things that would involve invading Aziraphale’s personal space.

“Chris,” Crowley said, taking hold of their elbow as if he knew exactly what Aziraphale would be worried about. “This is my husband, Aziraphale. He owns the website you’ll be updating. Don’t touch him without asking first. And this is our solicitor, Ms Kejora. She was about to take her leave when you so rudely interrupted.”

Rolling their eyes, Chris said, “I made an appointment. You’re the one who forgot me.”

They stepped closer, and Aziraphale noticed they had soft brown eyes with a lot of smile lines around them. The eyes, however, were not focused on him.

“Wow,” Chris said to Ms Kejora. “Aren’t you handsome? What’s your name?”

Behind them, Crowley groaned. “Of all the…” he muttered, the words trailing to inaudible levels. The solicitor, however, seemed unbothered.

“It seems that you might struggle with blurting,” she said, fishing in her purse rather than looking at the web developer. “If you end up in legal trouble—”

“That’s not an answer, darling,” Chris said, grinning as the solicitor scowled at them for the interruption.

“Pay attention, darling,” she said, a heavy sarcasm on the last word as she handed over a business card. “You’ll find my name on there, along with how to contact my office should your mouth get you into trouble one of these days, as I suspect it will. Aziraphale, Crowley—thank you for meeting with me. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

Without even looking at Chris, she left the bookshop, her back rigidly straight. Chris laughed at the display and pocketed the business card with another grin. Good lord. Was this going to be his web developer? Was this one of Crowley’s friends?

“Do you have to hit on every woman you meet?” Crowley complained, pushing Chris’ messenger bag back against their chest after he relocked the bookshop door. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“Don’t know why you’re complaining, mate,” Chris said as the three of them headed for the flat, Aziraphale lagging quietly behind the other two. “She gave me her contact info!”

“Yeah, for her office. Where she’s a solicitor.”

“Tsk. No judgement. Not all lawyers are evil. That’s only a media stereotype.”

Crowley made his big-cat noise and a lot of sputtering consonants before he managed to say, “Who the fuck said anything about her being evil? You fucking—never mind. Just get inside so you can get to work, you wanker.”

Aziraphale slipped into the kitchen during this exchange. He set up the kettle to make tea or coffee or whatever else their guest might want. The sound of the heating water soothed him.

Chris was still talking to themself in the living room—or maybe they were talking to the cats?—but Crowley joined Aziraphale in the kitchen. “Doing okay, angel? I know they can be a lot.”

“They. They/them, then? I assumed, or I didn’t want to assume, so I thought I’d start with that.”

“Yeah. You were right. Good instinct. Hey. Angel.” Crowley’s hands hovered near Aziraphale’s elbows, asking permission. He nodded and closed his eyes as warmth engulfed his skin at Crowley’s touch. “Sorry that I didn’t have time to prepare you. Chris had a last-minute cancellation and texted me this morning. I forgot completely when I came home and found Ms Kejora already here. I didn’t mean to spring them on you like this. They can be a lot, but I promise, they have a good heart.”

Aziraphale took a few deep breaths. He didn’t blame Crowley and he didn’t want the man to apologize, but he also needed a few minutes to recalibrate. “It’s tickety-boo, dear. I’ll take a second to regroup, if that’s alright? What can I make the both of you to drink?”

Chris stayed through the afternoon. Though their personality continued to be of a louder variety that intimidated Aziraphale, they very quickly learned how to interact with him. They never once touched him, obeying Crowley’s offhand comment in the bookshop without question. After the first few direct inquiries about the old website, they seemed to realize that intense eye contact flustered Aziraphale and took to asking their questions while staring at their laptop instead.

By the time they told Crowley that he'd better keep Aziraphale because Viola said so, Aziraphale felt comfortable enough to invite them to stay for dinner. Chris broke into a beaming smile at that, and for a moment, it looked like they might go in for a hug before forcefully stopping themself. Instead, they closed their laptop and said, “Oh, can I cook for you both? Please?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, mildly panicked. This person did not know anything about his sensory needs. Crowley gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Chris is Muriel’s favorite chef in the world. They work miracles in the kitchen.”

Immediately, Aziraphale relaxed. He and Muriel had discussed their food issues several times. While they didn’t agree on everything in terms of taste, they seemed to have all the same triggers with texture.

Chris waved away the miracles comment. “I just like to cook! And I have no one to cook for most of the time.”

“Perhaps if you learned a less off-putting way to flirt,” Aziraphale said before he had a chance to think better of his words. He slammed a hand over his mouth, horrified by his inappropriate sarcasm, but Chris doubled over with laughter.

“Yeah,” they said eventually, wiping their eyes. “Yeah, perhaps. Fuck. I like this one, Crowley. He’s a keeper. Not only because Viola says so.”

“I know,” Crowley said from where he was leaning against the wall, a smirk playing across his lips. He winked at Aziraphale. “My bastard angel. One of a kind. Definitely a keeper.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes even as he blushed. “Hush, you.”

That evening, they dined on French onion soup, a vegetarian coq au vin (which Chris mispronounced as “cock,” making everyone giggle), and the best crepes Aziraphale had ever tasted outside of France. Chris really did work miracles in the kitchen.

When the web developer left for the night, they hugged Crowley and waved to Aziraphale. “Nice to meet you, angel!” they said.

“That’s my nickname for him, arsehole,” Crowley growled playfully as Chris snickered.

They waved again and turned to leave when Aziraphale said, “Wait.” He held a hand out. “It was nice to meet you.”

Chris looked at his hand, smiled, and shook it. “And you! I’ll get that site in order for you tout de suite.” They pronounced it “too dee sweet,” leaving Crowley and Aziraphale giggling together at their abysmal French.

Notes:

Cat notes: Portia’s model, my baby Gavroche, does use toilets as water bowls whenever he can. Sigh. Viola’s nose-booping thing is actually based on a real story from my sister’s cat Abby, back when we were teens. We used to boop Abby on the nose all the time, and she started booping us back. Smart kitty!

The book Aziraphale mentions about the two men meeting to feed the ducks at St James? Yeah, it's fanfic, and this particular fic gives a lot of insight into how Aziraphale operates in terms of slow romance. I highly, highly recommend Rearrangements by sheendav!

If you aren’t familiar with the infamous Jucifer aka Chris/Luce, I beg you to read Me and the Devil by IneffableRainstorm. Chris and Luce have gained a cult following here in the fandom and have shown up in multiple fics now. I loved using their initial meet in the “canon” story as a basis for their meet here, the same as using GO-canon pieces to influence parts of the fic. This version of Chris won’t be identical to other versions, of course. In fact, the way they read Aziraphale and adapt how they speak to him is actually based on a friend of a friend (I’ll call him C) that I met last March in Glasgow. I was floored by how quickly C learned to read me and went from loud, boisterous, and direct to approaching me in a “sideways” kind of fashion so that I didn’t feel spotlit. People who are that intuitive about others are very rare, and the fact that C redirected his energy to make me more comfortable was kindness incarnate. Kinda perfect for a Jesus character. 🥰

Chapter 16: Ineffable

Summary:

It's the night of Tracy's birthday party, and the dots are starting to connect.

***
Crowley quickly put on a ribbed turtleneck. He wasn’t sure exactly why Aziraphale avoided looking at him when he was bare-chested, but whatever the reason, he didn’t want to make the man uncomfortable any longer than necessary. A few silver chains around his neck completed the rather minimalist look he was going for tonight, and Crowley decided to put on a bit of eyeliner after he blow-dried his hair. It was a special night, after all. He wasn’t preening for his husband, not in any way.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the look of admiration on Aziraphale’s face when the angel returned to the bedroom, dressed in a semi-formal version of his preferred daily outfit.

Notes:

This chapter is being posted un-beta-ed.

My betas on this fic, beerok23 and unicornbeck, have been literally angels on earth this week. I *flailed* like an insane person all week, stressed about every single word I was writing. Everything sounded wrong. Everything WAS wrong. I sent a draft to them. It wasn't good. They both gave feedback, and even before they did, I was already rewriting parts. I brainstormed, I had a call to an author friend who ISN'T beta-ing to get advice, and I just generally flailed. I finally got a solid chapter after way too many drafts and still felt absolutely terrible about it. Then YESTERDAY, I decided to scrap it altogether and put a placeholder here instead. To apologize for not having a chapter. Then instead of doing THAT, I wrote AN ENTIRELY NEW CHAPTER in a single afternoon BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING CRAZY PERSON. Well, I was NOT going to ask my betas to beta for me overnight. Please ignore typos and errors and such. I will edit from their notes when I get home from my trip!

The good news: I LOVE the way this last-minute chapter came out. It might have errors, but it is exactly what needed to be here. Ironically, the chapter I decided to scrap is 75% salvageable for the next one, and it actually fits there! So at least I'm not losing all of my and their hard work!

Anyway, I bow to both of you betas, and send you a thousand apology dances and heaping mounds of gratitude!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Portia!” Crowley shouted as the cat streaked through his legs and down the staircase into the bookshop. “For fuck’s sake!”

He groaned, dropped his work bag in the entryway, closed the door to make sure Viola didn’t get loose as well, and jogged back downstairs to retrieve his escape artist. The bookshop was still open to customers. Aziraphale stood by his pointless / aesthetic cash register, chatting with a squat, elderly woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a different century. She was not the first bookshop patron he’d seen to sport the look. Apparently, the rare, vintage book industry attracted a lot of eccentric types. Like Aziraphale.

Crowley waved to his husband, then made a beeline for Portia, who stood in the large picture window, looking out over the street with twitching ears. “There you are, you little hellion,” he murmured.

“Third time she’s gotten out this week,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “She seems to like that spot.”

“For a month,” Crowley said, gathering up the tuxedo cat. Portia yowled in complaint. “Until she decides she wants to escape the bookshop, too.”

“Naughty creature,” Aziraphale said, though his voice was so sweet and inviting that Portia began to wriggle in Crowley’s arms. “Making your daddy worry about you like that.”

Another yowl. “I’d better get her upstairs before she really begins to fight.” Crowley hesitated beside Aziraphale. He had a customer; it would probably be a bad idea to show any kind of affection, even in passing…

Aziraphale leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be up in a tick, dear.”

Crowley grinned and brought his complaining charge back to the flat, where he deposited her unceremoniously onto the sofa. He needed to take a quick shower. They were due at Mary and Muriel’s flat for his mother’s birthday party that evening.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, clean and (mostly) free from the smell of the morgue, Aziraphale had closed up the bookshop. He stood in front of the wardrobe, staring at his options.

“How formal is this party tonight?” he asked as Crowley came into the room wearing only trousers, a towel still wrapped around his hair. Aziraphale averted his eyes at once from Crowley’s bare torso. “I’m not sure what I should wear.”

“Very informal. Most likely Bee will be in ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt. Mary will wear the same outfit she always wears; Freddie will ‘dress down’ in a polo with pressed trousers; Muriel will put on whatever they feel in the mood for—sometimes that’s full-body pajamas and sometimes it’s an evening gown—and Mum is even less predictable. Wear whatever will make you most comfortable.”

Crowley quickly put on a ribbed turtleneck. He wasn’t sure exactly why Aziraphale avoided looking at him when he was bare-chested, but whatever the reason, he didn’t want to make the man uncomfortable any longer than necessary. A few silver chains around his neck completed the rather minimalist look he was going for tonight, and Crowley decided to put on a bit of eyeliner after he blow-dried his hair. It was a special night, after all. He wasn’t preening for his husband, not in any way.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the look of admiration on Aziraphale’s face when the angel returned to the bedroom, dressed in a semi-formal version of his preferred daily outfit.

Crowley offered an arm to him as they left the bookshop. “Ready for another crazy night with my family?”

“I’m hardly nervous this time!” Aziraphale said, clutching the beautifully wrapped, custom-covered copy of A Christmas Carol to his chest with his free hand. “I was dreadfully worried that I wouldn’t get the binding done in time, especially when Agnes came in this afternoon. She’s an extremely chatty customer. Wants to know all about what’s come into the shop since her last visit.”

“Is that the woman who was talking to you when I got home?”

“That’s her! When you went upstairs the first time, before Portia’s escape, she asked if you were new to the shop.”

They both laughed at that. Crowley led Aziraphale into a wine shop to pick out a few bottles for the evening before they took the train out to Mary and Muriel’s flat.

 


 

Mary had cooked a feast.

Before their arrival, Aziraphale had worried that a few bottles of wine and a gift was not enough to bring to this party. He quickly understood why Crowley had said, “Trust me, you don’t want to add anything more.” Every kitchen counter, along with the small table tucked to one side, was covered in platters and serving bowls. At first glance, he saw two different roasts (one beef, one chicken), three varieties of potato, a half-dozen salads, and a literal rainbow of fruits and vegetables (laid out in color order). That didn’t even include the breads, appetizers, or desserts.

“Why are there extra desserts if there’s a birthday cake?” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley. It was a valid question. The cake was already far too big for the number of people expected tonight—a multi-tiered thing laden with spun sugar, chocolate shards, and sweets. It looked like something he might see in the finale of a baking show.

“Just in case anyone prefers something else.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, utterly bemused. “But that’s…”

“Insane? Yeah. But Mary goes all out when it’s her turn to cook. We all take home the leavings, so take a look at your meals for the next week.”

Crowley grinned, showing off those sharp teeth that Aziraphale had come to find so endearing. He blushed and tried to think of something witty to say in response, but was saved by Muriel calling out his name.

“Aziraphale! You’re here!”

A sea of blue fabric crashed into him. The last time they’d spoken, Aziraphale had given them blanket permission to hug him whenever they met, and it seemed Muriel was taking full advantage of that. He couldn’t even see their face until they let go, stepping back to show off a frothy tulle dress (?) that looked a bit like an overgrown tutu. Muriel’s eye makeup matched the color of the outfit, and they had glittery face gems spread out like fireworks across their cheeks.

“Mary Meowgdalene is so excited that you’re here!” they said, taking his hand and tugging him toward a hallway.

“Not even going to say hi to your own brother?” Crowley complained, only to let out an oof when the sea of fabric attacked him next. “Okay, little mermaid, go show off your cat.”

Aziraphale quickly handed him the wrapped book. He’d spent the last three days stitching and detailing and making sure it was exactly right. It wouldn’t do to let it get damaged now as his sibling-in-law dragged him through the flat.

Mary Meowgdalene was tucked away in a bedroom that Aziraphale suspected was Muriel’s. She tried to escape when he opened the door. After Portia’s attempts that week, his reflexes had gotten quicker, and he caught her before she could streak away in the direction of the food. “How long has she been stuck in here?” he asked, cradling the unresisting cat to his chest.

“Since yesterday morning,” Muriel said with a laugh. “Mary wouldn’t wait to start cooking any longer. Of course, she only worked on the preliminary stuff yesterday. Dishes that could be refrigerated or stored without spoiling. She’s extremely careful about food poisoning.”

“And about texture, I imagine,” he said with a smile. Muriel beamed back at him.

“Of course! She’s the best sister I could ever have.”

They sat down together, Muriel’s miles of tulle piling in a heap around them. Aziraphale had a sudden recollection of a modern-day book cover. “Did you make your dress?”

“It’s not a dress!” Muriel exclaimed. They stuck out one leg to show that the design continued all down to their foot, tulle-encased leggings attached to the skirting. It was one of the most bizarre designs Aziraphale had ever seen. “And yes, I did make it. I found a few vintage patterns and collaged them until they came together exactly how I wanted.”

Such creativity! “Have you ever thought about becoming a fashion designer?” he asked as he stroked Mary Meowgdalene's belly.

Muriel made a face. “Definitely not. This is a hobby. I don’t want a bunch of snobs talking about my favorite clothes and whether or not they’re classy or whatever. I don’t even like to watch those shows. I’ll stick with my dead bodies. They never complain.”

Aziraphale grinned. From outside the room, he heard the sounds of Freddie’s family arriving. “I suppose we ought to go greet the other guests.”

“Yes! But first, hold still.”

He froze as they came forward on their knees and brushed his jacket back from his neck. There was the slightest sensation of tickling, and then Muriel sat on their heels, holding up a loose curl in triumph. Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he thought the strand of hair was red.

“Huzzah!” they cried in triumph. “I saved your life!”

“You…what? I’m not sure I follow, dear.”

Muriel held the curl in their palm and blew on it so that it drifted lazily to the floor. They giggled. “Imagine that had gotten all the way under the edge of your shirt and stuck halfway down your back—where you couldn’t easily reach—while we were in the middle of celebrations.”

Oh good lord. Aziraphale could practically feel his skin itching at the mere suggestion. He gave a weak chuckle. “That would have been awful. You’re quite right, dear. Thank you for saving my life.”

They stood, Aziraphale brushing cat hair off his trousers. Muriel grabbed the doorknob but stopped, turning to him with a frown. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know you’re in love?” When Aziraphale cocked his head, unsure what exactly they meant, they added, “I’ve never been in love. I don’t think I have, anyway. But sometimes I wonder if maybe I just don’t know how to recognize it in myself. I can see that you and Antonio love each other. How you look at him; how he looks at you.” They sighed. “I can see it in other people, but not in myself, and I don’t know if that’s because I’ve never been in love, or because I can’t recognize it in my own face. You’re so much like me, and you and Antonio got married so quickly. You had to have known. How?”

This was not a question he could answer. He was not in love with Crowley. Whatever Muriel was seeing in his eyes—that was affection. Platonic love. Gratitude for everything the man did for him. Aziraphale had been in love before, always with men who had hurt him or left him. It was different with Crowley. Truer. Crowley was family. Storge or philia, not eros. (Though the lord knew, Aziraphale was finding it harder and harder to deny his physical attraction to his husband, as inappropriate as that was by the terms of their agreement.)

He could not say any of this to Muriel. However, he didn’t want to lie to them. He would have to choose his words carefully.

With a sigh, he said, “Honestly, I don’t know that I know. I have been in love before. Not often, but I did have partners with whom I lived and believed I might have a future. None of them felt remotely like Crowley, like my relationship with Crowley. When he and I met—not back at uni, but more recently—I was afraid of him at first. But then, he understood me. He thought my jokes were funny. He wasn’t offended when I was accidentally rude. I know, now, that’s because he had this wonderful family that—”

His eyes teared up, and Aziraphale sniffed in surprise. Muriel beamed at him, putting a hand on his elbow.

“It’s nice to find someone so right,” he finished. Then, before they could say it for him, he added, “Dead right.”

The tulle of Muriel’s not-a-dress bounced as they laughed. “Okay. I guess I’ll assume that I’ve not found my person yet, then. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

He didn’t know if they were correct to make that assumption, but he smiled anyway. He couldn’t help but smile, really. The thought was also dead right: in love or not, Crowley was his person.

 


 

Crowley sprawled on the ground, his back resting against Aziraphale’s legs as his mother sat surrounded by a small pile of gifts. She complained that they were unnecessary, like she’d complained about the amount of food, all this excess fuss when it was “just a birthday!” They came around every year, after all. No one took her in the least bit seriously. Especially as she preened in her new knitted hat (from Mary) and happily chose a nail palate from Muriel to play with at a later date.

“Am I good, or am I good?” he whispered to Aziraphale. Two for two on the gifts so far. He got a light poke in the back for his cheek. “Open ours next!”

Tracy took the delicately wrapped book and turned it over in her hands. “Well, Aziraphale must have wrapped this. Antonio certainly didn’t.”

The gathered family laughed at that, and Crowley gave a dismissive wave. “My angel is better at all that sentimental stuff anyway,” he said. He got another poke between his shoulders for that.

Tracy carefully unwrapped the package, gasping when she saw the cover art. Crowley had chosen a family photo from when they were still children and teenagers. It was an outdoor photo, all of them bundled up for the cold, a light dusting of snow on the ground around them. Their personalities showed through. Freddie smiled dutifully, looking strained. Mary stared off into space. Bee and Muriel fought over a bundle of sticks—Crowley hadn’t known why, even then—while he glared at Bee, who had elbowed him in the ribs right before the shutter clicked. Tracy had her arms out, trying to corral them all into looking at the camera.

Aziraphale’s contact had taken a digital scan of the photo and turned it into a sepia-toned antique, so that it fit the clothbound cover with gold-embossed lettering for the title and author. Crowley had been beyond impressed at the care that went into the cover, and then at Aziraphale’s skills in binding it to the book to make it look as if it came directly off the press with his family’s photo on the front.

“How did you…?” Tracy began, opening the front page to see the ornate green and red script, alongside a full-color illustration. She looked up, wide-eyed. “No! This is too much, Antonio, Aziraphale. Is this a first edition? In this condition? This has to be worth a fortune!”

A wash of adrenaline went through Crowley and he twisted to look up at Aziraphale. “Angel? I thought we said—?"

“It’s a first edition, yes,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “But it wasn’t of much value. The original cover was in horrendous condition. I had to replace it altogether. And with a custom-designed cover, I’m afraid it’s monetarily worthless.”

“It’s a treasure,” Tracy said at once. She hugged the book to her chest.

Crowley could hardly wait through Freddie’s and Bee’s gifts before he took his husband aside. Making sure no one could hear them, he whispered, “Aziraphale! You promised to use an old copy, but not one that was worth a million pounds!”

Aziraphale took his hand. “I promise you, it was not worth anything like a million pounds. If the cover had been pristine, it might have fetched between seven and twelve thousand, and the cover was far from pristine.”

“Seven thousand? Angel! You can’t give away a seven-thousand-pound book for a birthday gift! Even one with a damaged cover! I thought… I thought… You showed me that book on the first night we talked, it was something like thirty pounds! I knew this copy would be more than that, but I thought maybe a hundred, two hundred tops!”

Those blue eyes were watering now, lips trembling. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to do something nice for her. For your family. To tell you how much it means to me that you took me in.”

Crowley pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you. It’s… That’s an astonishing number, angel.”

“Do you remember telling me how much pride you take in your vocation, getting the deceased to look exactly as they need to for the family?” Aziraphale pulled out of the hug and looked at him. “This is similar. Yes, I could have taken any cheap hardback copy of A Christmas Carol and turned it into a gift. That custom cover, however, would not have been right on any cheap copy. It needed the right weight of paper. The creamy richness of texture. The scent of the ink, evoking something old, a family treasure as you described this story. If you simply wanted a nice copy of this book to give to your mother, we could have gotten a mass-produced ‘fancy’ version from Waterstones and been done with it. Instead, I wanted to give your family an heirloom. If my shop holds a few thousand pounds less in value, it’s richer for that in love.”

Richer in love. Crowley was awash in feeling. The stubborn set of Aziraphale’s jaw had never looked as beautiful as it did in this moment. He put a hand on that soft cheek. “May I kiss you?”

Aziraphale looked quickly behind him, presumably to see if anyone was watching. There was no one paying any attention to them. Before Crowley had a chance to worry that perhaps his request was unwanted when there was no one to perform for, Aziraphale closed the gap between them. The kiss was long and slow and beautiful, a different dance than they’d had in the past, as arms encircled each other and warmth flowed through every nerve-ending in Crowley’s body.

When Aziraphale broke the kiss, pulling back but keeping their foreheads in contact, he said, “Thank you for being my friend. M-my person.”

Oh. It was like a starburst, the understanding. Aziraphale was in love with him. This wasn’t a mere friendly arrangement, his husband able to kiss and cuddle and sleep curled up together unaffected. Crowley thought back over everything Aziraphale had said to him in the last two months.

We still haven’t spent enough time together to know if you’ll want to get away from me one night.

You make me feel very comfortable. Like you won’t take advantage of me, or laugh at me, or judge me for being different.

Maybe partners have extra expectations for changes when they live together, but friends can coexist.

I think perhaps all this time, what I really needed was a friend at home, rather than a partner.

You know that you’re more than a friend, don’t you?

There is more than one way to be together.

Aziraphale loved him, Aziraphale was in love with him…and Aziraphale was terrified of what would happen should Crowley think of him as a romantic partner rather than a friend. Afraid that it was romance itself that corrupted a relationship, added expectations, caused the cracking of his former relationships. Aziraphale was holding on so hard to the idea of this partnership as platonic, or even familial, that he was blind to what was actually blossoming between them.

“Angel,” he said, and drew the man into a fierce hug.

 


 

When they moved back into the main portion of the flat, Aziraphale’s mind was a buzz of worry. He couldn’t get Muriel’s words out of his mind. I can see that you and Antonio love each other. How you look at him; how he looks at you. And Crowley had looked at him in that way just now, affectionate and so kind. Did that automatically equate to romantic love? The kissing certainly indicated that it might, especially without anyone to witness it as part of their ruse.

But Crowley was a physical person, always craving touch, and Aziraphale… Well, he wasn’t in love. He couldn’t be. Not so quickly. It took him months, years, to fall in love! Sure, Crowley was a better man than anyone he’d loved in the past, and his kindness and understanding lent itself to a quicker fall than Aziraphale would be accustomed to. Still, so short a time… It was unfathomable. He needed to stop giving in to the temptation. It was addicting, to be so cared for, but it was not fair on his part to indulge when it crossed Crowley’s set boundaries. Even if the man himself asked for said boundaries to be crossed. He had to stay strong, for his husband’s sake. For his marriage’s sake.

“When is your birthday, Aziraphale?” Gemma asked, drawing him out of his worry. “We need to put it on the family calendar so we can plan a party for you!”

“Oh, I don’t need—” he began, but a chorus of voices cut him off.

“End of March,” Crowley said, winking at him. “Too late to plan anything this year.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale said before anyone could protest further, “my parents throw a joint birthday celebration for me and my brother every year. I suppose I don’t know if that’s going to happen this year, what with…” He cleared his throat, embarrassed by the sympathy he saw in all the eyes around him. Everyone had seen the Malaikas’ refusal to attend their wedding.

Muriel broke the slightly awkward pause that followed. “You have a brother?”

Aziraphale shot a panicked look at Crowley, who nodded and said, “S’okay, it’s a subject we’re all very familiar with, angel.”

He looked at Muriel, and only Muriel, when he said, “I did, but he passed away when I was a child. The birthday party is also, hmm, a memorial.”

A different kind of silence descended on the room. Tracy stood and approached him. “Aziraphale Malaika. I knew it sounded familiar. Gabriel, eleven years old, some kind of accident?”

Aziraphale stared at her, dumbfounded. Crowley stepped closer to him, watching his mother. “Our funeral home…?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry. My memory isn’t what it once was. I should have realized the moment I heard your name. So unique! I believe I even met you once, in passing, when you were a child. Of course, it’s your brother I really remember. I kept the files in order, met with your parents… Oh dear. This must be distressing.”

Mostly, it was confusing. How had Aziraphale never put it together? Granted, he’d yet to visit Crowley at work. They’d only known each other for two months, after all. Hadn’t he just been thinking about how short a time that was?

Another part of his mind had gone down a different path altogether. How many times had they almost met over the years? How often had their lives swerved and intersected? Ineffable, his brain frantically supplied. Fate. Meant to be. He tried to squash the thoughts.

“Angel?” Crowley’s hand hovered near his arm, offering support but not touching him without permission. “Can I get you anything?”

“No. No, no. I’m alright. I was just surprised. That’s an enormous coincidence.”

He stepped sideways so that his arm touched Crowley’s hand, giving him permission to hold. As he did so, Gemma turned to Mary to ask about a recipe for her potato gratin casserole. The rest of the room came to life, smothering the tension under a maelstrom of chatter.

“I’m sorry,” Tracy repeated, quietly this time. “Really, Aziraphale—is there anything I can do?”

He couldn’t think. “I don’t believe so. But thank you.”

“’Ziraphale?” Crowley said, drawing his attention. “Would you like me to take you there? To the funeral home?”

“Why?” Aziraphale said, not understanding.

Crowley shot a look at his mother, who gave them a smile and a nod before leaving them to talk alone. “You said your parents didn’t let you see Gabriel. At the funeral. Obviously, I can’t change that—s’not like we keep photographs of the deceased in their caskets—but if you want, I can take you there. Let you see where I work, see the chapel with adult eyes. Might take some of the edge out of the night terrors. Obviously, no one is there right now. Would only be us.”

He considered the offer, mulling it over for a few minutes while his husband gave him the time and space to figure out what he wanted. In the end, Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you.”

The funeral home was dark and silent when they arrived. Crowley held his hand as they entered the lobby. It had hardly changed from Aziraphale’s memories, though it looked smaller now, and less intimidating. He noticed a large frame on one wall filled with photos of Tracy and her children.

“How old were you there?” he asked, pointing to it.

Crowley followed the line of his finger and broke into a smile. “Mid-twenties or so? The whole family went to take those stupid photos. It was a Christmas gift for my mum one year. I think Muriel was just off to uni. We were meant to take bad photos—hence me and Bee scowling in ours—but no one else followed through. Mum refused to let us take a new one, so we look like the grouchy kids in the family.”

It was possibly the most adorable thing he’d ever heard about Crowley’s family, and that was saying something. Aziraphale fought the urge to pull the man’s lips to his and lose himself in a kiss. He had to stop doing that. He needed to resist. “Will you show me the chapel?”

Crowley led him down a hallway and through a set of heavy wooden doors. Aziraphale didn’t know if he would remember the room, not when he had dreamed of a warped version so often, but the moment he stepped inside, memory flooded him.

“Oh,” he said, and gripped Crowley’s hand to keep grounded in the onrush of emotion. “This is… I sat right here, Crowley.” He stepped forward and touched the back of a pew. How strange, to recognize the pattern of woodgrain that he’d stared at for most of the viewing. “Can I walk around?” he asked. There was no casket set up, but it still felt inappropriate to meander.

“Of course. There’s no one here, dead or alive, so you’re not disturbing anyone’s peace. No ghosts at funeral homes, you know. They wouldn’t stick around.”

“They might, if they thought their mortician was very handsome and kind.”

Crowley growled his idling truck growl, making Aziraphale giggle. “Not kind. S’my job.”

“Handsome, then. You can’t deny that.” Aziraphale touched Crowley’s nose the way he liked to do to Viola and smiled despite still being rather overwhelmed. He stepped down the center aisle toward the dais and pulpit. “Neither of my parents spoke at the funeral. They were too broken.”

“That’s not uncommon.”

“I wish they’d had some closure. Maybe if they’d gotten justice, or even answers, they wouldn’t be so…so stuck today.”

The tears came as Aziraphale reached the front of the room. There was no casket, but he could imagine Gabriel’s perfectly. He’d seen it so many times in his dreams.

Crowley gathered him up and guided him to the front pew, holding him silently until Aziraphale regained equilibrium. It was incredible, the way this man always made him feel better. Maybe he couldn’t answer the question of what it felt like to be in love, but what did that matter? All that mattered was that he knew he wouldn’t want to spend his life with anyone other than Antonio Crowley.

Lifting his head, Aziraphale gave his husband a watery smile. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“Always,” Crowley said, and the expression on his face was complicated. He touched Aziraphale’s cheek, then leaned in to kiss his forehead.

Aziraphale rested against him, warm and comfortable. He felt loved, and if part of him felt hungry, he resisted it in favor of something far greater.

Notes:

The modern-day book cover that Azi thinks of: The Selection by Kiera Cass.

Re: the artwork. I started this piece back in the fall and got all the outlining and framing done that you see here. Somehow, there was a glitch with ProCreate and a number of my layers got flattened and combined, meaning that unless I trace over the entire thing, I can’t easily color/shade. So for now – until I can trace over, or until I learn a better way to fix this – I’m going to leave the skeleton version here. Hopefully one day, I can come back with something better. You get the gist, anyway!

*****
The Reveal: I will be taking the next two weeks off publishing due to travel. If you’re also reading The Regret List, you will have seen the initial announcement. If you haven’t, you may possibly have noticed that another GO author is also taking that time away, same as we both did over the holidays. This is (obviously) not a coincidence. I’m happy to say that I’ll be visiting IneffableRainstorm during this time. Dunno if anyone suspected already, but our friendship and beta-partnership evolved into Something More a few months ago – one reason why life has been happy and busy, with writing time a bit scarcer as of late.

#ineffableauthors #noregrets 😇 💗 😈

Chapter 17: Meet Gabriel

Summary:

Aziraphale takes Crowley to his parents’ house in Colchester for a “joint birthday dinner” (Aziraphale and Gabriel). It goes…a lot like how you’d expect.

***
The information made Crowley’s blood boil, the way the living son had been so carelessly shunted aside for the deceased. Before he could say anything, his husband took his hand.

“They’re very sad people, Crowley. I’m not saying that their actions are excusable in all things, but I understand the way grief can swallow you up and isolate you.”

Notes:

I’m back! Probably most of my readers have already seen that with my other fics, but just in case, I wanted to say that I had the most amazing time with IneffableRainstorm and I miss them already! You can see lots of pictures and stuff from the trip on Tumblr and Bluesky.

As for this chapter: meeting the Malaikas will not be particularly pleasant, but I’ve tried to make this chapter as angst-free as possible. There is: mention of bribery, parental dismissal of a child’s needs/condition, grief associated with memories of a deceased child, and non-descriptive mention of vomiting.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Crowley asked for the fifth time, and that was only since they’d gotten on the train to Colchester. He had a bad feeling about this dinner with the Malaikas. Even Ms Kejora had cautioned them against meeting without attorneys present before the court cases were settled. Aziraphale had been adamant, though. These were his parents, and though it may be impossible to improve their relationship, he felt it was worth the attempt.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “though honestly, I do wish we could meet somewhere else. I never did get used to Colchester and I don’t like coming back here at the best of times.”

Crowley wanted to suggest changing venues, but curiosity won out. “When did they move here? I assume you were in London when Gabriel passed away. Would’ve been odd if they’d chosen our funeral services all the way from Colchester.”

“It was about a year after he was gone. When it became clear that the police wouldn’t be able to help us. Them.” He coughed. “My parents rarely return to London. The city holds bad memories. It’s why my grandfather left the bookshop to me. My father would’ve sold it. It’s almost as if he blames London for Gabriel’s death.”

Better than blaming you, Crowley thought, but he kept that to himself. “Have they been in the same house ever since?”

Aziraphale gave a slight smile. “Indeed. I can show you my old bedroom. They’ve turned it into a piano room now.”

A thought struck Crowley. “Gabriel has a bedroom preserved here, doesn’t he? Even though it was never his home?”

“He does,” Aziraphale said quietly. “They moved everything as exactly as possible.”

The information made Crowley’s blood boil, the way the living son had been so carelessly shunted aside for the deceased. Before he could say anything, his husband took his hand.

“They’re very sad people, Crowley. I’m not saying that their actions are excusable in all things, but I understand the way grief can swallow you up and isolate you. And it doesn’t matter if I have a bedroom at their home any longer. I never wanted to come back here. It wasn’t a place of happy memories. All of those existed in London, where my brother and I were friends, at least to the extent brothers can be at that age. Come, the bus stop is right around the corner.”

The Malaikas hadn’t even come to the train station to pick them up. “Too busy” preparing for the “joint” party for Aziraphale and Gabriel, who both had March birthdays. Crowley had heard enough about the event to know that Aziraphale’s name was attached to it only perfunctorily. This was an annual memorial service. Another moment of Gabriel the Golden Child unwittingly overshadowing his younger brother.

“Are you sure you’re not nervous, dear?” Aziraphale asked, drawing Crowley out of his peevish thoughts. “I was dreadfully nervous to meet your family.”

Crowley shrugged and attempted a smile for his husband’s benefit. “They already think the worst of me. It can only improve from here, yeah?”

Married for over two months, and Crowley was finally meeting his in-laws. He hadn’t spoken with them since the bribery call in January. In February, Mrs Malaika had reached out to Aziraphale over email with a plea for him to “come to his senses” and understand that his parents “only wanted the best” for him. The two had then spent a series of phone calls discussing what was “best,” sometimes with Crowley holding his husband through the call. His impression was that Mrs Malaika’s concerns were far less financially-focused than her husband’s.

“It’s only that we don’t know him!” she’d once said, her voice loud enough over the landline that Aziraphale had pulled it away and rubbed at his ear. “Darling, I don’t know what I’ve done to make you feel that I didn’t want to meet your partners, but I do! I want to make sure they will take care of you! That’s my job as a mother!”

A bit late for that, Crowley had thought at the time. Still, he hadn’t complained when Aziraphale asked if he would be willing to attend this joint birthday party as a way to try to bridge the chasm that had cracked between parents and child. Crowley was obviously willing to do anything for his husband, bad idea or not.

But he was certainly going to stay as close to the man as possible throughout, protecting him from any potential barbs that came Aziraphale’s way.

By the time they reached the Malaikas’ insanely-large house—Crowley couldn’t begin to imagine how much it would cost in London—Aziraphale was trembling slightly. Crowley put an arm around his husband’s waist and whispered, “Together.”

Aziraphale gave him a grateful smile. “Together.”

Mr Malaika answered the door. He nodded at Aziraphale with a curt, “Hello, son,” then looked Crowley up and down. No matter what he’d said, the blatant once-over made Crowley extremely nervous. He’d worn his nicest trousers and blazer, and still he was sure that his father-in-law was judging him even more worthless than expected.

“Father,” Aziraphale said. “May we come in? I’d like to introduce you and Mother to my Cro—to my husband.”

Crowley squeezed his hip, then forced a smile to his lips. After another fraught moment, Mr Malaika stepped aside without another word.

“Azzi!” Mrs Malaika called when they entered the hall. She scurried over and took her son’s hands. “Oh, it’s so lovely to see you. Come in, come in.”

She gestured to a doorway on the right, and they followed her into a small sitting area, Mr Malaika bringing up the rear. It was perhaps the blandest room Crowley had ever seen. Two identical loveseats faced each other, both draped with knitted throws. The walls were adorned with a cross and two pieces of art featuring young children frolicking in a meadow. Aziraphale looked around and frowned. “Why are we in here?”

Crowley didn’t understand the question until Mr Malaika said, “We thought it appropriate to meet your partner in a more formal setting.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “Crowley is my husband!

“He’s a stranger to us.”

Father and son glared at each other. Crowley caught Mrs Malaika’s fretful expression and decided to intervene. “S’alright, angel. They don’t know me yet. I understand if they’re uncomfortable bringing me into the house proper.”

“But Crowley,” Aziraphale began, turning to him, brow wrinkled in concern.

Crowley smiled at him and smoothed a hand over those wrinkles. “It’s fine. Really.” He took Aziraphale’s hand and kissed it. “I promise.”

After a moment, Aziraphale crossed his arms and sat heavily on the sofa. Crowley set his rucksack on the floor and sat beside his husband, arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. The tense silence was broken by a clock chiming in a distant room, and Mrs Malaika rushed to say, “I’ll bring the tea!” A few moments later, she returned with a full tea set. She cleared her throat nervously and said, “So, Mr Crowley, what do you do for a living?” Her hand trembled as she handed him a teacup and saucer.

Aziraphale winced. Crowley didn’t know if it was at the forced cheerfulness in his mother’s voice, or because the question might lead to discussion of Gabriel’s death. He tried to smile in the most disarming way possible when he said, “I’m a mortician.”

Mr Malaika scoffed and muttered inarticulately under his breath. Aziraphale leaned forward and said, “Surely you knew that, Father? You had your solicitor investigate him.”

“The family solicitor,” Mr Malaika said.

“Certainly not my solicitor,” Aziraphale said.

“Do you have light sensitivity, Mr Crowley?” Mrs Malaika cut in, too loudly, before either her husband or son could argue further. “Would it help if I darkened the room?”

Crowley held up a hand as she started to rise again. “No, I’m fine. I have, ah, unusual-looking eyes so I tend to wear sunglasses to hide them.”

Cautiously, he removed them, expecting the Malaikas to flinch away. To his surprise, Mrs Malaika said, “I’ve seen eyes like yours before. Many years ago, on a child. How extraordinary! Do you find that people judge you for them? Is that why you hide them?”

“It’s easier to warn people first. They can be…startling.”

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale put in, and squeezed his hand.

Mr Malaika stood abruptly and left the room. “Oh dear,” Mrs Malaika said. “I’m so sorry, Aziraphale. He’ll come around; really he will. I’m working on him. It’s only—this happened so suddenly, and you know your father. He doesn’t like surprises. Not after… Well. Not for a long time. He’s worried for you. We’re both worried for you.”

“I have no intentions to hurt your son,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

From her pocket, Mrs Malaika pulled out a pale handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t understand any of this. Either it’s all a lie and a trick like my husband believes, or I have to accept that my son cares so little for his parents that he would date and get engaged and plan a whole wedding without saying a word to us. If our solicitor hadn’t found out the truth, would I even know I had a son-in-law right now? It’s too t-terrible to contemplate. And w-with it being so close to G-Gabriel’s birthday…”

“Aziraphale’s, too,” Crowley said quietly.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and there was pleading in his eyes. “Please?”

They stared at each other, communicating in a way that shouldn’t have been so easy only a few months into their acquaintance. After a moment, Crowley capitulated with a soft sigh. He only looked at his husband as he said, “So tell me, angel. What do you usually do at this birthday thing, when you’re not bringing home a husband for the first time?”

That caused Aziraphale to giggle, a sound that Crowley treasured so much by now. “Oh, it’s nothing too formal. Dinner and cake, sharing some memories from when my brother was here.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite story to tell? Did Gabriel ever sprain his wrist thumping you over the head and then tell your mum that he tripped and fell instead?” Crowley grinned and winked. “That was Freddie, by the way. Apparently, Bee has a hard head. Mum didn’t find out the truth until Freddie was almost thirty.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened gleefully. “Do the boys know?”

“Of course! It’s family lore.”

As Aziraphale laughed at that, Mrs Malaika said, “Oh, our Gabriel was nothing like that, I’m afraid. He was such an angel—”

“Gabriel was always very sporty,” Aziraphale began, cutting his mother off with a wicked grin. “And obviously, I am not. Once, he tried to teach me how to throw and catch better. We took some baseball gloves and a ball to the garden, but Crowley, I was terribly uncoordinated. And I threw the ball right through the back window.”

Crowley grinned, wondering where this story was going, as Mrs Malaika said, “Whatever are you talking about, darling?”

“I take it that you didn’t tell your parents,” Crowley said. In his peripheral vision, Mr Malaika stepped back into the doorframe, listening intently, fists clenched at his sides. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice him.

“Oh it’s better than that,” Aziraphale said, stumbling over his words as he held back laughter. “Gabriel panicked. He thought we’d be in so much trouble, so after he hid away the sports equipment, we went next door and said our window had been smashed in. The police were called and everything. Mum was in hysterics, thinking we’d almost encountered a burglar. It all grew to be a much bigger deal than we’d anticipated. That night, we pinky-swore that we’d never tell a soul. Sorry, Mother.”

Mrs Malaika was staring at Aziraphale, her mouth a perfect O of shock, and for the first time, Crowley saw the resemblance between them. From the doorway, her husband blustered, “Our boy would never—”

“Angel! You devious creature!” Crowley interrupted with a laugh as Aziraphale startled at his father’s voice. “Oh, I would have liked to meet your brother. He sounds deeeaaaah, um, right.”

The smile Aziraphale gave him was both grateful and shy. “I think you would have liked him.”

Mrs Malaika burst into noisy sobs. They both turned to look at her as her husband rushed over to embrace her. “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing again at her eyes. “It’s only… My little boy… I never knew this. I never… Thank you, Azzi. This gift, this treasure, to learn something new about my Gabe after all this time…” She stood and flapped a hand toward her son, who moved in to hug her. “Come through to the kitchen, both of you. Mr Crowley, I’m sorry we’ve been so awkward. It’s hard to— Well. I’m sure it’ll get easier with time.”

Looking at Mr Malaika, he wasn’t so sure. But he smiled anyway and said, “It’s just Crowley.”

 


 

As always, his parents served coconut cake. Aziraphale hated coconut cake. Gabriel hadn’t particularly liked it, either, but he’d chosen it in a fit of pique during their last shared birthday. The Malaikas had assumed it to be his favorite and had made it every year since. There was irony in that: Gabriel’s moment of ire, apologized for after Aziraphale vomited that night from the texture of the desiccated coconut, had lived on to haunt his brother for decades.

By the time he’d reached adulthood, Aziraphale had learned every trick to minimize the amount of flaking he felt or chewed while forced through this yearly ritual. He no longer got sick, but it would be days before he felt safe around food again afterwards. He would have to explain his lack of appetite to Crowley. They hadn’t discussed this particular texture before.

There was a wrinkle between Crowley’s eyes as he watched Mrs Malaika light two candles. Aziraphale wished he could ask what he was thinking. He squeezed his husband’s hand and smiled at him, trying to reassure him and smooth out whatever that wrinkle meant. It didn’t work. Crowley squeezed his hand back and said, “I’m so sorry, but I’m allergic to coconut.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to frown. They’d talked about food allergies. The only thing that had come up was shellfish.

“Oh dear,” his mother said, one hand fluttering around her face. “We didn’t know! This was Gabriel’s favorite cake, so we make it in his honor every year, and… I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said with a tight smile. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I’m not a big dessert person anyway. I don’t mind skipping the cake.”

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand again, and suddenly, Aziraphale understood. Crowley was not allergic to coconut. Crowley was giving him a chance to avoid the cake!

“I probably shouldn’t partake either, then,” Aziraphale said. “You know how easy it is to get coconut stuck between your teeth. No need for a kiss to become a death trap!”

He gave a little laugh at that and reveled in the indulgent smile that he received in reply. “Thanks, angel,” Crowley said. “You’re so thoughtful.”

No, you are, Aziraphale wanted to say. He was going to escape unscathed this year! And now, his parents would never try to serve him desiccated coconut again! How had he gotten so incredibly lucky to find this person—someone who was not only willing to help him, but who also understood instinctively when he needed help? Crowley was arguing with Mrs Malaika, insisting that he was fine without a different, last-minute dessert. His mother was never going to give in without gifting him something, so Aziraphale said, “He won’t say no to an after-dinner cup of espresso.”

Crowley shot him a bemused look. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t, but really, it’s fine.”

Mrs Malaika made him an espresso. She made Aziraphale a hot chocolate. Mr Malaika said nothing and continued to scowl through the proceedings.

Once the cake was cut and plated, the four of them moved into the not-so-formal living room. Crowley frowned as he looked around. Aziraphale ought to have warned him, he supposed. The room was practically a memorial to Gabriel, with his giant framed portrait and all the other photos and paraphernalia up on the main wall. Sure, there were photos of Aziraphale somewhere in here, too, but as usual, his brother dominated the room.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale murmured, hoping that Crowley wouldn’t say anything. They were almost through with this visit, and it had been going better since he’d told that silly story about his escapade with Gabriel.

The Malaikas took the loveseat together, leaving the armchairs free. Aziraphale shot Crowley an apologetic look as he sat in one, but his husband didn’t bother with a chair. He grabbed a pillow to use as a cushion and sat in front of Aziraphale, close enough to touch shoulder to knee.

Mrs Malaika smiled indulgently at them and said, “Newlyweds.” Her titter almost drowned out the huff from her husband. She gave him a reproachful look, then turned back to Aziraphale. “Azzi, do you have any other stories about Gabe that you’ve been keeping hidden all this time?”

He blushed. “I’m not sure. There are things I remember differently, of course, having a child’s perspective at the time.” No one had ever asked him how he remembered his brother. The memories—family lore, as Crowley had called it earlier—had solidified before Aziraphale was old enough to realize that he might have a different take on things.

“Did you always share birthday parties?” Crowley asked.

“We did!” Aziraphale smiled at him. Those were more pleasant memories. “With our birthdays so close together, we’d have a larger party with both of our friends. We alternated years—one of us would choose the theme, one of us the cake. I know some siblings would have complained, but often our friends would bring presents for us both, so it meant that we each got more to open.” He giggled, happy to see Crowley’s face light up with that grin he got when he thought Aziraphale was less-than-angelic. “We were such greedy little things.”

“Your brother wasn’t greedy,” Mr Malaika began.

“Of course he was,” Aziraphale said, looking his father full in the eye. “He was a child, for heaven’s sake! Of course he wanted more gifts! That doesn’t make him evil, Father. I love Gabriel, but he was a person like any of the rest of us, and he did things that were selfish and spiteful and greedy sometimes. I mean, the whole thing with the coconut cake—”

He cut himself off abruptly. He hadn’t meant to admit that. Unfortunately, his mother perked up at the mention, a bloodhound catching a scent. “What’s that, darling?” she asked. “About his favorite cake?”

She sounded so eager, so hungry for new information about her lost son, and Aziraphale’s stomach curdled with guilt. This was not a good memory that she’d want to carry around with her. “Oh, um, well, maybe that’s not the best…”

“Please, Azzi,” she said, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief again. “If there’s anything new that I can learn about my son…”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, trying to convey his panic without giving too much away to his parents. The tight nod he received in reply reassured him. His husband didn’t know the story, but he had a Plan.

“Do you know,” Crowley said, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s knee, “that your son has sensory processing disorder?”

“Of all the preposterous nonsense,” Mr Malaika muttered, while Mrs Malaika frowned in confusion. “Gabriel—”

“I wasn’t talking about Gabriel,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “Your other son has sensory triggers. Like with food, for instance. Coconut, especially desiccated coconut, is a common trigger for people with SPD, including my sister.”

“Oh, you mean all that gagging Aziraphale did when he was younger, whenever he was trying to get out of eating something he didn’t like?” Mr Malaika rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “He was a child. He grew out of it.”

Tears sprang to Aziraphale’s eyes. He felt very, very small, but his voice was steady when he said, “No. He just got better at hiding it.”

Clock chimes rang through the room, giving them all space to consider what he’d said. When it was silent again, his mother asked, “Azzi? Are you saying that you don’t like coconut? But you always eat a slice of Gabe’s cake! Well, obviously not this year, with your husband’s allergy—”

“He’s not allergic,” Aziraphale said at the same time that Crowley said, “I’m not, I only said—” They grinned at each other, and then Crowley said to him, “Glad you knew.”

“Of course, dear. Coconuts are mollusks, not crustaceans.”

It was a terrible joke, but Crowley nonetheless started to giggle, which set Aziraphale off until they were both breathless with laughter, their drinks set aside and abandoned. His parents stared at them, uncomprehending, though Aziraphale saw a softness in his mother’s expression that was certainly not mirrored in his father’s.

“So!” Crowley said suddenly, slapping his knees. “Is it time for presents?”

Aziraphale blushed, his stomach turning over again. With a brief glance at his parents, he said, “Oh, we don’t—that is to say—gifts aren’t—” He clenched his hands together, knowing exactly how his husband was going to react to this news. “We have a party, rather than gifts.”

He glanced at Crowley, whose expression was unreadable. His words sounded light when he spoke, though Aziraphale recognized the strain in them. “That’s too bad. You saw how much my family adores the whole gift-giving process. They make it into a thing. Speaking of which…” He reached behind him for his rucksack and pulled it into his lap. “Since we aren’t having a gathering at home, everyone sent along your presents with me.”

A strange feeling spread through Aziraphale’s body. Warmth and fondness, mixed with embarrassment and trepidation. He had no idea how his parents would react to the idea of him receiving gifts at a party that was essentially thrown for Gabriel. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them.

“Should I save them until we’re home, angel?”

The softness in Crowley’s voice unraveled some of the knot in his stomach. Aziraphale took his hand, an intense wave of love spilling over him. It felt so incredible to be understood. “I suppose it might be better—” he began.

“Of course you must open them, darling!” his mother said. Aziraphale looked up, blinking rapidly. She was smiling at him, and while his father looked less than overjoyed at the prospect, he didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale was astonished at the number of packages that came from the rucksack. He hadn’t seen so many gifts for him since the days of shared parties. As he opened each one, he grew teary-eyed. They were so personal, all of them, from the hand-drawn cards from his new nephews to the fluffy mouse from Mary Meowgdalene.

Muriel had included a note with this last gift: Mary Meowgdalene thought you would like how soft this toy is. She knows you are not a cat, but softness is for people, too!

Aziraphale grinned and rubbed the toy along his cheek before he thought to stop himself. He blushed again and kept his eyes firmly averted from his parents.

“My mum said you needed to open this one last,” Crowley said before anyone commented on his behavior. “Of course, my presents for you are at home, but they’ll wait for your actual birthday!”

“My dear, you shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale murmured. He took the proffered gift, which was clearly a framed photo even though it was wrapped. Carefully, he tucked his thumb under a seam and unfolded the paper with reverence. “Oh, Crowley!” he said when he saw the frame’s contents.

The photo was from the wedding, but not one from their professional photographer. It was a candid shot with Aziraphale in the foreground, his eyes alight as he laughed. Crowley stood behind him, one hand on his lower back, the look on his face fond and adoring. Across from them stood Tracy, an arm flung around Mary at her side. Mary stared at the camera for once. Everyone held champagne glasses. Aziraphale tried to recall this particular moment, but the entire wedding had been a haze of excitement and nerves. He turned the frame over to find a sticky note on the back.

This is my favorite of all the photos I’ve seen. You look so happy, Aziraphale Malaika. I hope my Antonio continues to make you smile this way, and that you continue to return his love. Thank you for accepting his family, MY family, with open arms.

“What does she mean?” Aziraphale asked, turning to Crowley. “Why would she thank me? Your family took me in, not the other way around.”

He handed the photo to Crowley, who held it up to read the note stuck to the back. A smile spread over his face. “Well, you know how loud and chaotic my family is.” When Aziraphale nodded, he said, “I’ve brought other partners home before. Some have been polite, others have not. All of them have avoided future family gatherings whenever possible.”

Appalled, Aziraphale opened his mouth, but his mother cut him off. “Can I see that photo?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, reaching to hand it to her. Aziraphale had a moment of anxiety, worried that the frame might drop and shatter before it was safely in his mother’s grasp.

Indeed, Mrs Malaika’s hands were unsteady as she peered closer at the photo. “Red hair,” she said, seemingly out of nowhere. She pointed to the photo as she looked at Crowley. “Is this your mother?” He nodded, and she set the frame aside almost reverently as tears began to slip down her cheeks. “You must have been the child I saw, with those unusual eyes. It was at the f-funeral. You were with another child, a dark-haired girl. You both stared at us as we went into the chapel. I remember feeling so sad that Azzi no longer had a brother to stand beside him, the way you two stood together.”

A pang burst through Aziraphale’s chest at her words. Not only had his family used Crowley’s family business, but the two of them had passed within feet of each other?

“I don’t know how I didn’t make the connection before,” Mrs Malaika continued. “The eyes, the red curls, and you a mortician! It’s a family business, isn’t it?”

Crowley squirmed on his cushion. “Mmyeah. Potts’ Funeral Services. Been in the family since my great-grandfather’s day.” He glanced up at Aziraphale, who smiled in encouragement and put a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t know your family were clients until recently. And I definitely don’t remember seeing any of you at a service. My siblings and I were always around the funeral home, though. Sounds like Bee and I must’ve slipped our brother’s watch to come and gawk. I’m so sorry. We didn’t really know any better in those days.”

“I can’t believe we were in the same room as children,” Aziraphale said. Crowley looked at him, his expression ever so soft. “It’s like fate, the number of times we’ve almost-met.”

“Fate, my arse!” Mr Malaika’s voice suddenly thundered through the room, causing Aziraphale to jump. “Is that how you’ve pulled this scam?” he continued, standing and pointing a shaking finger at Crowley. “I knew it. I knew it. Our solicitor will be hearing about this. Funeral home records! Of all the underhanded methods to find potential targets—”

“Father, what are you—?” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off.

“I am not targeting your son or your family or your wealth! How many times do I have to tell you? Isn’t it proof enough that I refused to take your money when you offered? That I signed a prenup that denies me any portion of the property that you’re so worried about if we end up divorcing? What is it about me that offends you so much? Or do you simply think that no one would want to marry your son, because if that’s the case, you couldn’t be more wrong!”

Aziraphale struggled to breathe as he processed everything his husband said. “C-Crowley,” he whimpered, his voice cracking.

Crowley turned to him, the anger softening to remorse. “Oh, angel, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He raised his hands, offering a hug but not taking one, letting Aziraphale decide, and oh, Aziraphale needed to be held right now. Heedless of how he looked, he slid to the floor and let himself be embraced. He buried his face in Crowley’s chest, not wanting to see the world around him—his parents or this room frozen in time, a tribute to a child dead for so, so, so many years.

Across the room, his mother spoke, voice shrill. “You tried to bribe them out of marrying?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, not wanting to hear his father’s reply. “I want to go home.”

“Absolutely, angel. Let’s go.”

 


 

Crowley was angry. At Mr Malaika for his continued insistence that their marriage was a con. At Mrs Malaika’s ignorance, making her neglect of Aziraphale, in his opinion, even worse. At both of his in-laws for subjecting their son to years and years of bigotry and sensory abuse and the role of a “lesser son.”

Most of all, though, he was angry at himself. He should not have snapped like that, should not have brought up the bribe in that way. Aziraphale was in pain, and that was now mostly Crowley’s fault.

Mrs Malaika followed them as they gathered their shoes and coats and prepared to leave. “Please, Azzi! Give me a few minutes to figure out what’s going on, what your father has done, and we can talk. Don’t walk away. I c-can’t bear to lose another s-son!”

The tears worked magic, and Aziraphale relented. “We’ll wait in here, then,” he said, pointing toward the formal sitting room where they’d begun the night. Crowley followed him, dropping beside him when his hand was tugged. His husband’s face was mournful and pleading, his eyes shiny. Voice catching, he said, “I’d like to be held, if…if you don’t mind.”

Crowley slid his arms around him at once. “I’ll always hold you, as long as you want me to.”

They sat silently for a few moments, Aziraphale trembling in his arms. From the other room came raised voices, the Malaikas arguing about the bribery, no doubt. Crowley wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but he held his tongue, giving the other man space to think and process and talk when he was ready. Eventually, Aziraphale took a shuddering breath and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Nngh. It was the night that you met my family, after the, ngh, almost-accident. You were asleep when he called, and by morning, I thought…” The distant argument ceased abruptly. Crowley sighed. He hoped the Malaikas would give the two of them a few moments alone to finish this conversation. “I didn’t want to hurt you. It was bad enough that they refused to come to the wedding, but bribery! I thought about how I would feel if someone in my family had tried to pay you off… Sorry. I should have told you.”

There was movement in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see Mr Malaika settle into the doorframe, expression unreadable. Had he been listening? Was he coming here to apologize? To accuse Crowley of something further? To kick them both out of the house?

“I don’t need protection,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes were locked on his father-in-law’s, trying to anticipate what would happen next. It took him a moment to register his husband’s words. Ashamed, he tried to pull back, but Aziraphale held him firmly, not letting him go. “I appreciate the sentiment, but please, don’t keep that kind of secret from me again?”

He nodded quickly. His vision blurred with tears that he tried and failed to blink back. Aziraphale must have sensed them, because he lifted Crowley’s face and then slowly, gently, kissed his eyes one by one.

“I forgive you,” he said with a wavering smile. “But next time, you’ll have to dance for me.”

Crowley gave a startled laugh at that. His bastard angel. Of course, he’d never forget the apology dance. “How are you so perfect?” he said, not for the first time.

“Angels are made that way, you know.”

God, he loved this silly man. As Crowley hugged Aziraphale, his father-in-law slipped quietly away without a word. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the man’s expression had finally softened.

Notes:

I hope I’ve been able to give a bit more context to the Malaikas’ viewpoints in this whole thing here. It is not as simple as “they are shitty parents.” I mean, this IS a fluff fic, so…

On a practical note: I don’t want to feel as stressed about chapters as I did on the last one. This manuscript is in the part I always struggle to write, and with two fics ongoing, I don’t want to push this one to try to churn chapters out. I said it before, but I’ll reiterate on this chapter – I might skip a week periodically until I can get back into the flow of the story. If all goes well, there won’t be anything missed, but I’m going to focus as much as I can on getting the rest of Regret List written so that I can give this one my full focus afterwards.

Aaaaand as a shameless self-promotion: If you haven’t already seen it, last week I posted a short(er) fic called To Catch a Ghost as part of the Good Omens Big Bang. This paranormal ghost-hunter AU was written last summer and is finally up for people to read. It’s a silly, spooky romp where our duo are (ofc) pining for each other, and get caught in a maybe-haunted house together. Gorgeous artwork (from an actual artist!), and a fun story that I plan to eventually turn into a series. Read if you dare wish!

***ETA: It has been kindly pointed out to me (thank you!! I really do appreciate it!) that baseball is a very American sport and not something that would be common among British children. Originally, I planned to alter the chapter to fix this, but realized that Gabriel is Gabriel, and he would have been a kid obsessed with baseball (probably to the point of having his own little Outfit!) and he would of course force his younger brother to play catch with him. So I'm going to pretend this was what I planned all along and that I wasn't just letting my American show. 😄

Chapter 18: The Date

Summary:

Aziraphale decides to take Crowley out as a thank you for all the ways that Crowley has made his life better.

***
Crowley had been staring up at the seemingly endless floors above. At the words, his eyes snapped down to meet Aziraphale’s. “N-no! No, it’s good, angel. Only I’m surprised and… Are you sure? It’s nothing special, not really. Just some—”

Aziraphale covered his mouth. “Don’t tell me. I haven’t even seen pictures. I want it to be a surprise. I even brought a blindfold!”

Notes:

Honestly, I didn’t think there was going to be a chapter this week, soooooo shoutout to my two betas unicornbeck and beerok23, and to my unofficial brainstorming partner IneffableRainstorm, for poking these words into the right configuration when they were a complete mess.

Heads-up: The end of this chapter has a bit of borderline M-rated content but nothing explicit.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

By mid-April, Aziraphale had given up. Portia would not be contained. After she’d thrice almost caused him to fall streaking out of the flat between his feet, only to hide amongst the stacks until he gave up looking for her, Aziraphale installed a cat flap on his front door. Portia spent her days in the bookshop picture window, especially when she could lie belly-up in the sunbeams. At first, he worried that she’d try to escape outside like Crowley had predicted. However, Portia seemed content to run to the door’s hinges whenever a customer entered or exited, sniffing at the tiny gust of air that came through.

“Why does she do that?” one customer asked, peering down at the eager cat standing at attention at the crack of the door.

Aziraphale remembered the way Crowley had first described her. Smart, “but in a way that makes her seem stupid.” He chuckled and told the customer, “That’s just Portia.”

At least he never worried about Viola, who was content to lie in the soft bed he’d brought downstairs to position next to his register. There, she was free to nap, groom, or beg for attention from both Aziraphale and customers with hardly a twitch of muscle. Aziraphale took to talking to her throughout the day, breaking up the silence in his shop. Viola chirped back from time to time, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so content in his life.

That was entirely Crowley’s doing. Everything about life had improved since this man had sauntered into it with his ridiculously slinky walk and flashed him that sharp-toothed smile. Even Aziraphale’s relationship with his parents was improving. Or, at least, the relationship with his mother. He wasn’t sure he could forgive his father yet for the bribery attempt—especially without an apology from Mr Malaika. It seemed unlikely such a thing would be forthcoming.

The best apology would be a cessation of this lawsuit nonsense, anyway. They were weeks past his forty-fifth birthday now and the decision about ownership of the bookshop and flat was still pending the legal inquiry into his marriage’s validity. It was the only part of Aziraphale’s life at present that frustrated him. He couldn’t understand why this was even a question. Other than the fact that he and Crowley weren’t having sex, their relationship resembled a marriage in every way. Besides, he was pretty sure that many married couples—his parents included—rarely centered their relationship around sex. It was a benefit, not a requirement.

A benefit he sometimes idly wished he could ask for, but didn’t dare. He could see that Crowley cared for him. Probably far more than was healthy for him, considering the whole reason he’d agreed to this arrangement was to avoid entanglements for a few years. Aziraphale had fallen easily into allowing line after line to be crossed. It was so nice to kiss the man, so nice to be held and cuddled, so nice to accept compliments and gifts and little gestures of kindness. He felt a bit like a starving man given food for the first time, and he struggled not to eat. Even if that meant depriving Crowley of his needs.

Every time Aziraphale thought about this, he felt guilty, and yet, he never managed to keep his resolve to put space between them. Just last night, Crowley had come home from work with a bouquet for him, made up of snapdragon, stock, and freesia.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said as he handed it over. “Even if the hellions get into it, everything here is nontoxic for cats.”

They had then kissed for long enough that Aziraphale had to quietly excuse himself to take care of things afterwards.

The bouquet now sat on the opposite side of Aziraphale’s register from Viola’s bed, its light floral scent intermingling with that of ink and paper and wood. Home, his mind supplied as he idly stroked the purring cat.

The shop bell clanged. Portia ran to the door in time to catch the backdraft of outside air. Chris, the web developer, loped into the shop with a wave. They wore an almost identical outfit as the last two times they’d come to visit, only their t-shirt changed. Today’s tank top featured a rainbow sheep on the front.

“Nice flowers,” they said with a nod toward the bouquet. They scritched the top of Viola’s head. “Mind if I settle in?”

“Not at all, dear.”

Chris grinned and swaggered over to sit by where Portia had resettled at the window. On their last visit, they had proclaimed that this was the perfect space for creative thinking while at work. And as Aziraphale had seen, Chris’ work was incredible. The bookshop’s new website was up and running now, a beautiful array of pages that reflected the ambiance of the business itself. Aziraphale had been quite impressed, especially with Chris’ photography skills.

Crowley had been equally impressed, and had insisted that Chris send digital copies of certain photos that he could then print and frame. He’d hung them next to their favorite wedding shots and the photo that Tracy had gifted Aziraphale. Other prints—including ones of the cats, of Crowley’s family, and even a small one of Gabriel that Aziraphale had kept since childhood—completed the display. Aziraphale had come upstairs after closing the shop one day to discover the arrangement, and was startled into tears. For the first time in decades, several portraits of himself were on prominent display in his home.

It had been a momentous gesture for him, but Crowley had shrugged off his thanks as if the whole undertaking had been ordinary. Like the bouquet of safe-for-cat flowers. Or the way he kept stomping on his own boundaries because Aziraphale was too selfish to stop asking for things he shouldn’t.

“Hey, Chris?” Aziraphale said, the words out of his mouth before he realized he was going to speak.

Chris didn’t look up from their laptop. “Hmm? What’s that?”

“Where would you take Crowley on a date?” A split second after he spoke, Aziraphale realized what he’d said. “No! I mean… I don’t mean where would you take him—I mean, if one were to take him, if Crowley were to be on a date, I mean—”

“Don’t worry, I don’t swing that way,” Chris said with a wink, smirking at him now.

Aziraphale huffed. “I only meant—oh, I’m no good at this. Bother. I want to take him somewhere, but I don’t think he would be interested in my favorite spaces.”

“He’d be interested in anywhere you wanted to take him,” Chris said.

Aziraphale shook that off with annoyance, in part because he knew it was true. That wasn’t the point. He didn’t want to take Crowley somewhere that the man would enjoy because Aziraphale did. He wanted to take his husband to a place that he would love even if he was alone. Somewhere uniquely Crowley. The problem was that he was no good at coming up with ideas. He’d rarely ventured outside of his comfort zone in London, and Crowley seemed to have experienced everything already. What would be the point of taking him somewhere he’d been before?

“He’s so good to me,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I want to do something for him in return. Take him someplace new. Show him something magical. Only I don’t feel adequate for the task. He’s lived so much more than me. I feel so…so…so boring next to him.” He sighed. “Sometimes I feel like I’m taking advantage of him. Not doing my part, as his h-husband.”

“Have you ever been to Sky Garden?” Chris said suddenly, apropos of nothing. Startled, Aziraphale shook his head. Chris set their laptop aside and stood, causing Portia’s ears to perk up for potential door-opening. The web developer, however, dragged a stool over to Aziraphale. “Figured not—it’s more a tourist thing than a Londoner destination. Crowley loves it, though.”

That immediately shot down the budding idea of taking his husband there…

“I remember once how excited he was to take one of his exes there. I won’t mention the arsehole’s name. Crowley had to cajole the idiot into going, and then the whole time the ex complained about how boring and pointless it was. All Crowley wanted was to share it with someone, to show them a place he loved without being made to feel stupid for loving it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Honestly, Chris? That feels like the bare minimum, not insulting the things that make your partner happy.”

“You’d think so, right? Unfortunately, as I said, the guy was an arse.” They began to tap on their mobile, not looking at Aziraphale as they spoke. “Imagine this scenario: You get tickets to Sky Garden, a place you know Crowley enjoys. You don’t look it up beforehand. You go in blind—maybe you even close your eyes and let that man guide you to his favorite spot. Then you open your eyes and see…whatever it is that you see. Worst case scenario? You’ve taken him somewhere he enjoys without disparaging it, and the two of you have a nice date. Best case scenario? You’re blown away by Sky Garden, your whole face lights up with joy, and Crowley gets to see you filled with wonder, a shared wonder in a location that he already loves.”

Aziraphale looked at the bouquet of flowers, biting his lip. The picture that Chris had painted was lovely, and yet… “Wouldn’t that be selfish, though? I want to give Crowley something he’ll delight in, not give myself something n—”

“Here,” Chris interrupted. They held out their mobile. “I got tickets for you, with dinner reservations. Won’t be until the end of May, sorry about that, but that’ll give you plenty of time to decide all the ways you want to make this date special.”

They grinned and winked again, causing Aziraphale to blush. Clearly, they couldn’t mean… Well, they could, but… Aziraphale set the tempting thought aside. “How much do I owe you?”

“My treat, Az! I was just there in February, and I’d forgotten what a cool place that is. You’ll love it. Crowley will love being there with you. Stop worrying so much!”

Chris beamed at him, and Aziraphale’s request not to be called Az died in his throat. In general, he didn’t like nicknames (Crowley’s “angel” aside), but Chris was so kind and good for all their chaotic energy, and he didn’t have the heart to ask them. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that very much.”

Shaking their head, Chris chuckled and said, “You really are a gem. I definitely see why he likes you.” They gave him a wicked grin. “But don’t worry, man. Like I said. I don’t swing that way.”

 


 

On the last Friday in May, Aziraphale packed bags for the two of them and took the bus to the fancy hotel he’d reserved for that night. While he wouldn’t be giving his husband something new like he’d originally wanted, he could at least make this outing an entire experience. He set up their room with several bottles of wine, some fancy chocolates that he knew Crowley was partial to, and The Couples Game, which Maggie and Nina had recommended as “completely ridiculous but still kind of cute.” Once he had everything in place, he slipped a soft sleep mask into his jacket pocket and made his way to the funeral home.

“I still want to know what you have planned,” Crowley complained as they set off together.

Aziraphale had only told him to shower after work and “dress nicely” for the evening. He himself had worn his favorite waistcoat and bow tie. Not that either could be seen with his jacket firmly shut against the incessant drizzle. The weather had not cooperated with his plans. There was little chance of their dinner reservations coinciding with a beautiful, romantic sunset.

“Come ooooonnnn, angel! Tell me where you’re taking me. I could drive us. I’ll be extra careful. Pretty please?”

“Don’t be silly, Crowley,” he said with a fond smile at the man’s exaggerated pout. “It’s a surprise! It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Crowley made a noise like a chair being scraped across the floor, but he didn’t complain again.

They reached the tube station quickly. By the time they exited at Monument, there was a pause in the drizzle. At first, Aziraphale thought this was why his husband stopped abruptly on the pavement. Then Crowley turned wide eyes on him.

“I know you aren’t planning a romantic walk across the bridge in this rain,” he said.

Aziraphale laughed. “I doubt such a walk would qualify as romantic regardless of the weather. Far too many tourists.”

“Besides,” Crowley continued like there hadn’t been any interruption, “we would’ve gotten off at Tower Hill if…”

He shook his head as he trailed off, eyes still wide. Aziraphale reached to thread their fingers together and tugged lightly. “Let’s go, my dear. We have a reservation that we ought not to miss!”

Crowley sputtered consonants but followed him through the blocks that led to Sky Garden. He only stopped again when they’d reached the grounds of the building in question.

“Angel…”

“I don’t understand why people call this the walkie-talkie. It looks more like a microphone.”

With a startled laugh, Crowley said, “I s’pose so. Have you, um, been here before?”

“I haven’t, but it comes highly recommended.” The look he received in response was akin to panic. Aziraphale remembered the story about Crowley’s ex. He took both his husband’s hands and kissed his cheek. “Will you show it to me? Show me why it’s special to you? Or…or have I chosen poorly?”

Crowley had been staring up at the seemingly endless floors above. At the words, his eyes snapped down to meet Aziraphale’s. “N-no! No, it’s good, angel. Only I’m surprised and… Are you sure? It’s nothing special, not really. Just some—”

Aziraphale covered his mouth. “Don’t tell me. I haven’t even seen pictures. I want it to be a surprise. I even brought a blindfold!”

“A b-blindfold?”

“So you can lead me to your favorite location for the reveal! I trust you.” He pulled the sleep mask from his pocket and waved it around enthusiastically. Crowley slowly started to grin. A gust of wind spattered droplets over them both, though it was impossible to tell if it was rain or merely the water clinging to nearby vegetation. They both shivered.

“Right! I s’pose we should head inside then, eh, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded and took his hand again. “Thank you, my dear.”

He thought he heard Crowley murmur, “No, thank you,” but the drizzle had begun again, and the pattering on leaves was loud enough to make him wonder if the words were a figment of his imagination.

 


 

I trust you.

Crowley tried not to be nervous as they rode the lift up. He hadn’t brought anyone here since Jean-Luc. After that catastrophe, he’d endured weeks of “teasing.” Years later, when Nick had expressed interest in Sky Garden, Crowley had dismissed it as a “stupid tourist trap” and declined to accompany him. Nick had come back to the flat afterwards with a shrug, declaring the place “overrated” and “no big deal.”

It was a big deal to Crowley, however. He came here several times a year, on his own, just to spend time in the sunlight among the plants. Sure, there were oodles of tourists and the place was often noisy, but noise and chaos and people had never bothered Crowley. He had no idea why Aziraphale wanted to come here. Obviously, someone had put him up to it.

I trust you, he’d said, and it was clear that his husband meant it. Aziraphale had put on the ridiculous sleep mask—it was designed to look like white clouds and had clearly come from the nearest Boots—before they even stepped into the lift. Crowley glared at the other passengers, some of whom were trying to suppress sniggers, and held Aziraphale’s hand tightly. The man was grinning broadly and nearly bouncing with excitement. When they reached the top floor, they let everyone else off first, and then Crowley guided his husband safely into the main room of Sky Garden. He wasn’t quite sure where to go from there.

Aziraphale had said to lead him to his favorite spot, but what did that mean? Most likely, the man would best enjoy the view of London, assuming they could see anything in this atrocious weather. Would that mean his “reveal” would be disappointing? Rain-streaked glass and a grey tinge to distant buildings? Or they could remove the mask here, close to the lift, to first show Aziraphale the architectural marvel that was the Garden’s window-wall. Did he care about architecture? Was there anything here that he cared about?

“Crowley?” he asked, voice quiet and unsure. “Is everything… Are you well?”

“I’m debating where would be best for your reveal.”

“In your favorite spot. I told you that before.”

“I know, but…” His favorite spot, or as close to a favorite as Crowley had, wasn’t terribly impressive. In fact, from where he liked to hide in the Garden, there was hardly any view, not of London, nor of the architecture, nor really of more than the closest plants. “It’s not impressive. Not really a good feel for what Sky Garden is, either.”

With the hand that wasn’t holding Crowley’s, Aziraphale reached for him and brushed his fingers against his cheek. “Impressive has never meant much to me. I’m far more interested in what you find worth seeing here. Besides, I can always see the rest of it afterwards!”

I trust you.

Crowley squeezed his hand. “Alright. I’m going to need to lead you up a number of stairs. We’ll go slow.”

They made their way to the mid-level of the Garden, then back along a pathway where paving stones gave way to dirt. Normally, Crowley liked to sit against the wall of the stairwell that led to the restaurant above. From there, he could look out over dirt and plants and distant sun (when it was visible) shining through towering windows. This evening, however, he decided that the nearby concrete bench would be better—he couldn’t ask his husband to sit on the dirt ground blindfolded. There was too much, texturally, that he may recoil from.

“Sit here,” he said, glad that the bench was currently free.

Aziraphale felt around the edges to be sure of the boundaries, then sat primly to one side. Crowley dropped next to him and put an arm around his waist.

“Right, angel. This is it. Try not to be too disappointed, yeah?”

Though the sky was cloudy and grey, Aziraphale still blinked a number of times as his eyes adjusted to the post-blindfold light. Then he seemed to see the world around him, and his mouth opened in an “Oh!” of wonder. He grabbed Crowley’s arm with both hands. “Oh my! It’s incredible! Are those trees growing there? In the…in the…sky?”

Crowley laughed. “Well, not quite the sky, of course. I’m sure there’s a whole system of dirt and compost and water filtration under our feet. But yeah. The plants are alive and thriving in the ‘ground,’ so to speak.”

“They can’t be real!” Aziraphale stood and crossed the pathway to stroke a few of the leaves. His hand jerked back almost at once. “I can’t believe this! Chris said Sky Garden and I thought that was a metaphor! But this is an actual, real-life sky garden!”

Ah. So Chris had set this up. He should have guessed. His friend had taken to spending a lot of time in Aziraphale’s bookshop. “That’s really only one aspect of the place.” When Aziraphale turned to him, astonishment in his expression, Crowley grinned. “Come on, angel. Let me show you around. It’s better on a clear day, but you can get an idea of things even when it’s weepy outside.”

For the next half-hour, Crowley led his husband around Sky Garden, and every cry of delight was like a healing salve for his soul. He had been prepared for Aziraphale to drum up enthusiasm for his sake. He hadn’t been prepared for the gasps and squeals and moments his husband grabbed his hand to hurry him along to the next new thing that had caught his eye.

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale reached his hand toward the barrier glass and pulled away conscientiously before he touched it. “You must be able to see the whole of London from this vantage on a good day. We simply must come back!”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s rather crowded up here, even more on nice days, and—”

His husband turned to him so abruptly that Crowley cut off mid-sentence. His expression was fierce, as if he simultaneously wanted to scold Crowley and kiss him. “Of course I’m sure!”

Unsure how to respond, Crowley made some kind of noise in his throat that caused Aziraphale’s eyes to go soft and hesitant.

“Unless… Bother. I’m being selfish again, aren’t I? I wanted to give you something magical, and here I am, co-opting it, taking it away—”

Now it was Crowley who turned fierce eyes on his husband. He took a step forward, cupped a hand around Aziraphale’s blond curls, and growled, “Don’t you dare call yourself selfish for this. Angel. You have no idea how much of a gift this evening has been.”

“Are you sure?”

The words were quiet, barely there, a soft current that glided over Crowley’s face. He pressed a gentle kiss to his husband’s lips. “As sure as you are that you want to return. Please trust me. This has been absolutely lovely. Best date I could have asked for. Honestly.”

Aziraphale gave a quiet laugh at that and pressed their foreheads together. “Oh, my dear, we’re just getting started.”

 


 

If we ran a restaurant together, what would it be named?” Crowley set down the card he’d pulled from the box. “What’s with all the naming questions?”

“I have no idea, my dear,” Aziraphale said. His words had gone clipped and prim as the night—and his alcohol consumption—progressed. “Maggie and Nina said it was a fun game, so I thought… I thought… Well, I thought something, anyway.”

Crowley grinned. “Iss gotta be a pun, y’know. Like our secret angel names. I mean agent. Spy names. Spy restaurant. Whass a pun for a spy restaurant?”

“Spy Garden?”

They both broke into giggles, though the answer made absolutely no sense. Aziraphale pulled another card from the box.

In one word, what was your first impression of me?

“Angel.”

Aziraphale reached over and swatted his arm. “That doesn’t count!”

“No, no! It does!” Crowley scooted closer so that he could scrub fingers through those blond curls. “You had this halo of hair shining in the light!”

“The lights are kept so low in that stupid pub, Crowley. That was not your first impression. I’m sure your first thoughts were fusty or old-fashioned or weird or rude—”

Crowley put a hand over his mouth, startling the man into silence. Aziraphale’s wide eyes turned to him, and there was heat in them, heat that probably wasn’t helpful, but in Crowley’s rather inebriated state, he wanted nothing more than to lean into it. To push, to show his husband that this was okay, this was all okay, that he had nothing to worry about if they indulged in the romantic side of their marriage. “The firs’word I thought when I sssaw you, before you even said hello, was intriguing. Then we spoke, and tha’ changed to charming.”

“You never!” Aziraphale said with a laugh, still muffled by Crowley’s hand. He dragged the hand away. “I have to confess something. When Ana sent me your photo, my first impression was that you were intimidating.”

“S’right! Real scary, me.” He hunched his shoulders like a cartoon villain and shuffled even closer. “Big, bad Crowley coming to get you!”

Neither of them could stop giggling, falling over each other, breathless. Afterwards, when the laughter subsided, he found himself sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, knees to either side of his thighs. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there. Their faces were so close, and heat still simmered between them. Crowley could feel it in his husband’s body, too, quivering with need, arousal building. He wanted

With tremendous effort, Crowley tore his eyes from Aziraphale’s and grabbed another card from the box. “What was the moment—oh.”

“What moment?” Aziraphale asked. “Is that all it says?”

“Probably not the best card to read,” he mumbled.

His husband huffed and snatched it from his hand. “What was the moment when you knew I was the one?

“When you told me that I sounded like a big cat at the zoo.” Crowley hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. If he hadn’t been drunk, he would’ve held them in. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Thankfully, Aziraphale was drunk enough that he didn’t seem to catch the implications of Crowley admitting that he was “the one.” Instead, he said, “I have a whole list of your growls and utterances, my dear. They are ever so delightful.”

Warmth rushed through him. Crowley was torn between two desires, both inappropriate. Ask for Aziraphale’s own answer to the card, or kiss the man until they both gave in to their physical need. As he tried to find an appropriate third option, his husband took the decision right out of his hands. Their lips met, and Aziraphale pulled Crowley in tighter so that their bodies were pressed close enough together that they could feel evidence of each other’s lust. It felt so good, so right, so overdue.

Well. Nothing to be done for it now. Crowley let go, giving in to his heart and sending his brain offline for a bit of vacation time. As Aziraphale’s fingers tightened in his hair, he allowed himself to whine.

 


 

Aziraphale was so caught up in the combination of lust and love and alcohol haze that he almost missed the moment that Crowley gave in and crossed over the last boundary that he’d put in place five months ago. As his husband moaned deliciously into his mouth, as their pelvises dragged together in a live-wire scrape of electricity, Aziraphale wished he’d had a little more to drink. Enough for plausible deniability. Enough to indulge just this once. Enough to believe the lie that he would allow this to be just this once. Everything in him ached for this man, but the whole point of tonight was to not be selfish for once.

“Crowley, my dear, we should—”

“Wan’ you, angel,” Crowley slurred, and the hot breath at the edge of Aziraphale’s collar sent a bolt of lust to his groin. He frantically tried to think of justification. Married friends with benefits? Could this be a thing? Fuck!

“No, no. No. Crowley.”

With a pout, his husband pulled away. “No?”

“We’ll talk,” Aziraphale conceded. Every particle in his body screamed at him to give in. “In the morning. When we’re not drunk.”

Crowley gazed at him unsteadily. His lip trembled. “You’re a good angel. Best angel. Best husband, too.”

Aziraphale squashed the pang of guilt that blossomed with those words. He was trying to be good, even if it was hard. “Come, now. Let’s get you some water, and then into bed. I’ll clean all this up. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Don’t wanna be alone, ’Ziraphale. Come hold me, pleassse?”

“Of course, darling.” He took a long drink of water, trying to inch his way toward sobriety faster, before he handed the cup to Crowley and helped him to bring it to his mouth without spilling.

“Blech. Wine’iss better. Canni’ve more wine, angel?”

It took half an hour to get the both of them properly settled under the covers. Crowley wrapped his way around Aziraphale’s body, which did nothing to calm his raging desire. Be good, he told himself. Be good, be good, be good.

“I love you,” Crowley murmured into his shoulder.

A drunk utterance, Aziraphale thought. Meaningless sentiment. It didn’t count.

Still, he had to bite his lip to keep from confessing the same.

Notes:

Portia sniffing at the cracks of doors = my cat Gavroche, who Portia is based on, doing this exact thing every single time the front door is used.

Yes, I chose Sky Garden (aka S1 Heaven) deliberately. Even if it’s something Londoners probably wouldn’t bother with. (And yes, Sky Garden tickets are free, but there's a reservation charge per person for the restaurant.)

The Couples Game is real. I actually found, bought, and then played it with Rainstorm via video call before writing it into this chapter. 🥰 It IS quite silly and fun, if a bit repetitive (and a little straight, and a little neurotypical…).

Chapter 19: Meltdown

Summary:

The morning after, which goes a bit…sideways.

***
Aziraphale took the proffered medication and swallowed it down. He wasn’t sure what to think about the condoms. Was this because of last night? Surely, the two of them didn’t need condoms if they decided to have sex. They’d had a conversation about STI testing only two months ago, when Crowley got follow-up tests to make sure nothing had been missed on earlier ones, given the convoluted nature of the Nick situation. Was it a preference thing? Or was Crowley not telling him something? Could it be that after so long without sex, he had physical needs, and with Aziraphale enforcing the no-sex rule, his husband had been forced to seek it elsewhere?

The thought slashed through his chest with a pain that caused him to gasp and cough.

Notes:

I’m going to apologize in advance for this chapter. I know I promised all fluff no angst, but I’ve been struggling to push this story forward without a little friction. The characters told me that they needed friction. My original intention was to have all the pain resolved by the end of the chapter, but it grew far too long and needed to be split in two. The good news is that Ch 20 will post next week, so if you would rather wait until that’s out so you can read without ending on an uneasy note, I completely understand.

If you’re concerned about the content of the angsty bits, see the end notes for chapter triggers and information on neurodivergent meltdown.

There is also a short bit of almost-smut in the chapter. Nothing much happens, but there is some explicit language for a couple of paragraphs, so I've added a skip button out of an abundance of caution.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Aziraphale woke with two sensations warring for precedence. There was, of course, the headache. He needed to remember that, at forty-five years old, he couldn’t drink like he had the previous night and expect not to feel it in the morning.

The second was more pleasant, a sort of light happiness that suffused his entire being. Pieces of the evening came back to him. Crowley in his lap, confessing that he thought Aziraphale was the one. The drunken statements that were tossed out over the course of the night like they weren’t precious gifts: Wan’ you, angel and charming and I love you. Could they be more than inebriated sentiment?

Certainly, the two of them had grown much closer over the last five months. The only line that differentiated their arrangement from a true relationship was the one they’d put in place themselves, back in the first days of meeting each other. Surely, it was possible—reasonable, even—to change their minds as their friendship grew.

He would have to be very careful. Aziraphale knew his husband, knew that the man found it easy to fall in love when offered the proper incentives. He didn’t want to trap Crowley in this relationship. As much as Aziraphale might like having him forever, he couldn’t do it unless he was entirely sure that Crowley didn’t want him by default. This wasn’t like taking him to Sky Garden, sharing in a thing he already loved. It had to be something Crowley wanted regardless of Aziraphale’s desires. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. His husband deserved better than default.

Slowly, Aziraphale blinked open his eyes, wincing as the daylight filtering through the curtains caused his head to throb even worse. He wondered how Crowley was faring, if he should—

Crowley wasn’t there. He became aware of it suddenly, the absence of warmth at his side, no sound of breathing or movement. Aziraphale turned his head, but saw no evidence that Crowley was in the room at all. His things were still here, strewn about the room in a mess that Aziraphale had been coaxed into “leaving ‘til the morning,” but no one was here except for him.

Aziraphale scooted into a sitting position, trying to move slowly. His mobile. Crowley had probably texted. Maybe he’d gone out to get breakfast, the silly man—they could have ordered room service! Or maybe he’d been awake for long enough that he worried he’d disturb Aziraphale, and had gone down to the lobby to wait. His mobile would have the answers. If he could find it.

He was just trying to convince himself to search when the door to the hotel room clicked open. Crowley nudged it slowly, peering inside. His eyes caught Aziraphale’s and his posture relaxed. With a smile, he said, “You’re awake!”

“Barely,” Aziraphale said, and the word came out as a raspy croak. “Oh dear.”

“Water!” Crowley bounded into the room, far more chipper than he had any right to be, and went into the bathroom to fill a glass. He slid onto the bed next to Aziraphale. “Here.”

Aziraphale gulped at the water like a drowning man. “Thank you, dear. I fear I overdid things last night.”

“Both of us, yeah.” Crowley smiled and took the cup back. “Want another?”

“How are you this cheerful?” Aziraphale asked with a groan. He eased his head back and closed his eyes.

Crowley’s voice came from across the room as he poured a refill. “Because I woke up almost two hours ago wanting to punch the sun, and after I realized that I needed water and painkillers and coffee, but you were dead to the world, I had to go downstairs. Got meds and a metric ton of caffeine, struck up a conversation with this really fascinating person called Dragon—”

He put the cup back in Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale opened his eyes in time to see Crowley dig into his pockets for something.

“I have meds for you somewhere,” he muttered, pulling his hand free. Bits of paper, a business card, and a string of condoms emerged with his fingers. He flushed and shoved everything back into the pocket, then dug into the one on the other side of his trousers until he found what he was looking for. He held up a sleeve of paracetamol in triumph. “Here they are!”

Aziraphale took the proffered medication and swallowed it down. He wasn’t sure what to think about the condoms. Was this because of last night? Surely, the two of them didn’t need condoms if they decided to have sex. They’d had a conversation about STI testing only two months ago, when Crowley got follow-up tests to make sure nothing had been missed on earlier ones, given the convoluted nature of the Nick situation. Was it a preference thing? Or was Crowley not telling him something? Could it be that after so long without sex, he had physical needs, and with Aziraphale enforcing the no-sex rule, his husband had been forced to seek it elsewhere?

The thought slashed through his chest with a pain that caused him to gasp and cough. Crowley stopped talking about the Dragon person who, it seemed, worked in the funeral business. “Are you okay? Let me get you more water.”

“N-no. I’m good. I think…maybe tea? Can you—would you—or I could—?”

Crowley jumped up. “Right away! And don’t worry, we’ll get your head sorted quickly. Then you’ll feel right as rain.”

Somehow, Aziraphale didn’t know if he was ever going to feel good again. His stomach churned. He didn’t want to picture it, but the visuals kept flashing across his brain. The image of Crowley in bed with someone else, anyone else, maybe this Dragon—was that why he had those condoms? Had he met this person, someone with whom he actually had something in common, and planned to spend some time with them later? Was that why he’d flushed and hidden the condoms away so quickly?

Aziraphale bit back a groan. He had no reason to complain. Crowley had done nothing wrong, even if he had slept with someone else. Their marriage wasn’t real, and as long as he was circumspect enough to avoid the sharp eye of the Malaikas’ solicitor… Wait. Was that perhaps why the question of marriage validity was taking so long in the courts?

Bother. He was going to have to say something. Just in case. For the sake of the lawsuit, not his own heart. “Crowley?” How could he interrogate the man casually? “Were those warming condoms in your pocket?”

Crowley stiffened where he was making tea, his back to Aziraphale. He tried to speak lightly, but the strain was obvious. “Yeah, s’what they had in the shop downstairs.”

So they were new. But why…? “Have you, um, tried that type before?”

“Yeah. They’re interesting, with the right partner. Feel quite nice inside.”

Aziraphale was pretty sure it didn’t take this long to make tea. “Is that how you like s-sex?”

“Bottoming? Yeah, s’my preference, but I can go either way. You?”

That hadn’t been what Aziraphale meant. He’d been trying to determine if Crowley preferred sex with condoms, not what role he liked to play. His husband turned to him then, smiling even though his cheeks were pink, and Aziraphale found himself answering honestly. “I rather enjoy being top, though I’ve rarely… Well. My partners have preferred me to…”

He couldn’t keep eye contact. While Crowley handed him the mug of tea, Aziraphale blinked to keep any tears from falling. He supposed it was good that they would be misinterpreted. Indeed, Crowley let out that angry cat yowl he made whenever he believed Aziraphale had been poorly treated in the past. “Fuck those men.”

Oh, Aziraphale had been a fool not to give in to this before and allow Crowley to love him, not to keep him in whatever way he could. Maybe it was selfish, but Aziraphale had spent his life being told that he was selfish. He could—had—lived with that knowledge about himself. And he would rather be selfish than to lose his husband to the arms of someone else, some Dragon who liked warming condoms and who would give Crowley everything he deserved. No. He couldn’t allow it. Crowley was his.

Setting his undrunk tea to the side, Aziraphale lunged at Crowley and kissed him.

 


 

For a moment, Crowley couldn’t move. Couldn’t respond. Couldn’t reciprocate. He was stunned into inaction. It wasn’t as if he’d never kissed Aziraphale. Obviously. Nor was it like Aziraphale had never initiated said kisses.

No, it was the force of the embrace, the blatant sexual nature of it, and the way his husband had thrown caution to the wind that startled him. For a brief instant, Crowley considered asking if they ought to talk first. They’d said as much last night, after all. They were both sober now, though, and if Aziraphale had made this choice, who was Crowley to deny them both?

***SKIP SMUT***

He (finally) returned the kiss and wrapped his arms around the other man, pulling him close until they were flush together. Aziraphale still wore his nightclothes, the warm length of him trapped against Crowley’s belly. They both moaned, and Aziraphale murmured, “I want you.”

That was obvious, Crowley thought with a smile, but he was too invested to point it out. “Yes. I’m yours. All yours. Have me. Take me.”

Aziraphale pushed Crowley onto the mattress, manhandling him into the precise position he wanted. His husband was aggressive in bed, and oh god, wasn’t that a delightful discovery! Exactly what he would have wanted and hoped for. It was perfect, he was perfect, so perfect…

“Yes. You’re m-mine,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking. One hand cupped the back of Crowley’s neck, fingers knotting in his hair, while the other held his hip pressed firmly into the bed. As he ground their pelvises together, Crowley slid his hands up from arse to ribs to chest, then higher, to cradle his cheeks and—

Tears. Crowley pulled their faces apart, staring wide-eyed at where Aziraphale’s face was blotchy and streaked with tears. How—what—why? “Angel?”

“Crowley.” His voice cracked on the word. He tried to lean in, to put their lips together again, but Crowley slithered out from underneath him.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening, love?”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands then, sobbing. “I can’t do anything properly!” The words were muffled but clear.

Unsure exactly what to do, Crowley got as close to him as he dared and put a tentative hand on his back. The man didn’t flinch away, so he stayed there, whispering comfort until the sobs gave way to quieter sighs. Eventually, Aziraphale sat up.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, angel? You didn’t do anything wrong. Or anything I didn’t want.”

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes closed in misery. “You don’t know.” His fists clenched, fingernails digging into the palms, knuckles going white. “I’m a bad person, Crowley. A very, very bad person.”

“If this is about sex—if you don’t want to—it’s fine—we don’t have to—I didn’t mean to pressure you—”

“That’s not it at all!” Aziraphale said, and the last word came out as a wail. One fist rose up and slammed down onto his own thigh, causing Crowley to flinch. “I forced you into this arrangement, and I ignored your boundaries time and time again, so of course you were obliged to find satisfaction elsewhere, since I was an absolute tease for the last five months, and then of course, when I realize what’s going on, I get so jealous that I practically assault you without even asking what you might actually want, stomping on your boundaries even more—”

“Aziraphale!” Each accusation against himself had been accompanied by another hard slam of fist into leg. Crowley’s hands fluttered over those fists, wishing to grab ahold of them but not knowing if that would send Aziraphale into a panic. He’d seen his siblings in this state a few times and it was impossible to predict what might help or worsen it. “Please, angel. Please.”

With what looked like incredible effort, Aziraphale wrenched his fingers out of their curled-up position and grabbed opposite elbows. Fingernails instantly dug into the soft flesh there. He bit his lip, taking sharp gasps of air as he rocked on the bed.

Crowley moved to sit cross-legged in front of him. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said, watching for any indication that words were unhelpful. “I don’t know which of the things you mentioned is hurting worse, or needs immediate attention to your mind, but I’m going to start with the one that feels foremost in my mind. Nothing you have done, today or over the last five months, has hurt me or forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Another soft wail escaped Aziraphale’s mouth, and his fingernails tightened on his elbows. Fuck. That was the crux of it, right there.

“Furthermore, you are the only person I’ve wanted to be with since the day we met, and I have not even looked at another man, much less slept with one.”

The rocking stilled abruptly. Encouraged, Crowley continued.

“I don’t care if we ever have sex. I went into this whole thing thinking you were ace and knowing that sex was off the table. Even after we became more physical with each other, this was never about some stupid end-goal of getting you into bed. That’s why I said I wasn’t trying to pressure you. By buying the condoms. I hadn’t meant for you to see them. They were there just in case…”

“You didn’t get them for that…that Dragon person? Because I understand if you did, Crowley. You have every right in the world to sleep with whoever you want. I have no claim on you, even if I’m a horrible person and I—”

He cut himself off, and before Crowley could stop him, grabbed a handful of his blond curls and yanked on them with a guttural cry that stayed deep in his throat, his mouth closed, holding the sound inside. Crowley reacted instinctively, reaching his hand between Aziraphale’s hair and fingers, pressing firmly to the side of his head. “Stop!

Aziraphale froze. His eyes opened, wide and terrified. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was absolutely the wrong thing to do. Crowley took a deep breath.

“Angel,” he said more gently, stroking his hair, trying to soothe the pain. “I bought the condoms because we began to get physical last night, and I thought that you might prefer them for sex. Less mess to deal with afterwards. They were meant to be an option, not pressure, and certainly not an indication that I’d found some random person to fuck. I don’t know how I even gave you the impression that Dragon was a hookup prospect. They’re a mid-twenties lesbian studying the business side of running a funeral home. I gave them Bee’s business card. And showed them your website, because they really like old books. I thought the two of you would have a lot in common.”

More tears leaked from Aziraphale’s eyes. “And I assumed… Oh, I told you, Crowley. I’m a horrible person. I kept picturing you in bed with…with…with a whole string of men, because of how terribly I’d treated you…and then I called you mine!

“I am yours, and I asked you to claim me. I wanted to be claimed. Angel, that’s what I like in bed. With my partner.” Now, Crowley felt safe taking his husband’s hands and holding them together. “You are a wonderful person, a kind friend, an incredible husband.”

Aziraphale squirmed under the praise, trying to drag his hands away, but Crowley held them firmly.

“And if that preview was any indication, you are exactly what I want from intimacy as well. You are perfect, love.”

“I’m not! Oh, Crowley, I’m awful. You told me from the very beginning that you couldn’t kiss me without it being dangerous for you, and now look at us! Look at me! I’m…I’m wanton.”

“Oh? Have you been sleeping with other men, then?” Crowley fluttered his eyelashes at his husband, grinning to make sure he knew that this was a joke, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them. The words didn’t land properly, and Aziraphale flinched. “Darling. You have to trust me. If you’d been setting aside my boundaries—”

“Stomping on them. Obliterating them.”

Crowley ignored that. “—then I would have called you out on it. Hell, the first time we kissed after I said we couldn’t, I’m the one who initiated it. I don’t remember all the details of every early kiss, but I seem to recall initiating most of them, being afraid the whole time that I was pushing you too much, making you uncomfortable. I’ve never been terribly good at hiding how I feel, and with you?” He took a deep breath and tightened his hold on Aziraphale’s hands. “I love you. And I couldn’t keep it hidden, no matter how hard I tried. I only hoped that in time, you’d come to love me, too. Feel safe loving me.”

But Aziraphale was shaking his head. “You said from the beginning: You ‘dive headfirst into shitty relationships’ I believe those were your exact words. I’ve done nothing but tempt you for the sake of my own comfort. It was wrong of me. Selfish. And now you think you’re in love with me because I couldn’t respect the rules you put in place from the beginning.”

Frustrated, Crowley said, “And your rules, Aziraphale? Am I a bad person because I didn’t stick to your friends-only requirement?”

“I made it impossible to do so.”

“You didn’t force me to kiss you! You didn’t force me to…to fall in love with you, angel. Believe me, I’m capable of that all on my own.”

“Even with the worst men, the ones who prey on you and treat you with far less respect and decency than you deserve.”

This time, when Aziraphale pulled his hands away, Crowley couldn’t hold onto them. His whole body was shaking with adrenaline and fear and dread. He had no idea how to get through to his husband, who was sniffing now and running palms over his wet cheeks.

“I won’t say that I’m as bad as some of the men you’ve told me about,” Aziraphale continued. “But you need someone better than I could ever be.”

“You are perfect, angel. Perfect for me.”

Scoffing, Aziraphale shook his head and looked away. “Not only have I been selfish and greedy and unkind about your boundaries, I jumped to conclusions today, practically accused you of cheating on me, worried that you were lying to me about STI testing because you were having sex with other men, and then decided that it was worth indulging in my lust, without telling you how I felt, just to keep you for myself. If I told you that I had an ex who did all that, you would make one of your growling noises and tell me how horrible he was.”

The world was tilting around Crowley. His head ached, the remnants of hangover coming back to smash against the inside of his skull in time with his racing heart. He’d fucked up so badly, and now he was going to lose the most important person in his life. In his mind, he heard Bee call him an idiot, saw Muriel’s disappointment for yelling at Aziraphale while he was in the midst of a meltdown. A whine rose involuntarily from the back of his throat and his eyes blurred with tears. He could barely see the flash of movement that was his husband’s face snapping back toward him.

“C-Crowley?”

He whined again and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Please don’t go, angel. You’re my family.”

 


 

Family.

Aziraphale’s fingers clamped over one elbow again, digging back into the marks he’d already made there. He didn’t see a way out. Oh why had he not simply asked directly? Why had he made assumptions? What was wrong with him, questioning everything he knew to be true? Now, he had no way out of the situation that didn’t hurt the person he cared for more than anyone. He couldn’t walk away, but he also couldn’t pretend that he was ignorant of his role in Crowley’s situation. Whatever the man said to the contrary, Aziraphale doubted Crowley would be in love if they hadn’t been living like they were married in practice as well as law.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he blurted out, realizing belatedly that Crowley needed that comfort right now.

Crowley nodded quickly, obviously not reassured. Aziraphale resisted the urge to tighten his free hand into a fist again. He had just enough control to resist, but that control was no more than a gossamer thread that would snap at the slightest breeze.

“I…I think I need some time to sort out how I feel about all the rest. Try to figure out…something.”

Another nod, and Crowley stood from the bed. He hadn’t looked at Aziraphale. “I’m sorry I bought those condoms. I didn’t intend to trigger you with them. Should have waited until we talked before taking any action. That’s on me. I can see how that would come as a shock without warning, and how it might be misinterpreted. I don’t blame you for any of that, angel. It doesn’t make you a bad person, regardless of what you might be telling yourself at the moment.” He sighed. “There’s another place I like to spend time, close to Sky Garden. It’s called St Dunstan’s—have you been there?”

“I haven’t.” The words felt entirely inadequate as a response to Crowley’s whole speech, but Aziraphale didn’t think he could process anything else yet without falling back into an episode.

“St Dunstan-in-the-East. You should be able to get there easily, if you wish. I’d be happy to show you another of my sanctuaries. Or, if you prefer, you can text me when you’re ready for me to come back here.”

He was leaving, giving Aziraphale the time and space he needed. His heart constricted. Crowley was too perfect, too kind, too right. “Dead right,” he said aloud before he could consider the wisdom of the words, or how they would sound out of context.

Crowley turned to him, eyes wide, the colobomas making him look otherworldly in the late morning light streaming in from behind sheer curtains. There was hope and longing in his expression. Aziraphale forced his stiff muscles to move, to unclench as he got off the bed and approached his husband. He offered his arms, a wordless gesture, and Crowley collapsed into them, holding him in a fierce embrace. There were several whines, variants of the sad hawk noise that Aziraphale had finally come to understand as sad and wistful and pained and compassionate, all mixed up together. If they only spoke in sounds, could they have avoided this whole mess?

“I’m not leaving you,” Aziraphale repeated, and the arms around his back tightened impossibly more. “And I’m not asking you to go away. I only need to get my thoughts sorted and figure out what feels safe going forward.”

Crowley nodded into his shoulder. “I understand.”

“If you would rather stay here, I can take a walk—”

“No. I mean, take a walk if you want, of course, but I need to go somewhere that I can ground myself as well.”

Any other morning, any other argument, they would have ended here with a kiss. A little gesture to say that all was going to be well. Instead, they broke the hug awkwardly, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, and soon Aziraphale was alone again in the messy hotel room, wishing he could rewind time an hour and have a second chance to redo everything better.

Notes:

Chapter TWs: The potential triggers in this chapter happen during a neurodivergent meltdown, which is dysregulation caused by overstimulation, rapid change, high emotions, etc. Dysregulation results in external behaviors that can be very unpleasant to experience and/or witness. In Aziraphale’s case, these include some morally grey impulse decisions (kissing Crowley under false pretenses), intense stimming (rocking), and self-harm-type behaviors (punching his own thigh, digging fingernails into skin, pulling his hair). As for the first, he does not intend to hurt Crowley and is upset by even potentially doing so, which contributes to the meltdown getting worse and moving toward the self-harm-type behaviors. These are not the same thing as actual self-harm, but instead are an involuntary form of expressing/diverting internal pain, overload, confusion, and strong emotion. They can also serve as a form of stimming in addition to behaviors like rocking, shaking, hand-flapping, etc. He does not want to hurt himself, nor is he necessarily conscious of his actions 100% of the time. In the next chapter, you will see more of what this looks like from Aziraphale’s point of view.

*****
Again, I’m sorry. I promise it will be alright again soon.

For my fellow neurospicy folks who have suffered through meltdown, I see you and I feel you. 💕

Chapter 20: Rearrangement

Summary:

The morning, continued. Logic and emotion fight for precedence.

***
Time slipped by oddly. A glance at his mobile, and only a minute had passed; another glance, and half an hour had skated by unnoticed. Crowley wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been in the garden when he heard the footsteps. Somehow, despite all the tourists that had passed near Crowley, he recognized these at once. He turned.

Aziraphale’s face was still a bit red and puffy from crying, but he had showered and dressed, and he looked calmer, though his hands fidgeted nervously with his waistcoat. “Hi,” he said softly. Meekly. Crowley’s heart ached.

Notes:

Thank you all for your kind words last week. Our boys will get back to a better place by the end of this chapter. There’s still a bit of rough water to go through at the beginning of this chapter. Aziraphale is not entirely out of meltdown yet.

<— Click here for trigger warnings (may include chapter spoilers)

TWs: meltdown behaviors (specifically, Az hitting the side of his head involuntarily, then grabbing and squeezing the hand that did it in a painful way); negative self-talk (both characters)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

After Crowley left, Aziraphale took a shower, letting the hot water melt away the crawling sensations and soothe the stinging where his nails had bitten into skin. At least he hadn’t drawn blood this time, and his thigh didn’t look like it would be too badly bruised. If Crowley hadn’t just witnessed his fit, any evidence of it would be easy to dismiss. He sighed. He hadn’t had an episode in years. Even the night of the car accident—

Aziraphale shook his head in an angry flick, shoving those thoughts back into the depths. Thinking would come later. Right now, it was time to rebalance.

Shower. Clean teeth. Clean clothes. He looked at the mess in the hotel room and decided that it could wait until after tea. The pain meds hadn’t been entirely effective and his tantrum hadn’t helped. He grabbed the tea that Crowley had made for him, gone cold now, and spotted the string of condoms lying on the duvet. Three of them, their foil packets attached, marked for individual sale with a tiny price label on each one.

Had Crowley left them because he was angry at himself for buying them? Or was he trying to prove to Aziraphale that he didn’t have use for them outside this room? What could—?

Another flick of his head. Thoughts later. And definitely not assumptions. He wasn’t going to go down that road of fear and jealousy again. That’s what had led him to assault Crowley in the first place.

He smacked the side of his head before he could stop himself, then caught the offending hand and squeezed it hard between the delicate bones there. Tea. He needed tea.

 


 

It was a beautiful morning, and Crowley wished he could appreciate it. He sat on a bench in the cool shade of St Dunstan’s, one hand gripping his mobile as he waited for Aziraphale to contact him. Tourists milled about, and he tuned them out, running over the morning on a loop. How had it gone so wrong? Stupid fucking condoms. He’d let himself get carried away by the fantasy of last night and how close they’d come to finally admitting that they were more than friends.

He should have realized right away that something was wrong when Aziraphale kissed him. It had been so sudden and out of character, no true joy in his face. Crowley should have insisted that they talk. Maybe they could have avoided all of this mess. Could have avoided the meltdown.

Shame washed through him for the way he’d yelled at his husband while in the midst of dysregulation. Crowley knew better! Having neurodivergent siblings, he’d seen various forms of meltdown before, and like in many behaviors, Aziraphale’s reactions mirrored Muriel’s. He needed de-escalation, not shouting. No matter that it was instinctual, a cry to try to stop him from hurting himself. There were some lines that ought not to be crossed. The fear in Aziraphale’s eyes in that moment… Crowley would never be rid of that image and the shame that accompanied it.

He closed his eyes, head throbbing. This wasn’t about him. This was about his partner. He wouldn’t feel sorry for himself.

Time slipped by oddly. A glance at his mobile, and only a minute had passed; another glance, and half an hour had skated by unnoticed. Crowley wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been in the garden when he heard the footsteps. Somehow, despite all the tourists that had passed near Crowley, he recognized these at once. He turned.

Aziraphale’s face was still a bit red and puffy from crying, but he had showered and dressed, and he looked calmer, though his hands fidgeted nervously with his waistcoat. “Hi,” he said softly. Meekly. Crowley’s heart ached.

“Hi, angel. I’m glad you came.” He debated reaching a hand out, but decided to let Aziraphale make the first move. “Wanna sit down? Or do you want me to show you the garden?”

There was hesitancy dancing across his expression, and Crowley waited patiently for him to decide. Eventually, Aziraphale said, “Yes. Please show me your sanctuary. It’s beautiful in here. I’m starting to realize how little of London I’ve bothered to explore.”

It felt strange not to offer his arm, but Crowley resisted. Touch was off the table until they spoke. He wouldn’t blur the lines again.

 


 

Aziraphale was so embarrassed by his earlier behavior that he couldn’t focus on the things Crowley was telling him about plants and insects and the garden’s seasons. Perhaps they ought to have talked before the tour. It wouldn’t be the first wrong choice he’d made today.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he blurted out, interrupting a story (he thought) was about Bee and bees.

Crowley turned to him. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Aziraphale’s shoulder twitched in irritation. “You are allowed to think poorly of me when I behave poorly, Crowley. I acted like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. It was immature and manipulative and—”

He cut off as Crowley grabbed his hand and dragged him toward a nook in the garden with a free bench. Walls obscured them from general view. Aziraphale sat automatically. Crowley joined him and let go of his hand. It made him feel oddly bereft, but he didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t be fair to ask to hold hands, not now.

“I know we need to talk about…all the stuff from this morning,” Crowley said, his eyes intense on Aziraphale’s even through his lenses. “First, though: You do know that what happened to you in that hotel room was not a tantrum, right? It wasn’t immature or manipulative or anything like that. Please tell me that you know that, even if you’re beating yourself up over it anyway.”

“Tantrum, episode, fit, whatever you want to call it.” He waved his hand as if he could wave aside the terminology. All he wanted was to apologize for his behavior and move past the embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. I should never have subjected you to such ill behavior. I’m sorry. You didn’t need to see me in that state.”

Crowley’s mouth was hanging open. He lifted his sunglasses, making the eye contact even more intense. Aziraphale squirmed under the scrutiny but couldn’t turn away.

“Please,” he whispered. “Can we talk about something else? This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s called a meltdown,” Crowley said, his words even and cautious. “Neurodivergent meltdown. It’s not a tantrum, angel. It’s an involuntary response to intense overwhelm. Definitely not something manipulative. It would be manipulative if you did those things on purpose to try to get people to behave in some way. But when you literally can’t control them…”

“Obviously I can control them, and I should, I just get carried away sometimes, stuck in my head, and—”

“They happen even when you’re alone, don’t they? When there’s no one there to manipulate?”

Aziraphale pictured the way he’d hit himself while looking at those condoms, how he’d dropped the mug of cold tea doing it and didn’t even notice until afterwards. How his response to the violence was to control it through more violence. “I try to make sure no one sees me.” He shook his head. “It’s childish. I know it is. But as I say, I get stuck in my head and I can’t help it sometimes. I should be able to control it.”

“It’s involuntary, Aziraphale. Like…like sneezing or hiccups. Mary and Muriel—I’ve seen them both melt down—Muriel uses their fingernails exactly like—has no one ever told you that this is not the same thing as a temper tantrum?

His indignation on Aziraphale’s behalf caused something to fuse inside his soul. He hadn’t been entirely sure of what to do about the partnership situation. No amount of writing out notes on the cheap hotel notepad had helped him to decide how to approach this. The facts were simple: Crowley claimed to be in love with him, but Crowley also stated that he was prone to falling in love. Would he have loved Aziraphale if they hadn’t been forced into this arrangement? Shouldn’t he have the opportunity to discover if his love was real or ephemeral? Aziraphale couldn’t, in good conscience, accept and hold onto a love that may be formed of circumstance rather than true attachment.

But he also couldn’t deny his husband entirely.

“I love you, Crowley,” he said, reaching out to take the man’s hand. Crowley’s sharp gasp, like a man drowning, and the clenching of his fingers set off a sad thrum in Aziraphale’s heart. “You have told me that you love me, and I believe you, but I also know that under other circumstances, ones that didn’t involve marriage or living together, you might not feel the same.”

“Bollocks,” Crowley growled. Aziraphale had to bite back a smile. “I thought I knew what it was to fall in love before. This is different. You—we—are different.”

“And that might be true,” Aziraphale said with a nod. “I concede that it might be true. But you must concede that it’s impossible to know for sure. No, don’t interrupt me. I’m not saying that we can’t have this. I’m only saying that, for my own peace of mind, I need to do it differently.”

 


 

Crowley was struggling to keep up with the twists and turns in this conversation. It was obvious that Aziraphale’s mind was running faster than his words. “What does that mean?” he asked, trying to keep all traces of fear and hope and desperation out of his voice.

“It means that we need to do things properly, so we—so I—can be sure. We’ve committed to an arrangement with a specific end-date. Yes, I know that we will need to continue to behave with each other as if we are romantically involved when there are others around to witness. We both came into this with specific boundaries, however, and we need to honor them.”

Crowley wanted to argue. He knew deep in his soul that Aziraphale was his person, that this love between them was real and true and pure. But he also knew that if Aziraphale didn’t believe that, he would never be comfortable until he did. Back in the beginning, Crowley had prayed that he could keep this man in any way he could. If they could only be friends, if they had to pull back from all of the wonderful things that had developed naturally over these months, it would be hard, but possible. And certainly better than losing everything.

“I can do that,” he said, the words coming out on a rasp. He cleared his throat. “I might mess up at times as I adjust, but I’ll do my best not to pressure you, or…I don’t know. Spill my messy feelings at your feet.”

A crease appeared between Aziraphale’s brows. “I don’t want you to lie.”

“Then you’re asking the impossible. The love is there. I can pretend it isn’t, I can try not to show it, but I can’t make it disappear.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale stroked a thumb across the back of his hand. “That’s not what I’m asking. I only need us to honor our initial commitments. To pull back from physical intimacy. To spend these years growing our friendship and connection. Then, once you’re no longer bound to me by our agreement, we can explore that side of things. If you still feel that you want to. I know it will be difficult, and I don’t want to pressure you—you would be welcome to fulfil your physical needs outside our home, of course, though perhaps it might be best to wait until after the lawsuits are settled before—”

He was spiraling, body getting agitated. Crowley rushed to reassure him, hoping to prevent him from suffering through another meltdown so soon after the last. “I don’t need sex, and I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I meant what I said before. I don’t care how we’re together, only that we are. Our connection has nothing to do with kissing or sex or even cuddling! We’ll do this however you need. As slow as you need. Until you’re sure of me.”

“Even if that means the whole seven years of our marriage?”

“Longer. Forever.” The wistful smile Aziraphale gave him in response was bruise-tender, and Crowley fought not to kiss him. He couldn’t do that anymore. Instead, he leaned back against the bench with his best attempt at confident swagger and said, “Even if you wake up as a giant cockroach one day. I’ll just say good morning angel, help you get out of bed, and promise to never, ever throw apples at you.”

Aziraphale dissolved into giggles, exactly as he’d hoped. After a moment, he said, “You know, translators disagree on whether Gregor Samsa turned into a cockroach or some other kind of insect. There isn’t a suitable direct translation from the German. Might be insect or pest or vermin; giant or monstrous or vile. All sorts of possibilities.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Crowley grinned. “Beetle or cockroach or whatever. You’re still my angel.”

 


 

The garden tour continued, but Aziraphale once again struggled to pay attention. Instead, he let Crowley’s soothing voice wash over him and delighted in the feel of their hands together. Yes. They could do this. They would be friends and partners. Lovers without the extra complications of intimacy. If part of him yearned for that intimacy, it was his own fault for having forfeited it.

No. He flicked the thought away. Forfeiture implied penance, which further implied that he was withholding intimacy from Crowley for selfish reasons. This path was meant to be a service, not a punishment.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley squeezed his hand. “Are you… Is everything okay?”

He sighed. “I’m a bit tired, to tell you the truth, my dear. And I could perhaps use something on my stomach.”

That sharp-toothed grin was so devastatingly handsome. “Then could I tempt you to a spot of brunch?”

It couldn’t really be that easy, could it? To recover from this rip through the fabric of their relationship and regain their silly banter all at once? For a fraught moment, Aziraphale almost denied him. Almost denied himself.

Then, he decided that he’d sacrificed enough for one morning. He smiled and said, “Temptation accomplished.”

 


 

Crowley dropped his overnight bag onto their bed. Viola chirped at him and walked slowly over to rub her head against his hand. He was just considering whether he would need to wear something more than the boxers he usually slept in when Aziraphale said, “Would you mind accompanying me to St James for a bit this afternoon?”

Was this part of his original date plan? Or something new born of the conflict they’d had this morning? Crowley’s head felt swimmy with exhaustion, lingering hangover, and emotional strain. “Thought you said you were tired,” he grumbled, smiling to make sure the complaint came across gently.

To his relief, Aziraphale smiled in return. “Oh, I am. Dreadfully so.”

He didn’t elaborate further. Crowley decided to trust him. “Alright. As long as we can take a long nap afterwards.”

“I won’t say no to that.” Aziraphale reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together.

Crowley grabbed his sunglasses from the little dish now set up by the front door to hold them, and then they were back out on the busy street, sun shining down on them and glinting off the white-blond halo of Aziraphale’s hair. Given the beautiful weather, it was unsurprising that St James was crowded. By some miracle, a bench became free as they approached, not far from where they’d first sat together on their “date” in January.

“Ah! Delightful!” his husband proclaimed as he sat. Crowley slid beside him. Aziraphale fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I could pinpoint a single moment when I knew you were ‘the one.’”

“Ngk.” Crowley had spent most of the trip to the park wondering what this might be about. Nothing he’d guessed came close to those words. He tried to speak, but only incoherent sounds came out.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “That was part of it, you know. The way you communicate in your own private language, without trying to hide it from me. Letting me partake in it. That’s only one tiny fragment, though.”

A group of young children ran across the path in front of them, all yelling as if part of different conversations and straining to be heard above the rest. Several harried-looking adults followed them, a few calling out to slow down and be careful.

“I wanted to bring you here today because our first date was probably the closest individual moment where I knew you were special. You touched my hand when I was agitated, and everything in my body calmed. At the time, I thought it was like you had a superpower. Silly, right?”

Though he knew the words weren’t meant as an insult, humiliation flooded Crowley. He found his tongue. “Yeah. Silly. Because I definitely don’t have a superpower, not if today is any indication.”

Aziraphale turned to him abruptly, brows drawn down at the bitter tone. “Crowley? What does that mean? You were…more than I could have hoped for today. You reacted so…so…kindly to me when I was…” He swallowed. “Out of control. M-melting down. Thinking…awful things.”

“M’not kind,” Crowley growled. “It’s common fucking decency to treat someone gently when they’re in pain, and I couldn’t even do that! I shouted at you!”

He balled his hand into a fist, trying to stay calm. It would do no good to make Aziraphale feel even worse about what had happened. This was his own pain and guilt to manage. He needed to shut his mouth and—

Aziraphale abruptly put his arms around him, drawing him into a tight embrace, not for the first time today. He spoke directly into Crowley’s ear. “If you believe that I should be forgiven for making unkind assumptions and trying to bed you under false pretenses, then you deserve the same grace for not being perfect while in a, well, rather impossible situation.”

“I’m sorry.” Crowley sniffed, trying to hold back tears. He wasn’t even sure what all his apology encompassed. The yelling, and the way it had frightened his husband? Not knowing the right thing to do? Not realizing something was wrong when they first kissed? Admitting that he was angry with himself and giving Aziraphale something more to worry about? “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“So am I.” He pulled back so they could look into each other’s eyes, but didn’t let go completely. “I did us a disservice today. That’s what I wanted to bring you here to explain. I don’t know the exact moment I fell in love with you, or even if there was a single moment. In this park, though, you made me feel safe. I am…not generally in the habit of feeling safe, especially when exposing my raw self, so it was a significant occasion for me. Since then, you have shown me on multiple occasions that you will never deliberately cause that sense of safety to wobble.”

The noise Crowley made at this caused Aziraphale to hold up a hand.

“I said deliberately, my dear.” The hand landed on his chest, a gentle touch. “No one, least of all me, is expecting you to be perfect. It would be quite the double standard if I did.”

Suddenly feeling even more drained, Crowley slumped with his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “M’not good enough for you to want me.” He cringed. He hadn’t meant to let the words slip, but now they were out, hanging in front of them both, heavy and poisonous.

“Darling, of course I want you. Oh, bother. I brought you here to explain this, and I’m not doing a very good job. Perhaps I ought to have waited until after a nap.” He sighed. “I want you more than anything. I want you so badly that I’m terrified. This morning, I saw exactly what I was capable of in the name of want. I’ve done nothing since January but accept the love and kindness that you’ve offered. I want a chance to give you the same in return.”

Crowley shifted, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck. He smelled so good. “But you have.”

“Not in a way that feels adequate, not for me. That’s why I need to do this. To pull back from something that feels dangerous—not because you’re a danger to me, but because I am a danger to us both. I need time to process and learn how to properly care for you. Intentionally, not by chance. I need to feel like I’m not doing you a disservice by accepting your love and care from a selfish place.”

He didn’t want it to make sense. He wanted to argue until his angel gave in and let them be together in the way they both yearned for. Instead, Crowley sighed and said, “You need to feel safe with me, and safe with yourself, before you can feel safe with us.” He raised his head in time to see Aziraphale blinking back tears, and gave him a half-smile. “Well. I’m here, angel. I told you earlier, we’ll go as slow as you need. I love you, through thick and thin, just as I promised at our wedding.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Crowley took his husband’s hand. “’Ziraphale? Can we go home, now?”

 


 

They were silent on the way back to the bookshop. Aziraphale led the way up the spiral staircase and into the flat. Crowley hesitated by the side of the bed. “What is it, my dear?”

Biting his lip, Crowley said, “Should I wear actual pajamas? Will that make you more comfortable? I’ll have to buy some, I’m afraid. For now, I suppose I could wear a long t-shirt. Maybe one of yours, so it’s not so tight?”

“You and your formfitting clothes.” Aziraphale stepped up to him and ran hands down his shoulders. He barely stopped himself from kissing the man, as would have been his instinct a day ago. “I don’t mind the way we sleep. Truly. Be comfortable.”

There was a hesitance and vulnerability in Crowley’s expression that made Aziraphale long to kiss him again. Oh dear. It was going to take a bit of an effort to adapt to this new arrangement. Thankfully, a moment later, his husband turned away and began to strip down for sleep. Aziraphale pointedly averted his eyes.

They both crawled into bed, and Crowley began to snore almost immediately. It took Aziraphale longer to drift off. His lower back itched. His hips were uncomfortable. It had been a long time since he’d felt this restless in bed. Instinct and logic warred inside him. The wanting was so powerful, now that he’d admitted that it was there.

However, he couldn’t fail this test. This was Crowley: his partner, his husband, the best man he had ever known. He deserved a better partner than Aziraphale had been so far, and he deserved the chance to properly know that Aziraphale was what he wanted. That could only happen with time. They needed to get beyond this infatuation period to the harder and more mundane parts of love, and then they could see if they were right together. If Crowley still wanted him.

Aziraphale squirmed and punched his pillow into a different shape, but it didn’t help. He turned onto his side to alleviate a bit of pressure, and Crowley was suddenly tucked against his back, lips at his neck. He pressed a soft kiss at the base of Aziraphale’s curls and murmured, “Love you angel.” The words were so slurred with sleep that they were almost incoherent. Aziraphale smiled as his whole body relaxed into the embrace.

He could do this. Yes. It would be enough.

“Love you, too, my Crowley.”

Notes:

For anyone who has ever gone through meltdown and been told, like Aziraphale has, that they are throwing a fit, being manipulative, acting immature, etc: I'm sorry. Honestly? I spent most of my adulthood thinking and being told that I was "acting like a child" and now, knowing more, I'm so, so angry that this is the narrative. This is the primary reason I chose to include a meltdown in this fluff fic. It is a part of neurospicy life for many of us. We are not babies, we are not doing this to get you to behave a certain way, we are not "not controlling ourselves." We are simply processing things in a way that works for our neurological system, and we deserve to be seen as we are, not told to "grow up" or hide away or change. Okay - rant over.

As for the rest of this chapter: No, what Aziraphale is doing here does not really make sense. He’s twisted himself up in logic rather than letting himself feel the truth of their situation. For him, logic = safe, emotions = scary. (Think canon: obedience = safe, questions = scary.) This is part of his journey in this story, while Crowley, on the other side of the equation, needs to learn to set and maintain personal boundaries of the heart. Respecting and accommodating the person you love is wonderful, but not if you’re doing it at the expense of your own emotional health.

I have happy news! Through writing these two chapters, answering comments, and a really fortuitous night of restful sleep, I *finally* have a really good handle on the rest of this story! I’ve been struggling with it since December, but now I know how all the disparate pieces have come together! I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back to a regular weekly schedule – especially as I’m traveling again in April – but it should be much more regular than it has been for the last 3-4 months!

Chapter 21: an update, not a chapter

Chapter Text

Hey everyone! I have some updates and apologies to make here. I am struggling right now.

First, I have hit serious writing burnout. I haven’t taken a break since September 2023, and that’s wearing on me, making it much harder to put words to page. My creative well has been running on fumes since December. I was hoping to make it through to the end of both Regret List and Dead Right, but the last few weeks have made it abundantly clear to me: I have nothing left to give. Despite knowing where this story is going, every painful word I put to the page feels flat and overused and two-dimensional. My brain is wrung out, and Dead Right deserves more than chapters eked out under the fog of burnout.

Second: This time of year (April and May) is always hard on me due to longterm PTSD triggers. I know that’s probably TMI, but it’s fact – I tend to get very weepy and depressed during this time of year, and very stuck in my head. This is making it difficult to write fluff, in addition to it being difficult to write at all right now. Were I to continue forcing myself to work on Dead Right under these conditions, the story would dive headfirst into a lake of boiling angst. (Example: Chapter 21, which was written and rewritten four times in the last three weeks, feels both flat and angsty for no reason other than my headspace is all WRONG for this story right now.)

Third: Somehow, Dead Right has become the target of hate-comments from anonymous guests. Sometimes the hate is for the story, sometimes the characters, sometimes for neurodivergent people in general. 😬 (I delete those sorts of comments. No hate allowed on my page!!) I feel like the fic got shared on Facebook or something and now a bunch of folks with no understanding of ao3 etiquette are spouting their obnoxious negative snark under the comfort of anonymity. Frankly, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with this right now, and in my current mental state, I’m letting those comments influence my approach to writing. That is only making things tougher.

[Note: Unfortunately, ao3 won’t let me moderate guest comments alone, so I’ve had to turn off guest comments altogether on this fic. This makes me quite angry, as I have a number of guest commenters that I love hearing from, but I don’t have the time or capacity to moderate ALL comments, so this is the best option for now. Uuuugh this is why we can’t have nice things. 🤬]

Lastly, there has been a rather sudden upheaval in my personal life, not directly related to me but to people I’m close to. I won’t go into details as they aren’t mine to share, but generally, this has contributed to 1) the deterioration of my mental wellbeing and 2) the feeling that I need to pull back from writing to focus on Real Life stuff.

All this to say that I will be taking some time off. I need to rebalance and find my center again, find the fire and passion for writing again. Dead Right will be on hiatus until I can replenish my creative well and get back into the right headspace for what was meant to be a fluffy, silly, squishy story. I wish I wasn’t leaving it where it currently sits, but see above for my attempts at writing further! I want to be very clear, though: I don’t abandon projects. I’m not going away. Dead Right WILL be finished – it’s just going to take longer than originally anticipated. I was so hoping that I’d make it to the end, all nice and tidy, before burnout hit me in full force, but life doesn’t always tie things up with a pretty bow, yeah?

TL;DR – I’m taking a break, for an unspecified amount of time, but I will be back and Dead Right will get the fluffy, silly, squishy ending that it deserves. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

 

ETA: I am astonished and touched and honestly quite teary at the outpouring of love I've received here, both from regular commenters and from folks I never knew were reading along. Thank you all so very much. I can't reply to every comment, but I've read each and every one. I'm also happy to say that I've not received a single rude/hate comment to this announcement. This fandom and ao3 in general continually surprises me with how kind and generous you all are. Thank you again. ❤️‍🩹

 

ETA part 2: Now that I am back to posting on this book semi-regularly, I've debated whether or not to take this "chapter" down. In the interest of reminding myself and others how supportive and incredible this fandom is, I'm leaving it here for now. I might eventually remove it, but if you're seeing it, I haven't decided to yet. 🤷🏻 Love y'all!

Chapter 22: Meet the Plants

Summary:

Aziraphale begins a plan to properly woo Crowley, who is not used to partners giving him so much.

***
Aziraphale couldn’t help the fondness spreading over his face. “Really. Starting with this one here.” He gestured at the spider plant. “Did I choose a good spot for it? I really know nothing about—”

“Her,” Crowley interrupted. He grinned. “Her name is Hannah. I’m getting a label for her pot the next time I go out. And the window upstairs is perfect for her.”

Notes:

Hey everyone – I want to start by thanking everyone for their kind response to my update, as well as for your patience. I’m leaving the update "chapter" where it’s at for now. Perhaps I'll remove it after I know for sure that I’m back to regular posting, but I don't know - a part of me likes the reminder of how amazing and supportive and kind this fandom is!

My original plan was to not post again until after I finished writing this fic and was ready to publish on a schedule, but my home life crumpled to dust at the end of April, so I now have a lot more things to manage on top of the writing burnout. Somehow, I finished this chapter, which was partly written pre-burnout, and I’ve chosen to post it now as a promise that I WILL finish this story, even if I have to do so more slowly than originally anticipated. Thank you all for sticking with me and with this story!

PS - I'm actually doing pretty well, all things considered re: the home life stuff. Just very busy. I promise. So don't worry too much. 🥰

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Aziraphale began with a single plant. It was a simple spider plant, nothing fancy or ornate, recommended as easy to care for by the owner of Cade’s Nursery down the street. He had never talked to Crowley about gardens and growing things, and he had no idea if his husband’s love of places like Sky Garden and St Dunston’s extended to actual plant care. Even if Crowley was indifferent to the gift, however, Cade had promised that the spider plant was virtually unkillable, even by unskilled hands such as Aziraphale’s.

Crowley was not indifferent to the gift.

The bookshop was still open when Crowley returned home from work. Aziraphale had placed the spider plant on the little table that stood near the flat’s entrance, by the main window that looked out over Whickber Street. It was the same table that held the dish for Crowley’s sunglasses, a bowl for their keys, a tray for the post, and other daily essentials. In that spot, there was no way his husband would miss the new addition to the room.

Indeed, Aziraphale heard return footsteps charging down the spiral staircase almost at once. Crowley hadn’t even taken off his glasses.

“Angel! You—?”

He was carrying the spider plant. Aziraphale said, “Oh! Was that not a good place for it? I was told that indirect light was best. Perhaps that window would be too bright? Oh dear. I didn’t hurt it already, did I?”

For a second, Crowley looked confused. He glanced from Aziraphale to the plant in his arms and back again. “Um. No. That window should be fine. It’s… Did you decide to take up a new hobby?”

Aziraphale grinned. “Not in the slightest. That’s for you, my dear. If you want it. You seem to like gardens ever so much, and I wondered, why does he not get some flowers and greenery for the flat as well? I hope I haven’t overstepped. I did make sure to buy a nontoxic species.”

Crowley set the spider plant down next to Viola’s bed. She sniffed it, poking her face with a few leaves in the process. After the resultant sneeze, she jumped off the counter and walked away, tail held at an offended angle. Before Aziraphale could comment on this, he was wrapped in a hug, loose red curls tickling his own nose.

“My dear,” he said, pulling the hair away before it could make him sneeze, “please don’t act like this is some grand gesture. I thought you might like a plant or two around the flat. That’s all.”

“Let’s see how the cats behave before we get more,” Crowley said, stepping back. “When they were younger, I had a hibiscus bush—well, Jean-Luc had a hibiscus bush that I ended up caring for—and Portia used the soil as a litter box. And the trunk as a scratching post. Then Viola would lay in the used soil, even if it was still wet. They both ate the flowers.”

This brought Aziraphale up short. He’d realized that he needed to buy safe species, but not that the cats might interfere in other ways. “Is that why you didn’t already have house plants?”

After his dying lawnmower noise, Crowley said, “Kinda? I mean, I think they’re old enough now that they’d be okay. They haven’t bothered any of the bouquets I’ve brought home over the last few months. I don’t think they’ll, dunno, overturn it or something.”

Aziraphale waited. He knew there was more to the answer. Crowley swept a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the curls. He smiled sheepishly and twisted them into a knot that unraveled almost at once.

“It’s… I mean, I know it’s my flat, too. For now, at least. But it’s your place, yeah? You’ve lived here for so long, and I’m a somewhat temporary guest—”

This was perhaps what it felt like to be stabbed, Aziraphale thought.

“—and I didn’t want to overstep. Freddie says I bring too many strays to the funeral home already. I have a tendency to rescue plants failing to thrive from markets. Some of them are dangerous for cats. And the others, it’s hard to justify putting them anywhere else when I’m going to be back on Bee’s couch in a few years. So I find corners to tuck them into at the funeral home. Dunno why Freddie complains. I take care of them. The chapel and lobby are filled with incredibly lush species. None of that plastic shit.”

It took Aziraphale several minutes to compose what he wanted to reply. He spent those minutes running fingers along the long, thin leaves in front of him, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Have you changed your mind then?” he finally managed. “About f-forever?”

“No.” The answer was so quick and sure that Aziraphale looked up in surprise. Crowley had pushed his sunglasses into his hair. “I am all in, angel. But if you decide—if you change your mind—if this ends—well. It’s your flat. Your shop. We even signed a prenup stating as much. If things go pear-shaped and we end this, for whatever reason, you keep this place and I keep my car. Fair and square, as they say. I end up on Bee’s couch, and I can’t bring a forest with me.”

This was like the duffel bag, Aziraphale realized. Crowley holding onto the fear that he would be discarded one day. Taking a deep breath, he said, “If this were your place—just yours, forever, no matter what—would you fill it with plants?”

“Obviously,” he said with a grin. “Assuming my two little devils allowed. Look at that window, angel!” He flung a hand out toward where Portia lay in late afternoon light. “You have no idea how much I could do with just that one spot!”

“Then do it,” Aziraphale said. He stepped forward to fold Crowley into his arms again. “Bring this old bookshop to life. Give it some color. Make it ours. Claim it.”

“It’s not mine to claim,” Crowley said automatically.

“I’m giving it to you to do so.” He stepped back to face his husband directly. “I’m serious, my dear. Legally, of course, there’s the prenup and all of that. There isn’t much I can do about that part. But I would rather sell this entire space and buy somewhere new where we can start over together than to have you live here as a guest. Arrangement or no.” Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s curls. “Please. Make it ours.”

There was an entire chorus of sounds that came after this speech. It was not quite symphony, because they came one right after another: confusion and surprise and tenderness and excitement, all rolling together. It made Aziraphale feel quite heady, even before Crowley grabbed his shoulders and began to bounce in giddiness.

“Can I hang air plants in the picture window, angel? They would look so beautiful there, but they have to be misted regularly, and I wouldn’t want to affect the book display… Oh! I could add terrariums! Even if the cats won’t leave regular plants alone, I can keep them behind glass so that they’d be safe, and with that much light, it would be perfect for all sorts of…” Crowley’s eyes snapped back from daydreams to Aziraphale. “Really? You’re okay with…with me growing things in here?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the fondness spreading over his face. “Really. Starting with this one here.” He gestured at the spider plant. “Did I choose a good spot for it? I really know nothing about—”

“Her,” Crowley interrupted. He grinned. “Her name is Hannah. I’m getting a label for her pot the next time I go out. And the window upstairs is perfect for her.”

He grabbed up the spider plant—Hannah—before kissing Aziraphale on the cheek and bounding back toward the spiral staircase.

“Why Hannah?” Aziraphale called, wondering if there was a pop culture reference that he wasn’t catching.

“Because that’s her name!” was the cryptic reply, followed by a cackle that had Aziraphale grinning to himself.

Hannah was soon joined by Frances, then Varney, and then (in rapid succession) Elinor, Fizzgig, Rochester, Sancho Panza, Bernard, Kaa, Becky Sharp, Josaphat, and Scarlett. The names made Aziraphale’s head swim. He was glad for the little labels (complete with pronouns!) that helped him remember each of them.

“You’ll tell me if I go overboard, won’t you?” Crowley asked one afternoon in late June. He looked worried, as if he might have crossed some invisible line.

Aziraphale smiled to reassure him and ran his finger along a wavy variegated leaf of the rattlesnake plant (Kaa). “I’m fine as long as there’s no soil in our bed.”

With a laugh, Crowley said, “Don’t worry. The bed, bathroom, and kitchen are already on my off-limits list.”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. He’d set plans in motion for the windowsill in the kitchen. Something must’ve shown on his face, as his husband cocked his head, silently asking what was wrong. Aziraphale sighed. “Is the kitchen a bad place?”

“Not inherently,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I figured you wouldn’t want soil and foliage getting in the way in there. Not with food around.”

He bit his lip. When Crowley continued to watch him, he admitted, “I got a planter for you. For the windowsill above the sink, though I suppose we could choose a different place to put it, if the kitchen doesn’t suit. I’m really so ignorant about gardening!”

“No, it’s not—” Crowley cut himself off and swallowed hard, looking almost teary. His voice sounded gravelly when he answered. “The sill gets really good light, actually. It’s only that I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I really am worried about bringing home too many.”

Warmth flooded Aziraphale. Once again, Crowley had called it home. “I promise to tell you if you go overboard, as you put it.”

With a grin, his husband said, “I’ll hold you to that. Now, tell me about this planter.”

Which is how the Golden Girls—four species of succulents in a long copper-plated pot—joined their growing family.

Unfortunately, Crowley didn’t seem much inclined to branch out into the bookshop, despite his initial excitement about the picture window. Whenever Aziraphale brought it up, he made excuses. He had quite enough to be getting on with, taking care of the houseplants upstairs. They’d already spent too much money on greenery. Books and plants didn’t go well together, what with the watering and potential spillage. It was a conundrum, in part because Crowley was correct about the effect of water and dirt on his merchandise, in part because Aziraphale didn’t know if he was pushing his husband too hard. Perhaps he didn’t want more plants to care for. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to focus on growing things at all.

He was standing in front of the picture window, frowning at the display there, when the bell rang to announce a new customer arrival. Portia streaked off to the door as usual, and Aziraphale turned to see Chris, messenger bag slung over their shoulder as always. They gave a cheery wave, then bent down to pet Portia, now rubbing her head along their shoes.

“Beautiful out, innit?” Chris said, joining Aziraphale by the window. “You know what I love about this place? That flag is there year-round, not just for Pride.”

“I’d never!” He bit his lip. “I’m thinking of changing things up. Not removing the flag, of course. Just adding some, ah, plants. Air plants? I think?”

Chris laughed. “Planning a gift for Crowley, I take it?”

Well, he supposed it was obvious. As Chris sprawled out in their usual spot, Aziraphale sat opposite them and explained the situation as much as he could without giving away his motive of wooing Crowley properly. When he was done, Chris pulled an iPad and stylus from their bag and began to sketch.

“So you’d need something like this,” they said after a few moments, turning the screen to show a rough drawing of the window. Several rectangles seemed to act as shelves with books underneath, soft bedding for cats (one drawn) on top. On the other side, there was a three-tiered unit that held potted plants on each level, and some strings of foliage (Aziraphale guessed these were air plants) hung from the ceiling above. “See? This way, your display could be protected from the things Crowley’s worried about, dirt and whatnot, and the cats would have extra places to sleep that wouldn’t be directly on top of your books. Win-win!”

It was an interesting idea, but Aziraphale had no clue how to make it happen in reality. In his search for cat-trees back in January, he’d only found vertical climbing units and smaller enclosed spaces. He certainly didn’t have the skill to create something himself. “Where would I acquire something like this? It would have to be sturdy. Sometimes, the cats—well, mostly Portia—get the zoomies.”

Chris grinned at the word, which Aziraphale was tickled to use after learning it from Muriel. “I can build it. Custom-designed, so you’d have to tell me exactly what size you want each portion, and if you have any changes you’d like to make. This is only a preliminary idea.” At Aziraphale’s astonished expression, they added, “Before I was a web developer, I was trained in carpentry. Definitely not a career I wanted to continue in full-time, but it comes in useful sometimes.”

“Well, I say,” Aziraphale said, feeling overwhelmed and awed in tandem.

“Besides,” Chris continued, “this way, I can give back to the bookshop. Considering I spend hours here every week, freeloading off your wi-fi, I’d be delighted to return the favor!”

 


 

In mid-July, Crowley came home to discover the bookshop closed and its internal space in disarray. He blinked rapidly as he took in the three figures by the window: Aziraphale, Chris, and—for some reason he could not fathom—their solicitor, Ms Kejora. All three seemed to be wrestling with a large wooden set of stairs.

“This is insanely heavy,” Ms Kejora complained.

“Needs to be sturdy,” Chris grunted. They pushed, and their end of the…whatever it was…slid forward abruptly and plonked against the glass. “Whoops! No cracks, it’s fine!”

“Hope it never needs to change position,” the solicitor grumbled. She straightened up, looked over, and said, “Oh! Crowley, you’re here.”

Aziraphale startled at her words and spun around. “You’re home early today!”

“And you’re closed already. What’s going on?” Crowley was starting to suspect that he knew, though. Now that the three were no longer bent over the item they’d been carrying, it became clear that it was a shelving unit of some sort.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Chris said, patting one of the tiers, which was covered in soft padding. “I designed and built her myself!”

Crowley had no idea what to say. He could see the whole window now, could see exactly how and why it had been constructed. As Portia jumped up onto what appeared to be a custom-made cat bed, Crowley tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Aziraphale stepped past misaligned furniture and the stacks of books that used to be tucked into the window. There was concern on his face when he approached Crowley. “You see, we thought this way, the display books would be protected, and the cats would have beds in the sunlight, and you could use the rest of this space for your air plants and terrariums, if you wish. You don’t have to, of course. I could add further books to the display and get Muriel to help me plan something to hang and catch the light opposite the flag. But it’s yours to use if you want.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Crowley said, his voice barely audible.

“Chris called it a win-win. This way, even if you don’t want to use it, my books are still protected from the cats knocking them over and sleeping on them, the way they have been for months now.” Aziraphale took a step closer, and his next words were very quiet. “It’s meant to be a gift, but if you don’t want it, if I’ve miscalculated—”

“No.” Crowley cleared his throat and blinked a few times to keep back his tears. Thank someone he was still wearing his sunglasses. “It’s a beautiful gift, angel. Only, it’s so much. You spoil me.”

The smile he received in return nearly melted Crowley into a puddle. Aziraphale put a hand on his cheek. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

Then Aziraphale’s lips were on his, and Crowley froze. It was exactly like that first kiss, in front of the Malaikas’ solicitor. He wanted, and he wasn’t allowed, and he yet was supposed to under these circumstances. Their own solicitor was in the room—the solicitor who was still fighting to prove their marriage was legal. They’d discussed this—putting on a show when it was necessary. But that little nugget of logic was buried by the overwhelming ache that Crowley experienced each time his lips touched the other man’s. The six weeks since he’d last had a taste simultaneously felt like forever and no time at all.

Aziraphale pulled back before he could unfreeze and respond, a tiny frown line appearing between his brows. His eyes were questioning. Crowley averted his own, looking instead at Ms Kejora, who was watching them. Shit.

“Were you involved in all that?” he asked her, waving an arm vaguely at the unit in the window.

Ms Kejora’s eyes followed the gesture. Then she crossed her arms and sniffed. “Not in the slightest. I came by with news and got dragged into helping.”

“She’s a good sport,” Chris said, putting their arm around her waist. When the solicitor glared at them, the arm withdrew. “Sorry! I know, I know. Not in front of clients.”

Crowley exchanged a look with Aziraphale, eyebrows raised, and suddenly the tension between them melted into something more akin to normal. “What news?” Aziraphale asked.

“You’ll want to crack open the champagne for this one,” Ms Kejora said with an almost-predatory grin. “Your marriage is officially legal in the eyes of the court. Ms Uriel lost her first challenge. One lawsuit won.”

Aziraphale’s face went radiant with excitement. He turned to Crowley, who could see that instinct to kiss there again. Instead, they hugged tightly as Chris cheered. It only took Crowley a moment to understand—his husband remembered. Remembered the way, months ago, he’d babbled out that he couldn’t properly kiss without being swept under by the tide. Aziraphale had remembered, and had chosen to protect Crowley with a hug, no matter how it might look, no matter what he might want for himself.

A fierce wave of love washed over Crowley, and he pulled back only far enough to look Aziraphale in the eyes. They spoke so easily without words now, and when Crowley leaned in to touch their lips together, Aziraphale melted into the embrace. The taste of him was like a drug. Crowley only let himself indulge for a few moments, so that he wouldn’t lose his head entirely.

“We should celebrate!” Chris said. “Drinks on me!”

Ms Kejora declined, saying that she needed to get back to the office to start working on the next portion of their case. Aziraphale admitted that he had an appointment with a collector that evening.

“Want me to stay close, angel?” Crowley asked. “We can do drinks another night.”

Aziraphale smiled, and his eyes crinkled in that way that always made Crowley’s heart leap a little. “No, you go on, dear. You know I’m not usually one for pubs. I’ll have dinner on when you get home, and we can have our own little celebration.”

Private celebration,” Chris said with a lot of unsubtle emphasis and snickering. Ms Kejora elbowed them in the ribs.

“Right then,” Crowley said. “I’ll take you up on the offer, Chris, as long as you stop being an arse. And as long as you don’t take me to that pub across the road. It’s utter shite.”

“Nah, man,” Chris said. “Gonna take you to my local. You’ll love it.”

Half an hour later, Crowley found himself at a tiny table across from Chris in a pub called the Enterprise. Half an hour after that, he had put down enough whisky that he’d tripped right past giddy into vulnerability. Tears sprang to his eyes when Chris toasted to having a real marriage.

“Ssss’not like that,” Crowley whined. He had just enough sobriety to keep his severely-loosened tongue from confessing the ruse of how he and Aziraphale had gotten married in the first place.

Chris smiled good-naturedly and nodded, holding their Talisker aloft and amending the toast. “To having a legal marriage!”

“Wasss alwaysss legal,” Crowley pouted. “Stupid ssssoliss—ssoci—lawyersss. Alwayss telling people whass real and not real.”

“They’re not all bad.”

Crowley squinted at them. He was pretty sure Chris was dating his solicitor in some capacity or another. When he opened his mouth to ask, however, what tumbled out was, “What’f m’not good enough?” One of his friend’s eyebrows raised, and he clarified, “For ’Ziraphale.”

“Yes, I know who you’re talking about,” Chris said, lips pursed to hold back laughter.

“He’sss wonderful. He’sss alwayss so wonderful.” Crowley sniffed into his Talisker and tried to pull the inebriated hiss out of his words. “Always doing things for me. Giving me plants and space to grow things and making me dinner and—”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shook his head. The room spun, and he gripped the table with the hand that wasn’t holding his tumbler of whisky. “No, no, no. Iss good. He’ss so good. He’ss my best friend. But what’f…what’f he realizes ssomeday? That he’ss too good for me? Then iss jus’ me, sauntering along, feeling good, and then. Bam! S’over.” He punctuated this with a slap on the wooden table. “Ow.”

“That sounds painful,” Chris said. Their lips were still twitching.

Crowley had no idea if they were referring to his words or his now-stinging palm, and decided not to question it. He waved one arm wildly. “Be like…like…like fallin’ from th’sky! From Heaven, b’cause ’Ziraphale iss a li-te-ral angel. An’ I don’t wanna fall, Chris! I like him.”

He dropped his head onto the table, making a cradle of his arms, and his hair fanned out around him. One curl was yanked hard, and Crowley opened an eye to glare at his friend, who cackled.

“S’not funny. Y’don’unnerstand! M’not good enough for him. M’never enough.”

The amusement abruptly disappeared from Chris’ face. They scowled and pushed back from the table. “I’m buying us some chips.”

No more Talisker came with the chips. Crowley thought about complaining, but the glare turned on him when he opened his mouth made him shut it again at once. Chris slowly ate their way through a half-dozen before they finally pointed at Crowley and spoke again.

“This is exactly like with fucking Jean-Luc.”

Drawing himself up, Crowley said, “’Ziraphale is nothin’ like that…that…” But he was unable to come up with a word that was bad enough to describe his ex.

“Not saying he is. This is about you.” Chris sat up straighter and steepled their hands in front of them. “Back in May, Aziraphale asked for my advice. He was worried that he was accepting so much from you without ever giving anything back. Afraid that he would never be enough. Sound familiar?” They raised an eyebrow. “You’re both so accustomed to giving and giving and giving, without ever receiving anything in return, that neither of you knows how to accept the other’s love without feeling inadequate.”

“What are you, my therapist?” Crowley reached for a chip, only to have his hand slapped away. “Ow!”

“Jean-Luc was an arse,” Chris continued. “Yet, you stayed, giving him all of yourself when he never gave anything in return. You couldn’t have fixed him. Changed him. Made him love you. No matter what you did, he was always going to be an arse.”

“You’re the arse,” Crowley muttered, causing Chris to huff in annoyance. “Why’re we talking about Jean-Luc anyway?”

“Because you stayed with him regardless! Because you think he’s all you deserve! Right now, you’re thinking the same thing as with him, with Nick, with all the rest of them, even if Aziraphale is a better man.” Chris pointed a chip at him. “You refuse to believe that anyone can truly love you. You’re scared that one day, you’ll get thrown away, no matter how tightly you cling. It’s not healthy, man. And if you keep on that way, you’re going to end up pushing away the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Crowley swayed, trying to focus on Chris’ eyes. Tears slid down both his cheeks. “’Ziraphale is the best thing that’s ever happened to anyone.”

With a roll of their eyes, Chris slid the basket toward him. “Eat something. You’re too drunk. We’re meant to be celebrating.”

Warily, Crowley reached for a chip. This time, Chris didn’t slap his hand. “You’re not very nice t’night. I said I’d come out wi’ you, but only if you stopped being an arse.”

“Me? I’m a literal saint. Practically a savior, giving you all the good advice. I’m probably salvaging your always-been-legal marriage right now. Plus, I bought you chips. You should be kissing my feet to thank me.”

“Ew. I’m not into feet. Sorry.” Crowley thought it over, chewing on another chip. “An’ b’sides, I’m married.”

Chris laughed, good mood resurfacing without warning. “No problem, mate. I’m not into boys.”

By the time they left the pub, Crowley was slightly more sober and slightly less maudlin. For all he didn’t appreciate Chris’ tough love antics, he had to admit, they were helpful. Chris looped their arm through his as they wove down the pavement, singing tunelessly about the glory of a queers’ night out.

The bookshop lights were off, door locked, when they reached it. Aziraphale’s business meeting must be over. Crowley stared up at the flat’s windows, warmth flowing through him at the thought of seeing his husband again. Having a proper celebration with him.

“You know, even at night, the new display looks awesome.”

Crowley glanced at where Chris stood in front of the picture window. There were no plants yet, so half of the space felt empty. Aziraphale had cheekily filled the book display with titles such as The Secret Garden, Flower Fairies, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, Orlando, and If Not, Winter. Plants, cats, and queer literature. It was perfect.

Portia appeared at the shop window, jumping up onto one of the new beds. She swished her tail and pawed at the glass. Her meow was inaudible, but the sentiment was obvious: Time to go inside.

Chris pulled Crowley into an embrace. “Take care of yourself, man. And let him take care of you, too. You both deserve the love you each so plainly have for each other.”

Crowley glanced again at the flat’s windows, bright behind curtains that shut out the fading evening. He swallowed hard. One thing was very clear—he would do anything in his power to make Aziraphale happy; to prove that he loved him with all his soul. If Chris was right, and that meant facing the darker parts of his fears and self-doubts, he would do that, too.

 


 

“If you can get out through the cat flap, you can go in that way, too.”

The grouching floated through the front door and drifted into the kitchen, where Aziraphale had just popped baguettes into the oven. They weren’t homemade, of course—he hadn’t had that much time—but a hearty beef and vegetable stew deserved decent bread, and he had discovered a few store brands over the years that baked up nicely from the freezer. The stew was simmering down, the bread would be ready within half an hour, and there was sparkling wine chilling for the two of them. Assuming Crowley wanted more to drink, of course. No telling how much he’d had at the pub. He and Chris had been gone for several hours.

Portia cried loudly. “Bah,” came Crowley’s voice again.

Aziraphale grinned, removed his apron, and proceeded to open the front door. The cat streaked inside at once, disappearing into the office as if she might need to hide. Crowley blinked and swayed slightly before frowning.

“Angel! I was trying to teach her!”

As he stumbled over the threshold, Aziraphale caught his arm to steady him. “Portia is a princess. You simply have to cater to her whims.”

Crowley sputtered out a few consonants, ending with, “…spoiling my girls like princesses.” He clumsily petted Viola, who had hopped onto the back of the sofa to sniff at him. She wriggled away, looking up to Aziraphale instead.

“This one isn’t a princess,” Aziraphale said, obliging her with chin scritches. “She’s a queen.” When Viola gave him an offended look, he amended the statement. “No, she’s divinity incarnate.”

Viola rubbed her whole body along his hand, looked at Crowley with disdain, and then walked away, tail avoiding his still-outstretched hand. Her message was clear.

“Traitor,” Crowley muttered. He turned to Aziraphale then, caught the fond smile on his lips, and his face went sappy. “Hi, angel.”

“Come in, dear. Dinner will be ready soon. I’m afraid my appointment ran over—” He shuddered as the image of Sandalphon’s gold tooth flashed through his head. “—so I haven’t quite finished yet. And given the state of you, I’m thinking we should save the champagne for after we eat.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, Crowley elongated the word into three syllables. “Forgot to eat lunch today, and th’pub had Talisker. Good stuff, that. Only I got a little maudlin because I forgot food, so Chris gave me a tongue-lashing.”

“Dreadful.” Aziraphale guided Crowley to the sofa, where he sprawled as if he had no spine. “I can’t imagine being on the receiving end of Chris’ ire.”

After a few of his duck-like noises, Crowley said, “Eh, they’re okay. And they fed me chips. So I’m not so drunk now.”

If this was “not so drunk,” he must’ve been really poorly before. Aziraphale leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Rest for a moment. I’ll have everything prepared for us in a jiffy!”

He returned to the kitchen to check the food, trailed by Crowley’s call of, “Perfect angel, making me dinner when I’m in…in…intoxic. No. That’s not right, is it? Toxicated. That’s the one. M’toxicated. Tipsy. Summat like that. Sure.” A moment later, there was a surprised squeak, and he said, “Oh! Have you forgiven me, divinity incarnate? Well, alright then.”

Aziraphale snuck a peek through the kitchen door. Viola had curled into a ball on Crowley’s lap, purring loudly. He smiled down at her, one hand stroking her back. Even drunk, the man was extraordinarily gentle. A fierce wave of love engulfed him, and he retreated back to the range. Stay strong, he told himself. It wouldn’t do to give in to temptation now.

It didn’t help that a few minutes later, the first lines of “Consider Yourself” drifted in from his husband’s mobile. Aziraphale didn’t know if the song was a random selection from their joint playlist (Bee’s name of “Secret Agent Songs” had stuck), or if Crowley had chosen it on purpose. Either way, Aziraphale had to blink back tears that he pretended were entirely due to the cloud of steam that puffed from the stewpot when he lifted the lid to stir.

Notes:

Cade and his nursery are making an appearance from my first ever fanfic. 😄

The story about the hibiscus bush comes from my attempt to bring greenery into my home a few years back. My little trio of tabbies, who were almost a year old at that point, did all the things Crowley says Portia and Viola did. The hibiscus went to live outside. The TX heat then killed it. Oh well.

Why Hannah? Because when I visited Rainstorm back in February, we went to a queer bookshop together. The shop had tons of plants, labeled, and the first one we saw was Hanna. (All the other plants in this story are named after various literature, media, music, and pop culture references, but I had to give Hanna a shout-out!)

Speaking of Rainstorm - If you're following Sweeter Than Fiction, you'll have seen that they've been on an extended break, too. Their reasons are different (see their Tumblr for more - IneffableRainstorm there, too), the timing is just coincidental. We're both taking good care of each other behind the scenes. 🥰 (And they say hi and that they've already repotted all their plants like author-Crowley. 🤣 They promise to post as soon as they can!)

Chapter 23: Rescue

Summary:

Honestly this one is just silly, sweet domestic fluff. Enjoy the fluff.

***
“I take all movies seriously. I take cinema seriously!”

“And I love you for that, dear,” Aziraphale said, looping his arm through Crowley’s and resettling against his shoulder. “But don’t throw food at the screen again, if you please.”

Notes:

Oh look! Only two weeks between chapters this time! (Still no guarantees on the schedule, but hey, this was improvement!)

Spoiler warnings for the movie Ever After (1998). Can they even count as spoilers so many years later? Also: trigger warning for Mr Brown’s quivering mustache.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Crowley sat cross-legged on the sofa. Aziraphale was curled up beside him, leaning against his shoulder, as they watched Ever After. The remains of their takeaway fish-and-chips lay between them, crumpled wrappers and a paper basket with the last of their chips.

“Yes! I shall go down in history as the man who opened a door!”

Aziraphale giggled. Somehow, the man had managed to miss most of modern cinema. He’d stared at Crowley blankly when the latter referred to his new air plants as soot sprites, and Crowley had taken it upon himself to educate him. And if he preferred to choose feel-good romance-type movies for their weekly date nights, that was no one’s business but his own.

“A fish may love a bird, Signore, but where would they live?”

“Then I shall have to make you wings.”

“Oh come on, you wanker!” Crowley shouted, then threw a chip at the tv. “Do you want her to suffocate?

“Really, Crowley. Is that necessary?”

“Sorry, angel. I’ll pick up the mess. But please, tell me you agree. Da Vinci was not that stupid.”

Aziraphale huffed. “It’s a silly love story! You’re taking this far too seriously.”

“I take all movies seriously. I take cinema seriously!”

“And I love you for that, dear,” Aziraphale said, looping his arm through Crowley’s and resettling against his shoulder. “But don’t throw food at the screen again, if you please.”

Crowley managed to keep his hands under control until Pierre le Pieu forced a kiss on Danielle. “Fucker!” He reached for another chip, but Aziraphale had deftly slid them out of range. “Angel! We can’t let that one slide! He’s a monster!”

But his husband only appeared bemused. “First off, my dear, throwing food at the television will not change his behavior. Second, see? She’s rescuing herself. I thought you said you’d seen this one before.”

“Oh yeah, I have. Dozens of times. Why would that matter? He still deserved a chip to the face.” Crowley pouted until Aziraphale stuffed a bite into his mouth. “Thanks, angel,” he said around the food.

A second later, he squawked and jumped off the sofa, not fast enough to stop Portia from snagging the previously-thrown chip. As she streaked away with her prize, Aziraphale said, “I didn’t realize cats ate potatoes.”

“Probably smell like the fish.” Crowley considered for a moment and shrugged as he flopped back onto the couch. “Actually, she eats crisps, too. Told you. She’s weird.”

Aziraphale patted his hand, and they lapsed back in silence until the movie ended. As he did with almost all the happy endings that he’d viewed now, he sighed in contentment when the credits rolled. This time, there was the added benefit of him slipping his arms around Crowley’s waist, preventing the latter from standing. “Stay a bit.”

“As you wish, angel.”

Crowley received a grin in response. They’d watched The Princess Bride a few weeks back. Aziraphale squeezed him tighter, then relaxed, lying comfortably against his side. Crowley didn’t move even when his leg fell asleep from sitting in the same position for too long, because he didn’t want to disturb his husband, who had also fallen asleep.

 


 

“Hiya, angel!”

Aziraphale turned, face lighting up automatically at his husband’s voice. “Crowley! You’re just in time. I’m off to my barber. I was about to lock up.”

Crowley leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Ah! I forgot you were heading out tonight. Remembered that I was in charge of making dinner but I didn’t remember why. Anything in particular that you want? Or don’t want?”

Wiggling in pleasure at the last statement—none of his former partners had ever bothered to check what was on the no list when they prepared dinner—Aziraphale said, “Something light, if you don’t mind. Nothing too fatty. Or acidic.”

“Gotcha. No tomatoes, sausage, or curry.” Crowley grinned. “Let me look over what we have upstairs and text you. You have your mobile?”

Aziraphale smiled and patted his jacket pocket. “Perfect. Thank you, my dear.”

“No trouble at all.”

There was a short moment of fizzing tension between them. Aziraphale forced himself to wave and turn away without pulling in for an embrace first, no matter how much he wanted that.

He strolled down Whickber street, humming to himself. After days of sweltering August heat, the weather had finally turned briefly toward the cooler side, and a tantalizing breeze tickled his slightly-too-long curls. His appointment with the barber was set for every six weeks, right when the hair grew long enough to become irritating to the back of his neck. Once again, it was perfect timing.

Just as he was about to turn onto his barber’s street, Aziraphale heard the last voice he wanted to hear calling his name.

“Mr Malaika! A moment of your time, please!”

Suppressing a groan, he hitched a smile onto his face and turned. “Mr Brown. How good to see you. It’s been ever so long.”

“It has indeed!” The man grinned, mustache twitching in a way that made Aziraphale want to shudder. “If I were a suspicious man, I would think you’ve been avoiding me!”

They both laughed, Aziraphale doing his best to make it sound genuine. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have long to chat. I was on my way to the barber and—”

“Splendid!” Mr Brown said, clapping him on the back. “I fancied a stroll, what with how pleasant the weather has turned. Perhaps I could accompany you? You missed our last Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association meeting—I could catch you up!”

Aziraphale had successfully avoided all such meetings for the last fifteen months. He had no desire to be caught up, but he also couldn’t think of an excuse to keep the carpet-seller from joining him. He allowed himself to be swept into a one-sided conversation about Christmas lights and appropriate grammar on signage and the rabble that was “making Soho a difficult place to live and work these days.” It was easier to murmur out an occasional “oh, yes” than to participate. Aziraphale only tuned back in when it seemed he’d accidentally agreed to host the next Association meeting.

“A perfect solution,” Mr Brown said. “I daresay your bookshop will be an excellent location to truly emphasize the gravity of proper business aesthetics. Especially set next to that gaudy coffeeshop with all that graffiti visible through the windows.”

A tendril of irritation had Aziraphale opening his mouth before he thought better of it. “Nina’s shop is lovely, and she’s a dear friend of mine, you know.”

“I have nothing against the woman personally, of course. And she makes absolutely scrumptious coffee! But her interior design…” He tsked and shook his head. “It simply does not match the long tradition of elegant and classy storefronts on Whickber Street!”

Elegant and classy? Aziraphale had to hold in a snort of laughter. This was the heart of Soho. Edgy and unusual sat side by side with elegant and classy in this part of London. He wondered if Mr Brown had seen the updated look of the bookshop’s display window, now that it was no longer confined to the Pride flag hanging over rows and stacks of dusty old books. It was possible the tangle of foliage now spilling out everywhere would be considered offensive to the elegant and classy aesthetic of Whickber Street, not to mention the cats— Wait! The cats!

“Oh! Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, and did his best to feign regret. “I forgot. I couldn’t possibly host a meeting in my shop anymore, not with the cats. I’m quite sure I’ve heard at least one shopkeeper mention a severe cat allergy to me. And it would be unfair to host in a place where anyone would be left out.”

Mr Brown blinked at him. “There are cats? In your bookshop?”

Obviously, it had been a while since the man had properly looked at his window, despite his talk about enjoying Nina’s coffee. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. “Two of them. They were my husband’s, and of course he brought them with him when he moved in. It didn’t take long before they insisted on more space than our flat provided!”

The carpet-seller’s face went blank at the mention of a husband. Good lord, had the man not known? Was he really so oblivious? Mr Brown rallied. “My goodness! Congratulations! This deserves a celebratory drink.”

Mercifully, they had reached the barber. Aziraphale gestured to the doorway and said, “I’m afraid I have an appointment…”

“Of course. We can go afterwards. I don’t mind waiting. My shop is in good hands today, and it’s clearly been far too long since we had a proper chance to catch up.”

Unable to think of another polite reason to decline, Aziraphale opened the door for the other man. He hoped his grimace passed for a smile as he nodded agreement.

Inside, his barber, Arthur, was finishing with his current client. “Halloa, Aziraphale! I’ll be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Jolly good.” Reluctantly, Aziraphale turned to sit next to Mr Brown. Before he could do so, his mobile pinged from his jacket pocket. Crowley! “Ever so sorry,” he said as he pulled the device free. “I wouldn’t normally check my messages in the middle of a conversation, but this is—ah—about an important—hmm—delivery.”

The screen read: ‘got salmon, how abt w/ that roast beetroot salad yiu like?’

“Well, I say!” Mr Brown sounded simultaneously impressed and cross. “I never thought I’d see the day that Mr Malaika upgraded his phone! It seems you’ve undergone a number of changes this year, my good fellow.”

Aziraphale gave him a distracted smile as he tried to focus on typing back. How in the world did Crowley text so quickly? It probably helped that he could type with both hands. Aziraphale felt ridiculous, pecking at the keyboard with one finger.

‘Meal sounds lovely. Unfortunately I’ve been waylaid by Mr Brown from the carpet store and he insists on taking me for a drink after, so I’ll be late. Can’t think of an excuse to say no. I’ll rush.’

Hoping that would be sufficient, Aziraphale clicked the mobile off. As he went to put the phone back in his pocket, the screen lit up with a return text. The part he could see said, ‘Ok ill adjust plans,’ and he groaned inwardly. He’d been hoping for rescue, not accommodation. Well, he’d just have to rescue himself, then.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he finally sat down. “I know how rude that was, but—”

“But business takes priority,” Mr Brown said with a wide grin. “I completely understand. You’re a man after my own heart. Well…” He gave a hasty laugh. “Not now that you’re married, I suppose.”

Oh god, it was painful. Aziraphale fake-laughed along with him, begging the universe to provide some miracle to end this conversation. Instead, the carpet-seller dug himself in deeper.

“Though you ought to have given me your new number! That way I could have, ah, updated the roster for the Association.”

“No need,” Aziraphale said rather too quickly. He suddenly became aware of how useless his arms felt at his side. Was he holding them weirdly? Had the other man noticed? “The shop phone remains the same, and it’s the primary number for the business. My mobile is only for after hours, and personal calls.”

“Personal, eh?” Mr Brown waggled his eyebrows in a way that had Aziraphale wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “I bet that’s how you met your husband, eh? Online dating?”

A sharp elbow-jab to his ribs followed this intrusive personal question, and he was at a loss as to how to respond, mouth open stupidly, tongue frozen. Thankfully, the barber spoke at that moment.

“Ready for you, Aziraphale! Come on over.”

Relief flooded him, followed by annoyance as Mr Brown picked up a chair and accompanied him to the station. Though the barber exchanged a look with Aziraphale, he didn’t comment. He simply asked if Aziraphale wanted the usual, then got to work on his curls. The moment he did, Mr Brown continued the conversation as if there had been no interruption, though thankfully, he returned to the subject of Whickber Street.

Aziraphale hmm-ed and murmured nonsense as he spoke. Quite frankly, it was difficult not to let his irritation show. He enjoyed his regular chats with Arthur at these appointments, and now he would miss today’s altogether because Mr Brown wouldn’t stop wittering on about regulations he wanted to pass for the businesses on their street. How did he not realize how controlling and irritating he was? How was Aziraphale going to manage pleasantries as they got that drink together, especially when he would be distracted by the tiny sharp bits of hair that inevitably got stuck to his skin and in his clothes after a cut?

The bell over the door rang. In the mirror, Aziraphale watched his barber turn to greet whatever customer had entered. Then said customer moved close enough that Aziraphale could see him, too. His insides melted with joy.

Crowley wore one of his most sinful outfits, tight jeans and that turtleneck sweater that Aziraphale had more than once struggled not to run his hands across. That ridiculous silver scarf he loved draped down his chest like a tantalizing arrow. His hair was still wet from the shower and had been pulled into a messy bun. He was a vision, and Aziraphale let that internal joy spill over his face. “Crowley!”

“Hi, angel! So…I know I said I’d make us dinner tonight, but it’s such a lovely night, and I thought, why not take you out for a treat?” He grinned, canines sharp. “How does sushi sound?”

“Aziraphale and I were going for a drink after his appointment.”

Mr Brown had stood, and while there was still a smile on his face, his posture had grown aggressive. Good lord, the man was oblivious. Aziraphale rushed to intervene. “Crowley, this is Mr Brown, one of my fellow shopkeepers on Whickber Street. Mr Brown, this is my husband, Crowley.”

Crowley reached out a hand, still with the sharp grin that could look predatory if you didn’t know him better. “Charmed.” After a handshake that was frankly too quick to be considered polite, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. “A drink before sushi sounds lovely. Do we have a pub in mind?”

It took all of Aziraphale’s willpower not to laugh. He couldn’t look at Mr Brown, who had flushed red all over at the word husband, as if he’d forgotten already. Behind the sunglasses, Crowley winked at him.

“P-perhaps we’ll get that drink another time.” Mr Brown turned to Crowley. “You should attend our next Association meeting, now that you’re one of our Whickber shopkeepers.”

“Oh, not me. I’m not a shopkeeper. The books are Aziraphale’s domain.” Crowley laughed and his grin grew wider as he leaned into the carpet-seller’s personal space. “I’m a mortician.”

Mr Brown took a step back and stuttered out an incoherent reply. Aziraphale wanted to leap into Crowley’s arms and kiss him breathless. He had eyes for no one else as he gave a requisite polite goodbye to the carpet-seller, who suddenly decided to take his leave, promising to follow up about that drink at a later date. Hopefully, it would be another fifteen months before they crossed paths again.

“Oops,” Crowley said after the door shut behind Mr Brown. “I think I may have run him off.”

Grabbing that scarf and pulling him in, Aziraphale gave him a peck on the lips—all he could permit himself—and said, “You ridiculous man. Thank you for the rescue.”

Another wink. “Always, angel. Now, finish your appointment in peace. I’ll go sit down out of the way, yeah? I’d still like to take you out for sushi, but we can stop by the flat first so you can have a post-cut shower.”

He turned and sauntered toward the waiting area, scooping up Mr Brown’s discarded chair on the way. Aziraphale stared after him. He knew his expression was entirely lovesick, but he couldn’t control it. Not only had he been rescued, but his husband knew him well enough to realize that he would want to wash up immediately after this appointment and had accommodated his need without even the slightest bit of complaint. He was perfect. There was no one in the world more perfect than Crowley.

Arthur, who had quietly stepped away during the exchange, now returned to his station. “Ready to continue?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled and nodded, then sighed in pleasure as the barber began his work again, immediately falling into the conversation they usually had during these visits.

 


 

“Rescuing me makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

Crowley spluttered and glanced over at the passenger seat. Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him. His hands were locked together tightly in his lap, the way they usually were in the Bentley. “Ngh?”

“Maybe not just me. Rescuing in general. Plants. People. Conversations. Family businesses.” In Crowley’s peripheral vision, Aziraphale turned to him. “And you like all those rescue films that we’ve been watching. It’s your thing.”

Squirming in his seat, Crowley protested, “We’ve been watching mostly romance movies! The rescues are coincidental. Product of the genre.”

Frozen is not a romance.”

“Not every movie we’ve—”

“Yet it still involves rescue.” Aziraphale reached over and patted his leg. “I’m not complaining, my dear. I’ve been rather ecstatic the times you’ve gotten me out of a tight spot. It’s only a thing I’ve noticed—how you express your affection for people. If the ‘love languages’ weren’t a bunch of new age hogwash, I’d say rescue is yours.”

“Are you anti-self-help, angel?” Crowley teased. Deflection was good. “No Men Are from Mars in your shop?”

The angel in question gave a haughty sniff. “I own a pristine first edition of Emily Post, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course you do,” Crowley said, laughing. He couldn’t help himself. “You’ve probably read it cover to cover, too.”

He thought he heard the man mutter, “Fiend,” and grinned. At least they weren’t talking about his possible hero complex any longer.

Ten minutes later, they had reached Matt and Furman’s house, where they’d been invited for a board game day. Aziraphale had agreed to come after Crowley promised that they could leave the moment he grew overwhelmed. On reflection, that might have been where the whole rescue conversation had come from.

Aziraphale caught his hand before he left the Bentley. “Dear? I hesitate to bring this up, but we’re meant to be relative newlyweds. What level of, ah, interaction would be appropriate today? I thought it might be best to make sure we were on the same page beforehand this time.”

Crowley hesitated. What he wanted was to act on his natural instincts. To put an arm around his husband and give him a kiss when he inevitably said something adorable. To hold his hand under the table if he got nervous or flustered. To rest his head on his shoulder and have the angel’s fingers stroke his hair. All of that without worrying about how much was real and how much was performance.

That wasn’t their reality, though, and he couldn’t expect either of them to pretend it was. With a sigh, he said, “I suppose it should be similar to when we visited Colchester. We take care of each other, but stay polite. Newlyweds or not, it probably wouldn’t be best to make out in front of everyone.”

“More’s the pity,” Aziraphale said, giving him a wry but cheerful grin. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Right, then. Shall we?”

In addition to Matt and Furman, Bee had arrived with Dragon, and there were a few people that Crowley didn’t recognize. He worried that Aziraphale would become agitated at the memory of the young person from the hotel they’d stayed in. His apprehension proved unnecessary though, as Dragon had apparently stopped by the bookshop several times over the summer, and the two got along well.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispered to him, running a thumb along the back of Crowley’s hand. “I completely forgot to mention it! So silly of me.”

Matt introduced them to three others—Adam, Pepper, and Warlock—before the whole group split up around two tables piled with various board games. Crowley paid no notice to the choices, happy to go along with what everyone else wanted. He was far more interested in the way that Aziraphale and Furman got sidetracked into a spirited conversation on the merits of Hamlet. It was no surprise that their table chose The Shakespeare Game.

It was also no surprise that Crowley got completely lost as Warlock read the convoluted rules of the game aloud. The idea of Elizabethan-era fashion—there was mention of tights and heeled shoes in the Hamlet discussion—had become a distraction. Crowley couldn’t help but picture Aziraphale in a fitted doublet and silk stockings. Somehow, his husband would look right in clothes that were several hundred years old. And then Crowley could slowly undo every button from neck to—

“Crowley?”

He startled back into the moment. “Right. Sorry. I, ngh, I think I might be too tired for this game. Perhaps I’ll sit out and watch this round?”

Aziraphale gave him a worried look, but Crowley smiled and waved the concern away.

“M’fine, angel.” He leaned over to lay his head on the other man’s shoulder, exactly how he’d longed to do. When Aziraphale’s fingers rose to stroke his curls, he almost purred aloud. “I’ll enjoy seeing you play, whispering bad advice in your ear.”

“Fiend,” his husband said with a light tug to those curls.

Across the table, Bee rolled their eyes.

Over the next few hours, the guests migrated from table to table, game to game. There were snacks set out, and Crowley apologized to their hosts for forgetting that this was meant to be a potluck-type situation. In truth, he hadn’t realized that game day had indicated a full day. Normally, he wouldn’t mind, but his earlier assertion that he was tired proved to be prophetic. The longer they stayed, the more exhausted he grew. When Adam hooked his mobile up to the overhead sound system for music, the early tendrils of a headache began to pulse at Crowley’s temples.

Aziraphale, however, was in his element. Being around other people with quirky personalities and esoteric knowledge bases made him giddy. He couldn’t stop smiling, and there was literally nothing on earth that would induce Crowley to put an end to that happiness. Instead, he kept quietly out of the way, bringing his husband little plates of nibbles from time to time, attempting to keep his imagination out of the bedroom as Aziraphale grew freer with his little moans and exclamations of delight.

Eventually, though, Aziraphale caught him.

Crowley had retreated to the kitchen, where he’d leaned his head against the refrigerator and closed burning eyes. His headache had grown worse. He startled when Aziraphale spoke from right beside him.

“There you are! Pepper said she thought you’d gone in here. We were thinking that—Crowley? Are you well?”

He attempted to smile. “Bit of a headache. I’m fine, though. Don’t worry about me.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale immediately began to fuss. “You look dreadfully pale, my dear, and… Oh my!” He’d put the back of his hand to Crowley’s forehead and pulled away quickly. “You’re quite warm to the touch. I think you might have a fever.”

“Really, I’m fine!” Crowley protested, but his husband was already dragging him out of the kitchen, making quick goodbyes to the hosts and other guests, and promising that they’d be happy to attend the next game day. Before he knew it, he was being bundled into the passenger side of the Bentley. He shook himself. “Angel! Why—?”

Aziraphale slid behind the wheel. “Keys, please.”

Crowley stared at him for a few beats. “I can drive us home.”

“You have a fever and you’re in no condition to pay proper attention to the road. Now, I asked for the keys, if you would be so kind.”

“But…” When Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, Crowley reluctantly pulled them from his pocket. He didn’t hand them over. “But you can’t drive. You told me so yourself.”

He scoffed. “I said that I’ve never owned a car, and that I don’t like to drive, not that I don’t know how. I do have a license, you know. Passed my driving test with flying colors.”

“Decades ago, I’d wager,” Crowley grumbled. “Angel. We can take the train. You prefer the train. You don’t need to do this because of a silly fever.”

“And possibly get other passengers ill? No, that won’t do at all.” Quick as lightning, he plucked the keys from Crowley’s tightly-curled fist. “Don’t worry. I’ll be very, very careful.”

Without further ado (and over Crowley’s possibly-melodramatic groan), Aziraphale started the Bentley. Crowley closed his eyes. In addition to worry about his husband’s rusty driving skills, there was the possibility he would have another flashback on the trip. They could get into an accident. Aziraphale might get hurt. The Bentley might get hurt. He supposed other people might get hurt, too…but then again, they knew the risks of being on the road…

“You see?” his husband said after a few minutes. “We’re getting along terribly well together.”

Crowley opened one eye as Aziraphale patted the dashboard. “We’ve gone one block,” he said flatly.

“And that’s one block closer to home!”

In the end, Crowley fell asleep. Perhaps it was the slow speeds (“We could walk faster than this!”), or the classical music (“Now that’s lovely accompaniment! How you can drive with that dreadful bebop playing…”), or the sheer boredom of sitting in the passenger seat (“Are we there yet?”). Perhaps it was the fever. Whatever the reason, he woke to a hand on his shoulder, an angel smiling at him.

“We’re here, my dear. Safe and sound, as I promised. Let’s get you inside, yes?”

Crowley tried to hoist himself out of the Bentley, only to find that his legs had turned into overcooked noodles. His husband caught him around the waist and guided him into the bookshop and upstairs. Crowley complained the entire way.

“My, you are grouchy when you aren’t well. Come now. You’ll feel better once I get you into bed.”

With a grin, Crowley said, “Yes, take me to bed, angel. I deserve a reward for all that.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the car.

“Grouchy and ribald.” Aziraphale tucked him under a blanket, smoothed his hair back from his face, and kissed his forehead. “I’ll bring you some paracetamol, and then you should sleep.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t be stubborn, dear. Let me rescue you for once.”

Crowley opened his mouth to complain, but a yawn came out instead, and his eyes closed without his permission. The scent of Aziraphale wafted tantalizingly from the next pillow over, and yeah. Yeah, maybe he would like to roll to his side and bury his face in that scent and dream of an angel who would drive him home despite his fear and trauma.

“Best angel,” he slurred when his husband returned with meds and a cool, damp cloth for his aching head. “My ’Ziraphale. My hero.”

Aziraphale leaned over and kissed his temple. “Sleep, darling. I’ll take care of you. You rest, and dream of whatever you like best.”

“Angels,” Crowley said, or perhaps he only thought he said it, because his mind had already gone fuzzy with sleep.

Notes:

Sick Crowley is Baby. (Don’t worry. It’s just a cold. He’ll be over it before the next chapter starts.)

Portia’s namesake eats all sorts of weird things cats don’t normally eat: potatoes, (American) chips, crackers, tortillas…

Haircuts = immediate shower. No way am I sitting around with tiny little sharp hairs stuck to my skin under my shirt collar…

Hope y’all enjoyed this little interlude. I thought time would pass for these two better with some fluff than with a time lapse.

Chapter 24: A Lot to Say

Summary:

Aziraphale expects nightmares following his time behind the wheel in the Bentley. It’s not exactly what he gets, and he needs some advice.

***
“Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, his voice nearly all breath. It almost sounded like desire rather than fear…

Focus, he told himself. This wasn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts! “That’s right, angel. It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe here.” Another whimper followed. Crowley took a deep inhale, mimicking what he was about to say. “Breathe, darling. You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare. It can’t hurt you.”

Notes:

*rubs hands together gleefully* Here we go!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Crowley had almost drifted entirely into sleep when he noticed the weird hitch in Aziraphale’s breath. He listened for a few moments, in case it was only a gasp of discomfort or the sharp inhale of a pre-bedtime thought. But no. There was definitely something off about his breathing.

“Angel? Are you alright?”

His words broke the strange rhythm of his husband’s breathing, and Crowley suddenly understood. Aziraphale was getting sick! Crowley himself was just coming out of his fever-daze. It had been something like three or four days since they’d attended the game party. Aziraphale had been taking care of him all this time…

“Oh no,” he said before his husband could respond. “You’re catching my cold, aren’t you? I told you I shoulda slept on the sofa.”

“Don’t be silly. I feel perfectly fine.”

Yeeeah. Crowley didn’t believe that for one second. He pushed up onto an elbow and leaned over to put his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. It was a far more accurate measure than the back of a hand. With his lips, Crowley could pinpoint body temperature with almost as much precision as a thermometer. To his surprise, though, his husband felt normal. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good.”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale repeated, overemphasizing the words in a way that was too suspicious for Crowley’s liking.

“Angel. You were, I dunno, gasping and holding your breath. Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” he said, and his voice was pitched far too high. It grew more confident as he continued. “I was, ah, attempting to do an old exercise I was once given. It’s called box breathing.”

Box breathing. Crowley knew all about box breathing. It was one of the ways he helped Mary calm down post-nightmare when they were younger. Was Aziraphale anxious about something? They hadn’t fallen asleep yet, so there hadn’t been a night terror… “What aren’t you telling me?”

There were a few beats of silence before Aziraphale gave a heavy sigh. “Oh, you are too good at reading me,” he grouched. “Fine. I’ll tell you. I’m going to have th-the Gabriel dream sometime in the near future, so I’ve been trying these exercises that a therapist once recommended, years ago. She said I should mentally prepare myself before sleep. Empty my mind, breathe in a specific rhythm, repeat to myself that I would not have a nightmare that night. To be honest, she was a singularly unhelpful therapist, but I thought that it couldn’t hurt to try. I really am fine, my dear. Just having a little trouble breathing normally but also in a pattern.”

Crowley frowned. There was so much missing information in those statements. Cautiously, he asked, “And why do you believe you’re going to have a nightmare?”

Another sigh. “Please don’t be upset. I knew the consequences when I made my choice. It’s always been this way. If I get behind the wheel of a car, the dream inevitably follows within days or weeks.”

Even in the dark, Crowley could see that Aziraphale was cringing, like he expected to be berated. He swallowed any protest about how unnecessary that choice had been. What came out of his mouth instead was a strangled, “Ngk.”

Aziraphale let out a long exhale, relaxing slightly. “The worst part is not knowing when it’ll come. If I could predict it…”

Eventually, Crowley managed to speak. “I don’t understand. If driving causes these nightmares, why do it?” He put a hand on his husband’s arm, both to comfort him and to forestall any protest. “I don’t mean last weekend. I mean, why learn how to drive at all? Plenty of folks get by without a license, no problem.”

“Haven’t you ever endeavored to conquer your personal fears? I didn’t want to live my life ruled by childhood trauma.” He tsked. “Not that it did any good in my case, mind.”

The story that followed was painful. Crowley grew increasingly agitated as Aziraphale told him about his attempts to thwart his demons, first by acquiring a license, then by volunteering as a designated driver while at uni. The idea of carting around drunk-as-fuck students while also trying to overcome trauma was so Aziraphale that Crowley almost choked on admiration. He would have, if he wasn’t so distressed by the idea that his husband had risked opening up all those old wounds for him in a needless, pointless, stupidly-beatific and wholly-too-kind act of heroism.

Crowley had known he should have insisted on driving home from Matt and Furman’s house. He could have driven home, or asked Bee to drive them both, or…or something. Before he could express any of this, however, soft fingers pressed against his lips.

“My dear, this is a decision that I made in full knowledge of what it would entail afterwards. I would rather endure a bête noire than risk you getting hurt by driving with a fever. No, don’t argue. I would make the same decision a thousand times over to keep you safe.”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He rolled over and engulfed Aziraphale. Wrapped his stupidly-lanky arms and legs around him in a vice and squeezed. The man gave a tiny squeak, so Crowley loosened his hold marginally and buried his face in the angel’s neck. He smelled so good, and it was nothing in comparison to the goodness inside him. Crowley had never met anyone so pure of heart and lovely and beautiful and—

He needed to stop thinking before affection spilled out all over his husband and made him uncomfortable. Before Aziraphale believed he needed to pull even further away than he had this summer. Crowley wouldn’t be able to bear it if he did.

 


 

Crowley was determined to spare Aziraphale the most amount of suffering that he could. He was extra alert in the nights that followed, hypervigilant to every whimper, movement, and irregular breath. It took longer than expected, but eventually, there was a night when he woke to a low groan from his bedpartner. A burst of adrenaline shivered down his abdomen as he came fully awake.

“Angel,” he tried to say, but his mouth was too dry, and the word came out as a croak. He swallowed a few times as he wrapped tightly around his husband, his chest to Aziraphale’s back. “Angel.”

Aziraphale whimpered, squirming against him, and Crowley debated if he should pull the man closer or give him space. He decided to try the first option.

“Angel,” he said a third time.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, his voice nearly all breath. It almost sounded like desire rather than fear…

Focus, he told himself. This wasn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts! “That’s right, angel. It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe here.” Another whimper followed. Crowley took a deep inhale, mimicking what he was about to say. “Breathe, darling. You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare. It can’t hurt you.”

Abruptly, the man gasped and shot up in bed, awake now. He grabbed a pillow with a pitiful whine and wrapped his arms around it, rocking slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine.” Crowley reached a hand out and began to rub soft circles across Aziraphale’s back. The touch had calmed his anxiety in the past. “Really. Don’t apologize.”

Aziraphale jerked away from him. “I can’t,” he said, then swallowed abruptly. His voice grew more measured, less desperate, as he said, “Sorry. Would you mind not touching so softly? It’s overstimulating.”

Ah. So, not a good touch for night terrors. “Of course,” Crowley said. He gripped the man’s hips, firm but not bruising. “Is this better?”

His husband nodded quickly and apologized again.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m going to run my fingernail lightly down your neck. I won’t even warn you first.”

“Crowley.”

The word was mournful, pained. Crowley instantly regretted the idle threat. He hugged Aziraphale from behind and laid his head on the man’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t. You know that, right?”

He could feel the quick nod that followed. Aziraphale was breathing too rapidly. Crowley inhaled deeply and slowly, then let the air out just as slowly. He hoped that his husband would mimic the pattern. After a few minutes, it seemed to help.

“Was it the Gabriel dream?” He knew the answer, of course, but this would give Aziraphale an opening to talk about it, if he wished.

Which, it seemed, he didn’t. “Not exactly. I don’t want to talk about it.”

The not exactly tickled at Crowley’s mind. What did that mean? Had the dream changed? Perhaps because of their trip to his family’s funeral home last spring? Oh fuck, he hoped it hadn’t grown worse. It was too easy to picture a new version where Crowley was the one crawling out of the coffin…

He shook that thought away. Aziraphale said he didn’t want to talk about it, so Crowley wouldn’t ask. “Alright. Anything I can do? Water? Tea? Shoulder massage?” Give me something to do, angel, please. Let me help you.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley smothered his disappointment. “No, thank you, dear. I’m fine. You should head back to sleep. I’ll pop into the bathroom and then perhaps read a book for a little while until I’m resettled for lying down again.”

Crowley let go of him. That strange note tickled at him again, and without thinking, he cupped Aziraphale’s face so that he could turn it toward his. They peered at each other, only inches apart in the dark, and despite the circumstances, a wave of longing swept through Crowley. He leaned forward before he could think better of it, swerving upwards to kiss Aziraphale’s forehead instead of his mouth. If questioned, he could say he was checking for fever again. What did it matter that it had been a few weeks?

“Alright,” he said. “But promise to wake me if you need to talk, or even if you just want a hug, okay?”

Aziraphale agreed and quickly left the room. Crowley stared at his retreating back, aching to follow. Instead, he flopped facedown onto his husband’s side of the bed and breathed in his scent. He grabbed the pillow that Aziraphale had discarded and held it to his chest, pretending it was the man he wanted to hold.

 


 

How had this happened? Aziraphale had known to expect a night terror. He’d steeled himself each night, and yet, no nightmares had come. The summer clicked over into autumn, September transitioned into October, nights dipped into shivery temperatures, and still Aziraphale’s dreams stayed peaceful. Perhaps visiting the funeral home had unraveled the knot. Or maybe it was simply sleeping beside a man with whom he felt perfectly safe.

That turned out to be its own brand of problem, however.

Aziraphale was no stranger to erotic dreams. For goodness’ sake, he’d even periodically had such dreams about Crowley since they’d met ten months ago. He was used to his husband sleeping through them. Of waking up aroused-but-undetected.

Now, though, Crowley was on guard. He was determined to come to his rescue again. The way he’d grabbed Aziraphale and held him close, speaking firmly in his ear…well, it had allowed desire to briefly spill into the open. And that was not allowed.

Aziraphale hugged a cushion to his chest, body tucked up into the corner of the couch. He would not think about the dream. Would not give his traitorous imagination more fuel. He would sit here until he calmed, and then he would quietly return to bed and pretend that nothing more mortifying than a night terror had occurred.

Night terror. He almost laughed at that. This situation gave an entirely new meaning to the phrase.

He awoke with a start, sunlight streaming across his face and a gentle hand on his shoulder. Blinking rapidly, Aziraphale focused on the honey-colored eyes that looked over him in concern. They were so beautiful. How did anyone look at the sheer uniqueness of them and think strange or dangerous or scary?

“You never came back to bed,” Crowley said.

“I meant to.” He wasn’t sure why it felt important to emphasize this. “I must’ve fallen back asleep out here.”

“You’ll have to let me rub your neck later, if it’s sore from lying at that weird angle.”

Aziraphale pushed himself up to sitting and immediately regretted it. Now Crowley was kneeling in front of him. He seemed to realize it at the same moment and scrambled hastily onto the sofa. Aziraphale stretched his neck to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Good lord, at least his legs hadn’t been open…

“I don’t feel any k-kinks,” he said, tripping over the last word. “Sore spots, I mean. In my neck.”

“That’s good.” Crowley didn’t meet his eye. “Tell me if that changes, yeah?”

“I will. Don’t worry so much. I’m fine.”

Grumbling, Crowley ran a hand over his face and yawned. “S’like asking England not to rain so much.” He looked at Aziraphale then. “Your curls are sticking straight up. It’s adorable.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “My hair always sticks up in the morning.”

“And it’s always adorable.”

There was no mistaking the desire in his husband’s eyes now. This was no dream delusion. It made sense—they’d accidentally found themselves in a rather suggestive position for a moment there. Nothing to do with Aziraphale’s stupid slumbering brain. Could have happened any morning.

But it wasn’t any morning. Aziraphale’s head was still filled with images from the previous night. His eyes flicked down to Crowley’s lips without his permission. He wanted to kiss the man so badly. His imagination galloped off. Actually, my dear, I think my neck does hurt. Then Crowley would reach behind with one hand to cradle Aziraphale’s head, a flimsy pretense to pull him in…

“I suppose I ought to go brush it,” he said abruptly, cutting off that train of thought.

“Y-yeah. O’course.”

Crowley’s voice was strained, and Aziraphale almost cracked with it. It would be so easy to give in, to kiss him and hold him and allow himself the dream that it could be real, that it could be forever. He looked away. He couldn’t bear the thought of forcing his husband into accepting less than what he deserved. Aziraphale scuttled to the bathroom to escape those pleading eyes.

But as he looked into the mirror over the sink at his own eyes, the blue growing blurred by tears, he realized that he couldn’t keep doing this. Not for another six years. Something had to change, but he didn’t know what else he could do. He needed advice from someone—someones—far more competent and experienced than him.

 


 

The next day, once Crowley was off to work and Nina’s morning rush was over, Aziraphale headed to Coffee or Death. Nina didn’t allow pumpkin spice into her café (“The PSL is a travesty so great it ought to be considered a cardinal sin!”), but her autumn menu of treats always had Aziraphale looking in more often than was good for him. Ginger cake, sticky toffee pudding, cinnamon tea cake, plum and almond tart… It was difficult to choose sometimes.

Today, she had something new on offer: a spiced fig, coffee, and hazelnut cake with cream cheese frosting. Aziraphale helped himself to a slice and a large mug of tea, asking Nina at the same time if she and Maggie might have a moment to help him with a personal quandary. Then he sat at a back corner table to wait.

“I’ve texted Maggie,” Nina said, placing his dessert and drink in front of him. She dragged a chair up beside him with a loud scrape that made him wince. “Should be here shortly.”

Aziraphale practically melted with gratitude. “I very much appreciate it, my dear.”

Maggie did, indeed, arrive within a few minutes. She joined them both at the table. “Hello, Aziraphale! Nina said you wanted to chat with us?”

“Yeah, and it must be important,” Nina said. She jutted her chin toward Aziraphale. “I’ve never seen him so distracted from my cake before.”

Oh dear. He realized he hadn’t taken a single bite yet and reached for his fork. Nina watched him, eyes narrowed.

“Tell me that husband of yours is behaving,” she said.

Aziraphale nearly choked on his mouthful. “O-oh yes,” he stammered, coughing and thumping a fist against his sternum. “Crowley is an absolute delight. Kindest person I could have ever asked to help me with this endeavor.” He realized just how sanitized that description sounded and took a deep breath. “He’s wonderful, actually.”

“Good,” Maggie said. “He did seem quite happy with the arrangement. Is something happening with the lawsuits? Do we need to, um, testify or something?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale had no idea where to begin. He played at the edges of frosting with his fork. “No, it’s… Well, this is about Crowley, but not because he’s done something. We, ah, aren’t exactly on the same page about our relationship.”

“You aren’t in love with him?”

Maggie sounded sad. Disappointed, maybe? Aziraphale said, “No, I am! That’s the problem, actually. I’m having…inappropriate desires for him.”

Oh, this was so embarrassing. He couldn’t look up from his plate. In the corner of his vision, he saw the two women look at each other. Maggie cleared her throat and said, “Is he ace? Is that the problem?”

“What?” The surprise caused him to raise his head, only to immediately avert his eyes. “No, he’d be delighted to have, um, physical intimacy—”

“Aziraphale,” Nina interrupted firmly. “We love you, but if this is about specific bedroom preferences, we may not be the best people to talk to. Especially not here. In my coffeeshop. While it’s open.”

Aghast, Aziraphale said, “I’d never! That’s not it at all!” He turned to Maggie, mouth screwing up slightly. “And if Crowley was ace, I would respect that completely. There’s nothing wrong with asexuality. It wouldn’t be a problem.”

She shrugged. “You said inappropriate desires. I didn’t want to speculate on what else you might mean.”

How could they not see? Aziraphale stabbed another piece of cake, chewed, and swallowed before he spoke again. “I’m not allowed to want him that way. We have a strictly platonic arrangement. I need to respect that, yet I’m struggling to do so.”

“It certainly doesn’t look platonic from here,” Nina said, “what with the two of you kissing everywhere.”

“That’s for show. In public. For the lawsuits.” He waved an annoyed hand. “We haven’t kissed in private in months. Not since…not since I realized how much damage I was causing.”

“Look. Aziraphale. I don’t know if you’re being deliberately vague—”

Maggie interrupted Nina’s annoyed statement. “We don’t understand. If you are both in love with each other…”

“That’s it exactly! He’s not in love with me! He only thinks he is.” When the women exchanged skeptical glances, he said, “Crowley’s reason for entering this arrangement was to escape relationships for a few years. He’d just come out of a long, toxic situation, and he has a history of, ah, quick partner turnover, which has led him into unfortunate pairings. With me, there was safety. An agreement. Friends only. It was a line neither of us were meant to cross. But I did.”

“So maybe he wasn’t planning to fall in love,” Maggie began, but Aziraphale shook his head to cut her off.

“Crowley is…susceptible to proximity. The first time we kissed—a performance for my parents’ solicitor, mind you—he told me that he couldn’t do so often or deeply, because he would be in danger of falling into temptation. His exact words. And I…” He cringed, blushing. “I liked kissing him. I liked being close to him. He felt safe. So I stomped all over the boundary he laid before me, even when we weren’t in public. He ‘fell in love’ because of that. You see? It’s not real. It’s not authentic. It’s only a product of my exploitation of his weaknesses. So, I’ve pulled back, to give him space to figure out how he truly feels. I’m not allowed to express desire, or love, or romance, and I’m struggling to keep it all inside.”

The table fell quiet. Aziraphale realized that he’d eaten the entire slice of cake without tasting a bite. What a waste.

“Can I ask a question?” Nina finally said. Aziraphale nodded. “How are the two of you meant to figure out if his love is ‘real’?”

He was irritated by her tone. She was meant to be helping him! “For now, we keep things platonic, and in a few years, after we divorce and he is free to date me or anyone else, he’ll no longer be trapped by proximity and—”

“A few years?” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, but that’s the most idiotic—”

“Nina!” Maggie said sharply.

“What?” she said, turning indignant eyes on her partner. “I have things to say, and clearly, they are things he needs to hear.” She ended with an emphatic point in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Nina,” Maggie said more calmly. “Enough.” She turned to Aziraphale, sympathy spreading across her face. “What she’s trying to say, in her brusque way, is that it will be very difficult for you both to deny what you’re feeling for that long. You’re clearly struggling with it already, as you wanted advice from us today, and I can only imagine what poor Crowley is going through. Whether or not you believe he’s in love, I’m sure he believes it, and that means he’s living daily with your rejection.”

Aziraphale, who had been having major regrets about entering into this conversation in the first place, was brought up short. Rejection? But he loved Crowley! Loved him with all his soul. The whole reason he was denying himself was for the man’s protection. To make sure Crowley wasn’t saddled with him unfairly. To make sure he got everything he deserved.

He thought of that duffel bag still sitting in the Bentley’s trunk, of all those terrible partners from the past, and of Crowley’s statement this summer: I’m a somewhat temporary guest. Was this why Crowley believed such things? Because Aziraphale’s protection was experienced as rejection?

“I…” he began. His stomach turned over and his eyes teared up. “I love him.” He couldn’t say anything more.

“Aziraphale.” This time, Nina’s voice was gentler. “That man was already in love with you the first time you introduced him to us.”

He frowned. “That’s not possible. We’d barely known each other a day at that point.”

Nina shrugged. “Only telling you what I saw. I even called him out on it while you were collecting Maggie.”

“I saw it, too,” Maggie chimed in. “I don’t know when you had that kiss you mentioned, but somehow, I struggle to believe that it was lightning-strike love-at-first-kiss. Especially when it seems it was already love-at-first-sight.”

“You can’t fall in love that quickly,” Aziraphale insisted.

“I did,” Maggie said. She sat up straighter. “Are you saying that my love for Nina isn’t real because it was immediate?”

Well, he knew better than to argue with her on that one. Nina would rip out his tongue if he did. “No, but—”

“And are you saying my feelings for Maggie couldn’t be real because I’d just escaped a series of toxic relationships?” Nina added.

“I—no, that’s not what—I’m talking about me and Crowley; it’s not the same!”

“It is the same,” Maggie said. “Or rather similar, anyway. Imagine if I hadn’t believed Nina could love me because of her past. Imagine if she believed I couldn’t love her because of how quickly I fell. Both of us would be devastated. Heartbroken.”

“Rejected,” Aziraphale finished for her, his voice a mere rasp of a thing. “Oh dear lord.”

He could see it now. See how it looked from Crowley’s side. Why had the man not said anything? Another memory from this summer floated into his brain. Crowley, his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder on a park bench, mumbling, “M’not good enough for you to want me.” Oh. Oh. He’d thought the statement was because he hadn’t explained himself well enough. He’d even stated outright that he did want Crowley.

His actions, on the other hand, apparently spoke volumes otherwise. No matter how many nights they’d cuddled, how many dates they went on, how many gifts he gave or attempts to come to Crowley’s rescue… All his husband wanted was his love, and Aziraphale had given him, what? Only a wall to keep him away.

“How did I not see?” he said.

Maggie pulled her chair around to his side and put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s alright. We all make mistakes, Aziraphale. The important thing is to—”

“Rectify them,” he finished. Yes. He could fix this. He needed to fix this. It was unthinkable, that his husband believed himself unwanted.

And he needed to do it in a big way, else Crowley would believe he was giving in, rather than choosing him deliberately. After all Crowley had been through, it was important for him to know he’d been chosen. He deserved that. For goodness’ sake, he deserved far better than Aziraphale, but that didn’t matter in this moment. If this was what he wanted, Aziraphale would gladly give him his heart, body, and soul.

He stood abruptly. “Thank you,” he said to the two women. “I need to get back to my shop. I have Things to Plan.”

Notes:

We’ve made it full circle back to the opening scene, seeing it through Crowley’s pov now. Story is going to start charging forward now (assuming I can keep churning out chapters regularly…no guarantees on weekly! I’ll do my best to hit every-two-weeks at least.)

The thing about fever and lips is 100% true, not just convenient for the story. I can tell a person’s fever (over 99ºF) to a quarter-degree by touching my lips to their forehead. I was the oldest of many siblings and had to do this often growing up. The internet claims that skin-to-skin readings of any kind are unreliable, but those of us who know this trick are very secure in our ability to detect and accurately pinpoint fever. I will die on this hill.

I don’t know if it’s just the neurospicy in me, but if I try to breathe in a pattern, I get so focused on said pattern that it’s impossible to breathe naturally. I certainly can’t do both at the same time. Any form of box breathing makes me even more anxious!

The banter about unruly morning curls is a conversation Rainstorm and I have had on many mornings. I’ve never known anyone who wanted photos of my insane hair—the messier and more ridiculous, the better. I fucking adore you, dear, and can’t wait to see you again!

Chapter 25: Blaze

Summary:

A fire disrupts all plans.

***
“Call Aziraphale, mobile.”

“You have reached the mobile phone of…”

Crowley growled. When the greeting finished with a cheery beep, he shouted, “Angel! Where the fuck are you? I swear on my mother’s future grave, I will sew this phone to your hand if you don’t…” He hit end before he could finish the stupid thought.

Notes:

No bookshops or ineffables will be harmed in the blaze of Whickber Street. Special shoutout to my beta and friend beerok23 on the chapter title; she knows why. 🔥🤣🥰😇

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I managed to change my flight.”

Crowley mumbled an affirmative response, unable to talk with the hair tie in his mouth. His mobile was tucked between his ear and shoulder as he scrubbed his hands.

“Can’t believe my incompetent assistant got me something with a connection halfway through. I told him very specifically: buy direct. I don’t care if it costs more. If I’m traveling overnight, I want to sleep, dammit, not take a few naps with a layover between them. Ugh.”

By the time Ana finished her rant, Crowley had managed to dry his hands and remove the hair tie. He tapped the speaker button and put the mobile onto the countertop while he pulled his curls up and out of the way. “Are you still getting in the same day?”

“Still the twenty-second, yes. The flight arrives a bit earlier than the info I sent before. Cost a bit more than I was planning, too, what with the last-minute change, but it’ll be worth it. I’ll forward you both the new itinerary.”

“Perfect.” Now that he was clean—ish; he hadn’t had time to shower before the call came through—he wandered over to Freddie’s office. It had the most comfortable chair. Dropping into it and putting his boots up onto the desk, he said, “Hopefully it’s early enough that I can avoid running into traffic when I pick you up. Wish it was coming in later, though. Later's better. More sleep.”

Ana made a noise that Crowley amusedly thought Aziraphale would classify as animal-like. “I’m not getting into that gas-guzzling, world-killing heap of scrap metal you call a car. You stay home. Sleep in. Whatever. I’ve hired an electric vehicle to get me to my hotel, and after that, I’m using public transportation the entire time I’m in London.”

“Ana…” he whined.

“Shut up. What’s the point of being in a city with trains and a subway system if I can’t enjoy it? Cars are a nightmare, Crowley.”

You’re a nightmare,” he groused, his mind half on Aziraphale’s night terror the previous week. That thought led back to Aziraphale driving the Bentley, which led back to the game day, which… He sat up suddenly, feet clunking onto the floor. “Oh! I forgot! Aziraphale and I have been going to these game days at a friend’s house. We’ve been to three so far, and the last time we were there, we met someone we have to introduce you to. Both of us thought so.”

There was a beat of silence before Ana responded. “Please tell me you aren’t going to try to set me up with someone who lives five thousand miles and eight time zones away from me.”

He ignored this. “His name is Newton, Ana! Everyone calls him Newt. Like some kind of lizard. Or…wait…no, newts aren’t lizards, are they? Are they amphibians? Or…no, I don’t think they’re reptiles. They live in water, don’t they?” Crowley shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, we think you’ll like him—and no, it doesn’t have to be a setting-up thing—and hey, his name is as weird as yours! Not that we have any shortage of unusual names in the group. Dragon and Warlock and—”

“Crowley,” Ana interrupted.

“Technically, that’s a surname. But Aziraphale definitely counts as unusual!”

Crowley,” Ana repeated more forcefully, and he shut his mouth. “Is this some kind of joke because I teased you two about arranging your marriage?”

“What? No!”

“Did Aziraphale put you up to this, then?”

Bewildered, Crowley leaned back in Freddie’s chair again and returned his boots to the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And before you assume that statement is a joke, I assure you—I’m dead serious. Did you tell Aziraphale that you don’t want to meet anyone? Because he didn’t say anything to me and he seemed just as excited about this. We both thought of you immediately when we met Newt. He’s just the sort of out there that reminded us of you.”

Distantly, Ana groaned. It sounded like she’d set her mobile down to do so. When she got back on the line, she said, “Listen. I’ll tell you the story, okay? But if I find out that you and Aziraphale are fucking with me…”

Grinning, Crowley put his free hand behind his head to get comfortable. Ana’s stories were the best. He couldn’t wait to hear this one. “Not fucking with you. Cross my heart and hope to perform my own mortuary services.”

He could hear her eye roll from across the ocean, but she launched into the tale anyway. “Look. I was a college kid, yeah? And I wanted to see what fall festivals were like in the UK. I’d only ever been to pumpkin patches and corn mazes and ren faire type shit in the US, and I wanted the most quintessential small village type harvest festival I could find. But I didn’t want to go alone, so I made Aziraphale come with me.”

“Of course you did,” Crowley muttered under his breath, grinning. He could only imagine what his response would have been if she’d asked him to take the train out of London for a village fête back at uni.

“Shut up. We went, and it was great. I got to do all the things I’d read about, and there weren’t enough people around to overwhelm Aziraphale, and the train journey was lovely. Would’ve been a perfect weekend if not for that fucking fortune teller.”

Crowley blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

“I didn’t want to go in that stupid tent. The whole fortune telling industry is full of frauds dressed up in ‘mystical’ clothes—or worse, disgustingly stereotyped culturally-appropriative outfits—who play on your emotions and feed you a bunch of bullshit. Only…only this squat, middle-aged woman stepped out, dressed like she’d been transported straight out of the seventeenth century, and crooked a finger at me.”

“An invitation no one could resist,” he said with a grin.

“Shut it. I was intimidated. Which meant that I was already off-balance when she began to read my tarot cards. That’s how they get you, you know.” Ana let out an angry exhale that reminded Crowley of a cartoon dragon. “I…I’m not going to go over everything she said. Most of it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she told me that I would find the love of my life in the Page of Wands. She claimed that the Page was a person who embodied creativity and passion, but in a way that was wholly internal and contained. An introverted version to my excessive, loud, fiery, uncontrolled Ace of Wands energy.”

A few beats of silence followed this. The story seemed to be at an end. Confused, Crowley asked, “But what does that have to do with Newt? He’s quiet, a bit spacey, and technology seems to be allergic to him, but I don’t know that I would have called him creative or passionate or whatever…”

“Oh! Right. I didn’t say… The card. The Page of Wands. The artwork on her tarot card was of a salamander.” When Crowley didn’t respond, she added, “Newts are salamanders.”

He tried to hold in his laughter, he really did, but after a minute, Crowley broke. “I’m sorry, but you…you think we’re setting you up because some tarot card you got when you were at uni had a picture of a lizard on it, and we want to introduce you to a guy with a weird lizardy name? Ana, that’s out there, even for you!”

“Salamanders aren’t lizards, you idiot, they’re amphibians and have historically been associated with fire and… Crowley. Stop laughing. She gave me the fucking card. She let me keep it. Told me to remember him. She tapped the fucking salamander and said I would know his name immediately when I heard it, and I really, really, really can’t deal with discovering that the so-called love of my life lives in fucking London!”

Crowley was about to say that first, there was no reason to think Newt was “the one” simply because he was called Newt, and second, they didn’t have to introduce her at all if she was really opposed to it. Before he could do more than open his mouth, however, he heard Mary shout from the hallway.

“Antonio!”

“Give me a moment,” he said to Ana, putting the mobile down onto the desk. “In here, Mary!”

She rushed into Freddie’s office a moment later. Her face was flushed and her hair askew on one side, as if she’d tried to drag agitated fingers through it even though it was pulled back. Her wide eyes stared directly at him. “Fire,” she said, putting both hands on the desk and leaning toward him. “Scanners. Listening. Need to. Dispatched. Fire.”

Crowley swiveled so that he was sitting up properly. He’d seen Mary in this state before. She wouldn’t be able to get her words out while they maintained direct eye contact. He put a finger on one of her hands and tapped. “What’s happening?”

Mary looked down at his finger and said, “I was listening to the scanner while I worked on some spreadsheets, and I heard that firetrucks were being dispatched to Soho. They didn’t say for what exactly, and they didn’t name any particular business, but they mentioned Whickber Street, and—”

She cut off as Crowley stood. He snatched up his mobile. “Ana. You heard that? I’ll call you back. I need to get to Aziraphale.”

“Yes. Of course. Update me,” she said, and disconnected the line before he could respond.

Crowley dialed Aziraphale’s mobile immediately. In his peripheral vision, Mary still stared at him, chewing agitatedly on one lip. Neither spoke as the line rang a few times and flipped over to voicemail. “Shit.”

“Go, go, go,” Mary said.

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder as he dashed past her. “I’ll text you when I know more, yeah?”

“Thank you!”

Crowley dialed the landline. Aziraphale was still prone to leaving his mobile around unattended, but the main line could be heard even from downstairs in the shop. Still. No answer.

“Fuck,” he shouted as he slid into the Bentley. The car roared into life, and he tried again. “Call Aziraphale, mobile,” he shouted at the phone. He groaned when his husband’s cheery voice clicked onto the line.

“You have reached the mobile phone of Aziraphale Malaika…”

He punched the end button and tried again.

 


 

“Last few nails!” Chris called, wiping sweat from their brow and shading their eyes to look up toward Aziraphale. “Sure you don’t want to put one in? Then you can say you helped build this wall.”

“Quite sure.” Nail guns were loud and terrifying. Aziraphale barely managed not to flinch each time Chris hit the trigger, and they were on the other side of the roof from him. There was no way he would walk even a step closer.

“Fine, but you’re missing out on all the fun!”

Chris grinned and returned to the planter in front of them. A few rapid-fire shots later, and they stood, arms raised in a triumphant V. Aziraphale bit his lip to keep from begging them not to wave the nail gun around so casually. Instead, he put his hands on his hips and surveyed the work in-progress. His rooftop wasn’t a large space, but it was flat and open and perfect for the garden that was starting to take shape.

He’d begun the project back in the early summer. In one of his first chats with Cade, the proprietor of the nursery Aziraphale frequented in Soho, the man had asked him about his rooftop space. Urban gardens were just the thing, he’d said, for people living in flats that had no access to greenspace. Aziraphale had immediately taken to the idea. Houseplants were all well and good, but an actual garden to tend? It was a perfect gift for Crowley! A way to show him that he was not only welcome, but wanted.

Originally, he’d planned to complete the rooftop transformation in time for their first wedding anniversary. The major sale to Sandalphon in July had paid for planning, clearing, cleaning, and laying out the foundations for pathways and gravel sections. Further sales to other collectors had allowed Aziraphale to hire builders for the infrastructure portions of the garden. He’d bought large ceramic pots and a nice outdoor table set, and the only things left to arrange—other than the plants themselves—were the raised beds.

Chris had volunteered to build them—and Aziraphale insisted on paying for their efforts this time—but their timeline was for mid-January, so few were complete. After his talk with Nina and Maggie, however, Aziraphale was anxious to hurry the project along. Crowley’s birthday was at the end of October, and it was the perfect setup for his Plans.

When Chris had asked to come install the central planter walls today, it had seemed like a good opportunity to broach the subject. Obviously, Aziraphale didn’t expect Chris to drop everything and squish three months of woodwork into three weeks, but maybe they knew a few good people to hire for a rush job. At the same time, he needed to approach the subject carefully. He didn’t want to imply that he no longer wanted Chris’s help, especially when his friend was so enthusiastic about the project.

“Crowley is going to love this,” Chris said, thankfully putting the nail gun away.

“I certainly hope so.”

They strolled over, hands in pockets, to stand with him. Nudging him in the side with an elbow, they said, “Definitely, Az. You have vision. To think, I remember you all nervous back in the spring, trying to find someplace new and magical to take him, and now look at you. You’re building him that place!”

“Technically, you’re building it,” Aziraphale said. “I’m merely financing.”

“Nah, I’m only working on the planters. Speaking of which, when is the Big Reveal again? It’s—” They mimed an explosion in front of their face, complete with sound effect. “—popped right out of my head. No clue when I’m meant to have them all done. Sorry ‘bout that. My ADHD is gonna murder me one day, I swear.”

“Yes, about that—”

The air compressor clicked on, causing Aziraphale to jump. Chris sniggered, though the sound of it was drowned out by the compressor.

“That thing causes more jump scares than a horror movie!” Aziraphale shouted over the noise. He wished he could cover his ears without looking like a toddler.

“You get used to it,” Chris yelled back, or at least that’s what Aziraphale thought they said. A minute later, they powered off the compressor. “Won’t need that again this afternoon. I’m going to release the pressure, yeah? This will be just as loud. Fair warning.”

Aziraphale nodded. He still jumped when the initial burst of air hissed out. At least Chris’ back was turned and they didn’t see him.

Once there was silence again, Aziraphale returned to what he’d meant to say earlier. “About the project timeline, there’s been a change. I asked you to aim for January originally, for our wedding anniversary, but I need to, ah, speed things up. Crowley’s birthday is at the end of the month, and I want this to be his gift.”

“Impatient, are you?”

Chris grinned wickedly, but they were right. Aziraphale was impatient. He wanted to lead his husband upstairs as soon as possible, blindfolded if he could wrangle it, and reveal this space. Give him not only room for plants, but a place where Crowley could build an outdoor portion of their home. Aziraphale wouldn’t fill the beds that Chris was building and installing, as he had no idea what would grow best up here or what his husband might want most, but if all went well, he could give Crowley a dream to fulfill.

And then, he would drop to one knee and propose to him this time.

I would like to spend forever by your side, if you’ll have me, he’d say. Surely, Crowley would have him, wouldn’t he? Aziraphale swallowed down the flutter of fear that he was far too late. That he’d caused too much damage by holding Crowley at arm’s length since June.

A siren interrupted the thought spiral before it got properly started. “What’s happening?” Chris asked.

Aziraphale crossed to the opposite side of the roof and looked past the ledge at a line of firetrucks that had parked near the bookshop. Only once he saw the hoses being unraveled did he notice the thin line of smoke coming from the Dirty Donkey.

“Fire,” he said, just as a few voices drifted up from below, calls of what’s happening and get back now. “Seems to be at the pub over the road.” A spike of alarm went through him. That fire was far too close. What if it spread?

“Shit,” Chris said, already moving toward the rooftop exit. “We should evacuate.”

Aziraphale followed, thinking of the plants: Hannah and Kaa and Becky Sharp and the Golden Girls and so many others. Could he rescue them all before any potential fire spread? And what about his books? How many could he grab before—

He was halfway down the stairs to the flat before it struck him. The cats!

Never mind his books. Insurance would cover them if they were destroyed. Portia and Viola were irreplaceable. He had to save his family.

 


 

“Call Aziraphale, home.”

The call clicked over to the ancient answering machine that his husband insisted on limping along. Crowley punched the end button.

“Call Aziraphale, mobile.”

“You have reached the mobile phone of…”

Crowley growled. When the greeting finished with a cheery beep, he shouted, “Angel! Where the fuck are you? I swear on my mother’s future grave, I will sew this phone to your hand if you don’t…” He hit end before he could finish the stupid thought.

Traffic had gotten thicker and cars were being redirected along different routes. Crowley’s free leg bounced. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he tried to decide if it would be faster to keep driving or park illegally and run the rest of the way on foot.

After what felt like an hour (but was only two minutes, according to the Bentley’s dash), he decided on the latter. He swung into a loading zone, switched on the hazard lights, and bolted. If the cops booted his car, he’d deal with it later. Pay the fucking fine or whatever. Even if they scrapped his Bentley, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Aziraphale.

Normally, Crowley didn’t run. Ever. His body wasn’t built for forward motion that didn’t involve an obscene amount of hip-swaying and liquid spinal movement, and it provided him no assistance now. The skinny jeans and boots didn’t help much, either. Every footfall sent an impact up his body that couldn’t be healthy, and his lungs felt shredded. He was going to hurt tomorrow. But he kept running, pushing his way through standing crowds as he caught glimpses of firetrucks right in front of the fucking bookshop.

“Aziraphale!” he called desperately as he was forced to a stop. He tried to look over the heads of people, but saw no hint of platinum curls, and so shoved his way further into the commotion.

“Watch it,” someone said.

Crowley gave a perfunctory apology and kept going. “Aziraphale!”

He reached the barrier that the firefighters had erected and started to slip between two a-frames. A woman in uniform jammed a gloved hand firmly against his shoulder, causing him to jolt to a stop. “Back up, sir. You can’t come any closer.”

Crowley could see that the water was trained on the pub, but there was smoke and steam and lights bouncing everywhere, and he couldn’t tell what other businesses might be affected. “That’s my flat,” he said. “My husband is in there!”

“Sir, we are evacuating this area to make sure everyone is safe—”

“Has the fire spread to the bookshop?” he asked, looking around wildly. Still no sign of blond hair. “Aziraphale!”

“Sir!” the woman said more forcefully, and she pushed him fully behind the barrier. “You need to stay back and let us do our job.”

Panic clawed through Crowley’s chest. He was about to scream Aziraphale’s name again when he heard his own coming from behind him. Spinning around, he finally spotted his husband in the distance, looking disheveled and determined. He suddenly felt dizzy, though he wasn’t sure if that was from relief or lack of oxygen.

Aziraphale was safe.

“Crowley!”

Then Crowley was running again, back the way he’d come, ignoring the offended cries of the people he bumped into along the way. Only when he was much closer did he realize that Aziraphale was carrying a large bag, the top of which was open to let the leaves of a spider plant poke out, and both of their cats huddled together inside that stupid metal dog crate. He lowered the latter, then placed the bag on top of the crate and lifted trembling arms as Crowley reached him and drew him into an embrace.

“You’re safe,” Crowley said, and crashed his lips to Aziraphale’s. He didn’t give a fig about the rules at this moment. He was going to kiss his husband for as long as he could manage.

Which turned out to be about five seconds, because his stupid, out-of-shape lungs insisted that he breathe and not pass out at that point. Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes watering, as Crowley panted and tried to get his heartrate under control. They were both shaking.

“Where the fuck is your phone?” Crowley said, sounding angry but unable to moderate his voice. “I’ve been trying to call… I couldn’t reach you and I thought… Fuck angel, I can’t, I can’t…”

“I’m so sorry. It was charging, and I didn’t think about it, not with grabbing the cats—”

“No, no, no,” Crowley said, plastering his cheeks and forehead with more kisses. “God, no. Don’t apologize. I’m not mad, I swear to you. Just scared out of my fucking mind. I’m gonna have to replace your pocket watch with a smartwatch one of these days—”

“You wouldn’t, you fiend. You know I can’t deal with that texture on my skin.”

Crowley laughed a bit hysterically. “Then I’ll have to go back to my original plan to sew your mobile to your hand.”

A tear slid down Aziraphale’s cheek as his lips turned up in a wobbly smile. “I did warn you that I would never be tied to it like other people.”

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, and then kissed him again, and again, and again, unable to pull himself together enough to stop.

At their feet, Portia let out a yowl of complaint. A chuckle followed this, one Crowley recognized as Chris’. What were they doing here? Had they been in the bookshop with Aziraphale when the fire broke out? He turned, and Chris smiled at him.

“Sorry to break up this intimate moment, gents,” they said, “but perhaps you’d be more comfortable out of the sun and away from the noisiest part of the crowd.” They pointed to the shadows beneath a building a block away, where a bench was somehow miraculously free. Then they held out some Eccles cakes. “And here. Have a pastry.”

 


 

“I can’t believe you grabbed those plants.”

Aziraphale smiled into Crowley’s hair. The man was sprawled on the bench, half-draped over Aziraphale’s body. The cats’ cage was next to them, and the plants were tucked behind their feet. Crowley had finally stopped shaking, and Aziraphale felt extraordinarily whole with him in his arms. “It’s only three of them. Hannah, Fizzgig, and Josaphat. They were all I could fit in the bag with the cat supplies, and I needed both hands for the crate.”

“My perfect angel.” He sounded drowsy. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he was listening. “My perfect, beautiful angel.”

“Oh hush.”

The crowd had thinned as the sun began to drop. Across the street, Chris was still moving amongst the onlookers, distributing bread, treats, and water bottles. At one point, Aziraphale had heard them break up an argument over a Chelsea bun between two children. “Obviously, you don’t have enough,” they’d told the kids, “but I can perform miracles! See?” Then they tore the pastry into two halves, handed back a half to each child, and said, “Ta-da! Twice as many!”

“Your friend is ridiculous,” Aziraphale had said with a laugh.

“They’re your friend, too.”

It was good to have friends, he reflected. Aziraphale held Crowley tighter and watched the people around them. Nina and Maggie had both evacuated safely. Cade from the nursery had stopped by to chat even though his shop was far enough away that he was unaffected by the blockade. A few others that Aziraphale knew mostly by sight had stayed close, waiting for the all-clear to return home. Mutt was entertaining a group with coin tricks; Mr Arnold sat cross-legged on the pavement and seemed to be asleep with his head drooping onto his chest; and a trio of women (that Aziraphale thought were named Justine, Mrs Sandwich, and Ms Cheng) laughed together. Chris was arguing with Mr Brown, who seemed to be upset about the unlicensed distribution of baked goods.

(“Now see here, ma’am—” “Did you just misgender me?” “Oh! My apologies, sir, but like I’ve tried to tell you—” “Unbelievable. You’ve misgendered me a second time! How unspeakably rude of you.”)

The sight of so many familiar faces made Aziraphale wonder if he ought to spend more time getting to know his neighbors. With the exception of Mr Brown, of course. The man was now storming away from Chris, who glanced over and winked in Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s direction.

“I hope Ms Kejora isn’t struggling with the Bentley,” Crowley said, shifting to put a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. “She should be here by now.”

Aziraphale shivered at the sensation of warm lips on his skin. “Most likely, she’s had trouble finding parking.”

“Or the Bentley got towed,” Crowley growled.

When their solicitor had arrived—called there by Chris, no doubt—she’d complained about how far she’d had to walk in fucking high heels, which had led to a discussion of how Crowley had managed to park close enough to arrive quickly. When he’d admitted where he’d left the Bentley, both Chris and Ms Kejora had volunteered to retrieve it. The latter had looked positively demonic when Crowley handed over the keys.

“Lucine,” Chris whined, but Crowley cut them off.

“Nope. I don’t trust you with my car. Not after the last time.”

Aziraphale would need to remember to ask about that later.

It had been almost an hour since then. Surely, they would be allowed to return home soon? The fire was out. No more smoke, no more water. Aziraphale wished he knew more about fire response protocol. If he had his mobile with him, he could do a little research while he waited…

“Maybe she got into an accident,” Crowley said, interrupting his thought tangent. “Would be just my luck if the Bentley hadn’t been towed, but then it was totaled anyway.”

“I don’t think she—” Aziraphale began, but then he heard the solicitor’s voice in the distance. “Speak of the devil.”

At first, Ms Kejora’s words were only audible in fragments: follow and yes I and no reason to. Then, quite loudly, she barked, “You try walking faster in shoes like these!”

Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Who d’you reckon she’s talking to?”

At that moment, though, Aziraphale couldn’t answer. He’d just caught sight of the man following their solicitor, and a shock exploded through his chest. He stood as the man’s eyes met his and widened.

“Aziraphale!” Mr Malaika shouted, and then he barreled past Ms Kejora and hurled himself in their direction.

Aziraphale was stiff with shock, unable to move, as his father crashed into him, clasped him in his arms, and burst into sobs.

Notes:

Sorry to leave on a bit of a cliffhanger!

Chris was originally meant to be using an electric screwdriver, because Aziraphale was going to struggle with the sound of screws squealing as they tighten through wood. But then I did some research on how planters would be attached to a rooftop, and it turned out that there were nails involved instead of screws, and suddenly my Jesus-stand-in character was using a nail gun… Honestly, the jokes just write themselves… Anyway, nail guns and air compressors are horrid things that cause lots of jump scares and there is a reason I couldn’t work in construction. 😅

*****
Housekeeping notes: I’m going to be traveling to Europe this week, and I’ll be there for two months, ending at IneffableCon (yay!) in August. I’m hoping to have the next chapter for y’all in two weeks, but jet lag is going to influence that. In any case, I’m anticipating about four more chapters left in this story if all goes well. Hopefully, they will publish in a reasonable timeframe, but Europe involves events and time-with-Rainstorm and a bit of extra travel and meeting other friends and eventually the Con, so we’ll see. In the meantime, I’m on Tumblr (anatomic-girl) and Bluesky (anatomicgirl) if you want to say hello!

Chapter 26: The Proposal

Summary:

Mr Malaika’s story comes to light. New discoveries are made.

***
Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s back for support as Mr Malaika exclaimed, “I’m not trying to steal anything! I’m trying to protect my son from—”

“If you say a word about my husband, I will never speak to you again.”

Aziraphale’s voice was low and menacing, a gravel scrape that sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Normally, Crowley would have a lot of sympathy for Mr Malaika. After all, the man was sobbing on Aziraphale’s shoulder with exclamations of “You’re okay” and “You’re safe,” which wasn’t all that far from how Crowley had reacted on seeing his husband. However, Aziraphale was still stiff in his father’s arms, patting his back awkwardly and radiating a whole-body cry for help. Naturally, Crowley came to his rescue.

“Angel,” he said to draw Aziraphale’s attention. When the man looked at him, he held out his hand. A lifeline that Aziraphale immediately shifted to take.

The movement caused Mr Malaika to lift his head. Crowley drew Aziraphale out of his father’s embrace and into his own, one arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, one protectively at his waist. His husband nestled immediately into his side.

“Didn’t I tell you he was safe?” Ms Kejora said as she reached the three of them. She gave an annoyed huff.

“Yes, but…” Mr Malaika looked helplessly at Aziraphale. “I had to see for myself.”

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, speaking for the first time. His voice was a mere fragment of its normal confidence, and Crowley fought the urge to pull him (overprotectively) tighter. “Why are you here? How did you…?”

His words trailed off, but his father seemed to understand. “When we—when your mother and I—heard about the fire, I came at once. Actually, I need to let her know that I found you.” He paused and sent off a text, then held the mobile up accusingly. “I tried to call you.”

Crowley jumped in at once. “His phone was charging and we had to evacuate.” What did it matter that he’d also complained about Aziraphale’s lack of reachability? Besides: “You could have called me, if you’d really wanted to check on him. You have my number. I’ve texted all of my family to let them know we’re safe. Coulda done the same for you, if I’d known you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t think about it either,” Aziraphale admitted. “I didn’t expect news of the fire to reach Colchester. It wasn’t that big!”

Mr Malaika frowned. “We got a call from a friend in London, telling us about it. And I—” His eyes flicked to Crowley guiltily. “I completely forgot that I could try your number. Even if I’d remembered, though, I don’t think it would have been appropriate after…”

“The bribery attempt?” Ms Kejora cut in sharply. They all turned to look at her, and Mr Malaika’s face was stricken. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Did you think my clients wouldn’t tell me those details?”

An awkward pause followed, broken when Chris bounded up to the group. “Barrier’s down. They’re letting people back in.”

“Hallelujah,” Aziraphale murmured. “Can you grab the bag, my dear? I’ll get the cats.”

“I can get them,” Crowley protested, even though his arms felt like rubber. Why were his arms tired? It’s not like he ran on them! “That stupid crate is heavy and awkward, and you had to carry it all the way over here.”

“Yes, but I haul shipments of books around several times a week. It’s not that heavy.”

Without another word, Aziraphale bent down and picked up the cats. His arms were steady, as if he were entirely unbothered by the awkward hold. Crowley did his best not to melt entirely. He grumbled performatively as he grabbed the bag of plants and supplies, but he couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. Ms Kejora cleared her throat.

“Mr Crowley? Mr Malaika?”

It felt so very strange to hear Aziraphale referred to as “Mr Malaika,” especially with his father right there. His husband must have thought so too, because he said, “Oh, please, call me Aziraphale. It’s far less confusing that way.”

Ms Kejora’s normally-grim expression softened slightly. Apparently, even their solicitor wasn’t immune to his charm. “Right. Aziraphale.” Her face sharpened again. “I don’t want to keep you two from going home after this ordeal, and I know that technically I’m off the clock, but as your solicitor, I’d advise you not to allow the other Mr Malaika into your shop or flat.”

Mr Malaika sputtered something indiscernible, but Ms Kejora didn’t even look at him. Aziraphale glanced at his father, then at Crowley, and then back to their lawyer. “Why not?”

“I know he’s your father, and I apologize for any discomfort this causes, but he’s also the man attempting to steal the property that rightfully belongs to you.”

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s back for support as Mr Malaika exclaimed, “I’m not trying to steal anything! I’m trying to protect my son from—”

“If you say a word about my husband, I will never speak to you again.”

Aziraphale’s voice was low and menacing, a gravel scrape that sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine. It took every bit of his willpower not to moan aloud.

“That’s not what I was—” Mr Malaika cut himself off with a sigh and deflated. His voice was small when he spoke again. “I can go.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, a plea in his eyes. Though Crowley agreed with Ms Kejora, he couldn’t deny the man anything. He gave a tiny nod.

“No,” Aziraphale said. He straightened. “You may come in, as long as you refrain from disparaging Crowley, our marriage, the shop, or our flat. And as long as our solicitor accompanies us. If she has time, of course. On the clock.”

Ms Kejora exchanged a glance with Chris, who had stayed unusually quiet through the discussion. The latter nodded, and Ms Kejora turned back to them. “I won’t turn down easy money.”

“Chris?” Crowley said. “Are you coming, too? I assume you were in the shop when the fire broke out.”

“Nah. I mean, yeah, I was, but nah, I’m gonna head home. Make something to eat that isn’t bread. It’s been a long few hours.” They yawned and stretched. “I’ll text you, Az, yeah? About the, um, stuff?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said. His grin was the one that usually preceded a fit of giggles. It made him look boyish and innocent, and Crowley pushed down another urge, this time to bite into his lip and make him moan. Perhaps all the kissing and cuddling this afternoon had been ill-advised…

“What was that about?” he muttered to Aziraphale as they began to move toward the bookshop. He needed distraction.

“Never you mind.”

Crowley groaned theatrically. Not only did the response not help to distract him, it gave his husband a wicked glint to accompany said boyish innocence, and fuck if Crowley didn’t need a bit of private time as soon as their guests left. He did his best to put the thought to bed as the four of them walked to the bookshop.

“Would you mind unlocking it, dear?” Aziraphale asked. He was struggling a bit with the crate now. Viola, sensing that she was close to home, had gotten up and begun to circle restlessly as she waited to be released.

Crowley reached into his pocket and had a moment of panic when he didn’t find the keys. Then he remembered. “Oh! Ms Kejora—you have…”

“Right!” The solicitor rifled through her purse, then dropped his keys into his hand. “That car of yours handles like a dream. I got there just in time, by the way. The cop that was about to ticket you listened to reason. Or he was scared of my ‘I’ll take you to court’ face. One way or another, he backed down and your car is safely parked. I’ll text you details about where. And I’ll put the parking expense on your account.”

She grinned wickedly as Crowley rolled his eyes. He opened the shop and held the door to let everyone in, noticing only after doing so that Mr Malaika had wandered over to the display window and was staring up at the pride flag. “Sir?” he said to get the man’s attention, then waved for him to follow.

Once inside, Mr Malaika looked around the shop as if in a daze. Finally, he said, “You’ve made changes.”

Aziraphale huffed and moved toward the stairs to the flat. “Of course I have. I’ve owned the place for over twenty years.”

Mr Malaika reached a hand toward the antique register, but froze when Ms Kejora barked, “Don’t touch anything, please.”

“Father,” Aziraphale said, cutting off any retort Mr Malaika might have made. “We need to go upstairs. The cats would like to be out of this cage, and frankly, I’m more comfortable with you in the flat than the shop, given that the courts have already determined that Crowley and I are legally wed.”

He didn’t say that he didn’t trust the man not to use whatever he saw in the shop as a weapon in the ongoing lawsuit, but the implication was clear. Once again, Mr Malaika sighed and seemed to shrink in on himself. He followed Aziraphale up the stairs, with Crowley and Ms Kejora bringing up the rear.

The moment they opened the crate, Portia streaked away and disappeared. Viola took more time to emerge, stopping to let Aziraphale stroke her head and chin. She headbutted Crowley’s hand, rubbed her tail along the solicitor’s trousers, and ignored Mr Malaika completely before she, too, disappeared. Crowley had to turn his back to hide his grin at the slight. Viola had always been the clever one.

He put Hannah, Fizzgig, and Josaphat away, checking each of them over to make sure their time in transit hadn’t damaged leaves, upended soil, cracked their pots, or otherwise traumatized them. He’d need to spend some extra time caring for them in the upcoming weeks. The cat supplies, he didn’t bother to unpack, only slung the duffel holding them into the office before he joined the others in the sitting room.

Mr Malaika stood in front of the wall of framed photos. He seemed to be studying them one by one, with particular interest in the wedding shots. Crowley could see exactly why their solicitor would advise against him entering this space while the validity of their marriage was in question. He wasn’t comfortable with the scrutiny even though the lawsuit had been dismissed.

“We should have come to the wedding,” Mr Malaika whispered.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “We invited you,” the latter said, a hint of accusation in his voice.

“I know.” The words were mere breath. “But I haven’t been back to London since your grandfather’s funeral. Not until now.”

Then, to Crowley’s astonishment, Mr Malaika began to cry.

 


 

It was a bit like reshaping his understanding of his entire history. Aziraphale’s mind sped backwards through time. Gabriel’s death. The funeral. The police investigation that went nowhere. Then the move to Colchester. Aziraphale had accompanied his parents to the London cemetery a few times, but had it been his parents? Or just his mother?

His memories of that time were so hazy, not only muddled by time, but by the grief and panic he’d experienced at that age. He had no clear recollection of his father in London after the move, not even when his grandfather had been sick. There was always an excuse: Mr Malaika would go another day, he had already been, he had work, he had a doctor’s appointment. Then, after Aziraphale inherited the bookshop and moved into his flat, he’d always been the one traveling to Colchester to visit his family. He had never joined the dots before, and now his father was crying quietly in front of him as if the admission was a confession.

“Why not?” he asked, though he suspected the answer already.

“I…” Mr Malaika rubbed a hand over his face. “I hate this city. It took Gabriel, and my dad, and today I thought… I thought…”

But it wasn’t hate, Aziraphale realized. It was fear. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “This is why you were so adamant about wanting to sell the bookshop. It isn’t about the money at all!”

“It’s the last thing that ties our family to this goddamn city! You won’t be safe— I can’t rest until— I wanted you to—”

“I would have stayed in London even if I’d lost the bookshop. I will stay in London if I—if we—lose this lawsuit.” He looked at Crowley, whose face was open and vulnerable and radiating pure love. How had Aziraphale missed the strength of that love for so long? “With my husband. This is our home.”

“But Aziraphale…”

“Father, I’m not a child. I’m older than you were when we lost Gabriel. I can protect myself.” Aziraphale reached a hand out to Crowley, who took it at once. “And I have good people around me to care for me when I can’t.”

Mr Malaika stared at their clasped hands, then lifted his eyes to Crowley. “What is it that you see in my son?”

Immediately, Ms Kejora stepped forward and opened her mouth, likely to advise Crowley not to answer, but Aziraphale shook his head minutely to stop her. This wasn’t a legal inquiry.

“What do I see?” Crowley’s words were soft. He waited until Aziraphale met his eyes before he continued. “Everything.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, his vision going slightly blurred through tears. Crowley took his other hand.

“It’s true. You are the kindest, bravest, most generous person I’ve ever met. When I look at you, I see a man who wouldn’t hesitate to drive a car he’s afraid of simply because I’m sick. Who rescued not only our cats today, but a few of my plants instead of any of the books that are precious to him. Who gave me those plants and the space to grow them in the first place. The man who shares my sense of humor and who openly enjoys life. Who doesn’t get irritated with my silly antics or nonverbal tics.”

“I love your noises,” Aziraphale interjected. “They’re like your own personal language! I have each sound categorized.”

“Of course you do.” Crowley looked a bit teary himself. “Of course you’ve learned them and understand them. That’s what I see. Someone who gives—gives of himself—even when I don’t feel worthy to receive anything. Someone who welcomed me into his life, embraced my family and friends with all their weird quirks, and strives to be his authentic self even in the face of…adversity.”

Crowley squeezed his hands. A tear trickled down Aziraphale’s cheek. “Oh darling,” he whispered. “You know that I see you too, don’t you? Your honesty and kindness, and how gentle you are, and how you never get irritated with any of my sensory issues. You don’t just tolerate them, either. You accommodate them.”

“Of course I do! We’ve talked about this. You’re not a burden!”

“See? This is what I mean. You don’t just tolerate me. You ask and you listen and you care, and then you let me care for you in return, even if you grumble a bit when I do. And I love your grumbling, and your noises, and the way you like to rescue me, and how you’re not afraid to tease me or tell me how you feel. You don’t act like I’m a bomb that might go off any moment, stepping around triggers, and I…I’ve never had that in a partner before. You are everything I never knew I wanted or needed, Crowley.”

A sound tumbled from Crowley’s mouth, one Aziraphale hadn’t heard in ten months. Back in January, when they’d only been acquainted a few days, he hadn’t known what it meant. It was an amalgamation of emotions, greater than the sum of its parts. Now, though. Now, he understood. He knew his husband well enough to recognize exactly what symphony was telling him.

Maggie and Nina had been right. Somehow, Crowley had been in love with him long before it should have been possible. There was only one appropriate response to that holiest of sounds.

Aziraphale stepped closer and whispered, “I love you, too,” before he captured Crowley’s lips in a fervent kiss.

 


 

Crowley was in too much of a daze to take in much of the next half hour. Aziraphale had openly declared his love, and accepted his in return. Their kiss felt like an understanding, not a performance. Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand since they’d pulled apart with sheepish grins after their solicitor cleared her throat.

What he did tune in for was the moment Mr Malaika announced that he and his wife would not be pursuing the second lawsuit any longer.

“I know it won’t make up for the trouble I’ve already caused you,” he said softly, “but I hope it can be a start.”

Ms Kejora agreed to meet with Ms Uriel to finalize the details. Aziraphale hugged his father, who then shook Crowley’s hand.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back to London,” he said. “I do hope you’ll both visit us in Colchester.”

Crowley considered this, then said, “As long as you allow one of us to handle the food.”

He didn’t miss Aziraphale’s hastily-smothered smile.

Then their guests were gone, and they were alone in the bookshop. Aziraphale locked the doors and turned quickly, putting his back to the glass. Nervousness stirred in Crowley’s abdomen. He leaned against the counter, hoping to come off as relaxed, but his husband’s mischievous grin said that he’d failed in the attempt.

“Angel, I—” he began, while at the same time, Aziraphale said, “I need to—” They both laughed. “You first,” Crowley said.

“Alright. I need to show you something. Will you come upstairs with me?”

“Well I wasn’t planning to sleep in the shop.”

“Fiend. I meant all the way up. To the roof.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Sure. What’s on the roof?” Crowley followed Aziraphale up the spiral staircase. “I haven’t been up there.”

“It was locked before, until a few months ago.”

Crowley didn’t miss the way his husband evaded the question, nor the hesitation in his voice. He decided not to inquire further. He would find out soon enough.

In the flat, they were greeted by desperate cries. It was well (read: fifteen minutes) past dinner time for the cats, and they paused their trip upstairs to tend to their children first. Aziraphale added a few treats to the meals.

“Because today was so harrowing,” he said, petting both girls.

“We need treats too,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s eyes locked on his, and any nerves still fluttering around Crowley’s belly were instantly burned away with fire. “We’ll have some,” Aziraphale promised, his voice low and rough. “Roof first, please.”

Crowley wanted to say “I’d follow you anywhere,” but his mouth was too dry and the words came out as a whine that he was sure Aziraphale had already heard, analyzed, and catalogued away for future translation. Indeed, the man smiled and held out a hand to lead him.

Outside, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Once they did, he saw the vague outlines of what looked like a project-in-progress, complete with loose planks and construction supplies. Now Aziraphale looked nervous, fingers twisting together.

“It’s not done yet,” he blurted out. “I wasn’t planning to show you today.”

“S’okay, angel. I don’t mind. Tell me instead?”

Aziraphale nodded and began to walk along a pathway made of square pavers set in gravel. He spread his hands wide as he talked. “I meant to finish and give this to you for our wedding anniversary. Then I decided that that was too far off. You heard Chris say earlier that they were going to contact me. They might know people who can help build the planter beds more quickly. I was going to show you on your birthday. But after today, I couldn’t wait, even if what’s here is only a fragment of what I intended.”

Slowly, Crowley also moved down the path, taking in the markings and getting a better idea of the final layout. A garden. Aziraphale was building him a garden. For their anniversary.

He swallowed another whine. This gift was too much. When he tried to say so, Aziraphale rushed toward him, hands outstretched, as if to silence any objections manually. The attempt was thwarted when he tripped over a tool and crashed to the ground. Crowley rushed forward to help as Aziraphale broke into laughter.

“Of course,” he said, snorting through giggles. “Of course Chris’ nail gun has felled me.”

Crowley crouched next to him. “You let Chris use a nail gun? Didn’t you worry they’d shoot themself in the foot?”

“More likely their hand,” Aziraphale wheezed. He took a few deep breaths until the laughter subsided. “They seemed rather competent, actually. And it’s not like we planned to leave the tools up here today. The fire interrupted us.”

“Are you hurt?” Crowley stood and offered his hand. “Let me help.”

Aziraphale took his hand but resisted the tug upwards. “Crowley? This isn’t how I wanted to do this, but I don’t want to wait any longer. Will you marry me? I mean, will you be my husband, in actuality? From this moment on? Not for seven years, not for the bookshop, just…for us.”

Part of Crowley wasn’t convinced he could be hearing this correctly. His brain tried to put together all the information that had just come his way. This gift, meant for January, moved forward twice now. The kisses they’d shared all afternoon and evening. Their joint declarations of love. A proposal that Aziraphale had apparently planned. What had changed since this summer? It couldn’t simply be the fire—this had been in motion for some time by the looks of it.

“I mean,” Aziraphale said, sounding anxious now. “I know you might not want to. I’ve kept you at arm’s length for so long. I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you to know your own heart. It’s more that I couldn’t accept that I could ever be enough for someone as wonderful as you, but I thought I’d take a chance, in case you still wanted—”

Crowley finally managed to unstick his brain, body, and tongue. He flung himself to his knees and took Aziraphale’s face in both hands, cutting off the nervous chatter. “Yes. Forever. Always. Yours.”

Slowly, a shy smile spread across Aziraphale’s lips. “Really? Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

 


 

Relief flooded Aziraphale as their lips met in the dark. Nothing had gone the way it should, but Crowley had still said yes! Crowley wanted him. Crowley—

He pulled back. “I need to tell you something.”

The man blinked. He looked dazed. “Sure.”

“It’s nothing bad,” he rushed to reassure. “Only, I wanted to say that I understand if you still don’t trust me. Or, the situation. Or—I mean—oh, bother. Let me start over.” He took a deep breath. It was important to get this right. “Crowley. I know that my actions over the last few months have not helped with your fear of being rejected. I stand by what I told you in the beginning. I would never send you away from our home, not even for a night. But I also understand if the fear lingers. I don’t expect you to overcome your fear simply because I’ve overcome mine. You’re on your own timeline, and I will support you completely all the way through it.”

There. He’d said it. One thing he’d managed to do properly on this ridiculous day.

Crowley’s lips twitched. “My turn to show you something, angel.”

He stood, and this time, Aziraphale let the pressure on his hand pull him to his feet too. Giddiness and worry swirled inside him. Was Crowley going to retrieve the bag from the Bentley now? Wouldn’t that be too soon? A response to Aziraphale’s words? An (unnecessary) attempt to prove his love? Should he trust it, or should he suggest caution?

They entered the flat, but Crowley didn’t continue downwards. Instead, he let go of Aziraphale and moved into the office.

“Where’d I put—?” he began, then interrupted himself. “Right. There.”

So they weren’t going to the Bentley. At least Aziraphale didn’t have to worry about that. He suddenly realized that couldn’t have been the destination anyway. The Bentley was still parked wherever Ms Kejora had taken it…

The thoughts fled as Crowley brought the duffel bag he’d used that afternoon into the sitting room. Aziraphale stared as he discarded the last few things it had carried. It couldn’t be…

“Here,” Crowley said, handing him the now-empty bag. “Look at the label inside.”

Aziraphale hadn’t paid any attention to the simple black duffel that afternoon. He’d grabbed the first large bag he’d found that wouldn’t require his hands to carry. Practically everything Crowley owned was black. It made perfect sense for him to have a spare black work bag or gym bag or whatever.

Now, he pulled open the side Crowley had indicated. A brand label, worn to indecipherable with age, was sewn inside. There were words handwritten on it in a thin script: Property of Jean-Luc Cendrier.

“He thought it was funny, you see?” Crowley said. “Because it was my bag, and he marked it as his. Marked me as his.”

“When…” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “When did you bring this inside?”

“In July. After Chris chewed me out that night at the pub. They told me that I was self-sabotaging and if I kept it up, I was going to fuck it all up with you. Obviously, they didn’t have all the details about our situation right, but that didn’t stop them from being spot on, the bastard.” He gave a rueful smile and shrugged. “I spent some time thinking about it afterwards, and I decided to trust you. No matter how long it took for you to feel safe. I trusted you—trust you—not to discard me.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale dropped the bag and pulled his husband into his arms. “I feel that we’ve done everything rather backwards since we met.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Let’s see. We moved in together first, then we got married, and tonight it feels like we spoke our true wedding vows, not long before you proposed to me. I reckon you’re right on that point.”

“And what generally comes before a proposal?”

“Dating? We’ve done that already, angel.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale tilted his chin up to press a gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips. “My dear, I’d like to go to bed.”

“Oh. Yeah. O’course. S’been an exhausting day.”

Another person might not have seen the flicker of disappointment that ghosted across Crowley’s face, but Aziraphale recognized it. He kissed the man more firmly and then made his meaning clear. “I didn’t say I was tired.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide and he sputtered out a few aborted clicks and grunts before he managed, “Yes. Bed. S’a good idea. Great idea, actually. Let’s do that.”

Aziraphale took his hand and led him to their bedroom.

Notes:

So I wrote 2/3rds of this chapter in my notes app on the flight to Europe. Ha! Hopefully it’s not too disjointed – my betas had their work cut out for them! Now, I’m settling in, and hopefully there won’t be too long of a wait before the next chapter. But we’ll see, because I’m rather enjoying my time with Rainstorm. There’s probably about three chapters left in this story, including the next (which will be entirely skippable for those who don’t want the smut parts).

Viola’s namesake, Ash, used to show his displeasure with people exactly like Viola does with Mr Malaika. He once spent almost a year refusing to let his tail touch me (and doing things like climbing into my lap as if I could pet him only to walk across my legs without stopping) because he was mad that I adopted a second cat. 🤷🏻

Cendrier = “ashtray” – this felt really appropriate for Jean-Luc! 🤣🤣

Chapter 27: Consummation

Summary:

Crowley and Aziraphale spend their first night together after choosing each other deliberately.

***
Aziraphale broke the silence. “I want you.”

Always direct, his angel. Crowley tried to reply, but all that came out was a smattering of consonants.

Notes:

Okay, y'all, buckle up! This is the smut chapter. Entirely skippable if you'd rather not read the smut - you won't lose any character development or plot points. There's one section (the last one) that involves nudity and discussion of aftercare, but no actual smut, if you want to read that, but the entire chapter is skippable if this is not your thing.

This chapter is un-beta-ed. I had a surprisingly difficult time finding the right balance between sexy, silly, and sweet, something to reflect their characters and the fluffiness of this story. I managed it in the end, but by the time I got it all put together, it was WAY too late to ask my betas to edit last-second, and I didn't want to wait ANOTHER week to post. All errors are mine, and hopefully this is a fun little surprise chapters for my betas to read without needing to put on their editing caps!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Crowley closed the bedroom door behind him, plunging them both into darkness. Aziraphale was pressed against him in a moment, pushing his back up against the wall, seeking his lips. With a whimper, Crowley threaded his fingers into the other man’s curls and opened his mouth to invite him in.

“Wait right here,” Aziraphale said after a few moments, pulling away to press a kiss to his neck. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” The words were all breath, and Crowley felt his husband smile into his skin. Then he had to put his hands to the wall to steady himself, the warmth of Aziraphale’s body gone.

Footsteps trailed away from him across the room, and the bedside lamp came on. By the time Crowley’s eyes adjusted to the low light, Aziraphale had stepped close to him again. His pupils were blown wide, his expression intense. The two of them stood less than an arm’s length apart, anticipation building between them.

Aziraphale broke the silence. “I want you.”

Always direct, his angel. Crowley tried to reply, but all that came out was a smattering of consonants. Aziraphale’s smile grew.

“I’m going to learn a whole new range of language tonight, aren’t I?”

At that, Crowley’s already-exhausted legs began to tremble. There was still some part of him that couldn’t believe this was finally, finally happening. That he could have this—not the sex, but the intimacy—with Aziraphale. He swallowed and tried again. “Wan’you, too, ‘Ziraphale.”

His husband stepped closer. “Good.” Another step. Their thighs almost touched. “You don’t have to speak, if it’s difficult. I can understand you when you…”

“Nnnngh.” Crowley had no idea what word was meant to follow that. Whine? Whimper? Spout nonsense sounds? It didn’t matter. His reply caused the man to chuckle and nod.

“Yes. Exactly.”

Then their mouths and bodies were pressed together again, the weight of Aziraphale’s embrace holding Crowley upright. His heart thrummed with the confirmation: This is happening. This is real. He had never been all that fussed about the physical. Even before he knew Aziraphale wasn’t sex-averse, it had never been sex he’d craved. Sure, the act was pleasurable—and with the way his husband was lighting his body on fire, “pleasurable” was perhaps a major understatement—but it was connection that Crowley desperately wanted and needed. A conversation that existed deeper than words. A tie from one soul to another. As Aziraphale kissed him, Crowley surrendered to the moment and whatever came next. He let go and ceded the dance to his husband.

“Darling, you’re trembling.”

“Ngh.”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s arms encircled his waist, gathering Crowley to him and supporting some of his weight. “It’s been a very long day. Let me take you to bed.”

It was a good thing he was holding on, because Crowley’s knees gave out completely in that moment. He collapsed onto the angel with a whimper and barely heard the murmured reassurances that Aziraphale made as he guided them to the mattress.

Once Crowley was seated, Aziraphale dropped to his knees between his legs, causing him to gasp and choke out more incoherent sounds. His husband put a light kiss to his thigh and said, “May I undress you?”

Crowley frantically nodded. He tried to help, but his fingers were clumsy and Aziraphale batted them away.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, and the words were equally angelic and sinful.

“Yesss,” Crowley managed that time.

He barely registered most of what followed: a cascade of sensations as Aziraphale removed Crowley’s clothing and explored his body with both hands and mouth. Crowley’s nipples were sucked, his hips gripped with bruising strength, his inner thighs bitten. All throughout, Aziraphale remained fully dressed and in complete control, steady and solid and perfect. It was almost too much, especially when the man deliberately bypassed Crowley’s leaking cock to kiss his belly instead.

“Bastard,” Crowley breathed. Aziraphale was holding his hips firmly onto the bed, preventing them from bucking upwards as he trailed hot breath along his length, still not touching. “Fuck, angel.”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels and gave him his most wide-eyed, innocent pout. “I liked you better when you were nonverbal.”

Before Crowley could respond, the man leaned forward and licked a stripe up his cock, and any further words devolved into a combination of whine and moan. Aziraphale sat back again, smug satisfaction on his face.

“Much better,” he purred, and Crowley’s cock twitched in response to the low growl. Aziraphale pressed Crowley’s knees wider, eyes raking over his body. “Look at you. I’ve been dying to see you for ages now. I’ve always been so good to avert my eyes.”

You didn’t have to, Crowley wanted to say, but his voice was nowhere near functional at the moment. “Nnnghhkk.”

“Oh, trust me,” Aziraphale said, tangling his fingers in the hair at Crowley’s groin. “Now I’ll feast whenever I’m given the opportunity.”

Please, Crowley tried to say. Please take me. Once again, it came out as, “Ngk.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a smirk. “Since you asked so nicely.”

This time when he leaned forward, he took the base of Crowley’s cock in his hand and the head in his mouth. His tongue slid through the weeping slit, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut briefly before he forced them open again. He wanted to watch. The sight was almost more than he could bear. Angelic lips stretching wide to take him deeper. Angelic hand stroking him firmly. Angelic fingers pressing into Crowley’s thigh, his perineum, circling his rim ever so lightly. Finally, Crowley found his words.

“God yes, there, oh please, fuck, oh you feel so good angel, so good, oh god, you have no idea how beautiful you look with my cock in your mouth, oh god, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

The finger at his opening began to pulse more firmly into the muscles there, in time with Aziraphale’s strokes. Crowley whimpered, and his husband understood. Gently, he was breached, only by a fingertip, just enough to give that extra bit of sensation to rocket Crowley toward climax.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he shouted, doing everything he could to keep his hips still so that he didn’t choke Aziraphale. “Angel, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”

He expected his husband to pull off, or at least to pull back, but Aziraphale took him deeper, and Crowley couldn’t contain the cry that was ripped from his throat as he came in violent pulses. Aziraphale swallowed in rhythm until Crowley’s orgasm faded and he collapsed backwards onto the mattress.

The angel, still fully clothed, gently released him and withdrew his finger as he stood. Crowley watched with shivery anticipation as he undid his own belt, drew himself out, and began to stroke himself lightly. It was more erotic than if he’d stripped completely. From somewhere, Crowley found the energy to surge upwards until he was sitting with his face level at Aziraphale’s cock. The man was breathing quickly, his strokes getting firmer, until Crowley reached a hand out to still him.

“May I?”

Hesitance danced across Aziraphale’s face. “I—”

“What is it? Do you not like it that way? I can use my hand… Just wanna do this for you.”

At that, the man’s expression went soft. “No, my dear. I do enjoy it, only… Don’t gag on me, please? I’m particularly turned off by the sound and feel, and I’d hate to end our night prematurely.”

In answer, Crowley reached out and took his cock firmly in hand, closing his mouth over only the tip. Aziraphale whimpered and gripped both of his shoulders with tight fingers. Crowley eased a bit further down his shaft, setting himself to a comfortable, non-gagging depth, and set to work taking his husband apart stroke by stroke. Later, he would need to strip the man of his clothing and experience the full glory of the body that until now, he’d never seen wearing less than an undershirt and sleep trousers. He would run his hand through Aziraphale’s chest hair, lick his collarbones, kiss his soft stomach, absolutely worship those thighs. But for now, he would memorize his taste and smell and feel, discover the exact twist of his hand that caused the angel to tremble, cup his balls as they tightened right before Aziraphale stuttered into his mouth with a groan.

Afterwards, they tangled up together on the bed, panting into each other’s mouths as they kissed lazily and sloppily in post-orgasm haze. Crowley coaxed Aziraphale into removing his shirt so that he could run his fingers across all that skin before he laid his head gently on his chest. Aziraphale kept one arm tightly around him, holding him close, exactly as Crowley needed.

There was an urge inside him to ask if he’d done well enough, if he was still wanted, if everything remained okay now that they’d taken this step. He didn’t need to say a word, however. The angel, ever-intuitive, kissed each of his eyelids in turn and whispered, “I love you, my darling. Forever.”

Crowley closed his eyes and whined.

 


 

Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s red curls as the man dozed on his chest. He looked more peaceful than Aziraphale had ever seen him, and he felt a strong satisfaction at having been able to give him that security. No matter that it had taken him months to reach this point—the culmination of all their desires was sweeter for the wait.

And oh my, what a culmination it had been! Aziraphale had never been able to lead a partner so thoroughly, had never had anyone give in to his touch and become pliant under his ministrations that way. It had been intoxicating, and then to surrender himself afterwards, to give himself in a way that he usually avoided out of fear after some particularly awful early sexual experiences… Crowley always called him an angel, but Aziraphale knew better. He was married to the true angel here.

Crowley stirred, eyes fluttering open. When they met Aziraphale’s, the man broke into a wide, soft smile. “Hiya, angel.”

“Hello, my dear.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Not too long. Perhaps half an hour or so.” He stroked Crowley’s hair again, savoring the low whimper it drew from his husband’s throat. “A little cat nap.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

Crowley stretched, his fingers reaching along Aziraphale’s torso in a way that caused him to quiver. Arousal stirred lightly in his groin. They had a lot of time to make up for. “N-no,” Aziraphale said, his voice catching.

“Not tired?”

Aziraphale had hoped that his enthusiasm had gone unnoticed, but the sharp grin, sparkling eyes, and now very deliberate hand-wandering said otherwise. He gasped as his nipple was pinched. “Not all of us can fall asleep on a whim, my dear,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm.

The hand withdrew as Crowley rolled onto his back. “S’pose I ought to leave you alone, then. Let you keep trying.”

Oh, the fiend. “I didn’t say that,” he said, pitching his voice to the level that he’d already found made Crowley squirm. “After all, it would be a shame if I woke up agitated again and had to pretend to be suffering from night terrors so that my husband didn’t worry.”

At that, Crowley sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wot? You never!”

Aziraphale shrugged as nonchalantly as he could with no shirt on, a burgeoning erection starting to tent his trousers, and the most incredible man he’d ever met poised over him wearing nothing but an expression of disbelief. “My dear, you literally grabbed me from behind and growled my name into my ear. I couldn’t exactly admit that I was dreaming about you taking me when I woke up calling your name.”

“Fuck,” Crowley choked out, his pelvis suddenly rocking into Aziraphale’s hip. “You could have told me, angel. I would’ve helped you turn that dream into reality.”

“I was still trying to protect you,” Aziraphale said, hooking one leg over Crowley’s body and drawing him closer. “From me. I thought… Oh, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I was foolish, and you’re terribly kind to forgive me—”

“M’not kind!” Crowley growled, the words followed by a fierce kiss. When he pulled back, he said, “I haven’t forgiven anything, because there’s nothing to forgive. You took the time you needed, and now, we’ve moved forward. That’s all.”

Part of Aziraphale wanted to break into tears. He loved this man so, so much. The bigger part of him decided that the time for tears had passed. He drew Crowley down until his weight settled on Aziraphale’s chest and their tongues twisted together again. Their hips settled into a grinding rhythm that brought them both back to full hardness.

Eventually, Crowley broke out of his grasp to say, “Please, please, can I get you naked? I still haven’t even seen you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, then moaned as the man immediately slithered down between his legs to work his trousers and pants out from under him. “Be gentle with the sock garters, please. They’re vintage.”

“Sock garters,” Crowley hissed in an attempt to sound disdainful instead of turned on, but his whimper gave him away as he slowly and tenderly discarded the last of the garments. Arousal, it turned out, had a whole range of sounds, all variations on the same theme. Aziraphale had been fascinated to discover that the man used more words the closer he got to orgasm, rather than losing his vocabulary altogether. He would have to experiment to see if the same held true each time…

“God, angel,” Crowley said, sliding his hands up Aziraphale’s shins and thighs until they settled on his waist. “You are more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined.”

“Don’t exaggerate, my dear. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

“For me, it’s the first time. The first glimpse.” He bent to kiss one hipbone. “And you are glorious.”

Their mouths met again, now nothing between their bodies to stop them from pressing together as close as they could be. Or, at least, as close as they could be before—

“Crowley? How would you like to do this?”

“However you wish, love.”

A frisson of ecstasy went through him at the endearment. “Please tell me what you want this time. I led us last time.”

They kissed again, lost in the sensation for a few minutes. Finally, though, Crowley said, “Would you fuck me, angel? I want, ngh, want you inside me. If that’s not too much right now. I could try to find a condom, if the mess is an issue, or—”

Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. “I would be thrilled to do so, darling. And I’m indifferent on condom use, as long as I can clean up afterwards either way.”

Crowley nodded with another whimper. “Yes. O’course. Always.”

“You know, if you prefer it, I brought those warming condoms home from the hotel this summer. So if you’d rather me not, you know, get you messy…”

“You kept them?” Crowley asked, confusion wrinkling his brow. “Why?”

Aziraphale hoped that his blush wouldn’t be visible in the low light of the bedside lamp. “I’ve never tried that kind, and you made them sound intriguing.”

Their eyes met, and they both started to laugh at the same time. It wasn’t funny, not really, but soon they were giggling and clutching at each other in mirth. Tears streamed from Crowley’s eyes, and Aziraphale struggled to breathe. It felt good to laugh at what was once an intensely painful and bewildering morning. Sure, they could have gotten to this place so much sooner, but they had arrived here all the same. It was okay. They would be okay.

“Right, then,” Crowley said, wiping his eyes. “Guess we might as well make use of them. Probably better tonight anyway, given that I wasn’t exactly expecting any of this.”

“Is that a complaint?” Aziraphale asked, raising one deliberately-bitchy eyebrow.

“Never. You can fuck me any time you wish, angel.”

Aziraphale had softened a bit during their laughing fit, but jolted back to instant hardness at those words. He trembled as he slid out of bed and went to the wardrobe to retrieve the condoms from where he’d hidden them back in June. Behind him, he heard Crowley open a bedside drawer and rummage, presumably for lube. Another wave of arousal coursed through him.

When he turned around, Crowley was on his stomach, hips in the air, staring at Aziraphale with pure lust in his eyes. “M’ready for you, angel. Take me. However you want.”

“However I want?” Aziraphale walked slowly back to the bed and sat on the edge, far enough away to resist the temptation to touch the expanse of creamy skin that glowed in the soft light. He toyed with the foil packet.

“Yes. Just please do it now, because I don’t think I can wait any longer to have you inside me.”

Aziraphale grinned, pleased and giddy from the trust being placed in his hands. “Well then, my dear, roll onto your back. I have no desire to take you from behind. This time.”

With a high-pitched squeak, Crowley hurried to obey. His curls fanned out over the pillow behind him and he let his knees fall wide as he bit his lower lip with that sharp canine. It was the most inviting and erotic thing that Aziraphale had ever seen. Especially with the taste of the man still in his mouth.

Aziraphale ripped open the foil packet and settled the condom onto himself. Almost immediately, he felt a ripple of heat go through his skin, not unlike the sensation of peppers in his mouth. “Oh my,” he said as his thighs shook.

Crowley grinned. “Nice?”

“Yes. I mean, I think so. I suppose it will depend on if it distracts me once I’m…” He trailed off and reached for the bottle of lube that Crowley had placed on the bedside table. “Will this interfere with your experience of it?”

“Nah. It can be intense, inside, so the regular lube helps. Not as overwhelming.”

His hips twitched as Aziraphale snapped open the bottle and poured some liquid onto his fingers. He put a little onto the condom, rubbed the rest to warm it up, and began to circle Crowley’s opening. The man pulled his knees to his chest, offering greater exposure, and Aziraphale groaned aloud.

“You don’t need to prep me,” Crowley said as Aziraphale pressed against the tight ring of muscle, which fluttered under the touch. “Just go a bit slow as you start, give me a sec to adjust, and I’ll take you fine.”

How different their experiences must be, Aziraphale thought as he grabbed a pillow to prop Crowley’s hips up for a better angle. He wasn’t going to question the man, though. All he could do was trust, and he lined himself up with precision. Crowley moaned at the first contact, and then louder as Aziraphale pulsed against him gently. To his surprise, it was only a few pulses in when Crowley opened enough to slip the head of his cock inside. Those muscles clenched around him, and Aziraphale hissed as the internal heat combined with that strange, peppery heat coming from the condom.

“Fuck,” he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it, and Crowley giggled.

“Naughty angel.”

“I’ll show you naughty,” Aziraphale said with a small thrust.

Crowley cried out, then babbled, “Yes, more, please, more, yes angel, yes!”

He’d been right. He really didn’t need any prep. Before long, Aziraphale was fully seated, almost overwhelmed by heat and pleasure and emotion. He was inside his husband, joined with him, the man’s legs locked behind Aziraphale’s back now, ankles hooked together, as Aziraphale thrust. Crowley clutched at his curls, panted into his face, dug nails into his shoulder. With each thrust, he let out another exclamation of pleasure, sometimes accompanied by a plea of more or harder or faster.

Aziraphale never gave in to this sort of physical pleasure. There were always too many other factors to consider—the potential clean-up, the chance that a wrong touch or movement might hurt him or someone else, the need to perform well enough that his partner didn’t feel slighted or unsatisfied. There was also the chance that, if he let go completely, he would grow feral. He had a strong hedonistic streak and a tendency toward self-indulgence, so he always kept a modicum of control over his baser instincts when it came to sex.

Crowley, however, wasn’t going to let him get away with this. “Fuck, angel,” he said as the two of them rocked together. “Stop holding back and fuck me.”

“I— How did— What if I hurt you?”

“First, you aren’t going to hurt me. I can take far more than this, I swear. I like far more than this. Take me to my limits.” He swallowed and groaned as Aziraphale obliged him with one fiercer thrust. “S-second, if I need to stop, I’ll tell you. Red. Code Red. And you’ll stop, because you care about me, angel.”

It took everything in Aziraphale to admit it. “I’m scared to lose control.”

Crowley pulled his face down until their lips met. “You’re safe with me, love.”

They stared at each other for a few more seconds, and then Aziraphale did something he had never allowed himself to do: He turned off his thinking mind and began to move purely on instinct. His hips pinioned. One hand reached up to shove Crowley’s knee closer to his chest, changing the angle between them so that his cock was dragging with perfect pressure against those tight muscles with every thrust. He closed his eyes and let words fall from his mouth, not knowing what they were or if they made any sense.

Crowley was crying out with every thrust now, his own hips bucking up to crash them together harder, and he reached between their bodies to grab at his cock. Aziraphale knocked his hand away and grabbed it himself, his fingers still a bit slippery with lube. He wasn’t terribly coordinated in that moment, the strokes jerking and irregular, but Crowley didn’t seem to mind. The man writhed under him, thighs beginning to shake. Aziraphale felt the change from the inside, the tightening around his cock that would crash over into waves any second now. Somehow, he found the stamina to thrust even harder, shallow strokes that would put him over the edge right as Crowley reached it.

They fell together, and it was like flying, sound and color so intense that Aziraphale could neither hear nor see, only feel, every molecule in his body exploding and reknitting to become something new. Something essentially Aziraphale, but also something essentially Crowley’s. As he collapsed onto his husband with a gusty exhale, he had never felt this right before.

“Dead right,” he whispered, apropos of nothing, and Crowley began to laugh.

“Yeah. ’Xactly. Dead right.”

 


 

Crowley gave them fifteen minutes to recover from their high. By then, their sweat (and other fluids) had begun to cool and grow tacky, and Aziraphale was showing early signs of restlessness. He kissed then angel’s sweet, upturned nose and said, “Stay here. I’ll get us a damp flannel.”

“I can—”

“Let me care for you? Please?”

The look Aziraphale gave him was so intensely loving that Crowley thought he might expire on the spot. It took all of his willpower to leave the bedroom and retrieve supplies. When he returned, he found the man splayed out on his back, the condom tied off and lying on his belly for later disposal. The light from the lamp caused his skin to glow and his blond curls to shine. He might have been a Renaissance painting of an angel who had found his true place among a pleasure garden.

“Ngh,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled. “Hello, darling.”

Instead of responding, Crowley stepped up to the bed and retrieved the used condom, disposing of it in a wastebin. Aziraphale reached for the cloth, but Crowley pulled it away. “Let me, angel,” he said, and proceeded to clean the fluids from his body, starting with the most sensitive spots.

“This is aftercare?”

Crowley smiled. “Sure. S’not the only kind, o’course. Aftercare is whatever you need after sex. Particularly with intense encounters. I once slept with a guy who started bawling when he came. Turned out it was the first time he’d had sex with a man—he hadn’t told me—and I held him until he felt okay again. That was also aftercare.” He turned the flannel to the clean side and swiped the edges of damp curls along the angel’s neck. “You don’t need it every time you fuck. Sometimes you’re good to go right away.”

“Like tonight. The first time.”

Hesitating, Crowley stood back to look Aziraphale in the eyes. “I needed it that first time. It was, um, really emotional for me.”

Aziraphale suddenly looked stricken. “Why didn’t you say anything? I could have—”

“Shhh, no, angel,” Crowley said, covering his mouth gently. “You did care for me. You did exactly what I needed.” He sat down on the mattress, one hip touching Aziraphale’s side. “Angel, I felt so insecure afterwards. Terrified. You reassured me before I even had the chance to ask for it, and then you held me and let me sleep on your chest while I came down from that intensity.” He placed the flannel on the bedside table and laid next to his husband. “You were perfect. You are perfect.”

Aziraphale turned on his side and trailed fingers along Crowley’s skin. “I won’t always get it right, you know. You’ll have to tell me when you need something.”

Crowley nodded, shivering at the cascade of pleasure coming in waves from his husband’s fingertips. “You too, angel. Whatever you need.”

“Well, right now, I believe I need clean pants and some sleep,” Aziraphale said, causing Crowley to burst into laughter.

“I love you, you ridiculous creature.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “I would not wish any companion in the world but you.

“Shakespeare? Really, angel? He’s so clichéd. Let me give you one better: The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you. Four Weddings and a Funeral.”

“Isn’t that the movie with that awful Hugh Grant man?” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Unacceptable. Only true poetry can describe my adoration of you. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. Emily Bronte.”

“Booooring. Besides, she's the weird creepy author who wrote about bodies intermingling in coffins as if that’s romantic, yeah?” At his husband’s scandalized gasp, Crowley grinned. “If you want a proper classic, how about The Bridges of Madison County? This kind of certainty comes but just once in a lifetime.”

Aziraphale’s face was alight now. “I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. Dickens.”

Crowley opened his mouth, already set to quote Freddie Mercury this time, but Aziraphale closed the gap between them. Warm, soft, pliant lips; a gentle stroke of hand to cheek. His husband pulled back only far enough to whisper:

Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. Percy Bysshe Shelley. I win.”

As their mouths met again and tongues brushed gently together, Crowley decided to surrender to Aziraphale and let him triumph in this particular argument. After all, some things were more important than having the last word, and this angel's kisses were one of them.

Notes:

Hey! There's a chapter count now! Two more chapters to wrap everything up and give these guys their happily ever after!

Aziraphale's first quote (Shakespeare) is the same one he uses in my fic Rapture on the Seas. It's just too perfect not to use. Especially in a love-quote war.

Accuracy note: I have never experienced a warming condom and thus have no idea what one might feel like—probably a good thing, as I'm allergic to capsaicin, which is used to create the warming sensation—so I had to go with google info about what they're meant to be like. I might be entirely off-base, but 🤷🏻