Chapter Text
Crowley had never thought of himself as a man prone to sentimental gestures. Yet here he was, carefully arranging daffodils into a bouquet simply because Lord Eastgate had once casually mentioned that they were his favorite flower.
As if it was a courting gift.
His lips twisted as he aggressively snipped off the end of a stem. If only things could be that simple.
Not that he wasn’t equal parts astonished and grateful that what he shared with the lord was far beyond anything he’d dared to imagine.
The early days of navigating their relationship had been… well, bloody awkward, if he was to be honest. After all, what did one do when one fell headlong into a passionate affair with one’s employer? A Viscount, no less. Someone so high on the social ladder that he should have been untouchable by the likes of a mere butler.
And yet, over the past year, Crowley had been granted the extraordinary privilege of touching him, repeatedly and often.
Despite the awkward conversations and stumbling missteps of those first months when their relationship had taken an unexpected turn into intimacy, passion had been easy from the very beginning. They’d fallen upon each other like men half their age—ravenous and nearly insatiable.
The Viscount possessed a particular talent for a firm hand and exercised a commanding presence in their intimacies that was unlike anything Crowley had experienced before. It was thrilling, and strangely, deeply satisfying. Crowley was, after all, conditioned to serve, and serving his lord in the most intimate manner possible fulfilled a deep-rooted need he hadn’t known he possessed.
With time, the rigid edges of their societal roles when they were in private began to blur and soften like watercolours in the rain. This past winter, especially, had felt like something out of a dream. The relentless rain and bitter winds had kept the Viscount confined to the estate, which suited Crowley just fine. They’d eased into a comfortable familiarity, spending long, indulgent days in warm rooms in each other’s company, the door shut firmly against prying eyes. Crowley savored every stolen moment, every excuse to linger in the lord’s presence without the weight of expectation.
Afternoons in the library drifted by with Crowley sprawled on the settee, book in hand, as the Viscount chattered on about whatever tome had captured his interest. Watching how his hands carved shapes in the air to emphasize a point, how he wiggled in delight when sharing a particularly fascinating passage. It was even better when Crowley tossed in a wry, deprecating remark, prompting a spirited rebuttal, the keen sparkle in the lord’s eyes betraying just how much he enjoyed the exchange.
When the weather permitted, they took leisurely walks around the estate, cloaked in the quiet solitude of winter. Snow muffled their steps, the only sounds the wind whistling through the trees, rustling the curls on the Viscount’s head and turning his cheeks rosy pink. A hue that deepened when Crowley kissed them under the private shelter of the trees.
Their passion for each other remained as strong as ever, yet it had softened, gained more depth. The urgency of earlier days gave way to an easy intimacy, and increasingly more evenings were spent simply wrapped in each other's arms, their conversations drifting effortlessly between serious discussions of political and social matters to lighthearted musings and amusing conjectures.
More than once in those moments, as Crowley watched the firelight flicker over the Viscount’s features, his own smile drawn into place by the other man’s as if tugged by an invisible thread, he caught himself wishing for—well. Desires best left unsaid.
It filled some deep, hidden part of Crowley with a quiet, aching joy. The lord was everything Crowley had never dared to want in a man. Handsome, kind, sharp-witted, often unintentionally humorous, and bewilderingly oblivious to his own charms.
But now, with spring’s arrival, bringing longer, warmer days, it also brought a growing sense of disquiet. The spell of winter, with its stolen hours and hushed promises, could not last forever. The Viscount had obligations to fulfill, guests to entertain, and a world to move through that Crowley could never be part of.
Sooner or later, the lord would tire of him. What use was a lover with little education and no means to accompany him to the theater, the opera, or other grand events of society?
Certainly, the Viscount deserved someone who could stand beside him without fear or pretense. Granted, given the fact that the lord unequivocally preferred men, that wasn’t going to happen, but still, he deserved someone more worthy of his status.
Not a butler sneaking bouquets into his study.
And yet, here Crowley was, doing exactly that.
He stepped back, surveying the arrangement in its delicate blue porcelain vase. Satisfied, he tucked it carefully into a box. The last thing he needed was to encounter any staff where he would be hard pressed to explain why he was bringing flowers to the lord.
Upon reaching the study, Crowley rapped on the door to announce his presence before stepping inside. As he crossed the threshold, his impassive servant’s mask fell away as easily as a discarded coat.
Lord Eastgate looked up from his ledger. The morning light streamed through the windows, setting his curls to glowing and highlighting his pale skin and rosy cheeks. He wore one of Crowley’s favorite frock coats, a sumptuous teal silk that shifted from green to blue as the light played across it. The rich hues perfectly accentuated the blue hazel of his eyes, as changeable as the ocean with his moods.
He was beautiful. And for now, in private, he was Crowley’s.
“Good morning, Anthony,” the Viscount greeted warmly.
As always, the unguarded bright smile he reserved for Crowley for their private moments sent a warm ribbon of light curling all the way down to his toes.
Crowley shut the door behind him. “Good morning, My Lord.”
Aziraphale’s smile faltered, a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “Anthony,” he chided.
The slight thrum of regret humming like a faintly plucked harp string was a familiar one. Crowley stepped closer, leaning down to press a kiss to the furrow between the other man’s brows. “I know, I know. But I’d rather slip up and call you ‘my lord’ in private than accidentally call you by your Christian name when we’re not alone.”
Aziraphale sighed, leaning into his touch. “I suppose you’re right. I wish we didn’t have to worry about such things.”
Crowley didn’t reply. May as well wish for the moon. For now, he would be content with what he had, for as long as it lasted.
He set the box down and carefully withdrew the bouquet. “This is for you.”
“For me?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, his delight unmistakable as he reached for the vase. “Oh, Anthony, they’re beautiful! These are the first daffodils I’ve seen this year. Wherever did you find them?”
“Spotted them near the pond. Thought you might like them.”
His tone was casually nonchalant, as if he hadn’t been keeping an eye on the slender green shoots for weeks, checking on them nearly every day since he first noticed them pushing up through the earth. He hadn’t been able to shake the vision of this very moment—the first bright blooms of spring causing that radiant smile which outshone the flowers themselves.
So buoyant with pleased pride that a feather quill could knock him over, Crowley anchored himself by casually leaning against the desk.
Aziraphale set the bouquet on the desk and tugged him closer. “Thank you so much, my dear. You are so good to me.”
He pulled Crowley down into a kiss, warm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that made the world fall away, leaving only the two of them that mattered. A stray thought brushed through Crowley's mind like the swish of a cat’s tail that he would love nothing more than to kiss like this until the end of time.
But alas, there was work to be done, for both of them. With a final, lingering press of his lips, Crowley pulled back and cast a glance at the calendar on the desk. “What is on your agenda for today?”
Aziraphale sighed and turned back to his papers. “I’m meeting with my tenants to ensure they have what they need for the spring plantings. Also, apparently Mr Shadwell is once again spending more time in the tavern than tending to his fields. I need to have a word with the man and give him a nudge back onto the right path.”
Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “Most lords would dismiss him outright and not give it another thought.”
“Well,” Aziraphale huffed, “I am clearly not most lords. People deserve a second chance.”
Crowley’s lips quirked into a fond smile. In his experience, Aziraphale was most definitely not like most lords, and it only made Crowley adore him more.
He walked his fingers playfully up Aziraphale’s arm, eager anticipation thrumming under his skin. “Would My Lord like to inspect me before you go?”
Aziraphale laid his hand over Crowley’s, tilting his head up with a soft, affectionate gaze. “Actually, I was thinking of postponing your inspection until tonight. I suspect today will be rather taxing, and you know how much it helps me unwind. If you are amenable, of course.”
Warmth bloomed in Crowley’s chest, golden and sunlit. Aziraphale always checked in so gently, so carefully, making sure Crowley knew he was under no obligation, even when the gulf between their stations might have implied otherwise.
It was just one of the countless things that made him fall harder for the man with every passing day.
Not that he’d ever tell him that, of course. Some truths were best kept permanently locked behind his lips.
Tilting Aziraphale’s chin up with a knuckle, Crowley leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m very amenable,” he murmured.
Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled like reflections on the water. “Wonderful. I plan to be back by five. Would you arrange for a bath tonight? You can go first.”
Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale brushed Crowley’s nose affectionately with his own, before straightening to gather papers from his desk. “And what are your plans for the day?”
“Preparing for Lord Ashborne and Lord Barrington’s dinner tomorrow night.”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, letting out a soft grunt of disapproval. “Oh, yes. Lord Ashborne. A pompous ass if ever there was one. Last time I saw him at the club, he spent twenty minutes pontificating on the proper way to hold a soup spoon. Still, I need his support for The Public Health and Infirmary Expansion Act. I expect I’ll have to concede some ground on the Parish Governance Act to secure it, but the public hospitals desperately need more funding.”
A renewed surge of affection and admiration swept through Crowley. “You’re an angel, you know that, don’t you?”
Aziraphale shook his head, although the small curl at the edge of his lips betrayed how pleased he was. “Hardly. You were the one who brought matters to my attention. The credit rests more on your shoulders, I should think.”
Some months back, they had been lounging in front of the fireplace, and their conversation had meandered to public health services. Crowley had shared grim accounts of commoner’s experiences with overcrowded wards, a lack of competent staff, and the diseases that seemed to breed in the very institutions meant to cure them.
He hadn’t expected more than polite interest and commiseration about the plight of those unfortunates. Instead, Aziraphale had surprised him by not only listening intently, but also followed up to visit the hospitals to see the conditions for himself. Since then, he dove headfirst into the issue, becoming an advocate for improving public health.
The sheer goodness of the man and his willingness to use his privilege to make a difference was yet another example of how he was unlike any noble Crowley had ever known.
Aziraphale rose to his feet. “I must be off—I’m to meet with the Patterson family before they head to market.”
Crowley straightened, pushing away from the desk. “I’ll ensure everything is ready for tomorrow’s dinner. I’ve learned from Lord Ashbourne’s staff that he’s particularly fond of Madeira, so I’ve asked Mrs Bensen to prepare dishes that will pair well with it.” He nudged Aziraphale’s arm. “I’ll be sure to instruct her to forgo any soup—wouldn’t want to subject you to another exhaustive discourse on the precise angle at which the silverware must be held.”
Aziraphale gave him a look of profound gratitude. “You think of everything, as usual. What would I do without you?”
Though spoken with warmth, the rhetorical question struck a discordant note. Crowley knew the answer all too well—Aziraphale would simply find another butler. Perhaps one just as diligent, just as eager to serve the Viscount in whatever way he wished. The sweetness of the morning soured, just a touch.
He dropped his gaze, straightening the papers on Aziraphale’s desk. “Endure many an insufferable dinner, I expect.”
Aziraphale chuckled and slipped an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “A fate worse than Purgatory. Thank you again for the flowers—I adore them. I'll see you tonight?”
Crowley pushed aside the disquiet from his thoughts and returned the embrace. “Always.”
He stepped back. With one last lingering look, he squared his shoulders, banished the softness from his features, and left the study with measured precision.