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Chapter Text

“Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty

Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest,

And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace”

~ King John, William Shakespeare

~.0.~

~.Crowley.~

All things considered, Anthony Crowley Ophidian—sixth child of the King of Hell—should have welcomed the possibility of peace. The Kingdoms of Heaven and Hell had been at war for two thousand years. As a prince, his entire life had been about the Great War in some form or facet. All of it had been a right pain in the arse. 

So really, he should be ecstatic at the idea of peace. 

But Crowley was a clever sort. He understood that, in the unlikely event peace were to break out, his battles were far from over. They would only be fought on a different field. He was a prince, which meant he was potentially a valuable pawn in this game of alliances and enemies. 

He was the only—legitimate—unmarried child of the King of Hell. He was of marriageable age. As the only omega of his family, he was an embarrassment, but it also meant he could produce little princes and princesses. 

He didn’t need anyone to tell him that his name was being bandied about whatever room in this palace the negotiations were happening. 

The sun was setting as he sat out on the balcony of his rooms. He watched the livid reds and streaks of orange play across the far-away mountains. He had one leg hitched over the arm of the chair as he slouched exactly as a well-brought up prince shouldn’t. His hand rested on the table beside him, fingers wrapped around a goblet of the most potent spirits he’d been able to scare up. 

It was the early hours of the morning, the stars bright in the sky, when Crowley heard the far-off knock on the door of rooms in the palace at Hades, Hell’s capital city. He closed his eyes tightly, taming the tremor of nerves that sent a chill down his spine. He rolled his shoulders, dispelling the energy as his attendant approached. 

“My prince,” she said quietly. Mrs. Sandwich was only quiet and formal when she had to be. If Crowley had any doubt who’d come to call at such a late hour, he could no longer hold onto any kind of hope. 

“S’not my father, izit?” He needed to gird his loins just a little differently if it were the king. 

“Their Majesty, Regent Beelzebub,” Mrs. Sandwich announced as his sibling strode in. They came to stand directly behind him. Always at attention, that one. Which, Crowley supposed, made sense. They were next in line for the throne and would inherit soon enough. They were their father’s most trusted general—the commander of the legions of Hell.

Crowley did them the honor of straightening up at least a little; though, he kept his leg thrown carelessly over the arm of his chair and didn’t turn to look. “’Lo, Bee. Come to watch the sunrise, have you?”

“You know why I’ve come.”

The twisting in Crowley’s stomach got worse. The scent in the room had thickened. Beelzebub was exuding a commanding air; a sure sign they were in no mood to be challenged. “Negotiations going well then, I take it?”

“All is signed and agreed.”

Crowley’s fingers tightened around the goblet as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He’d known, of course, that he wouldn’t be given a choice. Still, to know for certain his life had been signed away was a heavy thing. The finality of it threatened to choke him. 

He rose from his seat, pleased when his gait was steady. He brushed by his sibling, heading into his rooms. Going to a counter there, he poured wine into two silver goblets, frankly surprised that his hand didn’t tremble. He handed one to his sibling. “Congratulations are in order then. You did what countless generations of our ancestors couldn’t.” He tilted his head up, finally meeting the crowned regent’s eyes. “And you’ve finally done as you’ve been threatening since we were children. Found a way to get rid of me.”

Beelzebub took the goblet from him, their mouth set in a thin line. Crowley was surprised when they gave a soft sigh. “Brother … Truth be told, I wouldn’t wish your fate on the lowest Demon in all of Hell. To be bound to an Angel …” Their lip curled. Their people had been divergent long enough that they were two different species. Made from the same building blocks to be sure, but Demons and Angels—the people of Hell and Heaven respectively—were inherently different. Other. 

“Yet, even Father saw the sense of a ceasefire in the end. Our resources have become stretched too thin; our citizens exist on half the rations the Angels do.” They straightened up, shoulders square. “Not even this war could last forever. There must be a first alliance, and to strengthen that claim is a great honor. You will carry the first of our combined bloodline.”

Crowley said nothing. The spirits he’d drunk earlier in the night curdled in his gut, threatening to make a reappearance. 

“So, no, Anthony, I believe the congratulations are yours.” They tipped their goblet at him. “To your union and the beginning of your most prestigious line. You’re making history, brother. The bards will sing tales of your name for eons to come.”

”Lucky me.” Crowley raised his glass and brought it to his lips, draining it in two gulps.

“You’ll have today to prepare.We leave at first light on the morrow.” There was a pause. “A guard will be posted with you today. As a precaution.”

Crowley scoffed. “I’m not going to run.”

Beelzebub only made a dubious grunt in reply. With that, they were gone. As soon as Crowley heard the door in the main room close, he gripped the counter in front of him, fighting to remain upright. 

Prepare. As though there were any way to prepare to go from being a bachelor prince of Hell to some Angel’s whelping bitch. Arrogant bastards, the lot of them. In Hell, he might be looked on with disdain, but there was a grudging respect here, for the most part. He had a relative amount of freedom. As an omega—a rarity among the ruling class—he might have been an embarrassment, but he was still their prince. 

But his life had never been his own, had it? He’d been lucky. That was all.

His luck had simply run out.

~.Aziraphale.~

Aziraphale Archer, brother to the King of Heaven and eleventh in line to the throne, sat at a table at the near end of one of the palace’s most beatific gardens. A light breeze played at his hair. He held a teacup in one hand, a book open in the other. A servant would be by soon with a tray to break his fast. 

It was, he reflected, a rare moment of contentment. Peace—peace!—loomed on the horizon. Perhaps, he would soon be allowed to return to his property; be the proper Prince of Soho rather than one always ruling in absentia, out wherever this endless war took him. 

For now, though, he was happy to be in residence at the palace in Eden where he’d been born and raised. His vassals would see to Soho for a while longer.

”Oh.” A gasp from his attendant, Madam Tracy, drew his attention. She had her hands to her cheeks and looked at him with wide eyes. “Mercy, it’s the King.”

Aziraphale had just enough time to get to his feet before, sure enough, his eldest brother Gabriel—with their sisters Michael and Uriel flanking him and his usual regiment of guards—appeared. “Gabriel. What an unexpected pleasure.” He nodded his head in a bow.

“If it isn’t the man of the hour,” Gabriel said, all affable smiles as per usual.

”The man of the hour?” Aziraphale was genuinely puzzled about what he could be talking about.

Michael tilted her head. “Surely, you must have known?”

Aziraphale glanced between the lot of them. “I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

Uriel rolled her eyes. “You read so many books, Aziraphale, and yet you never think of the details of diplomacy.”

”This has to do with the peace talks, I gather?” Aziraphale kept his tone light, though he wracked his brain for what he might have missed. It never did fail. In a room with most other Angels, Aziraphale came off as clever. In a room with his siblings, he always ended up feeling the most foolish. They certainly looked on him as such. 

“The talks are complete,” Gabriel said. “The agreement has been signed by proxy, to be signed in ceremony one week from today. For the first time in two thousand years, the descendants of Lucifer shall be welcomed into the kingdom of Heaven.”

”Oh, praise be,” Aziraphale said, genuinely pleased. “That’s wonderful news.”

”Yes, the current King Lucifer Ophidian and his court should be here in six days.”

”Including your husband-to-be,” Michael said, not even bothering to hide the smirk that played at her lips. 

“Of course. My …” Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “My what?”

”Your husband-to-be,” Uriel repeated, similarly smug. “Prince Anthony Crowley Ophidian.”

”Prince …” 

And then it all clicked into place. Of course. Looking at it now, he couldn’t understand how he’d been so foolish not to see. 

With a conflict as long and bloody as this one had been, peace would have to be solidified with the strongest possible alliance. Aziraphale had naturally assumed that would be with one of Gabriel’s children—direct descendants to the throne. But they were both too young yet for more than a betrothal. Betrothals were good but not the guarantee of an immediate union.

Aziraphale was the king’s oldest unmarried sibling—as close in line to the throne as they could get at this point in time. Of course, he’d been an important part of the negotiations. It was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Oh, I see.” He sat back down heavily, feeling somewhat faint. “The, ah … Er, well. The prince is a … beta then?” It was rare but not unheard of for a member of the royal bloodline to be a beta.

”An omega actually.” Again, Uriel smirked.

And that was quite shocking. It was fairly rare for either of the ruling families to be born as anything but an alpha. The occasional beta appeared, but an omega? Practically unheard of. It wasn’t something royals were bred for. 

Gabriel guffawed. “An omega Demon husband. Can you imagine?” He shook his head and gave Aziraphale a healthy whack on the back. “You’re going to have your hands full with that one. Can’t say I envy you.” He blew out a gust, his expression one of distaste. “Peace with the Demons. Agh. You have to wonder if it’s even possible to reproduce with them.”

He turned back to Aziraphale, grinning again. “I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

Aziraphale’s stomach churned uncomfortably. 

“Anyhow. I’ll send the Queen by to speak to you. You know how much she loves throwing together a royal wedding. And in a week?” Gabriel whistled. “Congratulations again. You know. Such as it is.”

”Thank … thank you,” Aziraphale managed. He watched, rather numb, as his siblings and their guards and attendants all left, restoring the garden if not to peace then at least to quiet. The serenity of the day was quite broken. 

Aziraphale had always known that marriage could be asked of him at any time. While he made friends with commoners easily, he never had been as impressive to dignitaries and certainly never to his own parents nor his brother after them. Most arrangements were made with Dukes and Duchesses if anything. Still, however unimpressive, he was a prince and an alpha besides. He had figured his number would come up eventually.

But marry a Demon.

Aziraphale considered himself, above most things, polite. But by himself—or rather, alone with Madam Tracy—he let his nose wrinkle. He felt a little bad about it, but after all … A Demon. Angels and Demons hadn’t mixed for two thousand years for good reason. They were just a little …

Well. They were Demons, that was all. 

He chided himself. After all, they were to be at peace with each other now. Allies. Friends. 

Spouses apparently. 

The servants came with an absolutely decadent array of offerings to break his fast. Aziraphale, however, found he was no longer hungry.

Chapter Text

The caravan had been five long days on the road.

That evening, they stopped sooner than usual at the border town on Hell’s side of the River Styx. Crowley had seldom been more grateful for his reputation. The crowds clamored for assurances from their king and the general that had led their glorious armies. Very few of them bothered to feign interest in their omega prince who was to be delivered into the hands of the Angels along with several carriages full of treasures and goods, a kennel of the fiercest hunting Hell Hounds, and six breeding pairs of their finest midnight black stallions. In fact, the livestock drew far more attention. 

In the chaos of the scene—the Demons were restless, change never being easy—Crowely was able to fade into the background with no one the wiser but Mrs. Sandwich. She would have helped him if he’d asked. There wasn’t much the wiley woman wouldn’t do for him to his everlasting appreciation. 

Crowley pulled his traveling cloak close around him, wide hood obscuring his face as he slipped into the trees. When he was far enough away that the noise of the crowd had become a far-off whisper, he slowed his pace. Some minutes later, he emerged from the trees on the bank of the river. 

There was a slab of rock that jutted out into the water. There, Crowley sat. He pulled off his boots and hissed as his feet hit the frigid water. The sensation was a welcome distraction from the swirl of black emotion stirring in his gut. It was impossible to be so angry when his feet were about to turn to blocks of ice. 

Crowley stared across the water to the opposite shore—land that belonged to Heaven as he soon would. Having spent too much of this journey wondering what his life would look like the next day, Crowley tried his hardest not to think at all. He tried to enjoy the freedom of this moment; the last time he would belong to himself. 

“Are you going to throw yourself into the river, boy?”

Crowley leapt to his feet and whirled, hand going to the dirk at his waist. The sight of the person intruding on his solitude did nothing to soothe his nerves, though he did straighten up out of his ready stance. “Uncle,” he greeted with a grudging, respectful nod. 

“By all means.” His uncle Hastur gestured at the wide river. “Don’t let me stop you.” His smile was a sneer. 

Crowley’s cheek twitched with annoyance. “Being an omega doesn’t make me a coward. And you sound ridiculous calling me boy.” The youngest of his grandparents’ children, Hastur was only two years older than him. But he’d never been one to let Crowley forget those two years. 

Hastur narrowed his eyes, taking a step toward him. “Watch your tone, boy.” When Crowley didn’t challenge him, he grunted and looked to the dark water. “I would, if I was you. Fill my pockets with stones and walk right into the water. Better yet, carve out my own heart. Anything’s better than having filthy Angel hands on you.”

Crowley said nothing. Hastur’s nearness never sat well with him on the best of days, and the fact they were alone was making him all the more nervous. 

“But then, it’s just another day to a filthy omega whore, isn’t it?” Hastur hissed. 

Crowley’s hand tightened around his dirk. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, but he knew from his uncle’s chuckle that he could smell his fear even in the cold, clean air. It took a moment and a few breaths before he trusted his voice. “So sorry to disappoint you,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm. “I would never impugn my family’s honor.”

Hastur’s laugh was harsh and cruel. “What would you know of honor? You’re a stain on this family.”

It was an old argument. Hastur, like many of Crowley’s siblings, treated him as though it was his choice to be an omega. As though he’d betrayed their bloodline of his own volition. 

Before he could roll his eyes at the absurdity of it all, Hastur grabbed him by the wrist hard enough that Crowley yelped. His uncle pulled him around so they were face to face, and he leaned in so Crowley could smell the overpowering stench of him. Hastur’s scent had always been just … dark. 

But he was a familial alpha. Crowley’s body wouldn’t have allowed him to fight even if he’d wanted to. Not when Hastur looked at him like that. 

“I should drag you in myself,” Hastur said, the words a growl. “Hold you under the water. As though the shame you bring to our proud name wasn’t bad enough. I don’t know what Lucifer was thinking by allowing this.”

It took every ounce of Crowley’s courage to stay calm, to breathe. Maybe his body would never have allowed him to fight a familial alpha, but he could speak. “It’s done, Uncle. If you have a problem with it, better to take it up with my father than me.” He waited, watching his uncle’s glower deepen. He forced a laugh, as weak as it sounded. “That’s what I thought. You think you’re better than me, but you’ll let this happen without so much as a word of protest. You’ll let my father mark you as an ally to the Angels, and you’ll smile for them as he does.”

Hastur’s features curled in fury as he twisted Crowley’s wrist. Crowley couldn’t help but cry out, his shoulders hunching under the pain. “You little—” Hastur began, free hand raised in a fist.

“Will you deliver the Angel’s property to them damaged?” Crowley challenged, hand up to ward off the hit. “Your funeral.”

With a growl, Hastur shoved Crowley away from him hard enough that he fell to the ground. He gave him a swift kick to his arse, more to degrade him than hurt him. It wouldn’t leave a mark. “See how far that mouth of yours gets you in Eden. Tell you what. I’ll make sure your Angel Prince knows a husband like you needs a good, long beating to remember his place.”

Crowley stayed still on the ground until he was sure Hastur had gone. Only then did he close his eyes, letting fear and rage roll over him. 

The black of true night had fallen before Crowley had enough control of himself to return to the inn and his rooms.

~.0.~

In the morning, Crowley’s father sent his own servants to attend to him. Nevermind that he was coming to Eden with ten servants who were just his and Mrs. Sandwich to boot. No, his father wouldn’t have trusted Crowley’s people with this particular task.

So, he was bathed in sweet-smelling waters, scrubbed within an inch of his life until his skin was pink and soft. They clucked over the dark bruise around his wrist, rolled their eyes at Crowley’s obvious lie to excuse it, and did what they could to reduce its vivid shade. 

The waves of his dark hair were brushed straight, braided, and twisted into a bun, which was then adorned with blood red rubies. A black dye tattoo of his family’s signature serpent was painted just below his ear. 

He wore a simple but severe black pantsuit in the finest silk. Over that, he wore a fitted black robe, the hanging panels of it trimmed in silver. The panels fell in layers, tight around the chest and waist but billowing slightly out from his body from there. The fabric might have been soft and flowy but for the embroidery that made it stiff and heavy. The look was finished with new black ankle boots—silver snake heads for buckles—and finally, a slim, silver diadem in the shape of a serpent. 

He hadn’t been dressed in the full regalia of a prince of Hell in years and never like this. He flinched when they dabbed his neck and the creases of his arms with a scent enhancer. Since his first heat, he’d done his level best to mask his natural scent. But today, he would be presented to the king for evaluation as his brother’s husband-to-be. Of course, he would want every assurance Crowley was available, unmarked, and ready to be bred.

Mrs. Sandwich was allowed back in then, much to Crowley’s relief. She hurried the last of the others out and came to stand in front of Crowley with her hands on her hips and a disapproving expression on her face. “All right. All right. Let me look at you, lad.”

There were a few beats of silence as she looked him up and down, her lips pursed. When her eyes met his, they both burst out laughing. 

“Pretentious prick?” Crowley said. 

She smiled with an air of innocence. “You look like a prince.” She reached out to smooth her hands down the fine fabric of his fitted robe. “It’s a bit stuffy, but you’re so very handsome.”

“What a relief,” Crowley said dryly. “Shall we head on down for a night at the pub?”

Her expression was sympathetic, and she took his hands in a loose hold. “How are you, dove?” She fixed him with a stern expression. “Truth now.”

Crowley opened his mouth to lie but when she tilted her head knowingly, he exhaled in a gust. “I … am grateful I’m not a child.” He ducked his head. “Can’t imagine what this would have been like if I was still a know-nothing goblin.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the heaviness that had come over his chest. “Suppose I should be glad I got what time I did to live.”

Though he kept his tone light, Mrs. Sandwich clucked her tongue. She put a warm, gentle hand to his cheek. “Now you listen here, Anthony Crowley Ophidian. For all your insisting on being a grumpy bastard, you and I know quite well you’re an optimist. Don’t you lose that now. 

“Always been well beyond my understandin’ how we can all just decide the Angels are right bastards. Only ever met on a battlefield, haven’t you? Only known prisoners of war.” She huffed and patted his cheek. “There’s nothing saying your husband won’t be a decent sort.”

Crowley snorted. “Maybe if he were just an Angel, but a prince of Heaven? You’ve heard their blasted king speak.”

Mrs. Sandwich took a step closer, dropping her voice in case there were other ears about. “And you’ve heard your own king speak, Prince of Hell.”

”That doesn’t mean much, does it? I’m a right bastard.”

”But you’d be a good alpha if that was your lot in life.” She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. 

Crowley just grunted. They both knew he would have treated his spouse with kindness and respect. He wouldn’t deny it.

Mrs. Sandwich sighed. “Well. Tell you wot. He treats you right or I’ll find a way to make his life miserable. See if I don’t.”

At that, Crowley cracked a smile. “Oh, aye? Wotcho going to do? Garden snake in his sheets?”

”Well.” She straightened up, smoothing out her apron. “Might have some powder as makes his pants quite itchy. Who knows. Might accidentally knock it over when he’s meant to meet some dignitary or the like.” She shrugged. “Or I might slip some hemlock in his drink.”

Crowley choked on a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

”No. Of course not,” she said with far too much innocence. 

A scant few minutes later, Crowley was making his way down the line of Demons who had come to see them off. They were showing a bit more deference today, some of them expressing their displeasure that any prince of theirs should be given over to the Angels. 

“We should have slayed them all, my prince,” one lamented, clasping Crowley’s hand.

“There’s been enough death on both sides,” Crowley said, patting his shoulder. “We’ll all learn to be good neighbors, if not friends.”

Despite his own situation, much of him wanted to believe his own words. It wasn’t something he could fathom yet. The history of their two kingdoms went so deep. How could they possibly coexist without hating each other?

But he had to hope. If only for his own sake, he had to hope. 

Crowley was grateful when he was finally able to climb into his carriage. His relief lasted only a minute. The carriage shook again, and Crowley’s head snapped up to find Beelzebub climbing in. He groaned and slouched.

”To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked wryly to the ceiling. 

“It’s of utmost importance you be on your best behavior today,” Beelzebub said with no preamble. “Their king is an arrogant man to say the least, and if he doesn’t like you, he’s likely to throw out the treaty without a second thought.” They scoffed. “Course the bastard insisted on having the signing in Eden. Wouldn’t let me around that one, would he?”

”Wossa matter, Bee?” Crowley let a wicked grin play at his lips. “What a clever plot that would be, ay? I say the right thing, and the whole of the royal family of Hell gets cut down right there, blood spilled in the white halls of Eden.” He laughed. “Walked right into it like lambs to the slaughter.”

Their eyes narrowed, and they leaned across the space, hand on the dagger they carried. “That’s close to treason,” they hissed.

”Close, but not actually treason.” Crowley rested his head against the back of the carriage and closed his eyes as though he wasn’t concerned. “Don’t worry about me. I’m well aware of my place here. Besides, I’d end up just as dead, and where’s the sense in that? If I were going to snuff myself, I’d have done it already.”

Beelzebub made a disgruntled noise, but he could hear the shift of fabric as they doubtlessly sat back. “Wouldn’t put it past you. You always were a dramatic prick.”

”I know my place,” Crowley said again quietly. “And I’ll do my duty.”

Still, for the next five hours, Crowley was treated to a barrage of questions, checking that he really had been paying attention to his legion of nannies and tutors when he was young. He knew his manners. He knew the ins and outs of the hierarchy of Heaven. He knew what was expected of a biddable omega spouse. 

“I know it goes against your nature, but you must obey,” Beelzebub said sternly with just an edge of their alpha voice that made Crowley’s spine straighten automatically. They scoffed. “At least, until your vows are safely taken and the marriage … solidified.”

Crowley stared studiously out the window. He’d been doing his damndest not to think about the wedding night. 

“After that, your obedience is no one’s but your husband’s business,” Beelzebub said flippantly. 

“Heard it all before. Many beatings in my future.” Crowley waved a hand even though his stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. 

“Knowing you, any beatings you’re subject to are nothing less than what you rightly deserve.”

~.0.~

In the early afternoon, the gilded carriages carrying the royal family of Hell pulled up to the famed Pearly Gates. They were admitted and began the rambling climb to the palace. Crowley didn’t have to look out the window to know the streets were lined with gawking Angels. He was grudgingly grateful when Beelzebub didn’t move to open the curtains. 

Tomorrow, he would be on display for all the Angels of Eden. Today, at least, it would only be for the royal family of Heaven. 

“The King is an infuriating prig,” Beelzebub said. “You must mind your tongue.”

”I heard you the last forty-two times,” Crowley growled. “And trust, I have plenty of practice at it.”

They curled their lip. “Still think you’re a funny bastard, don’t you?” Shaking their head, they reached into their jacket. “Here. Put these on and keep them on.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow as he took the set of glasses Beelzebub proffered. They were an ornate sort. The silver of them matched the diadem he wore. The legs were serpents. The lenses, of course, were dark. 

It did make sense. While Angels and Demons looked, at a glance, to be of the same stock, Demons always carried some kind of marker of their long-ago divergence from the Angel line. The Angels called them blemishes, but they were just … differences. 

Crowley’s eyes would never let him pass as an Angel. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to unsettle their delicate sensibilities,” Crowley muttered as he put the glasses on.

In another ten minutes, the carriage stopped. “I warn you …” Beelzebub pointed a finger at Crowley one last time.

”As you say,” Crowley said, tone clipped. He stayed still as Beelzebub got out first. It would be them and their father to greet the King and Queen at the top of the steps. The common Angels would be able to see from the palace gates as their king invited the fallen into the palace of Heaven for the first time in two thousand years. Then, they would all be led to the throne room for a private audience with the royal family, including Crowley’s husband-to-be. Their entourage had been allowed twenty-four of their most skilled soldiers as an assurance against walking into their own execution, but everyone here understood it was merely a gesture. They were in the most highly guarded palace in the entirety of the world after all. If the angels were luring them into a trap, this was the end of them.

There was a scant minute after Beelzebub left the carriage and before the gloved hand of the footman reached for him that Crowley was alone. If ever Crowley had wished for a super power, it would be to freeze that minute in time. Couldn’t he remain there just a while longer? Until he was able to take a deep breath? Until he was able to accept that the only life he’d ever known was gone and what lay beyond was a future he couldn’t pretend to guess at?

His body had been traded in exchange for peace, for the safety of all his people from the far reach of Heaven. Surely, given enough time, he could find some solace in that.

But there wasn’t time. The footman’s hand appeared. Crowley breathed in and out and took it.

For now, his only duty was to keep his head high and regal as he fell into his given place. He walked in a procession of his family, at the end of his line of siblings and in front of his uncle. He could see his father walking beside the angel King—a tall man in a resplendent coat of white trimmed with gold. The angel Queen and Beelzebub walked behind them. 

In the throne room was a small crowd of people waiting on either side of the throne. The King and Queen ascended the steps together and turned to face the assemblage of the Royal Family of Hell. The king held his arms out, his smile wide and, to Crowley’s reckoning, false. 

“Welcome to Eden.” His smile turned smug. “Or should I say, welcome back?” He chuckled, and Crowley struggled not to feel offended. It wasn’t the words as much as the way he said them; as though he knew he was being exceedingly reasonable to chastened children who had recently misbehaved. 

Or perhaps that was just Crowley’s pride. He’d been raised believing Demons were superior to Angels. It was difficult to be the ones depending on the Angel King’s benevolence.

“I believe some introductions are in order,” King Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. He gestured to the lovely woman standing beside him, her copper hair, much like Crowley’s own, up in a severe bun. “This is my Queen, Azrael.” 

She bowed her head in acknowledgement of the party but kept her mouth in a straight, disapproving line.

“My siblings, Princesses Michael, Uriel, Saraqael, Princes Sandalphon, and Aziraphale,” King Gabriel intoned.

Crowley couldn’t help but turn his head to get his first glance at his betrothed. 

He was … beautiful. They all were of course. The royal Angels were known for their great beauty. But while he mirrored the arrogant pose of his brothers and sisters, there was something softer about his features. Something warmer. There was even something more playful in the way he wore his white-blond hair in gentle tufts.

But Crowley’s attention was again drawn as the Angel King finished his introductions. “You’ll meet the children and spouses at dinner of course.”

“Of course,” his father said. He stepped in front of his brood, glanced once at them over his shoulder, and then sank to one knee in deference and respect. As he, along with the rest of his family, mirrored King Lucifer’s pose, Crowley felt a great and rare respect for his father. It must have taken enormous strength to bow to his once-enemy like this. The man had, after all, commanded the armies that had taken his wife, Crowley’s mother.

But such was war. King Gabriel’s sister, Princess Saraqael was, even now, bound to a wheelchair, fallen in a different battle. There had been countless lives lost on each side. 

“I present my first born and chosen successor, Regent Beelzebub. Princess Dagon, Prince Ligur, Princess Shax, and my brother, Prince Hastur.” He paused a bear. “Lastly, my youngest, Prince Anthony.”

”Oh, Anthony.” King Gabriel’s voice boomed jovially. “My, ah … new brother. Hah. How strange is that?”

Crowley supposed it couldn’t be worse than his actual brothers, but, of course, didn’t say so. 

“Well, come here then,” Gabriel said. 

Crowley bristled. Beelzebub hadn’t actually missed the mark when they noted how much he disliked obedience. But, he’d also been telling the truth when he’d said he knew his place. He got to his feet and went to the king without comment. 

He was about to kneel again when the King caught him by the chin. They were about the same height, but King Gabriel still managed to make the gesture somehow superior. He tilted Crowley’s head up, and then, keeping a grip on his chin, to the side. Crowley had to clench his jaw to keep the indignance from his face. He kept his eyes on a spot on gold, velvet-lined throne behind them. 

But when the King took a step closer, so his body was almost pressed against his, Crowley’s back went ramrod straight. He sucked in a breath, his skin crawling when the King ducked his head, inhaling deeply right at Crowley’s neck. 

“Hmm,” King Gabriel hummed, the sound so close it vibrated against Crowley’s skin, sending a wave of revulsion through him. 

Most of Crowley had known the reason his hair had been styled in this updo was for precisely this. So the King would have unfettered access to the goods he’d purchased. But in experience, it lasted entirely too long for Crowley’s limited patience. He did not enjoy the nearness of this man, and each passing second was one he had to fight not to slap him away. 

When the King did raise his head, he still didn’t release Crowley’s chin but gave it a squeeze. It took Crowley a moment to realize he wanted him to open his mouth. 

Before his utter indignation could make Crowley say something he’d likely be made to regret, an outraged voice spoke up. 

“Don’t you think that’s quite enough, Ga … Your majesty? He’s not a horse after all.”

Crowley’s eyes darted over to find that none other than his betrothed was staring at the King with hard eyes, his hands clenched behind his back, if Crowley was judging the tense set of his shoulders right. 

The King looked to his brother and chuckled, still not releasing his grip. “Stand down, Aziraphale.” He looked back to Crowley, his expression contemplative as his eyes wandered up and down. The hint of a smirk teased his lips as though he could tell that Crowley was furious, and the thought amused him. “You of all people should appreciate that I'm just verifying we got what we were promised.”

”Your majesty is welcome to make whatever examination you wish,” Lucifer said, and Crowley didn’t miss the warning in his tone meant not for Gabriel but for him. “We have nothing to hide.”

”Of course, you don’t.” King Gabriel finally let go of Crowley’s chin and patted his cheek with infuriating condescension. “You’re, uh … lovely. A good match for my little brother.”

”Your majesty,” Crowley gritted out through clenched teeth, giving the appropriate bow. It was all he could do to get back into place with a measured step. 

He could hardly hear the rest of the proceedings over the roar between his ears. He seethed quietly, uselessly, staring down at his feet because he knew the next person who smirked at him was going to get a fist between the eyes. He knew he had to get a hold of himself. If any of the Angels decided to take issue with the fact they could smell his anger, this could all fall apart, and it would be his fault.

A soft touch to his shoulder made Crowley jump back. He looked up to find grey-blue eyes looking at him. It was Prince Aziraphale, his hand held out in a placating gesture.

“So sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s only that I wondered if you might allow me to escort you to dinner.”

Crowley looked around, realizing belatedly that everyone was shuffling toward a door. He must have missed the Angel king’s call to break bread. “Ah. Yeah. Yes.”

The prince smiled and offered his arm, which Crowley took hesitantly. The encounter had left him viciously out of sorts; his father’s offer that the King could perform any examination he wished ringing in his ears.

“I’m Aziraphale.” The prince flushed. “I know you know, but …”

“Crowley,” Crowley murmured. Then, remembering himself. “Anthony. Course. Sorry, m’lord. Your highness.”

“Do you prefer Crowley?” The man’s cheek twitched. “Your highness.”

Crowley blinked. Was the Angel … cheeky? “I … well. Yes, I do, I suppose …” He gave his head a hard shake. He knew better than to be muttering and mumbling, particularly in front of this man whom he was meant to impress. “No. Whatever you find most pleasing, your highness.”

“If Crowley is what you prefer, Crowley it shall be,” his would-be husband declared. “And I much prefer Aziraphale to your highness.”

Crowley nodded carefully, unable to get a good read on the man. He took a deep breath, and as he did, he caught a most soothing scent. Something homey. Warm and spicy; an earthy sweetness. Rising bread and cinnamon. Whatever it was, it had a centering effect on Crowley. He was able to think straight again. 

As they walked, Crowley looked, really looked, at his surroundings. “So this is Heaven.”

Aziraphale too glanced around. “Well, the palace anyhow. Bit stark for my tastes, truth be told.”

Stark. That was one word, Crowley supposed. But he knew better than to insult someone’s home. 

His new home.

His heart gave a small flutter, and he tilted his chin up. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on his fate; now was the time to observe and process.

He needed to be vigilant.

~.0.~

Some hours later, Crowley was finally shown to his rooms. It was a more impressive suite than he would have expected until he realized that he’d been given preferential treatment, considering how many people would be coming and going on the morrow.

That night though, Crowley all but stumbled inside. He fell face first onto the bed and didn’t so much as grunt when Mrs. Sandwich asked him a few questions. Let her believe he was drunk. He was done with words. 

Endless war was less exhausting than diplomacy. War, at least, was very straight forward. The game of peace was anything but. 

Crowley had sat around a table like that many times before. Always, he’d been just a family member; his presence required by decorum even if it wasn't desired by anyone in particular. He’d been able to sit back, quietly sipping wine while they dined with one of his siblings’ betrothed and their family. 

The role of the potential spouse was typically simple enough. He was to be polite, pretty, and demure. He was to agree with thanks when his husband-to-be suggested he have another bite—nevermind that Heaven’s food was ridiculously bland, and he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t there to talk of the dealings of the kingdom like his father and siblings. He was the pretty spouse-to-be, the future vessel of the combination of two proud lines. That was all he was meant to bring to the table.

But this was no ordinary union. Though they were all smiles and polite demeanors, there was an incredible amount of tension between the lines on both sides. This peace was no certain thing, and Crowley wasn’t fool enough to expect that he would be granted the respect an angel spouse would have been granted in this castle. 

Princess Uriel wouldn’t have stared at him with naked contempt, disgust when she saw Aziraphale touch his hand to get his attention. Prince Sandalphon wouldn’t have tossed a few thinly veiled entendres his way, his eyes never on Crowley’s face but on his body.

This time tomorrow, he would be married into this family. Soon after that, his own family would leave, and he would be the only Demon—servants aside—in the palace. He needed to be observant, vigilant, and one step ahead at all times. The whole situation could turn deadly in a heartbeat. 

So yes, Crowley had never been more exhausted in his life. He lay motionless on the bed, not moving even as Mrs. Sandwich harrumphed. She began to tend to him, taking off his shoes and removing the rubies from his hair one by one. Her fingers were quick and sure as she took his hair out of the tight coil and loosened the braid. He sighed when the pressure was gone, relaxing just the slightest bit. 

“There, dove. There,” Mrs. Sandwich cooed, combing her fingers through his hair. Normally, he’d have snapped at her not to coddle him, but not then. He found he needed a bit of coddling just then. 

But it was a dangerous thing. The gentle treatment and soft words brought emotion to the surface. For a dreadful moment, Crowley thought he might cry. Not for any specific reason, but because it was all so much. He just … felt. He shook and shivered, just trying to breathe deeply. 

“It’s all going to be all right, lovely,” Mrs. Sandwich said, which made it better and worse. He needed someone to tell him not to be afraid, but her words also confirmed the situation was dire. Mrs. Sandwich wasn’t the type to fuss over him like this. She was rough around the edges, and that was how he liked her. 

Before he could bring himself to growl at her to come off it, there was a commotion at the door. Crowley pushed himself up on his hands, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. For a painful moment, he was positive it was going to be the smug bastard of a king come to make further examinations. But it was not the King of Heaven who came through his door but the King of Hell.

Crowley was on his feet in the next second, at attention. “Father.”

King Lucifer Morningstar Ophidian was the namesake of his many-times grandfather; Lucifer who began the original exile, who started the original war. It began with a Lucifer, and so it would end with one, though anyone in the know would understand it was Beelzebub who’d arranged his peace. 

Lucifer didn’t speak to Mrs. Sandwich, but he made a dismissive gesture. She understood the order for what it was. She bowed, cast Crowley a sympathetic glance, and was gone. 

“Father,” Crowley greeted, turning his face away. He swiped at the corner of his eye to be sure no tears had spilled over. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No?” Lucifer stood, his arms crossed as he stared at his son with cold eyes. “It is the night before your wedding. You don’t think it’s a father’s duty to assure his son is prepared?”

Crowley scoffed. He couldn’t help it. “Surely, you can’t think, at three and thirty, that I’ve made it to my wedding night a virgin.”

Disgust curled his father’s features. “I don’t want to hear about how often you’ve let yourself be taken by whatever alpha whose head you could turn. Omegas are so filthy. Thirsty, needy little bitches, aren’t you? Weak-willed.”

Crowley flinched, stung in spite of himself. “Then what? What could you, the mightiest of alphas, say to prepare me for my life as an Angel’s bitch?”

Eyes narrowed, Lucifer strode across the room. Crowley’s fear spiked, and he struggled not to cower backward under the force of his father’s glare. He fully expected a mighty blow; it wouldn’t have been the first time. But his father only grabbed him by the front of his robe, giving him a harsh shake. “Talk to me like that again, and you’ll find out what’s coming to you.

An alpha’s fury could be a crippling thing. It was worse than with his uncle. He was bonded to his father. It went against his base instincts to displease him. “S-sorry, father. It’s just nerves.”

Lucifer growled but let him go, watching as Crowley caught himself on the side of the bed. “You’re lucky you’re expected to be pristine tomorrow, boy.”

Crowley said nothing but sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his midsection and eyes averted to the floor. 

“Perhaps I was wrong to think you need to be reminded what your duty is here. Maybe you’re more than happy to submit to an Angel.” The word was said with pure repulsion, as though the mere thought of being touched by an Angel was a defilement. 

Again, Crowley didn’t speak. He had no idea what he would have said regardless. There was no winning this particular argument. If he said he didn’t want to, he’d be told to obey. If he agreed he was happy to submit—he wasn’t—he would only earn his father’s disgust. 

“Whatever you feel about the matter, I don’t care. You’ll do what you’re meant to. It’s done. You belong to the Angels, and you’ll be whatever they want you to be.” He let that hang between them a beat. “Tell me you understand.”

“I’m not a child,” Crowley hissed in a low whisper. 

“Tell me you understand,” Lucifer demanded, standing over him. 

“I’ve not for a moment resisted,” Crowley said, forcing himself to look his father in his cold eyes. “Anything you’ve ever told me to do has been done. I’ve never had to be reminded that what I want doesn’t matter.”

Lucifer growled and paced several steps back and forth. “If I’d had the firepower I needed to finish this … to obliterate them …” He shook his head. “But I didn’t. Beelzebub is right. Our resources are too far gone. This war must end.”

He pointed at Crowley. “When we leave, you will be the face of all Demons to the Angels. What they think of you is what they will believe of us. I know you have no love for me, Anthony. I don’t need your love. Nor your respect, but you will do what’s right for your people.”

“I will,” Crowley said. He’d never intended not to. 

Lucifer strode away, but he paused in the doorway. “I swear to you, Anthony. If you make me bring our armies to rescue you, I will kill you myself. Am I understood?”

“Of course, Father.”

And then, Lucifer was gone, slamming the door behind him. 

Crowley slid off the bed, sitting on the floor with his head on his knees. For minutes, he couldn’t catch his breath. The desolation at the center of his chest, the crippling loneliness, yawned as wide and vast as the stars.

His father, his family, had never cared about him. He wasn't naïve enough to hope his husband could learn to care for him. Yes. He understood. 

His life would be whatever it would be whether he wanted it to or not.

Chapter Text

The week leading up to his marriage, Aziraphale had to confess he tried not to think about the future at all.

For the most part, demons were, to him, a concept. Intellectually, he knew they were human, and so they must have all the complexities any of the angels did. But he’d been raised to regard them as alien. They were devious and low. They were cruel. An evil to be thwarted and defeated at every turn.

But his would-be husband wasn’t a concept.

Something in him had changed when he saw the man be subjected to Gabriel’s degrading treatment. He was not a prisoner from the battlefield. Certainly, Gabriel had never treated any of their siblings’ intended that way.

Aziraphale didn’t know yet what to think of Crowley. Even with his eyes hidden by those dark glasses, there was a keen intellect written in his features, a sharpness in the tilt of his head when he paid attention and the furrow of his brow when he was in thought. He spoke little at dinner, but that was to be expected. 

It was all too real then. Regardless of what a demon was or wasn’t, they were to be married for the rest of their lives. It was an obvious thought but one Aziraphale hadn’t considered in the previous week. Still, with the man right in front of him, he couldn’t help but empathize. While he neither wanted nor expected to be saddled with a spouse of any kind, Crowley’s entire life had been uprooted. And he was no child. At three and thirty, he’d had to be set in his ways, his expectations. 

The least Aziraphale could do was consider what their lives together would look like.

But he’d scarcely returned to his own room before his brother was at his door. He made some crass joke about having to be sure that Aziraphale knew how to properly bed his husband. Once Aziraphale assured him that he was appropriately familiar with the act, Gabriel actually sat down in his anteroom for what passed as a serious chat.

“It’s a bizarre situation when it comes right down to it,” Gabriel had said, stroking his chin. “I mean, who ever expected … But we must be invested in this peace working. It’s not going to be easy.”

He’d fixed Aziraphale with a solemn expression. “Look. You and I both know you’re not the one I would have preferred for what you’re being asked to do here. This is all wrong place, wrong time, but it is what it is. It’s going to be you.

”We’re taking responsibility for this remingling of our kinds because you’re the alpha, Aziraphale. The fact King Lucifer could even produce an omega is proof enough that our kind is stronger. The true alphas.”

He leaned forward. “We’re all going to have to have more patience with this omega than I thought. Maybe if he’d been a beta, he might have been taught how to be a good husband as he was raised, but they wouldn’t have expected that they could marry him off. We got the short end of the stick there, but he’s still a prince, so it is what it is.

”You’re going to have to take a firm hand with him, Aziraphale. That’s not your nature, and you’ve gotten by before with your troops because you’ve had strong seconds, but you’re going to have to step up this time. We need this to work, which means we need him to be perfect. You will guide him, and when he needs it, you’ll correct him. That’s what an alpha does.”

Aziraphale balked. “You can’t mean—”

”What I mean is that you do what it takes.” He waved a hand. “It’s any alpha husband’s duty to guide their spouse, to correct any behaviors where the parents have faltered. They’re demons. We can expect King Lucifer has faltered quite a bit.”

He stood then, his chin tilted up. “If you find you can’t keep him in line, you send him to me. He wouldn’t be the first demon spawn I had to straighten out now, would he?”

The encounter had left Aziraphale all the more unsettled. He was, of course, aware of how some alphas guided their spouses. He couldn’t say he understood the practice from any angle. Firstly, Crowley had behaved acceptably that evening. Certainly, there were a few small details that he’d missed, but that was to be expected. Customs in Hell were different than those in Heaven. 

The way Gabriel spoke, one would have thought Crowley to be an unruly beast. He didn’t fit in perfectly in polite society, but neither did Aziraphale. He’d always been a bit out of step, yet no one had spoken of taking him in hand. Goodness, if someone had threatened to beat him every time he didn’t do what was expected of him, he’d live each day in abject terror.

But then, he had lived that way, hadn’t he? When he was a child and his mother was still alive. His mother had been wrathful to any of her children who hadn’t lived up to expectations. No wonder Gabriel was who he was.

Aziraphale had a good, hard think as he tried—and failed—to go to sleep that evening. 

The next day was a whirlwind. He would have liked to have time to sit down with Crowley, discuss some of the things he’d been thinking. But that would be against tradition for one thing. For another, there was simply too much going on. Between the ceremonial signing of the treaty and the wedding, the whole of the palace was in a bustle. 

Before Aziraphale knew it, Madam Tracy was shooing him away from his breakfast and into the bath. 

“Will you desist!” Aziraphale protested when Madam Tracy tried to pull his trousers down. 

“Oh, I should say not, highness. Far too much to do. You’re a mess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

”A mess?” Aziraphale just managed to keep from toppling over into the tub with all Madam Tracy’s pushing. “I’m not a mess.”

”For a man on his wedding day you are. Now, you best be good. We’ve got to make you presentable.”

Aziraphale grumbled, indignant, but he settled back and let Madam Tracy and the others set to work. 

True to her word, there did seem to be more to do today. He was cleaned, brushed, perfumed. His hair was trimmed, his nails filed, his chin clean-shaven. 

Full Princely regalia was many, many layers, all of them uncomfortable. He was decked in frills and lace, finished with a cloak of gold velvet and a crown of golden laurels. He hadn’t been in full regalia since Gabriel’s coronation nearly a decade before. From there, he was escorted to his place by Gabriel’s side with his brothers and sisters, there to witness and support the signing of the peace treaty.

Crowley was missing from the signing. ”See your fiancé before the wedding?” Michael said when Aziraphale made the observation. “It’s simply not done.”

And so, his betrothed was hidden away while Aziraphale was forced to stand at attention for a solid hour in heavy dress with the eyes of the court and the few members of the public who’d been allowed access watching. 

He could just maim whomever had invented high-heeled shoes. 

With the ceremony completed, Aziraphale was whisked away again. Bits and pieces of his outfit were taken away and others added. 

It was rather like being caught in a runaway carriage. The only blessing here was that he didn’t have to think. He was told exactly where to go and when. When he got to the front of the Abbey, he was positioned just so. 

And then, the inevitable. The carriage crashed. 

The next hour of his life proceeded in a surreal haze. He was aware that the Abbey was filled to the rafters with Angel dignitaries and a cluster of Demons. He was aware a trio of officiants, the heads of their respective sects, stood at the ready so that this marriage would be sanctified by all Gods, honored in both the kingdoms of Heaven and Hell. 

He felt outside his own body when the Demon prince was brought to him on his sibling’s arm, his father having taken a place to mirror Gabriel’s position, watching over the ceremony to give the approval of their respective sovereigns. His conscious mind seemed to ebb and flow, awareness coming to him only in pieces. He felt how cold Crowley’s hand was in his; felt the occasional tremor in his grasp.

As the officiants spoke, their words seemed to warp. It was all Aziraphale could do not to succumb to the waves of dizziness that washed over him. Was this really happening? 

Forever after, Aziraphale would never be able to remember what his husband wore the day they were married. He was told it created quite a stir—was it disrespectful that the Demons didn’t conform to the traditional dress of an Angel wedding? Still others would tell him that Crowley was breathtaking regardless. Beautiful and compelling. 

Aziraphale knew he must have taken his vows. He didn’t remember speaking. Didn’t hear his own words. He heard only the loud thud of his heart between his ears. 

What he did remember was the moment Crowley looked at him. Up to that point, his head had been tilted down, but when they were made to turn to each other, his chin came up. Even behind his glasses, Aziraphale could see the vague movement of his eyes. It had a focusing effect. 

For a moment, just a moment, there was only them. Neither of them wanted this. There was no way of telling if they’d even be able to stand each other. But just then, in that moment, they were the only two people in the world on this one common ground. Both their hands trembled, and in their shared fear, Aziraphale found some sense of calm in a world that didn’t otherwise make sense.

He smiled at the stranger, the Demon, with a sense of real tenderness. He heard the stutter in Crowley’s breath before he smiled, ever so tentatively, back. They both ducked their heads in unison as a cord was strung over both of them, joining them, a group of the two of them.

Whatever else, they weren’t enemies. So it was declared on paper, and so it was in the air between them. It was a start.

When they were declared, Aziraphale stepped close to his new husband, their hands clasped between them, and kissed him chastely, gently.

Again, the world blurred as they turned to face the crowd. There was a sea of hands reaching for them. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands tighten on his arm. He put a free hand over his, instinctively protective.

His husband. How strange. This man he’d known less than a day, who’d he’d exchanged perhaps a hundred words with was his. 

But the sea of hands and faces did succeed in separating them, if only briefly. They were reunited at the entrance to the dining hall. Aziraphale only had enough time to offer his arm before they were swept forward. His husband had gained a cloak from somewhere, Aziraphale noted. He had a vague memory of bared shoulders.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, but Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to talk to his husband much at the feast either. There was constantly some well-wisher or another plopping down across from them or beside them. Most were sincere—“May this be a blessing for us all—“ and others barely masking their contempt—“never been this close to a Demon that I didn’t gut.”

Aziraphale had begun to rise at that last, fully intending to tell that particular Angel he’d best mind his manners, but Gabriel’s hand on his shoulder shoved him back into his seat. His brother and king grinned wide at both of them. “And now we’re breaking bread together,” he said pointedly.

“Times change, I suppose,” the Angel said with a smile that was closer to a sneer. But he bowed. “Best wishes, your highnesses.”

For his part, except for giving thanks and offering clipped answers, Crowley was quiet. When there was finally a lull in the well-wishers, he did mutter something under his breath.

“Did … you say something about dancing?” Aziraphale asked, unsure he’d heard right.

“I’m just surprised there’s been none.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked. “That’s … not something we do.”

Crowley cocked his head. “What? Dance?” He paused. “At all?”

“No, not at all.” He studied Crowley’s expression. “Does that disappoint you? Do you like dancing?”

“Not particularly. It can be entertaining to watch,” he said in an absent tone. He clearly had much on his mind.

“I suppose I can see that.” Aziraphale cocked his head thoughtfully. “I recall seeing it once. We could see the Demon encampment from where we had the high ground. Through a looking glass, you see. It was …”

“Demonic?” Crowley suggested, a challenge to his tone and a hint of mischief to the curl in his lips. 

“I was going to say it looked like fun,” Aziraphale said with an arched eyebrow.

The other man studied him a beat and hid a small smile behind his glass of wine. 

And that might have been a point of a bit of welcome levity in the situation had Crowley not excused himself to visit the privy. Of course, the act in and of itself wasn’t a problem.  He was accompanied by his attendant, and Aziraphale wasn’t worried. 

Crowley’s absence triggered a deluge. Several members of the court approached, leaning in close and asking quite impertinent questions about what it was like to be married to a Demon. As though Aziraphale knew. 

Distracted, it was some time before Aziraphale realized Crowley had been gone too long. At first, he almost dismissed the thought. In all his life, he’d never thought twice about where another adult human being had gone. He was used to thinking about himself and no one else. 

It was the comment of one of the duchesses that focused his attention. 

“Being the spouse of an omega can be difficult in so many ways,” she said. 

Aziraphale blinked, trying to process what the woman could mean. What he knew of that duchess was that she was not only married to her omega wife but mated to her. They were a rarity among the noble families. Love and mating was for the lower classes, but there they were. 

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, head bent close to hers. 

“You know how alphas can be about omegas.” The duchess’s eyes narrowed, hard with anger. “All it takes is for an omega to smell good in the general vicinity of an alpha for them to believe they have a claim.” She rolled her shoulders, and Aziraphale could smell the edge of her fury. “There are places, times, I can hardly stand to let my wife out of my sight.” She breathed out slowly, some of the tension dissipating. “For your husband to be a Demon among Angels?” She gave him a sympathetic look. 

And it was then Aziraphale realized Crowley should have been back quite some time ago. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a polite nod. He hurried away, craning his neck to look around the room. 

Crowley was nowhere in sight. 

Aziraphale made his way across the room, dodging anyone who tried to stop him until he was out in the hallway. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted his husband at the end of a long hallway. He wasn’t alone. But rather than be with his attendant, he was with Aziraphale’s brother Sandalphon. At first, it seemed as though they were holding hands, and Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. But then he saw Sandalphon actually had a hold of Crowley’s hand. Crowely’s body language screamed of tension. The way his arm was held outward seemed to indicate that he was attempting to pull away 

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale called in a sharp, clear voice.

Sandalphon, who had been leaning toward Crowley, straightened up. Crowley was able to yank his arm back. His husband walked quickly in his direction but walked by him without a word. Aziraphale watched his back retreat back to the dining hall. Aziraphale blinked, but whirled on his brother coming down the opposite hallway. His brother strolled forward at a leisurely pace. 

“Just what was that about?” Aziraphale demanded, uncertain what he was really asking. 

“Not a thing, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said, flashing a smile with his shining gold tooth. “Welcoming my new brother-in-law to the family and all that.”

“Sandalphon, you’ll forgive me, but that didn’t look like a friendly conversation.”

His brother shrugged. “I don’t know what you expect, Aziraphale. Your husband is a Demon. They’re not prone to being nice, are they?”

Aziraphale frowned. He felt as though he should argue, but he didn’t know how he could. Instead, he turned and headed back into the dining hall. He was relieved to see Crowley back at their table. He had a wine glass to his lips and was drinking heartily. Aziraphale’s frown deepened. He was aware his husband hadn’t had a bite to eat all evening. 

Taking his seat beside Crowley, Aziraphale could almost feel the tension radiating off the other man. He seemed fine, at least physically. 

“What did you say to Sandalphon?” he asked quietly. 

If anything, Crowley’s back and shoulders only stiffened further. Aziraphale realized belatedly that the words could sound accusatory. He hadn’t meant it that way; he truly was trying to understand what the conversation had been about, but it was the wrong way to ask. 

“I didn’t insult your brother,” Crowley said, his voice hard even though his features remained neutral. He was aware there were eyes on him. 

“That’s not … Crowley, I was trying to ask what happened.”

“Because it had to be my fault.” 

“No. I …” He furrowed his brow. “Your fault that what? He said he was welcoming you to the family.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence passed between them before Crowley scoffed quietly. “Possibly his welcome was apt,” he said. 

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s as he said. He wanted to wish me well in our happy marriage.” There was definitely a sarcastic edge to his voice. He took a deep drink of wine after that proclamation. 

Aziraphale studied the side of his face for a long moment. “Crowley.” His tone was stern. “Please tell me what actually happened.”

“Leave it alone. Please.”

“Crowley, I’m your husband. You—”

“Are you going to command me?” Crowley asked, staring him straight in the eyes. 

Aziraphale was taken aback. “I … That’s not …” He grimaced, confused, worried, and a little annoyed.

Yes. Yes, his husband should answer him straight. He shouldn’t have to command. 

But that thought was a distraction from what was really going on here. Something had happened between Crowley and Sandalphon. Whatever it was had clearly had an effect on Crowley. He didn’t want Crowley to tell him what had happened out of some simple sense of control; he wanted to know if he needed to protect him. That was part of his vows. Crowley’s lot was to obey; Aziraphale’s was to protect. That was how it worked. 

But dragging the words out of Crowley felt unkind, to say the least. 

Before Aziraphale could solve the conundrum of what to do next, the sound of someone clearing their throat. They both turned, and Aziraphale found the King of Hell and a few others there waiting. He and Crowley stood in unison. Aziraphale gave a respectful nod. “Your Majesty.”

“Your royal highnesses,” King Lucifer said, nodding back. “My son’s escorts are ready for him.”

“Escorts?” Aziraphale cast a quick glance at Crowley to see he’d gone still, his face bone-white—a chilling contrast when framed by tendrils of his beautiful red hair.

Aziraphale jumped when he felt a hand to his back. He turned the other direction to see Gabriel had come to stand behind him, his smile wide. “Of course.” He tilted his head down at Aziraphale, his smile and tone condescending. “It’s your wedding night.”

Every nerve in Aziraphale’s body sent a pulse of anxiety through his blood. He clenched his jaw and locked his knees to keep it from becoming a full body shiver. “Of course. I didn’t realize how late it had become.”

This was customary. After dinner, after everyone had expressed their well-wishes, the spouse would be led away to be prepared. Aziraphale hadn’t thought twice about the event until that moment. 

In theory, there could be some beauty in the custom. For those who reached their wedding night as innocents, it was a chance for a loving family to offer advice and ease fears. But for one thing, loving wasn’t a term that came to mind in Aziraphale’s observations of Crowley’s family. 

And then there was the other part. The leers of the crowd. The heads bent together to whisper and snicker. It suddenly struck Aziraphale as degrading. What should any of them have to say about an act that was between spouses alone? The pageantry of it made his skin crawl. He watched with no small amount of appreciation as Crowley, surrounded by attendants and just behind the King, made his exit, head held regally high. 

Then, Aziraphale was made to sit through a speech from Gabriel. Again, it was customary. The patriarch always had something to say about the continuation of the family line, the boon of the new blood being added and the new bonds being formed. Given the circumstances, it could have been a very poignant speech indeed—and it bordered on such but for the ribald jokes he threw out at both Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s expense. 

Luckily, because it was the King who spoke, the speech Aziraphale would have customarily been expected to make was considered superfluous. He stood stiffly, accepting Gabriel’s hug. “Remember your duty,” Gabriel said in his ear—the command of the sovereign.

Aziraphale gave a curt nod and made for the door, ducking his head to cover the furious blush that heated his cheeks at the bawdy cheer that went through the crowd. 

Aziraphale shook off his own attendants. A warning glance stopped Michael from attempting to walk with him. If he had to hear another word from anyone who thought he didn’t understand what was about to happen, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his temper in check, let alone his nerves.

Within a few turns, the halls were silent and empty save for the occasional guard or servant. He came to the door to his room and paused, splaying his hand flat over the wood and closing his eyes.

Unlike many alphas, acts of sexual congress didn’t occupy much of his attention. He’d found his first ruts rather aggravating; the lack of control of his needs and desires disconcerting to distasteful to say the least. He took a weekly tincture so as not to have to deal with it.

He was no virgin. Through the course of his life, he’d had occasion to lie with someone, but the act had always been a natural extension. It happened when he connected with someone, found cause to appreciate something about them—usually after a particularly invigorating discussion or a mutual appreciation of some poetry or fiction. 

And always, always, his partner had been willing. Mutual desire and attraction. 

Not this. 

He didn’t want this. And the thought of the act with a man who didn’t, couldn’t, want him …

But this was his husband, and they both knew their duty.

Besides. they would talk a little first. Now that they were alone, Aziraphale could finally tell him what he’d been thinking about the night before. 

Resolved, Aziraphale pushed the door open. 

The room was lit only by the light of the fireplace in the anteroom, though he could see the low glow of candlelight coming from the bedroom just off the anteroom. 

His husband sat on the chaise, his back to Aziraphale. He wore a long robe now, though the fabric was clearly not meant for warmth or coverage. It was gauzy in places, so tantalizing that pieces of bare skin showed through. His hair was still styled from the wedding in a half bun, the remaining falling in a wavy curtain just past his shoulders. 

He didn’t turn as Aziraphale shut the door. 

Aziraphale’s heart beat a frantic tattoo. He breathed in through his nose—the room had a pleasant, floral scent to it, prepared for this night just as Crowley had been—and out again, trying to remind himself that he wasn’t going to his death, after all. 

He walked slowly across the room, his eyes watching as Crowley’s shoulders rose and fell sharply. Aziraphale sat in the chair opposite the chaise. He could feel his husband’s stare even though the glasses in the dark room obscured his eyes completely. 

How he wished the man would say something, speak first, but the last words he had said still hung heavy between them.

Are you going to command me?

Certainly, other alphas, other husbands, wouldn’t have hesitated to take the lead. It was not only his duty but his right to do with his husband as he wished. But that had always been the problem, the reason his siblings were constantly exasperated with him. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I thought we might chat, my …” He grimaced at his gaff. It was clear his husband was a bit spiky. He might not take well to the natural endearment that had almost slipped out. “I thought we might talk first.”

”As you’d like,” Crowley said, tone flat, body still stiff. There were so many layers in those three simple words.

”There’s no use in pretending this would be what either of us would choose,” Aziraphale said. “I struggle to imagine what it must be like for you to leave your home, to be driven into what was enemy territory only weeks ago. So I thought … Well. You should know what to expect. In general.” He pressed his lips together, feeling as though he were beginning to ramble.

His husband only stared back silently. It was unnerving. 

“I have no desire to be a bother to you unnecessarily. Obviously, especially while we’re in residence here in Eden, you’ll be required to be with me at certain times and events. I’m sure the other spouses may require or request your presence as well for their various projects, but what time you have to yourself will be yours. You’re free to do as you’ve always done. If you have … hobbies.”

”Hobbies,” Crowley repeated, the word coming out with a dubious tone.

”Interests. I do want you to be- if not happy- content.”

”Content.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, a bit stung. There was a hint of contempt in the way Crowley’s voice curled around the word. “Is it so unbelievable that you could find contentment here?”

For one, two beats, Crowley seemed to stare daggers at him. Then, he was a blur of movement. Aziraphale started, but Crowely only paced to the fireplace and a few steps back. He’d been so still, now his body seemed to vibrate, jerking one way and then the other as though he didn’t know what to do with it. 

“I don’t, I don’t …” He huffed out a breath. “I don’t want to talk about my hobbies. I don’t want …” He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Though, I know. What I want has nothing to do with it, does it?”

The bitter words twisted Aziraphale’s heart. “By all means. What do you want?”

”I want this over with,” Crowley said through clenched teeth. “I want this infernal day done. I know, all right., I know I’m meant to be quiet and … biddable, and you’ll do what you will with the likes of me. But whatever you’re going to do, then do it.”

Aziraphale watched his husband pace with furrowed eyebrows. “Perhaps, if you’ll sit—”

”I don’t want to sit,” Crowley snapped. He huffed and took a step backward, making a visible effort to calm. “I’m … I’m sorry. I don’t mean to try your patience. I do know what’s expected of me.”

”I’m not trying to make you this nervous,” Aziraphale said, his own nerves fraying a bit around the edges with the energy in the room.

“And I don’t know who you’re putting on this act for. I’m no dew-eyed brat. You and I both know damn well what’s about to happen here.”

“Pray tell. What are you expecting?”

Crowley scoffed, wrapping his arms around his elbows. “Going to play that high and mighty innocent game with me, are you? As though you don’t know what went on in every Angel camp every night. As though you didn’t have your pick of the lot of omega prisoners.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help his glare as a wave of revulsion passed through him. “How dare … If you think …” He closed his eyes, pushing down the fury to think  anyone would accuse him of such filth. “Of course, I do know what happened in some camps, but not in mine. It wasn’t something I tolerated with the troops in my command and certainly not for myself. And beyond that, you’re not a prisoner.”

“No. I’m your husband; your property, in effect.” Crowley shook his head, his eyes on the fire. “I can’t wait to see what the mighty Angel prince does with his omega Demon husband.”

Aziraphale tried to think around his indignation and his inclination to believe perhaps Gabriel had been right — a Demon couldn’t help but be aggravating and uncouth. 

The thing was, the cold scent of fear had begun to wind itself through even the pleasant floral perfumes that permeated the rooms. Aziraphale himself had seen Crowley get manhandled by his brothers. He had witnessed Crowley’s father offer up his body to Gabriel, whom he wasn’t promised to.

His husband was scared and desperately trying not to show it. He expected violence, and the wait to get to that point, believing it inevitable, must have been unbearable.

Aziraphale breathed deeply and spoke quietly. “Do you think all Angels are brutes?”

”I find it hard to believe you would treat me differently tonight when two weeks ago—“

“Two weeks ago I would not have touched you at all, let alone in anger.” Aziraphale winced. “Well … in the interest of truth, the exception of course would be on the battlefield. Had we met each other as enemies, things might have been different, but I did not. Now, our kingdoms are at peace, and you are my husband.”

”Yes.” Crowley stepped closer to the fire as though he were chilled and leaned a hand on the mantle. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Whatever you think I deserve for my insolence, I will accept. Whatever you wish me to do, I will obey. But have done with it. Please.”

Aziraphale’s throat threatened to close. He was angry and indignant, but also heartbroken at the thought someone could be so afraid of him. His husband no less. 

And what an incredibly brave creature this man was. That he would speak his mind when he was fully expecting his words would cost him dearly. 

Whatever Aziraphale demanded, Crowley wasn’t going to fight him, that much was clear. Were he to start barking orders, his husband would obey as he’d sworn to do. But as he stood still by the fire, it was also clear that he wasn’t going to participate. He would goad Aziraphale to action, but he would not take action himself. 

How could Aziraphale help but have a grudging respect for that? His husband was taking what little control he had in this situation. It was really a rather breathtaking act of bravery. Despite his bravado, the scent of Crowley’s fear was palpable. It filled the air in the room with the choking flavor of burnt wood and smoke. Aziraphale would have been well within his rights as a husband and as a prince to beat him for his fit of temper. He would never, but as Crowley pointed out, that was not something he could be certain of.

Aziraphale considered telling him to lie down on the bed so they could just have done with the whole messy business, but besides the fact that seemed unforgivably rude, he would never be able to perform any kind of act against someone who expected to be brutalized. 

As much as he didn’t want this responsibility, he was the head of this new-formed family of two. This marriage was an extension of the treaties that had been signed. The consummation of the marriage was a symbol of the peace both kingdoms had sworn to. It wasn’t something they could put off—custom demanded verification of the consummation. Tomorrow, Gabriel would be able to smell it on them if they hadn’t done as was commanded of them. Tonight had to be what it was meant to be. It was as simple as that.

Duty.

But he didn’t have to be a monster about it. He’d made a solemn vow to this man scant hours before to be concerned with his welfare and happiness. He had no intention of shirking his duty to his husband either, Demon or no.

”This is not what I would have wanted.”

”You already said that,” Crowley said, his voice quiet but still rough. “I know you wouldn’t care to bring a Demon to your bed.”

”No,” Aziraphale said firmly. “What I mean to say is … if this must be required of both of us, for the good of our kingdoms and families as it were …” He sighed. “I just wish, for both our sakes, there was time. To talk. This has all happened so quickly.” He paused. “If you did want to talk …”

”I don’t.”

Aziraphale nodded though Crowley wasn’t looking at him. Right. The waiting was its own torment, he supposed.

Aziraphale crossed the room with measured steps. In the light of the fire, he could follow the lines of Crowley’s body, the shape of him. He may have been known as the least desired of his family tree, but it certainly wasn’t down to his looks. He really was gorgeous. Sinewy limbs, that glorious hair. 

For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. This kind of intimacy seemed terrible when they were both only willing because it was expected of them. 

But it was expected.

Determined, Aziraphale took the last step, coming to stand behind his husband. He didn’t miss the way Crowley’s breath stuttered. When Aziraphale rested both his hands on Crowley’s hips, his touch featherlight, the man shuddered. 

“Whatever brought us together, you are my husband,” Aziraphale said, voice just above a whisper. “That means something to me. I will be good to you.”

A shiver visibly passed over Crowley’s body. Aziraphale could hear the too-quick cadence of his breaths. He dipped his head in a quick nod but didn’t speak.

Again, Aziraphale closed his eyes. He could make this better for both of them. He could put aside emotion and concentrate on physical sensation. One sense at a time, perhaps. Like a toe to test the water. He drew his hands up along his sides, around to the plains of his chest, fingers sliding over the silk of the thin robe. He didn’t grope or fondle but caressed, finding enjoyment in the tactile experience of his husband’s body at the same time he hoped to show Crowley his touch was nothing to be afraid of.

He pressed both of his palms against Crowley’s shoulder blades. He could feel the tension there and in the set of his shoulders. 

“You are beautiful,” he murmured.

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” Crowley bit out, but his tone was quite a bit thinner than it had been before. 

“No.” Encountering bare skin for the first time where Crowley’s robe dipped away from his neck, Aziraphale skimmed his fingertips under Crowley’s hair. “It’s a simple truth. You’re exquisite.” 

This close to his neck, the burnt-wood scent of Crowley’s fear was intense. But there was something softer there in the undercurrent. Something pure. Tilled soil and petrichor. Aziraphale drew his hands down Crowley’s arms, and the fresh, warm earth scent grew just perceptibly stronger. 

Crowley found his touch at least a little pleasing, Aziraphale thought. His fear was based on his distrust that Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt him. He didn’t find his touch, his nearness, entirely repulsive. And neither did Aziraphale find it difficult to touch his Demon husband.

A start for both of them. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes as he traced Crowley’s hairline along the shell of his ear. He eyed the half-bun, licking his lips as he pulled the pin that held it in place. A thrill went through him as Crowley’s wild, red curls tumbled just past his shoulders. Crowley’s shoulders stiffened as Aziraphale finally, finally tangled his fingers in the soft strands, but of course, he didn’t pull. He was exceedingly gentle, petting. Crowley let out a juddering sigh as the stiff set of his shoulders eased. 

And his scent.

He liked this. Aziraphale could smell it. And Aziraphale’s body was beginning to react to that scent. Something base and primal began to stir in his gut, a taut sensation of need coiling in his loins. 

He pushed Crowley’s hair off one shoulder. He skimmed his nose along the line of his neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent that surged as he stepped closer, so their bodies almost touched, and reached around him to pull at the sash that held his robe closed. Underneath the robe, his husband wore a lingerie corset. Aziraphale let his fingers skim lightly over the diaphanous fabric at Crowley’s belly, cock beginning to stir at the scent and feel of him. He drew his hands up, tracing a satiny strip that lined the side of the garment along Crowley’s ribs. The strip continued up and around his neck, Aziraphale traced it there, using a single finger to push at the robe until it fell off Crowley’s shoulders and puddled at his feet.

”My goodness,” Aziraphale said, husky and breathless. One hand at Crowley’s waist—bare now to the touch—he walked around the man to face him. “Simply stunning.”

Crowley scoffed, but the sound was quiet. “Am I?” 

But he moved before Aziraphale could answer. He reached up for his glasses, pulling them off and turning to look at Aziraphale for the first time. “And now?”

Aziraphale froze a beat, startled. Of course, when he’d met Crowley with his ornate glasses—ones that he never removed—he had understood the blemish that marked him as a Demon had to be in his eyes. Still, nothing would have prepared him for the sight. His pupils were elongated ovals. His irises even in the firelight were a vivid yellow.

”That’s what I thought,” Crowley said. He moved to put the glasses back on.

Aziraphale caught his wrist. “No.” He let go quickly. “I mean … if it makes you more comfortable, please keep them on. But not for my sake.” He reached up with a slow hand so as not to startle Crowley. Carefully, he cupped his cheek, stroking his thumb along his fine cheekbones. He stared into his eyes. “As I said. Stunning. Such a pretty yellow.”

”Come off it,” Crowley said, but his tone wasn’t harsh at all. 

Aziraphale just hummed. He knew he wasn’t going to convince his husband that he was rather a truthful sort most of the time. It was something he would have to learn, and that was fine. Rather than argue, he let his eyes feast even as his hand slid back up into Crowley’s hair, petting him in languid strokes. 

With his other hand, he stroked the backs of his knuckles down Crowley’s bared shoulders. The top was made of sheer fabric, showing off every delectable inch of his torso, held together at the neck with that single strip of silk. The silk was jet black and the sheer fabric blood red, Below that he wore only a pair of panties—again, red edged with black and the prettiest little bow right where his cock bulged.

There was no mistaking it. His body was responsive to Aziraphale’s touch. And Aziraphale was beginning to think his quick breaths were borne more of excitement than fear at this point. He ducked his head, nose to his neck and inhaled again. 

Yes. The acrid odor was very diluted now.

“Urgh. Do get on with it,” Crowley growled. He huffed. “If it pleases you, your highness,” he said with mocking submissiveness.

Still, there was something in his tone Aziraphale thought he understood. He had the same tangled emotion in him. On the one hand, wishing to get this distasteful, perfunctory business over, but at the same time …

How could he deny the eagerness he felt? 

And if the heady scent in the air and the way Crowley’s cock had begun to strain against the fabric of his panties was any indication, Aziraphale thought perhaps he wasn’t alone in the dichotomy of his feelings.

He obliged them both. Afterall, he thought he’d succeeded in the point of all the touching. He’d shown Crowley he could touch without harming, that he could be patient and slow. Now, Aziraphale swept his husband up into his arms. 

Crowley clearly hadn’t been expecting it. His hands flailed, and then settled in a tight grip around Aziraphale’s neck. He was taller, but Aziraphale was strong and sure. The wave of arousal that assailed Aziraphale as he carried his husband to the bed was like waving a steak in front of a hungry wolf. He wanted to throw his husband down, rip at that thin layer, and bury himself deep. 

Of course, he didn’t. He was well in control of himself. He lay his husband down on the bed and stepped back. 

Crowley’s eyes, hooded but challenging, never left him as Aziraphale removed his own garments. If Crowley liked what he saw, he didn’t say so, but Aziraphale would never have expected him to.

When he was nude, he climbed onto the bed and knelt at Crowley’s feet, looking down at him. He didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. That his husband was gorgeous, flushed, and pretty, he’d already said. They both knew what was supposed to happen now. 

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Aziraphale hooked two fingers on either side of the panties. He drew them down, watching in fascination as Crowley’s cock curved up, straining against his belly. He was aware of the expectant way Crowley watched him, and he thought he understood why.

Aziraphale had said this night was about duty. Their duty had nothing at all to do with Crowley’s cock. He thought Crowley might be waiting, expecting him to take what hadn’t been offered. 

Of course, he wouldn’t, but it also seemed like bad manners not to offer. He concentrated a moment more, pulling the panties free of his husband’s long legs and tossing them to the side. He climbed over him, kneeling between his now spread legs. 

“I could …” He put his hand to Crowley’s waist, near to but not touching his cock. “I could bring you pleasure. First. If you wish.”

Crowley sucked in a breath, averting his eyes to some place above Aziraphale’s shoulders. He flushed red, and the beguiling scent spread thick in the air.

But Aziraphale wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. “No.”

Nodding, Aziraphale got to business. He let his hand drift down to find his entrance and pressed his finger into blissful, slick heat. If he’d had any doubt before that Crowley’s body ached for his, it was gone. He was primed. Ready. 

The primal beast Crowley’s scent had aroused gave a low growl, but he was well in check. Aziraphale took hold of his own cock and pressed the head to his husband’s entrance. With the other hand, he pushed back Crowley’s leg, hitching it up around his waist. He pressed inside his welcoming heat. With one, two, three strokes, he leaned over him, catching himself on his forearm, holding himself mostly aloft. 

Crowley had turned his head to the side. His eyes were closed. His lips parted. Though his breath was heavy, he didn’t seem in distress. 

“Are you all right?” Azirphale asked, keeping himself still despite the incredible urge to bury himself deeper. Gods, the other man was tight. Their bodies fit together so well. 

“M’fine,” Crowley bit out. “Get on with it.”

Nothing left to be done, Aziraphale did as requested. The way Crowley’s body seemed made to accept his, this would likely not take long anyhow. He shifted his hips, rhythm slow but steady as he let his senses take over. He didn’t want to think too hard about what was happening here. He breathed in Crowley’s scent and let the physical sensation of pleasure build in him. 

He understood Crowley’s intent was to lie still and pliant, but as Aziraphale moved over him, his body began to respond. Aziraphale felt when his walls clenched around his cock, and he, in turn, moaned in response. He felt when Crowley’s hips bucked up to meet his thrust. He noticed when Crowley clenched his eyes tightly shut, his body tensing. He almost stopped, afraid he was hurting him, but the little, mewling groan that escaped him could only be pleasure. 

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s imagination. They were compatible. It felt incredible to be inside him this way. 

Crowley’s hips bucked again, and they both cried out. Some feral voice in Aziraphale’s mind cried out with the urge to knot his husband. To lean down and dig his teeth into the lush flesh at his neck. To claim him totally. 

He wouldn’t though. He wouldn’t. He told himself such as his hips pistoned forward. His pace quickened again so Crowley’s body was pressed hard into the bed. Crowley slammed his head back, fists clenched in the comforter and head tilted back. 

His exposed neck was too much for Aziraphale to resist. He dipped down, latching his mouth open there, breathing him in though he didn’t bite. He moaned long and loud against his neck, every sense drowning in this man. Release built. And crested. Crowley met each of his frantic thrusts, breaths ragged as Aziraphale released inside him. 

For moments afterward, Aziraphale didn’t move. He kept most of his weight held on wobbly arms as he hovered over Crowley, trying to breathe and think through the miasma of their mingled scents.

There would be no mistaking that their duty was done. 

With that thought, the cold seemed to permeate his damp skin. Aziraphale closed his eyes. He inhaled the deep, earthy-sweet smell of their union once more before he sat up on his knees. When he scooted back, Crowley rolled to the side, hands tucked beneath his cheek. Aziraphale could see he was trembling. He sniffed the air carefully but couldn’t detect the scent of fear at all now. 

Confusion perhaps. Aziraphale himself was feeling that. He hadn’t expected tonight to be pleasant, and it hadn’t been. But still, there was something here- if not pleasant, then pleasing. 

And goodness, the way they fit together.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. He got up off the bed and went to retrieve Crowley’s robe. He laid it beside him without a word and began to dress again. Crowley sat up slowly, stiffly. He pulled the robe to him and put it on, cinching it tightly closed. 

“The water on the basin should still be warm,” Aziraphale said, surprised his voice didn’t shake. “If you’d like to clean up. Then, you can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the chaise.”

”’S your bed,” his husband protested.

”It’s yours as well. Take it.” He paused a beat. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but went into the anteroom, determined to give his husband space. 

It wasn’t the most auspicious beginning but nor was it the worst. As he drifted to sleep, Aziraphale thought they may yet be able to find some common ground.

Chapter Text

Crowley was up before the sun. Feeling claustrophobic even in the large room, he went out onto the verandah. The wall was low and wide enough that he could climb up. Though the stone may as well have been a block of ice, he sat anyway. The air chilled him to the bone despite the thick, black robe he wore. Fine. Today, he preferred it. He tucked his legs up against his chest and rested his head on his knees, staring out to the sea in the distance. His skin was numb in seconds, and he was glad of it. 

He could still feel the ghost of Aziraphale’s fingers running gently over his body. His life had spun so wildly out of control in such a short period of time, to have his own skin react so unexpectedly was deeply unsettling. He’d mentally prepared himself for so many things, but not the pleasure Aziraphale’s touch had brought him. He’d expected anything but to be caressed, stroked into a place of heightened sensation.

But then, he hadn’t wanted to be touched at all. Neither of them had wanted what had happened last night but both were honor bound to act. He’d gone to his marriage bed as willingly as anyone could when they were wed to a complete stranger with thousands of years of bias against him. He understood his role in this piece of history. Aziraphale had to touch him in order to bed him; why was it so unsettling that his touch had been soft?

Because believing his husband was kind and gentle was a dangerous prospect, his mind supplied.

During the whole journey to Eden, Crowley’s siblings had warned him repeatedly that he couldn’t fight his duty. They were literally born enemies. His Angel husband would do what most anyone would have done when they had carte blanche to take a Demon’s body however he wished. There was nothing Crowley could do about it. There was no one who would come to his rescue. Even without his being a Demon, he was also an omega. The alpha spouse was the head of their family and had every right to take as they wanted. The only thing Crowley could be certain of was that Aziraphale wouldn’t dare kill him. His death would have been cause to break the treaty; an act of treason against the terms agreed upon. The same was true of Crowley refusing his husband.

So, yes, Crowley had prepared himself to endure any litany of atrocities. At the very least, he’d expected to be pushed down on hands and knees and taken from behind—rough and soulless fucking. 

He hadn’t been at all prepared for a tender touch and pretty words. He hadn’t expected to be titillated, his body convinced to actually enjoy the encounter.

Yet, it also seemed ridiculous to be so put out at the possibility his husband simply wouldn’t want to punish him for the crime of being born a Demon. Whether or not they believed this peace would last, they had to at least plan for the possibility they would be married the rest of their lives. Why wouldn’t Aziraphale want to be at least on cordial terms? 

A soft step somewhere behind him drew him back to the present. Crowley squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Of course, it would be his luck that his husband was a light sleeper. He would have to learn to be content with whatever small bit of time he got to himself. 

Breathing in the clean air through his nose, he straightened up. For another beat, he kept his eyes on the sea, but then he put his feet on the ground and turned. He sank down in a deep curtsey. “Good morning, your highness. How may I service you today?”

Right, even he knew he’d crossed a line there. And he was typically so good at self-preservation.

Aziraphale winced. Crowley saw his nostrils flare. He stood slowly, knowing he should apologize but watching to see what the Angel did. 

“Thank you for the offer, but there’s no service required at this time,” Aziraphale said, his tone clipped and his chin tilted up. “I did, however, wish to ask if we could break our fast together.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Crowley said. 

Again, Aziraphale winced, but he nodded. “What do you prefer?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Crowley said again, softer. He sat at the verandah’s table, hands in his lap, the picture of obedience. “And … coffee. Please.”

Aziraphale’s features softened, and he nodded. He moved back into the room, likely to tell his attendant. When he was gone, Crowley closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths. He knew he had to get himself together. 

When Aziraphale returned, he’d swept his hair, still loose, over one shoulder.  He noticed the way the Angel prince wiped his hands on his breeches and came to sit in the seat across from Crowley. He offered a small smile but looked down at his hands as they rested on the table. Crowley waited. Perhaps he didn’t have to antagonize his husband, but he wasn’t in the mood to help him either.

After several painfully awkward seconds, Aziraphale rolled his eyes skyward. “Well. Perhaps it’s best to begin with the, er … rhinoceros in the room.”

Crowley’s lip twitched. “The elephant.”

“Come again?”

“It’s the elephant in the room.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Surely, a rhinoceros would be more concerning. Got a horn and all.”

“’S more the immensity of the …” Crowley cleared his throat. “I take your meaning. The rhinoceros. Go on.”

“Last night …”

Crowley’s spine stiffened. His hands clenched in the fabric of his robe. 

“Last night was required of us,” Aziraphale said quietly, looking down at his hands as he worried his fingers. “Whatever you believe of me, I have never been with anyone who didn’t want to be in my bed. It’s not a thought I’ve ever entertained, nor would I ever enjoy.”

“Oh no?” Crowley clasped both his elbows again, self-conscious, anger simmering. “You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself well enough.”

Aziraphale’s eyes tightened, his mouth set in a hard line. “As I recall, you weren’t having a completely terrible time either.”

Crowley looked away. He shook his head so his hair fell forward again. He didn’t want to think about Aziraphale’s titillating touch and the way his traitorous body responded, his cock aching and his back arching up to meet his thrust. He took a breath of fresh air and shivered, trying to shake the memory of Aziraphale’s warm, sweet scent surrounding him, intoxicating and lovely.

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m not sure I understand why it all has to be so awful.”

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t awful that his husband had soothed him before bedding him; that his body hadn’t read what had happened as an assault. It hadn’t been an assault. He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to be calm about all this.

“Regardless, what I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t something I wanted to do, especially when I could … I know what you’re afraid of.” He took a steadying breath, as though the very thought of it disturbed him. “To that end, I’d like to, ah … assure you, I won’t … bother you unnecessarily. With all that. We shall have to … when you have a heat. You know. For the purpose of … Well.” He coughed into his hand. “But other than that …”

Crowley turned the words over in his mind, his jaw clenched. He didn’t believe them, for one thing. Alpha husbands bothered their spouses whether they liked it or not. That was the role of the more submissive spouse, beta or omega. Warm the bed, bear the children, keep biddable and look pretty. 

“Had a quiet relationship on the side, did you?” Crowley asked. “Something you want to get back to?”

It was, in its way, an honest question. There was no sense denying their lives had been interrupted unexpectedly. Aziraphale, Crowley could admit, was handsome and intriguing. Of course, there was someone else. Someone important. Someone he wanted but couldn’t have because of who he was. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your bus—” Aziraphale began. He closed his eyes briefly. “No. I suppose it is your business, isn’t it?” He pressed his palms flat on the table. “No. There’s no one else. There have been dalliances naturally.”

“Naturally.”

Aziraphale eyed him with a wary look. Trying to read him no doubt. “Is that why you’re so angry? What did you leave behind, Crowley?”

Crowley laughed, the sound bitter to his own ears. “Don’t worry. I won’t be thinking of anyone else when you’re … bothering me.”

Aziraphale’s fingernails dug into the table. His cheek twitched. When he looked up, there was a spark of true anger in his eyes and worse than that: a burst of scent. Not the rising bread and cinnamon that had so beguiled Crowley the night before, but something harsher. Something that made Crowley want to whimper. A cold tendril of fear curled in his belly. Aziraphale shifted in his seat, and Crowley flinched at the movement. He straightened out just as quickly, but he could see that Aziraphale had noticed. He saw the flare of his nostrils and cursed every alpha who had ever lived. Any alpha would have picked up that wave of fear.

“Are you trying to goad me?” Aziraphale asked, his voice quiet but spiking in places. “Are you trying to make me strike you?”

“Would be that easy, would it?”

“It will not happen, and I’ve had quite enough of your insinuation that it will.” He huffed and looked down at the table. “If there is someone else, tell me, and I will do my utmost to have them brought here. So long as you’re careful, discreet, and ensure any children are mine, you’re free to take what lovers you’d like.”

Crowley stared a beat, taken aback. “And you?”

“Why would you care what I do?” Aziraphale challenged. 

Before Crowley could think of an answer to that, a noise drew their attention.They both sat back, and Crowley sat up, hands on his lap again, staring out at the sea. He breathed, trying to reorder his thoughts as the servants set a number of plates down. He closed his eyes and let the air cool him, dissipating some of the tension in his chest. The scent of his husband’s anger at his insinuations had been palpable, but true to his word, he hadn’t acted on them; hadn’t so much as raised his voice.

A touch to his shoulder brought him back to where he was. He looked up and was hit with a wave of relief. 

There was Mrs. Sandwich. She was silent—it was such a risk for her to have touched him at all in this setting, demanding his attention in front of his Angel husband—but she offered him a smile. For a moment, just a heartbeat, he found he could take a deep breath. 

The night before, he’d been quietly dismayed to find it was Beelzebub’s attendants and not his own who had come to escort him to be prepared for his wedding night. So even in those final moments before his body was surrendered to his husband’s whims, there was no kind face wishing him well. 

Some small voice in his head—that sounded suspiciously like his father—snarled that he was being ridiculous. He hadn’t been hurt. Despite the fact Crowley had snapped at him many times now, Aziraphale hadn’t so much as raised a hand to him. So why did he feel so desperate for comfort?

People got married. He wasn’t special. More often than not, the people in his position—married off to complete strangers of unknown temperament—were children when it happened. Surely, he couldn’t possibly feel so sorry for himself. 

Mrs. Sandwich’s eyes scanned him with tight concern. Looking for signs he’d been abused, no doubt. Who knew what she thought she was going to do about it.

Smiling, he surreptitiously touched her knee over her voluminous skirts. He was, as of yet, unharmed.

“Thank you, Tracy, dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice more contented than Crowley had ever heard. He turned to find his husband watching with a look of great anticipation on his face as one of the attendants set a tray in front of him. A tea service, Crowley realized. He leaned in, breathing in the steam of the tea.

As the servants left, Crowley let his fingertips curl briefly around Mrs. Sandwich’s beneath the table-line, but his eyes were on the Angel prince. There was such satisfaction in his every movement as he went about preparing his tea, his mouth set in a serene smile and the vague scent of cinnamon marking his happiness in the moment. There was a sense of ritual about the movements. He’d started many a morning just so. 

Something like amusement curled up in the midst of Crowley’s jumble of irritation and confusion. He’d noticed too that his husband had thanked his attendant. That was a rarity, to be sure. The royals ignored the servants at best, snarled at them at worst. 

He remembered Aziraphale’s kindness, offering his arm when Crowley had been out of sorts in the throne room two days ago. There was a softness in this man Crowley wanted so much to believe. 

Restless energy made Crowley want to jump up. Instead, he turned his attention to the spread in front of them. There were more plates of food than the two of them could possibly eat. Several different breads and a hot bowl of grain. Fruit. A cup of coffee just for him. A small tray with a tiny pot of creamer. He sniffed at the coffee. It was quite a bit lighter than what he was used to. He put it to his lips and sipped. 

“Not to your liking then?” 

Crowley’s head snapped up to find his husband looking at him over his teacup. He must have grimaced when he tasted the coffee. He took another careful sip. “It’s just different,” he said, making an effort not to snark. The tiniest smirk twisted his lips. “In Hell, it’s somewhat darker.”

”Ah. I had heard something to that effect. Black as … Oh. Well.” Aziraphale’s cheeks turned pink, and he ducked his head. 

“Black as a Demon’s soul?” Crowley suggested, but his tone was light.

”I didn’t think before I spoke,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well. It was your turn.” Crowley tilted the cup, watching the dark liquid crawl up the sides. He let out a slow breath. "Your … family? They're all married to betas, yes?"

Aziraphale’s eyes were tight with suspicion, wary of where this was going, but he nodded slowly. “As with yours.”

”Yes.” Crowley set his coffee cup down and looked at his husband. “You should be cautious, you know, giving me free rein of what lovers I take. Bit complicated, no? If I were to find a mate?”

”Ah.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. 

Crowley watched the gears turn. Aziraphale tilted his head, his eyes unfocused. To his surprise, he felt a pang of sympathy for his husband. Royal alphas didn’t have to deal with this kind of thing. 

He’d always understood why his family viewed him with such shame. As though they would let him forget it. The royal bloodline was bred to turn up alpha after alpha. It made sense for a line of kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Alphas were, of course, strong. Dominant. Commanding. At worst, the royal bloodline produced a beta. Betas were their own people. Not swayed by their hormones, their base needs. 

Out among the commoners, an omega spouse was preferred. They were good nurturers. They were also naturally submissive; their very biology cried out for alpha’s to answer.

Royals weren’t meant to submit. They were the chosen bloodline; they couldn’t be made to serve the whims of someone else. And, as the royals married to secure alliances and lands, an unmated omega spouse was a liability. They could, as Crowley pointed out, form a mating bond with another, and wouldn’t that be a mess of hormones run amok? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for an omega to die when separated from their mate, and a mated alpha wasn’t going to react well to someone else’s scent on their mate, royal or otherwise.

Crowley picked up a piece of sliced bread, considering it rather than eating it. “You’re telling me it wasn’t an insult to you? To have an omega thrust on you.”  

To his surprise, Aziraphale chuckled. “If it was meant as an insult, it would certainly not be the first. I’m rather impervious to my siblings’ jibes by now.” The way his bright eyes dimmed marked that as a lie, but Crowley didn't say so. “Were that the case, however, I should think the … joke is on both sides.” His smile was tight. “There’s a reason why I am … was, as of yet, unmarried. I may be an alpha but I daresay not what my family nor my subjects would have expected.”

Crowley considered this. He’d noticed the way his siblings condescended to Aziraphale. It was hard not to, but he’d rather thought all Angels were simply arrogant bastards. He almost smiled. Perhaps it was a well-made match after all. 

“Tell me, do you ever eat your food or only play with it?” There was a light note to Aziraphale’s voice that let Crowley know he wasn’t criticizing.

Crowley considered the bread, whose crust he had been systematically pressing between fingertips. “How do you expect me to keep my figure?” He too kept his tone light, but there was a note of truth to the question. It was something some spouses were overly concerned about. He was better at playing the game when he knew all the rules. 

“I’ve had occasion to share three meals with you now and seen you eat at none of them.”

“Is that a problem?”

Aziraphale looked confused. “Well. Generally speaking, food is one of the things that keeps you alive.” He studied Crowley. “Unless you’re opting for a particularly slow method of suicide.”

“More of a drinker than an eater.” Crowley raised his coffee cup.

“You need more than that,” Aziraphale said, eyes wide. 

Crowley took a sip. “Haven’t died yet.”

Again, Aziraphale studied him, looking confused. Then he tutted. He picked up the bowl of hot grain and drizzled honey into it. “Food is something we need daily to survive, as I said. I’ve been lucky and privileged enough to be able to eat at least one meal every day for the entirety of my life.” He took a few berries from another plate and sprinkled them into the grain. “I find food to be one of the only consistent pleasures.”

Crowley scoffed. “A pleasure? This food?” He picked up the bread again, turning it over as if to look for the flavor. “Got no taste to it.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Well. Maybe that,” Crowley allowed, nodding at his bowl of grain, which did, in fact, smell sweet and fragrant. “Honey. Fruit. It’s a good start. But it’s like you’ve never heard of herbs. Sauces.”

“You’ve read the histories, haven’t you? It was early days when the Demons cut off access to as many pleasures as they could. They burned many fields, took the territories where many crops were.” His lip twitched. “Sugar cane is still scarce, though there’s enough for special occasions.” He looked down, stirring his grain. “If we’d had a little more time, our wedding would have had a grand cake.” He sighed, his expression far off. “I do like cake.”

Crowley hummed. He ladeled a small amount of the warm grain into a bowl for himself, added honey and berries as Aziraphale had done. He grimaced. It wasn’t the oatmeal and brown sugar of his youth, but it was, perhaps, similar. 

After an experimental taste, he found the breakfast acceptable. He noticed the small, pleased smile that played at his husband’s lips as they ate in a now companionable silence.

After some minutes of deep thought, Crowley cleared his throat. “This verandah is quite, ah … sparse.”

Azirphale looked around them. “I’d … never considered. But I suppose you’re right.”

Crowley stirred the dregs of his grain around. “If … You know, some of what we brought …” He scoffed. “Suppose it was my dowry, wasn’t it? Well, there was a carriage full of seedlings and the like. If it … you said I might pursue my, er … hobbies. I had a garden. A few herbs. Perhaps a chili and a tomato plant. Could do a lot with just that much.”

To his surprise, a wave of Aziraphale’s scent washed over him, sweet and clean. Clearly, Crowley had made him happy with his request. When he raised his head, he could see Aziraphale’s smile was wide and genuine. “That sounds just lovely. We’ll see to it straight away. Perhaps …” His smile fell. 

“Perhaps,” Crowley prompted. 

Aziraphale’s eyes darted to him, the look in them rather guilty. “I hadn’t had time to tell you. I’d like to apologize as I would not see you deprived if I could help it.” 

It was such a sweet thing to say Crowley’s first impulse was to smile. But nerves got the better of him. “Deprived of?” Cake he could deal with. There were many other things that would be most difficult. 

“I confess, I don’t know much of your culture,” Aziraphale said. “In ours, a royal couple would be excused of all duties and expected to embark on a honeymoon. That is … after. Well.” Aziraphale grimaced. “The, er … the consummation of the marriage must be verified.”

Crowley regretted the grains as his stomach threatened to revolt. He swallowed thickly but nodded. Yes, verification that the marriage had been consummated also happened in Hell. But there was no way of knowing how it went in Heaven. “You’re saying there will be no honeymoon?” he said quickly to distract himself.

“We’ll find out imminently, I’d imagine.” 

Chapter Text

“Now, it’s like I’ve always told you. You want to know the truth of someone, you know exactly where to go.”

Crowley hadn’t said much as the attendants helped him dress, put on his jewelry. Mrs. Sandwich had finally been able to shoo away the others. It only took her to do his hair. Then, in her usual Mrs. Sandwich way, she’d had much to say.

“I daresay you might have a good one, m’boy,” she said, her voice quiet so no one could overhear. “None of the servants have a bad thing to say about him. Quite solicitous to the likes of us.” She grimaced. “Or he has been to them, at least.”

That caught Crowley’s attention. He raised his head, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Them?”

Mrs. Sandwich made a prim face, one eyebrow arched. “Seems an Angel servant is better than a Demon servant. At least, to some of the other royals. Your prince hasn’t yet taken notice of me or the others, but that’s to be expected. Quite distracted, just like you. But, the point is, he’s not gone out of his way like some of his siblings.”

“Course. Sorry.”

“Ach. You know I can hold my own, love.” She tightened the last strand into place and caressed his cheek. “You’re the one sent into a pit of vipers, aren’t you?” She scoffed. “Oh, it’s got nothing to do with them being Angels, make no mistake. It’s that they’re royals. They all think the sun shines just for them. Like your siblings.” Her chuckle was dark. “Some of them are just rude and full of themselves. Some of them are right nasty pieces of work. Like that Sandalphon. He and your uncle would get along, I’ll tell you that much.”

Crowley shuddered. “Caught onto that.” He tilted his head this way and that, looking at his hair. She had arranged a braid in a crown around his head—like a flaming red halo. The rest of it was gathered in a loose bun at his nape, tendrils feathering out. He breathed steadily. He preferred to wear his hair mostly down. The memory of the Angel king’s nose at his neck made him shiver. 

He’d been part of so many ploys of war, risked his own neck any number of times in dangerous situations, but playing nice with these Angels—his new family, someone help him—was going to kill him. It hadn’t even been two full days, had it? 

Mrs. Sandwich squeezed his shoulders. She opened her mouth, but there were no words. Crowely smiled at her in the mirror, reaching back to touch his hand to hers. 

He wasn’t going to like today anymore than he liked the day before. 

He would survive.

~.0.~

Crowley found he actually felt the smallest bit better to be on his husband’s arm as they moved through the palace. Aziraphale patted his hand, and Crowley glanced at him. The Angel offered him a reassuring smile. “You look most stunning, you know.”

“So you said before.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked. “Not the same sentiment but no less true.”

Crowley pressed his lips together against the urge to smile. “It’s kind of you to say so.” He glanced down at his dress. It was a pantsuit, but it had a skirt that flared most of the way down his leg on one side. It was sleeveless, but he wore it with a shawl. “Will your brother think so though?”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt he’ll use the word stunning.” Aziraphale sighed, patting his hand again absently. “It’s not a style we’ve seen at court, that’s true, but that’s not a bad thing. I can’t say I pay over much attention, but styles come and go. It’s hardly untoward.” He shook his head. “You should feel free to be yourself.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered. If he was free to be himself, Sandalphon would have a broken nose, to say the least. 

Unlike the day they’d arrived, the throne room today was filled with the members of the inner court and honored guests—Crowley’s family included. Crowley didn’t look at any of them. He knew who he was supposed to be today, and he needed his concentration to play so many roles at once. He was the stand-in for all Demons—his conduct would be the stick by which they were all measured. He was the lynchpin standing between millions of soldiers on both sides returning to non-stop bloodshed. With one mistake, the war would be back on. And he was, now, an extension of his husband. His job in public was to be a boon, whether that meant simply looking pretty on his arm or comporting himself well at important events.

Crowley could only be glad that this was the last event where he was likely to be the center of attention. Perhaps if he was able to bring a child to bear, but even then, it would be the baby and not him.

But Crowley's stomach twisted at that. He didn’t want to think of such things. Not ever, but especially not now as he and Aziraphale got to the dais of the smirking king and his dour queen. They both sank down, Aziraphale in a bow and Crowley in a curtsy as was customary when greeting royalty as a couple. 

King Gabriel chuckled as he rose, clapping his hands together. “Well.” He gestured at them with both hands, a leer curling his lips. “You’re both alive. That’s a good start.” He tilted his head, looking them up and down. “Walking straight, too. The night must not have been too eventful.”

Crowley curled one finger surreptitiously inward, digging his middle fingernail hard into his palm to keep his sneer off his face. Aziraphale huffed. “Ga—. Everything is as ordained, your majesty.”

Gabriel hummed and took a step forward. He beckoned at Crowley. Crowley hesitated, but when the king’s eyebrow twitched, he stepped forward quickly, nodding his head in deference. He tried not to flinch as the Angel king reached out, but rather than touch him, Gabriel plucked at the shawl on his shoulders. Crowley’s fingers clenched reflexively, but he let go a second later, letting the king take the garment, revealing his bare shoulders. 

The crowd murmured, but Gabriel just hummed, his expression indifferent. His eyes swept up and down Crowley’s arms, and the Demon realized he was looking for marks; proof Aziraphale had held him down. He raised a hand, and Crowley clenched his jaw, his shoulders rising and falling sharply as the Angel king drew his fingers down his arm in a gesture so gentle, it was utterly awful. He looked … disappointed. But that wasn’t quite right. His minute expression was closer to concern. “Hmm.”

Gabriel cupped a hand around his elbow, pulling lightly. Crowley closed his eyes and took another step forward. So did the king. He ducked his head, inhaling deeply at Crowley’s neck. Crowley dug both middle fingers into his own flesh to keep his hands down by his side. He opened his eyes to find the Angel queen watching him with a cold expression. He wondered if Gabriel had left marks on her arms on their wedding night.

With another light chuckle, Gabriel raised his head. He kissed Crowley’s cheeks, first one, then the other, and took his face in his hands with a wide grin. Despite the fact Crowley knew it was tradition and a sign that the king knew the marriage was now legitimized, he had to struggle not to glare at the man. “Suppose an omega has its advantage,” the king said under his breath. Then, he dropped his hands, stepping back.

“Welcome, brother,” Gabriel said in a booming voice. 

Crowley stepped backward gratefully amidst the polite applause. He found Aziraphale was there, taking his arm in an instant. More than that, he was surprised to find some small measure of comfort in the gesture. He was trembling; he knew by the smirk on his face the king could smell it. It was another small mercy when Aziraphale draped the shawl back over his shoulders. Crowley gripped both ends in one hand, glad his eyes weren’t visible behind his glasses. It was hard enough to keep his head up in a regal posture. 

“There’s one more thing I’ll ask of you, Anthony, before we enjoy another supper together—our joined families.”

Crowley’s stomach churned with dread, but again, he nodded. “Whatever you wish, your majesty.”

The king made a gesture at someone standing off to the side. Crowley looked to find an older man with a neat, gray beard, looking at him imperiously.

“This is our Metatron. That’s what we call healers here,” Gabriel explained. “I’d like you to take a moment to talk with him.”

Crowley balked at the idea of going anywhere alone with any Angel except the one beside him. Aziraphale stepped forward, his grip on Crowley’s arm flexing. “I can assure you my husband has no need of a healer,” Aziraphale said, his voice harder than Crowley had ever heard it.

Gabriel’s smile turned false. “I didn’t say he needed a healer, brother. I said I wanted him to speak to the Metatron. Now.” His tone was clear. He was the king, and he would be obeyed.

The Metatron offered what might have passed as a sternly paternal look as he came forward. “Come along then, your highness.” He looked at Aziraphale and bowed. “If you’ll allow me to escort your lovely spouse?”

“I … of course.”

Crowley knew his husband had no more choice in this matter than he did. He let go of his Aziraphale’s arm and took the offered arm of the Metatron. Again, he did his best not to look at the curious eyes of the onlookers as he was escorted out of the hall. There, at least, he was joined by two of his attendants. Though, she couldn’t speak to him, it was some small measure of comfort to know Mrs. Sandwich was near, wordlessly supporting him. 

The Metatron patted his hand. “Now, now. It’s perfectly natural for children to be afraid of a trip to the healers, but you’re well grown, your highness. You’re hardly being marched to your death.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Though that does answer one question right off.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Crowley asked, annoyed at the constant condescension. Of course, the healer would have to be an alpha who could scent the emotions he worked diligently to mask. 

“There are some who believed a Demon couldn’t feel things like fear,” the Metatron said conversationally, as though Crowley shouldn’t find the very idea insulting to say the least. 

“Really,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “Sat quietly in the war camps, did we?”

“I should say not,” the Metatron said. “No. There was much caterwauling and wailing and gnashing of teeth. But that could just as easily be theatrics.”

They’d reached the healer’s study, and Crowley steeled himself as he walked ahead. The rooms were not unlike any other healer’s quarters. “Might I inquire now what it is I’m doing here?” Crowley asked, watching as Mrs. Sandwich and a young man accompanying the Metatron entered the room with them, leaving the others to wait outside.

The door to the room closed with such a loud clatter that Crowley jumped. The healer shot him an unimpressed look as he went to a counter, beginning to gather tools. “As I’m sure you know, there’s much debate as to whether Angels and Demons are species unto themselves at this point. Therefore, there’s much debate whether the union between yourself and Prince Aziraphale can be fruitful.” The Metatron turned around, hands clasped behind his back. “His majesty requested I, er, take a look and make sure all is present and correct.”

Crowley struggled not to grimace. He’d assumed it was something along those lines.

“It’s quite the honor, really. And an important matter of study. After all, how can I treat a Demon if I don’t know the quirks of your biology?” He chuckled again. “Now, remove all your clothing. Including those glasses,” the Metatron said as he turned back to his instruments.

“Wot? All of them?” Indignation and dread began to curdle in him, sick suspicion making his skin crawl. “You don’t need all my clothes to get the information you’ve been sent for.”

The Metatron turned around slowly, his eyes cold and cruel. “Let me make things rather clear, Demon.” He paused, cleared his throat, and amended. “Your highness. My orders today are from the king. You will obey your king. If you choose not to, I’m well within my rights to call the guards in here, and they will remove your clothing for you. Am I quite understood, my prince?” He sneered the last.

Crowley wanted badly to tell this man where he could stick his threats. Instead, staring the man right in the eye with steady defiance, he shrugged out of his clothing. 

“This is a part of our history now,” the Metatron said, his hands sliding down Crowley’s sides. “As … unlikely as it is to many of us. And it’s important that there’s a record of what differences there may be between our species.” He gripped Crowley’s chin, shining the light of a candle into his eyes. “These … birthmarks being the most obvious. Such a curious thing, the marks in general. But does it hinder or heighten your ability to see?”

“No,” Crowley gritted out, his body tensed tightly to keep himself from shoving the man away. 

The Metatron nodded. “I expected as much or there would be more of your kind of eyes. It’s more typical to find differences in the noses, hands and feet. Quite a few with strong heels like a horse. I had cause to examine a body with cloven feet some years ago.”

Crowley had to admit he expected the healer to try to take advantage of him. His exam, however, turned out to be as perfunctory as it was damnably thorough. It was humiliating on many levels. Crowley’s spikes of fear only annoyed the man, who tutted at him to settle down. He was doing his job, and that was all. He had a horrible bedside manner. He was rough, yanking Crowley about when he had cause to touch him. But he stuck to his work. He examined, and he notated—just one more man Crowley was obligated to spread his legs for. 

And one more Angel who thought Demons—even royal ones—were beneath him. 

“Well. Everything is as it should be,” the Angel said, finally stepping back. 

Crowley sat up, jaw clenched, watching the healer’s pen move over his scrolls. He reached for his clothes and his glasses, not waiting for Mrs. Sandwich’s help before he started pulling everything on. 

“You’ve been on suppressants?” the healer asked. 

Suppressing a great need to murder a litany of Angels. Crowley cleared his throat. “Not for the last ten days or so.” Not since his father directed him to stop, pending his coming nuptials. 

“But you’ve been on them since you were a teenager.”

“Eighteen, yes.” Since he’d presented as an omega. That first heat had been horrific. Nothing he ever wanted to experience again. He hated the lack of control of his body, his desire. 

“Hmm.” The Metatron closed his books and went to his various bottles and vials. “Using suppressants for that long has an impact on fertility. It could be close to half a year, perhaps more, before your heat cycles regulate, and that won’t do, now will it?”

Crowley closed his eyes. He let Mrs. Sandwich do her duty, straightening his hair, and concentrated on spreading his fingers wide on the table beneath him. He could guess what was coming.

“Drink this,” the healer commanded, holding a vial of a hideous-looking liquid out to him. 

Crowley took it. As the Metatron was watching him intently, he tried his best not to show his reluctance or disgust. He tilted the vial into his mouth, swallowing quickly. His heart sank as the awful-tasting stuff burned a path down his throat. 

He’d been counting on the respite. He hadn’t had time yet to wrap his mind around the idea of carrying an Angel spawn. Children weren’t something he’d ever thought of or wanted. 

“There now,” the Metatron took the vial back from him. “That should have you sorted in a fortnight.” He waved a hand. “I’ll see you back here at that time. We’ll be monitoring you very closely.”

Crowley let his most unnerving smile creep across his face. He nodded to the healer. “I very much look forward to it, m’lord.”

The Metatron eyed him up and down, scoffed, and turned back to his work. Crowley let Mrs. Sandwich’s hand on his arm guide him around, and then let her push him toward the door.

Crowley flexed his fingers at his sides sporadically as he walked, his pace too quick to be considered regal or even polite. He could hear the quick tip-tap of Mrs. Sandwich’s feet behind him, but though he felt bad, he didn’t slow down. As though he could outrun this emotion in him. 

His nerves were frayed. This atmosphere that was outwardly welcoming but always vaguely threatening was not where he thrived. He was good at surviving, but being surrounded by Angel alphas had him in an unnerved and anxious state. He needed to find his footing. 

He stopped just down the hallway from the throne room, his breaths coming too quickly to be ignored. He paused, letting all his pent up emotions have their moment. He allowed the tremor to pass over him.

In many ways, he’d lived with fear all his life. With an endless war on, and his family at the very center, his life had been on the line … well, always. He was clever. He’d always been able to dance around the carnage enough to have what passed as an all right life. But here and now …

He just needed people to stop touching him. Barring that, he needed permission to touch a few of them back with his closed fist. 

“You’re forgetting your protocol,” Mrs. Sandwich whispered in his ear under the guise of tucking a wayward hair back into place. “You should have let me fetch your husband to escort you.”

He was about to snarl that he wasn’t a child when he realized she was right. Not a child but an omega spouse. It was protocol for him to be escorted at all times while guests were in residence. 

His stomach gave another uncomfortable lurch, remembering the potion he’d just drunk. Soon enough, it would only be prudent for him to be escorted. Soon, his body would beckon regularly to any alpha in range of his scent. 

Knowing he couldn’t linger, Crowley forced himself to take the next step. Nowhere to go but on. 

By then, the rest of his attendants had caught up. Crowley nodded at Mrs. Sandwich, who stepped back to her place. They continued their now properly regal walk back to the throne room. The doors were open for him. 

As soon as he stepped through, his eyes found Aziraphale. His husband, at the very least, wasn’t going to leer or smirk at him. Crowley felt as though he knew that much about the man. 

Still, he wasn’t expecting the rush of relief he felt when their eyes met. Aziraphale too looked relieved. He nodded quickly at the person he’d been talking to and crossed the throne room at a quick gait. Crowley was surprised when the Angel reached out, spreading a hand at the small of his back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice soft as he spoke only to Crowley. “I didn’t know what they were going to do, or I’d have warned you. Barbarous. As though you’re something to be studied. And I see he didn’t escort you back. I will be having a word with Gabriel about his Metatron, make no mistake.”

A tightness in Crowley’s chest loosened one iota. But then the king was striding up, standing too close. Crowley stood up ramrod straight. He wanted to pull away. From the king; from his husband. He might have made some excuse, but he caught his father glaring at him from across the room and forced himself to remember etiquette and poise. He locked his shoulders so he wouldn’t shudder when the king patted his back and let his hand linger. 

“Well, now,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps we can adjourn. Time for some refreshments.”

Crowley pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Right, free rein now. He could see the curious glances from people around the throne room. The day before, their conversation had been limited to congratulations. Today, they were confined by no such convention. 

“Actually, your majesty, thank you, but I believe we’ve had rather enough for the time being,” Aziraphale said. “We shall take our refreshment in our quarters.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “Aziraphale—”

“You’ve said we shall be robbed of our honeymoon, and I haven’t argued. I understand our official duties begin tomorrow. I would like to have my husband to myself until then.”

Crowley’s stomach clenched. Gabriel smirked. He chuckled, taking a step away from Crowley. He reached out to squeeze Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Well, who am I to get in the way of that?” He downright chortled. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” He gestured at the door. “With my blessing.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale bowed slightly. “My dear.” He offered his arm to Crowley.

Numb, Crowley too bowed at the king and took his husband’s arm. Aziraphale’s stride was strong, too quick even for Crowley’s long legs. He wasn’t prepared. He didn’t think even someone as kind and patient as Aziraphale had been would take well to their brand new husband snarling at them two nights in a row. 

When they got back to their rooms, dread crawled down Crowley’s spine as the door closed behind them. Aziraphale crossed to the bar where he poured two glasses of wine. Crowley watched him, blinking and flexing his hands in fists at his sides. 

What he wanted was to make some quip about the solemn word of Angels. He’d tried to tell himself not to believe Aziraphale’s claim that he would only touch him when duty required, but now, he had to admit that he’d bought into the lie.

Well, he wasn’t going to whine. When his husband turned back to him, offering him the drink, he took the glass and set it down. “Look. If it’s all right by you, can we get on with it?”

Aziraphale’s brows knitted. “Come again?”

“I assume that’s the end goal, yes.”

Azirphale’s eyes popped wide and scandalized. “I … That’s quite …” He huffed and set his own glass down. “I see we’re at cross-purposes.” He took a step backward, giving Crowley space. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t think you wanted to be there anymore than I did, and it was the first thing I could think of.”

Crowley waited a beat. “You don’t want to—”

“No,” Aziraphale said quickly. 

“Oh.” Crowley, feeling suddenly shaky with relief and confusion, reached out to brace himself on the arm of the nearest chair. He shuffled a few steps and sank down to sit. 

Aziraphale made a gesture. Attendants peeled themselves off their places on the wall and went about their typical business. The fire was stoked—though it was early, it was also chilly. Refreshments appeared on the small table—cheese and fruit. Mrs. Sandwich appeared at Crowley’s side. She wordlessly worked Crowley’s hair loose from the tight braid, letting it flow down. 

“I’ve not had the chance to introduce myself,” Aziraphale said, stepping up beside Mrs. Sandwich. He made a face. “Well. I know you know who I am, but as you do take such excellent care of my husband, I would very much like to know you.”

“Oh, your highness.” Mrs. Sandwich simpered in a very un-Mrs. Sandwich way. She curtseyed prettily. “Well, I’m just me, aren’t I.”

“She goes by Mrs. Sandwich,” Crowley said, drinking deeply from his wine. “Good luck getting anything else out of her. I never have been able to.”

“Well. If she wants to be called Mrs. Sandwich, so I shall call her.” He smiled at the woman. “I think a hot bath might be appreciated.”

“Just the thing, your highness. Straight away.”

Crowley scoffed, but he was impressed. Aziraphale really had won over his typically unimpressed attendant. 

“I don’t mean to speak for you,” Aziraphale said. “But I thought—”

“The bath is for me?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale nodded at his attendant. “I would have asked Tracey if it was for me.”

Crowley exhaled in a gust. He’d been dying for a very hot bath since the night before. It had only been worse knowing he hadn’t been allowed to bathe before the king’s formal blessing. Something about that grated. “I appreciate your foresight,” he said quietly, meaning it. 

Aziraphale sighed. “My brother told me about the, ah … heats. I am sorry, Crowley. Truly, it was my intention …” He ducked his head. “I thought a few months … perhaps, we could get to know each other a little. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so … overwrought.”

Taking another slow drink of wine, Crowley debated his next words. He knew he was supposed to be agreeable, but perhaps, he had seen enough that he could believe his husband wouldn’t be insulted if he spoke his mind. “They never discussed their long term plans with you?”

Aziraphale looked up. “I would have argued this point quite vehemently if I had known.”

Crowley nodded slowly. He knew Aziraphale hadn’t had any more choice than he had in their betrothal, but he’d thought he at least had a space at the table. 

“Actually, today, they were more open with their hopes for the uniting of our kingdoms than they ever have been with me.” A dark look crossed his features. “As though last night gave me some measure of clout …”

He sighed, shaking his head. “They seem quite fixated on the subject of issue. Even now, they’re arranging marriages between the dukedoms and the viceroys of Hell.” He leaned forward. “Tell me. What do you know of the Viceroy of Hydra?”

“Eric?” Crowley’s lip twitched. “He’s said many times that he would punch an Angel in the face if given a chance. But he’s had many chances and no punches.” Seeing the dismay on Aziraphale’s face, he backpedaled quickly, belatedly understanding the context of the question. “No, I only mean that he tries to fit in with the likes of my siblings in word but in deed … I think he would make an honorable husband.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a look. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. Well, who am I to say who would make a good husband? Never thought about it, did I? But he’s ah … loyal. Never did have a stomach for violence; though, he wanted people to think otherwise.” He shrugged. “But my siblings engendered that kind of reaction. Then again, they are—or at least Beelzebub is—invested in peace. Eric will act accordingly.” He tilted his head. “I take it he’s one of the lucky ones, is he?”

“Quite lucky indeed from my perspective.” Aziraphale titled his chin up, pride strong in his voice. “Our cousin Muriel has been promised to him. They are the heir of the Duchy of Scrivener. And they’re … well, they’re an absolute poppet.”

Crowley’s lip twitched. He realized with a start that he was in real danger of liking his husband. He cleared his throat. “What were you saying about our, er, honeymoon?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale spread his fingers wide. “These are uncertain times. There is some unrest. Among the common people, I mean.”

“Course,” Crowley murmured. “You let Demons into Heaven.”

“Change is difficult for everyone,” Aziraphale said pointedly. “We’re royals. At times, our duty is to lead by example. But they need to see that we can be …” He cleared his throat. “One.”

Crowley gave a soft scoff though without any venom behind it. 

“So, we’re to remain … available.”

“To be paraded about the town like happy husbands at their whim,” Crowley surmised.

Aziraphale considered him sadly. “We don’t hate each other, do we?”

The sound of his voice struck Crowley in his heart. “No,” he said, surprised at the words. Though, why should he be? Crowley hadn’t made any of this easy on his husband. He’d been so prepared for anything from cold indifference to maniacal sadism that he hadn’t factored in the possibility of common decency. “I don’t hate you.”

The Angel brightened somewhat. “There. That's not a bad bit of business for one night.” He looked over Crowley’s shoulder and nodded. Crowley could guess that Mrs. Sandwich had reappeared. “I know we’re, more or less, confined to quarters this afternoon. But what time we have, you may have to yourself. Perhaps, you can decide what exactly you want from our soon-to-be veranda garden.”

Crowley rose slowly. “And what will you do?”

“Trust that I’m never bored. I might read or go over my correspondence.”

“Scintillating.”

Aziraphale smirked. “Quite.” He nodded in the direction Mrs. Sandwich was standing. “Do enjoy your bath.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale found himself slightly on edge as their small entourage made their way through Eden proper. When he’d had occasion to wander these streets in the past, he was typically distracted and lost in his own thoughts. Not today. Today, he was only too aware of each person out and about. It was uncommonly quiet: the usual hustle and bustle hushed. The tension in the air was palpable. As was the scent of fear in all flavors mixed with dots of anger.

It was to be expected. They made for an intimidating procession, what with the added row of well-armed warriors acting as security. They had to start somewhere, but it would be foolish not to acknowledge the level of mistrust for the Demons in their midst. There were a smattering of Angels who greeted the Demons with warmth. Most were wary. A few made their hostility clear.

But with all that, Aziraphale was most concerned with the company walking with his husband now. When they’d gathered in the throne room, Queen Azrael had drawn Crowley into her carriage and now walked with him beside her. It wasn’t, Aziraphale reminded himself, a bad thing. Indeed, Crowley would be part of Azrael’s court as the husband of the king’s brother. Aziraphale kept his eyes on Crowley, feeling rather like he’d thrown the man into a pit of vipers. 

Azrael and Carmine, Sandalphon’s wife, were bad enough. They were nearly as big bullies as their husbands. Possibly moreso. Michael’s husband Sable was plainly an arsehole; Michael herself being more of a stick in the mud than a bully, unless you got her properly upset. He assumed Crowley was more familiar with his sister Shax’s husband surely; but if the man were anything like his wife, he couldn’t be too pleasant. 

Then again, from his place between Sandalphon and Shax, Aziraphale thought he might just be worse off for the company. 

“What kind of a name is Furfur anyhow?” Sandalphon sneered.

“My husband is a Prince of Hell. His title is what’s most important, no matter what you think of his name, your highness,” Shax said with a hiss. 

“All I’m saying is that it hardly inspires fear. He must be complete shit on the battlefield.”

“Oh, he was a rubbish warrior.” Shax cackled, then glared at him. “But I’m the only one who gets to say so.”

Sandalphon huffed. “I suppose that’s fair.” He smiled with faux politeness.

They walked some feet before Shax elbowed Aziraphale in the side. Aziraphale gasped, caught off guard and knocked somewhat breathless. The woman continued as though she didn’t notice. “Brother.” She chuckled around the word. “You know, you don’t seem at all Crowley’s type.”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow but didn’t answer. What could he say to that?

“Do you know what’s funny? Both your spouses have red hair,” Shax said with a hint of gravitas. As though it were some great revelation. “Well. Perhaps you Archer brothers have similar tastes.”

“I’m not sure how that follows. Neither of us choose our spouses after all.” Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on Crowley’s hair. It hung loose today and shone in the sun. He did like his husband’s hair. 

Ahead of them, the queen shooed her court into a hat shop she was known to frequent. Sandalphon sighed, the sound belabored, and came to a stop. Almost instantly, a few townspeople carrying seats were allowed to approach and offer them. Aziraphale was pleased when an uncertain-looking young lady tiptoed up to Shax. He gave the woman as kind and approving a smile as he could. 

Sandalphon was distracted by a man who came by with a tray of sweets to offer from his shop. Aziraphale meanwhile noticed that Shax was looking somewhat longingly at the hat shop.

“What an excellent strategy, your highness,” Aziraphale said with enthusiasm. 

“Strategy?”

“To put the townspeople more at ease. Showing interest in the fashion of Eden, the fashion of Angels, would certainly endear you.”

“Strategy.” Shax nodded primly. “Yes. Of course. That’s what we’re here for.”

Aziraphale raised a hand, summoning a personal guard. “I believe the princess wishes to check in on the queen.”

“Filthy Demon,” Sandalphon grumbled under his breath as Shax walked away.

At a quick glance, Aziraphale was relieved to see they were alone. Or at least, no one else was within hearing distance for the time being. “I believe such sentiments are meant to be a thing of the past.”

“I can see you don’t like her anymore than I do.”

“Like is besides the point. She deserves your respect.” 

Sandalphon sneered at that. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, continuing, “She is my sister now. Decorum would have me defend her honor.” It was, at least, an argument Sandalphon would understand.

“Sister. Agh. Better you than me.” Sandalphon folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his seat.

Aziraphale studied his brother. “You really don’t think this peace is a good thing.”

“Trust a Demon?” He scoffed. “War made sense. Oh, but Carmine and I were good at it. And our side was winning. That was why they came to us. Given another century, we could have annihilated the vermin, and the world would be the better for it.” He looked at Aziraphale, his expression dubious and disgusted. “You can’t tell me you like being married to a Demon.”

“It’s been a few days. I haven’t had the time to like or dislike anything. Though it’s been far from the worst experience of my life.”

“Hah. You did run off rather quickly yesterday, didn’t you?” He leaned in even farther, dropping his voice. “They fight, don’t they? When you bed them. Bit of a thrill?”

Aziraphale’s stomach churned. “That’s vile.” All the blood drained from his face as realization hit. “Sandalphon, tell me you didn’t. In the camps.” He remembered with revulsion the fear in Crowley’s eyes as he snarled about what happened to the Demon prisoners in Angel camps. He wondered again what Sandalphon had said to Crowley on their wedding night.

“As though I would touch a Demon myself. But I heard the same gossip as you did.”

“It was never permitted in my camps,” Aziraphale said.

Sandalphon laughed. “You always were too sentimental about such things. It was war.”

“And this is not. This is peace, and Crowley is my husband. You will speak of him with respect for that reason if you can’t see Demons as human.” He tugged on his vest, straightening it, trying to dispel the awful feeling of revulsion rolling over his skin. “I had and continue to have no desire to fight my own husband. Nor any of the Demons for that matter.”

“You never did,” Sandalphon said with derision.

“And I don’t see why that’s a bad thing. Why is peace a bad thing?”

“It’s not, if it’s true.” Another scoff, and Sandalphon shook his head. “But mark my words, the Demons are incapable of real change. Peace would be a world without them.”

A commotion drew Aziraphale’s attention—a welcome relief to the awful tension in the air. He stood, suddenly very eager to see Crowley safe with his own eyes. The glares of the disapproving around them suddenly felt more malicious. The queen exited first. Aziraphale watched each person exit, the stone in the pit of his stomach growing when Crowley didn’t. 

He stepped up to Azrael, giving her a quick nod. “Your Majesty.” It was an effort, but he managed to put on a smile. “Is this how I discover my husband has a penchant for hats?”

The queen looked around her as though noticing for the first time Crowley wasn’t with them. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot.” She looked at Aziraphale. “It’s the opposite. He seemed quite disinterested. There’s a courtyard out back, and he went to take some air. I’ll send the guard after him.”

“No need.” He offered another nod and took his leave quickly. He went through the shop, relieved to see first a bored-looking soldier scanning the area, and then Mrs. Sandwich with an amused smile. He followed her gaze and found his husband. 

And what a sight he was. He sat on the lip of the fountain, his expression patient. A little girl of perhaps three stood off to the side, bouncing in place gleefully. A slightly larger girl sat behind Crowley, her fingers pulling bright flowers through Crowley’s hair, which was now in a tight braid that started at the top of his head, working its way down. 

What was left of the anxiety that had tightened his chest eased. Aziraphale smiled, leaning against the wall as he watched the scene. Yes, here was Sandalphon’s vicious Demon. And how lovely that the Angel children seemed altogether unbothered. No concern. No fear. Just unfettered delight at being able to play with his hair. Not that Aziraphale could blame them. Crowley’s hair was so soft. 

“You were beautiful before,” the girl declared. “But you are so beautiful now.”

“Oh. So beautiful. I always wanted to be so beautiful,” Crowley said. 

“D’you like dresses?” the little one asked, practically vibrating in place. “You’d look soooo pretty in a dress. Mebe … Ah … purple.”

“He’s quite gorgeous in blacks, silver, and especially red,” Aziraphale said, smiling when all three heads whipped toward him. “But I think he’d look so very pretty in yellow.”

“Yellow?” Crowley pulled a face, but Aziraphale could see he was teasing.

Aziraphale was close enough now to look him in the eyes despite the glasses he wore. “Yellow is very pretty.”

A small smile pulled at Crowley’s lips. 

“Hello, your highness,” the two little girls said in unison, each executing shaky curtseys. 

“Hello, children.”

“Do you know our friend?” the elder asked. 

“I should say so.” Aziraphale offered a hand, pleased when Crowley took it. He pulled Crowley to his feet. “This is my husband, Prince … Ah. Anthony.”

The girls’ eyes popped wide, looking at Crowley with shock, clearly not expecting to have been in the presence of a prince. “Oh!” The eldest put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, no. Father sent us out to the courtyard so as not to get in the way.”

“Well, that’s no concern,” Crowley said. “You’re both quite little. If you were actually in my way—and you’re not—I could just give you a toss in the fountain.” He made a gesture as though throwing something about toddler size into the water. 

Both the girls giggled. “Oh, would you?” the littlest asked. 

“I’m afraid not, poppet,” Aziraphale said. “Your father would be quite cross if we got you all wet, wouldn’t he?”

The girls nodded solemnly. 

Aziraphale reached into his purse and took out two coins. He gave one to each of the girls, who squealed with mirth, and then offered his arm to his husband.

A man who must have been the girls’ father came out as they were going in. He bowed. “Your highnesses,” he said, but his eyes darted suspiciously from Crowley to his children. But seeing them downright giddy, he seemed to relax.

Step by step, Aziraphale reminded himself. 

They took their leave then, making their way back out to the main road. “Oh, bother. They’ve gone on without us,” Aziraphale said, not bothered at all.

“What an absolute pity.”

If there was any doubt Crowley was getting as much enjoyment out of his company for the day as Aziraphale was, it was gone with his scathing tone. The entourage hadn’t gone far. They were within view up the street. 

Aziraphale patted his husband’s hand. “If you see something that distracts you, you will find me most tolerant.” He gave a put-upon sigh. “Spouses do have a tendency to like to shop after all.”

“Could do with a good drink,” Crowley muttered, mostly under his breath. He looked longingly at a tavern down a side street. 

“Hmm. We’ll have to venture out on our own soon enough. Perhaps when Gabriel deems it safe to go out without half the bloody army.” He gave Crowley a smile. “You’ll have to make do with some fruit perhaps.” He produced another coin, handing it to the stall-keeper. “These grapes look scrummy.”

With grapes in hand, he offered the fruit to Crowley. He watched with perhaps more fascination than he should as his husband pressed a grape past his lips. He cleared his throat, pulling them both forward. It wouldn’t do to fall too far behind after all.

~.0.~

That afternoon, thankfully, they had time to themselves. Aziraphale was pleased to see the verandah was laden with the things he’d requested—a few pots and a smallish planter. He called Crowley to him eagerly. 

His husband emerged from their room and paused. He turned in a slow half-circle. Aziraphale watched him, trying not to feel too eager. He had no real way of knowing if Crowley would appreciate any of this. The pots couldn’t be up to his standards given that they’d been gathered from here and there, meant to be a source of relaxation and distraction rather than anything more permanent. Perhaps, in practice, this glimpse of the life he’d left behind would bring too much sadness. Or perhaps he wouldn’t appreciate any part of this decision, this thing that belonged only to him, being taken from him. 

“I … Well, it’s just a few things. A start,” Aziraphale said, his nerves getting the better of him. “When we have time, you’ll still be able to buy what you’d like. Arrange it all however you’d like. It’s only I have my books, my trappings. I wanted—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together to make himself stop speaking. 

Crowley smiled. He took Aziraphale’s hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them softly. “Thank you.”

Oddly flustered and very pleased, Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Of course.”

With another grin, Crowley released his grip. “Should change out of all this,” he said, gesturing down at the finery he’d gone out in.

They retired behind their own screens. Madam Tracey seemed particularly pleased as she pulled his cloak off and hung it up. “You done good,” she said in a whisper. 

Aziraphale smiled and sincerely hoped so. 

By the time Aziraphale was dressed in more comfortable clothes, Crowley was already out on the verandah. He had his long hair up in a bun and was dragging one of the larger pots to the far corner. Aziraphale considered offering him assistance, or company, but reminded himself he’d wanted this for Crowley to have something of his own. He expected his husband had the task well in hand. 

So Aziraphale returned to his desk and his normal duties. He had a pile of correspondence that had gone ignored with all this hubbub of him getting married. Managing his province in absentia was always difficult. It was nice to consider going home. His own home. He’d collected so many books in his travels that he’d had sent back to his library. What an amazing thing that he might actually get to sit in his library and read them all some day. 

And the grounds. His husband could have a garden as far as the eye could see, if he so desired. 

When Aziraphale looked up again, the light in the room was low. It was getting to late afternoon. Aziraphale put away his quill, rubbing his aching, ink-stained hands together. He stood and stretched. There would be dinner to get to soon. He went to see how Crowley was coming along. 

With the verandah in sight, Aziraphale stumbled to a stop, caught by surprise. There was just enough sunlight left that it seemed to kiss his skin. He was bare chested, clothed only in a pair of linen britches. His hair was piled on top of his head, disheveled now. His hands dug in the dirt, a contented smile on his face. And he didn’t have his glasses on.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen his husband look so unencumbered. It was a good look on him; though, he supposed he had yet to see Crowley look bad. This though …

Really, Aziraphale knew he needed to stop looking at Crowley with these eyes. He’d promised to leave him alone until duty demanded he not. But then, it only meant he had eyes. It was, as he’d told Crowley himself, just a matter of truth that his husband was gorgeous, beautiful … and just now …

Well, There was something about the freckles that sprinkled his shoulders. The flex of muscle. Even the dirt that smudged his face. Rugged? He was too fine of feature to be considered rugged, and yet …

A bustle off to the right showed that the servants were in motion. A bath was being drawn. Clothing was being gathered. They had places to be sooner than later. Clearly, Crowley was lost in his own thoughts. He would appreciate the warning.

Decided, Aziraphale strode out onto the verandah. Outside, he found Crowley standing over the largest of the pots, hands on his hips … lecturing the two neat rows of sproutlings.

“Now, I want you to understand. This is not about what you want to be. This is about what I want you to be. What I demand you to be.” He nodded, all seriousness. “You will grow well.” He leaned in close to them. “You will grow. Best.”

Aziraphale wanted to be amused. There was just something about his tone. There was something about his words that made Aziraphale flinch. He gave his head a hard shake, the words of his mother, his father, his elder siblings overlapping in his head. The demand that he be better than he was. 

And though he could have supposed it was just Crowley feeling light and maybe a little silly, Aziraphale really didn’t think that was accurate. There was something in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that made Aziraphale think this might be something they had in common; that he’d heard those words too many times.

Aziraphale stepped forward without realizing he was moving. He came up behind his husband and stopped with a hand raised. Silly. He didn’t need comfort. The words probably came naturally as these things went. He’d just gotten stuck in his own head. 

Before he could step back, Crowley turned. Startled, Crowley stumbled forward, and then rocked back when he found himself so close to Aziraphale. Aziraphale reached out instinctively, putting a steadying hand around his husband’s elbow. He should have let him go immediately, it was only that the scent of him …

The earthy scent that was all Crowley was heightened. Of course, it would be. He smelled of turned earth, of fresh rain mingled with the scent of sweat. Of man. Aziraphale’s whole body tensed, a feral sensation rolling over him, like a growl vibrating through his whole body. His fingers flexed, and he stopped himself from pulling Crowley toward him. 

Crowley’s eyes dilated, his breath stuttered. Aziraphale knew he had to be able to smell the arousal on him. He sucked in a breath, waiting for the acrid scent of fear, waiting for the nerves to show in his eyes, the set of his shoulders. 

None of that happened. The scent that wafted over him made the growl worse. Louder. Aziraphale blinked, the memory of his husband moving beneath him, thrusting up against him, the scent of his arousal surrounding him only intensified. Aziraphale wanted to take him by the hips, pull him flush against him. He tilted his head closer, an urge to take Crowley’s lips calling to the point of need. 

But Crowley’s body was built to respond to his. Like their wedding night. The confusion afterward. Neither of them had expected to want each other like that. 

No. Aziraphale had promised. 

He closed his eyes and let his hands drop, stepping backward. “The …” He cleared his throat. “This is all looking, ah … lovely?”

“Th … thanks. Yeah. It’s. Thanks.” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck.

Aziraphale put a little more space between them. “Well. I came to tell you, er … It’s time to get, ah. Ready. Yes.”

“Right.” Crowley looked d, out at the skyline. “Oh, right.” He looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ll get cleaned up then, shall I?”

They stared at each other another long, heavy moment. Then, Aziraphale stood aside, breathing in the delicious scent as Crowley passed by him. He took another deep, clean breath, tilting his head up to catch the wind on his heated cheeks. 

Right. Possibly, it was going to be a long rest of his life.

Chapter Text

“Going somewhere, my dear?”

Crowley jumped and whirled. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see his husband in his favorite chair by the fire. Aziraphale was a light sleeper. He’d been asleep earlier that evening, but now, he was awake.

“Just thought I’d go for a bit of a wander,” Crowley said. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley almost smiled. The note of concern in his Angel husband’s voice was sincere. “Just restless.”

Aziraphale set his book down. “I’ll walk with you.”

Irritation spiked, making Crowley’s spine hunch. “Ah. No need. I wouldn’t make for good company just now.”

“Oh, I quite understand if you don’t wish to talk. A quiet nighttime walk is good for the soul. I won’t make a peep.”

The edge of irritation grew larger, heavier. “I’m quite capable of finding my way around the castle on my own.”

“Of course.” A troubled expression came over Aziraphale’s face, but he set his mouth in a stern line. “It’s only I can’t allow you to do that.”

Crowley tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Do you … Do you think I’m going to …” Crowley sputtered, the fury in him rising by the moment. “If you suspect—”

“No,” Aziraphale cut him off, his eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, no. No, Crowley. It’s not that I suspect you of anything. Of course not.” His brow furrowed. “Are customs so different in Hell? Do omega or beta spouses go about by themselves at night in mixed company as we have here?”

Crowley deflated, his shoulders slumping instantly as he realized his mistake. He hadn’t been thinking. This late at night, it was highly unlikely anyone but the guards would be about, but it wouldn’t do to be caught out without his husband. It was scandalous at best—an unescorted spouse could very well be up to no good. And at worst …

Well. His family had always had much to say about what they thought omegas wanted when they went about alone. It wasn’t at all rare for alphas to take what they wanted whether it had been offered or not. It was one of the many reasons Crowley had taken suppressants all his life. If any alpha was going to take his scent as an invitation, Crowley was not interested. 

But now that the choice had been taken away from him, there was much to consider. His own safety aside, it was an insult to his husband to think about flouting the rules of decorum. “I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t, but he needed to say it in case Aziraphale expected to hear it.

Aziraphale stepped closer to him. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m sure you moved about your own home with impunity all your life.”

Crowley scoffed. It was more or less true. Though when he’d been in Hades, the capital city of Hell, he’d been harassed more than once by his siblings and their friends. It wasn’t the same thing though. He could hold his own against his siblings. 

“Things will get better,” Aziraphale said. “When we’re able to return to Soho, you’ll be freer. We both will. And not in such cramped accommodations.” He chuckled. “We have a castle of our own, you know.”

That made Crowley smirk. Yet another facet of his new life that he’d never stopped to consider. Some day, he would have a home to run and his own entourage to follow him around like he was forced to do with the queen now. His own little minions. That might be a perk. Possibly. Truth be told, he couldn’t picture it. 

“You can tell me, talk to me. If something’s troubling you,” Aziraphale said. “If I can help, I want to.”

Crowley grunted, feeling a little bit more the shit. The Angel was doing his damndest to be good to him and here Crowley …

He sat on the edge of the chaise. “I’m not …” He searched for an excuse and decided on the truth instead. “I’ve grown used to being alone for long stretches of time. And it’s not that I find your company … Well. You’re ah …” His cheeks flushed hot, and he had to struggle not to rub the back of his neck. He scratched the underside of his chin with his thumb instead and rolled his shoulders. “You’re good company. I … We get on, don’t we?”

Aziraphale ducked his head, smiling. “Rather better than I expected. Yes.” He tilted his head, considering. “I could leave you alone for a bit if you’d like. Take a walk myself.”

“Right. Because you’re allowed to leave,” Crowley grumbled. 

“Crowley—”

“I know. And I’m sorry. Given me more space than most would, after all. I’m not trying to be ungrateful.” He resented the fact he had to be grateful—that was the problem. He’d never done anything to anyone, yet he’d always had to be grateful to someone. His family for not disowning him, as though he had any control over presenting omega. Now, his husband for treating him as a human being with thoughts and desires. 

It made little rational sense to Crowley the way some people treated their spouses. He should expect his husband to be good and kind to him; it wasn’t something he should have to be grateful for. But that wasn’t the reality. Not even among happily mated alpha and omega spouses was that always the case. So, yes, Crowley knew he had much to be thankful for. 

But no one had ever accused him of being suited for marriage, for being a submissive husband. 

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I’m going to sit out on the balcony.”

Even with all the blankets Mrs. Sandwich brought out to him, the air outside was biting cold on his cheeks. There, he told himself it was high time to grow up.

It had taken him many years to carve out the life of relative freedom he’d had in Hell. He’d had to be dutiful enough not to give his tempestuous father an excuse to exile him or close his iron fist around his life. He’d learned the rules of their society well enough to be able to bend them; he could do so again here. He could be charming when he wanted to be, and he was loyal regardless. It would just take time to learn the lay of the land. 

That his leash here was tighter than it ever had been in Hell was beside the point. Though, there, he thought, was where he struggled the most. He could almost believe that his husband wouldn’t push him in the bedroom beyond duty. Almost. He wasn’t sure he believed Aziraphale didn’t have a tipping point. Unlike his father, who had plenty of children to do his name proud if Crowley didn’t, Aziraphale only had one husband. 

Still, he thought he could believe that at least it wasn’t Aziraphale’s intention or desire to be cruel. And Crowley, for his part, didn’t have to push. He was nervous, downright anxious, about the limits of Aziraphale’s patience, and a big part of him just wanted to know where that line was. But he had to be cognizant too that his behavior reflected on his husband now. Crowley’s own freedom depended too on Aziraphale being able to move freely himself. 

There was a soft rap against the wall, and Crowley wasn’t surprised to see his husband there. He was a little surprised to see he looked guilty. 

“Forgive me. I know you wanted some space, and I’ll retreat post haste. It’s only that you looked so cold out here,” Aziraphale said, speaking quickly. 

Crowley’s lip twitched. If Aziraphale had wanted to, he could have dragged Crowley inside, and they both knew it. Yet here he was begging forgiveness for intruding in rooms that, for all intents and purposes, belonged to him. But Crowley didn’t have to point that out. Aziraphale knew it as well as he did. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said quietly. 

“No. It’s not that I’m worried.” He took a few steps forward, just enough to put him in reach of a little side table to the right of where Crowley sat. He set a glass on the table. “It’s a jigger of hard spirits,” he explained. “It should fortify you from the cold for a time.”

His gift given, he retreated quickly. Almost too quickly to receive Crowley’s startled, “Thank you.”

Crowley considered the drink a long time. 

Maybe it was just a matter of patience. They had their own lands, their own castle—”We have a castle,” Aziraphale had said. Their home. Perhaps it was nothing but the truth that Crowley would be as free as any titled, land-owning personage was; the mistress of his own domain. 

A parent, some voice in his head reminded. And that idea still made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

Yes, concessions to what he might have wanted in life were a given. He hadn’t wanted war, after all. It had just been what was familiar to him. Thus far, marriage had been more confusing than it was horrible. Perhaps … that whole bit would be more of the same. After all, Aziraphale had only ever referred to all that as duty—a strong indication that he wanted it about as much as Crowley did. 

Perhaps, if Crowley could let his guard down, he would find he really did have a partner in the business of marriage and all it entailed.

~.0.~

It was afternoon when they walked, side by side, to the ballroom once more. Crowley was in deep thought, perhaps too quiet. Their footfalls echoed down the halls. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s a bit foolish to ask right now, given that they’re due to leave in the morning … But I hope I wasn’t remiss in taking up most of your time. If you’d wanted to spend time with your family—”

Crowley couldn’t help his loud laugh. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and bent his head so he could speak quietly—the hallways were beginning to get a little more populated by that point. “Not to worry. I doubt my father has any parting words of wisdom for me. My siblings?” He chuckled again. “No. I never went out of my way to spend time with them of my own volition; might have resented it of yours.” He offered his husband the smallest of smiles. “Anyhow, it would feel unnatural, wouldn’t it? Sending someone into the hands of Demons.”

Aziraphale’s expression was careful. “Do you think I see Demons as … wicked? Less?”

“Don’t you?” Crowley waved a hand. “Not … I mean, individually … suppose you could get along with a Demon. Clearly, right?” His diction always crumbled when he thought he’d said the wrong thing. He took a deep breath, reminding himself of the need to be stately. “Seems to me it only makes sense for you not to think about spending time with Demons.”

“Except ones I might be married to?” Aziraphale’s smile was all innocence. 

“Yeah, those. Sneaky buggers.” Crowley offered the smallest smile back. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Thinking about the possibility of time with Demons—collectively, not personally—It’s not something I’m used to, no.” He offered his arm as they got to the door and, with it, an amiable smile. “But it will be the norm someday.”

He said the words with such conviction, as though it would never occur to him that this tentative peace might fail. There was something so charming about that, and it was what Crowley wanted, after all. 

Every war had to end; even this one. 

They were announced, and Crowley held his head up high, his shoulders back and posture straight. They made their entrance, bowed before both their kings—Crowley’s father seated today beside Aziraphale’s brother. Then, they made their way to the side. 

Luckily, lunch was first on the to-do list. Crowley and Aziraphale could mostly keep to themselves as the majority of the conversation was with vague plans of the future and what the departing Demons would do once home, how everyone was planning to spend the rest of their lives now that they were at peace. 

Crowley amused himself by telling Aziraphale exactly how much better their lunch would be in Hell, and how long it would take before their soon-to-be garden would be able to make it a reality in Heaven. 

Aziraphale chuckled and looked at him. He leaned in so he could speak close to Crowley’s ear. “You’re in a good mood. You really are looking forward to your family leaving, aren’t you?”

Crowley cocked his head, surprised to find he was in a good mood. But it wasn’t the prospect of being left here. All things considered, there was nothing he could say he liked about Heaven. Bad food. Their king was certainly more annoying than Hell’s, but … perhaps less moody. Their denizens were legions more pious, and many of them clearly hated him—but that wasn’t so much of a change.

Truth be told, Crowley had mixed feelings about watching his family pull away. It wasn’t why he was in a good mood. 

It couldn’t be denied. His good mood had everything to do with the company of the man beside him. 

“Hello, chattel.”

Crowley’s head snapped up as his sibling threw themselves down in the chair across from them. He looked around, realizing belatedly that the formal meal was over. People were milling, and he’d been too wrapped up in speaking to his husband to notice. 

Bringing his eyes back to his sibling, Crowley offered them a tight smile. “That’s not a nice word.”

“All the other words I have for you are worse.” 

The two siblings stared at each other for a hard beat. Then, finding something familiar in Beelzebub’s eyes, Crowley ducked his head and chuckled. Beelzebub smiled—a genuine smile. 

Beside him, Aziraphale exhaled in a gust. “Oh,” he said, and Crowley could see the defensiveness drain from his features. “Good afternoon, your highness,” he said with a polite nod.

Beelzebub nodded back. “Your highness.” They tilted their chin up. “Would you allow me a quick word with your husband?”

Aziraphale glanced quickly at Crowley, and only when he read acquiescence there did he stand up, dabbing at his chin delicately with his napkin. “As you please.” He met Crowley’s eyes again and nodded, the message clear. He’d be watching. Crowley understood if he needed a rescue, his husband would be back in a heartbeat. He watched Aziraphale retreat with that strangely good mood buoying him.

Beelzebub cleared their throat loudly, and Crowley turned his attention back to them. Their expression was still softer than he’d seen it in many years. 

Once upon a time, when he was still a child and none of this alpha and omega nonsense had kicked in yet, Beelzebub had something of a soft spot for him. Oh, they were two-faced about it. When their father was around, Beelzebub was hard on Crowley; they were hard on all their younger siblings. But, in private, occasionally, for a handful of minutes at a time, they almost liked each other. He was the youngest after all. He’d been Beelzebub’s charge for a time in the natural way of large families.

“Feeling a little nostalgic, are we?” Crowley asked.

Beelzebub scoffed. “Hardly. And sit up straight, heathen. You’re in public, and you know better.”

As it happened, Crowley was a bit sprawled by that point—slumped in his seat with one leg jutting out as far as it could go under the table. He hadn’t realized he’d gotten so comfortable. He straightened up, quirking an eyebrow at his sibling, who huffed. 

“Your … husband seems well pleased by you,” Beelzebub said. 

Crowley’s spine stiffened. Right. There it was. He’d almost forgotten to be on guard. “I’ve given him no cause for complaint.”

“That’s what I said.” Beelzebub leaned across the table. “And yet, it seems like he actually can keep his hands off you.”

Crowley’s head whipped back and forth, but he knew Beelzebub wouldn’t have been speaking about such things if they thought anyone could hear. But once he knew no one else was listening, annoyance and irritation crept in under his skin. 

Of course. His husband had been very patient about giving him space, but that also meant their mingled scent had long ago waned. His eyes darted around again, suddenly all too aware of just how many alphas were in the room, all of them knowing at least a little of what went on—or didn’t, for that matter—behind closed doors.

“Don’t know wotsit matter to you,” he said tightly. “The marriage is legitimized. Your deal is safe. At this point, whose business is it but Aziraphale’s what the shape of our family looks like?”

Beelzebub laughed, the sound rough and mocking. “Whose business?” Their smile fell into a hard expression. “Mine. And the king’s.” They nodded not at Lucifer but Gabriel. “Your duty to this family is more than just being a tolerable husband. You—”

“We both know our duty.” Crowley had to force himself to relax his shoulders. His body was rigid with tension. “It’s not …” He huffed out a breath. Perhaps to them, it was just more data. He was a piece on the board even now. But it was his life. His body. He hated giving his sibling any more control over it than they’d already taken. “I’m sure your new friend, the king, told you about his Metatron. It may be another week, and you’ll have what you want.”

Beelzebub studied him a beat and nodded. “All right. As long as it’s not you turning him away.”

Crowley reached for the carafe of wine and poured. He drank heavily. He had to make an effort not to grind his teeth. He tried to tell himself to let it go. As the orchestrator of this treaty, it was understandable Beelzebub would do their utmost to ensure every moving piece was working as it should be. As furious thoughts rang in his head, something wasn’t adding up.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” Crowley’s words came out biting, and he didn’t excuse himself. Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, but Crowley continued anyway. “I understand the general sense, but you want this to happen quickly.”

“You’re not stupid, brother,” Beelzebub hissed under their breath. “A child of both our lines has claim to both Demon and Angel. A child—”

“You’re right. I’m not stupid. I know the pat answer to that question, but that’s not all.”

They glared at each other, neither relenting, Beelzebub’s eyes warning him to back down. When he didn’t, they huffed, poking a hard finger at his chest. “Never you mind. These aren’t discussions you need to worry your pretty little head about.” When Crowley didn’t relent, they rolled their eyes. “The why is my job, brother. Your job is to be a prince of Hell in Eden. That’s all. And from what I’ve seen, your husband isn’t even inclined to beat you as often as you should be beaten. You’re far too contrary and questioning to make a good spouse.”

They sounded so exasperated rather than actually vitriolic that Crowley couldn’t help his smirk. It was true after all. He couldn’t say he’d taken this whole transition with anything approaching self-preservation. His glance lit on Sandalphon across the room, and he shuddered, knowing how bad it could have been if he’d been promised to another of the Angel princes or the princesses, for that matter. Uriel didn’t look like she had much in the way of patience.

“Do you beat Josh?” Crowley asked of his sibling’s husband, left home in Hell with the rest of the royal spouses and children. Their first wife, Lilith, had been a much better march for Beelzebub, but she had died giving birth to their second son. Beelzebub was married to Josh quickly after, but the man seemed to get on their nerves quickly. Crowley had  always wondered about how Beelzebub might treat their spouse behind closed doors. He knew some of his siblings viewed a good beating as their duty to keep their spouses in line, but Beelzebub hadn’t ever joined in on that kind of talk. 

Beelzebub scoffed. “No need. He’s long since understood his place. Though he talks far too much. He knows his place. You’d do well to keep him as an example.”

“Wouldn’t hold your breath. I’m never going to kiss your ass that much.”

His sibling scoffed and studied him for an uncomfortable handful of seconds. Their brow furrowed, and they cocked their head. “Anthony?”

“Hmm?” 

“Are you … actually happy here.” 

Crowley choked on the sip of wine he’d taken. He coughed and was surrounded the next instant by a few servants. They wiped up the mess he’d made of himself, cleared his glass, and replaced it with a new one, covering up the minor gaffe. 

When all that was done, Beelzebub was still watching him, their look incredulous. “What do you care either way?” he challenged. 

“Don’t, I suppose.” They finally looked away, sipping their own wine. “I woudln’t have thought it was possible, would I?” Their stare, their voice was far away. “To be happy. With an Angel.”

Crowley was more certain than ever he was missing something. He watched his sibling. “Do you—”

They growled. “You’re too damn nosy, do you know that?”

Crowley laughed. “Well. Bet you’re glad to be rid of me, then.”

“Doesn’t seem to be my lot in life just yet.” Now it was Crowley’s turn to cock his head and Beelzebub’s turn to smirk. “The King—both of them—think it’s best if I remain a while longer. Can’t say I don’t understand the reasoning. Imagine you being the only Demon presence here.” They huffed. “I’m to stay on while the other marriages are arranged, while the commoners who can be enticed to come make their fortune in the Angel cities get reasonably settled.” They closed their eyes and shook their head, turning to glare at him. “And anyhow, it’s none of your business.”

Crowley raised his hands. “Right. Do what I’m told. Make little halfing babies. Leave all the thinking to you.” He watched as his sibling got to their feet. “Understood.”

They paused a beat, grimacing, but then marched away with that purposeful gait of theirs. 

Crowley slumped the slightest bit, though not nearly as much as he wanted to. A well-brought-up prince didn’t slouch. Course. Why would polite society appreciate a good slouch? 

But, the way his head was tilted, his eyes—thankfully hidden behind his glasses—on the floor, he spotted a red gleam. He tilted his head farther, and then crouched a bit, looking under the table. Sure enough, there it was. His sibling’s signet ring. 

A spike of pure, unadulterated glee went through him, and he struggled to keep his grin in check. His sibling had lost the literal family jewels. Well, if they were sticking around, that might be fun to hold over them.

Crowley slipped out of his seat, onto his knees. He ducked quickly under the table, reaching for the ring that had rolled up against the thick leg of the table. As soon as he had it in hand, he curled it into a protective hold, fingers tucked in. 

As he began to pull himself out from his crouch under the table, a pair of very shiny shoes appeared in his field of vision. He straightened quickly, staring up and finding none other than Sandalphon, leering down at him.

“Well, well, well,” Sandalphon said. “Isn’t this a pretty picture? You omegas do like being on your knees, don’t you?” He stepped forward and leaned down slightly, dropping his tone so only Crowley would hear. “Just where a filthy Demon should be.”

Crowley’s face was disturbingly close to the Angel’s crotch in his position. Close enough that the stench of Sandalphon choked him, settling like a physical thing at the back of his throat. He smelled like durian. Warm durian. It smelled like the inside of a pig’s stall and onions. 

Arousal turned the scent cloying, overwhelming. Crowley’s body responded with revulsion and fear. Nausea, nerves, pure fury all roiled in him as he got to his feet. He held Sandalphon’s eyes, refusing to be intimidated, but he clenched his teeth. 

Sandalphon wasn’t going to touch him here in front of everyone, but if Crowley opened his mouth, he was going to say something polite society didn’t want to hear. He understood people like Sandalphon. If he made a scene, it would be giving him exactly what he wanted. Sandalphon wanted everyone to see Crowley as he saw him—as a thing, as a bug that was better subjugated or exterminated. He understood the arousal that curdled his already vile scent wasn’t because Sandalphon found Crowley attractive, but because he was the kind of arsehole who got off on someone else’s fear. 

So he stared. He reached up and took off his glasses and stared right in the Angel’s eyes. He watched the way Sandalphon’s lip curled in disgust. He stared and he let his eyes say all the things he couldn’t. 

“You’re an abomination,” the Angel hissed. And then he turned and strode away.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale watched from the chair as Crowley’s servants attended to him. He pressed a thumb over his lips, trying to identify the emotion in him. 

It was the first time his husband was dressed in the colors of his house. The other Demons, with exception of Reagent Beelzebub and Crowley, of course, were set to depart today. They were all in full dress for the occasion, Crowley’s suit just slightly less ornate than Aziraphale’s, but he wore more jewelry—most of it from his own house. His hair was down with a few thin, tight braids and shimmering, golden ribbons braided into those. 

Aziraphale cocked his head, watching Mrs. Sandwich reapply the black snake at his hairline.

His husband looked good, right, in gold and white. And yet, also wrong. Perhaps it was more that Aziraphale liked to see Crowley in the colors he himself wore most often. He liked this physical representation of the union between them. Beyond the colors of the house of Archer, Crowley’s suit also held the owl insignia that marked him as a Duke of Soho. The insignia that marked him as Aziraphale’s husband. Aziraphale couldn’t help the territorial emotion that rolled through him. He was glad this man belonged to him, and that … felt wrong. That another human being could belong to him. Marked by him. Just another spoil of war. 

He tried to imagine how he would feel being dressed in Demon colors even if he liked his husband. He tried to imagine being in Crowley’s place and, once again, couldn’t fathom it. He rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. 

“There we are then.” Mrs. Sandwich held Crowley by the chin, tilting his head back and forth before she gave a curt nod. “All done, my prince.”

Aziraphale stood from his place. He tugged at the jacket of his suit to straighten it and put on a wide smile. “Lovely as ever,” he said, offering his arm. 

Crowley gave a small huff but took his arm. “You look quite dashing yourself.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale brightened. “Thank you.”

As they made their way to the front hall, Aziraphale noted it seemed as though Crowley was smirking. “Is something funny?”

“Ah, a little, I suppose.” Crowley sighed. “I was just thinking. I spent quite a lot of my life wishing there was some way to get away from my father. M’a prince. A prince can’t run away from home. But I got my wish. Be careful what you wish for, right?”

Aziraphale fixed his stare forward, his smile sad. The only way Crowley had to get away from his father was to be given to someone else. 

Crowley tugged on his arm just before they stepped into the front hall. Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley gave him a small but sweet smile. “I know I haven’t said so … but I’m glad it was you.”

Warmth bloomed at the center of Aziraphale’s chest. On impulse, he reached up, cupping Crowley’s cheek with a quick affectionate gesture. 

Minutes later, they were lined up, receiving last instructions about how this was going to go and how calm and happy they were all supposed to look. Really, it all seemed a bit much. If Aziraphale wasn’t very mistaken, everything had gone rather well. The members of both royal families had managed to be cordial. Aziraphale had observed that Gabriel seemed to have genuinely enjoyed his conversation with Beelzebub the night before. 

Unlike when the entourage had arrived, all his siblings' spouses were present for this farewell—a symbol of solidarity and continuing trust. 

As they stood together, Hastur meandered in their direction. Aziraphale grimaced. He didn’t find any of the Demons—his husband aside—at all palatable company, but Hastur? Hastur made him uncomfortable, to say the least. He absolutely hated, for instance, the way the man looked his husband up and down, his lip curling. 

“Problem?” Aziraphale challenged, his tone clipped. 

Hastur turned his head slowly, as though it were an insult to even be asked. His sneer deepened. “Course not, your highness. I was just, ah … admiring my nephew. The Angel.” He looked again at Crowley. “You look ridiculous.”

Aziraphale’s temper flared. He took a step closer to his husband. “Now, just a minute.”

“Didn’t mean it that way,” Hastur said, his smile saccharine. “White’s just hard to keep clean, isn’t it?” The way he said the words made it clear he saw his nephew as filthy. Tainted. “So best of luck, boy.”

“Your highness,” Aziraphale snapped.

Hastur grinned at him, full of teeth. “Your highnesses.” He nodded his head in a mocking gesture of respect and walked away.

“Well,” Crowley said. “You handled him quite impressively.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’d like to handle him quite a bit more.” He cocked his head, realizing belatedly what that might sound like. “I … ah. No, that’s not—”

Crowley laughed. “I understand what you meant.” He tilted his head closer. “Pulled a prank on him once when we were young. Made him think he was going to get kidnapped or some such. The screams …” He snickered.

“Oh, do tell me,” Aziraphale said, delighted. 

“Well, scream is the wrong word. Shrieking, more like.”

They chuckled quietly together until someone cleared their throat. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s smile fall, his shoulders set back ramrod straight as his father approached them. “Father,” he said at the same time Aziraphale said, “Your Majesty.”

“Your highness.” King Lucifer gave Aziraphale a respectful nod before he turned his eyes on his youngest child. He huffed, the sound somewhat skeptical. “A thousand of our ancestors are turning over in their graves,” he intoned in a growl.

Aziraphale bristled and squared his shoulders, but the king flashed a sardonic smile. “But that’s progress, isn’t it?”

Slowly, gauging his sincerity, Aziraphale gave a nod. “I think he looks rather handsome.”

The king raised an eyebrow in an expression that bordered dangerously on condescension. “Well. It does seem this match suits you, your highness.”

“Everything seems to be working out better than we could have hoped,” Crowley said, his tone both cautious and challenging.

The corner of the king’s mouth curled up. “So it is.” He looked around the room, suspicion clear in his features. “It’s been my experience that something that sounds too good often is.” When his gaze returned to them, he offered a small smile. “But this transition was never going to be without its bumps, I suppose. History has been set in motion.” He nodded at them. “What will be, will be.”

His hard expression turned to something not quite gentler but something that softened the harsh lines of the Demon king’s face. “Anthony,” he said, voice quiet.

Aziraphale put a gentle hand to the small of Crowley’s back; a silent reassurance that he was here beside him. 

“It occurs to me … I’m an old man, after all. There is every chance this is the last time you and I will see each other.” He shifted on his feet, glancing quickly at Aziraphale and back. “I hope your husband will understand I mean no offense when I say this wasn’t the life I expected for you nor the one I prepared you for. But in every challenge of your life, you’ve persevered. Quite admirably.” 

The king reached forward. Aziraphale felt the flex in Crowley’s back, but his husband held himself straight as he took his father’s offered hand. The king closed Crowley’s hand between both of his. “May your life bring you every joy in this time of peace.”

“I … Thank you. Father,” Crowley said, his voice gruff. 

His father nodded. He looked at Aziraphale, cupped his shoulder with a firm squeeze, and walked away. 

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a shocked look. Crowley swallowed. “I think … Hell might have actually frozen over,” he muttered.

~.0.~

Crowley had been silent the rest of that day. For the most part, Aziraphale left him to his thoughts. He made sure he was near, lending his quiet presence. It must have been confusing. To be truly alone in what still had to feel, at times, like enemy territory, if only by muscle memory. It was some kind of irony that his father’s soft, seemingly sincere, well-wishes had only made the separation more quietly traumatic. 

Aziraphale watched from inside their rooms as Crowley retreated to the verandah. An idea had begun to take hold several days before, and he thought now might be the time to put thought into action.

He wasn’t entirely sure he was doing the right thing, but he raised a hand, gesturing Madam Tracy to him. He folded the note he’d penned a moment before and gave it over. “Will you be sure this makes its way to Lady and Lord Device? Now. And then have a carriage readied.”

His attendant’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, an evening with the Devices. It’s been a while, hasn’t it. Right then.” She bustled off. 

Next, Aziraphale watched as Mrs. Sandwich removed the last of the jewels from Crowey’s neck and put it back in the felt box. Aziraphale watched with curiosity, eyebrow raised when he saw the woman rest a hand briefly on Crowley’s hair in a caress. Certainly crossing the boundaries of a servant. 

“Mrs. Sandwich,” he called when she came back into the room. 

She stumbled to a halt. “Oh. Mercy.” She gave a low curtsey. “I didn’t see you there, sire. Forgive me.”

“Nothing at all to forgive.” Aziraphale could see from her quick glance that she was trying to gauge what he might have seen and how he would react to it. He held her gaze and smiled to reassure her. “I wondered if you would mind me asking you a question.”

“As you please, your highness.”

Aziraphale hesitated a moment. “These last ten days have been quite trying. No doubt for you, as well.” He cocked his head. “Is there …  You didn’t leave a … Mr. Sandwich back in Hell, did you?”

She pursed her lips. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The way she said it, Aziraphale understood further questions would be unwelcomed. “But I do worry about him.” He nodded to Crowley outside. He leaned forward, rubbing his hands on his knees. “I wondered if you might give me advice.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, highness. I’m not sure what kind of advice I could possibly have.”

“Well, you’ve known my husband quite a lot longer than I have,” Aziraphale said, letting a teasing note slip into his voice, hoping to put her at ease so she would tell the truth. “You …care for him.”

“Your highness—”

“I’m glad. He’s had precious little of that in his life, hasn’t he?”

Mrs. Sandwich’s features softened, her shoulders relaxing. “That’s an understatement, I’d say.”

“I don’t know how best to help him on days like today.” He tapped his fingers against his knee. “But, I had a thought … Well, I thought it might be nice to get out of the palace. To a place where duty and decorum don’t dictate our every moment.”

“Duty and decorum dictates.” Mrs. Sandwich chuckled, her grin wide and genuinely amused. “Like that. Trips off the tongue, don’t it.” A more serious expression came over her features, and she gave him a nod. “Aye, he hasn’t said so, but he used to enjoy a night out on the town.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question for the time being. Until we can be sure things are …” He sighed.

“There’s some unrest. Aye.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “But I do have some friends. A Lord and Lady, yes, but they’re, well, better company than most.”

“I see.” Mrs. Sandwich looked off, nodding her head a beat. She looked back to Aziraphale. “Just one question then.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. 

“How much alcohol do they open at their soirees?”

“Oh, they’re quite adequate in that department, I assure you.”

She nodded. “Then I’m sure they’ll be fast friends.”

~.0.~

An hour later, they were in the carriage. Aziraphale sat across from Crowley, watching him fidget with equal parts amusement and worry. He did hope he’d done the right thing. 

Crowley crossed his hands over his chest and huffed. “They know I’m a Demon?”

Aziraphale struggled to keep a straight face. “My dear, there’s not an Angel alive who doesn’t know I’ve married a Demon.”

His husband scoffed. “Must be some children born in the last couple of weeks, surely.”

Aziraphale grinned. He started to reach out, about to squeeze Crowley’s knee, but redirected quickly. 

He’d noticed that the urge to touch his husband, not in any explicit way but just lightly, was growing harder to ignore of late. 

“And you’re sure they didn’t say yes to us because you’re a prince of Heaven, and they can’t actually refuse you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale had to laugh at that. “You don’t know Anathema yet, but you’d be hard pressed to get her to understand she couldn’t refuse me if she wanted to. It’s only lucky for me that she hasn’t wanted to keep me away thusly.” He glanced out the window and back to his husband. “Anathema is on Gabriel’s council. In many ways, she’s been trying to subvert this war her entire life. She was born into a family that has always urged peace. All the people she surrounds herself with are of the same mind.” He patted his own knee as he wished to comfort Crowley. “This is meant to be a respite. You’ll be well received.”

True to his word when they pulled up to the Device estate, Anathema and her husband were there to greet them. Anathema ignored Aziraphale completely—they were old friends, and he fully expected this—and reached out to take Crowley’s hand as he stepped out of their carriage. She pulled him to her side, bending close to him as she led them all into the house.

The gathering was relatively small—around twenty people. And not at all formal. Aziraphale watched his husband closely, gauging his reaction as he took it all in. There were several lords and ladies here, yes, but also a few regular townsfolk. Crowley’s eyes just about arched off his face when he saw Madam Tracy run to a rough-looking man nursing a cup of very weak tea—her husband, in fact. 

Still, it took a snifter of whiskey and nearly an hour watching Aziraphale interact with the lot of them before Crowley began to relax. His answers became less reserved and refined. 

“You’re really not bothered,” Crowley asked, his tone lighter now as he looked at the gathered guests with amusement.

”Laddie, of all of us, yer the odd one out, aren’t ye?” Madam Tracy’s husband, Mr. Shadwell said. 

“Tha’s a fair point.” Crowley hid a smile behind his glass. 

“None of it ever made sense,” Anathema said. “Or if it did, it might have thousands of years ago, but what does that have to do with us?”

”You’re not the first Demon we’ve associated with,” Newton—Anathema’s husband—said. 

“Really.”

Anathema got up from her seat and sat next to Crowley. “This war … this eons-long war … I mean, neither side is even after land. Resources. It was only ever about one side being better. Better for what? For who? Why? And we all lost. I mean …” She leaned in, her tone conspiratorial. “The food alone.”

”You’ve had Demon food?” Crowley’s grin was wide. ”I keep telling Aziraphale what he’s missing.”

Anathema looked at Aziraphale. “So much,” she confirmed. “You’re missing so much.” She looked back at Crowley. “And dance. Oh, I love to dance.”

”You can dance?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Not well. But I know a simple dance or two.”

”Will you teach us?” A young woman asked. 

Anathema looked at Crowley. “What do you think?”

”Wot? Really? Really? You want me to … No.” Crowley shook his head emphatically. “No. I think not.” 

Aziraphale hid a smile behind his hand, watching with no small amount of glee as the gathered Angels started chanting, “Dance. Dance. Dance.”

And so it was. Crowley and Anathema ended up at the front of the Angels, Demonstrating a simple dance. And when the Angels thought they’d seen enough, they paired off to try their luck, a few hired musicians providing a simple tune to dance to.

Aziraphale stepped up to his husband. He’d been paying attention, and he set his stance in the following partner’s starting position. 

Crowley cocked his head. “Are you …”

”You can lead,” Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley’s lip twitched. He bowed low and offered his hand. 

They moved well together, naturally. Despite his insistence that he didn’t dance—and the fact he would have learned the following steps if he’d ever had lessons—he moved well. For his part, Aziraphale shocked himself by catching on quickly. Oh, at first he stumbled, but soon, they were moving with relative grace. Aziraphale found himself grinning, laughing as he and Crowley spun around the dance floor. There were brief moments where they were traded with other partners, but they came back together readily.

At the end of the song, they stood, hands clasped, Crowley’s hand on his waist and a beguiling smile on his face. 

And Aziaraphale wanted to kiss him. His eyes flitted to Crowley’s lips. He heard his husband's breath stutter. Aziraphale held himself still, trying to remember that he was trying to give Crowley room. His body felt alive with electricity. And Crowley’s scent … Gods, he was beguiling. 

Azirphale swallowed hard as Crowley stepped back and bowed low. They both straightened, staring at each other.

One of the Angels came up to Crowley, full of questions about how they did. Aziraphale remembered abruptly that they weren’t alone and took several steps backward. 

Out of his periphery, he saw a few Angels glancing in his direction—alpha and omega alike. He could only imagine the scent he was exuding at that moment. He stepped backward until he was sure no one was looking at him. No one except Mrs. Sandwich, who was hidden in the dark outskirts of the gathering with the rest of the servants. They nodded at each other—she would look out for Crowley—and Aziraphale slipped outside. 

Out in the cool air, he felt he could get a handle on himself. Hands clasped behind his back, he took a walk around the grounds. A ways away from the main house, tucked in the middle of the sprawling garden, was a gazebo. The part that faced away from the house looked out over an open field and the stars above. Aziraphale sank down onto a chaise, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the sky. 

He thought about how long Anathema had been trying to convince anyone who would listen—and quite a few who wouldn’t—that Demons weren’t the enemy; that they didn’t have to continue this endless war. She came from a long line of peacemakers. Her mother and grandmother had lobbied Aziraphale’s father. Anathema had been one of the few people Aziraphale had ever seen who’d never been afraid of Gabriel, which was probably how she managed what many of her ancestors hadn’t. 

Aziraphale had known only duty. He’d listened to Anathema, but what choice had he had but to dismiss her in the past? He had no say in how the Great War went. He’d had no say in the terms of peace. 

His marriage to this Demon prince was just another piece of a story he wasn’t writing, but tonight, it felt as though he’d at least begun to scribble in the margins. He’d given his husband a few allies. He’d learned to dance.

Alone in the darkness, he let himself bask in the memory of Crowley’s flushed cheeks, his happy smile, his fingers curling around Aziraphale’s every time they had to touch. He’d instructed the others to touch palms, Demonstrated the same, but when he did it with Aziraphale, his fingers curled around him.

Looking up at the twinkling stars, Aziraphale let himself wonder if he was falling for his husband. He was such a beguiling creature. Gorgeous and brilliant and maddening in every conceivable way.

As though he’d conjured him from his fantasies, Crowley appeared. Aziraphale didn’t hear him approach until he stepped up into the gazebo. “Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said, sitting up straighter. 

Crowley leaned back against one of the pillars, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sorry to leave you alone. I just needed some air.”

“Hmm.” The way Crowley’s head tilted, it seemed like he was watching Aziraphale closely. When Aziraphale moved to put his feet on the ground, Crowley held a hand out in a stopping motion. “We’re all right for a bit.” He grinned again. “Lady D… Anathema said she’s well used to you wandering off when you need a moment from the noise?” He arched an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale chuckled. “Suffice it to say, this isn’t my first walk through the gardens.”

“She told me a rather intriguing story,” Crowley said, tone light and smile hinting at mischief.

”Oh?”

”A story about you giving your sword away in the middle of a battle.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale gave his head a small shake. Gabriel had been furious. “A young couple who found themselves in the midst of fighting by accident. They were defenseless.”

”As the general and the prince present, so were you, without a sword.”

“Pah.” It wasn’t entirely untrue, but there was always someone looking out for him. “Turned out all right, it seems.”

”It did. And it was very… kind.” Crowley tilted his head, running his thumb over his chin as he gazed. “Those people in there like you very much.”

”And the feeling is mutual,” Aziraphale said, smiling. He sighed, looking off. “Those people … I don’t know that you or I will ever know the extent to which they helped save our world. This war had nothing to do with any of them. Not ever. Not for countless generations. I do enjoy their company.”

“But you’ll never be one of them?” Crowley gave a soft sigh, half-turning so he could look up at the sky. “I used to like to go into town wherever we happened to be. Dress simply. Blend in. And just listen to … normal people.”

“I like normal people,” Aziraphale said with fondness. “We royals are so dramatic about everything, and I include myself in that metric.”

Crowley laughed. An honest to goodness laugh. “Dramatic. My father always did like to tell me I was dramatic. It is nice to step away from all of it, if only for a moment.” He looked at Aziraphale. “And it’s nice … It’s been nice to see you this way. Here. With these people.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. Despite the nip in the air, he felt warm. “Am I so different?”

“No. Not different. In fact …” Crowley pressed his lips together. 

“In fact?” Aziraphale prompted, curious now. 

Crowley blew out a shaky breath. “You’re … amplified, I suppose. Or maybe more unabashedly you.” He gestured in the vague direction of the castle. “Back there, you don’t say what you’re thinking most of the time. Which, neither do I. Course.” He took a step forward. “But tonight, you’re talking about what you actually think. About the fighting. About our ancestors.”

He took another step forward. “And that night, our … I talked about dancing, and you looked like you were curious. But you would never. Not in front of everyone. But here …”

There was a charge in the air. Aziraphale thought at first he was imagining it, but as Crowley continued to look down at him, he began to feel that perhaps he wasn’t. Crowley’s lips were parted just slightly. His shoulders seemed to rise and fall sharply. 

Again, Aziraphale told himself he was misreading the moment even as Crowley took a slow step toward him, then another. He put one knee down on the chaise, and then crawled over Aziraphale. He settled on his lap, taking his face in his hands. 

Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath, reaching up to wrap his hand around Crowley’s wrist, holding not pulling him away. “Crowley,” he whispered. 

Crowley licked his lips. He reached up and took his glasses off, leaning over to place them on a table. Aziraphale could see he was nervous, uncertain. But he could also smell that glorious scent. Tilled earth in the rain. Desire. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, his hands on Crowley’s waist, waiting for him to say what this was, what he wanted. 

“Do you know …” Crowley took Aziraphale’s face in hands again. “You’re … pretty.”

“Pretty?” Aziraphale asked with a breathless laugh. 

Crowley hummed. Aziraphale swore he could feel the vibration of it in his own bones. He searched his husband’s face, wondering if he was drunk, wondering if it was okay to release the leash he had on his own body.

“If …” Crowley closed his eyes, breathed out a shaky breath, and opened them again.  “If I were still free, and you had been who you were tonight, I would have wanted to seduce you.”

Aziraphale sucked in a quick breath. He could smell his own scent—warm, aroused alpha—mingling with Crowley’s. His fingers dug into his husband’s hips. “Ah … Are you …” He took a deep breath, but that was the opposite of helpful. The emotion between them, the arousal, was something physical he could taste on his tongue. He was intoxicated. He couldn’t think. 

Crowley traced the pad of his thumb at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, watching his lips. His voice was thick and husky when he spoke again. “In another week, mebe less, it’s going to be a mess of hormones. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to … think at all when it happens.” His eyes tightened at the corners, and he splayed a hand across Aziraphale’s chest. “I want just one night where it’s my choice. All my choice. Not because my body is in control despite what my mind wants, despite what I want. Not for duty.” His hand slipped up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. He breathed, and the tension slipped out of his features, leaving only something that looked suspiciously like tenderness. “But because you’re pretty and I want to. Tonight.”

Aziraphale’s lip twitched. Some part of him blared a warning. He was falling for this man, but that wasn’t what Crowley was asking for. 

Most of him, though, was wrapped up in his words and the feel of his body atop him. He locked away emotion and pushed up so he was sitting straight. “Pretty,” he murmured. The scent of their mingled arousal grew stronger. He ran the pad of his thumb along Crowley’s chin. “And what would it look like? To be seduced by you?”

Crowley scoffed. “Well, that was it. If that didn’t work …”

Aziraphale pressed one hand to the small of Crowley’s back, the other sliding up possessively. “It worked.” He stared up at this beautiful man in the moonlight. His rational mind sparked again. Here? In the garden? In someone else’s garden?

Yes. Here. Away from the palace. Away from who they had to be. 

“Can I kiss you?” Aziraphale asked. The urge to do so was all but overwhelming. 

Instead of answering, Crowley took his face in his hands and kissed him. It was a hard kiss, a leading one. It wasn’t the kiss of someone in love, but Aziraphale hadn’t expected it to be. It was the kiss of two people riding the high of mutual attraction and a good night with just enough alcohol in their system to let them relax into this. 

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley pushed his tongue into his mouth. This was a far cry from the man he’d bedded on their wedding night, the man who would submit but wouldn’t be an active participant. This Crowley was a whirlwind of movement. His fingers tangled in Aziraphale’s hair. His tongue lapped greedily at Aziraphale’s. He was doing something utterly impossible with his hips, moving over Aziraphale over both their clothes. It was almost instantly maddening and about to be embarrassing. 

But Crowley slid back. His kisses became slower, more sensual. His fingers caressed. None of these movements were less urgent. Aziraphale felt like an instrument being played by a master. There was no trace of the inherent omega submissiveness. Crowley was in control of this encounter, and Aziraphale was more than happy to let him lead.  

This was going to be quick; they both knew it had to be, given where they were. But it didn’t need to be as quick as it was going to be if Aziraphale didn’t distract himself. The feel of this man in his arms; the scent of him. By all the gods, the scent. Aziraphale was swimming, drowning. His body felt too taut, too ready to come undone with Crowley’s mere touch.

So, he found his voice.

“You’ve been incandescent this evening,” he said, hands loosening Crowley's shirt, dipping under, seeking and finding warm, bare skin. “To see you so happy?” He kissed the underside of his chin, so near the space where he wanted to bite, to claim. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’re radiant. Just … beautiful.”

Crowley flushed, and another wave of his scent hit Aziraphale, sharp and heady, and then their lips met. “Can I touch you?” Aziraphale asked against his lips. 

“Gods, you better,” Crowley said, taking his mouth again, grinding hard against him. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth, and Crowley whimpered right back. And that sound. That delightful, wanton sound. Touch. Taste. The warm weight of the man writhing on his lap. It all melted into sensation. Thrill. A pleasure Aziraphale hadn’t ever experienced before. 

They moved as though choreographed, and yet, it was all still frantic. Aziraphale’s hands were splayed over Crowley’s back, and then they were in his silky hair. There was cloth, and then there was skin. Crowley’s hands were wrapped around his cock, his kiss deep and probing. Then, his glorious, gorgeous husband was taking his cock inch by hot, slick inch. 

“Fffffffuck,” Aziraphale said in a thin voice he hardly recognized. He banged his head back against the chaise, hands sliding up Crowley’s sides

“Oh, damn.” Crowley sounded as breathless as he felt. “Oh, yes.”

Aziraphale let Crowley set the pace and followed eagerly after him. They weren’t slow. Or gentle. Crowley pushed and Aziraphale pulled until they were almost horizontal, Crowley pressed against every line of him. He tangled their fingers together and pinned Aziraphale’s hands over their heads at the top of the chaise. He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Aziraphale’s lips. His cock rubbed between their bodies, hot and hard against his belly.

The way Crowley’s shoulders moved under his palms, the roll and flex. Aziraphale thrust up, his own body responding to the rhythm of their movements. His eyes fluttered closed. He threw his head back with a grunt, and damn everything if Crowley didn’t instantly drag his teeth down Aziraphale’s throat. “Oh. Oh, my.”

Aziraphale let his hands trace down Crowley’s back until he could cup his ass. He traced down to where they were joined, wondering at the feel of them moving together. 

So good. Too good. 

He reached his peak with a cry Crowley swallowed with his kiss, rocking over him, taking him deep as he pulsed inside him. It didn’t matter if his eyes were open or not. He purely couldn’t tell. His world seared white, and it was a damn good job that Crowley kept their mouths pressed together. They were in public, after all, and even as far as they were from the house, the others would have heard. 

When Aziraphale caught his breath a minute later, when his eyes could focus again, he found his husband looking quite smug and satisfied, sitting up atop him. Aziraphale huffed and smiled. He cupped Crowley’s cheek with his left hand, watching as the smirk gentled into something that approached tenderness. 

With his right hand, he wrapped his fingers firmly around Crowley’s still-hard cock. Then, it was his turn to smirk. He took a sharp breath when Crowley’s fingers dug into his side, nails biting. His smile turned serene as he worked his husband with a firm hand.  

“Ah, bugger all. You bastard,” Crowley whined, jerking on top of Aziraphale. 

“You know quite well my parents were married when I was conceived.”

“Don’t you dare talk about your parents right now. Ahh.”

With a few more tugs, his other hand tangling in his hair, Aziraphale coaxed Crowley over the edge into orgasm. He shuddered, the feel of hot spend on his belly, the unmitigated scent that was all Crowley, threatening to send him right back into the throws of passion. Crowley arched backward with a strangled quiet scream. 

A moment later he had a hot, heavy Demon draped over him. Perhaps it was taking advantage, but Aziraphale took the opportunity to just touch. He danced his fingers along Crowley’s hair and down his damp back. 

But it was only a few more moments before Crowley shivered. There was a chill in the air. And they were in public. 

Aziraphale sighed as Crowley sat up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled, a little sad. It had been a lovely respite, but they were who they were. 

For a moment, just a moment, with Crowley’s arms draped over his shoulders and Aziraphale’s arms wrapped loosely around his waist, Aziraphale thought his husband might kiss him. A real kiss. A kiss of tenderness. 

Instead, he sighed softly and got to his feet, pulling on clothes. 

As Aziraphale followed suit, he reminded himself what this had been about. Crowley had wanted simple pleasure, uncomplicated by who they were and what they were expected to do. Whatever feelings Aziraphale had for this man, now wasn’t the time. This was not about that.

Buttoning up his vest, Aziraphale ducked his head and laughed quietly to himself. He’d had clandestine moments in his time, but none of them felt like this. He was, he determined, falling for his husband. Hard and really rather fast as these things were supposed to go. 

“I’ll have Mrs. Sandwich pass along our excuses, if it’s fine by you,” Aziraphale said, putting on an easy smile as he turned to face Crowley. His lip quirked. The Demon’s hair was an absolute wreck. “I think it’s prudent we return to the palace.”

Crowley smirked. “Not decent, am I?”

Aziraphale laughed out loud. “Not even the slightest.”

Chapter Text

Crowley sat at his place at the Queen’s table, ostensibly sorting letters from the outlying territories along with the rest of the royal spouses. His mind was on anything but these missives. For one thing, his thoughts kept trying to wander into memories of the week before—Lady Anathema’s party and the way his husband had watched him all night with a happy glint in his eyes. Aziraphale and the way he looked in the garden in the moonlight. Letting his thoughts dwell on those memories would be very bad. Crowley’s body would betray him in an instant if he started down that path. 

It had been a very good night. The closest he’d felt to himself since negotiations of peace began. Since he became a pawn to be moved around at the whim of his sibling and the Angel king. 

Crowley cast a surreptitious glance around the table, turning his concentration to the others. He’d spent his first few weeks among the Angels, feeling sorry for himself and trying to wrap his head around the idea of being someone’s husband. He knew it was a role he needed to accept; this was his life. 

It was easier than he thought possible to be Aziraphale’s husband. They were, he was beginning to think, lucky to have each other. If they couldn’t live solitary lives—and both of them had been content with that idea before this had happened—they made excellent partners for each other. Aziraphale needed someone to let him voice his doubts, his irritation with his siblings. And Crowley … well. 

He’d just never realized there was a possibility he didn’t have to be lonely. 

Now, it was time for him to acclimate to his role as the Demon prince of Heaven.

As his father had finally … bizarrely … admitted, Crowley had always done his duty. He was good at adapting. He’d long ago learned that doing what was expected of him might not be enough to earn him the approval of his family, but it was the best way to get them to leave him alone to lead his own life. 

With that, he was determined to find an inroads in his place at the palace. Queen Azrael had accepted him among her court. That was the first battle won. She was cool toward him but not rude. Crowley might not be able to win her over, but he could prove savvy enough that she didn’t feel she had to watch him.

Crowley was well aware all eyes were still on him, waiting for him to prove their worst fears about Demons. The quicker they learned to trust him, the quicker he could fade into the background. He had to follow the rules before he could bend them.

Azrael grimaced as she looked over one letter. “It’s been some time since I visited the orphanage.” She tossed the letter to the center of the table. “Children and I aren’t a good mix. I’ll have to send one of you in my stead.”

“Why not send the Demon?” Prince Ragen said, finely manicured eyebrow arched and a smirk playing at his lips. He and Michael were well matched, though it was clear Raven was the more charismatic of the two. Crowley didn’t think the man was cruel but mischievous.

“I don’t know if the people are ready to trust a Demon around children,” Azrael said, not unkindly. “We don’t want to give the agitators any more ammunition.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “An orphanage has few advantages, but the wee pitiable tykes there have no one particularly invested in keeping them from being eaten by stray Demons.” He grinned, baring his teeth. A few of the others tittered half-nervously. Raven gave a hearty laugh.

“I’ll go with,” said an easy, breezy voice. Crowley had to work to keep the distaste from his face as he turned to meet the woman’s steady, glinting gaze. “That should assuage any worries they have.”

Carmine was Sandalphon’s wife, and Crowley was certain they were the best matched couple of any of the royals. Like Sandalphon, Carmine had a reputation as having been a bloodthirsty warrior on the field. Where Michael and Raven had been known as quick and proficient in their methods, there had been a twist of cruelty to the way things went in Sandalphon’s camps. Stories about those camps were precisely what Crowley had expected when he knew he would be given over to the Angels.

Queen Azrael hummed, tapping a finger to her pointy chin. “Yes, that’ll do very nicely. We need to send the message that we’re settling in for long-term peace. Prince Anthony?”

Crowley raised his eyes to hers. “Your majesty?”

“Your people brought quite a bounty of fruits and vegetables. Perhaps there’s something in particular the children would like?”

Crowley nodded slowly, considering. “The apples. I believe the apple trees we brought, while young, were bearing fruit. Most children like apples.”

The queen gestured, and a servant stepped forward. “Have a few baskets of apples gathered and ready a carriage. Prince Anthony and Princess Carmine will visit the children as soon as you’re ready.”

~.0.~

Some time later, they were alone in the carriage. As Crowley didn’t know enough about the woman to attempt small talk, he kept his head high as he stared out the window. He was sure to make his expression at ease, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. 

She didn’t chuckle; she giggled. Somehow, that maniacal little giggle came off as only more sinister. “Do you think you can fool me? Even a beta can smell the nerves on you, thick as the scent is in this space.”

Crowley exhaled quietly and didn’t turn his head from outside right away. He could excuse it as nerves about being out in public as a Demon, but he thought it more prudent to appeal to her ego. “Only a fool wouldn’t be unnerved by you.” He turned to her. “The embodiment of war, so they say.”

She tilted her head. “And you, the only prince of your lineage not to be a general. Not a commander at all.” Her smile was sweet. “I suppose they would have to leave the pretty homemakers at home.”

Crowley’s cheek twitched. She was trying to goad him—so much like her husband—but unlike other royals, he actually did understand the value of the spouses left at home. Most omegas were cherished; held in high esteem in their communities. It wasn’t the insult she expected it to be, and so his tone was light when he spoke. “Come now, your highness. You know exactly what I was doing during the war.” He turned to look at her, spreading his arms wide over the back of the seat. “And how good I was at it.”

As he expected, Carmine nodded her chin once. It had been a gamble, but he took the woman for one to have her eyes not only on the fight but at the intelligence too.

Crowley’s dealings and contribution to the war had always been covert. He was good at being places he shouldn’t without anyone being the wiser. He was good at complicated plots that moved the pieces on the board where they needed to be. He was well aware the Angels had almost had his number once or twice, but they’d never caught him.

No harm now in letting Carmine know their assumptions had been right. 

“And now here you are.”

“Here I am, serving my people in peace as I did in war.”

She hummed, a touch of dubiousness to her expression. “Not everybody believes this peace is a good thing. You have more reason than most to mourn what you’ve lost.”

Crowley shrugged. “It is, as my sibling says, a great honor to be the first union made of this transition from enemy to ally. The bards are, as we speak, composing songs that will be sung through the ages.” His nerves fluttered, still wondering what ultimate story would be told. 

“Are you really so cowed as to not have a mind of your own?” she chided, derision thick in her tone.

“Does it really bother you that I have little to complain about?” 

She tilted her chin up. “A little,” she admitted. She leaned forward across the carriage. “Never met a Demon who wasn’t better off squashed beneath my heel.” She lunged forward suddenly, catching Crowley completely off guard. She wrapped her hand around the thin tie he wore and yanked his head down to her. With her other hand, she ripped the glasses from his face. “Give me a reason, any reason, and I will end you, snake,” she hissed.

As with everything here, Crowley knew he had to be more careful than anyone else. He did know how to defend himself. In fact, every urge in his body screamed for action. To reach up and wrest her filthy hands away from him. 

But if he acted, and she was in any way harmed, no one would believe her to be the aggressor. She knew it. She’d been trying to goad him into a fight all along, and he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of it.

So he breathed in through his nose, calming himself. “I’m getting rather sick of assuring every Angel and every other Demon that I don’t need to be put in my place. What would I even do in Eden of all places? I’d be dead before I could take my next breath.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I know I’d rather die than be some Demon’s whore. Death might be worth it to you.”

Crowley snorted. “Maybe if I’d been given to your husband.”

He was well aware it could well be the wrong thing to say. Certainly, the way Carmine’s eyes sparked, he thought he might have miscalculated. But then, she grinned and laughed—that ridiculous little giggle. She loosened her hold and grinned. “Aziraphale is too soft.” 

She straightened his tie and drew a hand down his chest in a gesture that bordered on lascivious. Crowley pulled back, away from her touch with a warning look. 

Luckily, the carriage pulled to a stop then. “The glasses,” Crowley said, holding his hand out. Again, Carmine only smiled wickedly and took the footman’s hand to be helped out of the carriage.

Crowley took another moment, breathing deeply to calm his anger and nerves. Then he too took the footman’s hand and stepped out into the sun.

Whatever her actual reason for tagging along, Carmine had been right to assume the people would feel more comfortable with her around, especially after she’d ensured they would be put off by his strange eyes. Beyond that, many of the children here were orphans of war, which meant Crowley represented the faceless Demons who’d ultimately killed their parents. The matron was welcoming. One aide was jumpy, the other merely cautious as she kept glancing at his eyes. But many of the teenagers didn’t have enough decorum to hide their anger at Crowley’s presence.

Crowley took no offense, and the apples they’d brought did win over some of the ones who had more bravado than real fury. But when the young, hot-headed, teenaged alphas began to make Crowley uneasy by nature alone, the matron had enough sense to suggest Carmine entertain the older children while Crowley patiently answered questions for the littles. 

Crowley had always found very small children to be delightful. They hadn’t yet had time to pick up on the assumptions and prejudices of the adults around them. For many, princes and princesses were fairytale creatures with marvelous, grandiose lives, and they were endlessly curious. 

Crowley saw the surprise on the aide’s face when he sank to the dusty floor in the orphanage’s dingy common room, legs crossed. But the little ones clambered over readily, sitting around him, shooting questions a mile a minute.

“Do Demons really dance?”

“Usually not very well,” Crowley said and winked, making a few of the littles gasp and giggle, probably with surprise that his odd eyes worked like theirs. He told them of a noblewoman he’d known named Jane who was an excellent spy but had also thrown the most lavish balls he’d ever attended. Even in the leanest times, she said distraction was necessary or they’d all lose themselves to the endless violence.

He graciously declined a request to Demonstrate his dancing prowess. He was all right at such things when he had a partner but tended to flail about when dancing alone. 

They asked him about Hell—were there really lakes of fire there. 

“No, water works the same way there as here. However, I think those stories arose from a battle fought around a bubbling spring that smelled of sulfur. It’s that way not because it’s in Hell. It had to do with the fact the mountain it’s on is a volcano. You’ve got volcanoes here in Heaven, right?”

They agreed they did. 

They asked about his eyes, much more curious than afraid. One of the littlest climbed right into his lap to get a closer look. 

And then came an unexpected question. A little boy, shoulders hunched, looked out from behind a curtain of hair with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Can you cure hellfire?”

Crowley blinked, taken aback. “What?”

The boy took a shaky breath. “I heard the elders talking. They said the king brought an end to the war because he didn’t want the hellfire to spread again, like it did before.”

Almost a thousand years before, the Demons and Angels alike had perfected the art of chemical warfare. The result was two diseases—holy water, which killed Demons within hours, and hellfire, which took days to kill an Angel. Each was a horrific way to die, and each was extraordinarily communicable.

With devastating losses on both sides, a temporary truce was declared, and each side concentrated on getting the disease under control. 

Crowley looked at the matron. “Hellfire was all but eradicated.”

The woman gave him a sad smile. “There was an outbreak of the disease in the outlying villages on the shores of the River Styx about five years ago. It’s still rampant in some areas. Keeps popping up in pockets, I’m afraid.

“They said perhaps the king made this peace because the Demon prince could cure hellfire. That’s you, n’t it? Demon prince?” the boy said, a hint of hope and curiosity in his voice.

“Yes, but I can’t …” Crowley furrowed his brow.

Some minutes later, as they were saying their goodbyes, Crowley was still thinking about the young boy’s question and about what the elders might have been talking about. 

He was pulled from his thoughts when most of the small children huddled around him. With their bright smiles, he could see he’d won them over. They’d accepted him as one of their princes, and they adored him, eyes and all.

He’d always liked children for precisely this reason. They were natural mischief makers, which endeared him to them. It was never malicious mischief for them—not like Carmine, who’d passed the time with the teenagers, telling war stories, feeding their distrust. But they also didn’t understand the concept of hating someone on sight alone. 

As the carriage pulled away, Crowley smiled, watching the children run after it, waving enthusiastically. He indulged them, waving until they were out of sight before sitting back. He ignored Carmine’s attempts to goad him into conversation again as he had much to think about.

Children. Crowley’s stomach twisted as he was forced to reckon with the idea of them again. He’d been missing an important piece of the puzzle, trying so hard not to think about it.

He knew Beelzebub was cunning, and nothing they endeavored was simple. Yes, he was the last unmarried prince of Hell; it had been obvious to him the moment peace talks began that he would be among the offerings. And, of course, offspring were expected of all royals—the continuation of their esteemed lineage—but there was something else there. He’d caught a whiff of it before when talking to Beelzebub, and now, he thought he understood.

Deeply distracted and impatient to find Aziraphale, he almost forgot his mission to prove himself trustworthy in the queen’s eyes. It was expected that he and Carmine would report to Azrael upon their return, where she had a dutiful number of questions. He was about to answer her flippantly—a few apples weren’t going to help these children in any measurable way—when he caught himself. 

“I’m more grateful than ever to see an end to the Great War,” he said smoothly. “There will always be orphans, but not as many of them with these tragic stories. You know I lost my mother to the war, so I understand something of their pain.”

Azrael tilted her chin up in quiet acknowledgment. “I’m sure you were a comfort to those children.” She sat back, her severe expression turning thoughtful. “The matron sent word that she was most happy with the visit and hopes we come again soon.” She nodded decisively. “So be it. We’ll make arrangements to return soon.”

Crowley bowed and took his leave. 

He was glad it wasn’t evening. He would never get used to the idea he needed to be escorted places. Now that there were no guests in the palace save his eldest sibling, Crowley could go freely during the day. 

It hadn’t struck him before, given that these rules hadn’t ever applied to him, but it struck him again that the existence of this unspoken rule was basically admitting the alphas couldn’t be trusted after dark. The pathetic thing about that was that if something indeed happened, it would be considered his fault. They would say he was tempting whatever alpha crossed him, sending the wrong message by being out by himself.

He was deep in these thoughts when a rough hand around his arm yanked him into a side hallway. He stumbled, and when he got his bearings, he found he’d been crowded against the wall. The scent of warm durian burned Crowley’s nostrils. He sighed before he looked up at Sandalphon. “Good day, brother.” He leaned on the word with contempt strong in his voice.

Sandalphon scoffed. “Where are you off to all alone, little snake?” He leaned in closer. “What kind of trouble are you looking for?”

Again, the scent of arousal poisoned the air. Crowley couldn’t help but breathe it in. It curdled in his stomach and brought a cold sweat to his brow. It didn’t help that he’d just been thinking about this very thing—feral alphas catching omegas alone and vulnerable. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the daylight was a deterrent if the Angel prince was set on the actions his scent promised. 

It was a struggle to master his body, to tilt his chin up as though he wasn’t afraid. “I’m up to the nefarious business of going to my room for a nap,” he said, affecting a bored tone. 

He stepped to the side, and as he’d expected, Sandalphon caught his arms in a grip. “I didn’t excuse you.”

“You’re not my husband, Sandalphon, and you’re neither of my kings.” He put his hands up and out, breaking the other man’s hold. “Now, I’ve been accosted by you and your wife today. I—”

Sandalphon’s features twisted from predatory to pure fury. His hand came up and pushed hard against Crowley’s neck, choking him. “You dare malign my wife?”

Instinctively, Crowley wrapped his hands around Sandalphon’s wrist. It was hard to breathe. “Didn’t say that.” He craned his neck, pushing down his desperation to be free of this pressure. “Jus’ came from an audience with her and”—he swallowed with difficulty—“the queen.”

“Hmm.” The pressure eased off, but Sandalphon didn’t move his hand from Crowley’s neck. His glare turned into a grin full of teeth. He leaned in, ducking his head as though to nuzzle him. Crowley shuddered in revulsion, his skin crawling. “You smell delicious like this,” Sandalphon said, inhaling deeply.

Jaw clenched, Crowley pulled his hair around front. It wouldn’t mask the fear that had to be radiating off him, but it was a clear signal. Sandalphon’s familiarity wasn’t welcome in the slightest. The Angel prince just snickered, petting his neck with a rough touch. Crowley put his hands to Sandalphon’s shoulders and gave a firm push back, knowing it might anger the man. But it was that or begin to beg, and Crowley would be damned before he gave Sandalphon the satisfaction. This was posturing, he reminded himself. Just like his wife, neither of them were actually going to hurt him. They were doing their damndest to get him to strike.

But his body was designed to read the scents coming off Sandalphon as a threat, a danger. It was a fight to keep the instinctual panic at bay.

Tension radiated off both of them; the air was thick with it. Anyone who came around the corner would have understood that this was no clandestine scene. But for once, there seemed to be no one underfoot. No guards. Crowley had sent his own servants away before they entered the throne room; no need for them to be so attentive, or so he’d thought. 

Crowley pressed forward and away. Still smirking, Sandalphon stepped back but only one step. When Crowley took another step away, Sandalphon stepped with him. Crowley put his hands up defensively. “I am your brother’s husband,” he said between clenched teeth, seething and frightened all at once. “I don’t know how things are done here in Eden, but I would never dream of disrespecting one of my siblings by putting a hand on their spouse.”

“Save it for someone who believes your lies, Demon. We both know what you’re looking for out here alone.”

“Not looking for a damn thing. I know the way to my rooms.” He took another step away from Sandalphon, and when the man didn’t follow him, another. He pivoted and walked away. At a glance over his shoulder as he rounded the corner, Sandalphon was still staring after him with a leer. 

Crowley walked quickly, shivering uncontrollably now. It seemed to take forever to get to his rooms. He powered through the door, and then shoved it closed behind him. He stayed still a moment, both hands pressed against the door as though that offered any kind of defense.

“Dove?”

Crowley jumped at the sound of Mrs. Sandwich’s voice. He whirled, and the concern etched on her features grounded him. He saw the way her eyes swept over him, looking for injuries. “M’fine,” he said quickly.

She arched an eyebrow, clearly not believing him—he was sure she could scent the residual fear— but her look was full of concern. Her gaze lingered on his hands, and he squeezed them into fists to cover the trembling.

”Really,” he said. “I’m fine.” He took a deep breath. “Nothing you need to worry about. Swear.”

She tilted her chin. Again, he could see she didn’t believe him, but she also knew when to push. “Right. Do you need something.”

”Could do with some drink,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Of course.” She looked at him, and her eyes seemed to twinkle. “Bit of fresh air would do you good, d’you reckon?” She gave him a knowing look before she turned to do as he asked.

Crowley watched her, wondering what she was up to. Regardless, fresh air was just the thing. Despite the fact his rooms were ample and spacious, the walls still felt too close. He turned to go into the bedroom and out onto the verandah.

There, he skidded to a halt, blinking. There were three long, wide planters at either end and in the middle of the space and a few large pots beside. Each of them were ornately carved along the sides. On second glance, Crowley saw the images told a story—a snake and a dove, the symbols of their families, having adventures in a garden. Against the wall were several large canvas bags of soil and smaller bags with seedlings from the collection the Demons had brought with them from the regions of Hell.

Crowley whirled around at the sounds of footsteps. There was Mrs. Sandwich with a tray of spirits, bread, and fruit. “Did you do this?” he asked, knowing even as he said it that she couldn’t have. 

Sure enough, she only gave an admonishing look as she set the tray down on the table next to a sun chair. She bustled over to the nearest trough and plucked up a card that was propped there. Wordlessly, she handed it to him.

Inside, written in Aziraphale’s neat script, was a note addressed to him. 

Dearest,

I’d hoped to be here when you got back, but a matter of business takes me away until evening.

I had these made for you the day after our conversation. I hope they meet your exacting standards. If not, I shall be more than happy to have them redone. 

Yours,

Aziraphale

Crowley pressed a finger against the endearment, lips pursed in amusement as he heard the note in his husband’s voice, the way the word “exacting” would come out as a tease. Warmth chased away the last of his nerves and eased the remaining tension in his gut. 

He’d have kissed the man if he were standing right in front of him. 

Mrs. Sandwich chuckled. “Aye. You’re just fine.” She patted his shoulder and headed back to her work inside. 

Crowley shouldered out of his jacket and shirt, leaving him just in his undershirt and neatly pressed pants. He got straight to work.

With his hands in the dirt, Crowley could think clearly. There was nothing like physical labor to get his aggression out. He could till the dirt with his bare hands rather than putting his fist through his brother-in-law’s face.

How in the name of all the gods had the same family produced Sandalphon and Aziraphale?

Crowley’s mood gentled as he thought of his husband. He traced the etched scene with the tips of his fingers, wondering if he’d commissioned these specially or if it had been the artist’s idea. 

He sighed, his thoughts turning again. He knew he should tell Aziraphale about Sandalphon, and Carmine, for that matter. But tell him what?

Sandalphon hadn’t touched him really. Only when he could be seen to have impugned Carmine’s good name. Both facts had been by design, Crowley thought. If he did bring those accusations—or let his husband make a complaint—Sandalphon could be utterly truthful. He hadn’t touched Crowley except to defend his wife’s honor, and even then, he’d left no marks. As for his vile words, Crowley could well imagine how easily they would be brushed off. Anyone listening would only assume Crowley was trying to make trouble. 

No. Aziraphale would only feel the need to defend Crowley’s honor. And Sandalphon would grow bored of his games soon. 

Crowley worked his fingers through a long tomato vine, winding it around the lattice he’d buried in the dirt. He sighed as he considered.

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t understand Sandalphon. All any of them had ever known was war. Now here, the Demons had breached the gates of Eden. They had the ear of the king and an Angel prince to call their own. Sandalphon was merely trying to poke at weak spots until the tiger in their midst showed his stripes.

Crowley’s stomach churned uncomfortably, remembering the sickening stench of warm durian mixed with the spice of arousal. Sandalphon was sadistic. That couldn’t be denied. The stories that had come out of his camps had been true in that regard.

But none of that was about Crowley in particular. Surely, Sandalphon was only trying to unnerve him. This was a palace. This was his home, and Crowley was his brother’s husband. This wasn’t a distant battlefield where it was imperative that you see your opponent as less than human. 

Either way, Crowley made up his mind to be more careful. He just wouldn’t find himself alone with Sandalphon again. Not until he was beyond any kind of suspicion.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale rubbed his neck. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. He shifted in his chair for the umpteenth time and leaned forward, an elbow on his desk so he could press a thumb to his temple. Much of his body ached in a general sort of way. His head didn’t, but there seemed to be some kind of pressure that disquieted his mind. 

Giving up the task of balancing his books, Aziraphale sat back in his normally comfortable chair.

He supposed his bodily discomfort could be expected. It had been many long weeks of various kinds of tensions and stress. That it was manifesting in his body seemed an obvious side effect. Frankly, Aziraphale was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. 

As the weeks since the wedding flew by, his brother and the Demon reagent who would one day be king had steadily become more intrusive. They were far too interested in things that were too personal. The three of them—Aziraphale, Gabriel, and Beelzebub—had quite the row when Gabriel demanded Crowley visit the Metatron yet again. He’d been sent what felt like every other day after his heat had failed to materialize the way the Metatron had predicted. Aziraphale hated that he couldn’t protect his husband from Gabriel’s orders. 

But even Aziraphale had to admit that the greater concern was the tenuous peace between Angels and Demons. Bringing a war that had raged for countless generations to an end was no easy feat. There was unrest in a few pockets and unease elsewhere. Aziraphale had been sent out to meet with delegations as long as they were only a day’s ride away. Gabriel and Beelzebub had gone twice at a week each time. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he bought their insistence that a halfling prince or princess would settle some hearts and change some minds. Perhaps if they were Gabriel’s children who stood closer to the throne than his ever would. But diplomacy had never been his strong point. Most of his life, he’d gone where his parents and then his brother told him. He was a commander when he needed to be, a kind and comforting presence when everyone else was too busy doing important things to be dispatched to placate the masses. 

Crowley had muttered something once that he thought something else was going on, something Beelzebub and the King knew and weren’t saying, but he hadn’t elaborated when Aziraphale asked.

Pushing to his feet, Aziraphale held his hands behind his back as he walked slowly around the room, deep in thought. 

If he were being honest, Aziraphale found their intrusion galling. He had, of course, seen countless arranged marriages. Certainly, they served their purpose. Alliances were made, goods were secured, fealty was strengthened. But the people involved were then left to figure out how to live with each other for … ever. Treaties and agreements didn’t care whether or not they could get along. 

Aziraphale had witnessed the wide spectrum of possibilities of the aftermath of these unions. It was far from unusual to find a couple who couldn’t stand each other. He’d known his sister Saraqael to remark the one good thing that had come of her injury was that she could no longer sire children. Her wife had been quietly packed off to her properties in Nebula, and both were happier for it. 

And then there were the bruises that no one talked about that showed up especially in the early days of too many marriages. The sign of an alpha setting the tone of how that union was going to be. 

But on the opposite end of that spectrum, there had been many marriages that flourished. It was very rare to find true romantic love in an arranged match, but there were many who found steady companionship or, even better, good partnership. Certainly, Gabriel and Sandalphon had been well matched indeed. But then, their spouses had all been raised from birth knowing there was a strong possibility, should they present as beta, that they would be in the running to be married into Heaven’s ruling family. 

Marriage was hard enough. To deal with also being the first Angel/Demon union after thousands of years of war was always going to be complicated. Aziraphale was rather put out that Gabriel and Beelzebub insisted on belaboring the point of reproduction. It made everything so overwrought. 

Aziraphale liked children in a general sense. He never felt the need to have any of his own. It never occurred to him to mourn when he thought he would never marry. He was an Archer. His lineage was well and truly secured. Children were a natural consequence of marriage, but Aziraphale simply didn't care as time went on and no sign of them appeared. He preferred not to think about it until there was something to think about. 

Most frustrating of all, the attention of the monarchs made Crowley jumpy. When he and Aziraphale were left alone for any period of time, they often genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Certainly, Aziraphale enjoyed state and family dinners a great deal more with his husband by his side. Crowley was quite clever. But after every encounter with the Metatron, Crowley came back in a bad mood. Not that anyone could blame him, poor soul. The Metatron treated him like an animal in a lab who could be poked, prodded, and studied at his leisure.  

The last encounter had been a many days before though, and Crowley had long since settled back into their more familiar routine. 

Aziraphale paused in his circuit around the rooms, his eyes on the chair and sofa in front of the fire. Crowley had perched there earlier that morning in a manner Aziraphale had never seen anyone employ when using a chair. He did that sometimes when the conversation became animated—folded himself into odd positions on the furniture. They’d gotten into an enthusiastic debate over something ridiculous, some nonsensical story Crowley was trying to tell him about a bird, and they’d ended up leaning forward in their seats. Their laughter trailed off, and their faces were so close.

That close, breathing in Crowley’s breath, Aziraphale had scented the arousal on him. It had been faint but, oh, so tempting. 

His husband was attracted to him. Genuinely. It wasn’t so much of a shock. After all, all those weeks ago at Anathema’s party, there was a reason Crowley had initiated sex. But he’d been very clear then. He wanted to feel normal for one night. He was used to one night encounters—having fleeting moments with strangers he’d felt a brief kinship with as he had with Aziraphale that night. 

It would have meant something different there in their rooms. Aziraphale understood that. With everything else going on, they seemed to be in a very confusing space. They were friends perhaps bordering on the precipice of something more. 

And also married. 

Aziraphale chuckled to himself, the sound wry. He rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders.

The room was stuffy. He hesitated a moment before he went to the verandah to stand in the open doorway. He tried to give Crowley space when he was working out there. Sharing his space when he’d lived his whole life on his own was difficult for Aziraphale in many ways, though Crowley wasn’t a bad housemate in the least. Seeing as Crowley couldn’t move. about as easily as Aziraphale could, he tried to be mindful of any time Crowley went out alone. Today, he was too uncomfortable to deny himself a breath of fresh air.

Crowley was kneeling on the edge of a planter, carefully coaxing a vine through a lattice that climbed up the balcony wall. As his fingers worked, he quietly threatened the poor plant. 

“Now, when I tell you to grow up right, I mean for you to grow upright,” he said sternly. “Could just as well grow jasmine here, mark my words.”

“I’m sure they’re doing their best,” Aziraphale said from the doorway.

Crowley looked toward him and hopped back down to his feet. “Hush now. They might hear you.”

“A little gentle encouragement can go a long way,” Aziraphale said, mostly teasing. “I’m sorry to intrude.” He worked another button of his shirt open, tugging at the undershirt to get some air against his skin. “It’s only that I got a mite overheated in there.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow, but then bent to tend to his plants. “In the rooms? That’s odd. They’re a bit cold, I thought. Anyhow, you’re not intruding.”

Taking that as a welcome, Aziraphale crossed to the table and sat in his customary chair. His focus lingered on the line of Crowley’s back, watching the flex of it as he moved over the planter. He blinked, startled when his idle thoughts fed him a flurry of untoward images—putting his hands on him as he was bent over like this, pulling at the cloth belt that held his simple trousers up. He did love the way the fresh dirt only accentuated Crowley’s tilled-earth scent. 

Coughing into his closed fist, Aziraphale forced himself to turn away. His whole body seemed to tense, the ache spreading down from his shoulders to his back. He readjusted himself in the seat and looked out to the horizon. He brought his siblings to the forefront of his mind. That would shut down any possibility of amorous thought. And anyhow, there was always much to ponder.

He’d managed to get lost in thought, thinking about the wide range of emotions he’d heard expressed about the peace with the Demons, when a hand on his shoulder drew his attention. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, his tone making it clear this wasn’t the first time he’d said his name. 

Aziraphale tilted his head up. “Yes?” Crowley’s hand, he noted, was cool where it touched his skin, close to his neck. Cool and slightly damp. He must have washed his hands already.

“You keep rubbing at your neck,” Crowley said, dropping his hand back to his side and moving a few steps back so he wasn’t in Aziraphale’s space any longer.

“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale gave him a smile. “Nothing to be worried about. Just a little achy today.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps I’m coming down with something.”

“Hmmm. I’m sure sleeping on the chaise hasn’t helped,” he said with a touch of something that sounded suspiciously like guilt. “Maybe it’s high time we traded.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Aziraphale said firmly, not for the first time. “Anyhow, I feel perfectly fine most days. Don’t you worry about me.”

Crowley hummed, an odd expression on his face. “Maybe …”

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted when Crowley didn’t continue. 

Looking off into the distance, Crowley huffed and shook his head. “Maybe I can, ah … help?” He took a step toward him, hand outstretched, and touched his shoulder. “May I?”

Intrigued as to what exactly he was going to do, Aziraphale nodded his assent. Crowley stepped behind him, hands on both his shoulders. Aziraphale breathed in deep, sitting up straighter with the zing of energy that raced through him, heightening awareness. His mind, for just a moment, went blank with anticipation without knowing what it was he wanted to happen.

But his thoughts returned as Crowley dug each of his thumbs into the skin of Aziraphale’s back while his fingers squeezed his shoulders. Again Aziraphale gasped, this time at the deep ache in his muscles as Crowley applied just the right amount of pressure. 

A massage. It was a novel thing for Aziraphale, though he knew some of his siblings swore by them. Personally, aside from his own servants—many of whom had attended him since he was a child—Aziraphale wasn’t all that keen on extended touch. It simply didn’t appeal to him. 

It took all of thirty seconds for him to revise his opinion. “Oh. Ohhhh,” he said with a moan as Crowley’s strong hands began to work his muscles. He hissed under his breath, squirming just slightly at a point of intense pain that eased into a sweet relief. “Oh, my.”

“Is that all right?” Crowley asked, moving his thumbs in circular motions in a circuit between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades outward. 

“Oh, my good gracious, yes. Very much yes,” Aziraphale said, and then couldn’t help the slightest whimper. “It is … ahhh. Exquisitely … oh. Painful.”

“Painful?” Crowley backed off a bit.

Aziraphale tilted his head up to look at his husband. “No. It’s fine. Just fine.” He reached up to pat Crowley’s hand. “I believe that means it’s helping.”

“You’re tense,” Crowley said, getting back to it, thumbs pressing up along his spine.

“Oh, a bit.”

Crowley worked for minutes, only the sound of Aziraphale’s small moans, whimpers, and sighs breaking the silence. He was thorough, hands moving down Aziraphale’s back. 

When his fingers climbed back up to his neck though, something in Aziraphale’s attention seemed to shift. The pain of the massage had faded as his tense muscles were soothed. As the tension faded, Crowley relaxed his grip. As his fingers worked their way into Aziraphale’s hair, his touch was far more gentle. 

A shift in the wind wafted Crowley’s scent toward him. Aziraphale breathed in deep, his own body coming alive as he read the arousal in the air. With that scent, the feel of Crowley’s fingers skimming along his scalp, thumbs pressed where head met neck, seemed more sensual. Aziraphale’s breath stuttered.

Crowley’s hands slipped away then, and he stepped to the side. Feeling unreasonably bereft, Aziraphale shifted in his chair to look at him. He found he had to swallow hard to find his voice. “Thank you. That was quite nice of you.”

“Nice.” Crowley’s voice was low and rough, his expression unreadable. 

For a heavy beat, they stared at each other. Conversation usually flowed naturally between the two of them, but it was clear they were both at a loss. Aziraphale felt flushed despite the light breeze. His mind, his thoughts, were hectic, each of them popping up only half-formed before flitting away. 

His fingers twitched on the table before Aziraphale gave in to the temptation to touch his husband. He took his hand in a light grip. Crowley took a sharp breath but didn’t pull away. The look in his eyes didn’t falter. Aziraphale brought his hand up, rubbing his thumb along the line of his first finger. “You’re so good with your hands, my dear.”

Honestly, Aziraphale hadn’t meant it quite as it sounded, so seductive. But Crowley didn’t flinch at the words, and so Aziraphale didn’t take them back. He had a very clear idea of what he wanted those hands to do next. 

Before he could decide to take the chance, the sound of someone’s quick step inside the rooms broke the spell that had come over them or, at least, come over Aziraphale. They both looked up, dropping their hands as they did so. 

Mrs. Sandwich peeked her head out the door, her eyes darting between them. “Begging your pardon, highnesses.” She gave a polite nod. “Am I a bother?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and put on a bright smile, squeezing his knees together so that any evidence of the emotion that had rolled through him was hidden from her view. “Not at all.”

“It’s only that I have what you requested, my prince.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, glancing at his husband. Crowley rubbed the back of his head in a self-conscious gesture. “Right,” he said. “Right, tha’s … tha’s good. Uh … come in. Come inside.” Crowley made a furtive gesture from Aziraphale to the door.

“All right?” Aziraphale followed after him, still flustered, his skin anything but cooled. He was still out of sorts as he watched Mrs. Sandwich hand Crowley a small sack. 

”Fantastic,” Crowley said, clearly pleased. 

“I’ll be off to do … well. Something needs doing obviously. I’ll be there. Now. if you’re not needing me,” Mrs. Sandwich said, her eyes darting between Aziraphale and Crowley in a perplexing fashion. 

“Ah. Sure?” Crowley watched, looking just as confused as Aziraphale felt as he watched Mrs. Sandwich retreat quickly. “Th’s fine,” he said and turned his attention to the sack. 

“What do you have there?” Aziraphale asked, curiosity finally breaking the haze of his mind.

”Something for you actually,” Crowley said, producing a green, roundish object. A fruit or vegetable, Aziraphale saw. “S’called a pear. I asked the gardeners to bring me one the moment they were ripe.” He looked up at Aziraphale. “You can be the first Angel to try one.”

”Oh,” Aziraphale said, truly touched. “How marvelous.” He turned it over in his hands when Crowley handed it to him, noting how it felt softer than an apple, like if he pressed, the skin would give way. “Is it … you just bite into it?”

Crowley smirked but nodded. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make fun,” he said around a laugh. “Just strange to see a grown man confused about what to do with fruit.” He held his hands up before Aziraphale could protest. “Not your fault course. But yeah.” He lifted his pear to his mouth, his eyes on Aziraphale as he took a bite. 

There was something about the way he looked just then—his yellow eyes dancing with humor, his teeth sinking into the lush skin of the pear, the sound of it. Aziraphale’s heartbeat picked up, and a tingle spread over every inch of his skin. He could hear his own heartbeat between his ears, some strange, feral feeling roiling at his very core. There was a white noise, like a ringing, that began to drown out rational thought. 

Crowley’s bite was slow, in a way that it was as though Aziraphale could feel his teeth scraping down the skin of his own neck. And when a rivulet of juice dribbled down his chin …

Aziraphale was moving before he knew what was happening. He closed the distance between them, his pear dropping to the floor with a distant thud. He took Crowley’s face in his hands, cupping him beneath his chin. There, he paused, seizing control of his body, his breath erratic, his skin hot. 

Crowley made a soft, strangled noise, clearly startled by Aziraphale’s sudden nearness. He clutched his pear to his chest as though protecting it, but his eyes were on Aziraphale’s, the look in them shocked and wild but not scared. Aziraphale wondered vaguely what he thought he was doing, but he could see the shine of the juice on Crowley’s chin. If he’d ever had any willpower, it faded away like dust as the base emotion roared inside him. 

He ducked his head, pressing his mouth in a kiss below Crowley’s lips. He felt the man shudder, and as he pressed his tongue flat to his chin, he heard him sigh. 

“Mmm,” he heard himself moan as though from a distance as he lapped the juice from his chin in two languid strokes. He pulled back the barest inch so his words rumbled against him. “Delicious.”

The sweet juice of the pear. Crowley’s hot skin. The scent of him swirling, thick with arousal, all around him. Aziraphale’s head swam. He was made of emotion, all thought fading away. He was made of need and knowledge. He knew what to do and how to do it. He knew he would make this man his.

Sliding his hands up to frame Crowley’s face, he kissed him. It was a hard kiss, a commanding one. A kiss that demanded a response. The vibration of Crowley’s surprised, “Mmmm,” made his blood hum. The urge in him, the need, turned feral. He pressed into the kiss again, the need for more growing in him. 

With another, deeper moan, Crowley dropped the pear. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, his body seeming to arch toward him. His mouth opened, welcoming the press of Aziraphale’s tongue. He tasted so sweet, the hint of fruit still strong.

Aziraphale’s hands trailed down to Crowely’s hips. He took him in a firm grip, walking him backward and up against the wall. He feasted on Crowley’s tongue, grinding his hips forward so it was impossible to deny what he felt, what he wanted. With every passing second, the scent of him, of the two of them together, drove Aziraphale’s fervent need. He released Crowley’s mouth and ducked his head to attack his neck, drowning in the sensation, nipping without biting and breathing deep as though he were taking the essence of this man inside of him. And goodness, the noise Crowley made with his fingers tangled in Aziraphale’s hair …

More. More. More.

With a growl, Aziraphale took his husband’s hips again, pulling him away from the wall. He kissed him voraciously even as he spun them around, unwilling to stop his feast. Again, he guided Crowley backward until he bumped into the table. There, he made short work of Crowley’s trousers and lifted him up onto the flat surface.

“What’re … ah … fuck!”  Crowley cried out with a groan, steadying himself with a hand to his shoulder as Aziraphale dropped one, two, three kisses along his pretty cock before he took him in his mouth. 

Crowley always watched him with eager eyes when he tasted something new. And the look in his eyes as Aziraphale experienced and appreciated these new tastes with gusto had always held an intense hint of pleasure. Aziraphale had smelled the change in his scent more than once—pleased, happy omega.

And just like then when Aziraphale took him in deep and raised his eyes, he found his husband watching him. There was fire in his eyes, the pleasure burning bright and bolder than ever. And the scent of him here … if anything, the beast within him grew more frenzied. His own cock strained against his trousers, aching—demanding—he take what was his. 

Mine. Mine. Mine.

But Aziraphale wanted to consume him. To experience him like he had every other new flavor, new texture. To savor and to glut himself on everything Crowley, and then to have him in full.

He worked his husband like a ravenous beast. Not ripping or tearing but bringing him quickly to the brink. He held his hand down on Crowley’s belly to keep him pinned as he thrashed. 

“Gods. Oh, fuck. Oh, no. Agh!” Crowley lost the battle to remain upright quickly, lying back on the table, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other hand clutching Aziraphale’s hair. “What are you … Ahh.”

For minutes, there was a symphony of sound, all the lovely, often profane, cries Crowley made for him. A feast for his ears and his tongue all at once. He could never get enough of this, but his need was insistent. There was more he would take before he was sated.

“I’m, nggghhhh. Azz—. Oh. I’mmmmm—”

Aziraphale growled, feeling the vibration against Crowley’s cock in his mouth. He tapered off into a hum of approval as the added sensation sent Crowley over the edge. 

Crowley’s hips bucked, his back arching up as he found his release. Aziraphale lapped greedily at his tip, swallowing each pulse. When Crowley was spent, he slumped back against the table, panting. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. And gods, he was gorgeous. Aziraphale stood, drinking him in with his eyes as he did. Mine, mine, mine. He pulled his husband up off the table, finding him boneless and pliable, eyes half-lidded, face flushed. The need in him reached fever pitch. He turned Crowley around and pushed him over the table. 

“Ngh,” Crowley grunted, the sound turning into a surprised whimper. His shoulders rose and fell quickly with breathlessness. Though he made no move to stand, he turned slightly, his cheek pressed against the table as he craned his head, watching as Aziraphale made short work of his own trousers. Crowley’s eyes traveled down his body, his scent, rife with desire, thick in the room. His tongue darted out, licking his bottom lip as his eyes lingered on Aziraphale’s swollen cock. 

Need. To have him. To claim him. To bury himself deep inside. Now.

Stepping forward, Aziraphale bent over him, brushing his long hair—haphazard strands of it having fallen out of the bun he’d had it in as he worked in the garden—away from his face. He ducked his head against his husband’s neck, breathing in that heady, perfect scent even as his hand pressed between his legs. Crowley gave a soft moan that Aziraphale could feel against his chest as he leaned over him. He slid his fingers along Crowley’s opening, finding him hot and slick. Crowley moaned again, spreading his legs wider.

The need in Aziraphale screamed, demanding satisfaction. He guided his cock to his husband’s entrance and sheathed himself in one solid stroke. They both yelled out. Aziraphale felt a wave of vertigo at the perfection of it. The heat of him. The feel of him squeezed tight around his cock. 

Worked to a frenzy, Aziraphale wasn’t slow. He took Crowley’s hands, tangling their fingers together over his head as his hips pistoned against him. He buried his nose again at Crowley’s neck, his lips closed around his shoulder, teeth biting down the slightest bit. 

Aziraphale was lost to the sensation of it, chasing a building pressure at his core that threatened to tear him apart. There was the frenetic sound of skin slapping against skin at a frenzied pace. Crowley cried out, the loud wails interspersed with a whining sound at the back of his throat, like he too had lost his words to the intensity of pleasure. Aziraphale’s own groans and grunts were muffled against Crowley’s shoulder. 

Climax approached quickly and with it a very different kind of need. That beast inside him. The one who wanted to stake his claim. He sensed the impending victory and hurtled toward it. 

And in that flash of realization, a single rational thought made its way through the swirling haze of primal need. The swell he felt on the precipice of ballooning outward, finding its mark like a sword being driven into its intended mark, was a knot.

Rut. His mind supplied. He was made for this. He needed this. This was his to take. 

But no. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t what he wanted. Not like this. He couldn’t make the thoughts coalesce, but he had a vague knowledge. A plan to be gentle and in control of his every move when this happened for them. 

He would never know what gave him the strength when every muscle, every bone, every nerve in his body cried out for completion. Made for this, the beast snarled. Take. Claim. But somehow, he pushed backward, sliding out of his husband’s body with a strangled scream. Disoriented and still locked in lust, he fell to his knees, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock as the knot stretched taut beneath his skin and the spasms of his orgasm rocked him, his mind seared bright white. His body jerked several times as he spilled on the floor and finally slumped forward, barely catching himself on his hands. 

He knelt there, trembling. He could hear Crowley, both their breaths ragged in the now over-quiet room. It took Aziraphale several full minutes before his thoughts settled enough to process. His arms were trembling, threatening to send him crashing to the floor to wallow in his own spend. He straightened up, feeling shaky, and put his hands over his eyes. 

What had he done?

He heard the creak of the table as Crowley moved, the rustle of clothes, and then his soft step toward him. He felt when Crowley knelt beside him and put a hand to his back. Aziraphale groaned, shame and guilt washing over him. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice was soft and uncertain. 

Guilt twisted like a knife in his gut, and Aziraphale shuddered. He didn’t know how to face his husband, but he knew he had to. He tried to breathe deep and found his chest too tight to do so. “I am … so incredibly sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I don’t know what …”

But of course, he did know what had come over him. Just as his first rut had left him shaken, so did this second one. “I didn’t mean …” His voice choked, and he closed his eyes, gripping his hands in fists. How he hated the persistent knot at the base of his cock, the ache of it without a warm body somehow worse. “I didn’t want—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “Ngk. Nnn. I don’t …” 

Deeply ashamed, Aziraphale shrugged him off and stood, taking a few shaky steps to where his trousers were crumpled on the floor. He pulled them on, his breath coming in too quick bursts. 

“Did I …” Crowley stuttered. “I don’t understand what’s wrong. If I—”

“No. No. No.” Aziraphale shook his head, the movement more frantic than he wanted. He couldn’t for the life of him seem to calm down. “You’re not—” He gritted his teeth, hands in his hair. “You’re not the mindless, raving creature here.” He raked his hands down his face, writhing in his own skin. “I’ve never … I would never …”

“Are you … do you think you did something wrong? To me?” Crowley asked, taking a cautious step forward.

“Well, I certainly didn’t do anything right by you.” Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never wanted this. He’d never wanted to be one more person taking, taking, taking from his husband. “That … all of that.” He was aware his voice had grown tremulous. “Tossing you about as though you were a doll. And … and …”

Crowley pushed to his feet and went to him, taking him by the arms. He ducked his head, trying to catch his eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t bear to look at him. His husband sighed. “Angel.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, surprise briefly overcoming shame. The demonym when flung by a Demon typically sounded like an insult. Crowley hadn’t ever called him such. But now, his voice soft and his hands gentle, it sounded like an endearment.

And to his shock, Crowley smiled—a smile that held a hint of mischief. “I’d have thought all the … extremely embarrassing caterwauling was, ah … rather indicative of how I felt about the matter.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed hot, a wave of desire washing over him at the memory. He ducked his head but allowed the idea to take hold. “At the very least, it was impolite.”

“Wasn’t it just,” Crowley said, amusement rife in his tone.

Arching an eyebrow, Aziraphale looked at him with caution. Crowley’s grin only grew wider, his hands slipping down to light on Aziraphale’s sides with soft pressure. “Suppose it is ungentlemanly behavior. I go through all the trouble to secure you the very first taste of a pear and look at that. Tossed to the floor.”

“Oh, the pears,” Aziraphale said, his voice mournful, his eyes wide as he swung around to look at the discarded fruit. 

Crowley chuckled. He reached out, his hand to the side of Aziraphale’s face, guiding him back to look at him. “It wasn’t bad … for me. Miles in the other direction.” A faint whiff of Crowley-scented lust swirled between them—just a hint to go along with the slight flush of his cheeks. “Realized what was happening pretty quickly. But, ah … it hit you unexpectedly, I take it.”

Shuddering, Aziraphale closed his eyes. “If I’d understood sooner … we could have discussed it, well … properly.”

“Hmm. Possibly. Dunno. Words are …” He huffed. “I dunno that I would have known what I wanted. Heat of the moment and all …” He gave a small shrug. “It all … mnnnn, worked. For me. Corrrr, but it really worked for me.”

In spite of himself—as horrifically off-kilter as he still felt at the moment—Aziraphale’s lips twitched up. There was no room to doubt Crowley’s word. Desire still laced the air, and more than that, Aziraphale smelled no fear on the man, not then and not during the act. “If I had hurt you …” he whispered.

“You didn’t.” Crowley, his hands slipping around to his back. “Can I …” He pressed, giving Aziraphale the impression he wanted to pull him into his arms.

It was a novel idea, and one Aziraphale found himself over-eager for. He shuffled forward, though keeping his hips—the remaining evidence of the knot—carefully away. When Crowley cupped the back of his hair, guiding him to rest with his head against his neck, Aziraphale actually whimpered. He wrapped his arms around his husband’s middle, breathing in his tilled-dirt scent, some of the tension draining out of him as Crowley began to rub his back in a soothing motion. An old emotion welled in Aziraphale then. How long had it been since someone had held him? Comforted him? He’d have said it wasn’t something he needed, but goodness, did it feel good. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, his lips against Aziraphale’s hair. “Was it just the, ah, rut or … I mean, would you have wanted … without that?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale raised his head. He gave a light, only slightly maniacal laugh. “Oh, Crowley.” He leaned back into him, hiding his face. “It’s been a long time since bedding you would be only a duty,” he admitted into the cloth of his shirt. 

“Tha’s good. Tha’s nice.” Crowley too sighed, resting his head against Aziraphale’s. “You know I don’t like the ahhh … the loss of control of it all. Been dreading that bit myself, haven’t I?” He cleared his throat. “But as we neither can help it, you should know … it’s a good bet you’ll find me willing, no matter the circumstance.”

As it happened, the knot had just begun to release when Aziraphale’s cock twitched at the idea. He took a step back, out of Crowley’s arms, trying to find balance again, disconcerted by the wild swing of his emotions from horror to pleasure. He ran a hand over his eyes and huffed with quiet laughter, raising his eyes to his husband’s. “Would that we could have said so before.” He took a deep, cleansing breath. “I never would have expected, especially as you haven’t, well, popped off.”

Crowley scoffed. “Yes, well. I expect my body’s just a bit more stubborn than yours, that’s all.” He reached out, his touch tentative as he cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. When Aziraphale leaned into the touch, Crowley put his other hand on his waist, leaning forward. “For my money, s’probably what happens when you’re in constant close proximity to an omega who’s mad for you.”

Aziraphale felt his eyelashes flutter as he let that idea wash over him. His lips turned up with a soft, “oh.” 

It was the most natural thing in the world to tilt his head up and brush his lips with Crowley’s. And as they melted together into a soft, lingering kiss, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder at the world. This man was his. His husband. Though they had kissed before—to seal their wedding vows and in the heat of passion—this was, in many ways, their first real kiss. 

And what a good kiss it was, as tender and wondering as if this was the first taste they’d had of each other. Delightful thrills chased each other down Aziraphale’s spine. When they broke, they stayed together on their feet, Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around Crowley’s waist and Crowley’s around Aziraphale’s neck. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Is there … any possibility there was a third pear in that bag?” 

Crowley chortled as he lifted his head, his grin wide. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had gifted him a horse. It was a fine creature—glossy black coat and a fine black mane. When he brought it around, it was simply dressed—only a saddle and a blanket—but it would do him proud should he ever need to use it in any official capacity. 

The thing was Crowley was much more of a carriage person. He hinted that it looked to be strong; the type to pull a small carriage by itself. But they, apparently, had horses for that. This one was for riding. 

“Hard on the buttocks, horses,” Crowley muttered when Aziraphale prodded his worry out of him. 

“Come now, my dear. Don’t look at a horse’s teeth when it’s been gifted to you.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Crowley shook his head fondly. “And I’m not. He’s, ah … majestic. You did ask.”

“So I did.” Aziraphale gave the creature a satisfactory pat. “As it happens, I don’t much like riding either, but we’re not going far.” He ducked his head, leaning in close to Crowley. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”

With a rush of eagerness, Crowley tried to kiss him. But Aziraphale turned, walking over to his own horse. “Come along then. We don’t want to lose the daylight. Pip, pip.”

As Aziraphale promised, they weren’t riding very far. It was only a short ride from the castle gates. They headed off with a small retinue—just their attendants and two guardsmen. And these, Aziraphale set at the head of a trail that wound a short way down the hillside to an alcove by the sea. 

It was a private spot. Large enough for a more limited gathering—a day at the beach with the extended family perhaps—but largely inaccessible. As such, the guards and their attendants could wait above while Aziraphale and Crowley went on below.

There was a raised platform built along the rock. This was, Aziraphale explained, where Gabriel and Azrael sat when they had cause to entertain down here. However, just then, it was cleared of anything so stately. Instead, the majority of the space was taken by a carpet and, over that, a blanket and several cushions. Clean drapes hung at the corners, gently swaying in the breeze. It was clear Aziraphale had gone to some lengths to set this up for them. 

They had the picnic lunch Aziraphale brought—Crowley’s strawberries, cheese, good bread, and better wine. And then, Aziraphale said he would show him the true meaning of “hard on the buttocks” indeed.

And that was the day Crowley found out his husband was clever. And a little bit of a bastard. Just enough to be worth knowing. 

Afterward, Crowley lay on the blanket while Aziraphale knelt over him, his eyes roaming over him, their fingers loosely joined over Crowley's chest. 

“You look so lovely with your hair like that.” He reached out, brushing a single finger along the top of his head. Crowley had flipped all his hair out from under him so that it fanned out above him. He considered making some sarcastic quip but found he liked this newfound sweetness. He liked the way his husband looked at him as though admiring a fine painting. He liked it nearly as much as when Aziraphale looked at him as though Crowley were a fine meal, and he was primed for a feast.

Eventually, they rose again, dressed and explored the little beach. Feeling in the mood to show off, Crowley scaled the rock outcropping quickly, only grinning when his husband gave a squawk of nervousness. “That’s fairly high …”

Crowley looked down. “No worries then. I’ll just move over this way, shall I?” He began moving horizontally across the rocks toward the sea. “That way, should I fall, it’ll be right into the water.”

“Into the crashing waves?” Aziraphale’s voice squeaked higher in panic. “Crowley.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley assured him in all seriousness. It was a novel thing to have someone care so much about his welfare. “Really. Surefooted, me.”

He was about to climb down when a movement caught his eye. From his vantage point, he could see over the rocks to a wider beach. He spotted two figures under a copse of trees. One, he knew even from this distance, was his sibling Beelzebub. He couldn’t be sure, but the taller figure standing near them looked to be the Angel king.

They did spend much of their time in each other’s company, so it wasn't a terribly unusual sight. That was before he saw them come together. He started, thinking at first that they were fighting, grappling. In spite of everything, he was terrified for his sibling. The king’s guard was always nearby.

But then, Crowley realized the guards were nowhere in sight.

And they weren’t fighting. 

Startled, Crowley lost his footing on the rock. He slid a few feet down before he caught himself.

“Crowley!”

“’M fine.” Crowley forced himself to concentrate long enough to find his footing and scramble down. “Safe bet you never climbed a tree as a boy.” 

“Oh, I did.” Aziraphale fixed him with a stern look. “Well, one of those trees where the branch swoops down and makes a very handy seat. Good for reading.”

Crowley smirked and kissed the tip of his nose.

~.0.~

For the rest of that day and into the next, Crowley pondered what he had seen. Surely from a distance, he must have misunderstood. But no. For one thing, no well-born person would even stand so close to someone else’s spouse. That alone was a scandal waiting to happen. And if they had been struggling, it was as Crowley had originally thought—the king’s guards would have come running. 

Crowley hadn’t even seen the guards, which meant that either King Gabriel had sent them away—meaning they were close but as invisible as possible, likely past the treeline—or the pair had slipped them all, guards and servants alike. Either way, the action showed intent. 

No. Crowley was certain. His sibling, the future Sovereign of Hell, had kissed the King of Heaven with intent. With passion. The idea made Crowley’s stomach roil. Not, of course, because the king was an Angel but because the king was Gabriel. He’d have thought Beelzebub had more self-respect than that. 

And here they were—the both of them—constantly in Crowley’s face about his duty, about decorum, about whether or not he was letting his husband bed him, and they were … galavanting. Surely, if someone was walking the line of ruining this very tenuous peace, it was them. A scandal like this, the both of them married with children, would tear both kingdoms apart.

At that thought, he was overcome with worry. All of this could fall apart so easily. And despite everything—despite the jeers he heard and ignored when they were in town, despite the Metatron treating his body as a thing to be prodded and studied, despite Carmine and that blasted bastard Sandalphon—the last thing Crowley wanted was to go back to war. 

The idea of finding himself facing Aziraphale on the battlefield … it was unimaginable. Completely intolerable. 

But, realistically, it could never happen. If the peace treaty fell through, there was no chance any Demon was getting out of Eden alive. 

Crowley pondered whether he should confront Beelzebub and found that he wanted to talk to Aziraphale about it all. The situation felt far too precarious and combustible all at once. Crowley’s duties during the war had always been background work. Move a piece here, whisper in an ear there, and watch chaos ensue. Direct diplomacy? Never had been his strong suit. 

Crowly wasn't sure he wanted to get into a discussion of the politics of both war and this new peace with his  husband. While it was clear Aziraphale didn’t think Demons were lesser beings, he had said a few off-handed things about some of the actions taken by the Demons during their era of the war. Things Crowley knew for a fact had a context he wasn’t considering, and he wasn’t considering them strictly because he found it easy to believe Demons were wicked. 

It wasn’t his fault really. They’d both been brought up that way. Crowley had had to check his own bias several times over. Certainly, the Angels were an arrogant lot across the board, but no person was only one thing. 

Which, he supposed, led him right back to the king. Gabriel Archer, king of Heaven, who had been open to Beelzebub’s plans for peace. Not surrender. Peace. Crowley frowned as he wondered if he had to give his royal smugness some measure of credit. While he made no secret that he thought Crowley to be inferior, he’d shown every respect to Bea. Clearly, he’d shown more than respect to them. 

Crowley shuddered. That wasn’t an image he needed in his head. 

He started when Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him from behind. They both froze. These kinds of tender moments were new territory for both of them in so many ways. Neither of them had been this kind of intimate with anyone, both preferring to have indulged only in the odd casual liaison. But they’d admitted they fancied each other, and now there was this road to navigate. 

But what a wonderful road it was.

Aziraphale loosened his hold, but before he could slip away, Crowley caught his hand, keeping it pinned against his belly. He relaxed, melting backward. He heard Aziraphale’s soft sigh, felt the heat of his breath against his ear as he pressed against Crowley’s back. He felt the tickle of his nose as Aziraphale nuzzled his neck.

Crowley closed his eyes, the tiniest thrill of fear running through his blood as he tilted his head. He wasn’t afraid of his husband. Quite the opposite, he was afraid to trust this. The emotion in him. The idea that this could be real.

That he could trust he could have something that made him feel such bliss.

Aziraphale brushed his hair off one shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to the bared skin of Crowley’s neck. Thought slipped away from him with a sigh. He reached back to run his hand through Aziraphale’s hair, any semblance of fear easing into pure contentment he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. As Aziraphale dropped light kisses from neck to shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, a fluttering built in Crowley’s throat, coming out as a deep purr. 

“You’re happy,” Aziraphale said, tangling their fingers together against Crowley’s belly.

Crowley hummed his agreement. He couldn’t deny, in this moment, that he was. 

And he wasn’t about to break that happiness by bringing Gabriel and Beelzebub into it, but now, he thought he could.

“I do so like these vests of yours,” Aziraphale said, drawing a finger along the line of busks that closed the black corset vest. “You’re quite fetching in these. Have I told you?”

“May have mentioned it.” Crowley shivered with a delicious thrill as his husband traced the red stripes that lined each seam. His head felt rather swimmy. He had, in his many travels and visits to taverns with darkened corners, had the occasion to try various concoctions and pipes full of interesting plants. None of them had made him this buoyant.

He was about to turn around, get a proper kiss, when there was a sharp rap on the wall. “Begging your pardon, highnesses,” Madam Tracy said, poking her head around the door. 

“You’ll be late if you dally much longer,” Mrs. Sandwich said, arms crossed and a knowing look on her face. Crowley leveled a glare at her. She did a little head nod, one eyebrow quirked, gently mocking. Crowley smiled. 

“Goodness, it did get late, didn’t it.” Aziraphale adjusted his waistcoat and tilted his chin up in a regal posture. His smile though, as he turned to Crowley, was soft. He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

It was the first time since Aziraphale’s rut that they were venturing out amongst the others. The first time since Crowley, in some kind of post-sex haze, had spoken out loud words he hadn’t even acknowledged in his own head.

“This is going to be interesting,” he muttered darkly as they approached the dining hall. Too many people in that room thought they had a right to know or—worse—decide what his relationship with his husband should look like. 

But the thought slipped away as they entered. The dining hall was busier than usual. When their presence had been specifically requested, it was easy to assume there would be visiting dignitaries, but this seemed all too much bustle for a regular visit. 

Crowley faltered a step when he saw a familiar face. A Demon servant—not his or Beelzebub’s but familiar. He leaned in to whisper in his husband’s ear. “My uncle is here.”

“Prince Hastur?” Aziraphale asked softly. “That’s an odd choice, given what you’ve told me.”

“An odd choice for what?”

“Well, at the last council meeting I was asked to sit in on, they were talking about emissaries to ease tensions in areas of greater unrest.” 

“An emissary?” Crowley scoffed. “Bad idea doesn’t begin to cover it.” He lapsed into silence as they entered the hall, his heart and thoughts racing as he considered. His eyes darted around the room, which was filled with unfamiliar Angels and a handful of semi-familiar Demons. 

His uncle smirked at him, his lip curling when his eyes traveled down to where Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s arm. Making a little, “humph,” noise, Aziraphale put his hand over Crowley’s in a gesture that was both possessive and protective. Crowley looked about the room until he spotted his sibling headed toward a door out of the room. 

“Going to have a chat with Bea,” he said quickly, only for Aziraphale to hear lest anyone else pick up on the lack of honorific. He didn’t wait for assent but strode across the room in a hurry to catch up with his sibling. 

In the hallways just outside the doors, they turned when they heard Crowley call their name. He greeted them with a quick bow for the benefit of the milling guests. “A word, if I may?”

Their eyes narrowed in suspicion, but they nodded, gesturing with their chin down a secondary hallway where they might find themselves away from prying ears. 

“Good to see you up and about, dear brother,” they said with a sneer that was really quite perfunctory for what they were capable of. “We all feared you might be ill, having not seen you for some days.”

“Yes. Fine,” Crowley said, far too distracted to rise to their bait. Anyhow, they both knew Beelzebub could have no quarrel with the fact he likely still smelled of sex. 

Which, it occurred to Crowley then to wonder why he couldn’t smell the Angel king on his sibling. He could have been wrong about what he’d seen …

Or they’d long since gotten good at hiding it.

Either way, Hastur was a more pressing issue. “Is it true these visitors are all to be emissaries.”

They narrowed their eyes. “What do you know about it?”

Crowley tossed his head in irritation. “Oh, can we skip the whole tired bit where you pretend I’m an empty-headed know-nothing? I’m asking you if Uncle Hastur is here for that because that is … not on.”

“I don’t consult you in matters of state, Anthony.”

“Clearly.” Crowley huffed. “Look, I don’t know why you’re being antagonistic about this. You’ve gambled my life here. You think I’m not invested?”

They cocked an eyebrow. “That the only reason you’re invested, is it?”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t much matter if I’m not here to enjoy it one way or another, izit?”

Beelzebub scoffed but nodded. “Fair enough. Then what do you have against our kin?” Their eyes were shrewd. “I’ll admit Hastur isn’t the first person I’d think of for any diplomatic relations …”

Crowley cocked his head, studying them a beat. “No. No, you’re far cleverer than that, aren’t you?”

“Course I am,” they said with a snort. “I’d know better than anyone how hard Hastur fought against this, wouldn’t I?” They tilted their chin up. “He needed to be reminded of his place, of where his loyalty should lie. With me. With our family and the greater good of all Demons.” Their lip twitched. “And he’ll be with people I trust to keep an eye and ear out. Better we know what he’s up to than letting him wander alone.”

At that, the nerves that had twisted in Crowley’s gut when he saw his uncle settled. He, of all people, knowing how much it rankled to be underestimated, should have given his sibling the benefit of the doubt. He considered a moment, trying to find the right words. 

“You know, it’s just you and me here. I was raised the same as you. The histories. The strategy. My education wasn’t ignored when I presented as omega. I was an asset in the war when it was asked of me.”

“You hated fighting. Did everything you could to get out of it.”

“While still accomplishing what was requested of me,” he said evenly. “The only thing I needed to do to get out of the fighting was present as omega, and you know it. Besides, that’s just one more reason for me to be invested in peace.” He waited a beat as they stared at him dubiously. “I’m only saying we want the same thing, and if I can be of use …” He rolled his eyes and hurried on before they could make the obvious point. “And I mean beyond making halflings.”

“Not that you’re any good at that,” Beelzebub said, but they were mostly teasing. 

He paused a beat, studying them before his lip curled at one corner. “You try it.”

“Pass.” They offered him a small smile. “Right then. I hear you. I’ll keep it in mind.” They looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Though, seems like you may yet succeed at your original purpose.”

Crowley turned and saw that Aziraphale had poked his head around the corner and was glancing down the hallway at them, a concerned look on his face. 

“I do believe that Angel actually likes you,” Beelzebub said, sounding amused. 

“Uh huh.” Crowley had to bite back his smirk when King Gabriel appeared behind Aziraphale, his expression relieved, his eyes on Beelzebub. “Doesn’t he just.”

“There you are,” Gabriel said, coming toward them. 

Knowing the king wasn’t looking for him, Crowley dodged around him, taking the hand his husband extended to him. 

Over the course of dinner, Beelzebub and Gabriel explained to the gathered guests the mission of the emissaries. Hastur was designated as an emissary to the Angel State of Megiddo where he would bring them the avocados he’d brought from Hell as an offering. The lands were prime soil for a field. 

Toward the end of the evening, Crowley waited somewhat impatiently. Across the room, his husband was in deep conversation with another Angel. Sometimes, Aziraphale was entirely too social. It was getting harder not to think about whether he was going to seduce his husband this evening and if so, how? He had some ideas.  But if he indulged in that line of thought, there would be no hiding what he was thinking about. 

“You reek of that Angel,” a voice snarled, low and menacing, near his ear. 

Crowley twisted in his seat. “That was rather the point,” he said to his uncle, making his voice bored. 

“So. Wot’s it like then? To be an Angel’s little whore?” Hastur sneered as he slid into the seat next to Crowley’s.

“Wouldn’t know.” Crowley brought his goblet to his lips, sipping slowly, his cool gaze locked with his uncle’s. “And look at you. Emissary to the Angels.”

Hastur scowled. “This … farce is lasting longer than I expected. I’ll give you that.”

“And here you are playing your part in it, hmm?” He set his goblet down and crossed his legs as though this were nothing but friendly girl chat. “Building good will toward the Demons.”

Hastur’s glare was full of malevolence, and his slow grin was deeply unsettling. “That’s the plan.” His eyes darted somewhere in the near distance. He pushed to his feet, jutting his chin in the direction he was looking. “Your master beckons.”

Crowley didn’t move, watching his uncle stride to the doors. He saw a duo of guards peel themselves off the wall and follow at a discreet distance. He looked to the side and saw Beelzebub watching them as well. When their eyes met, they shared a grimace. 

When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, the irritation eased almost instantly. He rose and turned, meeting Aziraphale’s soft eyes. “Well, I hope that scintillating conversation was worthwhile,” he said, letting his husband pull him to his side. He leaned in, breathing in Aziraphale’s soothing scent, and whispered in his ear. “I had thought we might have an, ah … private conversation of our own.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows jumped. “You had thought?”

“I had, but you carried on so long …” He made a show of yawning as they walked from the room. “Now, I’m rather tired. Might go to sleep early.”

“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale hummed. “That’s understandable. But, ah … well. Let’s see how you feel once we’re alone.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was late. 

Aziraphale looked at his pocket watch for the fifth time and put it away. He wasn’t worried. How could he be worried? Crowley was out at the orphanage again, he and Carmine both on their now weekly visit. They were both well attended. Surely, if something was wrong, the whole palace would have heard by now. 

Then again, their rooms were far from the throne room. If there was something going on, surely it would be at the center of the castle. Perhaps it was time for a walk. He was, he was sure, being silly. Any number of perfectly harmless things could have happened. Crowley could have been distracted, playing with the children.

He tried to calm himself, but he couldn’t shake the thought that something was wrong. 

And so it was no real surprise when, only a minute later, he heard the door open and quick footfalls in his direction. He turned as Madam Tracy stepped into the room, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of having run here from wherever she had been. “Pardon the interruption, highness, but you’ll want to see about the fuss in the King’s quarters.”

Aziraphale was out of his seat and striding to the door before she’d finished speaking. “What’s happened?”

“Not sure, sire, as I’m not permitted in. It’s only I heard his highness’s name.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to ask which highness. He picked up his pace. The farther into the palace he got, the more signs of agitation were present. Servants and guards bustled about with worried expressions. The sound of many feet going somewhere quickly echoed. 

But as he reached his brother’s private wing, the stench of fear and anger hit like a wall. The air was thick with mingled scents, all of them overpowering. A growl built low in his chest, his blood heating, his body readying for a fight though he wouldn’t have known where to start. 

He had just enough time to take in the fact that Gabriel stood in a defensive stance, his arms crossed over his chest, with Regent Beelzebub behind him—as though he were protecting them, though they weren’t cowering—before Sandalphon was stalking toward him. “You. Did you know? Did you know!”

“Know what?” He held his hands out in a stopping gesture though his body was coiled, ready to throw himself into the fight.

With his brother? 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” Sandalphon hissed, stepping up to Aziraphale, in his face  without touching him.”You think I haven’t seen how much you actually like that snake in your bed?”

Aziraphale’s hackles raised. “You mean my husband?” His voice was low, more dangerous than he’d ever known it could be. 

“You knew. Don’t lie to me. You knew what he was doing.”

”What are you accusing my husband of, Sandalphon?”

”Nothing,” Gabriel said. With a hand on each of their chests, he pushed them apart, his eyes on Sandalphon. “Absolutely nothing.” The word was a command. He held his gaze a beat and looked at Aziraphale. “He’s overcome.”

”By. What?” Aziraphale said through clenched teeth. His body craved action, but he didn’t know where to direct it.

”You—”

”Sandalphon,” Gabriel said in a loud tone. 

With a snarl, Sandalphon turned away from them both and stalked across the room.

Gabriel sighed and looked back at Aziraphale. “Anthony and Carmine were visiting the orphanage, as you know. Well, when they were there, one of the children … Well. He died.”

Aziraphale straightened up, shocked. 

“Of Hellfire,” Gabriel said.

”Yes. Of the Demon’s wretched disease,” Sandalphon said, coming back at them, pointing his finger at Aziraphale. “And now, Carmine is stricken.”

For an endless handful of seconds, all Aziraphale could think of was Crowley—sick and dying of the dreaded disease far away from him. He swore his heart stopped. But then, rationality caught up with him. Of course. Crowley was a Demon, and he was safe. 

“The matron recognized the first markers of the disease in Carmine, and it’s moving quickly for her. The orphanage has been quarantined,” Gabriel said quietly. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, the enormity of the horror settling over him like a lead weight. 

“You left my wife to die,” Sandalphon snarled. 

“You know I had no choice.” Gabriel tried to put a hand to Sandalphon’s shoulder but their brother jerked away. “You know how quickly that disease spreads. She has no chance. There is no cure. What could we have done if we brought her here?”

“So Crowley is stuck there then,” Aziraphale said, processing.

“No,” the Demon regent said, their eyes darting between Aziraphale and Sandalphon. “Anthony could have left. He chose to stay to help nurse the ill.”

“How very convenient,” Sandalphon sneered. “You think I can’t see beyond that thin veil of altruism. You did this.” He swung to Aziraphale. “Your husband did this, and if you knew, Aziraphale—”

“That’s enough,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying a hint of vibration that filled the room. If any omega had been present, they might have cowered. Gabriel rolled his shoulders as though dispelling irritation. It was an obvious effort for him to gentle his features. “You’re bereft. Stop before you say something you’ll regret.”

“I know what I see. We’ve kept that disease out of Eden for hundreds of years, Gabriel. How can you be so thick as to believe it’s a coincidence it reappears when they do? You let the snakes into Eden.”

“Sandalphon.” Gabriel’s voice was steady but dangerous. “You come close to treason.” He made a gesture, and his closest attendant came forward. “My brother is in mourning.”

“Not mourning,” Sandalphon shouted. “She isn’t dead. She’s abandoned with only her murderer to tend to her.”

“See to it that he makes it to his rooms,” Gabriel continued, ignoring Sandalphon’s snarls. He turned to a second attendant. “You, find the Metatron. Tell him I wish to give my brother the mercy of sleep. I’m sure he has some concoction that will help.”

“Gabriel, you can’t do this.”

Gabriel turned to Sandalphon, taking him by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “You’re not thinking clearly. This is--will be--a heavy loss for all of us. You know we must act quickly and succinctly to contain this tragedy, but that’s not something you need to be a part of. Sleep. Rest. As soon as the danger has passed, Carmine will lie in state so her people can mourn her.”

“Open your eyes. They came from evil, and they still are. Every one of them.” But by then, the guards had come up behind him. They were gentle but firm, propelling him away from Gabriel.

Aziraphale bit down the anger that stung like bile at the back of his throat. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, brother.”

“She isn’t dead!” Sandalphon roared. 

Aziraphale said nothing. They all knew she would be if she weren't already. It would be a miracle if every soul in the orphanage wasn’t lost.

Every soul except for Crowley and his Demon attendants.

Sandalphon’s features twisted. He wrested himself free of his guards with a mighty cry and lunged at Aziraphale. He grabbed him by his lapels and yanked him forward so they were face to face, nose to nose. “If she dies, I will end him. Your little snake will get what he deserves.”

Luckily, the guards dragged Sandalphon back and away before Aziraphale could lose his grip on the last shred of his compassion. He could hardly see for the rage that burned in him. His whole body tensed with one instinct: protect, protect, protect. It was a base emotion, and one entirely without rationality. As he watched the guards propel Sandalphon away, he held himself ramrod straight, hands in fists at his sides.

It was seconds before Aziraphale was sure his voice was under control. He looked to his eldest brother, his king. “Is he safe?” 

Gabriel furrowed his brow. “Your husband? You know he’s immune from the disease.”

”That’s not what I mean,” he bit out, his tone harsher than he’d ever dared use with Gabriel. 

It was, again, Regent Beelzebub who answered. “The entire orphanage is surrounded by guards to prevent anyone from getting in.” Or coming out, they did not need to say. 

Aziraphale nodded slowly, some measure of relief sinking in. Sandalphon’s threats aside, he wouldn’t be the only Angel who would suspect this was a plot. He nodded again and turned on his heel.

”Where are you going?” Gabriel asked, tone sharp. 

“To assist.” The need to see Crowley with his own eyes was powerful. 

If he weren’t so wrapped up in worry, he might have registered surprise when he heard Gabriel’s quick step toward him. His brother gripped his arm, pulling him backward. “You know you can’t do that.”

”There must be some way I can help.”

”You can stay here.” Gabriel shook his head. “Carmine’s loss is going to make the unrest all the worse. Don’t add another prince to the list.”

Beelzebub stepped up beside Gabriel, their eyes intent on Aziraphale’s. “If you want to help Anthony, you’ll keep yourself safe.” They grimaced. “If you were to die, imagine what people would think? They would believe your Demon husband killed you.”

Aziraphale balked, his stomach doing an uncomfortable flip. “Right,” he said, reeling. There had to be something he could do.

~.0.~

He got as close as he could. Given the proximity of the disease, several nobles had decamped to homes farther down the coast. They were happy to offer up their homes to their prince. Aziraphale moved into an estate by that first night where he could see the orphanage and the sprawling city from a certain corner of the garden.

There was a pall over the city, a vibration he could almost feel against his skin. 

The death knell had wrung across the city just before dawn broke after that first, impossibly long night. Aziraphale had never been close to Carmine. Truth be told, he’d found the woman deeply unsettling at times. But she and Sandalphon had been a well-matched set. Aziraphale couldn’t know if there had been love there, but there had been a deep appreciation. Away from Sandalphon’s accusations, Aziraphale was filled with compassion. His heart ached for his brother’s profound loss.

Dawn stretched into day. Servants came and went both to and from the palace and the orphanage. He was assured repeatedly that his husband was safe. More than that, he was essential. He’d given selflessly of himself, working through the night and, even now, hadn’t paused to rest.

It was a message Aziraphale heard from Lady Anathema, who came to visit him in his vigil, that had been spread throughout the city. There were many who echoed Sandalphon’s suspicions of the Demons, but here was a viable counterargument. Crowley had ordered the matron and the children who were showing no signs of the disease into another room and made sure they didn’t come out. He’d seen to everything for both the healthy and the sick, all of his personal attendants following his command diligently. 

His sibling too had stood beside the king when he came out onto the balcony to address the people. They spoke briefly, assuring the people their kingdoms were working together to search for a way to eradicate the twin poxes of Hellfire and Holy Water. 

The city, like much of the countryside, was divided. But no one moved against the Demons. By that afternoon, all the citizens of Eden seemed to be in motion. They gathered to comfort each other and began preparations. In two-day’s time, the bodies could be safely retrieved—that of the princess, the five orphan children, and the nursemaid who had died so far. 

Gabriel’s people moved swiftly through the city, quarantining the families of anyone who’d had contact with the children—the driver of the carriage who had brought the first stricken child in some days before and all of his assistants. The boys who’d made any deliveries. The girls from the school who had visited.

By that evening, a handful of citizens in the main city were ill, three had died. The tension in the too-still air was palpable.

Aziraphale could only be glad Crowley had Mrs. Sandwich. He didn’t know what either of them would have done—Crowley without her steadfast help and Aziraphale only coping knowing his husband had someone with him through this terror.

In Crowley’s sacrifice, Aziraphale found the will to tear himself away from the garden. He invited the families of anyone in quarantine to visit with him. He offered a hot meal and what comfort he could.

He didn’t sleep the second night any more than he had the first. He’d written several letters by that point that had gone unanswered by his husband. He was more worried now that the man was running himself into exhaustion. 

The next morning, he was awakened by Madam Tracy. “There’s a visitor for you.” The fact she’d brought his robe to him had him wide awake in a heartbeat. If it were someone he could dress down around …

But it was Mrs. Sandwich who waited for him in the parlor. Still, he only knew a moment’s disappointment before he rushed to her, too happy to see someone who had been close to Crowley. But she raised her hands to ward him off before he could wrap his arms around her.

“Beggin’ your pardon, your highness. It’s only I promised our prince I’d keep my distance. He doesn’t want to take the chance. You understand.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said. After all, though he knew Crowley was immune to the disease, worry crept in day and night that it would somehow claim him anyway. Though his body, once again, craved action—to run, to do something—he forced himself to sit opposite her. “Please, dear. Tell me. How is … How are you?”

Her smile was tired, her usually cheery face drawn and pale. “Och, I know you’re not asking about me, highness.”

“Oh, no. I am. I do. Care.” And he did. He was concerned for this woman who took care of Crowley so well. 

“I know you do. And I’m fine, highness. All things considered.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a paper tied with a simple string. She set it on the table between them.

Unashamed of his eagerness, Aziraphale reached out and grabbed the paper. He untied the string and unfolded it, breathing out a sigh when he saw his husband’s handwriting. He raised the paper to his face, inhaling to catch the faint scent that was all Crowley, before he held it away to read.

We never spoke of what gods we follow. Myself? I don’t know that I believe in any. If you do, give your prayers not to me but to these children. It’s not fair that they’ve lost so much only to die here. Like this. 

I’m sorry for not coming home. I have to do what I can. The few people in their lives who show them any care couldn’t help them. Someone had to.

In your last letter, you felt the need to assure me you didn’t blame me or mine. I can imagine why you felt you had to say so. Some of the older children were scared of us. That was difficult, especially for the one who passed in pain and in fear, not letting any of us comfort him. 

Carmine was among those who believed we had something to do with this. As she and her husband are of similar mind, I can only imagine what he has to say. There’s no love lost between the three of us, but I need you to believe that I wouldn’t wish this on either of them. I wrote to Sandalphon, and I’ll tell you, as he’s unlikely to believe me. But she was strong and fierce to the end. 

This I will tell you so you can tell your nephews some day when they’re old enough. At the very end, Carmine did let me give her what comfort I could. I believe she understood at that point this wasn’t something we planned or wanted. She told me, when she was very young and first understood that her duty to the War was inescapable, the idea terrified her. So she made herself the embodiment of it—all objective with no emotion. Vigilance. Violence, She said she made herself cold, so much so that when her children were born, she hardened her heart against the love she felt. She watched so many parents lose their children to war and children their parents. She wants them to know she regrets how little love she showed them, and that, in truth, her love for them was bigger than the sky. 

She said she hoped this peace would survive so they would know a different life, and so they could love their children freely.

If there is any mercy to this at all, it’s that it will be over soon. 

Please be safe.

Aziraphale let the letter drop to his lap, his hand in a fist pressed tight against his mouth. He closed his eyes against the tears that spilled over at the corners. 

It was all so much. He had, as they all had, been raised in war. Loss was nothing new. Death was a frequent visitor. But death was not always such a personal experience. 

Crowley was being the most princely of all of them at the moment. These young, vulnerable citizens were theirs. Their people. Who else would mourn them if they didn’t? Carmine’s funeral would be well attended, but what of the children?

It was perhaps a privilege of peace to make death meaningful again. 

He breathed in through his nose and out again. A light squeeze to his shoulder helped him center. He looked up, unsurprised to find Madam Tracy gazing down at him with a sympathetic expression. She squeezed his shoulder again and bustled forward, pouring tea into cups she’d set out for both him and Mrs. Sandwich. 

“He’s running himself a bit ragged, truth be told,” she said when Aziraphale pushed gently for details. “Not that there was much rest in those early hours.” Her haunted expression spoke volumes. “But he naps off and on.”

All too soon, it was time for Mrs. Sandwich to return. Aziraphale was both eager for this, for her to return to Crowley’s side, and dreading seeing her go. He hated thinking of anyone in the dark and dreary reality Mrs. Sandwich had described.

The hollow ache in his chest intensified the farther Mrs. Sandwich walked down the path. His eyes stung. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. 

He couldn’t have imagined what life would be after the war. He could never have imagined any of this. Not the dangers, and he certainly could never imagine he could miss anyone as much as he missed his husband.

~.0.~

It was another week before the danger was over. All things considered, it was probably better Crowley was still sequestered away with the other survivors until everyone could be sure the disease couldn’t find a foothold. Sandalphon was still muttering about the role the Demons might have played in his wife’s death. Aziraphale saw the way he glared at Beelzebub, and as much as he wanted his husband by his side, he was glad not to have to contend with his protective instinct.

All in all, seventeen people—too many of them children—had died. All things considered, they’d gotten off light as these things went. Both Hellfire and Holy Water had wreaked havoc when they’d first been unleashed. Holy Water, Aziraphale knew, had wiped out whole Demon cities in the past. But the mood in the air was more wary than relieved. It was so soon after everyone, Angel and Demon alike, had been convinced that, with the war over, they could take a deep breath.

The morning it was declared anyone who was still quarantined could come out, Aziraphale rode in a carriage to the orphanage flanked by nearly an entire platoon of guards. It was hard to know what to expect. Anathema had told him on her last visit that the murmurings about what Crowley had been doing in that orphanage where their princess had gone in and not come out alive were quiet but persistent. 

Aziraphale did his best to give reassuring smiles to the people who came to watch. He was their prince, and he knew many of them looked to him to understand how to react to what had happened here. Inside, though, it was all he could do not to run into the building to get his husband out. So he stood, cape billowing in the wind.

But when the door opened, and little children and sullen teenagers spilled out, Aziraphale found himself stepping forward. Finally, finally, a tall figure emerged. His long red hair flowed, lackluster and loose, around his cautious, drawn face. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he squinted as the light hit his face. The little child on his hip whimpered and hid her head against his chest.

Aziraphale’s feet moved of their own volition. Crowley’s suspicious eyes lit on him. His shoulders straightened. He shifted the child into the arms of one of the teens. Then, he crossed the distance in three long strides, meeting Aziraphale in the middle. They came together with a quiet ferocity, Aziraphale pulling his husband into his arms and clinging. Crowley’s arms wrapped around him, suffocatingly tight.

“Shhh, my dear.” Aziraphale stroked his fingers through Crowley’s hair, holding him as he trembled. “It’s all right now.”

For all they were surrounded by people, they only had eyes for each other. 

Chapter Text

For all he’d spent the last ten days longing to talk to Aziraphale, Crowley hardly said a single word on the carriage ride. He was only tangentially aware of what was happening. Almost as soon as Aziraphale had drawn him into his arms, a bone-deep exhaustion had pulled Crowley to a surreal state of consciousness. There was an emotion he felt at the center of his soul that said, safe, safe, safe, and he surrendered to it.

The carriage ride was too short. The realization came slowly, as though each of his thoughts had to sink through honey before it reached him. He was standing in the foyer before he understood they weren’t in the palace. Blinking, he turned his head this way and that, taking in the opulence of the estate. 

It was quiet; far from the muted chaos of the palace. Crowley shuddered with relief. 

He heard his husband’s soft voice as he dismissed Mrs. Sandwich and the other attendants with orders to get rest. His heart ached with gratefulness he didn’t have the energy to express. Trust Aziraphale to be concerned with everyone.

With the servants seen to, Aziraphale returned to his side. He put a careful arm around Crowley, drawing him close. “What do you need, my dear?”

Several days ago, after the last sick child had drawn her last breath, Crowley had turned all his attention to the survivors. He’d given whatever care he could. One of the littlest children had cried himself into a state of catatonia. He sat still in the bath, staring forward with big, sad eyes as Crowley cleaned the grime of a week of fear and neglect from his body.

“I’d like … a bath.”

Aziraphale’s attendants were moving without having to be told. As they readied the bath, Aziraphale led him to the master bedroom. There, he sat him down and knelt beside the bed, bending to undo the laces of his boots. 

Crowley’s slow mind took in the sight. This man was a prince. He knelt for no one but kings. For that matter, Crowley was a prince. If he didn’t want to take his own boots off, an attendant would see to it. And if either of them were to serve the other like this, one would have expected it would be the omega to his alpha husband. 

But in that moment, Aziraphale was none of those things. He was a man offering whatever comfort he could in whatever way he could. His hands, as he pulled Crowley’s trousers down, and then set to work on the buttons of his shirt, were gentle. He took time to caress. Not as a lover would but as gestures of affection and affirmation. He stood and brought a robe to him, guiding his arms into it and cinching it around him.

A few minutes later, Aziraphale took his hand and led him to the bath. The water was blessedly hot. Crowley didn’t relax back into the wide tub. After a listless moment, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He was vaguely aware of his husband bringing a stool over to sit beside the tub with him. 

Aziraphale seemed to know he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think. He gave himself over to the experience of sensation. The tinkle of the water as Aziraphale dipped a hand towel into it. The soft-rough texture of it as it slid across his skin. The sweet smell of the rose petals that scented the water. Aziraphale’s fingers, firm but gentle, as they worked lather against his scalp and the slight pressure as he guided Crowley to tilt his head back. The warmth of the water he poured over Crowley’s hair. The heat seeping down to his bones without touching the cold ache at his chest. 

He remembered bathing the child again. How the water was tepid at best. How the room smelled not of roses but the fetid scent of sickness. How the air had been thick and stuffy; the orphanage had few windows and so little light.

He thought about the children—innocent and frightened. Even the older ones, trying desperately to mask their terror. They’d all been so brave. 

With everything in him, he’d wished that he wasn’t limited by duty and bloodlines. It seemed to him any number of these children would make fine princes and princesses. Why did any child have to come of his own body to be considered worthy? The least of them deserved this—a hot bath and the softness of someone to care for them.

He buried his head against his knees. His quiet tears joined the droplets of water that traced rivulets down his leg. His shoulders shook. 

“Crowley,” his husband whispered, draping an arm over him but otherwise saying nothing. He just let Crowley surrender to every emotion he’d beat back when he needed to be strong and calm for those children. He sat, arm clasped tight around one shoulder, and gave Crowley an anchor, a steady place to cling to in an otherwise violent sea. 

The water was cool by the time Crowley’s tears ebbed. He was cried out and boneless, the tension of overwrought emotions that had kept his body toiled tight eased. Anguish gave way to a dull ache he could breathe around. 

“Come now,” Aziraphale said, supporting him with hands around his elbows as he stood. Crowley found he was trembling, exhaustion manifesting as weakness of bone and muscle. He leaned heavily on Aziraphale as he stepped out of the tub. 

Aziraphale wrapped an over-long towel around him and guided him to sit. As his husband patted his skin dry, Crowley closed his eyes. He sighed when Aziraphale draped the towel over his head and massaged the fabric against his scalp, working to get his hair to damp.

His grief quieted, Crowley let the warmth he felt for this man reach his heart. The days had been so deeply lonely. But never in any other crisis, any battle he’d been in, had he had the knowledge there was someone waiting for him to come home, someone whose prayers were for him. He’d known, he’d trusted, that when it was all over, he would have Aziraphale. He would be taken care of.

If he hadn’t cried himself out, he might have wept with the enormity of the emotion in him then. Peace settled over him, the last of the storm giving way to a calm, clear sky. He found it was getting impossible to keep his eyes open. 

Aziraphale helped him stand again and guided his arms into his robe. “Shhh,” he soothed when Crowley whimpered as he was swept off his feet and tucked against Aziraphale’s chest. Trusting his husband’s strength, Crowley rested his head against his shoulder. 

The bed was soft, the sheets cool. Crowley sighed again in relief when he felt the bed dip as Aziraphale climbed in behind him. He didn’t know that he could have spoken aloud what he wanted. He was too tired for words. He was ensconced—Aziraphale’s arms wound around him, his chest against his back, his legs bracketed and the warm, sweet scent of him strong with every breath Crowley took. 

So gently, Aziraphale brushed his damp hair back over his shoulder. “Sleep, my dear,” he said near Crowley’s ear, pressing a tender kiss to the back of his head. “I have you.”

With a shuddering sigh, Crowley let himself drift into a deep sleep for the first time in ten days, safe in his husband’s sheltering arms.  

Chapter Text

Crowley slept for a full day. Certainly, he woke off and on. He drank water, ate a bit of bread, and went to the privy. He tried to get upright once, sitting on the edge of the bed as Aziraphale brushed the knots out of his hair with long, smooth strokes. 

“How do you feel?” Aziraphale had asked, though he could see how much lighter his husband looked. A far cry from the exhaustion and agony that had painted his features when he emerged from the orphanage.

“Better,” he had said, taking Aziraphale’s hand as they sat side by side. He sighed, tilting his head up and taking a deep breath. “I feel … alive. I was never in danger, you know, but I still feel as though I … survived.”

“I feel that way as well.” Aziraphale had swallowed hard around the painful lump that rose to his throat. “It felt as though you were in peril, and I couldn’t get to you.”

“Peril of losing my mind maybe,” Crowley muttered darkly. He ran a hand over his eyes, yawning. “I could still sleep.”

“Then you should.” Aziraphale had guided him gently back, pulled the blankets over him, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. 

But before Aziraphale had pulled away, Crowley pulled him back, bringing him down right on top of him. He kissed him—a serious, sensual kind of kiss. He traced his fingers up Aziraphale’s sides. The air was spiced with a light scent of lust. 

Alive, he’d said. 

But he really had been tired. His leading kisses trailed off until his eyes closed, and his hands, on Aziraphale’s body, stilled. 

That had been the night before. Aziraphale had slept beside his husband that night and arose in the morning, well-rested and eager to do whatever else he could now that he and Crowley were beneath the same roof again. The owners of the home had assured them they wouldn’t be back soon, and they were honored to host both their princes. 

Aziraphale spoke with the cook and arranged for one of the servants to go out to the market for a fresh cut of meat and some of the vegetables that were beginning to trickle out to the common people. Knowing Crowley would be hungry whenever he inevitably woke, it would be good to have a hearty stew on the back burner. 

Though he tried to keep himself busy, Aziraphale began to get worried when it reached midday and he’d heard nothing from his husband. He’d been trying to leave him alone—he’d always believed sleep was the best remedy for ailments of both the body and soul—but he’d been without Crowley’s clever conversation for too long now.

Incredible how essential the man had become to him in such a short time.

Making some excuse in his own mind as to why he had to be there, Aziraphale wandered down the quiet hallway on the way to the master bedroom. He was debating how far he should go—perhaps just a peek into the room—when he thought he heard a low moan. The sound was so full of pain, like the mournful howl of a wounded beast, that Aziraphale stood stalk still, sure he must have heard wrong. 

It came again—an agonized keen coming from the master bedroom. Aziraphale’s thoughts seared white. His nerves were still raw from so many days spent worrying, feeling as though the next messenger through the door might bring dire news. 

No. No. No.

He raced down the hallway and burst into the master bedroom. Inside, he found Crowley not on the bed but writhing on the floor. He was topless, tangled in bedsheets. His eyes were screwed shut, his skin flushed red, his hair dark with sweat, clinging to his scalp and face. 

Fever.

Crowley had his arms wrapped around himself, his fingers digging into the skin of his belly, as though his insides were twisting in on themselves. 

Aziraphale fell to his knees beside his husband, completely heedless of the potential of infection. Hellfire. Was this Hellfire? He pulled Crowley so his head was on his lap, trying to take his face between his hands as the Demon thrashed, teeth gritted against the moans. “Crowley. Open your eyes. Please.”

Crowley’s eyes flew open and darted around, unfocused. He blinked. “‘Ngel.”

“I’m right here,” Aziraphale said, cupping his cheek. 

“I … need you.”

“I’m right here,” Aziraphale repeated, trying to think of what he could possibly do, who he could possibly call. Lightning shot up and down his spine, every inch of his skin alert and aware and on edge. 

Crowley threw himself to the side, onto his knees. His expression was wild. He flew forward, and Aziraphale found himself on his back with his husband atop him. “Need you,” Crowley muttered, leaning down and taking his lips in a desperate kiss. “Now. Please. Please.” The last word whined out of him, high pitched and reedy. 

And that was when Aziraphale’s panic-stricken mind caught up with his body when he realized that his hands had moved of their own accord to Crowley’s waist, preparing to give this overwrought omega exactly what he needed. He realized belatedly that while he’d registered the oppressive emotion that choked the air in the room, he’d misread it.

The air was thick with Crowley’s scent, with need and slick. Crowley rocked over Aziraphale, doubtlessly seeking friction against his hardened cock and aching center. There was no question what this was now. Crowley’s heat had finally found him. Aziraphale had hoped to have some warning. One could smell a typical heat coming on, often days in advance. This one had hit Crowley like a boulder hurtling down a hill, a dive straight into the deep. 

Aziraphale cursed the timing of it. Really? Here on the heels of the most intense grief and fear he had ever known? Before they’d had time to process, to come to grips with all that had happened and all that was happening in the wide world beyond?

But luckily, they’d spoken briefly of heats in general. “It will be all right because it’s you,” Crowley had said, whispering the admission in the dark when they were wrapped around each other.

Well. Aziraphale had wanted to be what Crowley needed for nearly a fortnight now. This, he could do.

“You have me, poppet,” he said, hands firm on Crowley’s hips. His body responded easily to Crowley—to both his scent and the way he moved over him. “I’m going to give you everything you need.”

“Please. Gods, I need you now.” Crowley’s hands scrabbled at Aziraphale’s chest, trying to undo buttons with shaking hands. “I need …” The word cut off in a whine.

Aziraphale sat up with a lapful of writhing omega. He stood, unsurprised when Crowley took his face in his hands and kissed him hungirly even as he stumbled the two steps to the bed. He sat Crowley on the edge, lips moving with his. He broke the kiss, breathless, and took a step backward, just enough so as to be out of Crowley’s reach lest he pull him back down for another kiss. No. Aziraphale had business to attend to. 

“”Ngel,” Crowley said in a begging tone.

“Shh.” Aziraphale put his hands to Crowley’s trousers. “Lift your hips for me. There’s a good lad.”

Groaning, Crowley did as he was told, watching Aziraphale with that hungry, feverish look that made the Angel’s cock swell. He ignored his own growing need as he divested his husband of the rest of his clothes. Then, he dropped to his knees.

“Nnnnngggghh.” Crowley whimpered, head tossed back as Aziraphale enveloped his cock in his mouth. “Oh, gods.” His fingers tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, tugging as Aziraphale worked him in time with the urgency in his voice. 

Aziraphale swirled his tongue along the hot, velvety hardness of Crowley’s cock, head bobbing as he took him deeper. The scent of him when he was this close, and in full heat, drove him half out of his mind. He was hungry with his own need, voracious of appetite as he licked and tasted. He reached beneath Crowley’s cock, his fingers slipping inside him where he was hot and wet. 

“Ahhh. Yyyynnnh.” Crowley’s hips jerked. He fell backward as Aziraphale continued his two-pronged onslaught, arching up when Aziraphale curled his fingers inside him. Crowley tugged on his hair rather painfully, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that sent a zing of energy straight to his core. 

It was no time before Crowley was reduced to moans and mewls with the occasional string of consonants that might have been Aziraphale’s name or might have been some kind of occult curse. When his bucking became too wild, Aziraphale threw his free arm over his belly to keep him relatively still. He kept up a relentless pace and was rewarded with increasingly loud shouts and utterly wanton moans. Aziraphale drove him straight to the edge and pulled him over. His glorious omega’s beautifully responsive body arched up on the bed as he screamed his release, hips jerking, cock pulsing, and his legs locked around Aziraphale. 

When he was spent, Crowley crashed back down, arms thrown above his head and long legs spread wide, as though he were boneless. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling sharply.

Wiping at his mouth, Aziraphale stood, drinking in the sight. His beautiful, shattered omega brought down from his frantic state. Calmed.

But not sated. No, there was only one thing that would sate him.

Not yet though. No, they had a long way to go before then.

Aziraphale let his husband catch his breath, crossing the room to shut the door he’d left wide open in his haste. A superfluous gesture at this point. He’d be surprised if the whole city hadn’t heard all the racket Crowley had made.

Well, if they hadn’t, they soon would.

With measured steps, Aziraphale walked back to the bed, pulling off clothes as he did. He drank in the sight of Crowley spread out in front of him, his cock already stirring back to life. His husband pushed up onto his elbows, mouth open, eyes still hazy. 

“Look at you, you gorgeous thing,” Aziraphale said, approaching him slowly, riding the waves of lust that washed over him, demanding action. He remembered the way Crowley’s voice had gone deep and scratchy when he said being tossed about like a doll had worked for him and didn’t hesitate to take him by the waist, moving him bodily to the center of the large bed. He knelt there on the edge and ran a thumb over his own lips, the taste of Crowley having only whetted his appetite. 

Crowley sat upright all the way. He blinked, screwing his eyes tightly shut and opening them again several times as though he were trying to clear the haze. “I want … ngk.”

The orgasm had helped, but the need in him was clearly still overwhelming. And while Aziraphale was sure, now, that his touch wasn’t unwelcome, he knew well that Crowley would have preferred to be in complete control of himself. 

“Don’t fight it, poppet,” Aziraphale said, his voice a coo. He brushed Crowley’s hair back over his ear. He reached out, gathering Crowley to him, arranging them both so his husband sat between his spread legs, facing him. “I’m going to take care of you.” He ran the pads of two fingers over the shell of Crowley’s ear and down to his jaw. “Hmm? Yes?”

Crowley licked his lips. He settled his arms on Aziraphale’s shoulders in a loose hold and nodded. The motion brought his lips kissably close, and Aziraphale was only too glad to give in to that desire. His kiss was gentle, his tongue—when he pressed into Crowley’s mouth—was slow and languid. His touch as he stroked Crowley’s back up to his neck was sensual. He didn’t want to move Crowley back to that frenzied place just yet. Aziraphale wanted to give his mind the memory of being savored before his body demanded hard and fast. 

Crowley responded, kissing back with the prettiest little mewls. He scooted forward, wrapping his legs around Aziraphale so their cocks brushed. For minutes, there was only the wet sound of their lips moving together. Surrounded by his scent and driven to the edge of madness by the way Crowley’s wiggling, rocking body stimulated every sensitive part of him, Aziraphale had to fight back the urge to toss him down onto his back and plunge deep inside him. But then, the little noises Crowley moaned into his mouth as he stroked and caressed his skin and hair were too perfect to give up. 

When Crowley’s rocking became thrusting, his body clearly seeking—close to demanding—satisfaction, Aziraphale reached between them, taking his own cock in hand. “Is this what you want, poppet?” he whispered, dropping kisses to Crowley’s jaw . 

“Please. Unnghh. I need … I need …”

Aziraphale shifted his omega, hoisting him more fully onto his lap. “Is this what you need?” He guided his cock to Crowley’s entrance, tracing his head along the hot folds.

Crowley bucked hard against him. “Now.” His heels dug into Aziraphale’s back. 

“Look at you, you needy thing,” Aziraphale said, hips bucking up so that the tip of him was enveloped in heat. “You take whatever you want, my dear.”

Crowley was moving before Aziraphale could finish the sentence. He took Aziraphale’s cock inside him, sliding down, filling himself up right to Aziraphale’s base. They both cried out, Crowley throwing his head back. Aziraphale almost couldn’t catch his breath as Crowley began to ride him.

It was clear his darling omega needed no help from him, but Aziraphale moved with him. “Goodness, but you’re so beautiful.” The last syllable ended on a whine. It would have been so easy to lose himself. Was there any ecstasy greater than being buried this deep inside his husband? If there was, Aziraphale hadn’t ever experienced it. The glorious noises alone could have brought him to orgasm. And then there was the instinct within him, the base creature who knew what had driven Crowley to this state. Aziraphale was made to obey that call.

But perhaps his body, his nature, recognized that Crowley wasn’t ready. There was still too much pent up yearning in him, far too much restless energy, for him to yield to Aziraphale’s knot. No, best to fuck it out of him until his body was pliant.

So Aziraphale thrust up with slow, measured strokes—a staccato note in a rhythm Crowley otherwise set for himself. Aziraphale kissed and nipped at salty skin. He caressed and reached around, teasing the pucker of Crowley’s anus with a slicked finger, adding one more sensation.

Crowley tossed his head back, a long cry accompanying the jerk of his body. Aziraphale felt his walls squeeze, squeeze, squeeze around his cock. Then, Crowley fell into his arms, a deadweight against Aziraphale’s chest, whimpering a little as he tried to breathe.

Still inside him, Aziraphale resisted the temptation to rock into him. He could tell by the responsiveness of even the slightest touch that Crowley’s skin was over-sensitive. 

When he pulled out, his husband gave a mournful cry. Aziraphale hushed him and laid him down, guiding him onto his side. He laid down quickly behind him, and Crowley sighed as though with relief, as though he couldn’t stand not to be touched.

“More,” Crowley said, his voice raw and rough.

“As you say,” Aziraphale said against his ear. With his knee, he pushed Crowley’s legs open and guided his cock again to his entrance.

At first, he concentrated on his hands, stroking Crowley’s cock with a firm grip, caressing his balls and down farther to where they were joined. He pumped into him slowly, whispering sweet words about how pretty he was, how perfect.

And when Aziraphale sensed Crowley was close to another orgasm—the way he pressed back into him, his whimpered pleas—Aziraphale finally gave in to the urge to thrust. He let his hands travel up, tantalizing the flesh of Crowley’s chest and tangling a hand in his hair.

“Annghhh,” Crowley screamed out. “Give it to me, please. Please. Oh, gods.”

Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s hair, his hands gripped tight around him. He breathed him in as his hips pistoned. “Yes. Yes. Crowley!”

And then, he was pulsing inside him, this perfect creature. An orgasm that knocked him breathless. That almost knocked him out of consciousness completely. He was made of pleasure, of bliss.

The orgasm peaked and ebbed. As it did, Aziraphale felt the knot at the base of his cock swell. He moaned at the sensation of it, the sense of rightness. Crowley, too, gave a soft groan. “Yes. Yes,” he whispered.

The relative quiet after the absolute cacophony of their joining was loud. Aziraphale blinked, his head tucked against the back of Crowley’s hair. They both breathed raggedly, fingers tangled together against Crowley’s stomach. 

Their biological itch scratched at least until the next wave hit, the concentration of pheromones in the air began to dissipate. As it did, the haze over Aziraphale’s thoughts began to clear. Strange. He’d been simultaneously in control—unlike his rut when there was little to no conscious thought—and beholden to base impulse. His alpha body had been designed to do exactly this. 

Sticky, his skin sweat-damp, Aziraphale shifted. As he did, Crowley gasped and whimpered—the sound one of pleasure. Aziraphale gasped at the light tug, remembering how they were connected, and why he still felt so content despite his rapidly cooling body. He settled back, shifting more carefully, stroking his fingers along Crowley’s stomach. 

Crowley was trembling. Of course, he was. They’d both expected the first heat would be intense, and that premonition had turned out to be an understatement. He hadn’t had nearly enough sustenance to have been so thoroughly ravished. 

Aziraphale stroked gentle fingers soothingly through his hair, tucking it back so he could kiss just behind his ear. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Mmm.” The first hum Crowley made was curious. He wiggled a little, as though checking he hadn’t actually shattered the way his screams had suggested. “Mmmhmm,” he said, but a full-bodied shiver went through him, the vibration making Aziraphale’s cock twitch inside him. Crowley moaned again, the little noise at the back of his throat. 

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale soothed, moving to embrace him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It should loosen before long.”

“No.” Crowley twined their fingers together again. “S’good.” He sighed, tilting his head so Aziraphale could nuzzle his neck. “Head’s swimmy.”

“Must have been disconcerting to wake up to that.”

“‘S’not that. Im’ean … yeah. S’painful.” He grunted, shivering again. “But this … S’so good. Dn’t know could be … good.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, hiding his smile in his husband’s hair, breathing in his scent. “I’m so glad.” He ran his hands down Crowley’s chest, tickled the skin of his belly, relishing the way he writhed just a bit. “You feel very good to me,” he said in a lightly teasing voice against his ear.

“Bet so.” Crowley chuckled and, goodness, did the light vibration do delicious things to the way they were connected.

They lapsed into silence for minutes, Crowley reaching back to drag his fingers along Aziraphale’s side in lazy strokes. Aziraphale sighed. “Still, the timing is unfortunate. You hardly had time to recover from your ordeal, and then this.”

“Mmm.” Crowley was quiet a few beats before he spoke softly. “Actually … it’s, ah … Life. You know? I’m alive. And you’re safe. And we …” He cleared his throat. “Anyhow. S’good. Relieves all the … heavy. And the swimmy …” He gestured vaguely at his head. “Bliss. Right? Meant to make me, make us, feel… Right.”

That was exactly it. This was right. A bone-deep sense of rightness Aziraphale simply hadn’t known was possible. 

It struck Aziraphale in that very moment that this contentment, this … bliss, as Crowley had said, was love. Truly and deeply, he loved his husband. 

His heartbeat quickened, his chest seeming to grow inside him with a lightness. Of course, it wasn’t impossible. It had happened before. But royals had always thought of love as a game the peasants played at; not for them. Yes, his biology made this act—knotting an omega who, in turn, was desperate for his knot—a great pleasure. But the bliss. The rightness. That was love. 

“You all right, Angel?” Crowley asked, reaching back again to put a steadying hand on his hip.

“Of course.” He wanted to tell his husband. He did. It was only that he felt a tiny bit foolish. Like he might have been mistaken. They could enjoy each other. Mad for each other, to use Crowley’s words, but love? 

Well, he wouldn’t have Crowley think he’d said it in a post-coital haze. 

The swell of his knot eased, and he slipped out of his husband’s body. He scooted back and sat up.

”Where’re you?” Crowley rolled onto his back.

Aziraphale smiled and pressed the pad of his thumb to his husband’s pouting lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Crowley cocked his head. He stretched his arms up and his legs out, yawning widely with his eyes closed, his hair fanned out over the pillow. Beguiling creature. He opened half-hooded eyes. “Come to think … It’s possible I could eat a horse just now.”

“As you say, dearest.” He got to his feet. “We’ll have to replace this whole bed after such a desecration. We may as well throw in a new horse to replace the one you’re about to consume.”

“Ohhhhh.” Crowley looked around. “Is this not our room?”

Aziraphale chuckled as he found his robe and pulled it on. “I’ll be but a moment.”

Venturing out into the hallway, Aziraphale hummed to himself as he made his way toward the kitchen. Immediately upon entering, he found both Madam Tracy and Mrs. Sandwich seated in one corner, clearly sharing a quick midday meal. Like Crowley, Mrs. Sandwich had been tucked up in bed all of the previous day. She and Madam Tracy both popped up as he entered.

“Finished already, highness?” Madam Tracey said, blinking at him with a plain expression on her face. 

“Finished al …” Aziraphale sputtered.

“It's only I don’t know quite what to feed you, do I?” she said, bustling past him. “A stout ale is good for the endurance.”

Before Aziraphale could protest at this, Mrs. Sandwich faced him, her arms crossed. “Not him who’s doing the enduring, is it?” She arched an eyebrow at him. When Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow right back, she grinned. “Well, best you get some sustenance into the poor lad.” She picked up a tray that had been set by the fire.

“You had this ready?” Aziraphale asked, stunned to see the tray laden with bread, fruit, and cheese. There were, as promised, two mugs of ale. 

“Had to do something, didn’t we, seeing as you scared most of the others into outside work.” Mrs. Sandwich put her hands on her hips, lips pursed. 

Aziraphale blushed, but he couldn’t help his smile either. “Ale though.” He sighed. It simply wasn’t his drink of choice.

“Builders swear by that kind, if you don’t mind me saying,” Madam Tracy said. “Else how would they find the strength to finish their work?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it again. His cheeks flushed hotter. Without another word, he picked up the tray and made his way back to his husband, ignoring the chortling of the two women behind him. 

Back in the bedroom, the warmth at the center of his chest overtook the light tinge of embarrassment. He smiled at the sight that greeted him. His husband was asleep again, one hand thrown over his head, the other over his belly. As Aziraphale stepped closer, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Here we are,” Aziraphale said, placing the tray on the bed beside him. He found he was smiling again as Crowley pushed himself into a sitting position. “You look a mess,” he said fondly, pushing Crowley’s unruly hair back out of his eyes. 

“Oh, really?” His eyes darted to Aziraphale’s hair. “You think you’re ready to go out in public looking like that?”

“I’m sure I’m properly mussed. You’re exceedingly grabby. Now, eat,” he encouraged. 

“Wh’re you going?” Crowley protested, his eyes following Aziraphale as he stood again.

“Not far,” Aziraphale promised, taking the wash basin and pitcher from the stand. He set it on the bedside table, poured water into the basin, and dipped a cloth in.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I seem to recall something about taking a solemn vow that said otherwise.” Aziraphale drew the blanket draped loosely over his bottom half back enough to free his feet. He sat again, Crowley’s foot on his lap, and began to stroke the cloth from ankle upward. 

Crowley watched him, his eyes heavy with some emotion Aziraphale couldn’t name.  He ducked his head, tending to his work, washing away the grime of sweat and sex. He looked up again when Crowley took a shuddering breath. He stilled his hands. “Am I upsetting you?”

His husband’s lips turned up, and he laughed—a little huff of breath. “No. Opposite.”

Holding his gaze, Aziraphale set his foot down and reached for the other one. “I know it’s not the horse I promised you, but won’t you take a bite?”

Crowley laughed again but brought a pear to his mouth. He took a bite and then moaned. “Blast but I’m hungry.”

“You seem to keep forgetting.” Aziraphale pursed his lips in amusement, watching as Crowley took bite after bite, consuming the pear in under a minute, heedless of the juice that dribbled down his chin. Aziraphale reached out, wiping at the rivulet with his thumb. Crowley again focused on him, and the air between them seemed to buzz with a pleasant energy.

“You know …” Crowley began, head tilted down as he spread butter on a fresh, warm roll. He sighed. Took a bite. 

“Yes?”

Still, Crowley was quiet another few beats before he spoke. “I have been …” He shivered. “All right. Terrified. I’ve been terrified of m’heat most of my life, haven’t I? Since the first one.” His hand clenched in the comforter. He scoffed. “I thought … The cramps, you know. The need. The pain. I thought I was dying. Bee thought I was dying. They ran to get Father …” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “It took him a minute. He called for the healer, and he … He knew what was happening pretty quickly then, didn’t he?”

Crowley lapsed into silence. His hands clenched and unclenched on the comforter. “He was … angry. My father. Angry and disgusted.” He swallowed hard several times, eyes gone sightless. “‘N he locked me in my room. To, ah … ride it out.”

Aziraphale balked. “To… alone?”

“Yep.”

Rage and horror burst in him like a thunderclap. Aziraphale stood, pacing away with his hand in a fist to his lips. He swallowed hard and turned back to him. “Did he … give you anything? Send anyone?”

Crowley shook his head slowly and smiled without humor or happiness. “None of them told me what was happening. They stayed away. I reeked, you know, and the scent made them all edgy.” He shrugged. “Bee took pity on the … cor, I think it was toward the end of the second day? Explained, but, ah … That’s it.”

“Oh, Crowley.” The tremendous anger he felt was tempered by the absolute need to comfort his husband. He perched on the edge of the bed and pulled him into his arms, cupping a hand to the side of his head and pressing his cheek to his. He stroked his fingers through his hair. “That is … utterly heinous.”

Heinous was putting it far too lightly. Heats when they went unsatisfied could be intense to the point of agony. In certain circumstances, an unfulfilled heat could be deadly. For a man—a boy, likely seventeen or eighteen—to have this overwhelming, unexpected thing happen to him with no one there to so much as comfort him …

Aziraphale swallowed hard, working to temper his anger—he knew Crowley would be able to smell it on him and that it would frighten him due to his nature alone. An alpha’s anger was powerful to any omega, but they were familiar now. His rage would be too potent, and the object of his anger wouldn’t suffer at all. 

“I am … rather. It’s lucky that I didn’t know this when the King of Hell was still here.” He swallowed again, calming further. “I fear I may have restarted the war.”

“My father didn’t know what to do with an omega. No one in our bloodline would have.” He raised his head, continuing on before Aziraphale could argue. “I’m not saying what he did was right. Tha’s not the point. What I’m saying is my omeganess has always meant terrible things. None of us were raised by our parents, aye? I had nannies who told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. But my father was cruel. My siblings were cruel. Because I was weak and unworthy.”

“That’s not what an omega is,” Aziraphale said fervently.

“As a royal?” Crowley waved a hand back and forth as though to say it was to an extent. But then he shook his head. “Look. ’M making a hash of this. Not trying to get you to feel sorry for me. I’m saying it took you … wot, all of … Well, can’t say I have any sense of time for all, ah … this.” He waved his hand at the bed. “But you … I never wanted to experience another heat in my life. You don’t know how much I’ve dreaded the idea. But, with you, it wasn’t only not bad. It was good.” He ducked his head, picking up Aziraphale’s fingers and playing with them in an almost bashful way. “I didn’t know I could … enjoy us as that—alpha and omega. That part of us. That it felt … right.”

“Oh, my dearest boy.” Aziraphale understood exactly what he was trying to say. Royals had no need to acknowledge their alpha nature as it pertained to the biological imperative. Aziraphale, uncomfortable with losing control of his rational mind, had rejected everything about his nature. 

But at its core, the alpha and omega union was built to be perfect. They were made to be exactly what each other needed. Human intellect often impeded on that in unfortunate ways—some human beings wanting what hadn’t been offered, for instance—but when all was right and willing, it was meant to be the greatest pleasure, the greatest sense of fulfillment. It was the cornerstone of the fierce protectiveness and desire to take care of Crowley that was one of the strongest urges Aziraphale had ever known. 

Though, the tenderness he felt was all his own—heart and mind alike. 

Taking Crowley’s head in his hands, he tilted his face up to look at him. “No one is ever going to hurt you again,” he promised with quiet ferocity. And then, he kissed his husband. On his nose. On each cheek. A trio of the softest kisses across his brow. His chin. The corner of his mouth and, finally, his lips. He was gratified by Crowley’s contented sigh and the purr that rumbled deep in his throat as they kissed and kissed again.

Chapter Text

Crowley had his eyes closed, enjoying the gentle shift-tug of Mrs. Sandwich combing his hair out, when a soft sigh drew his attention. He looked up to find his husband lingering in the doorway with a wistful smile on his face.

“You’re stunning no matter what you do, my dear. But you’re particularly fetching with your hair down as it has been.” Aziraphale tilted his head. “Or perhaps it’s simply that I know we’re dressing for court and wish we could linger longer. It’s been a nice respite.”

“Oh, a bit,” Crowley allowed, unable to help the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. That was putting it rather mildly. Maybe the circumstances that had brought them here had been dire, but the nearly three days of his heat had been …

Well. Best he didn’t think about it. After all, Mrs. Sandwich was an alpha. She’d be able to tell if he started thinking about just how he’d ridden out the waves of his heat both figuratively and literally. 

It was, however, easy to distract himself from his more amorous thoughts. It had been a nice respite, but whatever they were going to step into at the palace was going to require vigilance—every move plotted; every word well-thought out before he dared give it voice.

Mrs. Sandwich wound his hair into a simple plait. It was regal enough to convey that he too was a prince of Heaven, and he wouldn’t duck his head as though he had any reason to feel guilty. At the same time, he knew he and Aziraphale were going to draw enough attention as it was; he didn’t have to add to it with some ornate style. 

He grimaced as Mrs. Sandwich dabbed scent blockers at his neck. It would do little good up close; not with how intense this heat had been. As soon as one of Aziraphale’s siblings scented him, the conversation would change. That might have been the preferable option, except that it would only serve to intensify Sandalphon’s anger. 

Decorum dictated that Aziraphale and Crowley pay their respects to Sandalphon as soon as they’d returned. Aziraphale had hoped his brother had enough sense to receive them in the throne room rather than his own rooms. But then, if Sandalphon had some confrontation planned, he would want an audience. It was hard to know what to hope for. 

All too soon, they were settled in their carriage, trundling back to the palace. They didn’t speak much but held hands, Aziraphale running a comforting thumb over his knuckles the whole while. 

Even with the comfort Aziraphale offered,the moment the carriage pulled to a stop, Crowley could feel the blood drain from his face. Nerves shot like a chill down his spine. From the beginning of this thing, he’d known all eyes would be on him, that he would be the marker the Angels judged all Demons by. Now, their princess—the one who’d spent the most time with him, stood next to him every time they visited the orphanage—was dead. 

“Everything is going to be fine,” Aziraphale said, pecking a quick kiss to his cheek before he exited the carriage. 

Crowley wasn’t at all sure about that. He admitted, if only to himself, that he wished it were permissible for them to hold hands as they walked through the palace. At most, he would be able to take Aziraphale’s arm as they entered the throne room, but that was all. 

Of course, this was possibly for the best. If it all went sideways, Aziraphale could still get out unscathed. He’d only been doing his duty after all. He couldn’t be held responsible when he’d been ordered to marry a Demon. If he didn’t show his affection, he would be fine. The thought soothed Crowley somewhat. 

He took a deep breath before he accepted the hand of the footman and stepped out of the carriage. To his surprise, he found not only his husband at the bottom of the stairs, but Beelzebub and the king as well. 

It seemed like a year had gone by since Crowley had seen these two on the beach. Now, here they were. Though Beelzebub stood with the regal air of a sovereign rather than that of the royal spouse, there was still something in the way they stood near Gabriel that was familiar. They moved with a certain synchronicity that couples often did. He made a mental note to talk to Aziraphale about it if all went well. 

His husband took a step toward him, but Beelzebub was faster. Crowley was taken aback when his sibling slid their arm through his. They were about to speak when they went stiff, nose wrinkling. Their face smoothed out as they pulled him forward. “How good it is to see you, brother.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“It would appear there’s much to catch up on.” 

Not at all sure how to take that, Crowley breathed through an uncomfortable flutter of nerves. It went against his instinct to be guided anywhere when he wasn’t sure what he was walking into. Beelzebub held him still a few beats while Gabriel walked ahead with Aziraphale. Crowley followed them with his eyes. Aziraphale glanced once over his shoulder, the look in his eyes unsettled until his gaze met Crowley’s. Then, his smile was reassuring. 

Gabriel put an arm about his brother’s shoulders, picking up his step. When their voices were far enough away that they were a murmur instead of intelligible words, Beelzebub fell in step after them.

“Settle down,” Beelzebub hissed under their breath as they entered the palace. “I can smell the nerves on you. It’s damn unpleasant mixed with the … potent scent of …” They gestured between Aziraphale and Crowley, lip curling.

“Sure. Course. Easy. I’ll just flip it off for you then, shall I?” Crowley groused. They smelled suspiciously of nothing. Scent maskers no doubt, but that wasn’t the question at the forefront of his mind. “What are we walking into?”

“Nothing, if you can walk the line.”

“What line?”

Beelzebub sighed. “Sandalphon has been quieted for now but not soothed,” they said, tone of voice in a light lilt though their words were only for him. “It won’t take much to get him going again.” They gave his arm a tug for emphasis. “He’s going to try to rile you up.”

“Mmmn. What does he think happened?” Crowley asked, though he already knew. “What’s the official line anyhow?”

Beelzebub paused a beat. Crowley waited for them to tell him to keep his nose out of it, but to his surprise, they went on. “It would seem that the disease has changed. That happens over time of course. Used to be that it was days or even hours between when the angels caught it and when they died.” They looked around. Crowley did too. No one in this palace needed to hear two demons talking about dying angels. “It would seem that there might be a longer period between infection and illness. The child came from a plague-ridden village two weeks before the poor mite died.”

“But that’s—”

“I know,” Beelzebub said with a hiss. “That’s why I wanted to speak to you.” They cracked their neck. “It’s possible. It’s true that the disease has shifted. The timelines can add up. You and the princess have been to the orphanage several times. She could have picked it up on one of your earlier visits. The children who died as well.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. “All right. Fine.”

“I’m serious, Anthony. It’s a line you have to commit to.”

“Got it.” He let his step slow just a tad more. They were almost to the throne room, and this next was imperative. “So … what’s your actual theory?”

Beelzebub blew out a frustrated breath. Crowley was downright shocked when they continued. “Nothing I can make heads or tails of.”

“It was Hastur,” Crowley said before he could help it. 

“No.” Beelzebub sighed. “I told you. Didn’t take an eye off him, did I? I’d have noticed if he slipped off to spread a damn plague.” 

“Did you have eyes on all of his people?”

Beelzebub huffed.

“Our uncle isn’t the brightest, but he probably knows enough to figure you’d be watching him. Might have had it set up before they got to the city.”

“Might have,” Beelzebub allowed. 

He was sure they’d have thought of that already, but he’d wanted to remind them he was good at this as well. Beelzebub led their armies, but Crowley was good at the things that happened in the shadows. He hadn’t always been just a pretty, potentially fertile, bauble to hang off someone’s arm. “What can I do?” he asked, pulling to a stop before they got to the throne room. 

“Nothing.” 

He groaned under his breath. “Bee—”

“Crowley.” 

That pulled him up short. None of his family ever used his middle name despite knowing he preferred it. Beelzebub grimaced but tilted their chin up as they looked at him steadily. “I recognize your … talents have gone unappreciated, but …” They nodded as they looked around. “Don’t think I don’t understand what you’ve sacrificed for the lot of us.” They looked ahead to the throne room. “Your freedom, for a start.” 

Shocked at their words, Crowley didn’t speak to that. A strange, warm sensation spread over him as his eyes automatically darted to Aziraphale’s back. He had the thought that if they could all navigate through this shaky bit and get to a place where Angels and Demons could exist together on solid ground, he’d have given up nothing and gained everything. But he wasn’t going to tell his sibling that. At least … not before he told Aziraphale. 

“You’re making all the right choices,” Beelzebub continued, voice low enough that only he could hear. “The way you handled this last crisis was spot on. Exactly right. Whether or not you like it, you’re good at this kind of diplomacy.” They turned to him as they walked into the throne room, taking him by the shoulders. “This is where I need you.”

Crowley looked back at them. There wasn’t much he could say. Not now that they were in the throne room. There were too many people to have any kind of clandestine conversation. But he nodded minutely that he understood. What was most important was that it was clear his sibling trusted him. If they could use him, they would. 

But now, they were right. He had to concentrate. If this interaction didn’t go well, figuring out who might be working against them would be a moot point.

Crowley straightened his shoulders. Aziraphale had stopped in the middle of the room as Gabriel and Beelzebub continued on, a group of others already waiting for their attention. 

“Sandalphon is in his room,” Aziraphale said, offering his arm, his eyes tight. 

Crowley blew out a sharp breath, nodding at a few nobles who nodded at him from across the room. It didn’t escape his notice when two of the guards followed them at a discreet pace when they left the throne room, heading for Sandalphon’s rooms. “Where do we stand?” he asked lighty

“Sandalphon is many things, but his loyalty to Gabriel remains solid. He won’t make a fuss as long as he doesn’t catch us in a lie.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a smile. “And we have nothing to lie about.”

Crowley’s heart gave a little flutter, and he inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. My, but he was smitten. Just giddy at Aziraphale’s casual use of we. “It’s not you he suspects.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I fully expect that even if my brother believes I have nothing to do with any of this, he understands I’ll defend you regardless.”

“Course. Alphas are known to be territorial beyond reason.”

A strange look came over Aziraphale then. “My dear boy, that has nothing to do with it.”

They stared at each other, Crowley fighting a smile, and Aziraphale’s gaze so adoring. The urge to kiss the Angel was nearly overwhelming. He might have except the door to Sandalphon’s rooms opene.

Aziraphale and Crowley both straightened up, facing forward, but too late. It was Sandalphon who stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed. “Having a good time, are we?” Though there were several feet yet between them, Sandalphon’s nose wrinkled. “Filthy, degrading business.”

Crowley was used to his siblings believing his being an omega made him disgusting. He’d never thought it could apply to alphas. It made a vague kind of sense. Part of the reason his siblings found his omeganess distasteful was the lack of control during heats—begging for it, so to speak. It wasn’t something they would prize in their spouses either. Their own ruts were managed by their spouses—or by a discreet visit from hired pleasure omega—before they lost any kind of control, thus reducing them to base nature.

But that didn’t mean he liked the vile words aimed at his sweet husband. He had to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep his lip from curling. 

Right. Beelzebub had warned him the Angel prince was going to try to get a rise out of him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and let go of Crowley to offer Sandalphon a hand. “We came to pay our respects.” He made a gesture, and one of the servants who had followed them came forward holding a sword aloft. “I commissioned this sword as tribute. It’s much like ours—the swords we received on reaching adulthood—but it’s got the red horse of her house just there.” He gestured to the hilt.

Sandalphon looked skeptical as he reached out to take the sword. “You had this commissioned since she died?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. “It was meant to be a gift for her birthday, actually. But you should have it.”

Sandalphon held the sword in his hand, testing the heft. He looked from Aziraphale to Crowley. For a split second, Crowley thought he might be contemplating driving the sword into his gut. Instead, he grunted and stepped back. Crowley thought he might be about to let them in, but when he took a step forward, Sandalphon braced the door. “You are not welcome here, Demon,” he hissed.

Instantly, the hallway seemed filled with the scent of two angry alphas. “Sandalphon,” Aziraphale warned. He stepped to the side slightly, hand out and guarding. It was pure instinct for Crowley to step back and behind him, letting himself be protected.

It wasn’t that omegas, and Crowley specifically, were cowards. There was a reason, though, why they were never soldiers; why none of Crowley’s family had ever dreamed of putting him directly on a battlefield. Especially in this enclosed area, his body responded without input from his rational thoughts. 

Interesting, though, that his instinct was to stand behind Aziraphale rather than be afraid of him too. He corrected almost in the next breath—he didn’t need to exacerbate the issue when Aziraphale had told him not five minutes before that his brother thought he would be on Crowley’s side. He didn’t want Sandalphon thinking of Aziraphale the way he thought of Crowley—on a side opposite him.

Anyhow. He’d done nothing wrong.

Sandalphon huffed, again looking between them, and sneered. “You of all people should understand, Aziraphale. Do you think my rooms reeking of both your … potent pheromones is what I need right now?”

Crowley grimaced, and Aziraphale straightened up. “Of course. I trust you know we wouldn’t want to make things more difficult for you. It’s regrettable that we weren’t able to pay our respects until now.”

“I was sorry to have to miss her service,” Crowley said sincerely, keeping his tone gentle and even. “I don’t know if you got my letter, but it was nothing but the truth. She was a warrior to the end.”

Sandalphon fixed him with a glower, and Crowley thought he had misstepped. But then, he doubted there was a right thing to say. And if he’d said nothing at all, that too would have been held against him. 

“It’s insulting to insinuate there could be any doubt. Carmine was the epitome of a warrior,” Sandalphon snarled through clenched teeth. “And she survived every battle, everything you Demons ever threw at her … only to fall in peace?” His features twisted. “On her back and helpless with you standing over her.”

A part of Crowley wanted to snarl right back at him. How dare this man think either of them was owed any kind of comfort in death. The Demon prisoners of war who’d had the misfortune to be taken by Sandalphon or Carmine had died horrific deaths if they had been allowed the comfort of death at all. 

That was war and this was peace. It was, unfortunately, natural to dehumanize people you were meant to murder, but Sandalphon struck Crowley as the kind of person who was never going to think of any Demon as human. 

But then, Crowley had always been good at surviving. 

“Sandalphon, Crowley was a comfort to your wife in the end,” Aziraphale said. 

Sandalphon whirled on him. “You weak-willed twit. That’s all it takes to betray your family? Your people? A tight, wet hole?”

Crowley balked, fury roiling in him. “That’s not—”

Aziraphale held a finger up to him, his eyes on Sandalphon. He put on an affable smile. “Our king is our brother.” His voice was calm, measured, though his anger was still heavy in the air. “How could I possibly betray my family when I’ve obeyed our king?”

“Oh, and what if that was the point? The Demons would know they would get you—the only one of us who wasn’t married—to marry their little prince,” Sandalphon snarled. “You, the weak-link.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. While Crowley’s fury surged, his husband’s dimmed. “Be that as it may, you know the number of people Gabriel has watching all the Demons in Eden.” His eyes darted to Crowley’s. He hadn’t precisely known that, but he couldn’t be surpriseds The Angel king was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an idiot. “And the only time Crowley was at the orphanage was with Carmine. Do you think she would have let this happen? We both know she was too clever for that.”

For the first time, uncertainty flashed through Sandalphon’s eyes. He looked back and forth between them.

Crowley took the chance to speak, hoping he wasn’t making the wrong move. “You can’t have a war without her,” he said.

Sandalphon’s head snapped to him, eyes narrower. “What?” he said, voice dangerous. 

“Of course, Carmine blamed me at first too, but she did end up believing me. She talked. We talked. She said the night before the battle at Purgatory, the battle that killed my mother, by the way, she learned she was pregnant. You were the only two generals there, and you didn’t want her to go. She told you that you couldn’t have a war without her. You said it, to each other, a lot after that.”

The wave of anger—the nauseating, rotting-fruit scent—made Crowley’s stomach twist. He locked his body in place to keep from ducking behind Aziraphale again, though he couldn’t do anything about the thrill or fear that mixed in the air, the stench of the three of them making an unnerving scent. Aziraphale, to his credit, didn’t move, but he put his hand out. Crowley took it, clutching it tightly.

Sandalphon scoffed and stepped backward. “You know what, Aziraphale? I believe you had nothing to do with this. And I believe you believe him.” He jutted his chin at Crowley. “Of course, you would. And maybe you’re both right.” He glared at Crowley. “Gods know he isn’t smart enough to have pulled it off under even your nose.”

Crowley stared steadily back, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I am sorry for her loss.”

“Why? She wouldn’t have been sorry for yours.” It was clear Sandalphon wasn’t looking for a response to that as he spoke again almost instantly. “Thank you for the gift. Now get out of my sight.” He sneered. “Please.”

Hands still clasped, they turned and left.

“That went down like a lead balloon,” Crowley murmured after the door behind them slammed shut. 

“Could have been worse,” Aziraphale said with a sigh.

“Could have … You did give him a sword.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I'm not sure I thought that through.”

Crowley stopped and leaned up against the wall, bowing his head, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale put a hand to his shoulder. “Are you all right? What’s happening?”

Crowley lifted his head, grinning at his husband through his laughter. “‘S ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Still grinning, Crowley slid his arm around Aziraphale’s waist in a loose hold. “Angels and Demons. ’S ridiculous.”

Aziraphale looked uncertain again until Crowley chuckled. Then, he laughed. Within a moment, they were both cackling, holding onto each other. As their titters died down, they were wrapped in each other’s arms, nearly nose to nose. Crowley sighed, letting his eyes drift closed as he tilted his head. Aziraphale took the invitation and kissed him, slow and sweetly. 

Chapter Text

When they returned to the throne room, Aziraphale was utterly unsurprised to find the Metatron waiting for them. He heard his husband’s exasperated growl of disgust, and his heart panged. But what he didn’t expect was for the Metatron to turn to him. “Won’t you accompany us, your highness?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged surprised glances. But as Aziraphale was always loath to let his husband go when the Metatron came for him—he knew how much he hated it—he was glad for the opportunity. 

Crowley had never gone into great detail about what happened in the Metatron’s chambers. He knew it was invasive and that Crowley felt more like an experiment than a man. He’d said the Metatron was cold and insulting. 

That couldn’t have been further from the case as they followed him down the hallway. The Metatron chatted amiably. “Such an unexpected endeavor, your highness. The kingdom is lucky, and you’ve had such patience.”

“Patience?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley huff.

“Being able to fulfill your inherent nature as an alpha is, I should think, one of the very few benefits of you suddenly finding yourself married to a Demon.” He chuckled. “Your husband made you wait quite a bit longer than I would have stood for.”

Aziraphale stared at the man. “You make it sound as though he did it on purpose.”

The Metatron shrugged, holding open the door to his chamber. “We have much to learn about Demon biology and how it might differ from our own.”

“If I could have turned it off and on at will, I’d have gotten on with it right off,” Crowley said, his smile acidic. “As much as I enjoy our visits.”

“Quite,” the Metatron said, regarding him coolly. 

Aziraphale frowned. It was, he noted, the first time the Metatron had bothered to as much as look at Crowley. His ire was stoked and only continued to grow when the Metatron pulled a chair over for him, ignoring Crowley completely. From the way Mrs. Sandwich bustled over to pull the chair out for him, it was obvious the Metatron never paid Crowley that much respect.

Before he could call the man on it, the Metatron spoke again. “Now, I shall beg your highness’s forgiveness for the, ah … impertinent nature of my questions. I’m sure his majesty has explained the importance of meticulous documentation of these unprecedented endeavors.”

Aziraphale was truly distracted from his last line of thought by this. “Do you mean you intend to study me?”

“Not to worry, highness. It’s unlikely your biology would tell us anything we didn’t already know.” He chuckled again. “You’re an Angel, after all. Unless your body has displayed some kind of change after coupling? After a heat, I mean.”

“What? No.” The experience had been transcendent but not for any reason the Metatron needed to know about. As though Crowley’s otherness could change his body. 

“Then just the interview.” He took out a scroll. “We’ll have you back about your business spit spot. Now. How did this experience differ from other times you’ve been with an omega in heat?”

Aziraphale’s ears burned hot. It seemed unforgivably rude to speak of past partners without their knowledge to begin with, but to do so in front of his spouse? Crowley neither needed nor deserved to be compared to anyone else. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been with an omega in heat before, sir. Perhaps it’s best that we continue this in private.”

“There’s nothing personal here, your highness. This is science; nothing more. Your husband understands that.” He looked tor Crowley. “Don’t you, your highness.”

Before Crowley could answer, Aziraphale jumped to his feet. “Sir, I shall thank you not to address my husband, your Prince Anthony, so familiarly.”

The Metatron tilted his head. “I meant no offense, your highness.”

“In that, you’ve failed utterly.” Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat. “You will address the prince with the same courtesy you’d extend me. I can promise you, sir, if you don’t, the consequences will not be pleasant.”

The Metatron looked like the effort not to glower was taking everything he had. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and then, inexplicably, he laughed. “Well, that’s that question answered. The alpha instinct is just as strong, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Sir.” His voice was low and threatening even to his own ears. 

The Metatron bowed low. “I’m sorry to have upset you, my prince.” He turned and looked at Crowley. “Please accept my most humble apologies, your highness. I do get wrapped up in my work.” He bowed to Crowley on bent knee.

Crowley looked bemused. “Can’t say I pay you any mind,” he lied with an air of magnanimity. “But as it’s your most humble apologies, who am I to refuse?” He nodded his head in a most demure fashion. 

Aziraphale smirked, some of his irritation melting away. 

The Metatron straightened up, hands clasped formally behind his back. “Well then, we might find a private moment this evening so as not to offend his highness’s delicate sensibilities.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hear of it,” Crowley said. “Proceed freely.” He sat back in his seat, leg crossed and expression expectant. 

“Your highness?” The Metatron looked at Aziraphale for permission. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale gestured that he should continue. The next quarter of an hour was spent answering the most invasive questions he’d ever been asked. Aziraphale had always appreciated study, knowledge, and fact, so he tried not to take insult. This was all new and worthy of study. He’d just never considered what it was to be the subject of such scrutiny. 

“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” the Metatron said, putting his scroll down. “Thank you for your cooperation, your highness. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I’ll send your husband to you just as soon as I’m done with him.”

“I believe I’ll stay, thank you.”

The Metatron paused. He cleared his throat and put on an insincere smile. “Your highness, there’s no need—”

“Quite the contrary.” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to sit back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Please proceed. You’re correct. We have other places to be. No time to dawdle now.”

Aziraphale was gratified to see there was a small smile playing at Crowley’s lips.

“My dear prince. This is unheard of. This is not for spouses to be in the room for these kinds of examinations.”

“Proceed,” Aziraphale said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

The Metatron was displeased, but he wasn’t going to argue with a prince of Heaven. Not like Aziraphale was sure he would have if Crowley had tried to make any request. 

“Now then. You.” The Metatron paused a beat, closed his eyes, and then put on his false smile when he looked at Crowley. “Your highness, if you would kindly remove your britches.”

“Oh. Not everything today then?” Crowley asked innocently.

Aziraphale couldn’t put into words what he felt hearing another man ask his husband to take off his britches. He liked even less the idea this man typically required more than was necessary. 

The Metatron’s chuckle was nervous. “No need, your highness. No need,” he said quickly. “I believe we have all the, er, data we require in that regard.”

Aziraphale grunted, making it known he was not best pleased. He crossed his arms but sat back. 

The Metatron began a similar line of questioning with Crowley as he had with Aziraphale, but this was while he was using his instruments to examine his husband’s body. It was all Aziraphale could do not to growl. His protective alpha instincts were flaring, his very scent a warning to the other alpha in the room. But being that he was a prince, that was the Metatron’s problem to deal with. He could see the man fluctuate between nerves and irritation. His movements, though, were exceedingly gentle, and he asked after Crowley’s comfort several times. 

“Well, everything seems correct. Nothing that I can see atypical from a normal Angel omega after a heat,” the Metatron said, tapping his chin. “Your body seems, ah … receptive, though I daresay the heat didn’t … take this time around. Though there’s still a chance, I expect.”

Crowley crossed his arms and ducked his head at this pronouncement, clearly uncomfortable. Aziraphale felt nothing at all. In fact, it took him a moment to register precisely what the Metatron was speaking of. He had yet to dwell on the next, obvious step in this union. There always seemed to be something of greater, or at least more imminent, import to think about. “In due time, I expect,” he said with some discomfort.

The Metatron hummed a vague agreement. He paused before he spoke again. “You know, your highness. I assure you I’m simply trying to help us, Angel and Demon alike,” the Metatron said when all was done. 

Aziraphale tilted his head. “If I didn’t understand that, sir, you would be in the stocks, to say the least.” He offered his husband his arm. “Good day.” 

With that, he pulled Crowley with him into the hallway. “You downplayed these little visits, my dear. What you’ve been asked to endure …”

“That man thinks you’re the one who’s been asked to endure something unspeakable.”

Aziraphale scoffed. He ducked his head. “Well, that’s all right then. What I endure with you is nothing I wish to speak to him about.” 

Crowley stumbled to a stop, staring at him with an open mouth. Then, he grinned—the wide grin full of teeth that made Aziraphale’s heart pound and his chest feel lighter. 

As they continued on, Crowley tilted his head in Aziraphale’s direction, his words just for him. “Suppose we go back to our rooms so that I might do unspeakable things to you?”

Aziraphale’s head shot up. “I, ah … B …” He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and tried again. “You don’t … typically invite, err, that kind of … business. After seeing—”

“I don’t typically have you there with me.” He tilted his head lower so his lips brushed Aziraphale’s ear, making him shiver. “Besides … He went nowhere near my mouth, did he?”

Aziraphale’s knees almost buckled. 

~.0.~

Several days after coming back to the palace, Aziraphale sat out on the verandah enjoying the sunshine and the absolutely gorgeous view. He sat at the little table in the corner, a sketchpad open in front of him, his pencil moving quickly. It was the first time he’d had the urge to draw in years, but he was inspired. 

His husband sat on the half-wall that lined their verandah. Aziraphale had found him in a similar pose the night after their marriage—knees pulled up to his chest, staring out at the sea. Today, though, there was a much different feeling welling in his chest, and the scent the light breeze wafted over was pleasant, stirring an air of contentment. 

Aziraphale sighed as he traced a lighter line along the wave he’d drawn to Crowley’s hair. It was no use. There was no way blacks and grays would suffice when trying to capture Crowley’s likeness in that moment. The golden shine of his long hair in the sunlight; the way his black robe set off the red. His robe sagged off one shoulder, revealing the smattering of freckles Aziraphale loved to kiss.

He made up his mind to order colored pencils and gave up the endeavor, rising to go to his husband’s side. He sat on the wall just behind Crowley, properly faced forward, and was gratified when his husband shifted to lean back against his side. Aziraphale kissed his crown, breathing in the tilled-soil scent. 

Home. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d ever truly understood what it meant to come home. He’d been born and raised here in Eden, in this very palace. This place, though, had never held warmth and comfort. Quite the opposite in fact. His parents had been cold and demanding. His siblings had never understood him. 

When he was grown enough, he’d both been given Soho—he was still a prince after all—and had taken his place in the endless war. He’d hoped Soho would be home, but he’d spent precious little time there. 

Closing his eyes, he nuzzled the back of Crowley’s head, reveling in the fact that he could. Had it been only scant months ago the man who sat here had been a frightened, angry stranger? Aziraphale had watched him from the doorway that morning, after their wedding, after their awkward and confusing coupling. He could almost feel the desolation coming off him that morning as he sat, his head on his knees, and Aziraphale had wondered if they could ever find common ground. 

Now, Aziraphale knew, Crowley was home. He was comfort and contentment. He was peace. 

Aziraphale almost told him so, but Crowley sighed and shifted, bringing his legs around so they were sitting side by side. 

“I’ve meant to speak to you about something,” Crowley said, his voice a murmur that hummed against Aziraphale’s skin. 

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever stopped to watch Gabriel and Beelzebub?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders snapped back and straight. He blinked several times, staring into Crowley’s eyes and wondering what joke he’d missed. When he realized the question was serious he blinked again. “I … can’t say I’ve thought overmuch about Gabriel if I could help it.”

“Course you haven’t.” Crowley sighed. “It’s only that, as they remind us regularly, we’re being watched. Judged. Mind your manners and all that, yet I think they’re the ones who are, ahhh … carrying on.”

“Carrying on?” 

Crowley made an exasperated noise, waving a hand about. “You know. They’re, ah …” He flushed red and rolled his eyes. “Cor, I don’t want to think about this. And I'm sure you won’t either. I wouldn’t even bring it to you except that, if this all goes pear-shaped, it’s you and me at the center of the …” He flexed his fingers wide, mimicking everything flying apart. 

Concern chased the vestiges of the lovesick fog from Aziraphale’s mind. He put a hand on his husband’s knee. “You’re not making any sense, dear. What’s happened?”

“I think your brother and my sibling are having an affair.”

Aziraphale stared. Blinked. And then laughed. “Oh. It’s not that I mind jokes, but you really had me worried for a moment.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. “It’s not a joke.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. He gave a nervous laugh. “I … you must be.” He shook his head. “Crowley. That’s just not possible.” Aziraphale stood, wiping a hand over his eyes. “That’s … It’s not a thing that should be spoken aloud even in jest. Especially in these times. Especially after the outbreak. Things are so precarious.”

“I know things are precarious,” Crowley said, a note of irritation to his voice. “You think anyone is in a more precarious position than I am? Yes. I’m aware.”

The usually pleasant aroma Crowley exuded soured perceptively. He was angry, truly angry. His anger triggered a deep need to soothe in Aziraphale . “Of course, you are. That’s probably all this is.” He sat beside his husband again and put an arm around him. “Hard to shake the paranoia.”

Crowley shook his arm off and stood, scowling in earnest now. “Don’t talk to me like that.” He ran a hand through his hair, his mouth set in a thin line. “You’ve always treated me with respect, like what I have to say is valuable. This isn’t paranoia, and I’m not going to be placated into silence.” He shook his head. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“Because it makes no sense at all. Gabriel and a Demon? He would never.”

Crowley looked at him as though he’d been struck, his eyes wide and filled with hurt. “Right.” 

Aziraphale watched, mind heavy with confusion, as his husband turned away from him. He headed into their room. Stomach twisting, Aziraphale followed him. The stone in his belly growing heavier when Crowley took a cloak from a drawer. “What are you … Crowley!” The word came out a little sharper than intended, but Crowley was moving quickly. He flinched at Aziraphale’s tone but kept on, reaching for his glasses.

Swallowing several times to quell the sudden panic that rose in him, Aziraphale spoke again, softer now. “Crowley? Where are you going?”

“I’m taking a walk.”

“All right. I’ll come with you.”

“You bloody well won’t.”

“Crowley, you know—”

“I’ll just go down the hall to the library,” his husband snapped. “Let me alone.”

Aziraphale’s mind spun. His own paranoia flared. It was dangerous for Crowley to walk alone; he knew that. But at the same time, he knew how degrading it was for Crowley to have to be led everywhere like he hadn’t been taking care of himself his whole life. Aziraphale didn’t quite understand what he’d done to upset his husband, but he understood the concept of needing space to breathe to maintain rationality. He understood that not giving someone space when they needed to take a moment drove things to a frenzied place. 

“Down the hall,” Aziraphale verified, swallowing hard.

Back to him, Crowley’s posture radiated tension. “To the library,” he repeated gruffly.

“Crowley …” When Crowley stood still, his shoulders slumped, Aziraphale trailed off. He remembered their wedding night; Crowley’s eyes flashing as he asked, “Will you command me?”

He was the dominant spouse. In theory, Crowley was his to command. But Aziraphale never would. He saw in the set of his shoulders there was still a part of him that expected it, that was waiting for Aziraphale to assert his dominance. Though he understood—this being their first real fight, how could Crowley know how he would react—it still wounded him. 

“Just … be safe,” he finished. 

Crowley hesitated another beat, and then strode to the door without another word, Mrs. Sandwich following behind him.

Hours crept by, the sun dipping low, as Aziraphale sat alone in their rooms. The whole interaction had spiraled so quickly. Looking back, he could understand Crowley’s annoyance. His husband had come to him in all seriousness, and he’d tried to mollify him as though he’d been a child upset over silly things. 

But therein was the problem. Crowley’s accusation wasn’t silly; it was dangerous. 

As ludicrous as it sounded, Aziraphale forced himself to consider the idea—Gabriel and Beezlebub. 

Aziraphale hadn’t had much cause to speak to his in-law, which he knew was a personal failing. It was as he’d told Crowley since the wedding that his siblings seemed to be more inclined to pull him into their inner circle. They’d always been together on matters of the kingdom. Gabriel’s word was law, but he listened to his other siblings. 

By the time Gabriel ascended to the throne, he was already long used to dismissing Aziraphale’s thoughts on any matter of state. Though Aziraphale understood that they had to participate in war—defeat was a worse outcome than perpetual war—he was, at heart, a pacifist. He’d been obedient to first his parents, then his brother his whole life. It had long been his habit not to contribute, and now that Gabriel and his siblings included him more often, he couldn’t say anything had changed on his part. He answered questions, but he didn’t assert his own viewpoints. 

So he’d had cause to watch Gabriel and Beelzebub frequently these last months. It made sense to him that they spent a lot of time together. Beelzebub was as good as reagent. It fell on them to work together to get through this rocky period of new peace. They were often seen with their heads bent together, Beelzebub sitting to Gabriel’s left at most meals. They’d taken more than one trip to the outlying villages. 

Aziraphale could understand how someone could tilt their head and see a potential romance between the two of them, but it just … couldn’t be true. They did seem to have a good rapport, which had relieved Aziraphale a great deal given that they had to work together. Often, that was all the ladies and gentlemen of court needed to start a rumor. That must have been what happened. Crowley must have heard a rumor, and having heard it, every glance between their siblings had been seen in that light.

The sun was well gone below the horizon, and Aziraphale had begun to pace as he tried to reason out if it was a good idea to go to the library in search of Crowley. He did want to give him space, but he was more nervous the longer he was away. 

Relief flooded through him when the door opened, but it was squashed quickly when only Mrs. Sandwich entered. The lack of relief turned to outright dread when he saw the way Mrs. Sandwich bustled into the room, looking left and right.

He swallowed hard, striding to her. She spoke before he could. “Begging your pardon, sir, but did his highness make his way back here?”

Aziraphale balked. “What do you mean? You were with him. Is he not in the library?”

She made an exasperated noise. “Och. Well, he was when last I saw him.” She frowned, glancing at him furtively.

”Please”—he waved a hand—“whatever happened, I’m not going to be upset with you. Tell me.”

”Well, it’s only that you two have a habit of misunderstanding each other, don’t you?” She put her hands to her hips. Aziraphale would have spoken to that, but the question was clearly rhetorical as she continued. “He worked himself into quite a fury. Near about wore a hole in the carpet, didn’t he?”

”I … I know I upset him, and that wasn’t my intention, I assure you.” Aziraphale ran an agitated hand through his hair. “But this seems … I don’t know that I understand why he is this upset.”

Mrs. Sandwich regarded him coolly. “Your implication that the king would never be with someone as low and repulsive as a Demon might have set him off, do you think?”

Aziraphale’s eyes popped wide. “I beg your pardon? I never said that. I would never say that.”

”Not in those words, as such. It was the way you said it. ‘Gabriel and a Demon?’” She snarled the last word with a sneer.

”Oh.” Aziraphale thought back, trying to remember his tone. “Oh. Oh, no. No, no. That’s not what I meant at all.”

”I’ll beg your forgiveness if I’m being too forward, your highness, but I know you’ve made comments before that bothered him. You see some points of the war from a perspective of the Demons having always done the greater wrong.”

Aziraphale winced. “He never objected.  He never told me. I …” He considered. It seemed to him they had been at the greater wrong many, if not most, times in the past, but of course. Of course, Crowley would see it differently. 

It was only that he didn’t think of Crowley as a Demon. He wasn’t one of them. He was … Crowley. Which wasn’t to say he thought of Demons in general as lesser. He hadn’t enjoyed the company of the royal family of Hell, but he didn’t enjoy the company of his own family either. 

They’d spoken about both of them—Angels and Demons—as though neither of them were a part of the collective, hadn’t they?

He huffed out a breath. Part of him wanted to defend himself. After all, hadn’t Crowley assumed he was a brute who would assault him on their wedding night? But that assumption didn’t make his better, and he wasn’t oblivious to the fact Mrs. Sandwich too was a Demon.

”I apologize. I didn’t think about what I was saying.”

”A trait you both share at times,” Mrs. Sandwich said, crossing her arms over her chest.

His lip twitched, and he nodded. “But whatever was said in the past, I’ve never meant to imply Demons—any Demon—was lesser or foul. It’s actually quite the contrary in this instance. My brother … Well, far be it from me to disparage our king. I trust you understand that this cannot diminish your respect for him as our sovereign, but as a man … he’s been very frank about how he feels about Demons. I’m not the one who finds Demons repulsive; he is.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “The way he spoke about Crowley in those early days—the way he at times still thinks of him—as of one describing an unruly beast. To be frank, Mrs. Sandwich, from what little I truly know of your regent, I would never expect them to allow it. They have much more self-respect for themselves than that.”

Mrs.Sandwich tilted her chin up, considering him a beat before she nodded. “Aye. I thought it might be something like that.” She nodded again. “I suggested it might be more prudent to speak to you rather than pace the library like a caged cat, his tail flicking. He wasn’t best pleased, and he asked me to fetch him something from the kitchens.” A look between worry and irritation crossed her features. “When I came back, he had gone.”

Aziraphale blew out a sharp breath, hands on his hips as he considered. He looked to the windows, inky night getting stronger by the moment. “I think it’s best I find him.” He was moving before the last word was uttered. “Please stay in case he gets back before I do.”

“As you say, your highness.”

Chapter Text

Given that a serpent was the sign of their house, Crowley had grown up with many of them as pets and had never been frightened of those he found in the wild. His favorites, perhaps due to where he found them, were the snakes that dwelt high in the trees that lined the palace in Hades. 

That evening, even the sprawling library felt too small to hold his irritation, Crowley had sought refuge. He’d needed somewhere that wasn’t the grounds where he could be easily seen and yet still outside in the calming evening air.

When he climbed the tallest tree he could find near the palace in Eden, he found, in its branches, a snake. He sat with his back against the trunk, watching the snake, musing to himself. 

Demons and Angels weren’t as different as some of them wanted to claim. He’d seen Gabriel’s children climbing these same trees some days ago. It wasn’t hard to imagine the little Angel Prince and Princess giggling, daring each other to touch the harmless snake. 

Crowley extended a hand, watching as the snake flicked its tongue out, scenting the air in its own, snaky way. He smirked, satisfied that he still had the touch as it slithered onto his palm. His lip twitched as he tried to imagine what Aziraphale would think, watching the creature wind around his wrist. The Angel surprised him at times—fussy about some things and utterly unflappable at others. 

He wondered what his husband would have thought of him if they hadn’t met the way they had. He’d begun to think he knew Aziraphale, but really, it had been relatively little time.

But then, Mrs. Sandwich also had a point. He couldn’t know what his husband thought until he asked, and that required not storming out.

Crowley glanced up at the sky and grimaced. It was well past twilight, heading into plain dark. He was sure he was due a lecture from both his attendant and his husband. 

With apologies to the snake, he carefully unwound the creature and helped it back to the branch. When it was safe, he began to make his way down.

He hadn’t had time to think before he’d fled. His clothing—all sleek silk that he knew Aziraphale liked to touch—was hardly conducive to climbing or being out in public. It was a simple shift in the deepest red, and as he jumped down to the ground, it caught on a branch and ripped part way up the side. Crowley grimaced, but there was nothing to be done. He picked up his cloak from where he’d left it and fastened it hastily around himself.

Clear thought sank in as he looked about. Right, this wasn’t good. He really had meant to stay in the library for many reasons, not the least of which was he wasn’t dressed in any way appropriate for a man of his station to be outdoors, at night no less. He’d been so angry and frustrated when he left the library after arguing with Mrs. Sandwich. Being out of favor and pissed off at his two favorite people in the world didn’t make it easier to calm down.

The thing was Crowley had never had to be this good with decorum. Remembering all the things expected of him as the non-dominant spouse in a royal marriage required constant diligence. Damn his innate rebelliousness insisting on asserting his freedom right now like this. 

He skulked carefully back through the garden, peering around trellises and darting quickly through green spaces. He was good at this bit—walking in shadows. And he thought he was going to make it back at least to the shelter of the palace—he and Aziraphale were relatively isolated in their rooms. Being the most recently married, they’d been given the most space. 

It was just as he crossed into the area nearest the doors, lit by torches, that he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He faltered as a figure turned around from where he sat perched on a bench, staring up at the night sky just as Crowley had been minutes before. He was easy to recognize. 

Sandalphon. Of course, it had to be Sandalphon. Crowley paused. He thought about offering up some excuse, but what could he possibly say? No matter how innocent his own intention—he’d just needed some fresh air, for someone’s sake—Sandalphon was sure to hurl the most twisted accusations. 

Resigned, Crowley turned and headed into the palace at his most regal pace. No matter what Sandalphon told the court about glimpsing him out and about without an escort, he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. Ridiculous when someone couldn’t walk about the place where they lived with impunity. 

Once within the palace walls, Crowley’s step slowed as he fell into deep thought. Damn it all, he’d started out this evening on the high ground. Though he should have stayed and talked it out with his husband, Aziraphale had been in the wrong, dismissing him so easily. Now though, not only would Aziraphale be worried but he’d doubtlessly be embarrassed by whatever rumors would be bandied about court by morning.

Crowley skidded to a halt as someone stepped into the hallway directly in front of him. “Sandalphon,” he said, tone betraying his confusion. The man must have slipped in some side entrance and run in his direction to have gotten ahead of him. 

“You are not above me,” Sandalphon said, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I’ve never given you leave to address me so informally.”

Crowley’s cheek twitched, but he wouldn’t add to the mess he’d already made in not abiding by protocol. He bowed in deference. “Forgive me, your highness. You took me by surprise.”

“And no wonder.” Sandalphon took a measured step in his direction. “What were you doing lurking about alone at this hour?” His eyes raked down Crowley’s body, lingering at his bare legs and torn shift. “And disheveled.”

As Sandalphon took another slow, menacing step toward him, the first tendril of fear turned in Crowley’s gut, finally overcoming his shock and his regret at the trouble his impetuous actions might cause. And stupid, really, that his guard was down at all around this particular man. Alone. This man who had accosted him before. Crowley had long ago figured out that Sandalphon enjoyed unnerving him, but he hadn’t really touched him. He wouldn’t be the one to step out of line. 

Of course, that had been before he suspected Crowley of killing his wife. 

Crowley clutched his cloak tighter around him even as he effected a small smile. “A bramble caught me unawares I’m afraid.” He stepped easily to the side. The next hallway was only five strides away. “And, as you said, it’s getting late, so—” He gasped as Sandalphon’s hand darted out to grab him by the wrist.

“I didn’t give you leave to go,” Sandalphon said, his grin malicious. He yanked so Crowley, off balance, stumbled forward, his free hand braced on Sandalphon’s chest. 

Instantly, he recoiled away, wresting the hand Sandalphon held back and clenched into a fist. “As I’ve said before, I don’t require your leave. Good evening, brother.”

He got to the hallway before the Angel prince’s quick footfalls spurred him to flight. Too late. He didn’t get halfway down the hallway before a blinding, bewildering pain at the back of his head seared his thoughts white. Sandalphon had a fist full of hair in an unforgiving grip, jerking him to a stop. He gave a short cry before the man’s other hand came over his mouth, rough and tight. Sandalphon pulled him back against his chest, yanking his head back so it rested on his shoulder.

Crowley put his hands up in defense, ready to pull on Sandalphon’s arm before the overwhelming stench of furious alpha sent his senses into a panic. Worse yet, though Sandalphon’s fury was strong—near to crippling to any omega caught so close that he drowned in fear with every breath—the cloying scent of lust was stronger. That much wasn’t shocking. As Crowley had recognized before, Sandalphon found great pleasure in fear. He was that kind of bastard. But this wasn’t that. The scent was different than before, its edges sharpened. This was his certainty that Crowley had done him wrong coupled with something base. Instinctual. This was pure hate riddled through with the beginnings of rut.

Truly panicked now, Crowley tossed his head, trying to loosen his grip. The pain at the back of his scalp was disorienting. His screams and snarls were muffled against Sandalphon’s hand. 

“Shut up, snake,” Sandalphon hissed in his ear, shoving him hard up against the wall and swallowing any space, his chest pressed to Crowley’s back. He released his hand from his hair, the sudden relief of pressure making Crowley dizzy. “You think you’ve got them all fooled. But I see you. Murdering, treacherous vermin.” Sandalphon slid his now-free hand down Crowley’s side, his touch possessive on his leg where the shift had torn. “And what have you been up to tonight, you wretch?”

Crowley knew he had to regain control of his wits. He thrashed, but Sandalphon’s hold across his mouth was vicious with his larger, wider body pinning him to the wall. He clawed at Sandalphon’s arm to little use—the angle didn’t allow him any grip. At a glance far down the hallway, he glimpsed the retreating form of a guard before she disappeared around a corner. His frantically pounding heart sunk further. 

Of course. The guards scattered throughout the palace were here to protect the Angels. They would never act against their prince. 

“You, each of you, are immoral trash. Vermin. Filth,” Sandalphon spat, fingers digging cruelly into the flesh of his thigh. “You’re a stain on this world. A blight that should be eradicated.” He bent closer so his lips brushed Crowley’s skin as he snarled into his ear, “You are nothing.”

The scent of him was a thick, solid thing that caught in Crowley’s throat, choking off his air. He couldn’t think. He was made of the desperate need to flee and the paralyzing terror. Though he hated himself for it, he couldn’t help his muffled, mewling whimpers as Sandalphon’s hand came around the front of him, hiking the thin, silk fabric of the shift up. 

“Sandalphon!”

The prince’s body went stiff against Crowley’s back. 

“Sandalphon. Let him go. Now.”

Never had Crowley thought he could be glad to hear the Angel King’s commanding voice. Sandalphon growled low, the rumble of it vibrating in Crowley’s blood, making his stomach churn, but he stepped backward, his hold abruptly gone. 

Crowley’s trembling legs wouldn’t hold him. He sank to his knees, one hand braced against the wall as he gulped in greedy lungfuls of air. 

“Gabriel.” Sandalphon’s voice sounded shaky as he addressed his brother. “You … You must forgive me. It’s only this devil happened upon me in a weak moment. As though he was lying in wait, out here without escort. He caught me at the beginning of my need, and me without my wife for the first time.”

Crowley shook his head frantically, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He couldn’t get his mouth to work. The air of the hallway was fetid, heavy with alpha anger as King Gabriel closed in on them. Crowley groped blindly for the cloak that had fallen off as he tried to flee, feeling too exposed and ashamed. 

“Go to your rooms. Now,” the king commanded as though through clenched teeth.

Crowley would have hoped against hope that the king was talking to him except that Sandalphon gave a whine of protest. ”I’ve told you he’s up to no good. He and that filth you keep at your left hand. They—” Sandalphon began.

”Go. Now. And stay there,” Gabriel commanded. “I’ll take care of this. Go.”

A heavy beat passed. “As you wish, your majesty,” Sandalphon said with clear contempt. Then, there was the sound of his footsteps retreating. 

As relieved as Crowley was to have Sandalphon away from him, the panic didn’t abate. Not with Gabriel looming above him, wrath rolling off him in waves. He tried to get his limbs to work. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. He knew he should speak, if only to murmur the required honorific. Before Sandalphon came along, Crowley would have said that Gabriel catching him out was the worst scenario.

Gabriel’s own breath was hard, as though he were struggling to calm down. But after some seconds, his hand gripped Crowley’s upper arm, and he pulled him to his feet. Crowley’s eyes popped open wide, finding the Angel king glaring at him, purple eyes glinting with anger. “Explain yourself,” he demanded, not letting Crowley go.

”Y-your mmmmajesty.” Crowley’s voice came out as a whisper. It was taking every ounce of control he had to master his body enough that his legs didn’t give out again. He was typically quick on the uptake, able to spin truth and lies with ease. Not now. Not while his body was rigid with innate, unthinking fear. Fight. Flee. Freeze. Fight. Flee. Freeze. But his survival instinct knew better than to kick and thrash at the king as he might have done to Sandalphon. 

The king shook him hard enough his teeth clanked together. “Are you trying to restart the war? Do you understand what will happen if anyone finds out the Demon prince attempted to seduce his husband’s brother?”

“Nnnno. No. I didn’t—”

Gabriel shook him again. ”You filthy little omega fool,” the king sneered. He raised his closed fist, clearly ready to strike. Crowley cringed, turning his face and closing his eyes. 

The blow fell, but not on him. It was muted, a clap of fist to flesh. Crowley had been holding his breath. He gasped, and as he did, inhaled a familiar, welcome scent. Safety, safety, his body screamed. He opened his eyes to see indeed his husband held Gabriel’s fist in midair.

“How dare you?” Aziraphale said, voice quiet and all the more dangerous for it as he glared at his brother, his king. “You will get your hands off my husband, Gabriel. Now.”

To Crowley’s shock, the king released him almost instantly, taking a large stride backward. Aziraphale curled an arm around his waist, and Crowley went gratefully, ducking his head, breathing in Aziraphale’s centering scent. True, he could smell the curdle of anger there too. It did nothing to help his nerves, but his familiarity, the inherent sense of protection rather than domination, dulled the edge of panic that kept Crowley from thinking straight.

“I‘ve told you before it’s your duty to keep your husband in check,” the king growled at Aziraphale. “And I told you I would take care of it if you didn’t. Now, look at him, roaming around dressed like that. Any idiot would have known better than to approach Sandalphon, alone, after everything, but now? When he doesn’t have his wife to mitigate his needs?”

”Sandalphon,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley felt his fist clench in the fabric of his cloak, a fresh wave of pure, passionate rage turning any hint of pleasant bread and cinnamon to an acrid, burning scent. Ice went down Crowley’s spine, and he shifted backward. 

“I don’t know what either of you expected to happen, letting him wander like this,” Gabriel said. “You—”

”Regardless, he’s mine to correct.” Aziraphale shifted them both, stepping in front of Crowley, his stance protective though he kept a tight hold on Crowley’s wrist. 

”Az—” Crowley began shakily. 

“Quiet,” Aziraphale gritted out. He squared his shoulders, his glare on his brother. “He’s no one else’s to touch. Not even you.”

Gabriel’s returning glare was a dangerous, frightening thing. He leaned forward, stance threatening though he didn’t step closer. He pointed at Aziraphale, his other hand curled in a fist. “Then control your whore.”

Crowley could feel the rigid tension in Aziraphale’s body, could hear the guttural snarl building in his throat. Rationality had returned to his mind just in time for Crowley to remember why it was doubly important to follow protocols and convention. His actions reflected on his husband, and now he had put Aziraphale in the awful position of being honorbound to defend his husband against his king—an act of treason. 

It seemed to take all of Aziraphale’s control to turn away from his brother. “Let’s go,” he snapped at Crowley.

Crowley swallowed a whimper. He didn’t know this cold Aziraphale, brimming with barely contained rage. “Az—” he tried again, only to shudder as Aziraphale turned his icy glare on him.

”Move. Right now,” Aziraphale commanded, voice echoing in the hallway, reverberating in Crowley’s blood as he began to march forward, pulling Crowley behind him.

Aziraphale had never once used his full alpha voice on Crowley. And Crowley was helpless but to obey. He stumbled, yelping like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs. 

He’d known. He’d always known that Aziraphale could be pushed too far, that his kindness had a limit. That his promises that he would never hurt him could be a lie. 

And that … That pissed him right off. 

The whole situation was degrading and infuriating. That emotion had been overwritten by his screaming terror, by the innate omega in him that cowered in the presence of snarling alphas, but it was still there. 

And he wanted to scream about both of them—his husband and the king behind them—but it was difficult to think around the fury he could feel like a physical entity around him, centered on him, or so it seemed. 

Aziraphale’s touch had only ever been gentle, but now, his grip on Crowley’s wrist was hard. Biting. It was pure instinct to pull back. Aziraphale’s grip only tightened as he navigated the hallways back to their rooms. 

Crowley searched, trying to hold on to his anger. There was strength in anger. That was what he wanted—his strength. He needed it. 

He had the sense that, after everything, after he let himself get so attached, his husband turning into the wrathful Angel he’d expected from the beginning would kill him.

No, he couldn’t think about that. He could think about his rage. He’d been assaulted, accosted, and insulted by two people in the space of the last ten minutes. He would be damned if he took a beating from his husband for the crime of taking a walk in the cool night air. At the very least, he had a thing or five to say about the whole situation.

But all he could do was stumble along behind Aziraphale’s too-quick gait. He was taller than his husband. It had been a daily effort, when they walked together, for him to slow down enough to let Aziraphale stay a half-step ahead of him for decorum’s sake. Now, though, he tripped over his own feet, sick with dread as their rooms loomed closer. 

When they got to the door, Aziraphale let go of his wrist, continuing on into the room and over to a shelf where he braced his hand. “Leave us,” he barked at their attendants. Madam Tracy left after only a moment’s hestitation, but Mrs. Sandwich lingered, her narrowed eyes darting between the two of them, obviously catching the scent in the air. Aziraphale whirled on her, jaw clenched. “Leave us,” he repeated, one shade quieter but just as harsh.

She stared steadily back at him for a moment before she turned. She eyed Crowley with regret, but what could she do besides obey? The door closed ominously behind her.

Crowley stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped protectively around himself. He tried to hold on to his own anger but found he was trembling too badly. He tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry.

“Az … Aziraphale, if—”

“Be silent,” his husband snapped.

Crowley had to swallow a whimper. There it was again. The unmistakable voice of the alpha. His heartbeat quickened.

Aziraphale’s shoulders rose and fell sharply. He was trying to calm down, but Crowley could feel it wasn’t working. And when his will snapped, he whirled, features twisted. “What in the name of everything did you think you were doing, dodging your attendant? You said you would be in the library. I’ve demanded so very little, Crowley. You know how precarious things are. You know how this looks. And Sandalphon …” He growled, teeth gritted, his hands in two fists, pumping the air. “Sandalphon …”

As he spoke, he stepped closer and closer. Crowley found himself stepping backward. When his back came up against a table, his knees buckled. Aziraphale’s anger was a physical weight on his shoulders. This was an alpha. This was his alpha. Every part of him, mind and body, wanted nothing more than to please him. Mixed with sustained panic, the weight of Aziraphale’s anger, his condemnation, was too much. 

Aziraphale took one more step forward, and Crowley flinched. He shrunk in on himself, arms clutched on either side of his head, face down by his knees. “Please,” he begged, hating the whine in his voice but helpless against it. “Please, m’sorry.”

There was a terrible, heavy silence, Crowley’s body tensed with trepidation, before Aziraphale made a distinctly distressed noise. ”Oh, gods,” he whispered. He gave a small cry. “Crowley.”

”M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry.” Crowley heard himself as though from far away. 

”No. No.” Crowley felt more than saw Aziraphale kneel before him. “No, my dear. I’m sorry. Oh, Crowley. What have I done?”

There was a touch to his back, and Crowley cried out in fright, huddling further in on himself. “Please. Please. I didn’t … I didn’t …”

The touch was gone in an instant. “Please, Crowley. I’m so sorry.”

It was the high pitch of Aziraphale’s voice that finally permeated the desperate fear and shame that had seized Crowley’s mind. It caught his attention, though it didn’t break the spell. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Aziraphale whispered, despair thick in his tone. “I would never … Oh, gods help me. I was never angry with you. Please, my dear. Listen to me.”

The touch came again, so tentative. Though his throat closed, he didn’t move this time. Aziraphale’s words were only beginning to make sense. He didn’t believe them, but he heard them. 

Still, he was aware, knew it to the depths of his soul, that he’d done the wrong thing. He’d done wrong by his husband and displeased his alpha. He knew it.

But perhaps not the way Aziraphale thought. That was important too.

”Didn’t mean … Didn’t want …” he tried, gulping hard. 

“No, no. You did nothing wrong. I know that. I do. None of what you felt was for you. Please, come here, my darling.” He ran his hand to Crowley’s elbow and tugged gently. 

Crowley hesitated. The air was clean of the charred scent. He breathed in deeply, smelling only grain and cinnamon. Not quite Aziraphale’s normal scent. There was a tinge of something heavy. Sadness, he realized. Sorrow. 

Slowly, tension ebbed. The tight hold in which he held his body loosened. Crowley raised his head, trembling. His rational mind understood the coast was clear, but his body, the omega in him, was shaken. That part of him needed affirmation, needed his alpha’s scent to chase away the last of his trepidation. When Aziraphale tugged again, he went.

”There. There. Yes.” Aziraphale guided Crowley’s head down to his shoulder and ran soft fingers through his hair, soothing and calming him though his own voice shook with emotion. He shifted, moving them both until he was sitting cross-legged with Crowley cradled on his lap. Crowley nuzzled his nose to Aziraphale’s neck and inhaled, calming with each breath. They were both shaking, he realized. 

Here was his gentle Angel.

Crowley sniffed hard. “Would never seduce anyone,” he said, voice fervent, needing Aziraphale to know this, to understand. “Didn’t think … Just. I wouldn’t … but especially that … that …” He gritted his teeth. “That pig.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “I know. I know. Trust me, when Gabriel said Sandalphon had been there, I understood some of what must have happened.” The fury was back in his tone, but Crowley believed now it wasn’t aimed at him.

“Are you hurt, Crowley?” Aziraphale pulled back, cupping Crowley’s cheek, encouraging him to look up. His eyes sparked as he traced his fingers down to the corner of his mouth. 

Now that he mentioned it, Crowley could feel that the skin of his cheeks and around his mouth was sore. It wasn’t bad, but he was sure Aziraphale could see. “I’m …” he sighed. “Had worse.” His stomach flipped, and he shivered. “Gabriel showed up before he could get very far.”

A wave of nausea rolled over him at the admission. He closed his eyes and ducked his head again to Aziraphale’s hair. 

“I’d have killed him,” Aziraphale gritted out. “I will kill him.”

Crowley shuddered again, partially vindictively pleased and partially fearful of the metric ton of bad that would follow. “Z’yor brother,” he mumbled.

“All the more reason.” 

“Y’can’t.” Crowley’s protest sounded weak to his own ears. He was suddenly so outrageously tired. Fatigued. Why was this whole situation so much harder than straight out war?

“Don’t worry about any of that.” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m so sorry about how I handled everything, my dear. I won’t blame you in the slightest if you never forgive me, but I’d like to explain myself.”

Crowley gave a hum of assent. 

“When I saw Gabriel with you …” His voice was rough and angry. “When I saw him about to strike you, it took everything in me not to kill him.”

At that, Crowley’s eyes flew open. He raised his head, tightening his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “You can’t. His guards would have killed you.”

“They weren’t there,” he said darkly. He shook his head. “But therein was the problem. I had very little self-control just now. I needed to get away from him before my control snapped. I’m sorry I snarled at you so, and I’m sorry for dragging you that way. It was only that seeing how scared you were was making it worse.”

“Sorry,” Crowley said, grimacing.

Aziraphale shook his head vehemently. “Don’t you apologize to me, Anthony Crowley Archer. This, all of it, is my fault.

“My siblings don’t think of me as a threat. No one does. I’ve never given them a reason to. They believe me soft.” His jaw tensed, his features hard even as his hands continued their gentle strokes of Crowley’s hair. “They don’t understand that I can and will rip their spines right out of their backs.”

Crowley blinked. He believed him utterly, but it was still shocking to hear him speak that way.

Aziraphale finally met his eyes, the anger draining to something soft and sorrowful. He took Crowley’s face in his hands. “I will fight for you,” he said, his voice a vow. “I will protect you. But until they understand that, we need to be careful.”

Crowley frowned. “I shouldn’t have left. Was stupid.”

“You should be able to take a walk in your home,” Aziraphale said, his tone brooking no room for argument. He sighed and ran the tip of his nose along Crowley’s cheek. “You should be able to take a walk to get away from your ridiculous husband for a moment or two.”

“I like my ridiculous husband,” he muttered, glad his eyes were closed. “Maybe he deserves to be a little ridiculous. His husband can be a bit much to deal with.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Aziraphale brushed his disheveled hair back, and when Crowley opened his eyes, his look was soft, if a little sad. “Crowley … I made so many mistakes tonight. And I’ve been unforgivably remiss in this whole …” He swallowed thickly. “Will you tell me what happened with Sandalphon? I know he must have attacked you, but Gabriel’s implication …”

Crowley groaned, hands over his eyes as his stomach roiled. He scooted backward, keeping his legs on either side of Aziraphale’s waist but putting some space between their bodies. He took his husband’s hands from around him and held them both between his. “Tha’s not … That isn’t your fault.”

He took several steadying breaths. No part of him wanted to have this conversation, but he knew everything was going to get unbearably complicated. Aziraphale needed to know everything if they were going to navigate this whole mess together.

Gods. This whole night had started because Crowley had decided it was time to talk to Aziraphale about one brother only to end with telling him about the other. If he spent any amount of time with his sisters, they’d have been here all night.

“D’you …” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I was going to ask if you remember, but that’s a stupid question. I know you do.”

“Crowley, you’ve gone pale,” Aziraphale said when Crowley didn’t immediately speak again. 

“Yeah. Jus … Remember what I said about what … Angel generals do with their prisoners of war?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, confusion painting his features for a few moments before his eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

“M’saying … Your brother … ngggh. It’s only, his camps … That’s where the reports came from. I mean … not only, but …” He waved his hand. They definitely didn't need to stray off into any discussion about war reports. “The point is I think that’s how he sees every Demon. Like a conquest.” He dropped Aziraphale’s hands in favor of wrapping his arms around himself. The memory of Sandalphon’s bigger body crowding him against the stone sent pulses of revulsion through him. “Like it’s only what we deserve—to be treated like nothing.”

When he chanced a glance at his husband, he was met with horror in his blue eyes. “So he did. He did try …” Aziraphale’s voice was raw and flat as he spoke. “Crowley. This isn’t the first time, is it?” He dragged a hand down his face. “After the wedding. You wouldn’t tell me what he said that upset you.”

Crowley gritted his teeth against the memory. His brand new brother-in-law grabbing him, saying something about how there hadn’t been so much pomp and circumstance the last time he’d had a Demon and if Crowley ever wanted a real alpha … “Yeah,” he said quickly, shaking that memory off. “Then. And one other time, he grabbed me alone in the hallway.”

All the color had drained from Aziraphale’s face. “He accosted you, and you didn’t tell me.”

Crowley wrapped his arms tighter around himself, hunching over slightly. “I thought … He liked the … scent of my fear. That was all he wanted before—to unnerve me. I wasn’t going to turn it into a thing that would break it all down.” He shivered, remembering his father’s threat about killing him if they had to come rescue him. “This time … It was different.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and awful. Crowley drew in a breath, and the scent of Aziraphale’s fury, the strength of it, made his head spin. He grabbed for his husband’s hands again. “Aziraphale. You can’t. You can’t actually kill him.” He shook his head and laughed somewhat maniacally. “Much as I … You can’t. You know you can’t.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale said, his tone jaunty but ringing strange. 

“Aziraphale. You can’t destroy it all. Not for me.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, his cheek twitching. “Nonsense. If anyone destroyed anything, surely it was Sandalphon.”

“You know that’s not how it would play out.”

Aziraphale ground his teeth. Very slowly, he nodded. “Quite right.” His features softened, his look so tender as he drew his fingertips along Crowley’s cheeks. He searched his eyes. “You deserve to be protected, you know.”

Crowley blinked. 

“Are you really okay, Crowley?” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. That is … a truly horrible question. Of course, you’re not.” He opened his eyes, curling his hand around Crowley’s side. “I would like to take you to our bed and hold you. Is that all right?”

Tears pricked Crowley’s eyes. He never would have acknowledged how much he wanted just that, not even to himself. But he could nod.

And so, he did.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale hadn’t slept for a single moment that night.

Ever full of grace, Crowley seemed to have forgiven him for everything. He’d let Aziraphale hold him, had tangled their legs together, and tucked his head under his chin. Aziraphale felt so much gratitude that, despite his earlier dismissal and everything that had happened since, Crowley tried again to tell him everything, rumbling quiet conversation against his chest. 

He’d told him about seeing Gabriel and Beelzebub together, and regret piled like stones in Aziraphale’s gut. He was overwhelmed by how many mistakes he’d made that night. How many mistakes he’d made in this marriage in general. 

Crowley had only chuckled when Aziraphale expressed this. “No one’s ever done this, Angel. And it’s not for nothing that all your siblings have spouses who grew up knowing they’d be married off. They do actually train for this kind of thing. I didn’t.”

“And thank goodness. Imagine if all the … you had been drummed out?”

“M’parents tried,” Crowley said, his eyelids drooping. “If it’d been anyone but you, they wouldn’t have hesitated to ‘correct’ me.” He scoffed but then sighed. “M’lucky.”

And that broke Aziraphale’s heart for the tenth time that evening. “You shouldn’t have to think you’re lucky just because I have no desire to beat you.”

“Tha’s not why I think I’m lucky.”

He’d fallen asleep then, and Aziraphale just watched, reasoning and plotting how to do right. 

When he was sure Crowley was deeply asleep, Aziraphale untangled himself from his husband’s long limbs and took up his vigil from the chair by the bedside. It was the small hours just before dawn before he moved again, his muscles protesting from lack of use. With one more glance at his beautiful husband—how young and innocent he looked as he slept; how the marks where Sandalphon had gripped him made Aziraphale want to eviscerate anyone who had so much as looked at his Demon wrong—Aziraphale squared his shoulders and went to meet their attendants as they entered to start their day. 

Mrs. Sandwich came to a halt when she saw him. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth pressed into a displeased line. Madam Tracy bustled past her, eyes darting between the two of them. She paused a moment, as though uncertain if she should speak. Aziraphale spared a moment to nod that all was fine. He was hardly afraid of Mrs. Sandwich, and she needn’t be afraid of him. Madam Tracy gave him a disapproving look before she moved on to begin her chores. 

Aziraphale turned his attention back to Mrs. Sandwich and smiled, nodding at her with respect. “Good morning, dear girl.”

“Is it then?”

“I’m sorry I growled at you last night,” he said, ducking his head with genuine shame. “I was in quite a state, but that doesn’t excuse my rudeness.”

Her cheek twitched, surprise flashing in her eyes before she straightened her expression out. Aziraphale knew she wouldn’t have ever expected an apology from him. “You’ve a right to your privacy, your highness.”

“That is true, and I wish I had been nicer about it.” He smoothed his hands down his shirt. “My husband is asleep, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wake him. Let him sleep as long as he needs.”

“I believe the queen is expecting him to attend to her this morning,” Mrs. Sandwich said slowly, carefully. 

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” He struggled to keep his expression soft, though the way her nostrils flared, he didn’t doubt that she’d caught the scent of his anger. “It seems I have business with my brothers,” he said, tone clipped. 

He paused, worrying his fingers along the gold chain of his pocket watch. “It is entirely possible …” His throat got tight, his memories replaying every tender moment with his husband. His secretive smile. The way his eyes lit up when he was happy. The taste of his kisses.

Clearing his throat, he tilted his chin up. “When Crowley wakes up, please tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He swallowed hard against nerves and the potential of grief, but he was resolved. Eager, even. “If I don’t come back … tell him he was worth it.”

Mrs. Sandwich’s eyes went wide. “Your highness—”

“And thank you for caring for him so well.” He offered the woman a smile and strode out the door, ignoring her call of, “Your highness!”

Normally, Aziraphale was rather a fan of a good meander, a leisurely stroll. Today, he walked with a purposeful stride. Every step away from his husband, knowing how frantic he would be when he woke to find him gone, was a stab to Aziraphale’s heart. The agony of it was no less than he deserved. His husband, however, did not deserve what this would do to him.

There was only one good reason to do what he was about to do. He would protect his husband. Sandalphon would answer to what he had done. It was as simple as that. 

Aziraphale was aware Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon met very early every other morning in the King’s personal chambers. He made haste, letting his fury fuel his steps. He did manage to keep his face neutral as he approached the door and nodded at the set of guards posted just outside. He was the king’s brother, and as long as the king hadn’t expressly forbidden it, he knew he had leave to walk into the room. 

It appeared Gabriel hadn’t thought to have him barred from the room as the guards stepped to the side to give him a respectful amount of space to enter. They would, he knew, regret their decision shortly. 

Michael and Gabriel both stood in surprise when he entered. Aziraphale’s eyes scanned the room, but Sandalphon was nowhere to be seen. He glared at his brother. “Where is he?”

“Aziraphale—” Gabriel began, but as soon as he heard his brother’s voice, Aziraphale’s vision went red. He was across the room so quickly, it was as though he’d leapt there. He had never punched a human being in his life, but he did then. With the image of Gabriel holding Crowley helpless by the arm, his hand raised to strike, Aziraphale reared back and punched the king so hard that his head snapped to the side with an audible crack.

It got very loud then. Gabriel stumbled backward and then fell to the ground. Aziraphale heard their sister shout. He took two steps toward Gabriel—not nearly done—before he was tackled, his arm wrenched so hard behind his back he yelled with the pain of it. He was on the ground, face to the floor in the next second. A hand to the back of his head held him pinned, the pressure in his skull crushing. 

“Stop!”

At Gabriel’s command, everything stopped. Aziraphale struggled to breathe, the hands on him unforgiving as they pushed him down. 

“Let him up.” Gabriel’s voice was ragged, as though he were out of breath. 

“Gabriel,” Michael protested. 

“Let him. Up,” Gabriel commanded again. He huffed. “He was well within his rights.”

The pressure disappeared. Aziraphale turned his head to the side, filling his starved lungs. His head spun. It took him a moment to identify the copper taste in his mouth as blood. No one moved to help him up, nor did anyone attack him, though the scent of alpha rage made every inch of his skin tingle with awareness. His every muscle was still tensed, ready to defend, as he pushed himself to a sitting position. He hissed when he tried to put weight on his left hand. It might, he realized dully, be broken. 

Still, when he raised his head to focus on Gabriel, the need to rend and tear stirred deep in his gut. He bared his teeth. 

Gabriel held one hand out to him in a stopping motion. “Stand down, Aziraphale,” he commanded. With his other hand he gingerly touched his cheek, his fingertips coming away bloody from the gash there. He sighed, mouth pressed in a thin line as he looked steadily at Aziraphale. “I was frustrated last night, and I … said things I shouldn’t have. You’ve made your point, all right?”

Eyes darting around them, finding Michael and three guards all standing at the ready, the latter with their hands on the hilts of their swords, Aziraphale forced himself to take a deep breath. Contrary to what he knew it looked like, he didn’t actually have a death wish. He relaxed his stance, sitting back and raising a hand to his brow. He was, he recognized then, bleeding quite profusely.

Some of the tension dissipated in the air between them. Gabriel relaxed too, wincing as he patted gently around his face. He looked at Michael. “Will you help him up?” he said, gesturing to Aziraphale with his free hand. He looked somewhere behind Aziraphale and nodded to the attendant or guard who was likely there. “Please get the Metatron. No one else.”

“Just what in all Heaven is happening here?” Michael demanded, still obeying Gabriel’s command as she crossed to Aziraphale and offered a hand. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You can’t smell it on him?” Gabriel asked, throwing himself down in his ample chair with a grumble. “He’s gone full alpha on us.” 

Aziraphale clenched his teeth, but he let Michael push him into another chair. She sniffed and grimaced. “Really? You actually … like your Demon? Like that?”

Before Aziraphale could snap at their sister, Gabriel chuckled. “Omegas.” He shook his head. “This is exactly why we don’t do this. The possessiveness. The … growly nonsense.” He held his hand out in a placating gesture. “It’s fine, Aziraphale. It’s …” He chuckled again. “Who knew you had it in you, right?”

Aziraphale’s anger flared, his good hand clenching. “Yes, because what you were snarling last night at my husband, whom our brother attacked”—he spat the word through clenched teeth—“that was the height of rationality.”

Gabriel frowned. His eyes actually flicked downward, as though he felt real shame. He nodded slowly before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. “Like I said.” He pointed to his face. “You were within your rights.” He gestured, leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair. “And you were right last night. He is yours to … correct.”

“He needed no correction,” Aziraphale roared, taking a step forward, hands in fists at his side. 

The guards stepped forward. Michael grabbed him by the wrist. But Gabriel waved them all off again. “He shouldn’t have been wandering around without an escort dressed like he was. But—” He held his hand up again to Aziraphale, looking him right in the eyes. “But.” He breathed in through his nose and out again. “I appreciate how hard Anthony has worked to adjust to life here. I know he respects you and, more to the point, that your feelings for him are, ah…mutual.  I am … aware Sandalphon was the aggressor.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed, confusion poking around the edges of his barely contained fury. 

Gabriel made a frustrated noise. “We all knew none of this was going to go smoothly. This peace with the Demons. But since the outbreak and Carmine’s loss … It’s all balanced on a pin. Sandalphon is … He’s my brother, and I love him, but he’s an asshole. I know that. And I know he hasn’t even tried to accept any Demon, but especially Anthony. I have been trying to remedy that. I’ve been trying to keep them apart, and there your husband goes … Of course, if he was going to make a mistake, he would do it in front of Sandalphon.” He shook his head. “Anyway. I … overreacted out of frustration. I shouldn’t have taken it out on Anthony, all right?”

“Aziraphale, our brother gave Sandalphon a proper … correction,” Michael said tightly. 

Aziraphale’s head snapped to Gabriel. “What? Really?”

Gabriel just grimaced. “I needed to get him far away from your husband last night, or I’d have done it right then. I told you. I saw what he was doing. It was fairly obvious it hadn’t been invited. But think about it, Aziraphale. If any of that got out, who do you think would be believed?” He slumped backward in his seat. “Precarious. All of it.”

“Effectively, Sandalphon has been banished from Eden,” Michael said.

Aziraphale tilted his head, looking at Gabriel, who waved a hand. “He’s gone. Officially for diplomatic reasons, but … Regardless, he’s not a threat to your husband now.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying to process all of that through the filmy vision of his absolute need for revenge. Knowing his brother was, even now, moving farther and farther away from his fists and, more importantly, his husband was as much a relief as it was a disappointment. 

But, right. He was a prince. Their lives were not their own. Everything they did had the potential to impact the kingdom—two kingdom’s now. The people had already lost Carmine, who was—fair or not—much more beloved than Crowley could be at this point. If Sandalphon ended up dead after everything, at Aziraphale’s hands no less, it would not end well for any of them. 

The Metatron arrived then. Aziraphale was glad, all things considered, that Gabriel was in the same room as the man dressed their wounds. He could see the man was curious and disapproving, looking from Aziraphale’s bloodied knuckles to the king’s cheek, but he said nothing. Aziraphale had no doubt he would have had a lot to say if they’d been alone. 

“This is a very simple splint, your highness,” the Metatron said as he bound Aziraphale’s broken wrist. “Come see me shortly, and I’ll get you taken care of properly.”

“As you say.” Aziraphale said flatly. 

When the man had gone, Aziraphale raised his head to look at Gabriel. “I think it’s time to take my husband home. To Soho.”

He expected an argument, but shocking him again, Gabriel nodded readily. “I was thinking the same. The pockets of unrest are not actually near there. From what I understand, some of your citizens have even expressed some excitement. They never expected you to bring home a prince, after all. But I’ll send a hundred soldiers with you regardless.”

They went over a few salient points—timing and the like—before Gabriel turned to Michael. “Will you get Uriel and Saraquel here, please?”

She balked. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Please.” Gabriel fixed her with a look. “They don’t know anything yet. I’d rather you tell them than anyone else.”

Michael didn’t look pleased, but she went. Aziraphale was anxious to get back to Crowley now. It was an itch in his very blood. But he sensed Gabriel still had things to say to him. 

He cleared his throat, bristling, but knowing that he too had things to say. “You’ve been rather … magnanimous about this.” He pointed at Gabriel’s face. 

Gabriel scoffed and ran a hand over his eyes, looking tired. He huffed and smiled. “Told you. I smelled it on you. Of course, you would.”

“I would … what?”

“It’s an honest love match,” Gabriel said, not asking. 

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth to deny it but realized he didn’t know why he should. Still, he wouldn’t let Gabriel be the first one to hear those words. “Is that a problem?”

Gabriel hummed. “Makes things complicated, doesn’t it? Hard to think straight. Rationally. Do the right thing for everyone when you’re so focused on one person.”

There was something far off about his voice. As though he wasn’t guessing. 

But before Aziraphale could think to comment about that, his brother leaned forward, his eyes intent. “We all have to be smarter. Anthony shouldn’t have been out there. You shouldn’t have let him be alone out there. I shouldn’t have tried to hit him. Last night could have ended in disaster in so many ways.”

“Not the least of which is that our brother was intent on assaulting my husband,” Aziraphale said hotly. 

Gabriel raised his hands. “I’m not denying that. What I’m saying is that we all need to be more careful. Vigilant. You have to think before you let your, ah … protective inclination get us all into something we can’t get out of.”

Aziraphale let his shoulders relax. “You know, Crowley told me the same, more or less. He’ll be most displeased when he finds out what I’ve done.”

“Yes, Beez said …” He closed his eyes. “Regent Beelzebub said they think Anthony is more of an asset than he’s given credit for.”

“Beez,” Aziraphale said under his breath. 

Gabriel’s eyes flicked to his, something dangerous and guarded in them. As they looked at each other, some fraught emotion passed between them, and Aziraphale thought he saw a glint of fear before Gabriel pushed to his feet. “You should go back to your rooms,” he said, his tone implying heavily that it wasn’t a suggestion. “You have much to prepare for.”

Because he wanted most to return to Crowley, Aziraphale didn’t push the issue. He nodded at his brother with the respectful bow a king commanded. He left without another word. 

As he moved quickly through the halls, he tried to grasp his hands behind his back as he often did, only to remember belatedly his broken wrist. As he calmed, the throbbing about his face was making itself more known as well. 

His lips turned down at the corner. How was he going to explain this to Crowley? He would be furious. What, really, had he been thinking? Gabriel had been right. Crowley had been right. If Gabriel hadn’t been inclined to call back his guards, to call off Michael, Aziraphale would be dead already. Then where would the treaty be? Who would protect Crowley?

Aziraphale walked faster.

He heard his husband before he got to the door. Shouting. 

Aziraphale sprinted. He burst through the door. Inside, he found Crowley and both their attendants in the anteroom. Crowley was clearly in the midst of pacing, his robe billowing out behind him. His head snapped to the door just as Aziraphale scented the visceral fear in the air. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said in a raw voice. He all but flew across the room but skidded to a halt a bare inch from Aziraphale. His eyes went wide, focused at Aziraphale’s brow and moving down his swollen face. “Nggk. What? What did you do?” His eyes darted to the door. “Are we running? Fuck. Let’s—”

He’d started to turn around, but Aziraphale grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “It’s fine. Hush, dear boy. Breathe.”

Crowley’s features twisted as he let himself be spun back to Aziraphale. “Don’t you hush me. You ran off to get yourself killed, didn’t you? What did you do?” Despite the edge to his words and his scowl, there was no anger in his scent. He was purely panicked. 

Aziraphale cupped his face with his good hand. “It’s all right. Everything is fine for the moment. I was … unbearably foolish. I was. But rather improbably cooler heads prevailed.”

Crowley breathed out a shaky breath. He reached out, letting his fingers hover over the right side of Aziraphale’s face. “Who did this?” he whispered. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Gabriel’s guards. They were just doing their duty.”

“Gabriel’s guards.” Crowley’s eyes held his, shock and dread in them. “Gabriel.” His eyes dropped down to Aziraphale’s hand, and he made a strangled noise as he took in his wrist, the sorry state of his knuckles. His eyes flew back up. “You attacked the king?” he shouted.

Madam Tracey and even Mrs. Sandwich made strangled noises at that. Aziraphale raised his good hand in a stopping gesture before Crowley could get panicked again. “It was much less than he actually deserved for thinking he could lay his hands on you, but as I said, cooler heads, cooler tempers prevailed. There will be no repercussions beyond …” He made a vague gesture to his face. “Everything is fine for the moment.”

“This is not fine!” Crowley boomed. “You … you … you …” He shook his head, teeth gritted. “You idiot.”

Aziraphale ducked his head. “It was foolish.”

“It was more than foolish. It was … it was …” Crowley gesticulated wildly. 

“It was,” Aziraphale said. Whatever Crowley wanted to call it, he was right. “You deserve to be protected.”

“Offing yourself isn’t protecting me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“It wouldn’t, no.” It was hard to breathe through the heaviness of regret. Also, strange how that emotion could coexist with his continued desire to rip both of his brothers limb from limb. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak calmly and softly. “But as I said, right now, I’m here, and we’re safe.”

Crowley’s jaw worked as he struggled to calm himself, as though he were trying to make himself believe Aziraphale’s words. Aziraphale took his hand, running his finger over his knuckles as he processed. “Right,” Crowley muttered after an age. “H-how?”

He let Aziraphale lead him to the sofa then, and they sat. As Aziraphale explained, he held still, letting Crowley examine him for wounds. His husband’s fingertips skimming over his skin were pure bliss, soothing the last of Aziraphale’s foul temper. 

“It … rankles that it wasn’t by my hand,” Aziraphale said. “But, I’m actually quite certain Gabriel’s … lesson was thorough when it was directed at the right person. He was always very good in our lessons on hand-to-hand combat.” Though, given what he’d seen and heard, Aziraphale was quite sure Gabriel’s main concern had been that Sandalphon’s actions threatened Beelzebub’s safety. 

“And Sandalphon is gone,” Crowley verified. 

“Yes.”

“But we’re leaving too.” Crowley glanced at him. “Are we being banished?”

“No. No. It was what I wanted anyhow.” He put two fingers under Crowley’s chin and gently tilted his head up, away from where he’d been glaring at his broken wrist. When Crowley’s eyes met his, Aziraphale smiled. “We’re going home. I’m taking you home.”

Crowley blinked, lovely yellow eyes confused for a moment before realization set in. “Home,” he said as though the word was foreign to him, which Aziraphale supposed it was. But after a moment, he grinned. “I like that.”

“You will. You’ll love it, Crowley. I’m sure you will.”

Crowley hummed. With careful, tender fingers, he stroked Aziraphale’s undamaged cheek. He swallowed several times. “You punched the king … for me?”

Aziraphale’s eyes tightened as he studied Crowley’s face. He didn’t sound angry this time. “I wish I had hit him harder.”

Crowley’s lip twitched. In a smooth movement, he’d straddled Aziraphale’s lap, taking his face in his hands. “Leave us,” he said to the two women elsewhere in the room. But he didn’t wait for the door to close before he took Aziraphale’s mouth in a fiery kiss.

Chapter Text

Crowley was out on the verandah, supervising the removal of the planters they were taking with them to Soho, when raised voices drew his attention. He hurried back into the rooms and stopped short when he saw they had a guest—the Metatron. He was sitting on the sofa next to Aziraphale, rewrapping his wrist for the long journey.

“Enough, sir. You will not be coming with us to Soho, and that’s the end of it,” Aziraphale said, irritation thick in his voice. 

Crowley’s stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. The Metatron was trying to come with them? Gabriel had, to Crowley’s great shock, apologized for his part in the horrible scene in the hall. Further than that, he’d recognized that Crowley’s life at court hadn’t been easy for a number of reasons, and promised he would keep that in mind. However, as the Metatron continuously pointed out, there was a benefit to understanding the compatibility between Angels and Demons. One there were any number of good reasons to evaluate, and as they were the first and most prominent couple, it made sense to observe them. If the king commanded the Metatron go with them, they would have no recourse.

As though he heard Crowley’s thought, the Metatron spoke up. “Your highness, I must protest. I must be allowed to continue my work.”

“And that, sir, is precisely why you’re unwelcome. My husband has been more than gracious, allowing every asinine examination—”

“Asinine? Your highness!”

Crowley ducked his head lest the Metatron look up and see his smirk. 

Aziraphale took a calming breath. “I do beg your pardon. I understand the place of science and knowledge of the body as it pertains to health. But I think you fail to recognize that my husband is also a person. Now. As more Demons are welcomed into Eden, you’ll have more ability to make every observation. Perhaps you might go into the city for a time.”

“The city.” The Metatron’s lip curled. “I’m a healer to royalty, your highness.”

“I believe you’ll find our bodies are not so different from the common people as all that,” Aziraphale said dryly. “And, thus far, you’ve remarked several times that Crowley’s body works the same way any Angel’s does. As though we are, in fact, the same species. If you’d like, I’ll speak to his majesty about having one or more of the Demon healers come to the palace. You can compare notes. I’m sure they’re just as eager as you to understand any possible differences between Angels and Demons.”

“Comparing notes isn’t the same thing as having hands-on experience.”

Aziraphale’s features hardened. Crowley rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The man had no social awareness to speak of. Only a fool would tell an irritated husband that he wanted to put his hands on his spouse.

“We’re done here,” Aziraphale said, and he stood.

The Metatron grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist of his good hand. “Your highness—”

Seeing the Metatron put his hand on his husband, restraining him, had a visceral effect on Crowley. His body went tight even as his feet pitched him forward. He was across the room in three strides, but the fury on Aziraphale’s face, the scent in the air, gave him pause. This anger wasn’t aimed at him, but it did catch his attention.

Aziraphale’s glare was fixed on the Metatron. “Sir. You saw what I did to the king. What do you think I’ll do to you if you don’t remove your hand at once.”

The Metatron yanked his hand back as though scalded. He smoothed his hands down his body. “Yes. My … My apologies, your highness. It’s only that I’m not sure you grasp how important the upcoming months may be. I’m not sure the king has discussed with you the potential of your offspring—”

“I am a rather intelligent man. I have discerned the potential benefits a child of both kingdoms might have. It’s not something I’m prepared to talk about this time.”

“But—”

“Remove yourself from my sight, sir, before my gratitude for your kind attention is outweighed by my ire.”

Crowley pressed his hand against Aziraphale’s back, both lending him support and steadying himself. He’d been trying very hard not to think about what the return of his heats meant. The idea refused to coalesce in his mind.

Still, as he watched the Metatron storm away, Crowley’s gut twisted. He hated the Metatron’s examinations with a passion. What would the man do if he ever got ahold of a child of theirs? Whether or not he wanted to think about having a child at all, the idea of a defenseless babe being studied like that …

With a shiver, Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and nuzzled his nose to his neck, breathing in his scent and finding comfort. 

They were leaving.

He didn’t have to think about any of it now.

~.0.~

Aziraphale was finally asleep. 

The last several days had been a whirlwind of perpetual motion. Crowley knew Aziraphale hadn’t slept at all that first night. He could almost feel the restless energy coming off him. Though he’d known his husband was protective of him, Aziraphale had been in rare form since the night of Sandalphon’s attack. For anyone but Crowley, his eyes were hard and assessing, his words sharp, and his body rigid, prepared to defend. 

For having done his best never to think about the biology that marked him as omega for the fifteen years since he’d presented, it had rarely been far from his mind in the months since this peace came about. Biology was the whole reason he’d been given over to the Angels rather than Aziraphale to the Demons. And then everything that had followed …

That night with Sandalphon had been the epitome of everything Crowley hated about being an omega, the whole reason he’d always understood his family’s derision. He would never be the physically strongest in any room, but it didn’t mean he didn’t know how to fight. If Sandalphon had been a beta or an omega, Crowley would have had a chance of fighting back or getting away. But his body was programmed to respond to an alpha’s anger with submission and paralyzing fear—biologically the best way to survive an alpha’s wrath. It had been even worse when Aziraphale’s anger washed over him. Crowley had wanted to yell right back that his husband should stop snarling at him, but instead, he’d been a helpless, babbling mess. 

But Aziraphale’s biology had also been the antidote to his terror. It was what had lulled Crowley to sleep after all that horror. It had restored his equilibrium, brought him peace and calm. So he’d been able to sleep that night, well and deeply. 

It had been Aziraphale who couldn’t rest after that. Worse, his biology worked against his best interest, keeping him from doing the wise preferable thing. He was built to protect what was his, to destroy any threats—not the best move when the dual objects of his rage were not only alphas as well, but alphas surrounded by armed guards. And it was probably why he’d remained in such a state of heightened alert as they prepared for a hasty departure. 

Now, though, they were tucked into their ample carriage midway through the first day of the five-day journey that would take them home to Soho. There was nothing more Aziraphale—protective alpha and chronically anxious worrier—could do but sit. Crowley had fallen asleep almost immediately. He too had been busy preparing for their sudden departure and doing his utmost to divert the gossip that stemmed from Sandalphon disappearing overnight while Crowley, Aziraphale, and the king all had visible wounds.  He was shocked when he drifted awake to realize the weight on his shoulder and the warmth against his side was his husband, fast asleep. 

The carriage bumped along as Crowley, lids half-hooded with sleep, let his gaze trace his husband’s features. Even from that first sight, there had been something deeply pleasing about Aziraphale’s face. Beautiful. Gentle. And the time since then had only endeared Crowley to every facet. The soft tufts of white-blond hair, haphazard and yet fitting for him. His brow—the way it furrowed or betrayed his pleasure as he read. His gorgeous blue-grey eyes, closed now of course, finally at rest. His lips, half-open as he slept but usually lit with secretive smiles that were only for Crowley. 

And then his body—soft and yet strong. There was nothing severe about Aziraphale. He was all pleasing lines, steady and solid. 

Sure that Aziraphale was deeply asleep, Crowley shifted carefully. He guided Aziraphale down, careful of his broken wrist, until his head was cradled on his lap. Tugging on the leg of his britches, he guided Aziraphale’s feet up onto the seat. His husband sighed, snuggling closer before his breaths evened out. Arm slung over him and his other hand carding through his hair, Crowley fell asleep again.

When he next woke it was to find his husband had gone quite wiggly. He blinked, trying to understand what was going on, why his head felt cloudy, and what that beguiling scent was. It took him minutes to realize Aziraphale was still mostly asleep and that he seemed to be in the throes of a rather specific kind of dream. By then, Crowley was intimately familiar with the scent of his husband’s arousal. His body tingled with the sound of a soft, barely perceptible moan. 

Instantly, Crowley’s desire stoked. They’d been surrounded by people these last three days. Theoretically, they were surrounded by a whole entourage now, but they were all outside. Here, in this carriage, they were alone. 

He hesitated, his hand splayed across Aziraphale’s belly, pinky finger right above the line of his britches. He knew what he wanted but wondered if he had the right. And Aziraphale did need the rest …

But then, Aziraphale groaned in his sleep, head lolling and right hand brushing down his own body. “Oh, Crowley …” he said, breathy, beguiling. 

“Fuuuck,” Crowley said under his breath. 

Right. Crowley had always been a do now, ask forgiveness later kind of man. Besides, on top of not getting much rest, Aziraphale had been so tense. A good spouse would do whatever he could to help relieve that tension.

Crowley stroked his hand over Aziraphale’s belly, gratified when he responded with a soft sigh. He stroked down and curled his fingertips around the edge of Aziraphale’s shirt, pulling it out to get to warm skin. He teased the skin of his belly, reveling in the stutter of his breath. 

Now, Crowley had a few choices. His eyes drank his husband in hungrily. He could see the bulge of Aziraphale’s britches and could perfectly imagine the silken heat of his cock in his hand. Gods, the man had a cock like a work of art. 

But, no. No, he wanted to make this slow and good. There were parts of his husband he hadn’t gotten to explore at his leisure yet, and they had time. 

Crowley tugged at the hem of Aziraphale’s britches, working them down even as his other hand fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. When he’d shoved his britches down far enough to expose his delectable arse, his own breath stuttered, and he shifted carefully, pressing his lips together to stifle a moan when Aziraphale’s head rubbed against his hardening cock through his britches. 

He caressed Aziraphale’s arse once, twice, titillating his skin. He brought his fingers to his own mouth and wetted them thoroughly before returning his attention to Aziraphale’s arse. He drew his fingertip to the little pucker and teased it, watching his husband’s face intently as his lips parted. He pressed inside him, grinning at the way Aziraphale thrust back against him, his body eager. 

Crowley worked a finger into him with slow strokes, his other hand skimming his skin at random—chest, neck, up into his hair. He thrust into him slowly, happy to take his time. Thrills chased themselves through Crowley’s blood, tightening at his core. “So pretty,” he murmured, watching the flush of Aziraphale’s cheeks deepen, the pink of his tongue as his mouth opened with his wanton groan. 

When Crowley added a second finger and curled them both up inside where Aziraphale was most sensitive, his husband bucked back into his hand. Crowley worked him with slow relentlessness as his writhing became more pronounced. With one particularly deep thrust, Aziraphale’s eyes shot open, his head tilted back against Crowley’s hardness, his mouth open as he cried out, sharp and loud. 

“Hushhhh.” Crowley brought the hand that wasn’t curled inside him to cup Aziraphale’s mouth. “You’ll make them stop the carriage if they think I’m murdering you.”

Aziraphale blinked up at him, eyes gone lust-dark. He nodded and licked his lips as Crowley lifted his hand. 

“You like this, love?” Crowley asked, husky and low. 

Panting, Aziraphale nodded. His eyes squeezed shut as he strangled a cry, pressing back against Crowley’s fingers. “Oh, no. Oh. Oh, Crowley.” He moaned and turned, muffling another cry into Crowley’s thigh as this new position gave Crowley better access.

Crowley quickened and slowed his pace alternately. “I have you. Beautiful thing. My gorgeous Angel. I want to see you come apart for me.”

His husband’s response was to rock harder against him, whole body alive. His moans and mewls were continuous now, drowned against fabric and doing wonderful things to Crowley’s cock. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale rasped, lifting his head. “I need … I need.”

“Tell me,” Crowley commanded.

Aziraphale rolled again so he was face up. “You. I need …” He licked his lips. “I need you. Inside me.”

Crowley’s cock leapt at the thought, and he had to swallow a whimper. “You want me to …”

Aziraphale straightened up, panting and flushed, so lovely. “If you want me.”

“Gods.” Crowley was dizzy with the idea. “Yes, Angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t need to hear more than that. He slid off the seat and onto his knees. His hands were eager as he pulled at Crowley’s britches, clumsy with his bad wrist. Crowley lifted his hips, letting his husband slide them down. 

Their carriage was a large, stable sort, but the bump and rumble didn’t make what his husband did next an easy endeavor. He took Crowley’s cock in a firm grip at the base before swallowing the rest of him down right to the back of his throat. Crowley almost bucked. He did cry out and clapped a hand over his own mouth.

It was clear Aziraphale wasn’t going to take his time with this, which Crowley couldn’t help but think was a good thing. His aim was to get him good and wet. He bobbed his head as Crowley cursed under his breath, driven to the edge of madness in a heartbeat. 

Then, Aziraphale backed off. Panting, he turned himself around and braced himself with his elbows on the opposite seat, arse up like an offering. Who was Crowley to refuse? He got quickly into position, balancing himself with one hand braced to the ceiling of the carriage while the other hand guided his cock to his husband’s entrance. 

As he began to thrust slowly, sinking inside him, groaning at the tight heat of him, Crowley reached around to take Aziraphale’s length in hand. Already on edge, it was mere minutes for Crowley to bring him to the precipice. Aziraphale drowned out his screams of release, biting into the satiny seat cushions. 

With Aziraphale jerking beneath him, Crowley switched his hold to take him by the hips. He himself liked to be fucked in the wake of an orgasm when all his nerves were still tingling. It had been so long since he’d done this, and with this man … 

It had never been like this. He’d never felt like this. Like his fingers digging into this man’s ample hips were marking him, staking a claim. Aziraphale was his, and Gods, the thought of that drove him to a totally different level of ecstasy. His. His. His gorgeous body. The beautiful little noises he made. His pleasure. All of it was his. 

Aziraphale reached a shaky hand back to cup Crowley’s arse even as he pumped into him. Like no points of connection could be enough. Like if they could, they would disappear into each other. 

“Angel,” Crowley moaned. “Aaah. Aziraphale. I …” But his words became noise in his throat as release found him. It was all he could do to hang on tight to this man, his husband, his love. The only thing that kept him tethered as orgasm overtook him. How else could he have survived touching the divine?

In the aftermath, Crowley was far too shaky to do anything but sink to the floor of the carriage on his knees. He rested his head against Aziraphale’s back, arms wrapped around him at first until his hands trailed up to find his. They twined the fingers of their right hands together, Crowley’s left hand resting over Aziraphale’s bandaged one , catching their breath and ignoring the cling of their clothes against sweat-dampened skin. 

Aziraphale chuckled after a moment, and Crowley enjoyed the way the sound of it rumbled against his chest. He pushed, and Crowley sighed as they both straightened up. He wrapped his arms around his husband’s waist and ducked his face against his shoulder, suddenly, inexplicably shy. 

He loved this man. It was an emotion that seemed bigger than the sky, and he wasn’t sure what to do with what he felt. 

“This wasn’t very well thought out, now was it?” Aziraphale said, sounding amused. 

“Wossat?” Crowley asked, nuzzling his neck and breathing him in. 

“Well. We’re sticky and quite without anything to wash with. We won't be able to keep what we’ve been up to from any alpha amongst our guard and poor Mrs. Sandwich. And I cannot speak for you, dear boy, but I am utterly ravenous just now.”

“Mmm. You should think about that next time you call for me in your dreams.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed. “It was, I believe, the best wake up I’ve had yet in my life.”

Crowley hummed again and kissed him. Then, he set about the task of taking care of his husband. Between sweet kisses, Crowley tended his body with a handkerchief before helping him straighten his clothes. As Crowley opened the windows, letting in the cool fall air, Aziraphale eased himself back up onto the seat. He winced, and Crowley furrowed his brow, concerned. “I didn’t … hurt you. Did I?”

Aziraphale grinned. “Oh, my dear boy. Don’t worry even a moment.” He wiggled experimentally. “There was no part of anything we just did that I wouldn’t like to repeat. I daresay I’m just a bit out of practice with that particular act.” 

“I should have—”

Aziraphale put a finger to Crowley’s lips. He kissed the tip of his nose. “If you’re going to insist on being concerned about a very agreeable ache, allow me to assuage you. The solution, I believe, is simply plenty of practice.”

Crowley bit his lower lip, but he couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped. He caressed Aziraphale’s cheek and crooked his finger under his chin, tilting his head up. “Husband. We’re going to be in this carriage, which while being quite luxurious as these things go, is not built for the things I want to do to you over the course of the next five days.”

Aziraphale whimpered. Crowley moved his hand to cup the back of his neck, pulling him in close. “So maybe it’s best not to tempt me, hmm?”

“I would never,” Aziraphale said, but his smile was quite coquettish. 

Crowley growled and took his lips, kissing him hungrily. “You’re a bit of a bastard.” he rumbled against his husband’s lips. 

“We’ve had this discussion before.” Aziraphale’s hand ran up and down his back. “You know full well my parents were married.”

Crowley sputtered in shock, but then took his lips again, intent on kissing him quite thoroughly to distract him from the fact they were still an hour from suppertime.

~.0.~

They arrived in the quiet hamlet of Paradise as afternoon bled into evening on the second day of travel.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said as they trundled on to the tavern where they were to spend the night. “The guards … they’re intimidating.”

“I believe that’s the point,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Well, right. But seems to me the idea isn’t to make anyone intimidated of me. Of Demons. I doubt any of the townspeople are a threat to either of us. Not enough for the soldiers to surround us.” Crowley gave a small shrug as though his next words didn’t make his stomach twist with nerves. “If we walk out on our own …”

“It would certainly make us more approachable,” Aziraphale said slowly, studying Crowley. “This is what you want?”

Crowley sighed. What he wanted was to find a little cottage by the sea where he could stay with Aziraphale, where he could get to know his husband truly and deeply. Where they could give and take of each other as long and as often as they wanted without having to listen to anyone’s ribald comments or having the Metatron whisk him away to that damn room. Where this could be just about them. 

But they were princes, and their lives weren’t their own. It had given them to each other, but they also belonged to their people. 

“I want us to be safe.” He twined their fingers together. “Which means I want your people to accept me. Accept Demons. Until they do, there can’t be a real peace.”

Aziraphale’s lip twitched. “It’s funny. I’ve been trying my utmost to think as a husband. It’s both my honor and my responsibility to ensure your safety. I’ve always left matters of diplomacy to my siblings. I’ve gone where they sent me, but you’re right. It all speaks to safety.”

He nodded, looking resolute, and opened the window of the carriage. He called to the captain of their guard who rode next to the carriage, and let him know his request to be given space.

When they stepped out, Crowley scanned the crowd. He wasn’t ever going to get used to being the center of attention like this. When he was working for the war, he skulked in shadows. When he had cause to travel as Prince Anthony, it was typically just him on horseback with friends or a manservant. When he travelled for larger events, he was with his family, easily lost in a crowd.

Now, all eyes were on him. He and Aziraphale were the main event and himself a curiosity. And that was the preferable option, all things considered. Curiosity was a much more benign emotion than anger or fear. 

So, Crowley kept his head up, his smile soft and welcoming. He nodded at a few of the gathered Angels and ruffled the hair of the brave child who ran up to give him a bouquet of freshly picked, haphazard wild flowers. 

After a few minutes of amiable chit chat, the master of the tavern they were to be put up at beckoned them inside to sup. Crowley begged a moment to have a word with his people. 

Before they left Eden while they decided what they needed, Crowley announced he believed they were two servants short of what they should be. As such, two of the eldest children from the orphanage had found themselves Soho-bound with gainful employment.

What they deserved was a childhood, but the world wasn’t fair. What Crowley could do was make sure they had a way to support themselves.

“So?” Crowley said, arching an eyebrow at Mrs. Sandwich. 

She made a sour face, hands on her hips. “Those two are going to make far bigger messes than they’re ever going to clean up.”

“And?”

She rolled her eyes. “They’ll do.”

Crowley grinned. 

“Off with you then, dove. Best make this worth their while.” She nodded in the direction of the curious townsfolk. 

In theory, it would always be an honor to host a member of the royal family under any circumstance. Aziraphale had told him most of his siblings didn’t think about the matter further than that. To their credit, they always left behind a handsome purse, but the expense and stress of feeding an entourage of any size was always a burden. 

Crowley knew Aziraphale conferred in the mornings with the carriage drivers and scouts about how far they were likely to travel that day. Then, a scout was sent ahead to warn the townspeople about the possibility of royal visitors. 

Paradise wasn’t nearly equipped to handle the lot of them. Aziraphale had planned accordingly. There were a few extra chickens for eggs and for the slaughter, should need arise. Their route followed the river for the most part, so many of the servants and guards could camp, fish, and hunt along the way. 

But as the citizens would never let their princes sleep outside, Crowley and Aziraphale were always put up in inns or taverns. They were fed well and provided the best wines and ales there were to offer. It would have been the same in Hell, of course, but their towns were far more spread out. While the Demons had been good at striking crops and various places of industry—printing presses, metalworkers—the Angels were more the fire and brimstone type. They razed whole towns to the ground, and as a result, the Demons lived in smaller villages. 

As he and Aziraphale had discussed before, it had left the Demons with more in the way of produce. However, one farm animal Hell had managed to eradicate from Heaven was the goat. Having grown up eating it frequently, Crowley was sure the hearty stew they were served in Paradise’s only tavern was made with goat.

Crowley knew goats were amongst the second wave of gifts his father had sent to the palace and on to the furthest corners of Heaven, but those were to be the beginning of fruitful stocks. He didn’t think a hamlet as small as this one would have gotten their hands on one goat yet, let alone enough to slaughter for meat. He sincerely hoped they hadn’t deprived themselves to that extent. 

Looking to his side, Crowley made a discreet signal, tilting his chin to the boy who stood next to Mrs. Sandwich, looking awkward as ever. She bent to whisper in his ear, sending a bemused smile in Crowley’s direction as the lad ambled over, all nerves and misbehaved limbs. “Your highness,” he said with a very pretty curtsey that he corrected belatedly to a bow. 

Crowley bent in so he could speak low to the boy. “I need you to get a message outside to Adam. Tell him that I need him to find out where this meat came from. Tell him that he needs to be quiet about it and not arouse the suspicions of our host.”

“Ye-yes, sir. Your highness.” Wensleydale squeaked. He bowed again, full of nerves, and ambled toward the exit. Wensleydale, he knew, would never have been able to pull off slightly sneaky, no matter how innocent it was. Adam, on the other hand …

Sure enough, by the time they’d partaken of their leisurely supper and a nice bread pudding for afters, Wensleydale was back with news.

“Th-the matron gets her meat from a farmer name of Job,” he said.

“Will you send Adam to find this Job and tell him we’d like to meet him?” Crowley asked. “Morning is fine. It’s late to pull him from his duties.”

Within a few more hours, they were packed off to bed with profuse and utterly unnecessary apologies from the matron for the small space they were allotted. Both Crowley and Aziraphale assured her they didn’t mind in the slightest. 

But it was small enough that there was little sense pretending they could fit their servants. So, Mrs. Sandwich and Madam Tracy were shooed away to their own respite. 

Aziraphale let out a long, weary sigh as he sat on the bed. He closed his eyes, rolling his head this way and that. Crowley watched for a beat, not daring to put words to the warmth that spread over his chest. Instead, he picked up the wash basin, pouring water from the pitcher, and setting it on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. There, he knelt and tugged at the laces of his boots.

His husband’s eyes flew open. His hand shot out to Crowley’s shoulder. “My dear. You needn’t—”

“Shh.” Crowley’s cheeks were warm as it was. He didn’t have words yet for the inexplicable tenderness he felt for this man. But he could act. He could do this. He took the cloth from the basin and set about the business of cleaning his feet, refreshing him after a long day’s travel. 

As he worked, Aziraphale sighed. He let his fingertips caress Crowley’s skin, tracing the shell of his ear and down to his chin. 

Neither of them spoke much the rest of the evening as they tended each other, smiling almost shyly as each buttoned the other’s nightshirt. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hips to guide him to sit between his spread legs and took a comb to his hair, tugging through each snarl of the day’s travel with slow, methodic strokes. More content than he knew possible, Crowley sighed and purred. 

When his hair was plaited—what a delightful discovery to find Aziraphale knew how to do and could do it despite his bad wrist—they climbed under the comforter. Crowley took Aziraphale’s good hand, playing with his fingers before kissing each of his fingertips. Aziraphale, slotted one leg between his, scooting closer. 

Looking at each other, Crowley could see the same emotion he felt reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes. Here they were on their way to a new life, a life all their own, finally free of both their families. 

Crowley tucked his head under Aziraphale’s chin, holding his hand against his chest. He closed his eyes, draped in his husband’s scent and happy in his arms.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale awakened before the dawn, startling to alertness when the creak of a floorboard indicated a presence in the room. His arms tightened around his husband’s form as his eyes darted around.

He let out a soft sigh when he found Madam Tracy by his bedside. “Beg your pardon, highness,” she whispered. “It’s only that we heard back from Master Job last night. Took as many of us in as he could, didn’t he? Proper nice chap.”

“That was very kind,” Aziraphale said, voice soft and patient. 

“Yes. Well. He said he would be honored to host you for breakfast if you’re amenable. Mrs. Sandwich took the liberty of agreeing on your behalf, and I’m sure she made the right choice.” She gave him a look that seemed to say if he thought she hadn’t, he might think again. 

“Of course. That sounds just lovely.” Anyhow, it would mean the tavern keeper wouldn’t be put out for a second meal. 

“I thought as much, your highness. But it’s about dawn now. Time to get up if you’re to be on time. Should I call Mrs. Sandwich for his highness?”

“No. Thank you. Not to worry. We’ll get a wiggle on. I’d rather you and Mrs. Sandwich see to it that we’re all ready to go and that everyone is appropriately rewarded for their gracious hospitality.”

“Just so, your highness.” With that, she was off. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly, breathing in deeply as he tried to find the energy to start a new day. He wasn’t quite sure why Crowley was so curious about the man who’d provided the meat for their feast the night before. It wasn’t unusual for the locals to offer up their finest to the royal family. Whether it was simple fealty or the unspoken knowledge that the generous purse Aziraphale would leave behind would be shared by anyone who’d provided any service, it wasn’t a shock in the slightest. 

Well, if he wanted to ask his husband his reasoning, the man had to be awake. Given that Aziraphale had just sent their attendants away, it fell to him to wake him. He had several ideas for how to accomplish this, not many of them feasible given their current location. He rolled over, good hand tucked under his cheek for a moment, just looking. 

Every day for the rest of his life didn’t seem like long enough to catalogue everything that fascinated him about this man. But as he studied his features, pulling little memories from the crevices of his mind, he saw Sandalphon in the background—a dinner where Crowley, clever as he was, made the gathered people laugh. Sandalphon had glowered.

Aziraphale had to catch the edge of fury that began to rise in him. The last thing he wanted was for Crowley to wake to a miasma of his rage. Instead, he kept his concentration on how lovely Crowley was, wondering how it was possible to look at him, to know him, and not …

Well. All right, he understood he was biased. Though, he remembered that first meeting. He remembered the trepidation rolling in the very pit of his belly as he watched the Demon royal family enter the throne room. In the week between the peace, his betrothal being announced, and the arrival of the Demons, he’d heard a range of opinions of what it would be like to be made to marry one of them. Many, like Gabriel, spoke of his husband-to-be as though Crowley were a wild thing brought into a house for the first time—he would have to be trained up, and one was to watch their fingers for he was likely to bite. Others were certain the man would be prone to violence himself, and Aziraphale should sleep with one eye open. 

As It turned out, Aziraphale’s eyes had been riveted on Crowley from the moment he caught sight of him. There was something in the way he walked. His head was tilted up—as regal and proud as the rest of them—but there was something awkward in his gait. Aziraphale had come to understand that his husband’s natural walk was akin to a saunter with a healthy sway to his hips. Crowley’s stately walk was a chore for him. 

But it had been too easy to see him as he was—human, same as they all were. It was clear to Aziraphale that he was scared and humiliated to be treated as he was by the king. What a stunning act of bravery it had been to walk to the Angel king who would have run him through with a sword barely a week before, with the eyes of both royal families on him, waiting for his misstep. His father’s proclamation—that Gabriel could do as he wished, and Crowley would obey—made it clear not a single person in the room had the Demon prince’s best interests at heart. 

Just that much marked Crowley as someone worthy of admiration. That was all it took. He couldn’t fathom how anyone would look at this man and see someone to be trodden underfoot. And worse, to be conquered. 

Again, Aziraphale had to wrangle the rage inside him. If his brother ever dared show his face …

No. Instead, he focused on the only thing that mattered—his husband. He focused on what Crowley must have felt. Gods, the scent of his fear had been potent. It had been like walking into a curtain and emerging as this more base creature whose instinct to protect had almost gotten them both killed. 

And yet again, here was the reason that the royal families didn’t mess with the alpha/omega dynamic. There would, Aziraphale knew, come a day when he would have to be in the same room as Sandalphon again. What then?

But that day wasn’t now, Aziraphale chided himself. The present was here to enjoy. 

Aziraphale set about the task of waking his husband up in earnest. He began to pepper kisses along his hairline, his fingers stroking through the tendrils that had come loose from his long plait. For being a person who could never sit still during the day, Aziraphale was consistently amused by his tendency to fall into deep, still sleep almost at will. 

“Mnnnnnhhhh,” Crowley grumbled, turning his head away when Aziraphale got to his cheekbone. 

“Mmmnnhh, indeed,” Aziraphale said, unable to resist the lure of Crowley’s exposed neck. He ducked his head, kissing him just below his jaw. 

“Wossit?” Crowley muttered, his arms coming down over Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding onto him with a light touch. 

“Time to wake up, I fear.”

“Nnnhnn.”

“Well stated.”

Crowley harumphed, but one hand was stroking through Aziraphale’s hair as though he were petting a cat. He even rubbed behind one ear. Aziraphale purred obligingly, a rumble against Crowley’s throat. 

“Come now, poppet. Open your eyes.”

“Mmm.” Crowley rolled over rather suddenly so he was draped atop of Aziraphale. There, he did open his eyes, their yellow depths still hazy with sleep. He smiled a soft and loopy smile before leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. As he did, he rocked back, rubbing his half-mast erection over Aziraphale’s through their bedclothes. 

With a gasp, Aziraphale took him by the hips, stilling his movements. “I’m afraid that’s not conducive to this morning’s planned activities, my dear.” When Crowley raised his head to scowl at him, Aziraphale tapped his nose, drawing the fingertips of his other hand lazily along his side. “Now, you only have yourself to blame. You’re the one who requested to meet with the farmer responsible for last night’s bounty.”

To his surprise, Crowley’s hooded eyes popped wide, and he sat up, his hands resting on Aziraphale’s chest, his legs on either side of him. “Oh, right. Job.” He dismounted Aziraphale’s hips and stood, looking about as though to reorient himself. 

Surprised and amused, Aziraphale sat up slowly, watching his husband dart about the little room. “This isn’t a courtesy,” he observed. 

“Mm?” Crowley looked at him. 

“You really wish to meet this man.”

Crowley paused. “Call it a curiosity.” 

As they dressed, he explained his thoughts about the most excellent goat meat they’d consumed the evening before. The herd wouldn’t be hearty enough for that kind of sacrifice for another year at least, and though people often gave up what little they had for their royals, it was an unwise farmer indeed who would cripple their stock that way.

They readied quickly and were downstairs just as the dawn broke. There, they bade goodbye to the townsfolk who were out and about, Aziraphale gratified to see many of them smile at Crowely, taking the hand he offered without fear. 

Some minutes later, they were trundling up the street. Aziraphale studied his husband. Crowley had a far off look, his brow knitted, clearly deep in thought. 

In no time, they were pulling up at a sprawling farm land, the hills dotted with various farm animals. Idyllic, as these things went. He understood what the tavern master had meant when she said it was isolated. 

They pulled up to the main house. Outside was an unassuming-looking man with a kindly smile, his arm around the shoulders of a woman whose expression was quietly wary. It amused Aziraphale as they instantly reminded him of himself and Crowley. Crowley was so much better at careful, pertinent observation. Beside the woman stood a tall boy who looked to be on the cusp of manhood. He and the middle child, a girl who looked to be perhaps fourteen or fifteen, wore shared expressions of boredom and superiority. The last child was quite a bit younger than her siblings and bounced on her feet with barely contained excitement.

Aziraphale stepped down first and offered his hand to his husband, his smile amiable. He knew it was easy for people to be unsettled by a visit from royalty, especially as it had been them who requested an audience. Together, they nodded greeting at the family before them.

The man stepped forward and bowed a bit clumsily. “Welcome, your highnesses. We’re honored to have you here. I’m Job.” He scooted back to the woman, hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her to his side. “This is my beautiful wife, Sitis.” He gestured. “My eldest, Ennon, and my girls, Keziah and—”

“I’m Jemima! I made this pot!” The little one dashed up to them, holding a misshapen pot up to them. “For you. Your highness. Es.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, charmed.

Job chuckled. “Apologies, highnesses. It’s only that Jemima heard us talking about our gift to you and wished to contribute.”

Crowley squatted so he was more on her level. He took the pot she offered. “Thank you, dove. It’s a fine pot indeed. We’ll use it for something fabulous. I promise.”

“I used it to carry my lizard,” Jemima said solemnly.

“What an excellent idea,” Crowley said as he stood up.

Aziraphale’s attention was drawn away from the precious sight in front of him by a movement out of the corner of his eye. Sitis approached, her eyes not on Aziraphale but on Crowley. At first, Aziraphale tensed, wondering if she was upset to see a Demon so near her child, but when Crowley turned, she knelt before him.

“Your highness. A year ago, I swore to myself I would find some way to repay the great kindness you did me. How gratified I am to have you here. Highness, whatever we have to offer, it’s yours.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged confused glances. Crowley offered Sitis his hands, helping her to her feet when she took them. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Sitis,” Job said, taking a step to be by her side. “Please, dearest.”

“I swore, Job. I swore I would find a way to thank the good prince no matter the circumstance.” She looked at Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, my prince. I will accept whatever recriminations you deem necessary, but I must speak my mind. You see, your husband saved my Job. My children would have been fatherless without him.”

Job sighed. “My good princes. Won’t you allow us to invite you inside before we speak of such things? Where we lack the fanfare and finery worthy of a visit from your highnesses, I’d like to believe we make up for in our appreciation. Anyhow, you may be more inclined to look favorably on us. Come, if you will. We’d be honored if you’d break your fast with us.

The house was open and welcoming. Instantly, as they entered, the savory scent in the air made Aziraphale’s mouth water. It was potent as distractions went, instantly diverting his attention away from whatever Sitis had to tell them. 

By the time Aziraphale was seated, his plate was full of the most delectable breakfast he’d ever been presented with. There were warm corn crisps simmered in a red sauce, sprinkled with crumbly cheese, and topped with an egg. It was served with beans and potatoes. 

At that point, Aziraphale was sure he would forgive Sitis anything. 

“As it happened, Job had traveled to Tartarus during the battle there,” Sitis said.

“Tartarus?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. Tatarus had been among the last battles of the war. It was a battle fought in Hell. “What were you doing in Tartarus?”

“Ah. Trading,” Job said, his voice quiet.

“Trading … with Demons?” Aziraphale couldn’t for the life of him make this information make sense. “It would be so dangerous to trade with Demons. An Angel farmer traveling that far into Hell?”

“Unless the farmer was also a Demon,” Crowley said.

“A Demon. Crowley—” Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut.

It had seemed to him, for one moment, to be a rude thing to say. For all his life save the last five months, calling an Angel a Demon had been an insult. “I … it’s only I didn’t see …” He gestured helplessly at Crowley’s eyes, realizing with some horror that he’d been about to call the markers that made Demons a bit different blemishes.

Goodness, but he did have some work to do on his inherent biases, didn’t he.

Crowley’s eyes had narrowed just a tick, but he turned his attention back to Job without comment. Job gave a wan smile. “Were you to rip me open, I believe you’d find me with fewer ribs than most.”

“Oh … don’t  … rip him open,” Sitis blurted, looking at him pleadingly.

Aziraphale started. “Oh. No, no, my dear. Of course.” He looked at Crowley. “I quite like Demons.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “Got a lot of Demon friends, do you?”

“I …” Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth several times before he gave up, flustered. 

Crowley picked up the bread basket and passed it to him. “Try the rolls. They’re top notch.”

Aziraphale grabbed one without looking and quickly put it to his mouth. 

“And you’re an Angel,” Crowley said, turning his attention back to Sitis.

She nodded slowly.

He looked at the opposite end of the table where the children sat, the eldest looking on with some trepidation. “And these are your children.”

Job nodded.

“Well. That answers that then, doesn’t it,” he murmured, almost to himself. To the pair, he smiled. He flicked his gaze to Aziraphale and back quickly. “There was some question, you see.” He cleared his throat, moving the conversation along as it wasn’t a good topic in front of the children or at the table at all. “And if you were at Tartarus …”

“I was captured,” Job said, a tremble to his voice. He paled, and Sitis put a comforting hand over his. He swallowed hard as though shoring himself up. “By Prince Raven’s people.”

Sitis slammed her free hand down on the table. “They starved him. Those monsters. Those—”

“Sitis,” Job said urgently. To Aziraphale, he said, “Please, your highness. We mean no disrespect to the prince.”

Aziraphale reeled. “He … starved you? His prisoners.” He looked at Crowley. “You knew this too?”

“Yes, I knew. It wasn’t all the prisoners, mind,” Crowley said softly. 

“No. My story, as you might imagine, didn’t add up to his people,” Job said. “There were seven of us, I believe, who they thought might have other information or be of greater importance.”

“Which is where I came in,” Crowley said, his mouth pressed in a thin line. “I do recall hearing that one of the seven disappeared from the medical tent some days after you were brought to safety.”

“Oh, goodness. That must have been so difficult. So terribly frightening,” Aziraphale said as he processed what horrors the man must have gone through. “To be so mistreated on one hand for information you didn’t possess. Then to be rescued by those who couldn’t know you were desperate to get home to an Angel.”

Job studied him a beat, searching his eyes before he nodded slowly. “Yes, your highness. Frightening is a good word for it.” He clutched Sitis’s hand, looking at her with clear adoration. “But I had much to survive for.”

“A whole, beautiful life in Heaven,” Crowley mused.

Sitis and Job told the story of how they met and how they came to live here, isolated from the town but still a part of it. And true, everyone who’d spoken of the farmer who’d provided much of the grand meal they’d had the night before had only good things to say about him. 

None of them knew that they’d been friends with a Demon for the last twenty years.

“We were … scared for you but also cautiously hopeful when we heard you were going to marry an Angel,” Job said to Crowley, casting an apologetic glance at Aziraphale. 

Crowley smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at Aziraphale. “Well, he’s a bit rough around the edges, I’ll admit, but he’s all right. For an Angel.”

”A stunning endorsement, dear. I thank you.” But Aziraphale smiled and pressed a hand to Crowely’s cheek with great fondness.

Job and Sitis had a unique perspective. They’d lived the last two decades having to hear Angels speak ill of Demons and vice versa. They’d spent the last five months of peace amongst “friends” who didn’t know there was a Demon in their midst and so spoke freely. Some were scared. Some angry. Some curious. And if they had known there was a non-theoretical Demon in their midst, would they have thought the same way Aziraphale had? There were Demons, and then there was Crowley. 

No, none of this would be easy. Undoing ingrained biases would likely take as many thousands of years as it had taken to make them in the first place. But daunting as that sounded, there was hope sitting around this very table. There were three beautiful children who could not have existed if an Angel and Demon hadn’t looked at each other and seen not enemies but someone beloved. 

For the first time, Aziraphale considered—truly considered—the idea of a child of his and Crowley’s. Could there be a more vivid and beautiful symbol of the benefits of unity? A child who was the best of both of them. 

He blinked the momentary image away, disconcerted. He’d always seen the benefit of them—their union and all it entailed—as a symbol. They were the seal on the deal of peace. The reality of them hadn’t been so simple, had it? It wasn’t fair that Crowley had borne the brunt of it. But a child? 

His mind closed down around the thought again.

They had to be on their way soon after that. When Aziraphale took Job’s hand in both of his, tucking a coin into his hand. “If you’re ever out by Soho, please come for a visit. Give the guards this, and they’ll let you in.”

Job’s eyes shone with grateful tears. Having been accepted by a prince of Heaven was, Aziraphale understood, no small thing.

They left a few minutes later with a basket of cheese and fruit and Jemima’s little pot.

"You've been quiet," Crowley observed when they had been on the road for some time.

"I was wondering what Gabriel’s Metatron would make of the children.”

Crowley visibly tensed, crossing his arms. “You’re not going to tell anyone.” It wasn’t a question. 

"No. Of course not. Of course not.”

Crowley’s shoulders eased along with his expression. 

Aziraphale reached out to take his hand. "I didn't appreciate how the Metatron treated you and you're a prince. Common halfling children ... " He stroked his chin. “I wish we knew for certain why Gabriel and your sibling are so interested in these children. If it has something to do with their immunity …” He paled. “How would they know? If the children were immune?”

The air between them was rife with an uncomfortable energy.  The weight of what went unspoken was heavy on Aziraphale's heart. Now that they knew Demons and Angels could reproduce, if it happened …

But it had been several months. Perhaps it wouldn't.

Chapter Text

“You’re getting very pretty for a day on the road.”

Crowley met his husband’s eyes in the mirror. He took a steadying breath and continued to study his reflection, twisting his hair up onto his head and tilting his chin this way and that. “I thought you said I’m always pretty.”

Aziraphale stepped closer to him. He drew a fingertip along the line of Crowley’s exposed neck. “I said you’re stunning.” He stepped more fully behind him, cupping his neck with the lightest of touches, his fingers touching along the line of his chin. “Gorgeous.”

Crowley let his hair spill down his back, fighting the urge to beam. Pleasant thrills of energy raced along his spine and through his body. He loved the feel of Aziraphale’s fingers as he stroked through the strands, their eyes intent on each other.

He was happy. Outrageously so. 

And part of him knew that this near-perfect happiness they’d found out on the road—where they were free of most official duties—could break when they arrived in Soho, now just a few hours away. Aziraphale had said that the people of Soho were eager to have their princes home—both of them. Crowley couldn’t see how he could know. By his own admission, he hadn’t been back there for years.

For the second time in less than a year, Crowley was about to step into a role he had not prepared for and never dreamed was a remote possibility. And again, he was to be presented to people who had likely never seen a Demon outside the context of war. The stakes were a different kind of overwhelming. Soho wasn’t nearly as big or half as important as the capital city, but it was meant to be his. 

His home. 

“Only one chance to make a first impression and all that,” Crowley said, keeping his tone light. “What do you reckon? Ornate? Prim and proper?”

Aziraphale chuckled. He dropped a kiss on his crown and, moving his hands back to Crowley’s chin, tilted his face up to press another kiss to his lips. “There’s a reason this place was given over to me. Soho has its place in the scheme of things. Valuable to some extent. But they’re much more prone to whimsy than pomp and circumstance.”

“Whimsy?” Crowley’s cheek twitched.

“You look like a creature from myth and fairy tales when your hair is down like this.” Aziraphale sighed and gathered two strands of unruly curls from either side of his head, bringing them around back. “In a loose braid perhaps? Wild and yet regal.”

Some of Crowley’s nerves eased, soothed by his adoration. Wild and regal was surprisingly apt actually. The way this man saw him always stunned him.

Aziraphale kissed his cheek and sat back down on the bed, leaning over to put on his shoes. “I don’t know if it will make you feel better, but in all reality, this will be our people’s first impression of me as well. I came into my title as Duke of Soho at one and twenty, but I’ve scarcely been here. When I could, it was always as a visitor with the understanding my proxy was the one in charge.”

Suddenly, Crowley was disappointed in his own lack of foresight. He should have had enough curiosity about the place that would be his real home to ask questions. Though they would look to Aziraphale to lead, they would also look to him for … well, he wasn’t sure, was he? He’d always lived in the capital cities of Hell, and then of Heaven. Things were different for kings and princes than they were for dukes.

So, Crowley spent the few hours they had left asking questions. 

The road veered off to a smaller path that hugged the shore. Where Eden had been flat, the land surrounding Soho was craggy—all waves crashing against rocks and deep blue waters. Here and there were pockets of people. Sometimes, they gathered by the roadside—a handful of families waving merrily. He and Aziraphale waved back, and their entourage handed out the baskets they’d prepared—bundles of herbs and cured meats and a gold coin for each. Cloth dolls for the children. 

And then there was Soho. The city was tucked just east of the seaside. Where Eden had been all uniform, gray houses, and shop fronts, Soho was spread out a bit more haphazardly, its buildings placed as if on a whim. Cheerful banners hung here and there and murals painted several walls. As they entered the city limits, a small crowd began to follow their entourage. Children ran alongside the carriage, giggling and waving.

Aziraphale had asked Crowley not to wear his sunglasses. “I’ll understand if you want to,” he said. “But the people should love you exactly as you are. There is nothing for them to be afraid of.”

Crowley turned in his seat so that he faced outward full on. He saw the children gasp and turned to each other excitedly, but to his relief, they didn’t seem scared.

As they turned down a street lined with shops, Aziraphale seemed particularly excited. He sat on the edge of his seat looking out. “This is my favorite part,” he said.

Crowley looked around, trying to see if he could figure out why without asking. Then he laughed. “Could that be why,” he asked, pointing at a shop. “A.Z. Fell and Co? A.Z. Fell ... Aziraphale. Is that yours?”

Aziraphale looked pleased with himself. “Possibly,” he said coyly. Then he sighed. “I can’t be seen to show such favoritism, but it was my private store that funded it, yes, and many of the books I collected on my travels are stored there.”

“You’re not afraid they’ll get sold?”

“Maggie wouldn’t dare.”

Crowley chuckled, amused by the note of ferocity in Aziraphale’s tone. 

The carriage continued on for another few minutes before they turned onto a road lined by the proudest, tallest trees Crowley had seen thus far. The citizens fell back, so Crowley wasn’t surprised when Aziraphale sat back, gesturing out the window. “There it is.”

Crowley sat beside Aziraphale and leaned over him so he could stare out the window at the right angle. Just past the line of trees there was, indeed, a castle. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as sprawling and grand as the palace in Eden, but it was still immense. It was tall, its shape rounded with a proliferation of turrets. It had most certainly been a stronghold at some point in the war, but it had been several hundred years since any of the fighting had come this far. 

And all around it were gardens. Crowley’s lip ticked up at one corner. 

“Welcome home, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly as the carriage pulled to a stop. 

Crowley had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t expected the idea to hit him the way it did. Home had been such a perfunctory space his entire life. And always, his home had belonged to someone else. He felt Aziraphale’s hand on his knee and turned to look at him. He looked so hopeful and eager. He smiled back, surprised to find he was more excited than anything. 

His. Theirs. 

What a novel concept. 

The doors came open, and Crowley sat back. Aziraphale squeezed his knee once more before he exited the carriage. 

There was a certain sense of déjà vu as Crowley stepped down from the carriage. He took Aziraphale’s offered arm, bemused at the juxtaposition. Like the last time, there was a small group waiting for them on the steps. Crowley’s stomach twisted with nerves but these of an entirely different variety. He’d never given much thought to what he wanted in his life. He’d gone from one duty to another. Oh, he’d always found a way to have a good time, but he’d never had any plans to speak of. He could now, he realized, plan a life. 

“Steady on, your highness.” A commanding-looking woman strode down the steps to meet them, her fine attire marking her as Aziraphale’s proxy, Nina. She bowed low. 

“Good afternoon, Nina. So very good to see you.” He patted Crowley’s hand, beaming at him. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Prince Anthony Crowley Archer nee Ophidian.”

Nina likewise bowed to Crowley. “Your highness. How good to finally meet you.” 

“Charmed,” Crowley said, offering a respectful nod. 

“Right then.” Nina clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Your marquises and marchionesses will attend dinner this evening. I don’t mind telling you I’ll be glad when they’re fully your business again, your highness. That’s certainly a highlight for me.”

“But Nina. It’s concerned me. I know my move back was a sudden thing. If you need more time here …”

“Not to worry about me, your highness.” Nina chuckled. “I’ve a few projects I’m eager to dig into properly. Actually, last time you were here, you came with the king— I’m sure you recall. He was impressed by my family’s development of the coffee bean and what we do with it. He wrote some months ago that he wished to send a sampling of grounds for coffee to Hell. Turns out, Demons enjoy a good cuppa.” She grinned at Crowley. “Got better taste than Angels, right?”

Crowley was startled by the humor and familiarity in her tone, but he grinned. “I should say so.” He cocked his head. “It’s not what they serve in the palace, is it?”

“Gods no, and I’ll thank you, my dear prince, not to insult me.” She studied him a beat as though gauging if he’d read her tone correctly. “I believe the king keeps it to himself though, from what I understand, your Reagent Beelzebub enjoys it as well.”

“Indeed.” Crowley smirked. Of course, the king would share his secret coffee with Beelzebub. “How rude of them never to invite me.”

“Not to worry, your highness. I’ve got a few things in the works. A particularly concentrated brew for starters. Get you on your feet no matter how sleepless a night you’ve had.”

“Intriguing. There’s been a few nights since I’ve come to Heaven that I’d have found such a thing quite useful,” Crowley said, casting a surreptitious wink at his husband.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, hiding a smile behind his fist.

Nina went on without missing a beat. “The people have also scheduled a celebration to be held in three days time in the square,” Nina said. “I do hope your highnesses will attend. They’re all eager to celebrate their princes.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said. “How very kind.”

“It’s as I wrote you some months ago. The news of this peace and your marriage was met with much frivolity and celebration in the streets. Quite literally. I think everyone was drunk for a week. There’s been quite a lot of art dedicated in your honor. Plays, paintings, and the occasional statue. Nothing as grand as the king sent on as a wedding gift, mind, but then, it’s hardly been enough time for our artists to produce something so large.”

“I’m sorry. Gabriel sent something? A statue?” Aziraphale asked. 

It was only because Crowley was watching Nina intently that he saw the glimmer of stern disapproval that crossed her face. “It’s an interesting choice as a wedding gift, given that it’s, ah … his likeness instead of either of yours.”

“There’s a statue of Gabriel here,” Aziraphale said. 

“In the garden.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale paused. “That’s … interesting.”

Well, if Crowley was truly in charge of the garden, he was sure he would have things to say about the placement of that particular statue. 

“Now, I’ve had some refreshments set out in the sitting room. I know you’ve been long on the road, so if you’d like, I can give you privacy to settle in. You might find it prudent to allow me to stay with you. I can catch you up with the state of things in the province before tonight.” She glanced at Crowley and back at Aziraphale. “Unless you’d prefer to meet in private.”

“No. Whatever you have to say, you may always speak in front of my husband.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s hand. “You’ll find he’s quite perceptive in matters of state.”

Crowley smiled inwardly. With those few words, Aziraphale had set the tone for how Crowley was to be treated in this household—not as the spouse content to do the embroidery and keep their head out of the business of the land but as an equal, to be trusted and relied upon. 

“As you say, your highness.” Nina gestured through the doorway. “After you.”

~.0.~

Some days later, as they returned from the festival the townspeople had thrown in their honor, Crowley was in a strange and wonderful headspace. 

The last few days had been a revelation.

In many ways, dukes and duchesses were the rulers of their provinces. All the people who lived in the province, from the farmers to the lords and marquis, looked first to their dukes for guidance, justice, and whatever else they needed. As Crowley had married into the family, his role was akin to Queen Azrael’s. But what he hadn’t considered was that meant Aziraphale was akin to Gabriel. 

His husband was many things—kind and compassionate. But he wasn’t the best at reading people. They made a good team in that way. When the spouses who made up what was, in essence, Crowley’s own court spoke of the balls and parties he was meant to organize, Aziraphale had a number of ideas. Meanwhile, Crowley had some suggestions for how to manage the various problems the lords and tenants came to Aziraphale with. 

And in both cases, Crowley was shocked at the deference the people showed him. Oh, certainly, there were a number who looked on him with derision, but the same was true of Aziraphale. They weren’t going to please everyone. Regardless, if anyone suspected they were all in danger for having let a Demon in the gates, they didn’t let Crowley hear them say so. 

Having to be so consistently social—and the center of attention besides—was going to take some getting used to. On the other hand, the fact this place was theirs made all the difference. 

The festival though. 

The commoners had welcomed Crowley with such genuine affection. The moment he stepped out of the carriage, a gaggle of children had surged forward. They’d pressed a bouquet of flowers into his hands, curtsied and bowed so prettily. The mood was warm. Aziraphale too was shown no small amount of adoration. Perhaps his family looked down on him. Perhaps many Angels who lived closer to Eden thought of him as silly and soft. As far as Soho was concerned, he was their prince. They loved him even more for bringing home an omega husband when he’d once sworn himself a bachelor forever. 

To that end, the people offered them a new ceremony—one they could be a part of. Crowley wasn’t keen on performing for crowds, but then he’d made the mistake of looking at his husband. Aziraphale had given him a look, just the slightest pout, and there was no way Crowley was going to deny him anything. 

It was the best decision he could have made. 

Rather than his father’s severe servants brushing him within an inch of his life, the folks who attended him—under Mrs. Sandwich’s watchful and highly amused eye—were all smiles. They wound ribbons through his hair and brushed his cheeks with something that made them sparkle. They’d made flower crowns for both of them, and everyone smiled as they took each other’s hands. 

There was another difference. Crowley could hardly remember their first wedding. His heart had been beating so hard, all he remembered was trying desperately not to throw up. Now, he felt a strange and giddy eagerness. Ridiculous in many ways. They’d been married for the majority of a year at that point, but this felt like the beginning marriages were meant to be. They didn’t make their vows out of duty but love. They were surrounded by smiles, by people who were as happy and hopeful as they were. 

Their kiss, as the holy man drew the ceremony to a close, was no perfunctory thing. Though chaste, it was a serious, eager kind of kiss. They parted, breathless and giddy, grinning at each other. 

And then, they celebrated. Properly. There was wine and food. There was music, so many musicians eager to play for them. There were gifts piled at their table—from art that was really rather spectacular to clumsy, charming crafts offered by the children. Several of the artists had begun to take day trips into Hell, and the influence on their art was obvious. Some of the food offered too had its origins in Hell. They’d gone out of their way to make sure Crowley knew he was welcomed. 

Also, food in Hell really was better. 

Aziraphale was a vision—all bright eyes, wide smiles, and a hectic pink to his cheeks. His gratitude was so achingly sincere, none of his citizens could doubt him. He might not have been the best with politics, but he was good with people. 

The energy between them when they left was as the wedding had been—warm and rife with an expectant excitement. Crowley found he was thrilled to be this man’s husband, to have promised to have and to hold for all of their days. 

And he couldn’t wait to get him to their room to consummate their ‘new’ marriage.

The door had scarcely closed before Crowley had grasped his husband by the lapels and dragged him in for a kiss. It was a serious kiss, voracious and hungry from the start. Crowley licked the remnants of sweet wine from Aziraphale’s tongue, running his hands up and down his husband’s chest. 

In the few days they’d been there, they’d managed to christen most surfaces in this room. Crowley was, therefore, delighted when Aziraphale didn’t pull him over to the bed or the couch or the desk. Rather, he pinned him back against the wall right where they were, as though he—like Crowley—couldn’t stand the thought of waiting another second. He tugged down his underthings and hiked up his tunic, hands cupping and caressing where Crowley was hottest. He never stopped returning Crowley’s kisses, his fervent movements making it clear. The feast hadn’t sated him, and his intent was to devour. 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s cock in his hand, fingertips exploring at first before he wrapped his fingers around his base and stroked. Crowley moaned into his mouth. His every nerve ending had been on fire well before they ever got home. Every touch sent a shudder through him, a tingle across his over-sensitive skin. As Aziraphale drew his hand down Crowley’s side, around to the back of his knee, cohesive thought was becoming ephemeral at best. Aziraphale tugged, hitching Crowley’s leg up around his waist, and Crowley lost his grasp on words completely. 

He did try to speak. He knew, as his husband pushed deep inside him, that he gasped his name and sputtered around moans. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, his legs around his waist, hanging on through emotion and pleasure so big he felt sure he would shatter. 

“Hush now, darling boy,” Aziraphale cooed, pumping into him, his rhythm quicker than his slow, rumbling words. “You think I don’t know? Hmm? You think I can’t tell how much you love this? How I open you and fill you? How your body was made to accept mine?”

Crowley’s moan was almost a wail. The relentless thrust inside him was more than enough to undo him entirely. He was sure he wouldn’t survive his prim, proper, often guileless husband whispering filthy words against his ear. It was far too erotic. 

“Oh, love.” Aziraphale swallowed another of Crowley’s shouts with a stolen, open-mouthed kiss as he drove into him harder. “I want you to feel me deep inside you. I want you to ache tomorrow and remember what this felt like, for me to be a part of you, for you to know my touch with every step.”

Crowley whimpered and groaned, banging his head back against the wall. He slipped one hand under the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, desperate to feel skin. He dug his fingernails into his flesh, crying out at the increasing intensity of the waves of ecstasy crashing into him with each thrust. ”Azi …Ah!” Crowley panted, eyes closed.

A fervent need had kindled in him. It wasn’t a new thought, but it was one he would have had trouble articulating at the best of times. Now, though, it felt like a need. As though he wouldn’t be able to breathe again until he had what he wanted. “Azira … Ah. Az—” He whined, his hips rolling to meet each thrust. “Need … Ahngn.”

”You have me, darling.” His hands tightened around his waist. “And I have you.”

Crowley groaned again, equal parts a reaction to the pure pleasure quickly consuming him and frantic need to make him understand. He caught one tendril of sense and latched onto it, finding the will to lift his head and take Aziraphale’s face in his hands. 

Aziraphale’s hard pace stuttered to a stop, eliciting a whine from Crowley. He licked his lips and focused on his eyes. “I am yours,” he said raggedly, the admission both the easiest and hardest truth he’d ever uttered. “Make me yours. Claim me.”

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale’s gorgeous face only a second later. “Crowley.” The word was a breath full of wonder. “Are you sure?”

It was a heady thing, particularly for two beings who were only beginning to appreciate the benefits of their base nature, the lack of rationality and control. The mating bond was the deepest connection two beings could share. Mates experienced a bone-deep sense of contentment and well-being that bled into every facet of their everyday lives. The strength of the love shared between mates was where the phrase “love conquers all” had originated. It was a source of great strength.

But so it could be a source of great weakness. Crowley’s body was already attuned to Aziraphale. He felt his every emotion echoed in himself and found the desire to see him happy had become innate. To be mated to him would be that multiplied a thousandfold.

As it was for him, so it would be for Aziraphale. The loss of a mate had been known to kill the other. 

Crowley kissed him, shaky with the thrums of pleasure still running over his skin and coiling at his core. “I’m sure,” he mumbled against his lips.

Now it was Aziraphale who whimpered, kissing him back soft and sweet and fervent. “Crowley,” he whispered with reverence, beginning to rock into him again with a slow sway. “My dear. My love. You have all of me. I’m yours.”

Aziraphale kissed him then. Slow, deep kisses as he fucked into him, quickly bringing him back to where he’d been before, pleasure building, frighteningly and breathtakingly immense. So much. Just this side of too much.

Crowley’s moans became frantic. He was helpless and pliant, holding on for dear life. He felt the brush of Aziraphale’s fingers at his neck, pushing his hair off one shoulder. He tilted his head back, gasping in breaths, too many sensations assailing him to do anything but feel. Aziraphale brushed kisses from the underside of his chin on down. 

When teeth sunk into lush flesh, Crowley screamed. It was perfect, exquisite pain and pleasure. He fell over the edge of ecstasy, undone and remade with each pulse of his cock between their bodies. He felt them like a loop, no sense of where he ended and Aziraphale began. Part of each other. 

Time stood still. 

Gradually, awareness came back to him. He was trembling, entirely boneless, reliant on Aziraphale’s strength to hold him up. He felt himself being swept up into strong, sure arms. He was placed on the bed with such care, the rest of his clothes removed between lazy, seeking kisses. 

When he was bared, Aziraphale rolled him onto his belly. He peppered kisses and caresses from the small of his back on up. He entered Crowley again, burying himself to the hilt. Every nerve ending Crowley had was lit and firing. Aziraphale’s slow pace was pure lovemaking, drawing out Crowley’s utter bliss. Aziraphale licked at the bite on his neck, soothing the lingering ache, whispering his name in veneration. 

Aziraphale pulsed inside him and collapsed, his weight atop him somehow exactly what Crowley wanted. He was consumed, the sound of Aziraphale’s ragged breath music in his ear. 

It could have been hours they lay like that, both of them shaking a little, stunned by the enormity of what had passed between them.

Eventually, Aziraphale rolled to the side. They both shifted until they were wrapped in each other’s arms. 

And there it was, just as described. A sense of serenity settled over them. They were surrounded, ensconced in their mingled scents as though in a sheltering cocoon. All Crowley’s life there had been him, and now, there was them. 

Crowley had never fathomed such a perfect happiness could exist.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was already awake, perched on the edge of the bed, when he heard the door to the hall open. He pushed to his feet, glancing over his shoulder once, his eyes on his sleeping husband’s still form as he made his way forward enough to catch Madam Tracy’s eye. He pressed a finger to his lips and made a shooing motion. She tilted her head, her expression that of someone about to admonish someone. It made him smile. He held his hand up, fingers splayed to indicate he’d only be a few minutes and pointed to the hallway with firm emphasis. It was not a request. 

Madam Tracy fixed him with a stern look, which clearly meant he was not to let his husband draw him back into bed today. Then, she was gone. 

She needn’t have worried. Aziraphale turned back and smiled. Crowley was still dead asleep, and that was precisely what Aziraphale wanted. His rut and his husband’s heat had lined up this go around, and it had been a rather incendiary few days. Aziraphale was deliciously sore, so he couldn’t imagine what Crowley felt. He needed his rest. 

Alas, being otherwise occupied for a few days, Aziraphale had postponed a few rather important duties. Thus, he was up with the sun. He gathered a few things he’d need but paused when he glanced back at Crowley. He couldn’t help but stare. 

Crowley lay face down, his arms wrapped around his pillow, hair falling haphazardly. The comforter was low down, exposing his bare back and the cleft of his arse. He looked ethereal in the morning light. Aziraphale breathed in, holding onto the little bubble of them for a minute more. 

They’d been home for four months. Far and away the best four months of Aziraphale’s life. The politics of his little corner of Heaven weren’t nearly as dire as those more central to Eden. Aziraphale was surprised to find he fit in here. This kind of leadership was to his liking, and his people seemed to return the sentiment. He seemed to have a calming effect on people, which served them all well as he settled disputes. It had been imperative to him to find good people to serve on his inner council along with Nina. The decision had done him well. His council and his husband were good at pointing out things he missed and different perspectives. 

As for Crowley, it was gratifying to see he seemed just as happy. He too was fast becoming beloved of their people. 

Freedom was a good look on Crowley. With room to stretch his wings and do things his own way, he was a whole new person. He set out almost daily to be among the people, getting to know the lay of the land. Aziraphale teased that he only wanted an excuse to visit the taverns, which he did enjoy. But in truth, he’d visited all manner of establishments. He’d then ventured beyond to the farms and vineyards, and then to the cliffs where many artists found inspiration. He always came home talking about one person or another. He had an appreciation for the ingenuity of people that Aziraphale found charming.

Crowley had quickly decided that Soho had been without a gathering at the castle for far too long. He announced his intention to throw a party for the winter season and declared the food, drink, decoration, and entertainment would all be locally sourced. To that end, he had declared there would be a contest to see who would be chosen. He’d invited the brewers and vineyard owners to the town’s center square and told them to bring their best—all that they were willing to part with knowing they would be compensated. It drew a crowd, and people started to buy the excess goods. Those who couldn’t afford it could trade. Soon, nearly the whole town had gathered, impromptu stalls set up haphazardly as people brought out their wares and their art, vying for the prince’s attention but also celebrating with each other. It could have been a festival for all the cheer in the air. 

Aziraphale had been otherwise occupied that day, but one of his advisors had been there. The way he described the scene, Aziraphale had no doubt in his mind that Crowley had known exactly what he was doing, bringing everyone together while showing them what kind of prince he would be for them.

Come the day of the party at the palace, as promised, most everything came from the locals, all of whom were invited on this day of unity. The only thing Crowley had imported were a handful of Demons. A couple that played instruments Aziraphale and the rest of the Angels had never seen. He’d brought a pastry chef, proving to Aziraphale once and for all how much better Demons were at food. The pastries at the ball were divine—puffs as light as air filled with cream and strawberries and dusted with powdered sugar.

Finally, he had a plant called Devil’s Lettuce imported. The night of the ball, the visiting Demons showed the Angels how to smoke the leaves. “Fantastic for relaxation,” Crowley told Aziraphale, his smile mischievous. 

Many of the more petty disagreements seemed to disappear after that. 

Coming back to himself, Aziraphale sighed, smiling as he let his hand hover over Crowley’s back, close enough that he could feel his warmth but not touching him. He wondered what it would be like to not be a prince, a duke with responsibilities. It would be nice to just go back to bed. But then, if they weren’t them, they would still have things that needed to get done. It was only that Crowley looked so lovely, bathed in the soft light of the morning. 

Aziraphale pulled the blankets over Crowley’s shoulders. He tucked a stray strand of hair back over his ear and somehow convinced himself to get up. 

He was met in the hallway where Madam Tracy bustled him along. Crowley’s room was right across from the bedroom they shared—ostensibly Aziraphale’s room, but he’d never once thought of it as such. And Crowley hadn’t ever spent a night in here. He’d made the space his own though and spent time there when he wanted to be away from everyone. Also, Aziraphale used it to get ready when he didn't want to disturb his husband. 

As his attendants brought him his clothing and helped freshen him up, Aziraphale cast his glance around the room. Crowley had brought several plants inside so any space by the windows was lush and green. There were paintings on the walls—some gifted, some bought—from local artists. He had one squat shelf where he displayed the pot Jemimah had given them and a handful of other gifts from children. Another shelf held several curiosities. He’d shown Aziraphale his small telescope with eyes that sparkled and excitement in his voice as he gestured out to the night sky. 

“Madam? Do you happen to recall … It’s perfectly fine if you don’t. It was so long ago. But do you recall the gentleman who visited the king with plans for a rather large telescope? One the size of a small house?”

“Oh, yes, highness. His name was Galileo.”

“Yes. That’s right. When we have a moment, perhaps later this evening, remind me to compose a letter to him.” He decided he would surprise Crowley with plans for their own telescope for his birthday. 

But right then, it was time to get to work. 

He broke his fast with his council, taking care of the business of Soho. He approved plans and signed cheques. When that was done, he retired to his study to review his correspondence.

Time ticked by. Aziraphale grimaced as he finished his third letter. He set the quill down and shook his cramped hand. He started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Another hand set a cup on the desk. Aziraphale turned his head to find his husband looking down on him with affection.

“Tea.” he said, pleased, and put a hand over Crowley’s on his shoulder. “Good morning, dear. Or is it afternoon by now?”

Crowley chuckled. He turned and leaned up against the desk. “It’s somewhere around midday.” He yawned. “Or so I’m told.”

“You needn’t be up if you don’t want to be.”

“Hah.” Crowley smirked, his expression mischievous. He ducked his head, his grin lascivious and his voice low. “And what if I want to be up?”

Aziraphale quirked his eyebrow, expression stern though his cock gave an interested twitch. “You can’t possibly want more at this point.”

“What was that word you used? Insatiable? Doesn’t it mean impossible to satisfy?” He cupped Aziraphale’s chin, his thumb stroking just below his mouth. 

“Mmm.” Aziraphale pondered, wondering if he was really so sore as all that. He took hold of Crowley and tugged, pulling him onto his lap. Crowley gave a huff of surprise and winced as he clung to Aziraphale’s neck, trying to find his balance.  

“Oi!” Crowley shifted on his lap, hissing a bit. “Be gentle, for everything’s sake. That’s sore.”

“Mmmm, what was all that about insatiable?”Aziraphale rubbed his back. 

“Might have been a bit ambitious, come to think,” Crowley muttered. He shifted again, grunting a bit until he was sitting more comfortably. Once he was settled, he sighed and kissed Aziraphale. A little kiss, not leading anywhere. Just an expression of the words they still found hard, for one reason or another, to say out loud. 

Aziraphale hadn’t nearly sated himself with his husband’s kisses when there was a knock on the wall. He sighed, pulling back from Crowley reluctantly and looking to the doorway.

“Begging your pardon, highnesses,” Madam Tracy said. “It’s only you’ll want to take this letter straight away.”

Crowley gave his hair an affectionate ruffle before climbing off his lap. Aziraphale did his best to straighten up and concentrate. “Urgent, is it?”

“I should say.”

Aziraphale took the letter she offered. The envelope looked rather rumpled. His eyes widened when he saw the name on the front. “Anathema?” He was quick then to open the envelope. 

Crowley came up beside him, a light hand to his back. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Quite well indeed.” He chuckled. “Lady Anathema is nearby on business and announces her intent to visit.” She had audacity, this one, but it was why he liked her. “She’s given us all of an hour’s warning.” He looked at Madam Tracy but didn’t have a chance to say a word before she bustled on. 

“Not to worry, your highnesses. Everyone’s been set in motion. There’ll be a good meat pie for supper. The best guest room is being prepared. Fresh flowers and all. Rest easy.”
 
Aziraphale grinned. “I never had a moment of doubt.” He extended his hand to Crowley. “Come along, my dear one. Let us go make certain we’re presentable.”

Crowley snorted. “Well. We can try anyhow.”

In another hour, they were sitting together in companionable silence, Aziraphale paging through a new book and Crowley sketching away, planning what he would plant in which section of the garden when spring finally set in earnestly. There was a commotion, and they both raised their heads as the doorman came in. “Lady Anathema Device,” he announced. 

She entered, looking both rumpled from travel and flawlessly put together. She bowed low. “Your most esteemed and delightful highnesses,” she said with faux gravitas. 

“Are we being mocked in our own home?” Crowley asked Aziraphale as they both got to their feet. 

“I’m certain that can’t possibly be the case,” Aziraphale said. He tilted his head. “Is it, Anathema?”

“Well, I saw the fresh mural that’s gone up as you enter town and decided you needed someone to keep you humble.” Her expression gentled. “In all sincerity, it’s good to see the people appreciate you as you should be appreciated.”

Aziraphale could only smile at that. He held his hand out. “It does have the disadvantage of being so very far away from you.”

“You just miss the parties; admit it,” she said as she took his hand in both of hers. 

He pulled her toward him so he could give her a quick hug. “That goes without saying.” He leaned in, his arm about her shoulder to stage whisper in her ear. “Perhaps you could give my husband a tip or two about a proper table setting. He thinks such details are frivolous. Can you imagine?”

“See if I invite you to the next one,” Crowley said, arms crossed. 

They adjourned to a small living area nearest their room where they took meals when it was too cold outside and no one was visiting. It was a much more intimate setting, and one better suited for a visit with a friend. 

“Did you ride here?” Aziraphale asked, taking in trousers she wore and the fact they were spattered with dirt. 

“I did. I thought it best for this particular mission to be more of the people, so to speak. No off-putting, fancy carriages.”

”Your note said you were here on business?” Crowley said. 

“Self-imposed business, yes. And not here. You two have Soho well situated.” She frowned and looked at both of them in turn. “Have you been keeping track of the Hellfire outbreaks?”

At the word, Aziraphale straightened up, his mood turned solemn. “Of course. It’s taken a high degree of vigilance. I would hope you were asked a few questions about where you came from when you turned down the road?”

Anathema nodded. “I figured that was what that was all about. Right, so if you’re taking precautions, I assume you’ve taken some time to consider the spread of the disease?"

Crowley sat back, arms folded. “You mean how it’s too haphazard? The timelines and the distance between each outbreak … It’s all over the place. Difficult to trace.”

”It’s getting increasingly likely that the spread of the disease has been deliberate.” Aziraphale grimaced. He hadn’t wanted to believe it when Crowley pointed it out, but he was right. In the past, outbreaks of Hellfire could be reasonably traced. Once you found the source, who’d brought it into that space, then you could work your way backward. 

Just like with the outbreak in Eden, it was possible Hellfire had spread organically. Especially now that they were at peace and there was no danger of running into enemy troops along the roads, people were traveling in greater numbers these days. It was more than possible that the line of who passed Hellfire to whom had a few gaps. But every time? That was uncanny. 

“A few of us decided to ride out and see if we could reinforce the idea that most Demons—including the king and all his progeny—are committed to this peace,” Anathema said, waving at Crowley. “I’ve spoken to King Gabriel and Regent Beelzebub personally. There’s no part of me that believes they’re behind it if this was done on purpose.”

“The king’s brother though …” Crowley muttered under his breath darkly. 

Aziraphale took his hand under the table, and Anathema tilted her head. “So you think it was your family?” she asked, looking shocked. 

“Not my family. My uncle.” Crowley spread his hand wide. “The recipe for Hellfire … I don’t know it. We’ve made it a mission to have it forgotten, but it’s not the kind of thing that can be undone.”

“Someone somewhere has the recipe,” Anathema said. “So why does that make you suspect your uncle?”

“Besides the fact he’s made it clear he thinks this peace is a mistake?” He sighed. “I don’t know enough, but a lot of people think one of the ingredients can be found only in Hades.”

Anathema grimaced. “Well. We won’t be telling anyone else that.”

Aziraphale jumped in, reminding them both that Prince Hastur was under constant guard even as he moved about the land, spreading his supposed commitment to peace. The outbreaks didn’t occur where he was or near where he was in a timeline that fit. But it wasn’t at all out of the realm of possibility that this was the work of a group. It only made sense. The people who would never be comfortable with peace over conquering. 

 “We’re going to do all we can to spread all the positive stories, and there are a lot of them,” Anathema said some minutes later after she’d detailed the strategy her little group—the Angels from the party who had always pulled for peace—had agreed upon.

“And what can we do?”

At that, Anathema’s grin turned wide and knowing. She leaned across the table, crooking a finger at Crowley to come closer. Perplexed but trusting, he did. At this more intimate table, Anathema could reach across, tugging down Crowley’s shirt. She cackled gleefully as he protested and pulled back. “That’s what I thought.”

“As though you couldn’t smell it,” Crowley muttered. He sounded grumpy, but there was a small smile on his face as he rubbed the bite on his neck. 

“I meant that it’s pretty deep.” She waggled her eyebrows at Aziraphale. “You were playing for keeps.”

“Yes, that was the point rather.” Aziraphale cast a soft look at his husband. Crowley’s cheeks were pink, but his smirk was smugly satisfied. 

“I’ve always adored that my husband is an omega,” she said wistfully. “There’s something about everyone being able to see it.” She tilted her head. “And actually, to answer your original question, I think it would help if you didn’t hide it—that you’re mates as well as husbands.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances. Crowley had complained more than once when they had to dress to be out and about in public that he’d had to invest in more high collars than he was used to.  

“You believe seeing a mating bite on a Demon would help ease tensions in some way?” Aziraphale asked, unable to make the connection.

“I’m sure you know the gossip around you two is constant and varied.”

They both grimaced but nodded. They weren’t an anomaly any longer. Many of the nobles had married or been married off to Demons at this point. As far as Aziraphale knew, all those unions were doing well. Which was to say there had been no poor behavior reported from Demon or Angel. But they were still the first, and they were still princes. It was only natural that people would talk. 

“The rumors of how genuinely happy you are far outnumber the negative speculation.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Have you heard the ballad—ballads. There are more than one now. They’ve made you turning up at the orphanage into quite an epic,” she said, nodding at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s knee under the table, giving it a comforting squeeze. It had been uncouth of Anathema to be so amused at something that had so impacted both of them, but she could be forgiven. She was, after all, reveling in the idea that their genuine love for each other had become the stuff of songs and highly embellished storytelling. 

“It’s lovely, and it’s rare to have royals show genuine affection for each other. The people like that. Keep them talking about all the soft, beautiful things, and it will drown out more of the vitriol. A mating bite will rekindle the conversation, and it proves that there can be true compatibility between us. We can be neighbors, friends, lovers.” She smiled at them. “Mates.”

It was a lovely idea to him, but Aziraphale had heard some of the nastier rumbling. “Mating bites can be forced on unwilling omegas,” he said quietly, sadly. He’d overheard a conversation once where one person said that he thought Aziraphale should bite Crowley; make it clear that he could be dominated, conquered as they had been unable to claim the Demons as a whole had been.

Anathema’s smile fell, and she nodded. “And I know that’s something some people say.” She paused a beat as if considering her words and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “But your people know their prince, Aziraphale. Your reputation doesn’t support that theory.” 

“Anathema, the fact I’m an omega has always been an embarrassment,” Crowley said. “Do you really think it would be wise to draw that kind of obvious attention to it?” 

“First of all, that’s ridiculous to begin with, and you can send me to the guillotine for saying so, it’s your right, but anyone who thinks being an omega is embarrassing is as dumb as a wart on a frog.”

They both chortled at that. “Your head is safe with me,” Crowley said.

“You’re so very gracious, your highness.” She reached for her wine, taking a contemplative sip. “It’s no secret you’re an omega, obviously. But that’s endeared you to the common people. They’re not bothered by it. Many are downright thrilled, and you’ve given them no reason not to be. You’re the only mated royals I’ve ever heard of. Embrace it.”

“So … you’re saying the most helpful thing we could do is give in to our amorous whims more often?” Crowley said, his expression wicked. 

Anathema’s eyes went wide with horror. “For the love of everything, don’t do that.” She shook her head, raising her glass to her lips again, meeting their eyes over the rim. “The rules of polite society still stand.”

~.0.~

Another hour later and Aziraphale and Anathema retired to his private study. Crowley had excused himself, having obligations for the day he shouldn’t break for a casual visit.

Aziraphale was surprised to see Anathema’s face turn serious almost as soon as the door was closed. “Is everything all right?” he asked. 

“Yes.” But her expression twisted as she met his eyes. “Aziraphale … do you remember we once talked about how I see things sometimes? Future things.”

Taken aback by the change in topic, Aziraphale nodded slowly. “Yes. Your visions. Of course, I remember.”

Her smile was fond. “I always think you’re just being polite when you say you believe me.” She frowned, worry painting her features. “But you need to know … I saw something.”

“About me?” He quirked an eyebrow. 

Anathema shook her head slowly, holding his eyes. “About Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. His throat threatened to close. He darted a hand out to take hers. “Tell me, please.”

She patted his hand. “It was vague.” She took a steadying breath, her eyes gone unfocused. “I know I don’t have to tell you that you need to protect your husband. It’s just that you need to be particularly vigilant just now. I think.” She shook her head slowly. “I just feel this intense … dread. Like something is coming.”

“For … For Crowley?” Aziraphale could scarcely get the words out before his throat closed around them. “Him specifically?”

“I think so, yes.”

Aziraphale leapt to his feet and paced to the window, catching himself on the sill. He put a fist to his mouth and tried to calm down. The urge to protect screamed in him, but he had nowhere to aim it. “Who …” He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and tried again. “What …” 

The thing was while Aziraphale was known to like things others would consider silly, he was also a believer in logic and science. There was no rational explanation for Anathema’s visions. It was only that they invariably came true. It wasn’t something he could afford not to believe when it came to Crowley’s safety.

“I debated even telling you because I have no more than that. A feeling.”

“And what am I meant to do with a feeling?” Aziraphale bit out, hands clenched in fists by his side. He huffed and shook his head, turning to Anathema. “Please forgive me, my dear. I know you’re only trying to help.”

“It’s fine. I know if it were Newt or the children …” She shuddered. “I’d want to put them in the highest tower. Which I wouldn’t recommend, by the way. Crowley would never let you.”

Aziraphale blew out a slow breath. “No. No, he wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Anathema went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s frustrating, I know. When the threat could come from anywhere.” 

Aziraphale stared out at the grounds, jaw clenched. “The urge to protect him is … so incredibly strong. I’ve never felt like this.”

“Beautiful and terrible, isn’t it?” Anathema chuckled without mirth. “Your husband is strong and clever. A survivor. Live your life, Aziraphale. It’s what you both deserve. Just … keep an eye out. If I see anything else, I’ll get word to you. I promise.”

~.0.~

When Aziraphale told Crowley what Anathema had seen, he’d only sighed. “I’ve … been in danger every second I’ve been in Heaven, Aziraphale,” he’d said so quietly.

It continuously struck Aziraphale how careless he’d been, particularly in the early days of their marriage. He’d known people were angry, but he’d never really imagined anyone would act on that. Then again, he’d known his brother had never wanted peace, and look how that turned out. 

Crowley had read the guilt on Aziraphale’s face and pulled him into his arms. “Don’t you remember? You’ve been protecting me since the first ten minutes we knew each other. You stood up for me, when the king treated me like chattel, when I wasn’t allowed to stand up for myself. I’m in good hands.”

He’d smiled then, a grin full of teeth. “Besides. No details, right? Could just as easily mean I’m going to fall out of a tree like you always say I’m going to.”

“Is that meant to make me feel better?”

And while Aziraphale appreciated his husband’s faith in him, he didn’t feel he’d done enough to deserve it. He vowed to be vigilant and push as far as Crowley would let him, as far as he dared without encroaching on the freedom of movement Crowley valued so highly. 

One week passed, and then the next, without a new threat emerging. 

The first truly warm spring day found them out in the garden beneath the shade of a flowering tree. The air smelled sweet. They lazed on a blanket after a picnic lunch, Crowley dozing with his head on Aziraphale’s chest, his arm thrown over his full tummy. Aziraphale ruffled his hair as he read a book. 

The sound of his name being called from a short distance brought them both upright. Two footmen were all but running across the grounds, each of them with a tray in hand.

“Don’t like that,” Crowley muttered darkly, his hand pressed to Aziraphale’s back and his stance distinctly protective. 

The footmen stopped and both gave quick bows, righting their trays. On each was a single envelope. 

“An urgent letter from his majesty, King Gabriel,” said one.

“And their highness, Reagent Beelzebub,” said the other.

“Like that even less,” Crowley said. 

“Indeed.” Aziraphale’s hand trembled as he took his brother’s letter from the tray. Beside him, Crowley took Beelzebub’s. “Thank you.”

The footmen stepped back but didn’t leave, clearly waiting to see if return correspondence would be required. Madam Tracy and Mrs. Sandwich came walking at a quick clip from where they’d been resting in the chairs at the gazebo. 

Aziraphale scanned the first few words of Gabriel’s letter and nearly dropped it. “Oh, no.”

“Those … bastards,” Crowley growled, as furious as Aziraphale was shocked.

“Highnesses?” Mrs. Sandwich ventured.

Aziraphale, his heart pounding, swallowed thickly. He dismissed the footmen with a wave. “A moment,” he said to them in case whatever rider had brought this message expected a response. He had yet to process the first few lines in full, but he knew he trusted no one with the information he held besides his husband and their two attendants.

When the footmen were out of earshot, he turned to the two women. “It appears that his majesty, my brother …” He had to swallow, still not believing the words he was about to say. “Has abdicated the throne.”

“And my sibling their claim to the throne of Hell,” Crowley said.

They met each other’s eyes. Aziraphale had no idea what to think or what to do next.

Chapter Text

Crowley had memorized the letter his sibling had sent him. The affection in Beelzebub’s writing—or was it guilt—was as shocking as their revelation. 

That they were in love with the angel king was no surprise. That they would negate their duty—duty!—to act on this love … There had to be something more going on than what was contained in the letter. 

And then there were the last lines.

I’m only too aware that my actions put you, above all, in danger. You can’t imagine how much I regret this. Truly.

Stay the course, brother. Demons and Angels alike owe you such a profound debt, and so do I.

Beelzebub and Gabriel had sent the letters before they left. They wanted to give Aziraphale and Crowley advanced notice so they could make plans. The transfer of power would have to happen quickly, and as Aziraphale and Crowley were the furthest out—and most impacted by their decision—it would allow them to get to Eden on time. Gabriel’s letter had been profuse in apologies but implored Aziraphale to stand with his siblings—all of them. They needed to present a united front.

And thus, Crowley found himself pacing their bedroom, so furious it was a miracle he wasn’t smoking. His husband sat on a chair, sad eyes following him.

“This is how you want to play it then,” Crowley said between clenched teeth.

“Of course not. Crowley, you damn well know the last thing I could ever want is to be parted from you. But you know what Anathema—”

“Don’t.” Crowley shook a finger at him. “It’s a load of bullocks, and I can’t hear it right now.”

Aziraphale looked wounded at that, but when he spoke, his voice was soft and even. “I understand why you wouldn’t believe Anathema’s gift, but—”

“Aziraphale.” He huffed, trying to calm his temper. He wasn’t really mad at his husband after all. “I trust Anathema. And more importantly, I trust you when you say you’ve seen how her visions work. But she said herself it was more feeling than anything. Nothing of substance. You can’t just decide this is it. Nothing I’ve heard guarantees the danger she foresaw is in Eden. It could just as well be here.”

His husband visibly blanched. His words were shaky when he could speak again. “You have no idea how much the uncertainty tortures me. But all of our people here love you. You are their prince, and I have some measure of trust they care enough about you that any ill will won’t be tolerated. 

“Eden on the other hand … I have to expect the turmoil in the capital city will be the worst. They revere Gabriel. For him to do this …” His voice was tight with anger, and he ducked his head. “Many people won’t believe he abandoned them. They’ll blame your sibling for tempting him, and as they’re not here, I fear their anger will be displaced on the only other Demon they can find.” He spread his hands wide. “You’ve a knack for seeing things I don’t, my dear. If we’re meant to be fastidious about your safety, isn’t Eden the greater danger? I trust you to tell me if there’s any gap in my reasoning. There’s nothing of significance happening here.”

Crowley opened his mouth but only a strangled sound came out. He snapped his mouth shut again, running a hand through his hair as he tried to think. He had to admit if there was rationality to Anathema’s vision, it made sense that it had been prompted by some event. What else could it be but this? It did stand to reason that going into the belly of the beast—where he wouldn’t normally hesitate to stay with his husband—sounded downright foolhardy.

“And then there is the matter of…” Aziraphale sighed. He stood and crossed to him, taking his hands. “Crowley.” It was clear he was struggling to keep his face straight, and Crowley caught the mild scent of anger, barely restrained. “There is every likelihood Sandalphon,”—his jaw was tense when he said the name, and Crowley’s stomach churned—”will be there. It will take every ounce of my self-control not to kill him on sight.”

”You can’t,” Crowley blurted, a flash of panic making his heartbeat quicken. 

Aziraphale’s features gentled, and he squeezed his hands. “I’m well aware. That’s rather the point. Knowing you’re safe from him may be the only thing that keeps him alive. If he so much as looked at you …”

Crowley pulled his hands gently from Aziraphale’s and sat on the edge of the bed with a huff. A protective alpha was a force to be reckoned with. Aziraphale had attacked the king. It was only Gabriel’s shocking understanding that kept him alive, and they both knew it. Sandalphon wouldn’t hesitate to condemn his brother to death. They knew that too.

“D’you know … I asked Anathema if it was true what they say about mates being separated even by choice.” Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes. “She said it hurt to be away from Newt. Like an ache you can’t get rid of and a heaviness in your heart. She said it’s true that you feel sick with it when you’re apart for extended periods.”

Aziraphale knelt in front of him, hands on his knees, looking up at him with imploring eyes. “It hurts to even think about it. Crowley, you must know by now that you’re essential to me. I need you. Not only as my companion, but as my partner. You see so many things with such clarity. So please, my dear boy. Please, I implore you. If there’s something I’m not seeing …The only thing I need more than you by my side is you safe.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He tried to tamp down his frustration. Why were they living their lives based on a feeling Anathema had? 

But he’d been honest when he said he believed that Anathema’s visions were real. He trusted Aziraphale, and he trusted her. Aziraphale’s logic was sound. There could be no doubt the greater danger was in Eden. It was all just so frustratingly vague. 

He opened his eyes, if not calmer, then at least resigned. He held Aziraphale’s gaze, tracing his fingertip along the outline of his hands. “Wouldn’t it be considered bad form not to be with you for something like this? I’d think even the spouses and the children will be in attendance.”

“It would certainly be more prudent from the perspective of proving we have nothing to hide.” Aziraphale stroked his chin looking thoughtful. “But it’s not rare that one spouse might travel, even to important events, without the other. There are a great many excuses from illness to business that needs tending here.” He tilted his head. “Though, from a Demon’s perspective, you would want Hell to be represented. But I’d imagine even now invitations are being extended to your father and your siblings. It’s hard to know what’s going on as we haven’t heard from anyone in any official capacity. The whole reason Gabriel and Beelzebub gave us a head start was so we could be there when all these decisions happen.”

“And it’s not as though I’ll have any say in all that,” Crowley murmured, processing. “I’m no coward. I’m not one to hide and cower.”

“Crowley, no one could think you’re a coward.”

He swallowed thickly. “Right. If there were a danger … Send me into a room full of alphas and see what happens if any of them were the threat.”

There was a heavy beat of silence before Aziraphale spoke. “Do you … Do you believe any of my siblings … Well, aside from the obvious … I’d like to say I can’t believe the threat Anathema saw was from them, but that’s rather a foolish thing to think, isn’t it?”

Some of Crowley’s irritation eased into tenderness. “Your siblings and their spouses didn’t treat me all that much differently than my own did. Better, in some ways. Can’t say we’d ever be friends, but Raven is at least interesting to talk to. Bit obsessed about what everyone is eating for some reason, but nothing sinister there unless anyone gives him access to the food stores.” He grimaced. “Oh. He’s going to be King Consort, isn’t he?” He shook his head. “Anyhow. No, as far as I can tell, your other siblings don’t concern me.”

“Well, it remains that there will be very little talk about your absence. If anything, the talk at court will be that we …” Aziraphale’s glance turned furtive. “Well, it’s been more than a year now since we were married and the question still remains. You and I know Demons and Angels can reproduce, but it hasn’t happened yet for any of us. Still, people will assume. It’s a standard reason not to travel. Why anyone thinks about it further than that is beyond me, but…” He shrugged.

Crowley’s irritation faded even further. He did like that his husband was with him on their continued bewilderment that they were expected to have children.

All that settled, Crowley wracked his mind for another excuse why he absolutely had to stay with his husband. He sighed, going over all the arguments in his head one more time. 

It made absolutely no sense and all the sense in the world at the same time. He already knew he was going to agree to stay in Soho. And really, it shouldn’t have felt dramatically like his world was ending. His husband was going to see his family. It wasn’t unexpected by any stretch of the imagination. Aziraphale had been away from Soho since the day he’d inherited it. Even without the war, there were any number of reasons Aziraphale would be called on to travel and Crowley to stay. And vice versa for that matter.

Beelzebub had been away from their husband for more than a year at this point, after all. He and Aziraphale were always going to be princes with responsibilities beyond their home.

They weren’t peasants who could expect to stay in place. And really, even the lives of the commoners couldn’t expect to be stationary. There was every possibility the provider of the family might have to travel for work or trade.

 He wasn’t going to be petulant.

He slid off the bed, kneeling with legs spread on either side of Aziraphale. He took his face in his hands and kissed him. It was a soft kiss at first. An assurance. He was not, nor had he ever been, angry with Aziraphale for this wreck of a situation. He was surprised to realize he wasn’t even angry with his sibling. Beelzebub held duty above all else. What must it have taken for them to break it? And for the sake of the Angel king? 

If what they felt for Gabriel—and there was no accounting for taste there—was anything close to what he felt for Aziraphale, Crowley couldn’t help but understand. He even felt a grudging respect. And if he would go against his every duty for Aziraphale’s sake, he could do his duty for him. To keep them both safe. 

But he would not let his husband leave without carrying something of Crowley with him. 

Winding arms around him, Crowley pressed the tip of his tongue to Aziraphale’s mouth and pushed between his lips. Crowley loved the taste of his husband in all the places he was warm and wet. He lapped at his tongue, savoring the flavor, delighting in the little whimpers he drew out. 

As he feasted on Aziraphale’s mouth, his hands roamed. He tangled fingers in his hair and felt the flex of his strong shoulders. How he loved all the places he was soft. He trailed his hands along Aziraphale’s sides and rested a palm against his stomach, fingers dancing at the hem of his britches. When Aziraphale bucked upward with a roll of his hips, Crowley obliged, slipping a hand under the cloth to find hard, hot skin. 

When Crowley wrapped his fingers around his cock in a firm hold, Aziraphale broke their kiss with a gasp. He threw his head back as he moaned, and Crowley was quick to strike. He trailed a few kisses along the line of Aziraphale’s neck, lathing the spot where his scent, his taste, was most potent. 

He stroked Aziraphale just as he knew he liked—quickly at first, an inundation of sensation only to slow down when he’d worked his husband to the brink of writhing mess. Then, Crowley lifted his head from where he’d been kissing, licking, and nipping at Aziraphale’s neck. “What if I said I wanted to have you just here?” he rasped against Aziraphale’s ear. “Wanted to see my mark on you so you feel me and smell me every second you’re away. So you’re never not thinking of me.” He squeezed his cock just enough to make him strangle a yell. “So you’re remembering what it’s like for me to touch you.” He leaned in again, nipping just below that sweet spot. “Would you let me?”

“Y-yes. Yes.”

Crowley pulled back, holding Aziraphale’s hooded gaze. “I know you like to wear those fussy collars, but someone still might see.”

“Let them,” Aziraphale said around a groan. He licked his lips and took Crowley’s face between his hands, looking him in the eyes. “Do you think I care if anyone sees that I’m claimed? That I’m yours?” 

Crowley leaned in and took his lips, hard, consuming. “They’ll ask you what kind of alpha you are to let an omega bite you.”

Aziraphale gave as good as he got, pressing him back against the bed. “They’ll never have this.” Hand to the back of Crowley’s hair, he pushed his head down. “Do it. I want to feel you.”

Crowley kept one hand wrapped around his cock, stroking lazily as he kissed and licked at his neck again. Aziraphale sighed, his fingers petting Crowley’s hair.

The scent of him, familiar and dear and sweet with desire, filled Crowley with need. His body wanted to be consumed, but he was still ravenous.

He would take his fill of Aziraphale’s flavor, glut himself on it so he might stand a chance of being sated for the long days without him. 

Without warning, he sunk his teeth into lush flesh.

It was more potent than anything he’d ever drunk or smoked. He was dizzy with the sensation that flooded his mouth—all taste and smell and so thick, he could feel it enter him. Aziraphale screamed—a deep, guttural sound that was more pleasure than pain.

Though, Crowley was sure it had hurt. He’d gotten somewhat over-exuberant. Probably not as guilty as he ought to have been, he soothed the wound with laps of his tongue, savoring the combined taste of them. 

For a minute, they rested like that. Aziraphale with his head thrown back, his breath ragged. Crowley with his lips at his neck and his hand wrapped around his cock.

And then, all at once, Aziraphale was moving. Crowley scarcely recognized what was happening before he was deposited on the bed with a thoroughly aroused alpha looming over him, the look in his eyes promising Crowley was about to be utterly ruined.

Aziraphale’s hands made good on that promise. He fisted the flimsy cloth of the simple shirt Crowley wore and ripped. Crowley groaned in surprise, out of his mind with their combined lust. He could do nothing as he was yanked about, his clothes gone from one moment to the next. He barely had a second to catch a breath as Aziraphale stood, pulling off his own britches and quickly climbing over him again. He bent low, pushing Crowley's legs back, draping them both over his shoulders. There was nothing gentle about the way he took Crowley then, sheathing himself in one stroke. The emotion of it was so powerful that Crowley actually wailed. 

It was incredible how something filthy and carnal—the way Aziraphale pounded into him so that their bodies slapped together and Crowley’s vision burst with stars with each stroke—could absolutely be lovemaking. The love he had for this man was so powerful—overwhelming, consuming. It was a visceral thing he carried in his body, that was under his skin and in his blood. Sometimes, it felt as though he couldn’t contain this feeling.

So, it was a good job that Aziraphale seemed intent to pound it out of him, moving so deep inside him he would feel it for days. 

Some minutes later, both shaking as they came down from a bone-melting climax, they lay in each other’s arms. Crowley had buried his head at Aziraphale’s sweat-slicked neck, memorizing the scent and feel of him. They kissed then for minutes that turned into hours. Lazy kisses at first, half-asleep, mostly just brushes of lips and inhaled breaths. Tiny kisses that bled into lingering, sweet ones, and then deep, languid ones. Their hands roamed each other’s bodies without intent at first, and then with caresses, and then teasing, titillating touches. 

Crowley tugged and pushed, unwilling to let go of Aziraphale’s mouth to tell him what he wanted. He let his body speak for him. Then, they moved together until he was kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs, stroking an ambitious erection as Aziraphale reached up to run a fingertip along his lips, his eyes lust-dark again. 

He entered his husband slowly, intent on caressing every inch of skin as he moved inside him. He was such a breathtaking sight, all pink cheeks and adoring eyes. He was perfect under his hands, his heat enveloping Crowley’s cock. 

When the coil at his core began to tighten, building to inevitable release, Crowley leaned over Aziraphale. He kissed him breathlessly, twining their fingers together above Aziraphale’s head

“I love you,” Crowley said with a moan near his ear as he rocked into him at an increasingly frantic pace. “Gods, I love you. My Angel.”

“Crowley.” There was so much reverence in Aziraphale’s voice. “I love you. I love you.”

They both found their release for the second time. Crowley lay limp on top of his husband, basking in a bliss that had nothing to do with inherent biological need and everything to do with the soul-deep knowledge that he’d found the one person in the world who was made for him. His mirror image. His perfect other. His Angel. 

~.0.~

Crowley was cold. 

It took him moments, as he blinked into consciousness, to process the origin of the unsettling emotion that churned in him. He was in his room. The light of the morning was strong, but not such that he feared he’d slept through to midday. Finding nothing amiss, his eyes began to close again; if there was something he had to remember and be ready for, Mrs. Sandwich would have come in to harry him. 

Seconds later, his eyes flashed open, and he sat up in bed. His big bed where he slept alone. 

He was cold because in his nighttime thrashing, he’d tossed the blankets off. Crowley had been a restless sleeper most of his life until recently. Until his husband beside him or wrapped around him soothed his inherent agitation. He’d drifted to sleep warm in his husband’s arms, but even before they shared a bed, Aziraphale had been prone to tucking the blankets back around him. 

It had been a long time since he’d awakened to the chill of the morning on his skin. 

With a moan, Crowley slumped back down on the bed. He rolled over onto Aziraphale’s side and breathed in deeply, finding some comfort in his strong, lingering scent. It was, he admonished himself, entirely unreasonable to feel as bereft as he did in that moment, but the thought didn’t stop the twist of his heart. 

Aziraphale had gone without waking him, the bastard. 

“Wake me,” Crowley recalled murmuring even as sleep made his eyes droop.

“There’s no need, darling. I’ve been very thoroughly kissed goodbye.”

“Wake me.”

“Of course.”

They’d both known he was lying when he said he would. It was easier not to make lingering goodbyes. 

Crowley allowed himself a full minute to wallow. He let himself feel the echo of his husband’s touch. He was deliciously sore, each twinge of his body bringing back the memory of Aziraphale’s hands on him and the way he’d felt him deep inside. One minute to revel and ache before he lifted his head, and then, he had to smile. 

It had occurred to him that Aziraphale’s scent was particularly potent despite the actions of the night before that should have left both their scents in equal measure. But with awareness settling in, Crowley realized Aziraphale had left a sort of nest on their bed, leaving Crowley undisturbed at the center. He was surrounded by blankets, cloaks, and other clothing. Aziraphale’s clothing. All of it marked by him. 

He’d left him what he needed to find as much comfort as he could anticipating that his body would begin to miss him too much. Crowley allowed himself the indulgence of picking up a shirt and cuddling it close to him, burying his nose in the soft fabric. 

After another few minutes, Crowley felt more like himself. Again, he had to roll his eyes. It had been no small adjustment to go from being a free single man to being a married man whose every day was controlled by the rules of polite society. Yet, here he was, free to do as he pleased, and he just wanted to be wherever Aziraphale was. 

He stretched languorously, and as he cast his gaze about the room, his eyes landed on a leather book. Recognizing it as Aziraphale’s sketchbook, Crowley reached for it. He flipped through the pages of familiar drawings. He did so love how his husband saw him. He liked Crowley’s face, that much was clear, and his red hair. Crowley snorted, remembering Aziraphale’s search for the perfect colored pencil to get his hair just right. He must have gone through twenty before he was satisfied. 

For whatever reason, they both struggled to put their feelings into words. Perhaps because of a lifetime of being ostracized and shut out, their words were given little importance. It wasn’t anything they needed to say really. Crowley knew Aziraphale loved him. It was written in every touch, in the way he drew Crowley’s face, almost always looking mischievous to his own eyes. And the sketches of him in their most private moments—his own face lit with adoration—he didn’t doubt Aziraphale knew he was loved.

At the back of the book, he was surprised to find a loose sketch. When he saw it in full, his shock doubled. It was a sketch of the both of them, sitting on a low wall Crowley recognized from the garden. They were staring at each other, faces animated in mid-conversation, fingers overlapping on the wall between them. The sketch was signed by an artist Crowley had met on one of his ventures into town. He realized the sketch must have been from the small spring gathering they’d had, inviting a few painters to capture the colors of the flowers as they bloomed. 

He could dwell on missing Aziraphale, sure. But he had an enviable life, and his husband would be back soon. He had no real reason to be unhappy. 

With that in mind, he got up to start his day.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale woke in a cold sweat, sitting up in another unfamiliar bed in another unfamiliar room. His eyes darted around wildly, the need to protect what was his foremost in his mind. 

The room was silent. There was no threat here. He looked to his side and sighed. His husband’s half of the bed was, of course, empty. He slumped back down onto the ample pillows, running a hand over his eyes.

Since Anathema’s visit, Aziraphale had lived each day with a general unease. He’d never been one for paranoia. Many thought him naïve, but he preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt. He knew everyone had a capacity for evil, but there was more good in the world by far. 

He’d never had a husband to protect before. He understood, now, that the mere potential of danger was worth at least thinking through. He had so much more at stake than he ever had before.

True to his beliefs, most people were wonderful. The first few days he traveled, no one was the wiser as to what was going on. They expressed surprise and delight to host their prince and concern as to where his husband was. But after that second day, the news about Gabriel’s abdication caught up with them. Even after that, most were filled with sympathy for the family and the turmoil they’d be facing. 

Still, Aziraphale wasn’t oblivious to the people he saw at the edges of the crowds. There were tight, even angry expressions—eyes that followed him with suspicion, even a degree of contempt. And a scattered few expressed their unwelcome opinions directly to his face. “It must be a relief to travel without your husband, your highness.”

Aziraphale tried to remind himself that they too had grown up with Demons as the literal enemy, and now, their king had disappeared. He had to walk a fine line, defending his husband and Demons in general, while assuring the people the royal family would take care of the realm. 

All while missing Crowley desperately. Often, he would imagine the things Crowley would say, and that brought a smile to him. But the nights. His nights were restless and plagued with worry—for Crowley and the kingdom. He even spared some measure of worry for Gabriel. Where could he go? None of them had ever lived rough. Even out in the field during the war, they had the most comfortable tents and a legion of servants to attend them. 

This latest nightmare had Aziraphale too wired to stay abed. He got up, grateful he was being hosted by an earl on a vast estate. He opened his door, unsurprised to find a servant in a chair outside his room. She rose and curtsied. “Is there something I can help you with, your highness?”

“I would be grateful for a cup of tea, which I’ll take in the sitting room, if you please.”

He made his way through the house as quietly as he could and made himself comfortable in the sitting room. There, he contemplated the changes in store when he got to Eden. 

Aziraphale’s entourage had met the messenger carrying Michael’s letter a day and a half out of Soho. He didn’t know that he’d ever received direct correspondence from any of his siblings before—informative missives perhaps, commands as to how he was to proceed with his part of the war. Never a letter from a sister to her little brother. 

It wasn’t that it was tender. Michael spoke of duty, of the need to present a united front as a family. She spoke of their people. More surprisingly, she spoke of Hell and the Demons who now resided in Heaven, the danger they in particular faced. 

Lest you need assurance, I’m committed to this peace, to the protection of us all, Angel and Demon alike. And yet, I’m not too proud to admit I don’t understand peace as much as I understood war. There is a cleanliness to war, terrible and bloody as it is. Win. Angel good. Demon bad. That was all. I admit Gabriel was better at peace than I believe even he thought he could be. Quite a bit too good, as it were.

I’ve come to the conclusion there should be more Demons in Eden. In the palace. The migration of Demons to Heaven and Angels to Hell moves, though not swiftly. We should lead by example. There should be more Demons at court in the official capacity of advisors to the monarch. 

Don’t be worried. I don’t propose your dear Prince Anthony remain in Eden. Though, I suspect he could best advise me who to bring in his stead, and if his father, his Majesty King Lucifer, would be willing to bring on Angel advisors.

All this to say, my brother, you are essential to this next, uncertain chapter. 

He let himself imagine a future where peace was the norm. He’d never minded that his siblings didn’t include him in their conversations, their scheming. But now, could it be that the softness they always scoffed at was valuable?

Aziraphale pressed his fingertips to the light ridge of the mark on his neck, closing his eyes. When all this turmoil was settled, could he really have it all? The respect of his siblings and a wily, brilliant husband at his side. He wondered if Michael realized they were a package deal. She couldn’t have Aziraphale’s advice without Crowley’s influence, and the kingdom would be the better for it. But then, she had specifically said she wanted Crowley’s advice on who to bring in on this council she planned. 

He hoped she wouldn’t be too angry that he’d left Crowley at home. 

He hoped that had been the right choice. 

A shriek interrupted Aziraphale’s brooding. Despite the fact he did everything to avoid fighting, he was still a soldier. His reaction time was finely honed, attuned to sounds of distress. He followed the sound, powering into the kitchen to find a young woman perched on a chair, cursing under her breath. 

He blinked. She looked like …

But another yelp from the woman had him snapping back to attention. He followed her gaze to the floor where he saw what had her in such a state. 

“Oh, now. It’s all right.” He strode quickly over and picked up the creature that had her frightened. “He means you no harm. Not venomous, this one. Just a common snake.”

“Common or not, he doesn’t belong in the kitchen, do he?” she said, sounding indignant, her eyes still wide with fear. 

“That’s a fair point.” He adjusted the snake, watching in amusement as it wound around his wrist. “There now. He’s more frightened of you, believe me.” He chuckled and hurried past her to the door. He set the creature in the dirt, giving it a pat as he sent it on its way. 

Turning back, he found the young woman hopping down from the chair. She smoothed her hands over her apron, a uniform that marked her as a servant. This early in the morning and in the kitchen, she was likely here to start breakfast. She lifted her head as he closed the door, and the way she narrowed her eyes again made him startle. 

“Oh.” She yelped, her eyes going wide again. “Forgive me, your highness.” She curtseyed. “I wouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“It’s quite all right.” He smiled what he hoped was a peaceful expression to steady her nerves. “I quite understand you don’t expect to find a prince in your kitchen.” He sat, not missing the way her lips turned down the slightest tick. “What would your name be?”

“As though you care.” She sucked in a sharp breath, closing her eyes. “Sorry.” She curtseyed again. “I mean. My deepest apologies, your highness.” She began to move fitfully around the kitchen, gathering up pots and pans. “I’m well known for speaking too much. It’s why they popped me back here. I can be handy at a lot of things, but not, ah … knowing when to …” She sighed. “Stop talking.”

“The same has been said about me,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “You needn’t be afraid to speak your mind in front of me. And as it happens, I do honestly care. About your name.”

She cast him a skeptical look, and he wondered if he was imagining the hint of cold he felt. “Sister M …” She huffed and shook her head. “Mary. Just Mary. Well. Mary Loquacious.”

“Were you an acolyte?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely interested. 

Her eyes definitely turned cold. He caught a glimpse before she turned to the ingredients set out before her. “I was a nun.”

“What happened?” he asked after a beat, voice soft. He knew with certainty something had. 

Her shoulders rose and fell. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you care about the life of a Demon.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “My husband is a Demon. I care about him very much.”

“A normal Demon,” she said impatiently.

“What happened?” he asked gently. 

She pounded the dough she’d been kneading with particular force. “They, ah … died. My order.”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “Wh … your whole order?”

“All of ’em except me.” She shrugged. “I was tending to a dying woman and her family. Took her long enough to die that I lived.” She gave an uncomfortable laugh.

“What … could have killed your whole order?” Aziraphale’s heart ached for the young woman.

There was nothing for almost a full minute as she shaped the dough into a ball and slapped it into a bowl, setting it aside. “Holy Water,” she said, and then moved across the room to a basket of eggs.

“Holy Water,” Aziraphale whispered. He swallowed and nodded. “There’s been a few outbreaks now, particularly in the border cities.”

“Since the princess died,” Mary said sharply. 

Aziraphale hesitated a moment before he nodded again. No sense in denying it or the implication. “You took a position in an Angel household,” he said with what he hoped was clear curiosity and not judgement.

She was silent. 

“You’re safe to speak your mind, dear Mary. You’re allowed to be angry with me, if that’s what you are.”

“Oh, I’ve got no cause I know of to be angry with you, your highness.” Former Sister Mary sighed. “Though, to answer your question … If these outbreaks on either side are happening on purpose …” She shrugged, still not turning around. “It’s not the common people is all, is it? Never is. It’s not all Angels if it’s Angels at all.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, turning her words over. Crowley had taught him to think before he refuted such a claim, as it was his instinct to do so. Refute and, if it couldn’t be refuted, excuse. But Crowley had made him see that everyone acted for reasons that made sense to them.

It didn’t matter. He’d had the same thought, he and Crowley both. Crowley suspected his uncle was behind the outbreaks of Hellfire, and who else could be blamed—if the outbreaks were indeed purposefully set—but Sandalphon? Amongst the ruling families, they were the only ones who’d made it very obvious they didn’t think the other side could be trusted.

They were trying to continue the war. 

Aziraphale got to his feet. “Thank you for speaking your mind, Mary. I sincerely admire your courage for doing it. I hope with all sincerity that your life is filled with whatever you like best.”

~.0.~

When morning came—proper morning—Aziraphale found that they had been joined late the previous night by his cousin and their husband, the Demon Duke of Hydra. 

Aziraphale was ecstatic to see Muriel, whole and unblemished. He was only human, after all. Even Crowley couldn’t have begrudged him his moments of doubt. How many times had he said if he’d been given to any of Aziraphale’s siblings, he likely would have been beaten at least once. There was no reason to think it couldn’t happen the other way around. 

Muriel grinned at him when they figured out what his careful prodding was getting at. “Eric is good to me,” they assured, looping their arm through his. “He’s a bit silly actually. I find it charming.” Their eyes popped wide. “He’s a triplet, did you know that? There’s always one of him about.”

“Oh, goodness. I … very much adore my husband, but I’m rather glad there’s only one of him. I can hardly keep up as it is.”

Michael was cleverer about peace than she gave herself credit for. Along with messages to gather her family, she had extended invitations to the King of Hell and several of the Dukes and Duchesses closest to the border. If it turned out there had to be a quick coronation, the Demons would be represented. 

When they got on their way, Eric was gracious enough to suggest Muriel go with Aziraphale in his carriage so they had ample time to chat. Aziraphale was so glad to see them for many reasons. He’d often wondered what it would be like to be the Angel amongst Demons. Except for having to adjust to being part of a unit, Aziraphale’s life hadn’t really changed. He’d wondered what it would be like to be in Crowley’s shoes. 

Muriel quickly confirmed they agreed the food was better by a long shot. The people? The culture wasn’t what she was used to, she admitted. It was a much more brash culture, one that lent itself to casual insults, which they found jarring at first.

 “But then I realized Angels aren’t any less cruel just because our words are prettier.” 

It had taken Aziraphale a few examples before he understood what they meant. He had to admit his siblings’ backhanded slights were no less cruel than a nasty name. Crowley had called him—fondly—an idiot once, and Aziraphale had been insulted. But it was as much of an endearment as Gabriel calling him soft wasn’t.

As the journey went on, they lapsed into a natural silence. Aziraphale watched the countryside go by, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. 

“Are you all right?” Muriel asked after a while. When Aziraphale raised his head to them, they nodded to his hand, rubbing absent circles right where his heart was. 

“Tickety boo and right as rain,” he said with false cheer. Then, he sighed. “I was warned being away from my husband would be physically painful. The experience of it is …” He struggled to take a deep breath. 

“It hurts?” They blinked. “In what way?”

Aziraphale explained the mating bond and how it hurt to stretch that connection thin with distance. 

“That sounds … less than ideal,” Muriel said, choosing their words carefully. “Is that something your husband requested?”

Aziraphale’s lip twitched. It was something he’d begged for, in fact, but he knew that wasn’t the context Muriel meant. “It was something we both desired, actually. An expression of our feelings for each other.”

“Oh.” Muriel tilted their head. “Only it seems … ah, inconvenient to say the least.”

Aziraphale studied them a beat. “Do you … love your husband?”

“Oh,” Muriel said again, looking startled. They gave a soft laugh. “Like a … peasant?” They shook their head quickly. “I mean no offense. You’ve caught me off guard. I can see you meant the question sincerely.” They furrowed their brow, considering. “I care for Eric, and he for me.” Her smile was gentle. “He’s building a library for me. Did you know that? A proper library. There are so precious few in Hell. It’s such a considerate thing to do.

“And, well …” Their glance was furtive. “The, ah … We …” Their cheeks turned pink. “When we do our duty, Fridays and Wednesdays as it were, it’s not unpleasant.”

“Fridays and Wednesdays,” Aziraphale mused. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t want Crowley. Even now, the vague thought of the “duty” Muriel alluded to only deepened the ache he felt. 

“But no, I don’t think I love Eric in the way you mean. It’s not something I considered a possibility really. Marriage, for us, is … just marriage. I know some who love their paramours, but that seems messy to me. I’m quite satisfied in my match, all things considered.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I love my husband. Truly, the mating bite wasn’t a burden; not to us. It’s a pleasure more often than not. A deep joy.”

“Well, true love or not, it’s not for Eric and me anyhow,” Muriel said with a smile. “Two betas and all that. We’re just us, and thank goodness too. No offense.”

“None taken. I won’t say it’s without its additional complications in an already fraught situation.”

“And speaking of fraught …” Muriel pursed their lips and met his eyes. “Maybe it’s time to consider the benefits of true-love matches. We might not be where we are if his majesty and Regent Beelzebub were as happy as you clearly are in your match.”

Aziraphale hummed, remembering Gabriel’s remark that morning after Sandalphon attacked Crowley. Love made things complicated. Yes. He imagined falling for the Demon regent had been dreadfully complicated for so many reasons, one of them reason enough to upset the peace of two kingdoms. And now, here they were, the ones who would have to ride it all out.

~.0.~ 

In another day and a half, they were trundling up to Eden and the steps of the palace. Michael was there, flanked by Uriel and Saraqael. Aziraphale was glad he didn’t have to face Sandalphon right off. Michael looked quite a bit more resplendent than usual. Quietly so. She wasn’t in full dress, but she was crisper somehow, already exuding the air of the monarch. 

She gave him an exasperated look as he stepped down. “Really? All this scandal, and you didn’t think how it would look to have another Demon’s spouse with you rather than your own spouse?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why, I … They’re our cousin, Michael.”

She scoffed. “At this point, it might actually be the least of the gossip.” She shook her head. “Come here.” She clasped his hand between both her own before pulling him into a hug. Aziraphale was almost too shocked to return the embrace before she let him go. When she turned to Muriel, Uriel took Aziraphale’s hand. She gave it a brief squeeze, and Saraqael followed suit. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat as they all faced each other. He looked at Michael, his jaw already clenched. “Our brother?” he asked, trusting she knew he wasn’t talking about Gabriel. 

Her eyes went cloudy, and she jutted her chin up the stairs. “Inside.”

As he was being addressed, Aziraphale took up the space beside her and one step behind, giving her the clear signal he understood the order of business. There would be no challenge to the throne from him. 

“You’ve always been the most, ah … peaceful among us, Aziraphale. Prefer peace, isn’t that right?” Michael said as soon as they were within the palace walls. 

“I would prefer my brother not lay so much as a finger, an unkind word, on my husband,” he said hotly, his hands automatically clenching in fists.

Michael let out a beleaguered sigh. “I can’t help but notice you didn’t bring your husband, despite my specifically asking you to.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Your missive crossed paths with our party when we were already enroute. I’m afraid Anthony is under the weather and couldn’t travel with us as quickly as we needed to.”

Michael tilted her head. “Happy news?” she asked carefully.

Aziraphale’s lip twitched. “I’m afraid not.”

“Hmm. Well, the point is that means it’s quite impossible for Sandalphon to so much as look at Anthony wrong just now.” She stopped and looked right at him. “You know things would be different if we weren’t in the situation we’re in, but we are. Your husband will always be protected, even from our brother, in this palace. None of us agree with what Sandalphon did, Aziraphale. None of us would condone it.” She huffed. “We have all had to face unpleasant truths in duty and in war. This is an unpleasant truth we must face in peace. That’s preferable, isn’t it?”

She held his gaze. Aziraphale glared back, his fury and bloodlust too thick for a few beats to back down. But he swallowed. Rational thought prevailed. He nodded, a single jerk of his chin.

“Good.” Michael started walking again. “Even you must acknowledge we need to present a united front. You don’t have to talk to him or look at him. And he’s been warned not to come near you.”

“Yes, he’s proved so good at following orders in the past.”

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale raised his hand in a stopping gesture. “Keep him away from me, and I’ll hold off ripping him apart. For now.”

“Fine. Done.” Michael paused a beat. “Now will you please turn your … alpha off?” She rolled her shoulders. “It’s making me want to …”

“Hit something,” Saraqael supplied.

“I have a suggestion as to where you might expel the need for violence.”

“Aziraphale,” Michael said sharply.

“My apologies, your majesty.” He needed to start remembering Michael was about to be his queen, and her word would be law. “You might call the Metatron. I’m sure he has what I need to mask the scent, if it bothers you. It’s not as if there’s a switch.” He rolled his shoulders but found his fury was only building. “Sandalphon is a threat to everything I hold dear, and the last I knew, he was still very much against this peace.”

“All the more reason a closer eye needs to be kept on him,” Uriel said. “He came when he was called, and he isn’t challenging Michael.”

Aziraphale just hummed. He paused and breathed deeply before stepping into the throne room. 

“Gods, you used to be the gentle one,” Saraqael said, and she chuckled. “So this is you when you find something worth fighting for, is it? Good for you.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. He understood his bloodlust was presenting a problem for his siblings, but he wondered if, as with Gabriel, it hadn’t engendered a certain amount of respect. 

Uriel, pushing Saraqael, entered the throne room at Aziraphale’s side. There, they found a small crowd gathered—dignitaries, most of the inner council. 

And across the room, surrounded by who he recognized as Michael’s closest confidants—including her husband—was Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale’s jaw clenched. He stepped to the side so as to be clear of the entryway, but then he had to lock his every muscle in place. Despite the hollow ache at the center of his chest, he knew then it was the right decision to ask Crowley to stay home. Sandalphon was only lucky that Aziraphale hadn’t actually seen what he’d done to Crowley and so he had no solid memories to send him further into rage. A cross look from his brother at his husband would have undone him at that point. Incredible how innate it seemed to see his own kin as a threat. He felt every inch of Crowley’s distance from him, and yet, it wasn’t enough. Threats needed to be eradicated.

As though he heard Aziraphale’s thoughts, Sandalphon looked up. When he saw Aziraphale, he tilted his head down as though in challenge. Aziraphale’s vision went red, and he took a menacing step in his brother’s direction before someone stepped in front of him. “How good to see you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Azrael.” 

The sight of Gabriel’s abandoned wife and queen brought Aziraphale back to his duty as a prince of Heaven. He had to admit the alpha in him was a wholly different person than the self he’d lived as his whole life. He understood the idea of the greater good. He understood why he couldn’t rip Sandalphon limb from limb. He even understood that it was not out of the realm of reason that Sandalphon believed Crowley could be involved in Carmine’s death, though nothing could excuse the form of retribution he’d attempted. None of that mattered to the alpha in him. The alpha had exactly one goal at this point: protect.

But he was still who he always had been, and Azrael was deserving of his attention and compassion. He took her hand and brought it to his lips in a gesture of respect. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

She gave a light scoff, her expression far off. “Gabriel is a fool.” She sniffed, head held high. “If he …” She looked about as though remembering where she was. “Well, let’s put that to the side for the moment. Time enough when we have the room to ourselves.”

To that end, Aziraphale wasn’t surprised when Michael called for the attention of everyone gathered. “It’s been a time of great uncertainty for all of us. Now that we’re all here, things can be settled, and we can begin whatever new era is upon us in strength and unity. Now, this is a matter for the Archer family, but I would like to make clear … we go into this room allied with the Demons, and that’s how we intend to leave it. Everyone here is safe and will remain so.”

Aziraphale looked at Sandalphon. He was glowering at their sister. Aziraphale set his jaw, wondering how this was going to play out. If Sandalphon posed a threat to both the alpha in him and his duty as an Angel prince …

“Brothers. Sisters. Let us go,” Michael said, gesturing out of the room. 

Aziraphale purposefully held himself to the back of the line, glad to put his other sisters and their spouses between himself and Sandalphon. He spared a smile for Muriel, watching as they wrapped a comforting arm around Eric.

The room adjacent to the throne room was … basically a smaller throne room. A private throne room. However, they all ignored the throne for decorum’s sake and sat down in other chairs. Theoretically, nothing was decided. But they all knew none of them were going to challenge Michael for her rightful place on the throne. Gabriel’s letters had endorsed her as his chosen successor.

Michael took her seat. She exhaled, closing her eyes. She inhaled, and when she opened her eyes, she had adopted the imperious stare Gabriel had long ago perfected. “First thing’s first then. Is there a challenge?”

For a few tense moments, there was naught but silence. Then, Azrael sighed and crossed her arms. “Let it be noted that I have no objection. The children are too young to inherit their father’s throne, and to be frank, it’s not something I want for them. Not in this uncertain time. Demons and Angels.” She huffed. “I’d just as soon they exist on the sidelines of all that mess.”

Aziraphale’s back stiffened. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with my husband before.”

Her eyebrows arched, and she looked, for one brief moment, amused. Aziraphale had to imagine it was because none of them were used to hearing his voice at any of these kinds of meetings. His position was to smile and nod when he was instructed. Now, though, he knew no one would speak up for the Demons if he didn’t.

“I have no qualms with your husband, Aziraphale. Prince Anthony is clever and hard-working.  Point of fact, I take no issue with any Demon save, perhaps, the one who absconded with my husband.” Lips pressed into a tight line, she exhaled sharply. “But even that … Gabriel was many things, but he was loyal to Heaven. I can only begin to imagine why he thought he had to do this.”

Azrael shook her head and looked at the rest of them. “No. Gabriel knew I worried for the kingdom our children would inherit. I very much agree this peace is the best thing for all our sakes, but you all know the unrest is getting louder. I believe this peace can last but that there will be a divide is inevitable. And that means our next battle will not be against Demons … but against our own, against Angels.” 

Her stare turned cold as she looked across the way. “Will you tell them, brother, or shall I?”

Sandalphon started, his eyes darting around. He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “I don’t follow, my queen.”

“Fine. Coward.” Azrael looked to Michael. “I believe you’ll find that Sandalphon has been gathering what support he can.”

Sandalphon leapt to his feet. “Azrael.”

“He thought if anyone had cause to hate Demons as much as he does, it’s me. But a royal spouse—and you may take note of this, Raven—looks out for the well-being of the hearts of the kingdom.” She pointed a finger at Sandalphon. “This cannot be personal. If it was a Demon who started the outbreak that took Carmine from us, then it was just that. A singular Demon. Not all of them. And let it be said that there’s no evidence at all that suggests Prince Anthony was anything other than as heartbroken as the rest of us.”

“How can you not see what’s happening here?” Sandalphon looked around the room. “Is it not the most perfect plot? To infiltrate our kingdom—our very family—with our knowledge and consent.” He sneered. “Do you think it’s an accident their regent came here and never left, all but ruling alongside Gabriel? Seducing him and tempting him into who only knows what.”

“No,” Michael and Azrael said at the same time.

“Do you think me a fool, Sandalphon?” Azrael scoffed. “For all my husband has made me seem one in the eyes of the kingdom, you should know better. He and I have always been well matched. For the good of the kingdom, I’ve looked to see what he might miss. I had my own eyes on Hell’s Regent. You think I didn’t know of their affair?”

Aziraphale gasped, taken aback, and Azrael gave him a slightly softer, if sardonic, look. “It’s a great fool who expects faithfulness from a contrived marriage let alone of a king who will both come across many and whom many will naturally adore. And to give credit where it’s due, Gabriel’s eyes didn’t wander.” Her huff was almost fond. “To be frank, and I don’t think this is a secret in this room, most people annoy him. But the point is I would not begrudge him this. I told them both to their faces they could bring this all crashing down around us, and they fought their affection for each other. No, Sandalphon, Beelzebub was as committed to this peace as Gabriel was.”

“Clearly,” Sandalphon said with a sneer. 

“And for that matter, we all had eyes on Prince Anthony. Your wife had as little trust in either of them as you do, but her reports from the orphanage were honest. Anthony was good to the little Angel kiddies and never so much as attempted to wander off where he could have more clandestine dealings. Nor did what servants he brought with him.” She spread her hands wide. “So tell me, if you’re so certain the Demons are playing us false despite our every precaution, where is your proof? What is their plan?”

“Carmine is dead,” he roared. “She died with that filth standing over her. She fell and those children fell while he watched, and you think that coincidence? You think there’s no possibility there’s a hole in your defenses when the Demons have taken our loyal king?” The last two words were heavy with sarcasm and loathing.

“I think it’s rather telling you speak with such certainty that there can be holes in our intelligence,” Aziraphale said, keeping his seat but leveling a glare at his brother. “An Angel, or Angels, is likewise responsible for the outbreaks of Holy Water in Hell. I wonder if you are so sure we can all be fooled because you’ve done it yourself.”

“You twit. Is this all it takes to turn against your family? A—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Michael commanded. 

Aziraphale was unsurprised to find Uriel had materialized by his side with a hand to his shoulder. Somewhere deep down, the self he’d been most of his life was mystified. Mostly, though, he thought them wise. He’d never in his life had the need to practice self-restraint. He was holding on to his rational, pragmatic side by the tips of his fingers at this point.

”Only an addled mind would fail to notice our little brother has shown remarkable constraint in not killing you,” Michael said, glaring at their brother. “You didn’t see him come for Gabriel. Gabriel, Sandalphon. Gods beyond, you can smell it.”

”Course I can smell it,” Sandalphon said in a harsh snarl. “He reeks of that snake. His mate. It’s foul.”

Aziraphale felt every muscle coil, his hands clenched into fists. He could leap the distance between them. He would be on the wretch before anyone could blink. It didn’t matter that he was flanked by Uriel and now Raven, their hands physically holding him down. He could break that hold easily.

”And you know well enough what happens when you threaten an alpha’s mate,” Michael said, standing in Sandalphon’s face, blocking his view of Aziraphale.

Sandalphon ducked around, glaring. “I’m also an alpha. You think I can’t take our soft baby brother?”

”Weiss,” Uriel said between clenched teeth, calling for her spouse. They strode quickly to stand between Sandalphon and Michael. Azrael went to Michael’s side, putting a hand to her arm.

The mixed rage of the challenged alphas in the room—Aziraphale, Sandalphon, and Michael— was setting Uriel and Saraqael on edge. They were all on the cusp of something violent and malevolent. The betas were a calming influence. When Madame Tracy hurried over, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s back, she lended just enough control to keep himself in place. 

Michael swallowed hard and tilted her chin up as she looked at their brother with cold eyes. “What I think, Sandalphon, is that we gave you leeway in your grief despite your insistence that Demons could never be trusted. There is no context in which assaulting your brother’s husband would ever be acceptable. It was only a matter of circumstance that you were only banished with what small justice Gabriel inflicted for such a grievous sin. And now, brother, you’ve been gathering support from anyone you think might share your sentiment. I can only assume your goal is treason. Do you contest my claim to the throne?”

”Oh, I should,” Sandalphon hissed. “Your failure to see what’s right in front of you will be the downfall of all Angels. Gabriel should have listened to me. He should have chosen to defeat them, annihilate them. Not let them into our kingdom, our city. The whole point of the war was to win it.”

”Two thousand years of war is more than enough,” Michael said. “Aziraphale. Sisters. Let everyone make their intentions clear. I ask you to declare your allegiance now.”

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. He put his closed fist to his chest and bowed sharply. “Long live the queen.”

”Long live the queen,” both Uriel and Saraquael echoed.

Michael exhaled in a gust. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine she thought the outcome would be any different, but there was a finality to it. “Sandalphon, you were given a chance to escape the consequences of your actions against Prince Anthony with no more than the justice your king meted out—”

“Justice.” Sandalphon laughed bitterly. “I told you letting the Demons into Eden would only bring disaster. My wife died. I told you what would happen if you still trusted Hell’s favored prince. Now, we have lost our true king.”

Michael narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. “It’s going to be like that, is it?” She nodded, eyes sad but steady. She raised a hand, making a gesture. Guards peeled themselves from their inconspicuous posts and had surrounded Sandalphon on all sides in the blink of an eye. 

“Is this how you begin your reign, sister?”

“By what? Cleaning up one brother’s mess and imprisoning another?”

Sandalphon’s eyes popped wide. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’ve left me no choice.” She nodded at the guards. “House arrest. Keep him well guarded though. Away from everyone.” She eyed Sandalphon. “Until I can decide what to do with you.”

“Don’t do this, Michael,” he said, low and dangerous. He tried to pull out of the guard’s hold with no success. “Not for them.”

“I’m a servant of Heaven, Sandy. No more, no less. It is my deepest hope you’ll take this time to reflect.” 

With a small gesture of her hand, the guards pulled Sandalphon to the back of the room. He made little fuss, though he grunted as he attempted to pull out of their grasp. “You will regret this. All of you,” he called over his shoulder. The words were an oath. HIs quiet fury spoke volumes. 

When he was gone, Michael’s shoulders stooped the slightest bit. She walked a few steps backward to the throne-chair and sat heavily, her elbows on her knees and head in her hands.

Aziraphale stepped forward, finding he was rather breathless with all that had transpired so quickly. He went to his sister. Finding he was quite without words, he put a hand to her shoulder—a symbol of both comfort and respect. She raised her head, her sad eyes considering him for two long beats before she put her hand over his, trust and solidarity rife in her steady gaze.

Chapter Text

“Now, wot’s all this? You’ve got a proper pine going on here, don’t you, my prince?”

Crowley straightened up. He’d been sitting in the window seat, staring out at the sea, his legs pulled up and his head resting on his knees. He briefly considered throwing out a quip, but instead, he sighed. “Hurts,” he murmured under his breath, putting his head back down.

“Och.” There was the shuffle of skirts as Mrs. Sandwich drew closer. She came up beside him and put a hand to his shoulder. He leaned against her, accepting this comfort. She drew her fingers through his hair. “Poor dear. Gone and fell in love with his husband.” She tsked. “No good could come of that.”

He smirked and craned his head up. “What a relief. You know how much I hate good things.” He sighed, looking out into the distance. “Partial to wicked, me.”

“Sure you are, sweetling.” She kissed the top of his head. “Come along then. Not much you can do besides distract yourself. Let me brush out your hair and get you in something pretty. You’ll feel better.”

Crowley closed his eyes. For a brief moment, he let himself wallow, feeling the full extent of the ache in his heart. It was a double-bladed pain, one dull and insistent—his body reacting to his mate being so far from him—and the other sharp and insistent. He couldn’t bear the thought of his sweet husband there like a kitten in a room with lions. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was weak. Quite the contrary. It was that he preferred to be soft and nice.

He wanted to be there to present themselves as a unit. He wanted to be there for whatever aftermath that first confrontation brought. Real fear churned in his gut. Aziraphale had said he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from murdering his brother on sight if Crowley were there, but it was going to be a near thing regardless. Was his husband even now in the dungeons of Eden awaiting execution?

“Now, your highness. You’ve gone pale,” Mrs. Sandwich chastised. “Come away now, dove. You’ve a duchy to manage.”

Throat too tight to speak for the moment, Crowley allowed Mrs. Sandwich to guide him to his vanity. He exhaled as she began to smooth the snarls out. “Now don’t you go thinking you’re the only one here without their better half.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at that. “Got something to tell me about Madam Tracy? The scandal, Mrs. Sandwich. A married woman.”

“Oh, you.” Mrs. Sandwich’s cheeks flushed, and Crowley had to wonder if he’d hit a little too close to the mark after all. “No one to gossip with, is all. Or do you care about what Justine said about Mr. Brown when she thought there was no one in earshot? Or that Lindsay’s been sniffing around Nina’s new shop. That one can’t stand she’s so ‘appy with Maggie, can she?” She propped one hand on her hip. “What ‘ave you got to say about all that then?”

Crowley opened his mouth and shut it quickly, smiling at her. “Not a thing.”

“Exactly.”

Crowley let her get a proper good prattle on. The cadence of her voice, especially when she slipped from her more proper verbiage, was soothing to him. He liked Mrs. Sandwich best when she was riled up and sassy. 

When she began to wind his hair upward into a more regal style, he sighed quietly. “Official business today then?”

Crowley was rubbish at keeping schedules. As such, his agenda for the day was nearly always a surprise. Loose and lovely, he would be among the people. Hearing petitions at most. Up and more polished meant dignitaries were about.

“Princess Shax and Prince Furfur actually,” she said carefully. 

Crowley started. “What? Really?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Sandwich set his brush and combs down on the vanity. She tilted his head up, grimacing—-probably at the shadows beneath his eyes—and huffed softly. “Might have left me something to work with, your highness."

“Oi. I’m still pretty.”

“Mmm. That’s right. Keep your chin up. Stuff upper lip and all.” She sighed and began a routine meant to perk up his skin. “Well, as it happened, one of my girls took a few days to herself, didn’t she? Hard work darning your socks and the like. She thought she’d visit two towns south. She ran into their highnesses there. Recognized their servants, of course, and got in touch.”

“Two towns south?” Crowley furrowed his brow. “What were they doing there? I haven’t heard of any official visits.”

“They said they were invited to Eden.”

“Right, but then why are they going in the wrong direction?”

Mrs. Sandwich only hummed. Though they were well enough acquainted to understand each other, a servant would never speak poorly of the ruling class. She was choosing her words carefully so he could read between the lines. 

This was suspicious. This part of Heaven’s territory jutted down farther south than any coast of Hell. As far as Crowley knew, Shax and Furfur had no official business in Heaven, which meant no one in Eden would have known where to send an invitation.

Crowley had questions. 

Mrs. Sandwich cleared her throat. “Anyhow, my girl went out of her way, sacrificed her free time, to ride back so we wouldn’t be caught unawares by this visit.”

Crowley’s lip twitched. He reached over and rummaged through one of his many jewelry boxes, plucking a small garnet ring from the lot. “Make sure she gets this with my appreciation for her dedication. When can we expect them, you think?”

“Midday, I expect.” She patted the tight braids wound at his head. “You still have time to play with your friends, young prince. But mind you don’t get your fine clothes dirty.”

Crowley smirked, but rather than go out into the town, he stayed in. He broke his fast in his burgeoning garden, sending out missives to a handful of the residents. He questioned Mrs. Sandwich only once about the preparations for luncheon. The arched eyebrow and utterly unamused look she gave him ensured he wouldn’t question her again. She knew well enough what to serve a princess and prince of Hell. 

In between that, Crowley turned several possibilities over in his head. 

The second youngest, Shax was hard to read. There had been times when Crowley thought they were almost friends, but then she could turn around, give him a thump, and tattle to their minders so he would get the blame for something she’d done. He really had no idea what she thought of this alliance. She’d been derisive about everything Angel, but that was Shax.

Anyhow, there was nothing saying that Shax didn’t have a perfectly good explanation and one that wasn’t nefarious at all. 

But then, why lie? 

Then again--Shax. It was instinct.

Mrs. Sandwich was right on the money as usual. It was only a little past midday when Crowley peered out the window to see his sister’s carriage making its way toward the castle. It was a new carriage, Crowley recognized. Much more ornate than any he’d ever seen made in Hell. That was a positive sign. He’d heard reports that in the wake of peace, Demons were starting to branch out from the perfunctory in such areas. For a long while, things like carriages were as plain and simple as possible—they were the thing most likely to be destroyed by Angels. 

Shax’s carriage was detailed in a motif of fawns and swans. He remembered his sister had purchased several hats and dresses from the shopkeepers in Eden, captivated by the styles. She’d gravitated toward feathery things.

Crowley reminded himself he couldn’t be naïve. Shax was nothing if not ambitious. Furfur was from a powerful family in Hell. By all rights, he should have married Dagon, her being second born. He was supposed to, but somehow, he’d ended up with the youngest sister instead. Given their father’s determination to see this peace through, it was possible there was, even now, a plot to overthrow the old king and his obedient children. If that were to happen, Shax wouldn’t care so much which side won as long as she came out with more power.

But then, there was no use pulling stories from his own mind. He couldn’t let made up scenarios color how he handled today.

Crowley was on the stairs when the carriage pulled to a stop. He took his sister’s hand as she stepped to the ground and brought it to his lips, bowing low. “Welcome to Soho.”

She grinned wide, somewhat mocking. “Well, well, well. Look at you, little brother. Being a house husband suits you.” Her nose wrinkled as she clearly caught his scent. “So those rumors are true.”

Crowley just smiled back, taking no offense. His siblings didn’t know how to relate to him except with mockery. He spared a nod and a handshake for Furfur, who bowed back. Then, he swept an arm out toward the door. “Shall we?”

Head held high, as though he was completely at ease, Crowley led them through the castle. “In Eden, there wasn’t much for me to do but be a bauble on my husband’s arm. You know I’m rubbish at all that—decorum and bowing and following the queen around like a puppy.”

“And here you’re the queen,” Furfur said with a snicker.

Again, Crowley just grinned. “Precisely. Got my own puppies.” He’d led them to the dining area where their seats were pulled out and wine poured as they talked.

“Yet not important enough to be invited to a royal coronation, mmm?” Shax asked 

Crowley brought his wine to his lips, stalling as he sipped, considering his options here. He had no more to hide than an overprotective husband with a soothsaying best friend, but Shax didn’t need to know that. She wouldn’t understand regardless. If he set a few careful implications …

He set his glass down and let his shoulders sag. Shax had a talent for reading signs, recognizing when something got under someone’s skin. He put on a tight expression. “Aziraphale wanted to concentrate on his family rather than whether or not I was behaving myself.” He cleared his throat and spoke quickly as though to cut off further inquiry. “And of you? You don’t seem in a rush to take part in this esteemed historical event.”

Shax shifted. Furfur looked vaguely ill—he’d always been horrible at keeping secrets. “Well, ah … Well. News reached us … I mean, you know the travel times. The likelihood we could ever make it there on time. Not very likely.”

“And how could I pass up the chance to check in on my favorite little brother once I found out you didn’t go back to Eden with your husband?” Shax flashed a grin full of teeth. “Are you happy, Anthony?” Her nostrils flared. “You smell, ah … Well. Aren’t …” Her lip twitched as she fought to keep the visible discomfort, possibly disgust, from her face. “Aren’t, er … Aren’t you meant to be in a state of bliss?”

Crowley had to fight the bliss; had to keep himself from touching the scar. Instead, he latched on to the dual emotion of longing. He concentrated on the deep ache of his heart. He missed his husband. For that moment, he didn’t try to hide it. “You mean this?” He pulled his collar away from his neck so the bite was visible. He took a deep breath, bringing the mental image of Aziraphale’s bright and beautiful smile to mind. The ache got more intense, and he knew the scent he exuded could be read as other kinds of emotional pain. “Mating bites are meant to be a good thing. When they’re mutually desired.”

Shax and Furfur glanced at each other. Shax blinked several times. “Are you saying—”

“You know alphas,” he said wryly. “They do like to mark their … property.”

To their credit, Shax and Furfur looked genuinely aghast. “D-do you mean …” Shax sputtered. “Your husband—”

“Why should that surprise you?” Crowley said, interrupting his sister before she could verbalize the vile accusation. His temper couldn’t stand someone thinking something so vile of Aziraphale even if he was the one who’d implied it. “I was Father’s to give away to Heaven. None of you let me forget what it meant anymore than you would ever let me forget that I’m an omega who can be …” He gestured vaguely at his neck. 

“But … he didn’t. Your husband. He never hurt you. In Eden.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t beat me. It doesn’t mean he’s not … y’know. All alpha.” He waved a hand. “’S fine. Like you said. Queen of my own castle. Murals in my honor. So the good prince prefers I keep my nose out of family business. I’m meant to be … biddable or whatnot.”

Shax sat back as they were served. The noon meal consisted of dishes they both enjoyed in childhood, Crowley noted. Mrs. Sandwich always came through. Shax indeed looked delighted at the fare. Further disarmed, hopefully. 

“So here’s a thought,” Shax said some minutes later.

Crowley arched an eyebrow, and she continued. “Prince Aziraphale doesn’t want you in Archer family business. You’re still a Prince of Hell. Come with us. Our family business.”

It took considerable effort to keep the grimace off his face. Crowley had been aiming for a degree of sympathy to get his sister to let her guard down. This was a whole new conundrum.

There was something about his sister’s expression that was assessing. There was something about her tone—an underlying meaning that he wasn’t yet privy to. If she was hiding something, she might need some convincing before she could trust. It could be her invitation was what it seemed--a way to get back at Aziraphale for the perceived slight of thinking he could keep any member of the Ophidian family out of official business. Then again, it could be that she wanted to see if Crowley was of the same mind as she, whatever that turned out to be.

But then there was Anathema’s vision. Aziraphale had worked so hard to keep him out of danger. They both had. They were both suffering without each other all in the name of his safety. Yet here, his sister endeavored to take him to the place they’d deemed most dangerous. Like it was fated. 

He’d considered that when Aziraphale told him about Anathema’s visions. They always seemed to come true. It had seemed to him a frustrating gift if it never served to keep anyone out of trouble. Taking action on what Anathema had seen often brought those visions to fruition. And again … just what was this danger he was supposedly in? If it had all been vague, he might have been in danger of an egg to the face from a dissenter. 

In any case, if his instinct was correct, how could he pass up a chance to find out if his family really did have a hand in the deaths of all those Angels? The children.

He grinned at his sister as though they were conspiring together. “I’ll get to the arrangements straight away.”

~.0.~

Mrs. Sandwich wasn’t happy. In fact, Crowley had never seen her eyes flash as they did now. She was angry with him. Truly angry. “My Prince. You canna possibly be asking—”

“I am not asking.” He said the words quietly, gently. He watched her, watched the shock chase away the glint in her eyes. He couldn’t remember ever ordering her to do a thing. He’d rarely even had to ask for what he needed. She wouldn’t have ever denied him, and they both knew that too.

The shock drained away quickly, and she straightened her shoulders. She bent her knees in the slightest of curtsies. “You’re asking me to abandon my post, your highness. I’ve been by your side every day of your life since I was chosen for this position. I serve you, my prince.”

”Yes. Which is why …” Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat and went to her, taking her hands and looking her in the eyes. “I need you here. I need you to tell Aziraphale what’s really going on.”

Mrs. Sandwich stared back at him. “You’re going to him. You’ll be with him sooner—”

”Maybe,” Crowley allowed. “Maybe all of this is exactly what it seems on the surface. Shax can be so … simple. Something covert seems like it should be beyond her. But if she’s not the one pulling the strings …” He shook his head. “If I’m to be with them, I need someone here. If …”

He closed his eyes, thinking it all through again, dizzy with the potential outcome. He thought of all the people of Soho and the farms scattered farther down the road. His people. Friends and subjects. He opened his eyes and looked at her, imploring. “I need someone clever enough to find out where they’ve been. And to make sure …” He didn’t want to speak his suspicions out loud, not wanting to believe they were true. But if they were… “If they’re behind any of the Hellfire outbreaks … We have to stop it. Contain it. Now.”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

”See? No one else knows that’s a possibility, and if they did … If it got out that I suspected that and it’s not true, the results could be almost as disastrous as if there were a Hellfire outbreak. It’s a powder keg. If the Angels turn against any member of my family, it’s the flame that’s going to rekindle the war.”

Her mouth was pressed into a tight line, her chest heaving with quickened breath. She stared at him for several long, heavy beats. “And if you’re right, there’s a chance you’re not going to make it to Eden.”

Crowley nodded. “Shax and Furfur weren’t in any hurry before. Anything could happen. Aziraphale needs …” The ache in his heart made it momentarily impossible to speak. He inhaled in and out slowly. “Please. Just make sure he knows I had to. I had to do what I could.”

The desperation in his tone seemed to snap Mrs. Sandwich back into her typical self. She squeezed his hands. “Course, highness. Don’t you worry. It’ll be done. The lot of it.”

Crowley exhaled in a gust, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Good. Good. I could never leave without knowing everyone is well looked after. I mean, I trust Nina. Course. She was wonderful when Aziraphale couldn’t be here. But she’ll need you. I’ll make sure she understands.”

He nodded mostly to himself. That was the most important thing done—assuring someone could be all the places he couldn’t. There were still many loose ends to tie before they could be off the following morning. 

But with that done, it all became real. He stumbled back and sat down heavily on the chest in front of their bed. He had the strong urge to crawl into his little nest, bury his face in Aziraphale’s scent, and just go to sleep until his husband was there again. 

Why did it feel like he was willingly moving away from Aziraphale? 

He hung his head and gave a wry laugh. “For all I fought Aziraphale to leave with him …” He sighed. “I find I don’t want to go.”